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5 |
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Endon was imposing but most of all
frightening, I decided when the humming, buzzing, squawking and shrieking of
its denizens compelled me to open my eyes. Anna remained asleep, unconcerned by
the appalling noise. We had been sleeping under a dandelion more than fifty
feet high, and the long palm-like leaves beneath us belonged to a species of
moss. There were monstrous buttercups, several times taller than me, and
towering above everything were the long shadows of daffodils extending in the
morning sun.
If the
flora was of a scale completely beyond my previous experience, so too was the
fauna. When I was warned that the borough of Endon was inhabited by giant
arthropods, I had not been prepared to see two-foot long ants and termites,
wasps half my size flying overhead, butterflies as large as hand-gliders,
centipedes whose legs and body stretched on and on, and snails the size of
small cars. Fortunately, none of them were particularly interested in our
presence, as we lay wrapped in our recently obtained gowns: now so thoroughly
soaked by dew they were best forsaken.
This was
Anna’s opinion when she eventually awoke, throwing her gown off disdainfully
and exposing a pair of tight white shorts and a singlet that bared all her
midriff. She wore rubber-soled boots at the end of long bare legs which were
altogether reasonable for long walks such as we’d had the previous night. She
raked her fingers through her beaded hair and viewed the landscape with some
amazement.
“It’s jolly
astounding! I just didn’t believe there was so much disproportion in such a
small borough. It’s a mystery these insects are content to remain here and not
take over the world! At least not everyone here’s an outsize creepy crawlie...”
she pointed to a tiger chatting to a merman under the shadow of a toadstool,
“...but there are still too blooming many of them for my taste.”
We
abandoned the cloaks on top of some smaller mushrooms and followed the path as
it wound past clumps of enormous daisies and knee-high moss, and crumbled under
the strain of cabbage-sized algae. The path had lost all its rectilinearity and
now wandered hither and thither, past interminable columns of termites, beneath
colossal spider-webs and past the capsized body of a tank-like beetle whose
companions were trying to righten. Anna chatted as we walked along, now much
more cheerful. She intended to go into the Subterranean City of Endon, which
she was sure was somewhere round here, and catch a train back to Lambdeth.
She’d had enough of travelling for the moment, and would be glad just to return
to her friends and relax.
The
entrance to the City resembled the doorway to an underground railway station
and was heralded by immense neon-lights. Outside were long lines of ants and
other small insects hanging around and seemingly without very much to do. There was a general buzz of excitement, but no sense of
actual achievement. Gadflies were selling newspapers, ladybirds were selling
snacks and soft drinks, and a tiny stall attended by a woodlouse was selling
lottery tickets. A tiger reading a newspaper sat nonchalantly by a family of
mayflies. The tract was paved by tiny haphazard paving stones. It was very
peculiar to find such a portal, mostly enveloped in vines and grass leaves,
resting otherwise alone in the middle of such dense jungle.
A mermaid sat decorously and unclothed on a
bench, just by an advertisement hoarding for underarm deodorant. Beside her were
several ants, one of which was particularly agitated
and was arguing with a six-foot high green grasshopper in a green top hat and
frock coat, who was gesticulating his four gloved forearms, while supporting
his body on long spindly hind legs. His antennae were waving as excitedly as
his several mandibles. The grasshopper appeared to be in dispute about something,
but whatever it was he settled by cuffing the ant curtly across the face and
strode away leaving the smaller insect in humiliation and pain. He had a
newspaper under one forearm and a cane in another, leaving two buried in the
pockets of his waistcoat. He saw us and deliberately strode towards us.
“Did you
see that Damned ant?” he exclaimed. “The fellow had absolutely no Damned
respect for his betters. He was trying to tell me - Sir George Greenback! - that I had no more Damned rights than he. He was trying to
extort more farthings for the services he supplied in carrying my Damned bags.
These ants: they claim to work hard, but in truth they’re nothing but lazy idle
sluggards! I don’t know how anyone can stand their Damnable impudence. What do
you think, my lad?”
I wasn’t
sure what to say, but Anna had no such problem. “It takes all sorts make a
world.”
“It does
indeed! Too many Damned sorts, if you want my opinion!” He viewed us through
the countless lenses of his green eyes, his antennae twitching restlessly. As
he spoke his mandibles moved sideways as well as up and down. “You’re not from
these parts are you?”
“Not at
all,” I replied. “It’s the first time I’ve visited the borough.”
“Ah! An
exotic stranger!” chuckled the grasshopper. “And you, young lady, I’d fain
believe that you too are new here.” Anna admitted so. “In that case, may I have
the honour of showing you around the City of
“That’s jolly
kind of you!” Anna remarked.
“It is
that,” Sir George admitted, “but I consider it my duty to extend such
hospitality to mammalian visitors such as you. Furthermore, I deign that I can
protect you from the unwanted attention of the Damnable ants, termites and
other scum who would offer to guide you through the labyrinthine roads of Endon
for nothing more than pecuniary advantage. I heartily despise such opportunist
trade.”
The
grasshopper’s eyes scanned the gathered mass of insects. “Endon’s a Damnably complex city for those who have never visited it
before. A newcomer could easily get lost in its tunnels, and the unwary is easy
prey to predatory wasps or mantises. But if you know your place, you shouldn’t
be afraid.”
“And you
know your place, I believe,” guessed
Anna.
“That I
well do. I’m no proletarian or peasant like these Damned ants. Grasshoppers are
of the highest order: cultured, sophisticated and courteous. Only butterflies
compare with us in exaltation. Below are all sorts from dragonflies to slugs,
from locusts to worms. And in this great city you encounter people of all
orders and genera. There are the industrious bees, who keep themselves apart
from everyone else in their own suburbs, and worms with which nobody would wish
to associate themselves. But when we enter Endon, you’ll see for yourselves what
the city has to offer. Follow me.”
Sir George
strode ahead on his incredibly long hindlegs, while Anna and I hurried to keep
pace with him. The door led to a precipitous escalator that descended down
through the earth to a small square of light at the bottom. Alongside the
escalator were posters advertising perfumes, films and financial services. The
whole was lit by the soft glow of neon tubes which extended along the roof of
this tunnel and every tunnel through which we subsequently passed.
“You need to
know your place in Endon, for sure,” Sir George commented as we descended.
“People from outside, I’ve noticed, have scant regard to social position. Here
everyone has his own status and standing, and woe betide those, like that Damned surly Ant, who treat those such as I with less
respect than we deserve. But even though the mores and standards of strangers
such as yourself are totally alien to the good citizens of Endon, we respect
you and only require you to reciprocate in kind.”
At the
bottom of the escalator, the city of Endon opened up to reveal a vast neon-lit
cavern spreading out in all directions to form a broad plaza scattered with
huge statues and tall monumental buildings. The statues featured insects,
spiders and snails in full splendour and regalia, brandishing swords, seated on
giant beetles or standing in pride of their municipal glory. All about were
small groups of insects with their heads bent back to admire the monuments. I
was particularly taken by the statue of a tiger with its lower half composed of
a large fish’s tail.
Anna
gasped. “You just wouldn’t believe there’d be so much blinking Art beneath a
flipping forest!”
“It is Damnably
impressive,” proudly admitted Sir George, raising his top hat dramatically.
“The citizens of Endon have always prided themselves on their æstheticism. You
mammals never suspect that arthropods can produce so much splendour.” He
pointed towards a grand building in the near distance. “That is the
“I wouldn’t
be so jolly certain!” laughed Anna.
“Pah! You
mammals always think that you have the best of everything! But, God’s Wounds! most of it is just foolishness. So much of what your
chordate Art Critics call Art has no essential value at all. There are
travesties of Art in your
“So what is
it that defines Art then?” challenged Anna.
Sir George
strode purposefully towards a grand statue of a heroic millipede raised on its
hinder legs clutching a large cross in several of its limbs and a mitre perched
on its head. We scurried behind him.
“Here, for
instance, is Art serving its primary function which is to instil virtue in its
beholders. Art - Good Art, that is - should inculcate good Christian values,
respect for authority and order, a good life and a ceaseless striving towards
new greatness. What can Art be if the viewer isn’t uplifted by it? Simon Peter
Wept! Art should galvanise the spirit, fill one with aspirations of greatness and
instruct the proletarian and peasantry in proper awe of the society they also
serve.”
“Surely,
that’s not jolly well all that Art’s about.”
“It most
assuredly is! It certainly is not for preaching amorality and disharmony; as do
the disgusting pruriences that masquerade as Art in vertebrate culture which so
unsettle the aesthete. Why should I choose to rub my face in the excrescences
of the world? There is already quite enough filth and scum!”
“I’m sure
there’s more to Art than that,” Anna disputed. “Surely all this stuff -
impressive though it is - shows just a small part of what there is in the
world. Shouldn’t Art do more than simply show the higher and more refined
things in life?”
“Perhaps
Art should show excretion, poverty and disease,” scoffed Sir George. “I think
not! Art should elevate the Soul. Not oppress it. Art is to instruct not
revulse. And to do this, it venerates the more splendid things in the world.
Art should be of recognisable things. Objects that one can grasp, that reflect
the physical reality of Animal existence. I know that in the City and
elsewhere, there are Artists - as they mockingly entitle themselves - who
produce misshapen paintings, who eschew form and structure altogether to cover
canvasses in wild, random doodlings. Charlatans who
abandon the noble materials of canvas, paint and stone, to flaunt their
insanity with the most unimaginably gross materials. These people do nothing
more than decorate the walls of Hell, and I imagine damnation is precisely what
is waiting for them.”
“That’s a
bit jolly harsh!” Anna replied good-humouredly. “I’m sure the Artists who
dedicate their lives to producing the sort of Art you don’t like aren’t doing
it just to tempt damnation.”
“You may
laugh, but I’m most Damnably serious. I am convinced that one reason why
mammalian culture is so decadent and reprobate is precisely because of the
tolerance it shows towards Art that subverts the Social Order. I have heard
that there are boroughs that even finance these unholy execrations with
taxpayer money. I would greatly object to know that what little of my income my
accountant permits the tax man to collect should be squandered on something that
serves only to spread revolt in the lower orders and dissent in the middle
classes. Art is not, or should not, be seen as nothing more than an excuse for
the indulgences of a self-appointed élite who want me
and my kind deprived of their justly earned wealth and position. God’s Wounds!
Do you envisage Sir George, knighted for his Services to Industry and the Social
Order, would for one moment condone the very rubbishing of all that he stands
for?”
Anna must
have concluded that this argument was becoming too impassioned, so she pointed
at a group of troubadour ladybirds performing at the foot of the statue of a large
butterfly in a suit of armour. “Shall we listen to them? They sound jolly
good!”
Sir George
turned his head in the direction of the music, but made no attempt to move
towards them nor indeed to change his subject of
conversation. “Performing Arts, whether theatre, film or music, serves the same
function as Visual Art. It must enlighten. It must enhance the Social Order.
And it must tell a story. However, I’m not a prude. I enjoy music hall and
comic opera just as much as the next man. I like to go to the theatre with my
companions, to sit in the box and watch the Thespian entertain. But
significantly seating arrangements of the theatre reinforces the Social Order
and affords the lower classes the opportunity to reflect on the inherent
superiority of those who by virtue of birth and effort (in both of which I am a
sterling success) are necessarily of a more elevated position.”
Anna was
biting her lower lip, to restrain herself from criticism, so I politely
remarked that Sir George was evidently very passionate about Art.
“And Art is
not all I am passionate about, young man. I have studied the Sciences as well,
for which I have the greatest regard. And is it not curious that the Sciences
have again and again reinforced my views concerning natural order and the
probity of honest effort? Is this not proved by the Theory of Evolution which
has shown how advanced Animals such as Grasshoppers and Butterflies have
ascended over lower orders by virtue of the Survival of the Fittest? I keep
myself very fit, I can assure you. Has it not demonstrated that the pivots of
the Universe are the larger, brighter spheres, which resemble Her Maphrodite
and the Aristocracy who shine from the centre of the Social Universe? And even
now the Science of Economics is resolving those great eternal questions
relating to the generation of crowns, shillings and groats: the very oil which
drives the wheels of Commerce and Industry and ensures the generation of
Wealth! If Art always aspired to the expression of virtue as Science does to describing
and explaining it, then I would never have cause to complain about the
abominations pretending to such an elevated station.”
We left the
main plaza, past more municipal buildings, to where a number of tunnels were
radiating away in all directions. Some of the tunnels were quite high and wide,
sufficiently so to contain rows of houses and apartment blocks. Some were only
wide enough for a single car to drive along. All were lit by the same neon glow
that permeated the plaza.
“And what
would you like to see? Where would you like to go? Endon has everything you
should wish to see; all that a body might wish.”
“I wouldn’t
mind finding a railway station,” volunteered Anna. “I’d like to catch a train
to Lambdeth.”
“That
should be no problem. Endon has a very impressive station, as befits a city of
its population and industrial significance. And you, young man? Do you also
wish to catch a train?”
“I’ve got
no particular destination,” I admitted. “I’m quite happy to see more of Endon.”
“And that
you will! God’s Wounds! He who tires of Endon, tires of life itself! There is
more to see than you could ever hope to find in Lambdeth.” He strode along one
of the medium-sized tunnels which had shop windows glazing its walls, with
clothes, white goods, computer software and locally manufactured honey
tastefully displayed inside. The clothes shops had the models of some very
various arthropods accommodated by an astonishing variety of fashions and
styles. Clothes that flattered the thorax, the abdomen and carapace of any
insect or arachnid. Anna was evidently less impressed by the shops than I, but
her eye was caught by a very prominent poster almost completely obscuring an
empty shop window.
As my
attention was distracted from the sight of insects, tigers, spiders and other
shoppers, I noticed many other posters plastered about, and most were connected
with the General Election. The one that had attracted Anna’s eye featured
simply the face of a koala wearing a broad-rimmed hat looking benignly out at
the world. Underneath was the single word Illicit,
which I recalled was the name of one of the political parties contesting the
Election.
“Who’s the
koala?” I asked naïvely.
“Don’t you
know!” exclaimed Anna, raising her eyebrows. “Golly! You Suburban people are so jolly ignorant. It’s Chairman Rupert,
the leader of the Illicit Party and president of his own country which he’s
renamed - modestly I’m sure! - as the Illiberal
“The
Damnable imposture of the Marsupial!” Sir George assented. “How can a classless
four-thumbed Animal like him claim so much self-importance that he should name
an entire country after himself? Even I haven’t arrogated my power and
influence to the extent of renaming my land the Sir George Estate, but there
are those for whom pride knows no bounds!”
“So, what
do you think of the General Election?” Anna wondered. “Are you going to vote
Illicit? Or have you got better options?”
“Are you an
Illicitist, young lady? Are you one of those who want to merge this proud
nation with the
“Goodness, no! As if I jolly well would. But
everywhere you go there are more and more people switching their allegiance to
the Illicit Party. It’s like some sort of fashion.”
“Simon
Peter Wept! For an antipodean dictator!”
“I think it
might be to do with general disenchantment with the established parties. After
all, it’s the only major party that doesn’t name itself after a colour...”
“And what’s
so Damnably wrong with that! It’s the way parties have
always been identified, and I see no Godly reason why this proud tradition
should not continue. But, you’re right, my dear, there is great disenchantment.
And can you blame the people when there are candidates such as these standing for election.” He
gestured a long spindly forelimb at a poster featuring a very sincere looking
ant above the slogan The Red
Party - Working for the People. “These
scum who claim to represent the interests of the poor, downtrodden and the
workers. All they wish to do is replace the rule of Law and Order, enshrined by
status and tradition, by nothing better than the rule of the mob. They would
see this nation run by ants and termites. They would destroy art, enslave the
aristocracy in concentration camps and thoroughly ruin the nation’s economy. It
is not only self-interest which decides my opposition to these peasants, but
also concern for the interests of industry. Capital would flee these shores
were the Red Party to gain power and it would be an unparalleled disaster for
all those who have worked so hard to make this nation great.”
“Would you
support the Green Party, then?” Anna asked.
“They are
little better than the Reds! Perhaps they have some ideas I agree with,
preserving many of the traditions of our nation, but all they would do is
reverse the thrust of Progress. They would demand unacceptable restrictions on
industry. Profits would plummet, economic growth would be stifled, capital
would flee, and we would all have to become vegetarians.”
“What about
this lot, then?” Anna indicated a poster featuring a very heroic figure looking
into the far distance carrying a sword with blood dripping from its blade. The
poster was mostly composed of bold black lines on a dark blue background, with
the slogan The Voice of Reason. “Do
you think the Black Party is the one you’d support?”
“They are
no more the Voice of Reason than the
Red Party. In fact, the two are equally Damned, I believe, because they both
wish to subvert the natural Social Order. They are a Party that takes good
honourable policies and perverts them with a doctrine of hatred and xenophobia.
They would also replace Her Maphrodite by a Damned president and would frighten
off capital as assuredly as the Red Party. They have some very strange opinions
regarding insects. Their wooing of the arachnid vote is extremely worrying: I
wouldn’t like a hairy eight-legged individual telling me what to do.”
Sir George
gestured at two other posters high above the shops on a hoarding. One featured
nothing more than a blank space, with the words Vote White - You Know It Makes Sense.
The other featured a mixture of apparently contented arthropods over the slogan
Continuity, Tradition, Happiness,
and by the side was a box with a blue tick in it. “The White Party has never
stood for anything I have disagreed with. Nor have they stood for anything I
have ever really believed in at all passionately. But as always my vote will go
to the Blue Party.” He pointed a forelimb at the poster of contented citizens.
“It is the Blue Party that most assuredly represents the Voice of Reason, and it is to them I have donated party funds and
it is they who, God Willing! will triumph in the General Election and at last
this nation will be steered gently and firmly to the betterment of industry,
commerce and greater weal.”
Anna smiled
and made no comment. She addressed me. “So you know nothing about the Illicit
Party at all.”
I creased
my forehead. “I’m afraid so.”
“I’m no
expert, but I’ve got friends who are jolly interested in it. Mostly because
they oppose it. The name Illicit is a
kind of contraction of Illiberal
Socialist, I believe.”
“Damnable
socialists like the Red Party!” snorted Sir George. “How can any right-thinking
individual support a party associated with socialism?”
“I don’t
know that they are any more socialist than the flipping National Socialists,
but it’s their name and I suppose it explains some of their appeal for the
working classes. But the party is one which has grown very popular in a very
short time. Five years ago, no one had even heard of the Illicit Party or
Chairman Rupert. Now the party is one of the biggest in the country.”
“The Damned
bounder Rupert has lied his way to power and influence
in a way that even Machiavelli would find dishonourable. In his own country, he
has made his way from the leader of just one of countless fringe parties to
becoming its dictator. The people there must be of the damned to endorse him.”
“I’m sure
his rise to fame had something to do with the blinking mess his country was in.
Far worse than this country...”
“That would
be Damnably hard to believe! This, so-called Chairman, Rupert takes power by
devious and fiendish means, and then suppresses all free discussion and
imprisons anyone who’s ever disagreed with him...”
“I don’t
know what his does in his own country, but some of the tales of book-burning,
concentration camps, forced labour, purges, pogroms and persecution ... It
sounds flipping horrid! And he looks such a harmless creature. You wouldn’t
blooming imagine that such a cute looking koala could be the author of anything
like that!”
“Nothing
you Damned mammals do surprises me!” Sir George strode on, and we again had to
nearly run to keep up with his long elegant strides. “Just look at the
marsupial! He wears a hat like Napoleon, a collarless dark suit, and shakes his
Damned paws about like some insane lunatic.”
“I’ve heard
his political addresses are very inspiring,” commented Anna, “but I’ve never
met anyone who could give me a good explanation as to what Illiberal Socialist
policies actually are.”
“Isn’t that
just like the White Party?” I asked.
“There’s
nothing remotely sinister about the White Party. Nobody could object to better
street-lighting, more public libraries or wider car-parking spaces. But the
Illicit Party has some jolly odd ideas on a whole host of things, and a lot of
them seem to contradict each other...”
“He seems
too Damnably fond of mites and spiders, I woot. But he
does have some progressive views regarding Art...”
“You mean
the Art you like. A lot of Artists have had to emigrate from the blinking
“...Coming
over here with their Damned decadent and amoral work. The Art he encourages is
at least inspirational.”
“He is
jolly keen on his own image, though,” Anna commented. “If you like huge
statues, paintings or posters of Chairman Rupert looking heroic, then the
“He has
certainly stimulated the economy of his country...”
“...Only at
the expense of the trades unions,” countered Anna. “He has been very kind to
businessmen - slashing taxes and lavish with state subsidies - but he’s not
been very kind to women, the poor, the unemployed and, I gather, to what was
left of the Aristocracy...”
“His
Damnable treatment of his social betters is an international scandal,” agreed
Sir George. “He exiled all the princes, dukes and barons of his country and
confiscated all their wealth, so that he could finance his grandiose
schemes...”
“It was jolly popular with the natives...” remarked Anna untactfully.
Sir George declined to comment. “The Illicit Party is getting to be jolly
popular in this country too. There are already several Illicit Party town and
village councils. I imagine they’re fairly popular in Endon as well...”
“Mostly
with the Damnable Arachnids!” snorted Sir George. “I have little doubt that
good sense and reason will prevail and this borough will reject the swine. I
would not have thought it likely that the citizens of Endon would surrender
sovereignty to a mere pouched mammal!”
The tunnel
widened as Sir George led us past the shops, houses and office blocks lining
our way and the ceiling now arching high above us. It was generally busier as
insects ran back and forth on their business. Termites pedalled by on specially
designed bicycles. A small trolley was pulled along by four disgruntled
cockroaches. A spider sat in an enormous web high above us as houseflies, the
size of dogs, flew gingerly by. A tiger moth swooped down and brushed Anna with
its dusty wings before gliding off into the distance.
Anna was
not amused as she brushed off the dust that had scattered over her. “Uughh! I think some of it’s got into my mouth!” she cursed,
rubbing the back of her hand over her thick lips. “Some of these insects are
utterly disgusting!”
Sir George
laughed at Anna’s discomfort. “God’s Wounds! Don’t
think that the people of Endon aren’t similarly disgusted by you endoskeletal,
furry bipeds.”
“All I can
say,” countered Anna, “is that I’m glad that not
everywhere is like Endon.”
We arrived
at another junction of tunnels by which there was a large subterranean lake in
which mermaids were frolicking with water boatmen and caddis flies. The gleam
of neon tubes reflected off the water’s still surface, on which floated
enormous waterlilies while immense reeds towered overhead. Sir George escorted
us to a car ferry which took us gently across the dark waters to some more
tunnels on the other side. Anna and I leaned over the ferry’s side to look at
the dragonflies swooping above in the distant heights of the reeds, while Sir
George chatted amiably with the ferry’s skipper, a moderately bulky green
beetle.
“I don’t
think I’m so enamoured by all these creepy-crawlies!” Anna confided to me as
the ferry ploughed through the dark viscous waters. “I mean, Sir George is
alright. But his funny face and those eyes! You don’t know where to jolly well
look! And you can’t be sure where he’s looking either. I’m dying to get away
from here to more human company.”
“So you’re
returning to Lambdeth?”
“You can come
too, if you like,” Anna offered. “It’s a lot more fun than Endon and I’m sure I
can show you many more interesting things than you’ll ever find with all these
scaly monsters. It’s quite an arty place, what with the University and all the
students. And it’s got at least as much history as this place... Oooh! Look!”
She pointed at a couple of mermaids jumping in and out of the water in the near
distance. They then disappeared under the surface and totally out of sight.
“I’m not
sure...” I said dubiously, not wishing to offend Sir George who was waving at
us cheerfully with one of his arms. He strode towards us, holding his top hat
in two of his other arms.
“We’re very
close to the Station,” he announced. “You can see it there on the shore.” And
there indeed, just by a quay where some boats were gently bobbing in the quite
still water, was the entrance to another tunnel with timetables, maps and
posters outside and the words Endon Central over the top of the doorway. There was a general buzz of activity with
insects sitting by their baggage, some selling their wares and a few brawny
cockroaches and spiders waiting with rickshaws. The ferry finally docked on the
shore and we disembarked. There was a train for Lambdeth leaving within minutes
at
As a result
of her haste, Sir George and I didn’t have the opportunity to give her more
than the most peremptory of goodbyes. She briefly kissed me on the cheek,
assured me that we’d probably meet again, and rushed through to the platform in
a flurry of black skin and white clothes. She waved at us from the platform, as
she jumped onto the modern and very rapid train standing there.
Sir George
sighed as we turned away and headed down a tunnel past more shops. “That woman
is Damned impudent, don’t you think, young man? If she were a grasshopper I
don’t think I could have stood for it at all, but as a human being, I’m really
not able to correct her. Women are necessary evils, I believe. It is their duty
to serve us men in their dual rôles as providers of domestic comfort and sexual
pleasure, and beyond that it is best they stray as little as possible. I know
that my views on the natural subservience of the weaker sex are unlikely to
find much favour with the modern miss, such as your dark-hued friend, but they
are nonetheless sincerely felt. Don’t you find the futile attempts of females
such as she to stand up for herself in the face of the
undeniable superiority of our gender rather touching?”
A female
grasshopper in a long dress whose train was supported by two ladybirds happened
to be walking towards us. Sir George halted and bowed low with a sweep of his
top hat as she passed by, one of her forelimbs waving a fan in front of her
face, and using the others to keep her dress from trailing on the
cigarette-butt strewn floor. He righted himself after she had gone by.
“Naturally,
I believe in gallantry, as well,” Sir George assented. “Just as it is the rôle
of the stronger sex to provide and protect, the woman’s is to accept, with
becoming demureness, her position to support the male in his industry. A woman
is to be useful as well as decorative: and the service they best provide is, of
course, in the generation of children. I have sown my seed widely, I confess,
and there are many batches of eggs I can claim to have inseminated, but my
ambition, and that of all good Christians, is to sire offspring to the best of
women and to provide the best for my inheritance.
“Never let
it be said that I don’t have the best interests for women at heart. But there
is a limit to what a woman should be permitted to do, which your friend from
Baldam would no doubt dispute. I fail to see any good reason why they should be
allowed to vote. I fear it is the woman’s vote which may be to blame if the
Blue Party fails to win the General Election. That,
and the imprudent over-extension of the franchise. It is plain that women are
the lesser sex. How many great female artists are there, for instance? And can
one imagine any woman having the leadership qualities necessary to become a
prime minister or a president?”
I didn’t
comment, although I was sure that there had indeed been several women who had
succeeded quite well in these very things. The tunnel wound along and away, and
was now much narrower. There was a curious form of lane discipline whereby
everyone walked on the left and all collisions were avoided despite the
flamboyant wings sported by several of the larger insects.
All along
the side of the tunnel, now constructed of clay-like earth, were holes which
were the doors and windows of very unsophisticated homes. The inhabitants were
now generally much smaller, represented primarily by ants, mites and termites.
A serpent-sized worm wriggled by between our legs. A cockroach scurried past,
furiously twitching his giant antennae.
“This isn’t
such a wealthy district of Endon,” I observed.
“In truth,
no,” agreed Sir George. “The scum of the city must live somewhere, and this,
I’m afraid, is one of their districts. I
apologise for having brought you into such close contact with the lowest of
Endon society, dominated by ants and other inferior species.”
“Are ants
innately inferior?”
“God’s
wounds! You cannot compare them with beings such as I with
epithets other than inferior or unfortunate. There is a natural order in
Endon’s society, as there is in mammalian society, and in keeping with this,
just as there are those blessed with intelligence, æsthetic sensitivity and
wealth, there must necessarily be those denied any of these things. Beings such
as ants were created by the Lord to be wholly subservient to those of greater
wisdom and aptitude such as I. It is only just and
right that they should occupy such a rôle, just as it is right that I should
have the advantages of my wealth and status.”
“Are there many poor districts like this in
the city?” I wondered, experiencing great difficulty in navigating through the
scattered piles of litter and rubbish. I hoped that we’d soon find our way to a
precinct not distinguished by peeling posters, huge heaps of neglected dung and
with so many insects squatting by the roadside with limbs outstretched and
pleading for alms.
“Like any
city, Endon has a full variety of districts from the highest to the lowest,”
sniffed Sir George, studiously ignoring the beggars’ entreaties. “There are
much better appointed quarters, such as where I live, with magnificent,
pleasantly designed houses. They have wide streets and the houses have spacious
gardens. It is there that the most peerless of Endon’s citizens live, with
their staff of inferior invertebrates to tend the gardens, clean the streets
and secure our properties from invasion by the scum you see here.
“Then there
are these districts of urban hell, where the Red Party is unquestionably very
popular, preaching rebellion and disorder. Areas rife with
crime, murder, drugs and violence. Full of the
unemployed, the idle and the feckless. Areas which should by rights be purged from the city and whose loss would not be in the
slightest bit detrimental to the city’s vitality.
“In between
these extremes of sophistication and degradation, there are the districts of
the artisans, mostly bees, who toil hard and are more content living in modest
homes where they manufacture white goods, honey, electrical components and
motor cars. Then there are districts inhabited by merchants, accountants,
dentists and teachers. More ordered than here but less opulent than where I
live. And finally there are the districts for the honest workers - the clerks,
factory-workers, soldiers and policemen - not as poor as this but certainly not
wealthy.
“But below
all others and too far below for me to even bear to address, certainly to touch
and without which the city of
I hoped so
too, feeling rather uneasy as the kaleidoscope of myriad eyes expressionlessly
watched Sir George and I proceed quickly through the long narrow tunnels
intentionally not engaging their attention. There were ants and termites
gathered in menacing gangs by barred windows. There were cockroaches lying in
apparent stupor in the unglazed windows. A tiger with dark glasses was huddled
in conference with several ants by the stairs of a fire escape, at the foot of
a tall termite-mound. I definitely didn’t feel very welcome in this
neighbourhood.
The tunnel
soon widened to accommodate factories, abattoirs and warehouses, around which
the streets were strewn with plastic cartons, discarded newspapers and
cigarette ends. There were far fewer people, but I could see insects busy at
work through the windows of the buildings and there was a general hum of
electricity, steam and air-conditioning. The tunnel further widened as we came
into a district that must have been one of the more salubrious districts Sir
George had mentioned. The houses were large, and could just about be seen
behind tall featureless walls topped by broken glass. In front of many houses
were small sentry-boxes in which might sit an aggressive looking beetle or
spider. The air was clear and clean and songbird-sized mosquitoes fluttered
around in the decorative heights of gladioli, rhododendrons and tulips. Besides
the guards in front of the houses, there were very few people, although there
was plenty of space to hold them. The occasional pond or fountain adorned our
way, and monstrous buttercups and daisies lined the roadside.
“Do you
live round here?” I asked Sir George.
“Goodness
no!” laughed the grasshopper. “Where I live is much better appointed than this.
Do you think I would choose to live in such close proximity to the riffraff
we’ve just passed? But many quite well-off individuals do choose to live here,
and quite a few residences are owned by people not really native to Endon at
all. Like Lord Arthur over there.”
He
indicated a colossal towering figure, easily thirteen foot high, meandering
towards us along the wide roads. He was too large to ever venture down the
tunnels we’d emerged from, but he was no insect. At first, blinded by the
bright light from the streetlights, I thought he might have been a tiger, but
he was in fact an enormous lion quite tall enough to glance over the walls at
the houses. Not that he was doing that, as he seemed totally lost in thought
and appeared quite frail and weak, despite his massive size and undoubted
strength. A once glorious tawny mane was now quite threadbare and portions of
fur were shredding off. His tail drooped sadly behind him.
“Good
morning, Lord Arthur,” Sir George called out to the lion when we were within a
few yards of him. The grasshopper seemed quite minuscule in comparison to the
beast towering high above him, who could easily toss the gangling
spindle-legged insect to one side with a single gesture of his monstrous paws.
“Is it
still morning, Sir George?” wondered the lion raising his head and coming to a
halt just five feet ahead of us. “This morning has seemed so very long. And so depressing. My Endon
accountant tells me that I may have to sacrifice all my holdings in your fair city.” He scanned the district with
eyes quite as large as my head. “I have never really appreciated the beauty of
your city before, you know, Sir George, and now that my estate and my factories
and my shops are to be sold off to cover my debts I feel I am appreciating it
rather belatedly.”
“Who are
buying your holdings?” wondered the grasshopper.
“What’s
left of my holdings,” the lion corrected. “Once I owned more than a fifth of
your city’s businesses. The buyers are a consortium of bees. And believe you
me, they are robbing me blind! I’m sure the capital wealth it represents is
worth at least five times as much as they have paid. And even the several
millions of guineas they paid will cover barely a fraction of my debts. But
every little helps.”
“Are you
staying in Endon for very long, your lordship?”
“Not at
all, Sir George. I have business to attend elsewhere. More to sell, I’m afraid.
If it were not for the kindness and, dare I say, the great generosity of those
friends of mine who have not abandoned me as my stock has sunk on the Exchange,
I would have nowhere to stay. Once I had no shortage of homes in this city.”
“Indeed I
bought my home from you, Lord Arthur.”
“You did!
You enterprising arthropod. Not that I ever visited most of the properties I
owned. I bought most of them for speculative reasons, you know.”
“I’m sure
you did,” the grasshopper replied approvingly.
“But that
was when business was good. Those were the days when the name of Lord Arthur
was feared and respected throughout the civilised world. And further than that
even. Now I can hardly open the financial pages of a newspaper without seeing
articles speculating about when - no
longer if - I will become bankrupt.
These are sad days indeed, Sir George.”
“God’s
Wounds! They are that! There is no longer the respect and honour due paid to
aristocrats and businessmen such as we...”
“That may
be so, though I don’t really recall life being any better for it. But it is for
me, not the world in general, that I complain. But hold! I must not forever
grieve. I have known some very good times. Who is your young friend?”
Sir George
introduced me formally to the lion. “He is a stranger whom I’m escorting
through the city of
“A real
stranger too,” Lord Arthur growled indulgently. “There aren’t very many
warm-blooded endoskeletals in this city are there? Except for tigers and
merpeople. I trust you’ll be taking this young fellow to the Party...”
“I hadn’t
thought of that, your lordship, but that would be a most diverting way to occupy the afternoon. Are you also likely to
come?”
“No. I’m
afraid not. As I said, I have too much business elsewhere. I have an
appointment at
He twitched
his monstrous tail, the tassel of which was larger than my whole body, and
unsteadily lumbered off.
“Lord
Arthur is old money on hard times,” sighed Sir George. “He is a moral example
to us all to retain by all means the wealth we have either inherited or
achieved. God’s wounds! It’s incredible to believe that one as wealthy as he
could ever have fallen so far. I sincerely hope I never share the same fate.”
“How did he
happen to lose his wealth?”
“I’m no
economic expert. I employ others to provide me with that expertise and
knowledge, but what I have read suggests that Lord Arthur burdened himself with
more commitments in steadily declining industries than he could profitably gain
from. And then, instead of divesting himself of these commitments or taking
advantage of new market conditions, he simply ploughed more and more of his
wealth into the hopeless task of keeping these industries going. Eventually of
course the whole edifice collapsed about him. I will never allow that to happen
to me. I blame the lion for being too sentimental to his employees and not
restructuring soon enough.” Sir George paused reflectively. “Still,
less of that. I’ll take you to the Party as the good lion suggested. My
carriage shouldn’t be too far from here.”
Indeed it
wasn’t. Sir George led me through a wide archway, quite large enough for Lord
Arthur to have walked through and I stood blinking in the strong
“Our destination
is several leagues hence,” the grasshopper announced, “so we’d best have
luncheon as we travel. I hope you enjoy my simple tastes.”
The lavish
meal of quail eggs, venison, caviar and champagne was somewhat less simple than
I was accustomed to, and not having eaten since
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