The Londoners — Text and Context

The Art of the Absurd Entrance

Hichens populates his novel with characters who make memorable first appearances. Mrs. Verulam is introduced through her theatrical languor and her maid's cushion-banking ritual. Later, Mr. Rodney, a nervous suitor, is shown 'treading on a valuable verbena' during an emotional outburst. The most striking entrance belongs to Mr. Harrison, the groom of the chambers, who is discovered in a hammock under a monkey-tree, being rocked by Marriner while she sings a lullaby: 'Sleep, oh, sleep! it's never too late for that.' This scene is pure farce—Mr. Harrison is ejected from the hammock when Mr. Rodney coughs, landing face-down with a 'noise that was surprising.' The characters' reactions are equally absurd: Marriner wails 'Oh, he's dead!' and shrieks at Mr. Rodney, who responds with a prim apology. These entrances establish a world where dignity is perpetually undermined by physical comedy and misplaced earnestness.

Dialogue as a Weapon of Satire

The excerpts reveal Hichens' skill in using dialogue to expose social pretensions. Mrs. Verulam's pronouncements are deliberately provocative: 'Society calls crimes virtuous, and virtues criminal,' she declares, while Mr. Rodney sputters in protest. When she claims that Mr. Bush 'stands to me for virtue,' Mr. Rodney is struck 'like one with paralysis,' and stammers about Mr. Van Adam. The exchange is a miniature battle of wits, with Mrs. Verulam deploying epigrams and Mr. Rodney reduced to babbling about 'unwarrantable liberties.' The maid Marriner also gets a voice—her respectful shriek 'You've killed him, sir!' is a perfect blend of servility and accusation. Hichens uses dialogue not to advance plot but to skewer character, making every conversation a performance of social anxiety and self-regard.

Setting as Comic Stage

The novel's settings are carefully chosen for their satirical potential. The opening takes place in a drawing-room overlooking Park Lane, with striped awnings and the distant hum of London—a picture of fashionable comfort. But Hichens punctures this with the detail of the Admiral's 'terrible expressions of the sea' and the premature general's death. The country estate of Ribton Marches, where much of the action occurs, is introduced through the 'Bun Emperor's' landscape-gardener, who has created a 'little grove of shrubs, monkey-trees, and other indigenous plants.' This artificial seclusion is where Mr. Harrison's hammock scene unfolds, turning a pastoral retreat into a stage for farce. The setting is never merely background; it is an active participant in the comedy, from the heat wave that 'painted the pallor' on faces to the verbena that gets trodden on during a crisis.

The Rhythm of Farce and Repartee

Hichens structures his scenes around a rhythm of buildup and collapse. In the hammock episode, the 'magical, unreal atmosphere' created by Marriner's lullaby and the rocking motion is shattered by Mr. Rodney's cough. The physical comedy—Mr. Harrison's ejection and face-plant—is followed by Marriner's wail and Mr. Rodney's apology. This pattern repeats throughout the excerpts: a moment of absurd tranquility is disrupted by a character's action or word, leading to a cascade of reactions. The dialogue also follows a rhythm, with Mrs. Verulam's calm provocations met by Mr. Rodney's escalating panic. The novel's subtitle, 'An Absurdity,' signals that this rhythm is deliberate. Readers should expect scenes that build to a comic climax, then deflate into anticlimax, with characters remaining oblivious to their own ridiculousness.

As you read, pay attention to how Hichens balances multiple comic registers: the verbal wit of Mrs. Verulam, the physical comedy of Mr. Harrison's mishaps, and the social satire of characters like Mr. Rodney, who is perpetually on the verge of breakdown. The novel's structure, with chapter titles like 'The Tweed Suit' and 'Chloe Waits for Her Trousers,' hints at a world where trivial concerns are treated with mock-epic seriousness. The excerpts suggest that the humor derives not from plot twists but from the relentless exposure of pretension through dialogue and situation. Approach this as a performance of absurdity, where every character is both actor and audience.

This book’s farcical hum, the maid’s lullaby over a toppled groom, recalls an afternoon I spent grinning at Mr. Punch's Railway Book — A Reader’s Guide, where every compartment’s luggage is a small catastrophe. Both satires measure society’s stiffness by how wildly it bends, yet neither wants to hurt, only to hold a mirror up to our own polite absurdities.