THE ISLAND OF GENTLEMEN  A Satirical Novel CHAPTER THE FIRST In Which the Narrator Embarks Upon an Extraordinary Voyage I, Edward Worthington, having been bred to the profession of medicine and possessing a modest competence inherited from my late father, a respectable solicitor of Bath, had long entertained a desire to see something of the world beyond our English shores. The year was 1872, and I was then in my thirty-fifth year, a bachelor of comfortable means but no particular distinction, save that I had been accounted by my acquaintance as a man of some learning and tolerable manners. Having disposed of my practice to a young physician newly come from Edinburgh, and having no near relations to consider, I took passage upon the merchant vessel "Prudent Maiden," bound for the Orient with a cargo of Manchester textiles. Our captain, one Josiah Blackwood, was a weather-beaten mariner of the old school, who had sailed to parts of the world that seemed to me then as fabulous as the realms described in the tales of Marco Polo. For six weeks we made good progress, touching at Gibraltar, then at Malta, and thereafter proceeding through the Mediterranean and into waters that grew daily warmer and more unfamiliar. I spent my hours upon deck reading such books as I had brought with me—chiefly the works of Mr. Dickens and a volume of Lord Byron's poetry—while observing the daily operations of the ship with that curiosity which has ever been my characteristic. It was upon the morning of the forty-third day of our voyage that disaster struck. A tempest of extraordinary violence arose from the southeast, driving our vessel far from its intended course. For three days and nights we battled the elements, until at last, exhausted and battered, the "Prudent Maiden" foundered upon rocks that appeared upon no chart in Captain Blackwood's possession. By what miracle I survived, I cannot say. I remember only the terrible grinding of the hull against stone, the shouts of the crew, and then the shock of cold water. When I recovered my senses, I found myself upon a sandy beach, with the wreckage of our ship scattered about me and no sign of any living soul. I was not, however, alone. As I sat upon the sand, attempting to collect my scattered wits and assess what injuries I had sustained—a gash upon my forehead and numerous bruises being the sum of them—I observed a figure approaching along the shore. This person was dressed in a manner so extraordinary that I at first doubted whether my senses had been entirely restored to me. The gentleman—for so I took him to be, by his bearing—wore a frock coat of the most immaculate cut, in a shade of charcoal grey that spoke of the finest West End tailoring. His waistcoat was of pale yellow silk, embroidered with a pattern of tiny acanthus leaves. His trousers were perfectly creased, his boots polished to a mirror finish, and upon his head sat a tall hat of the most fashionable shape. In his hand he carried a silver-topped walking cane, and upon his face was an expression of such elaborate courtesy that it seemed almost to be a mask. "Good morning, sir," said this apparition, doffing his hat with a bow of such exquisite precision that I felt quite shabby in comparison, though I had considered myself respectably dressed when I boarded the ship. "I perceive that you have experienced some misfortune. May I be so bold as to inquire whether you require assistance?" I rose to my feet, somewhat unsteadily, and attempted to return his bow with what grace I could muster. "Sir," said I, "you perceive correctly. I am the survivor of a shipwreck, and know not where I find myself." "You are upon the Island of Refinement," he replied, with an air of introducing me to something of inestimable value. "I am Mr. Percival Featherstonehaugh, at your service. And you, sir, are—?" "Edward Worthington, late of Bath," I answered. "Of Bath?" Mr. Featherstonehaugh repeated, as though I had named some legendary realm. "A most respectable city, I am sure. Most respectable. We do not often receive visitors from Bath. Indeed, we do not often receive visitors from anywhere. But come, sir, you must be in need of refreshment and rest. Allow me to conduct you to our principal settlement, where you may recover from your ordeal and observe our little society." I accepted his offer with gratitude, and we set off along a well-maintained path that led away from the beach and into the interior of the island. As we walked, I observed that the landscape was remarkably English in character—rolling meadows, neat hedgerows, clumps of oak and elm trees—save that everything appeared to be maintained with a degree of precision that exceeded anything I had seen in my native land. The grass was cut to exactly the same height across entire fields. The hedges were trimmed with geometric exactitude. Even the wildflowers seemed to have been arranged according to some principle of aesthetic order. "You observe our landscape," said Mr. Featherstonehaugh, noting my interest. "We pride ourselves upon our attention to detail. Nothing upon our island is permitted to exist in a state of nature. Nature, you see, is disorderly. It requires the guiding hand of refinement to achieve its proper expression." "It is certainly very... orderly," I ventured. "Order is the foundation of gentility," he replied, with the air of one quoting an established maxim. "Without order, there can be no civilization. Without civilization, there can be no gentlemen." We walked for perhaps two miles, during which time Mr. Featherstonehaugh maintained a stream of conversation that was remarkable for its elaborate courtesy and its almost complete lack of substance. He inquired after my health no fewer than seven times, expressed his hope that I was not unduly fatigued on five occasions, and assured me that everything possible would be done for my comfort at least a dozen times. Yet in all this discourse, he managed to convey almost no actual information about the island or its inhabitants. At length, we came in sight of a town, and here I must confess that my astonishment reached its height. The place might have been transported entire from the most fashionable quarter of London, save that it was more immaculate than any London street I had ever beheld. The houses were all of white stone, each exactly like its neighbor in design and proportion. The windows were hung with curtains of spotless lace. The doorsteps were scrubbed to a whiteness that dazzled the eye. And upon every door was affixed a brass plate, upon which was engraved, in elegant script, the word "GENTLEMAN." "You observe our custom," said Mr. Featherstonehaugh, noting my surprise. "Upon our island, every dwelling is the residence of a gentleman. We have no other class of inhabitant. It would be quite impossible, you see, for anyone who was not a gentleman to maintain the standards we require." "But surely," I objected, "someone must perform the necessary labor? Someone must cultivate the fields, tend the livestock, maintain the roads?" Mr. Featherstonehaugh smiled a smile of infinite patience. "My dear sir, you speak of labor as though it were a desirable thing. Upon our island, we have transcended such vulgar necessities. We have servants, of course, but they are invisible. It would be quite shocking to encounter an actual laborer in the street. Quite shocking." "But where do these servants come from?" I persisted. "Come from?" He seemed puzzled by the question. "They do not 'come from' anywhere. They simply... are. And they perform their functions without intruding upon the notice of gentlemen. That is their purpose. But come, you must be fatigued. Allow me to conduct you to the establishment where visitors are customarily received." He led me to a building somewhat larger than its neighbors, upon whose door was inscribed, in addition to the word "GENTLEMAN," the legend "HOTEL OF CIVILITY." Within, I found a hall of remarkable elegance, furnished with chairs and sofas of the latest London fashion, adorned with paintings of landscapes and portraits of persons unknown to me, and maintained at a temperature that seemed precisely calculated for human comfort. A gentleman appeared from an inner room—he was dressed with the same immaculate precision as Mr. Featherstonehaugh, though in a suit of navy blue rather than grey—and advanced upon us with a bow of such depth and duration that I feared he might never straighten again. "Mr. Featherstonehaugh," said this person, when he had at last completed his obeisance, "I perceive that you have brought us a visitor. This is an occasion of considerable interest. We so seldom receive visitors. May I inquire the gentleman's name?" "This is Mr. Edward Worthington, late of Bath," said Mr. Featherstonehaugh. "Mr. Worthington, permit me to present Mr. Algernon Courtenay-ffoulkes, the proprietor of this establishment." Mr. Courtenay-ffoulkes executed another bow, even more elaborate than the first. "Mr. Worthington, you are most welcome. Most welcome indeed. I trust that you will find our humble establishment adequate to your needs. We endeavor to maintain the standards of the finest hotels in London—or so I am informed, for I have never myself visited London, it being our custom to remain upon the island. But we have read descriptions, you see. We have read descriptions." "You have never left the island?" I asked, surprised. "Leave the island?" Mr. Courtenay-ffoulkes seemed shocked by the suggestion. "My dear sir, why should anyone wish to leave the island? Here we have achieved the perfection of civilized existence. The outside world, we are given to understand, is a place of considerable disorder. Of vulgarity. Of persons who are not—" he lowered his voice to a whisper, "—gentlemen. No, sir, we do not leave the island. It would be quite impossible for a gentleman to exist elsewhere. Quite impossible." He conducted me to a chamber on the first floor, a room of considerable size and elegance, furnished with a bed of mahogany and brass, a wardrobe, a writing desk, and numerous other articles of furniture, all arranged with that precision I had already observed in the landscape. The window looked out upon the street, where I could see gentlemen passing to and fro, each dressed with the same immaculate care, each bowing to his acquaintance with the same elaborate courtesy. "You will wish to refresh yourself," said Mr. Courtenay-ffoulkes. "I shall have hot water sent up, and a change of linen. We maintain a supply of clothing for visitors, though we so seldom have occasion to use it. When you are ready, you will find the drawing-room at your disposal, where refreshments are served throughout the day. And this evening, if you are sufficiently recovered, you may wish to dine with some of our principal inhabitants. They are most eager to make your acquaintance." I thanked him for his kindness, and he withdrew with another of those interminable bows. Left alone, I sat upon the bed and attempted to collect my thoughts. I had survived a shipwreck, that much was clear. I had been cast upon an island inhabited entirely by persons who considered themselves gentlemen, and who maintained a standard of dress and deportment that exceeded anything I had encountered in England. They appeared to have no commerce with the outside world, yet they possessed all the appurtenances of civilized life. And they seemed to be under the impression that their mode of existence represented the highest possible achievement of human society. I was not sure whether to be amused or alarmed. But I was certainly curious. And so, after availing myself of the hot water and the change of linen—which proved to be of excellent quality, though somewhat old-fashioned in cut—I descended to the drawing-room to observe more of this peculiar society. CHAPTER THE SECOND In Which the Narrator Observes the Customs of the Islanders The drawing-room of the Hotel of Civility was a spacious apartment, furnished with a profusion of sofas, armchairs, and occasional tables, all arranged in conversational groups. Upon the walls hung portraits of gentlemen in the dress of various periods, each depicted in a posture of elaborate courtesy—bowing, doffing hats, extending hands in greeting. The overall effect was of a room designed for the express purpose of social intercourse, but of a social intercourse so formalized that it seemed to have become an end in itself. Several gentlemen were already present when I entered, and they rose as one man to greet me. I was introduced to Mr. Reginald St. John-Deverell, Mr. Cornelius Fitzwilliam-Holland, Mr. Sebastian Montgomery-Cavendish, and the Reverend Dr. Theophilus Pemberton-Whitmore, each of whom subjected me to a scrutiny that seemed to assess every detail of my appearance, from the cut of my coat to the polish of my boots. "You are from England, I understand," said Mr. St. John-Deverell, a tall gentleman with an aquiline nose and an expression of permanent mild surprise. "From Bath, Mr. Featherstonehaugh informs us. A most respectable city. Most respectable." "I have always understood Bath to be a place of considerable refinement," added Mr. Fitzwilliam-Holland, a stout gentleman with a complexion that suggested a life of indoor ease. "The waters, you know. The waters are said to be most beneficial. Though of course we have no need of such things here. We do not suffer from illness upon our island. It would be most inconvenient. Most inconvenient." "You do not suffer from illness?" I asked, surprised. "Certainly not," said Dr. Pemberton-Whitmore, who had introduced himself as a physician, though he appeared to have reached an age where one might expect him to be the recipient rather than the practitioner of medical care. "Illness is a sign of disorder, and disorder is incompatible with gentility. We do not permit it." "But surely—" I began. "You will take some refreshment, Mr. Worthington," interrupted Mr. Montgomery-Cavendish, a gentleman of middle years with a manner of such elaborate solicitude that it seemed almost to constitute a physical weight. "We have a most excellent tea, imported—or so I am told, for I have no personal knowledge of such matters—from China. And our cook prepares a most delicate sandwich. You will find nothing in the world to equal it. Nothing in the world." I accepted his offer, and a servant appeared—so silently that I had not observed his entrance—with a tray bearing tea and sandwiches. The servant was dressed in livery of a dark green, and he moved with a softness of step that seemed almost unnatural. He did not meet my eyes, nor did any of the gentlemen acknowledge his presence in any way. He might have been a piece of furniture, save that furniture does not pour tea. "You observe our servant," said Mr. St. John-Deverell, as the man withdrew. "We maintain a large staff, though they are trained to be invisible. It would be most disagreeable to be reminded of their existence. Most disagreeable." "But do you not speak to them?" I asked. "Do you not inquire after their welfare?" The gentlemen exchanged glances of mild consternation. "My dear sir," said Mr. Fitzwilliam-Holland, "you speak as though servants were persons. They are not persons, you see. They are functions. They exist to perform services. To inquire after their welfare would be to suggest that they had welfare. It would be most confusing. Most confusing." I was about to pursue this topic further, but at that moment another gentleman entered the room, and the company rose once more to greet him. This person was older than the others, with white hair and a bearing of such dignified gravity that he seemed to embody the very essence of gentility. "Sir Bartholomew Hartington-Devereux," whispered Mr. Montgomery-Cavendish to me. "The most senior gentleman upon the island. We all defer to his judgment in matters of etiquette." Sir Bartholomew advanced into the room with a measured step, acknowledging the bows of the company with a slight inclination of his head. When he reached me, he paused and subjected me to a scrutiny even more searching than that of the others. "You are the visitor," he said, in a voice of remarkable resonance. "The survivor of the shipwreck." "I am, sir," I replied, bowing as deeply as I could manage. "Your bow," said Sir Bartholomew, "requires attention. The angle is insufficient, and the duration is excessive. A gentleman should bow at precisely forty-five degrees, and maintain the posture for no more than two seconds. You will observe." He demonstrated, executing a bow of such mathematical precision that I felt certain it could have been measured with a protractor. "You see?" he said, when he had straightened. "It is not difficult. But it requires practice. Everything requires practice. Gentility is not a gift, Mr. Worthington. It is an achievement." "I shall endeavor to improve, sir," I said. "See that you do," he replied. "For upon our island, deportment is everything. A man may be learned, he may be virtuous, he may be accomplished in a hundred arts. But if his deportment is defective, he is not a gentleman. It is as simple as that." He moved to a chair, and the company resumed their seats. I observed that the conversation, which had been desultory before, now became animated, though the animation was of a peculiar kind. The gentlemen spoke of the weather, of the state of the roads, of the quality of the tea, of the arrangement of the furniture in the room—topics of the most trivial nature, yet discussed with an air of profound seriousness, as though the fate of nations depended upon them. "You find our conversation curious, perhaps," said Mr. Featherstonehaugh, who had seated himself beside me. "You are accustomed, no doubt, to discussing matters of greater substance." "Not at all," I replied. "I merely observe that your topics are... circumscribed." "Circumscribed?" He smiled. "An excellent word. Yes, our topics are circumscribed. By design, you see. A gentleman does not discuss matters that might lead to disagreement. Disagreement is disorderly. It suggests that there are differences of opinion, and differences of opinion suggest that there is no single standard of correctness. But there is a single standard, Mr. Worthington. There is always a single standard. And that standard is gentility." "But surely," I ventured, "there are matters of importance that gentlemen might discuss? Politics, for instance? Religion? Philosophy?" Mr. Featherstonehaugh's expression became pained. "My dear sir, you speak of dangerous topics. Politics divides men into parties. Religion divides them into sects. Philosophy divides them into schools. A gentleman avoids all such divisions. He maintains a perfect neutrality. He is polite to everyone, and committed to no one. That is the essence of gentility." "But is that not—" I hesitated, searching for the right word, "—somewhat hollow?" "Hollow?" He seemed genuinely puzzled. "I do not understand you. How can gentility be hollow? It is the most substantial thing in the world. It is the only thing that matters." I was prevented from pursuing this line of inquiry by the announcement of dinner. We proceeded to a dining room of considerable magnificence, where a table was laid with crystal, silver, and porcelain of the finest quality. The company arranged themselves according to a system of precedence that seemed to be perfectly understood by all, though I could discern no principle upon which it was based—certainly not age, nor apparent dignity, nor any other quality that I could identify. I found myself seated between Mr. Montgomery-Cavendish and Dr. Pemberton-Whitmore, with Sir Bartholomew occupying the head of the table. The meal consisted of numerous courses, each more elaborately prepared than the last, and each discussed by the company with an attention that seemed quite disproportionate to its actual importance. "You observe our cook's preparation of the fish," said Mr. Montgomery-Cavendish, as a dish of trout was presented. "The sauce is of her own invention. We do not inquire what is in it, you understand. That would be vulgar. But we appreciate the result. We appreciate the result." "And the wine," added Dr. Pemberton-Whitmore, raising his glass to the light. "We have an excellent cellar, though I say it myself. We do not drink to excess, of course. That would be ungentlemanly. But we drink enough to appreciate the bouquet. The appreciation of wine is a mark of refinement." "Indeed," said Sir Bartholomew from the head of the table. "A gentleman must have discriminating tastes. He must know the difference between the excellent and the merely good. And he must be able to express that difference in terms that demonstrate his knowledge without suggesting that he has made an effort to acquire it. Effort is vulgar, Mr. Worthington. A gentleman must appear to have been born with all his accomplishments." "But surely," I objected, "all accomplishments require effort?" "Certainly not," said Sir Bartholomew, with an air of finality. "A gentleman does not strive. He simply... is. If one must strive, one is not a gentleman. It is as simple as that." The conversation continued in this vein throughout the meal, touching upon topics of the most inconsequential nature—the proper method of folding a napkin, the correct pronunciation of certain French words, the relative merits of different kinds of snuff—yet treated with a gravity that suggested they were matters of the highest importance. I observed that no one inquired after my experiences, my opinions, or my history. No one asked about the shipwreck, or my life in England, or my reasons for undertaking the voyage. It was as though my actual self was of no interest to them—only my appearance, my deportment, my ability to observe the forms of gentility. When the meal was concluded, we retired to the drawing-room for coffee and conversation. The gentlemen arranged themselves in a circle, and Sir Bartholomew addressed me directly for the first time since dinner. "Mr. Worthington," he said, "you have now observed something of our society. You will have formed certain impressions. I should be interested to hear them." I hesitated, uncertain how to respond. To speak the truth seemed impolite, yet to offer the conventional compliments seemed dishonest. "I find your society... remarkable," I said at last. "You have achieved a degree of order and refinement that I have not encountered elsewhere." "You speak as though that were a matter for surprise," said Sir Bartholomew. "It is not remarkable, Mr. Worthington. It is natural. It is the natural state of gentlemen. The disorder of the outside world is what is remarkable. The vulgarity, the contention, the constant striving. We have eliminated all that. We have achieved perfection." "Perfection?" I repeated. "Certainly. What more could one desire? We have comfort, we have refinement, we have the company of our equals. We have eliminated all sources of disturbance, all causes of disagreement. We live in a state of perfect equilibrium." "But do you not—" I hesitated, then plunged ahead, "—do you not find it somewhat... empty?" The word fell into the room like a stone into a still pond. The gentlemen exchanged glances of consternation, and Sir Bartholomew's expression became stern. "Empty?" he repeated. "You speak of emptiness as though it were a defect. But emptiness is purity, Mr. Worthington. It is the absence of vulgarity, the absence of disorder, the absence of all that is ungentlemanly. We are not empty. We are refined. We are distilled. We are the essence of gentility, unmixed with any baser element." "But surely," I persisted, "there is more to life than gentility?" "More?" Sir Bartholomew rose from his chair, and the other gentlemen rose with him. "You speak of things you do not understand, Mr. Worthington. You have been upon our island for less than a day. You have not yet learned our ways. I suggest that you observe more and speak less. Tomorrow, you shall be shown more of our society. Perhaps then you will understand." He bowed—a bow of such exquisite precision that it seemed almost to constitute a rebuke—and withdrew. The other gentlemen followed, each executing his own elaborate obeisance before departing, until I was left alone in the drawing-room, wondering what I had done to give offense, and what further wonders—or horrors—this strange island might have in store. CHAPTER THE THIRD In Which the Narrator Attends a Gathering of the Island's Principal Inhabitants I passed a restless night, troubled by dreams in which I was pursued by legions of bowing gentlemen, each demanding that I execute a bow of greater precision than the last, until I woke with a start to find the morning sun streaming through my window and a servant—silent, invisible, efficient—laying out my breakfast upon a table by the fire. After I had broken my fast, Mr. Featherstonehaugh called to inquire after my health and to inform me that Sir Bartholomew had arranged for me to attend a gathering of the island's principal inhabitants at his residence that afternoon. "It is a great honor," said Mr. Featherstonehaugh, with an air of solemnity. "Sir Bartholomew receives very few visitors at his home. You will observe the highest standards of gentility there. The highest standards." "I shall endeavor to conduct myself appropriately," I said. "See that you do," he replied. "For Sir Bartholomew is the arbiter of all matters of etiquette upon our island. His judgment is final. If he were to declare that a gentleman had committed a solecism, that gentleman would be... well, it has never happened. No gentleman has ever committed a solecism in Sir Bartholomew's presence. It would be unthinkable." I spent the morning in solitary contemplation, walking in the hotel's garden—a space of meticulous order, where every flower was arranged according to some principle of color and height, and where the gravel paths were raked to a smoothness that seemed almost unnatural. I observed that there were no birds in the garden, no insects, no signs of animal life of any kind. The place was beautiful, but it was a beauty of artifice, not of nature. At the appointed hour, Mr. Featherstonehaugh called to conduct me to Sir Bartholomew's residence. This proved to be a mansion of considerable size, set in grounds that extended for several acres. The house was of white stone, like all the others, but of a grandeur that marked it as the dwelling of a person of exceptional distinction. The windows were larger, the portico more imposing, the brass upon the door more brightly polished. We were admitted by a servant—silent, invisible, efficient—and conducted to a drawing-room of such magnificence that I felt quite overwhelmed. The room was filled with gentlemen, all dressed with the same immaculate care, all bowing with the same elaborate precision. The sound of their greetings was like the rustling of leaves in a forest, a continuous susurration of courtesy. Sir Bartholomew received us at the far end of the room, seated upon a chair that seemed almost to be a throne. He rose as we approached, and executed a bow of such magnificence that it seemed to encompass the entire room. "Mr. Worthington," he said, "you are welcome to my humble residence. I trust that you will find the company congenial. We have assembled today some of our most distinguished inhabitants, that you may observe the full range of our society." He proceeded to introduce me to the assembled company, and I found myself bowing until my back ached, exchanging greetings with gentlemen whose names I could not possibly remember—Mr. Peregrine Cholmondeley-Warner, Mr. Archibald Featherstonehaugh (a cousin, I gathered, of my guide), the Honorable Mr. Cecil Fitzroy-Stuart, Dr. Algernon Pemberton-Whitmore (a nephew of the physician I had met the previous day), and a dozen others, each with a name of similar complexity and a manner of similar elaboration. When the introductions were concluded, we arranged ourselves in conversational groups, and I found myself in conversation with a gentleman named Mr. Horatio St. Clair-Deveraux, who proved to be more forthcoming than most of his compatriots. "You find our society curious, no doubt," he said, with a smile that seemed almost to contain a hint of genuine amusement. "You are wondering how we came to be here, and why we maintain these elaborate customs." "I confess that I am puzzled," I said. "Your society seems to be devoted entirely to the preservation of appearances." "Appearances?" He laughed—a sound so unusual in that company that several gentlemen turned to stare. "My dear sir, you have hit upon the very essence of our existence. We are devoted to appearances. Appearances are everything. What is a gentleman, after all, but a collection of appearances?" "But surely," I objected, "there must be some substance beneath the appearance?" "Substance?" He lowered his voice, as though confessing to a heresy. "I shall tell you a secret, Mr. Worthington. There is no substance. There is only appearance. We are all hollow men, playing at being gentlemen. And the strange thing is, the longer we play at it, the more real it becomes. Or perhaps—" he paused, and his expression became thoughtful, "—the more we forget that it was ever play." "But that is terrible," I said. "Terrible?" He shrugged. "It is simply the way of the world. Or at least, the way of our world. You come from outside, from a place where people still believe in things—in progress, in improvement, in the possibility of genuine human connection. We have eliminated all that. It is too disturbing. Too disorderly. Here, we have achieved a perfect stasis. We are all perfectly polite, perfectly empty, perfectly content." "Content?" I repeated. "Can one be content with emptiness?" "One can become accustomed to anything," he replied. "That is the secret of human nature. We adapt. We accommodate. We learn to find satisfaction in the most unpromising circumstances. And after all, what is the alternative? To feel? To care? To be vulnerable to disappointment and pain? No, Mr. Worthington, we have chosen a better way. We have chosen to be gentlemen." Before I could respond, Sir Bartholomew called the company to order, and Mr. St. Clair-Deveraux moved away, resuming his mask of elaborate courtesy. I was left to ponder his words, which seemed to offer a glimpse into the true nature of this strange society. Sir Bartholomew announced that we were to be entertained by a display of gentlemanly accomplishments. Several of the company came forward to demonstrate their skills. One gentleman played upon the pianoforte—a performance of technical perfection, but of such mechanical precision that it seemed to contain no emotion. Another recited a poem of his own composition, a work of such elaborate vacuity that I could not determine whether it was intended as a joke or as a serious effort. A third displayed his skill at billiards, executing shots of remarkable difficulty with an air of such indifference that one might have thought he was performing a tedious duty rather than enjoying a game. "You observe," said Mr. Featherstonehaugh, who had stationed himself beside me, "the range of our accomplishments. We cultivate all the gentlemanly arts. We are musicians, poets, athletes, scholars. We are complete." "Complete?" I repeated. "Or merely... finished?" He looked at me with an expression of puzzlement, and I realized that the distinction had escaped him. I said no more, but watched as the display continued, each gentleman demonstrating his proficiency in some art or craft, each performance characterized by the same mechanical perfection, the same absence of genuine feeling. When the entertainment was concluded, we were served refreshments—tea, cakes, sandwiches of various kinds—and the conversation resumed its desultory course. I found myself in a group with Sir Bartholomew and several of the most senior gentlemen, and I took the opportunity to inquire further about the history of the island. "You are curious about our origins," said Sir Bartholomew. "It is natural, I suppose. Very well, I shall satisfy your curiosity. Our island was settled some two hundred years ago by a group of gentlemen who had grown weary of the disorder of the outside world. They were men of refinement, men of taste, men who understood that the true purpose of life was not achievement, not progress, not the accumulation of wealth or power, but the cultivation of gentility. They established this society upon principles that have guided us ever since." "And what are those principles?" I asked. "They are simple," he replied. "First, that appearance is more important than reality. Second, that courtesy is more important than sincerity. Third, that form is more important than substance. And fourth, that gentility is the highest good, to which all other considerations must be subordinated." "But surely," I ventured, "these principles are—" I hesitated, searching for a word that would not give offense. "Are what, Mr. Worthington?" "Are somewhat... limited?" "Limited?" Sir Bartholomew's expression became stern. "You speak of limits as though they were a defect. But limits are what define us, Mr. Worthington. Without limits, there is no form. Without form, there is no gentility. We have chosen to limit ourselves, to confine ourselves within the boundaries of gentlemanly conduct. And in doing so, we have achieved something that the outside world, with all its chaos and contention, has never achieved. We have achieved perfection." "But at what cost?" I asked. "Cost?" He seemed genuinely puzzled. "There is no cost. We have eliminated all cost. We have eliminated all struggle, all striving, all the vulgar business of living. We exist in a state of pure gentility, unmixed with any baser element. What could be more desirable?" I was about to respond, but at that moment a servant appeared—silent, invisible, efficient—and whispered something in Sir Bartholomew's ear. The great man's expression changed, becoming even more grave than usual. "It appears," he said, "that we have a situation that requires my attention. You will excuse me, Mr. Worthington. Mr. Featherstonehaugh will conduct you back to the hotel. We shall continue our discussion at another time." He withdrew with a bow of such magnificence that it seemed almost to constitute a dismissal of the entire company. The gathering broke up, the gentlemen dispersing with elaborate expressions of mutual regard, and I found myself conducted back to the Hotel of Civility by Mr. Featherstonehaugh, who maintained a silence that seemed almost to constitute a rebuke. "I fear I have given offense," I said at last. "Offense?" He turned to look at me, and I observed that his expression was troubled. "My dear sir, you do not understand. Upon our island, offense is impossible. A gentleman never gives offense, and a gentleman never takes offense. We have eliminated all such disturbances." "But Sir Bartholomew seemed displeased." "Sir Bartholomew is never displeased. He is simply... concerned. You speak of things that are not discussed here. You inquire after matters that are not considered relevant. You suggest that there might be values beyond gentility. It is... unusual." "But surely," I said, "one must believe in something?" "We believe in gentility," he replied. "What more is necessary?" I had no answer to this, and we completed our journey in silence. When we reached the hotel, Mr. Featherstonehaugh bowed with his usual elaboration and withdrew, leaving me to ponder the nature of a society that had achieved perfection by eliminating everything that made life worth living. CHAPTER THE FOURTH In Which the Narrator Makes Further Observations Upon the Island's Society In the days that followed, I was permitted to observe more of the island's society, and I found that my initial impressions were confirmed and deepened. The inhabitants of the Island of Refinement lived in a state of such elaborate artificiality that they seemed to have lost all connection with reality. I was taken to visit the homes of various gentlemen, each more magnificently appointed than the last. I observed that every house was identical in its essentials—the same arrangement of rooms, the same style of furniture, the same works of art upon the walls. The only variation was in the degree of magnificence, which corresponded to the social standing of the occupant. "You observe our taste," said Mr. Montgomery-Cavendish, who had undertaken to show me the principal residences. "We have achieved a perfect uniformity. No gentleman would dream of departing from the established standards. To do so would be to suggest that one's taste was superior to the collective taste of the society. And that would be most ungentlemanly." "But surely," I objected, "there is room for individual expression?" "Individual expression?" He seemed shocked by the suggestion. "My dear sir, individual expression is the enemy of gentility. A gentleman does not express himself. He expresses the standards of his class. He is a vessel, not a source. He receives his identity from the society, not from within himself." "But that is terrible," I said. "It means that you are all... interchangeable." "Interchangeable?" He smiled. "An interesting word. Yes, I suppose we are interchangeable. And that is precisely the point. A gentleman is not a unique individual. He is a type. He embodies an ideal. And that ideal is the same for all." I was shown the island's public buildings—the Library of Gentility, the Museum of Courtesy, the Academy of Deportment—each dedicated to the preservation and propagation of the island's values. The Library contained thousands of volumes, all devoted to the subject of gentlemanly conduct—manuals of etiquette, treatises on dress, guides to conversation. There were no works of literature, no books of history, no scientific treatises. These subjects, I was informed, were not relevant to the cultivation of gentility. "We do not concern ourselves with the outside world," said the librarian, a Mr. Theophilus Cholmondeley-Warner. "We have no need of its knowledge. We have achieved a complete system of conduct, a perfect code of behavior. What more could we require?" "But surely," I said, "one must understand the world in order to live in it?" "We do not live in the world, Mr. Worthington. We live upon this island. And upon this island, the only knowledge that is required is the knowledge of how to be a gentleman." The Museum of Courtesy was even more extraordinary. It contained exhibits demonstrating the history and practice of gentlemanly behavior—displays of bows from different periods, examples of calling cards, specimens of polite conversation. There was a section devoted to the art of the compliment, with examples of the most elaborate and vacuous expressions of regard. There was a section devoted to the avoidance of controversy, with strategies for changing the subject when dangerous topics arose. "You observe," said the curator, a Mr. Peregrine Fitzwilliam-Holland, "the evolution of our customs. We have refined courtesy to a science. Every gesture, every word, every glance has been analyzed and perfected. We have eliminated all possibility of error." "But surely," I said, "courtesy that is so calculated cannot be sincere?" "Sincerity?" He laughed. "My dear sir, sincerity is a defect. It suggests that one's feelings are genuine, that one is subject to impulses that have not been approved by the collective wisdom of the society. A true gentleman is never sincere. He is always polite. There is a difference, you see. Politeness is the art of concealing one's true feelings. Sincerity is the vulgar display of them." I was beginning to understand the true nature of this society. These were not men who had achieved gentility through the cultivation of virtue. They were men who had substituted form for substance, appearance for reality, manners for morals. They had created a world in which the only thing that mattered was the preservation of a facade, and they had lived in that world for so long that they had forgotten there was anything behind it. The Academy of Deportment was the most disturbing of all. Here, young gentlemen—boys of ten or twelve years—were instructed in the arts of gentlemanly behavior. I observed a class in progress, where a master was demonstrating the correct method of executing a bow. "The angle," he said, "must be precisely forty-five degrees. No more, no less. The duration must be exactly two seconds. The recovery must be smooth, without any suggestion of effort. You will observe." He demonstrated, and the boys attempted to imitate him. Those who failed to achieve the precise angle or duration were corrected, gently but firmly, until they performed the gesture to the master's satisfaction. "You see," said the headmaster, a Dr. Sebastian Pemberton-Whitmore, "our methods. We begin instruction at an early age, before any vulgar habits can be acquired. By the time our students reach maturity, gentlemanly conduct is second nature to them. They do not need to think about it. They simply... are." "But do you not teach them anything else?" I asked. "Do you not teach them to read, to write, to think?" "Think?" He seemed puzzled by the question. "My dear sir, thinking is dangerous. It leads to questioning, and questioning leads to doubt, and doubt leads to the collapse of all that we have achieved. We do not teach our students to think. We teach them to behave. And in that, we are the most successful academy in the world." I left the Academy with a heavy heart. I had seen the future of this society, and it was a future of perfect emptiness. These boys would grow up to be men like their fathers—polite, empty, perfectly behaved, perfectly hollow. They would execute their bows with mathematical precision, speak their compliments with mechanical fluency, and live their lives without ever experiencing a genuine emotion or entertaining an original thought. That evening, I dined with Mr. St. Clair-Deveraux, the gentleman who had spoken to me so frankly at Sir Bartholomew's gathering. He had invited me to his home, a residence of modest size but exquisite appointment, and had provided a dinner of such elaboration that I felt quite overwhelmed. "You have been observing our society," he said, as we sat over our wine. "You have seen our schools, our museums, our libraries. What do you think of us now?" "I think," I said, "that you have achieved something terrible." "Terrible?" He smiled. "An interesting word. Tell me more." "You have created a world in which appearance is everything and substance is nothing. You have eliminated all that makes life worth living—passion, creativity, genuine human connection. You have substituted a set of mechanical gestures for real feeling, a code of empty forms for authentic morality. You are not gentlemen. You are... automatons." He was silent for a moment, and when he spoke, his voice was thoughtful. "You speak harshly, Mr. Worthington. But you speak the truth. Or at least, a truth. We have indeed created such a world. And the question is, why?" "Why?" "Why did we do it? Why did we choose to live this way? I shall tell you. We did it because we were afraid. Afraid of life, with all its messiness and uncertainty. Afraid of feeling, with all its potential for pain. Afraid of genuine human connection, with all its risks of disappointment and betrayal. We chose to be safe. We chose to be empty. We chose to be gentlemen." "But surely," I said, "it is better to feel pain than to feel nothing?" "Is it?" He rose and walked to the window, looking out upon the immaculate garden. "You come from the outside world, Mr. Worthington. You have experienced life in all its fullness. Tell me, is it worth the pain?" I thought of my life in England—my modest practice, my few friends, my quiet existence. It had not been a life of great passion or drama. But it had been real. I had felt real things. I had known real people. I had experienced the genuine texture of human existence. "Yes," I said. "It is worth the pain." He turned to look at me, and I observed that his expression was sad. "I believe you," he said. "But it is too late for us. We have lived in this world for too long. We have forgotten how to be real. We can only be polite. We can only be empty. We can only be gentlemen." "But surely," I said, "it is possible to change? To rediscover what has been lost?" "Change?" He laughed, but there was no mirth in the sound. "My dear sir, we do not change. We are perfect. And perfection is the enemy of change. To change would be to admit imperfection, and that we cannot do. We are gentlemen." He returned to his seat and filled our glasses with wine. "But let us not speak of such melancholy matters. You are our guest, and it is our duty to entertain you. Tell me of the outside world. Tell me of England. Is it still as disorderly as ever?" I spoke of England, of its bustling cities and its quiet countryside, of its industry and its commerce, of its politics and its culture. As I spoke, I observed that he listened with an expression of such wistfulness that it seemed almost to constitute a reproach. "It sounds... lively," he said, when I had finished. "It is lively," I agreed. "Sometimes too lively. But it is real." "Real," he repeated. "An interesting word. We are not real here, are we? We are... something else. Something less." "You could be real," I said. "If you chose to be." "Could we?" He shook his head. "I do not think so. We have lived in this world for too long. We have become what we pretend to be. We are gentlemen. And gentlemen are not real. They are... appearances." We finished our wine in silence, and I took my leave. As I walked back to the hotel through the immaculate streets, I reflected upon what I had learned. This island was not a paradise, as its inhabitants believed. It was a prison—a prison of their own making, from which they had neither the will nor the desire to escape. CHAPTER THE FIFTH In Which the Narrator Attends a Ceremony of the Utmost Gentility The following day, I received an invitation from Sir Bartholomew to attend a ceremony of particular significance—a celebration of the anniversary of the island's founding. This was, I was informed, the most important event in the island's calendar, and my presence was considered a great honor. The ceremony was to be held in the Great Hall of Gentility, a building of such magnificence that it made all the other structures upon the island seem modest by comparison. The Hall was situated at the center of the town, surrounded by a plaza of white marble, and its dome was visible from every part of the settlement. I was conducted to the Hall by Mr. Featherstonehaugh, who had dressed for the occasion with an elaboration that exceeded even his usual standard. His coat was of midnight blue, his waistcoat of cream silk embroidered with gold, his trousers of the finest black broadcloth. Upon his breast he wore a medallion of some kind, which he informed me was the Order of Perfect Courtesy, the highest distinction upon the island. "You will observe," he said, as we approached the Hall, "the assembly of our entire society. On this day, every gentleman upon the island is required to attend. It is a demonstration of our unity, our commitment to the principles that guide us." The Hall was indeed filled to capacity with gentlemen, all dressed in their most magnificent attire, all bowing and greeting one another with the same elaborate courtesy. The sound of their conversation was like the murmur of a distant sea, a continuous wash of polite nothings. We took our seats—I was given a place of honor near the front, in recognition of my status as a visitor—and awaited the commencement of the ceremony. At the appointed hour, a fanfare of trumpets sounded, and Sir Bartholomew entered, dressed in robes of such magnificence that he seemed almost to be a monarch. He ascended to a platform at the center of the Hall and raised his hand for silence. The company fell quiet, and he began to speak. "Gentlemen," he said, "we are gathered today to celebrate the founding of our society. Two hundred years ago, our ancestors established upon this island a community dedicated to the highest ideals of human conduct. They recognized that the outside world was a place of disorder, of vulgarity, of ungentlemanly behavior. They chose to separate themselves from that world, to create a society in which gentility would be the supreme value, in which courtesy would be the only law, in which appearance would be the only reality." "They succeeded beyond their wildest dreams. We have created a society of perfect order, perfect refinement, perfect emptiness. We have eliminated all that is vulgar, all that is disorderly, all that is real. We have achieved the ultimate goal of human existence. We have become gentlemen." The company applauded, a sound of such mechanical precision that it seemed almost to have been rehearsed. "But our work is not complete," Sir Bartholomew continued. "There are still those who question our values. There are still those who suggest that there might be something beyond gentility. There are still those who believe in substance over appearance, in sincerity over politeness, in reality over illusion." He paused, and his eyes sought me out in the crowd. "We have a visitor among us," he said. "A man from the outside world. He has observed our society, and he has found it wanting. He believes that we are hollow, that we are empty, that we have sacrificed too much in pursuit of our ideal. What say you to him, gentlemen?" The company was silent for a moment, and then a voice spoke from the back of the Hall. "We say that he does not understand." Another voice joined in. "We say that he is vulgar." And another. "We say that he is not a gentleman." The voices multiplied, until the Hall was filled with a chorus of condemnation. "He is not a gentleman! He is not a gentleman! He is not a gentleman!" I rose to my feet, determined to defend myself, but Sir Bartholomew raised his hand for silence. "Peace, gentlemen," he said. "Our visitor is not to blame for his ignorance. He comes from a world that has not achieved our level of refinement. He does not understand that gentility is the highest good, that all other values must be subordinated to it. We must educate him. We must show him the error of his ways." He turned to me. "Mr. Worthington, you have observed our society, and you have found it wanting. You believe that we are hollow, that we are empty, that we have sacrificed too much. But I say to you that you are wrong. We have not sacrificed. We have gained. We have gained the only thing that matters. We have gained gentility." "But at what cost?" I asked, my voice rising above the murmur of the crowd. "You have gained gentility, yes. But you have lost everything else. You have lost passion, creativity, genuine human connection. You have lost the very things that make life worth living." "Those things," said Sir Bartholomew, "are vulgar. They are disorderly. They are ungentlemanly. We do not need them. We have something better. We have gentility." "But gentility is nothing," I said. "It is a shell, a facade, an empty form. It has no substance, no meaning, no value." "It has the only value that matters," said Sir Bartholomew. "It has the value of appearance. It has the value of form. It has the value of emptiness." "Emptiness is not a value," I said. "Is it not?" He smiled. "Consider, Mr. Worthington. What is the value of substance? It is heavy, it is burdensome, it is limiting. Appearance is light, it is free, it is unlimited. We have chosen to be light. We have chosen to be free. We have chosen to be empty. And in that emptiness, we have found perfection." "Perfection?" I repeated. "You call this perfection? A society of hollow men, going through the motions of gentility without ever feeling a genuine emotion or entertaining an original thought? This is not perfection. This is... this is..." I searched for a word that would convey my meaning, and found none. "This is what?" asked Sir Bartholomew. "This is terrible," I said at last. "This is the most terrible thing I have ever seen." The company gasped, a sound of such synchronized horror that it seemed almost to have been rehearsed. "Terrible?" said Sir Bartholomew. "You speak of gentility as though it were a crime. But gentility is the highest virtue. It is the only virtue. All other virtues—courage, honesty, compassion—are vulgar. They are disorderly. They are ungentlemanly. We have eliminated them. We have achieved purity." "Purity?" I repeated. "You call this purity? This is not purity. This is sterility. You have sterilized your lives, removing everything that might disturb your perfect equilibrium. You have created a world in which nothing happens, nothing changes, nothing matters. You are not living. You are merely... existing." "Existing is enough," said Sir Bartholomew. "Existing in a state of perfect gentility. That is the goal of human life. That is the purpose of our society. And we have achieved it." "But at what cost?" I asked again. "At the cost of everything that makes life worth living. At the cost of passion, creativity, genuine human connection. At the cost of your very souls." "Souls?" Sir Bartholomew laughed. "My dear sir, we do not believe in souls. Souls are vulgar. They suggest that there is something beyond appearance, something beyond form. We do not need souls. We have gentility." "And that is enough?" I asked. "It is everything," he replied. "It is the beginning and the end. It is the alpha and the omega. It is the only thing that matters." He turned to the company. "Gentlemen," he said, "you have heard our visitor. You have heard his criticisms. You have heard his accusations. What is your response?" The company rose as one man, and their voices filled the Hall. "We are gentlemen!" they cried. "We are gentlemen! We are gentlemen!" The sound was deafening, a chorus of mechanical precision, of perfect emptiness. And in that sound, I heard the death of everything that makes human life meaningful. I turned and fled from the Hall, pushing through the crowd of bowing, empty men, out into the immaculate plaza, through the immaculate streets, until I reached the beach where I had first arrived. The sea was calm, the sky was clear, and upon the horizon, I saw a sail—a ship, coming to rescue me from this terrible paradise. CHAPTER THE SIXTH In Which the Narrator Reflects Upon His Experience and Draws Conclusions I was rescued, as I had hoped, by a passing vessel—a merchant ship bound for England. The captain, a sensible man of practical disposition, listened to my account of the Island of Refinement with an expression of increasing incredulity. "A whole island of gentlemen?" he repeated. "All dressed in fine clothes and bowing to each other? And no one does any work?" "That is correct," I said. "And they consider this the highest form of existence?" "They do." He shook his head. "I've heard of strange places in my time, sir. But this is the strangest. A whole society devoted to doing nothing but being polite. It don't seem natural." "It is not natural," I agreed. "It is the most unnatural thing I have ever encountered." We made good progress on our voyage, and within six weeks, I found myself once more upon English soil. I returned to Bath, to my old life, to my modest practice and my few friends. But I found that I could not forget the Island of Refinement, nor the lessons it had taught me. For I had learned something important, something that I had never fully understood before. I had learned that the forms of gentility, which I had always taken for granted as the natural accompaniment of civilized life, could become a prison. I had learned that courtesy, which I had always considered a virtue, could become a vice. I had learned that appearance, which I had always valued as a sign of respectability, could become a substitute for reality. I looked about me at English society, and I saw the same tendencies at work. I saw men who were more concerned with the cut of their coats than with the content of their characters. I saw women who were more interested in the propriety of their deportment than in the genuineness of their feelings. I saw a whole society devoted to the preservation of appearances, to the maintenance of a facade behind which the real business of living was concealed. And I realized that the Island of Refinement was not an aberration. It was a magnification, a distillation, of tendencies that existed in my own society. The English gentleman, with his elaborate code of behavior, his obsession with form, his substitution of manners for morals—was he not simply a less extreme version of the gentlemen of the island? I thought of the clubs of London, where men gathered to demonstrate their gentility to one another. I thought of the drawing-rooms of the fashionable, where conversation was conducted according to rules that eliminated all possibility of genuine exchange. I thought of the elaborate codes of etiquette that governed every aspect of social life, from the method of addressing a letter to the proper duration of a call. And I wondered: were we not all, in our way, inhabitants of the Island of Refinement? Were we not all devoted to the preservation of a facade, to the maintenance of an appearance that concealed our true selves? Were we not all, in the end, more concerned with being gentlemen than with being human? I do not mean to suggest that courtesy is without value, or that gentility is a vice. There is much to be said for the civilizing influence of good manners, for the social lubricant of polite behavior. But when the form becomes more important than the substance, when appearance becomes more important than reality, when the mask becomes more important than the face beneath it—then we have crossed a line. Then we have entered the territory of the Island of Refinement. And that, I believe, is the lesson of my extraordinary voyage. We must be on guard against the tendency to substitute form for substance, to value appearance over reality, to become so obsessed with the trappings of gentility that we forget what it means to be genuinely human. For in the end, it is not the bow that matters, but the feeling that prompts it. It is not the compliment that matters, but the regard that inspires it. It is not the form that matters, but the substance that gives it meaning. The gentlemen of the Island of Refinement had forgotten this. They had created a world in which the form was everything and the substance was nothing. And in doing so, they had created a world that was perfect, and empty, and terrible. I pray that we may never follow them. I pray that we may remember that gentility is a means, not an end. That courtesy is a tool, not a substitute for genuine human connection. That appearance is a sign, not a replacement for reality. For if we forget these things, we too may find ourselves upon the Island of Refinement, bowing to one another in perfect precision, speaking compliments of mechanical fluency, and living lives of perfect, terrible emptiness. And that, I believe, would be the greatest tragedy of all. EPILOGUE It has been five years since my return from the Island of Refinement. I have resumed my practice in Bath, and I have tried to apply the lessons I learned upon that strange shore. I have tried to be genuinely courteous, not merely formally polite. I have tried to value substance over appearance, reality over illusion. I have tried to remember that the forms of gentility are means to an end, not ends in themselves. It has not been easy. The pressures of society are strong, and the temptation to conform to its expectations is ever-present. I have found myself, on more than one occasion, executing a bow of mechanical precision, or uttering a compliment of vacuous insincerity. But I have caught myself, and I have tried to do better. For I have seen the alternative. I have seen what happens when the forms of gentility become more important than the substance of human connection. I have seen the Island of Refinement, and I know that it is not a paradise. It is a prison. And I am determined never to enter that prison again. I have written this account of my experiences in the hope that others may learn from them. I have tried to be honest, to be clear, to be genuine. I have tried to convey the strange mixture of admiration and horror that the Island of Refinement inspired in me—the admiration for the perfection of its forms, and the horror at the emptiness of its substance. I do not know whether I have succeeded. I do not know whether my words will have any effect upon those who read them. But I have tried. And in the trying, I have at least been genuine. I have at least been real. And that, I believe, is the most important thing of all. For in the end, it is better to be real and imperfect than to be perfect and empty. It is better to feel pain than to feel nothing. It is better to be human than to be a gentleman. This is the lesson of the Island of Refinement. This is the lesson I have tried to learn. And this is the lesson I offer to those who read these pages. May they profit by it. May they remember that gentility is a means, not an end. May they value substance over appearance, reality over illusion. And may they never, never forget what it means to be genuinely human. For that, in the end, is the only thing that matters. THE END