The Project Gutenberg eBook of Tono-Bungay, by H.G. Wells

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Title: Tono-Bungay

Author: H.G. Wells

Release Date: November, 1996 [eBook #718]
[Most recently updated: March 23, 2021]

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8

Produced by: John Bean; Diane Bean and David Widger

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TONO-BUNGAY ***

[Illustration]




Tono-Bungay

by H.G. Wells


Contents

 BOOK THE FIRST
 CHAPTER THE FIRST
 CHAPTER THE SECOND
 CHAPTER THE THIRD

 BOOK THE SECOND
 CHAPTER THE FIRST
 CHAPTER THE SECOND
 CHAPTER THE THIRD
 CHAPTER THE FOURTH

 BOOK THE THIRD
 CHAPTER THE FIRST
 CHAPTER THE SECOND
 CHAPTER THE THIRD
 CHAPTER THE FOURTH

 BOOK THE FOURTH
 CHAPTER THE FIRST
 CHAPTER THE SECOND
 CHAPTER THE THIRD




BOOK THE FIRST
THE DAYS BEFORE TONO-BUNGAY WAS INVENTED




CHAPTER THE FIRST
OF BLADESOVER HOUSE, AND MY MOTHER; AND THE CONSTITUTION OF SOCIETY


I

Most people in this world seem to live “in character”; they have a
beginning, a middle and an end, and the three are congruous one with
another and true to the rules of their type. You can speak of them as
being of this sort of people or that. They are, as theatrical people
say, no more (and no less) than “character actors.” They have a class,
they have a place, they know what is becoming in them and what is due
to them, and their proper size of tombstone tells at last how properly
they have played the part. But there is also another kind of life that
is not so much living as a miscellaneous tasting of life. One gets hit
by some unusual transverse force, one is jerked out of one’s stratum
and lives crosswise for the rest of the time, and, as it were, in a
succession of samples. That has been my lot, and that is what has set
me at last writing something in the nature of a novel. I have got an
unusual series of impressions that I want very urgently to tell. I have
seen life at very different levels, and at all these levels I have seen
it with a sort of intimacy and in good faith. I have been a native in
many social countries. I have been the unwelcome guest of a working
baker, my cousin, who has since died in the Chatham infirmary; I have
eaten illegal snacks—the unjustifiable gifts of footmen—in pantries,
and been despised for my want of style (and subsequently married and
divorced) by the daughter of a gasworks clerk; and—to go to my other
extreme—I was once—oh, glittering days!—an item in the house-party of a
countess. She was, I admit, a countess with a financial aspect, but
still, you know, a countess. I’ve seen these people at various angles.
At the dinner-table I’ve met not simply the titled but the great. On
one occasion—it is my brightest memory—I upset my champagne over the
trousers of the greatest statesman in the empire—Heaven forbid I should
be so invidious as to name him!—in the warmth of our mutual admiration.

And once (though it is the most incidental thing in my life) I murdered
a man....

Yes, I’ve seen a curious variety of people and ways of living
altogether. Odd people they all are great and small, very much alike at
bottom and curiously different on their surfaces. I wish I had ranged
just a little further both up and down, seeing I have ranged so far.
Royalty must be worth knowing and very great fun. But my contacts with
princes have been limited to quite public occasions, nor at the other
end of the scale have I had what I should call an inside acquaintance
with that dusty but attractive class of people who go about on the
high-roads drunk but _en famille_ (so redeeming the minor lapse), in
the summertime, with a perambulator, lavender to sell, sun-brown
children, a smell, and ambiguous bundles that fire the imagination.
Navvies, farm-labourers, sailormen and stokers, all such as sit in 1834
beer-houses, are beyond me also, and I suppose must remain so now for
ever. My intercourse with the ducal rank too has been negligible; I
once went shooting with a duke, and in an outburst of what was no doubt
snobbishness, did my best to get him in the legs. But that failed.

I’m sorry I haven’t done the whole lot though....

You will ask by what merit I achieved this remarkable social range,
this extensive cross-section of the British social organism. It was the
Accident of Birth. It always is in England. Indeed, if I may make the
remark so cosmic, everything is. But that is by the way. I was my
uncle’s nephew, and my uncle was no less a person than Edward
Ponderevo, whose comet-like transit of the financial heavens
happened—it is now ten years ago! Do you remember the days of
Ponderevo, the _great_ days, I mean, of Ponderevo? Perhaps you had a
trifle in some world-shaking enterprise! Then you know him only too
well. Astraddle on Tono-Bungay, he flashed athwart the empty
heavens—like a comet—rather, like a stupendous rocket!—and overawed
investors spoke of his star. At his zenith he burst into a cloud of the
most magnificent promotions. What a time that was! The Napoleon of
domestic conveniences!

I was his nephew, his peculiar and intimate nephew. I was hanging on to
his coat-tails all the way through. I made pills with him in the
chemist’s shop at Wimblehurst before he began. I was, you might say,
the stick of his rocket; and after our tremendous soar, after he had
played with millions, a golden rain in the sky, after my bird’s-eye
view of the modern world, I fell again, a little scarred and blistered
perhaps, two and twenty years older, with my youth gone, my manhood
eaten in upon, but greatly edified, into this Thames-side yard, into
these white heats and hammerings, amidst the fine realites of steel—to
think it all over in my leisure and jot down the notes and
inconsecutive observations that make this book. It was more, you know,
than a figurative soar. The zenith of that career was surely our flight
across the channel in the Lord Roberts _B_....

I warn you this book is going to be something of an agglomeration. I
want to trace my social trajectory (and my uncle’s) as the main line of
my story, but as this is my first novel and almost certainly my last, I
want to get in, too, all sorts of things that struck me, things that
amused me and impressions I got—even although they don’t minister
directly to my narrative at all. I want to set out my own queer love
experiences too, such as they are, for they troubled and distressed and
swayed me hugely, and they still seem to me to contain all sorts of
irrational and debatable elements that I shall be the clearer-headed
for getting on paper. And possibly I may even flow into descriptions of
people who are really no more than people seen in transit, just because
it amuses me to recall what they said and did to us, and more
particularly how they behaved in the brief but splendid glare of
Tono-Bungay and its still more glaring offspring. It lit some of them
up, I can assure you! Indeed, I want to get in all sorts of things. My
ideas of a novel all through are comprehensive rather than austere....

Tono-Bungay still figures on the hoardings, it stands in rows in every
chemist’s storeroom, it still assuages the coughs of age and brightens
the elderly eye and loosens the elderly tongue; but its social glory,
its financial illumination, have faded from the world for ever. And I,
sole scorched survivor from the blaze, sit writing of it here in an air
that is never still for the clang and thunder of machines, on a table
littered with working drawings, and amid fragments of models and notes
about velocities and air and water pressures and trajectories—of an
altogether different sort from that of Tono-Bungay.

II

I write that much and look at it, and wonder whether, after all, this
is any fair statement of what I am attempting in this book. I’ve given,
I see, an impression that I want to make simply a hotch-potch of
anecdotes and experiences with my uncle swimming in the middle as the
largest lump of victual. I’ll own that here, with the pen already
started, I realise what a fermenting mass of things learnt and emotions
experienced and theories formed I’ve got to deal with, and how, in a
sense, hopeless my book must be from the very outset. I suppose what
I’m really trying to render is nothing more nor less than Life—as one
man has found it. I want to tell—_myself_, and my impressions of the
thing as a whole, to say things I have come to feel intensely of the
laws, traditions, usages, and ideas we call society, and how we poor
individuals get driven and lured and stranded among these windy,
perplexing shoals and channels. I’ve got, I suppose, to a time of life
when things begin to take on shapes that have an air of reality, and
become no longer material for dreaming, but interesting in themselves.
I’ve reached the criticising, novel-writing age, and here I am writing
mine—my one novel—without having any of the discipline to refrain and
omit that I suppose the regular novel-writer acquires.

I’ve read an average share of novels and made some starts before this
beginning, and I’ve found the restraints and rules of the art (as I
made them out) impossible for me. I like to write, I am keenly
interested in writing, but it is not my technique. I’m an engineer with
a patent or two and a set of ideas; most of whatever artist there is in
me has been given to turbine machines and boat building and the problem
of flying, and do what I will I fail to see how I can be other than a
lax, undisciplined story-teller. I must sprawl and flounder, comment
and theorise, if I am to get the thing out I have in mind. And it isn’t
a constructed tale I have to tell, but unmanageable realities. My
love-story—and if only I can keep up the spirit of truth-telling all
through as strongly as I have now, you shall have it all—falls into no
sort of neat scheme of telling. It involves three separate feminine
persons. It’s all mixed up with the other things....

But I’ve said enough, I hope, to excuse myself for the method or want
of method in what follows, and I think I had better tell without
further delay of my boyhood and my early impressions in the shadow of
Bladesover House.

III

There came a time when I realised that Bladesover House was not all it
seemed, but when I was a little boy I took the place with the entirest
faith as a complete authentic microcosm. I believed that the Bladesover
system was a little working-model—and not so very little either—of the
whole world.

Let me try and give you the effect of it.

Bladesover lies up on the Kentish Downs, eight miles perhaps from
Ashborough; and its old pavilion, a little wooden parody of the temple
of Vesta at Tibur, upon the hill crest behind the house, commands in
theory at least a view of either sea, of the Channel southward and the
Thames to the northeast. The park is the second largest in Kent, finely
wooded with well-placed beeches, many elms and some sweet chestnuts,
abounding in little valleys and hollows of bracken, with springs and a
stream and three fine ponds and multitudes of fallow deer. The house
was built in the eighteenth century, it is of pale red brick in the
style of a French chateau, and save for one pass among the crests which
opens to blue distances, to minute, remote, oast-set farm-houses and
copses and wheat fields and the occasional gleam of water, its hundred
and seventeen windows look on nothing but its own wide and handsome
territories. A semi-circular screen of great beeches masks the church
and village, which cluster picturesquely about the high road along the
skirts of the great park. Northward, at the remotest corner of that
enclosure, is a second dependent village, Ropedean, less fortunate in
its greater distance and also on account of a rector. This divine was
indeed rich, but he was vindictively economical because of some
shrinkage of his tithes; and by reason of his use of the word Eucharist
for the Lord’s Supper he had become altogether estranged from the great
ladies of Bladesover. So that Ropedean was in the shadows through all
that youthful time.

Now the unavoidable suggestion of that wide park and that fair large
house, dominating church, village and the country side, was that they
represented the thing that mattered supremely in the world, and that
all other things had significance only in relation to them. They
represented the Gentry, the Quality, by and through and for whom the
rest of the world, the farming folk and the labouring folk, the
trades-people of Ashborough, and the upper servants and the lower
servants and the servants of the estate, breathed and lived and were
permitted. And the Quality did it so quietly and thoroughly, the great
house mingled so solidly and effectually earth and sky, the contrast of
its spacious hall and saloon and galleries, its airy housekeeper’s room
and warren of offices with the meagre dignities of the vicar, and the
pinched and stuffy rooms of even the post-office people and the grocer,
so enforced these suggestions, that it was only when I was a boy of
thirteen or fourteen and some queer inherited strain of scepticism had
set me doubting whether Mr. Bartlett, the vicar, did really know with
certainty all about God, that as a further and deeper step in doubting
I began to question the final rightness of the gentlefolks, their
primary necessity in the scheme of things. But once that scepticism had
awakened it took me fast and far. By fourteen I had achieved terrible
blasphemies and sacrilege; I had resolved to marry a viscount’s
daughter, and I had blacked the left eye—I think it was the left—of her
half-brother, in open and declared rebellion.

But of that in its place.

The great house, the church, the village, and the labourers and the
servants in their stations and degrees, seemed to me, I say, to be a
closed and complete social system. About us were other villages and
great estates, and from house to house, interlacing, correlated, the
Gentry, the fine Olympians, came and went. The country towns seemed
mere collections of ships, marketing places for the tenantry, centres
for such education as they needed, as entirely dependent on the gentry
as the village and scarcely less directly so. I thought this was the
order of the whole world. I thought London was only a greater country
town where the gentle-folk kept town-houses and did their greater
shopping under the magnificent shadow of the greatest of all fine
gentlewomen, the Queen. It seemed to be in the divine order. That all
this fine appearance was already sapped, that there were forces at work
that might presently carry all this elaborate social system in which my
mother instructed me so carefully that I might understand my “place,”
to Limbo, had scarcely dawned upon me even by the time that Tono-Bungay
was fairly launched upon the world.

There are many people in England to-day upon whom it has not yet
dawned. There are times when I doubt whether any but a very
inconsiderable minority of English people realise how extensively this
ostensible order has even now passed away. The great houses stand in
the parks still, the cottages cluster respectfully on their borders,
touching their eaves with their creepers, the English countryside—you
can range through Kent from Bladesover northward and see persists
obstinately in looking what it was. It is like an early day in a fine
October. The hand of change rests on it all, unfelt, unseen; resting
for awhile, as it were half reluctantly, before it grips and ends the
thing for ever. One frost and the whole face of things will be bare,
links snap, patience end, our fine foliage of pretences lie glowing in
the mire.

For that we have still to wait a little while. The new order may have
gone far towards shaping itself, but just as in that sort of lantern
show that used to be known in the village as the “Dissolving Views,”
the scene that is going remains upon the mind, traceable and evident,
and the newer picture is yet enigmatical long after the lines that are
to replace those former ones have grown bright and strong, so that the
new England of our children’s children is still a riddle to me. The
ideas of democracy, of equality, and above all of promiscuous
fraternity have certainly never really entered into the English mind.
But what _is_ coming into it? All this book, I hope, will bear a little
on that. Our people never formulates; it keeps words for jests and
ironies. In the meanwhile the old shapes, the old attitudes remain,
subtly changed and changing still, sheltering strange tenants.
Bladesover House is now let furnished to Sir Reuben Lichtenstein, and
has been since old Lady Drew died; it was my odd experience to visit
there, in the house of which my mother had been housekeeper, when my
uncle was at the climax of Tono-Bungay. It was curious to notice then
the little differences that had come to things with this substitution.
To borrow an image from my mineralogical days, these Jews were not so
much a new British gentry as “pseudomorphous” after the gentry. They
are a very clever people, the Jews, but not clever enough to suppress
their cleverness. I wished I could have gone downstairs to savour the
tone of the pantry. It would have been very different I know.
Hawksnest, over beyond, I noted, had its pseudomorph too; a newspaper
proprietor of the type that hustles along with stolen ideas from one
loud sink-or-swim enterprise to another, had bought the place outright;
Redgrave was in the hands of brewers.

But the people in the villages, so far as I could detect, saw no
difference in their world. Two little girls bobbed and an old labourer
touched his hat convulsively as I walked through the village. He still
thought he knew his place—and mine. I did not know him, but I would
have liked dearly to have asked him if he remembered my mother, if
either my uncle or old Lichtenstein had been man enough to stand being
given away like that.

In that English countryside of my boyhood every human being had a
“place.” It belonged to you from your birth like the colour of your
eyes, it was inextricably your destiny. Above you were your betters,
below you were your inferiors, and there were even an unstable
questionable few, cases so disputable that you might for the rough
purposes of every day at least, regard them as your equals. Head and
centre of our system was Lady Drew, her “leddyship,” shrivelled,
garrulous, with a wonderful memory for genealogies and very, very old,
and beside her and nearly as old, Miss Somerville, her cousin and
companion. These two old souls lived like dried-up kernels in the great
shell of Bladesover House, the shell that had once been gaily full of
fops, of fine ladies in powder and patches and courtly gentlemen with
swords; and when there was no company they spent whole days in the
corner parlour just over the housekeeper’s room, between reading and
slumber and caressing their two pet dogs. When I was a boy I used
always to think of these two poor old creatures as superior beings
living, like God, somewhere through the ceiling. Occasionally they
bumped about a bit and one even heard them overhead, which gave them a
greater effect of reality without mitigating their vertical
predominance. Sometimes too I saw them. Of course if I came upon them
in the park or in the shrubbery (where I was a trespasser) I hid or
fled in pious horror, but I was upon due occasion taken into the
Presence by request. I remember her “leddyship” then as a thing of
black silks and a golden chain, a quavering injunction to me to be a
good boy, a very shrunken loose-skinned face and neck, and a ropy hand
that trembled a halfcrown into mine. Miss Somerville hovered behind, a
paler thing of broken lavender and white and black, with screwed up,
sandy-lashed eyes. Her hair was yellow and her colour bright, and when
we sat in the housekeeper’s room of a winter’s night warming our toes
and sipping elder wine, her maid would tell us the simple secrets of
that belated flush.... After my fight with young Garvell I was of
course banished, and I never saw those poor old painted goddesses
again.

Then there came and went on these floors over our respectful heads, the
Company; people I rarely saw, but whose tricks and manners were
imitated and discussed by their maids and valets in the housekeeper’s
room and the steward’s room—so that I had them through a medium at
second hand. I gathered that none of the company were really Lady
Drew’s equals, they were greater and lesser after the manner of all
things in our world. Once I remember there was a Prince, with a real
live gentleman in attendance, and that was a little above our customary
levels and excited us all, and perhaps raised our expectations unduly.
Afterwards, Rabbits, the butler, came into my mother’s room downstairs,
red with indignation and with tears in his eyes. “Look at _that!_”
gasped Rabbits. My mother was speechless with horror. _That_ was a
sovereign, a mere sovereign, such as you might get from any commoner!

After Company, I remember, came anxious days, for the poor old women
upstairs were left tired and cross and vindictive, and in a state of
physical and emotional indigestion after their social efforts....

On the lowest fringe of these real Olympians hung the vicarage people,
and next to them came those ambiguous beings who are neither quality
nor subjects. The vicarage people certainly hold a place by themselves
in the typical English scheme; nothing is more remarkable than the
progress the Church has made—socially—in the last two hundred years. In
the early eighteenth century the vicar was rather under than over the
house-steward, and was deemed a fitting match for the housekeeper or
any not too morally discredited discard. The eighteenth century
literature is full of his complaints that he might not remain at table
to share the pie. He rose above these indignities because of the
abundance of younger sons. When I meet the large assumptions of the
contemporary cleric, I am apt to think of these things. It is curious
to note that to-day that down-trodden, organ-playing creature, the
Church of England village Schoolmaster, holds much the same position as
the seventeenth century parson. The doctor in Bladesover ranked below
the vicar but above the “vet,” artists and summer visitors squeezed in
above or below this point according to their appearance and
expenditure, and then in a carefully arranged scale came the tenantry,
the butler and housekeeper, the village shopkeeper, the head keeper,
the cook, the publican, the second keeper, the blacksmith (whose status
was complicated by his daughter keeping the post-office—and a fine hash
she used to make of telegrams too!) the village shopkeeper’s eldest
son, the first footman, younger sons of the village shopkeeper, his
first assistant, and so forth.

All these conceptions and applications of a universal precedence and
much else I drank in at Bladesover, as I listened to the talk of
valets, ladies’-maids, Rabbits the butler and my mother in the
much-cupboarded, white-painted, chintz-brightened housekeeper’s room
where the upper servants assembled, or of footmen and Rabbits and
estate men of all sorts among the green baize and Windsor chairs of the
pantry—where Rabbits, being above the law, sold beer without a license
or any compunction—or of housemaids and still-room maids in the bleak,
matting-carpeted still-room or of the cook and her kitchen maids and
casual friends among the bright copper and hot glow of the kitchens.

Of course their own ranks and places came by implication to these
people, and it was with the ranks and places of the Olympians that the
talk mainly concerned itself. There was an old peerage and a Crockford
together with the books of recipes, the Whitaker’s Almanack, the Old
Moore’s Almanack, and the eighteenth century dictionary, on the little
dresser that broke the cupboards on one side of my mother’s room; there
was another peerage, with the covers off, in the pantry; there was a
new peerage in the billiard-room, and I seem to remember another in the
anomalous apartment that held the upper servants’ bagatelle board and
in which, after the Hall dinner, they partook of the luxury of sweets.
And if you had asked any of those upper servants how such and such a
Prince of Battenberg was related to, let us say, Mr. Cunninghame Graham
or the Duke of Argyle, you would have been told upon the nail. As a
boy, I heard a great deal of that sort of thing, and if to this day I
am still a little vague about courtesy titles and the exact application
of honorifics, it is, I can assure you, because I hardened my heart,
and not from any lack of adequate opportunity of mastering these
succulent particulars.

Dominating all these memories is the figure of my mother—my mother who
did not love me because I grew liker my father every day—and who knew
with inflexible decision her place and the place of every one in the
world—except the place that concealed my father—and in some details
mine. Subtle points were put to her. I can see and hear her saying now,
“No, Miss Fison, peers of England go in before peers of the United
Kingdom, and he is merely a peer of the United Kingdom.” She had much
exercise in placing people’s servants about her tea-table, where the
etiquette was very strict. I wonder sometimes if the etiquette of
housekeepers’ rooms is as strict to-day, and what my mother would have
made of a _chauffeur_....

On the whole I am glad that I saw so much as I did of Bladesover—if for
no other reason than because seeing it when I did, quite naively,
believing in it thoroughly, and then coming to analyse it, has enabled
me to understand much that would be absolutely incomprehensible in the
structure of English society. Bladesover is, I am convinced, the clue
to almost all that is distinctively British and perplexing to the
foreign inquirer in England and the English-speaking peoples. Grasp
firmly that England was all Bladesover two hundred years ago; that it
has had Reform Acts indeed, and such—like changes of formula, but no
essential revolution since then; that all that is modern and different
has come in as a thing intruded or as a gloss upon this predominant
formula, either impertinently or apologetically; and you will perceive
at once the reasonableness, the necessity, of that snobbishness which
is the distinctive quality of English thought. Everybody who is not
actually in the shadow of a Bladesover is as it were perpetually
seeking after lost orientations. We have never broken with our
tradition, never even symbolically hewed it to pieces, as the French
did in quivering fact in the Terror. But all the organizing ideas have
slackened, the old habitual bonds have relaxed or altogether come
undone. And America too, is, as it were, a detached, outlying part of
that estate which has expanded in queer ways. George Washington,
Esquire, was of the gentlefolk, and he came near being a King. It was
Plutarch, you know, and nothing intrinsically American that prevented
George Washington being a King....

IV

I hated teatime in the housekeeper’s room more than anything else at
Bladesover. And more particularly I hated it when Mrs. Mackridge and
Mrs. Booch and Mrs. Latude-Fernay were staying in the house. They were,
all three of them, pensioned-off servants.

Old friends of Lady Drew’s had rewarded them posthumously for a
prolonged devotion to their minor comforts, and Mrs. Booch was also
trustee for a favourite Skye terrier. Every year Lady Drew gave them an
invitation—a reward and encouragement of virtue with especial reference
to my mother and Miss Fison, the maid. They sat about in black and
shiny and flouncey clothing adorned with gimp and beads, eating great
quantities of cake, drinking much tea in a stately manner and
reverberating remarks.

I remember these women as immense. No doubt they were of negotiable
size, but I was only a very little chap and they have assumed nightmare
proportions in my mind. They loomed, they bulged, they impended. Mrs.
Mackridge was large and dark; there was a marvel about her head,
inasmuch as she was bald. She wore a dignified cap, and in front of
that upon her brow, hair was _painted_. I have never seen the like
since. She had been maid to the widow of Sir Roderick Blenderhasset
Impey, some sort of governor or such-like portent in the East Indies,
and from her remains—in Mrs. Mackridge—I judge Lady Impey was a very
stupendous and crushing creature indeed. Lady Impey had been of the
Juno type, haughty, unapproachable, given to irony and a caustic wit.
Mrs. Mackridge had no wit, but she had acquired the caustic voice and
gestures along with the old satins and trimmings of the great lady.
When she told you it was a fine morning, she seemed also to be telling
you you were a fool and a low fool to boot; when she was spoken to, she
had a way of acknowledging your poor tinkle of utterance with a
voluminous, scornful “Haw!” that made you want to burn her alive. She
also had a way of saying “Indade!” with a droop of the eyelids.

Mrs. Booch was a smaller woman, brown haired, with queer little curls
on either side of her face, large blue eyes and a small set of
stereotyped remarks that constituted her entire mental range. Mrs.
Latude-Fernay has left, oddly enough, no memory at all except her name
and the effect of a green-grey silk dress, all set with gold and blue
buttons. I fancy she was a large blonde. Then there was Miss Fison, the
maid who served both Lady Drew and Miss Somerville, and at the end of
the table opposite my mother, sat Rabbits the butler. Rabbits, for a
butler, was an unassuming man, and at tea he was not as you know
butlers, but in a morning coat and a black tie with blue spots. Still,
he was large, with side whiskers, even if his clean-shaven mouth was
weak and little. I sat among these people on a high, hard, early
Gregorian chair, trying to exist, like a feeble seedling amidst great
rocks, and my mother sat with an eye upon me, resolute to suppress the
slightest manifestation of vitality. It was hard on me, but perhaps it
was also hard upon these rather over-fed, ageing, pretending people,
that my youthful restlessness and rebellious unbelieving eyes should be
thrust in among their dignities.

Tea lasted for nearly three-quarters of an hour, and I sat it out
perforce; and day after day the talk was exactly the same.

“Sugar, Mrs. Mackridge?” my mother used to ask.

“Sugar, Mrs. Latude-Fernay?”

The word sugar would stir the mind of Mrs. Mackridge. “They say,” she
would begin, issuing her proclamation—at least half her sentences began
“they say”—“sugar is fatt-an-ing, nowadays. Many of the best people do
not take it at all.”

“Not with their tea, ma’am,” said Rabbits intelligently.

“Not with anything,” said Mrs. Mackridge, with an air of crushing
repartee, and drank.

“What won’t they say next?” said Miss Fison.

“They do say such things!” said Mrs. Booch.

“They say,” said Mrs. Mackridge, inflexibly, “the doctors are not
recomm-an-ding it now.”

My Mother: “No, ma’am?”

Mrs. Mackridge: “No, ma’am.”

Then, to the table at large: “Poor Sir Roderick, before he died,
consumed great quan-ta-ties of sugar. I have sometimes fancied it may
have hastened his end.”

This ended the first skirmish. A certain gloom of manner and a pause
was considered due to the sacred memory of Sir Roderick.

“George,” said my mother, “don’t kick the chair!”

Then, perhaps, Mrs. Booch would produce a favourite piece from her
repertoire. “The evenings are drawing out nicely,” she would say, or if
the season was decadent, “How the evenings draw in!” It was an
invaluable remark to her; I do not know how she would have got along
without it.

My mother, who sat with her back to the window, would always consider
it due to Mrs. Booch to turn about and regard the evening in the act of
elongation or contraction, whichever phase it might be.

A brisk discussion of how long we were to the longest or shortest day
would ensue, and die away at last exhausted.

Mrs. Mackridge, perhaps, would reopen. She had many intelligent habits;
among others she read the paper—_The Morning Post_. The other ladies
would at times tackle that sheet, but only to read the births,
marriages, and deaths on the front page. It was, of course, the old
_Morning Post_ that cost threepence, not the brisk coruscating young
thing of to-day. “They say,” she would open, “that Lord Tweedums is to
go to Canada.”

“Ah!” said Mr. Rabbits; “dew they?”

“Isn’t he,” said my mother, “the Earl of Slumgold’s cousin?” She knew
he was; it was an entirely irrelevant and unnecessary remark, but
still, something to say.

“The same, ma’am,” said Mrs. Mackridge. “They say he was extremelay
popular in New South Wales. They looked up to him greatlay. I knew him,
ma’am, as a young man. A very nice pleasant young fella.”

Interlude of respect.

“’Is predecessor,” said Rabbits, who had acquired from some clerical
model a precise emphatic articulation without acquiring at the same
time the aspirates that would have graced it, “got into trouble at
Sydney.”

“Haw!” said Mrs. Mackridge, scornfully, “so am tawled.”

“’E came to Templemorton after ’e came back, and I remember them
talking ’im over after ’e’d gone again.”

“Haw?” said Mrs. Mackridge, interrogatively.

“’_Is_ fuss was quotin’ poetry, ma’am. ’E said—what was it ’e
said—‘They lef’ their country for their country’s good,’—which in some
way was took to remind them of their being originally convic’s, though
now reformed. Every one I ’eard speak, agreed it was takless of ’im.”

“Sir Roderick used to say,” said Mrs. Mackridge, “that the First
Thing,”—here Mrs. Mackridge paused and looked dreadfully at me—“and the
Second Thing”—here she fixed me again—“and the Third Thing”—now I was
released—“needed in a colonial governor is Tact.” She became aware of
my doubts again, and added predominantly, “It has always struck me that
that was a Singularly True Remark.”

I resolved that if ever I found this polypus of Tact growing up in my
soul, I would tear it out by the roots, throw it forth and stamp on it.

“They’re queer people—colonials,” said Rabbits, “very queer. When I was
at Templemorton I see something of ’em. Queer fellows, some of ’em.
Very respectful of course, free with their money in a spasammy sort of
way, but—Some of ’em, I must confess, make me nervous. They have an eye
on you. They watch you—as you wait. They let themselves appear to be
lookin’ at you...”

My mother said nothing in that discussion. The word colonies always
upset her. She was afraid, I think, that if she turned her mind in that
direction my errant father might suddenly and shockingly be discovered,
no doubt conspicuously bigamic and altogether offensive and
revolutionary. She did not want to rediscover my father at all.

It is curious that when I was a little listening boy I had such an idea
of our colonies that I jeered in my heart at Mrs. Mackridge’s colonial
ascendancy. These brave emancipated sunburnt English of the open, I
thought, suffer these aristocratic invaders as a quaint anachronism,
but as for being gratified—!

I don’t jeer now. I’m not so sure.

V

It is a little difficult to explain why I did not come to do what was
the natural thing for any one in my circumstances to do, and take my
world for granted. A certain innate scepticism, I think, explains it
and a certain inaptitude for sympathetic assimilation. My father, I
believe, was a sceptic; my mother was certainly a hard woman.

I was an only child, and to this day I do not know whether my father is
living or dead. He fled my mother’s virtues before my distincter
memories began. He left no traces in his flight, and she, in her
indignation, destroyed every vestige that she could of him. Never a
photograph nor a scrap of his handwriting have I seen; and it was, I
know, only the accepted code of virtue and discretion that prevented
her destroying her marriage certificate and me, and so making a clean
sweep of her matrimonial humiliation. I suppose I must inherit
something of the moral stupidity that would enable her to make a
holocaust of every little personal thing she had of him. There must
have been presents made by him as a lover, for example—books with
kindly inscriptions, letters perhaps, a flattened flower, a ring, or
such-like gage. She kept her wedding-ring, of course, but all the
others she destroyed. She never told me his christian name or indeed
spoke a word to me of him; though at times I came near daring to ask
her: add what I have of him—it isn’t much—I got from his brother, my
hero, my uncle Ponderevo. She wore her ring; her marriage certificate
she kept in a sealed envelope in the very bottom of her largest trunk,
and me she sustained at a private school among the Kentish hills. You
must not think I was always at Bladesover—even in my holidays. If at
the time these came round, Lady Drew was vexed by recent Company, or
for any other reason wished to take it out of my mother, then she used
to ignore the customary reminder my mother gave her, and I “stayed on”
at the school.

But such occasions were rare, and I suppose that between ten and
fourteen I averaged fifty days a year at Bladesover.

Don’t imagine I deny that was a fine thing for me. Bladesover, in
absorbing the whole countryside, had not altogether missed greatness.
The Bladesover system has at least done one good thing for England, it
has abolished the peasant habit of mind. If many of us still live and
breathe pantry and housekeeper’s room, we are quit of the dream of
living by economising parasitically on hens and pigs.... About that
park there were some elements of a liberal education; there was a great
space of greensward not given over to manure and food grubbing; there
was mystery, there was matter for the imagination. It was still a park
of deer. I saw something of the life of these dappled creatures, heard
the belling of stags, came upon young fawns among the bracken, found
bones, skulls, and antlers in lonely places. There were corners that
gave a gleam of meaning to the word forest, glimpses of unstudied
natural splendour. There was a slope of bluebells in the broken
sunlight under the newly green beeches in the west wood that is now
precious sapphire in my memory; it was the first time that I knowingly
met Beauty.

And in the house there were books. The rubbish old Lady Drew read I
never saw; stuff of the Maria Monk type, I have since gathered, had a
fascination for her; but back in the past there had been a Drew of
intellectual enterprise, Sir Cuthbert, the son of Sir Matthew who built
the house; and thrust away, neglected and despised, in an old room
upstairs, were books and treasures of his that my mother let me rout
among during a spell of wintry wet. Sitting under a dormer window on a
shelf above great stores of tea and spices, I became familiar with much
of Hogarth in a big portfolio, with Raphael, there was a great book of
engravings from the stanzas of Raphael in the Vatican—and with most of
the capitals of Europe as they had looked about 1780, by means of
several pig iron-moulded books of views. There was also a broad
eighteenth century atlas with huge wandering maps that instructed me
mightily. It had splendid adornments about each map title; Holland
showed a fisherman and his boat; Russia a Cossack; Japan, remarkable
people attired in pagodas—I say it deliberately, “pagodas.” There were
Terrae Incognitae in every continent then, Poland, Sarmatia, lands
since lost; and many a voyage I made with a blunted pin about that
large, incorrect and dignified world. The books in that little old
closet had been banished, I suppose, from the saloon during the
Victorian revival of good taste and emasculated orthodoxy, but my
mother had no suspicion of their character. So I read and understood
the good sound rhetoric of Tom Paine’s “Rights of Man,” and his “Common
Sense,” excellent books, once praised by bishops and since sedulously
lied about. Gulliver was there unexpurgated, strong meat for a boy
perhaps but not too strong I hold—I have never regretted that I escaped
niceness in these affairs. The satire of Traldragdubh made my blood
boil as it was meant to do, but I hated Swift for the Houyhnhnms and
never quite liked a horse afterwards. Then I remember also a
translation of Voltaire’s “Candide,” and “Rasselas;” and, vast book
though it was, I really believe I read, in a muzzy sort of way of
course, from end to end, and even with some reference now and then to
the Atlas, Gibbon—in twelve volumes.

These readings whetted my taste for more, and surreptitiously I raided
the bookcases in the big saloon. I got through quite a number of books
before my sacrilegious temerity was discovered by Ann, the old
head-housemaid. I remember that among others I tried a translation of
Plato’s “Republic” then, and found extraordinarily little interest in
it; I was much too young for that; but “Vathek”—“Vathek” was glorious
stuff. That kicking affair! When everybody _had_ to kick!

The thought of “Vathek” always brings back with it my boyish memory of
the big saloon at Bladesover.

It was a huge long room with many windows opening upon the park, and
each window—there were a dozen or more reaching from the floor up—had
its elaborate silk or satin curtains, heavily fringed, a canopy (is
it?) above, its completely white shutters folding into the deep
thickness of the wall. At either end of that great still place was an
immense marble chimney-piece; the end by the bookcase showed the wolf
and Romulus and Remus, with Homer and Virgil for supporters; the design
of the other end I have forgotten. Frederick, Prince of Wales,
swaggered flatly over the one, twice life-size, but mellowed by the
surface gleam of oil; and over the other was an equally colossal group
of departed Drews as sylvan deities, scantily clad, against a
storm-rent sky. Down the centre of the elaborate ceiling were three
chandeliers, each bearing some hundreds of dangling glass lustres, and
over the interminable carpet—it impressed me as about as big as
Sarmatia in the store-room Atlas—were islands and archipelagoes of
chintz-covered chairs and couches, tables, great Sevres vases on
pedestals, a bronze man and horse. Somewhere in this wilderness one
came, I remember, upon—a big harp beside a lyre-shaped music stand, and
a grand piano....

The book-borrowing raid was one of extraordinary dash and danger.

One came down the main service stairs—that was legal, and illegality
began in a little landing when, very cautiously, one went through a red
baize door. A little passage led to the hall, and here one
reconnoitered for Ann, the old head-housemaid—the younger housemaids
were friendly and did not count. Ann located, came a dash across the
open space at the foot of that great staircase that has never been
properly descended since powder went out of fashion, and so to the
saloon door. A beast of an oscillating Chinaman in china, as large as
life, grimaced and quivered to one’s lightest steps. That door was the
perilous place; it was double with the thickness of the wall between,
so that one could not listen beforehand for the whisk of the
feather-brush on the other side. Oddly rat-like, is it not, this
darting into enormous places in pursuit of the abandoned crumbs of
thought?

And I found Langhorne’s “Plutarch” too, I remember, on those shelves.
It seems queer to me now to think that I acquired pride and
self-respect, the idea of a state and the germ of public spirit, in
such a furtive fashion; queer, too, that it should rest with an old
Greek, dead these eighteen hundred years to teach that.

VI

The school I went to was the sort of school the Bladesover system
permitted. The public schools that add comic into existence in the
brief glow of the Renascence had been taken possession of by the ruling
class; the lower classes were not supposed to stand in need of schools,
and our middle stratum got the schools it deserved, private schools,
schools any unqualified pretender was free to establish. Mine was kept
by a man who had had the energy to get himself a College of Preceptors
diploma, and considering how cheap his charges were, I will readily
admit the place might have been worse. The building was a dingy
yellow-brick residence outside the village, with the schoolroom as an
outbuilding of lath and plaster.

I do not remember that my school-days were unhappy—indeed I recall a
good lot of fine mixed fun in them—but I cannot without grave risk of
misinterpretation declare that we were at all nice and refined. We
fought much, not sound formal fighting, but “scrapping” of a sincere
and murderous kind, into which one might bring one’s boots—it made us
tough at any rate—and several of us were the sons of London publicans,
who distinguished “scraps” where one meant to hurt from ordered
pugilism, practising both arts, and having, moreover, precocious
linguistic gifts. Our cricket-field was bald about the wickets, and we
played without style and disputed with the umpire; and the teaching was
chiefly in the hands of a lout of nineteen, who wore ready-made clothes
and taught despicably. The head-master and proprietor taught us
arithmetic, algebra, and Euclid, and to the older boys even
trigonometry, himself; he had a strong mathematical bias, and I think
now that by the standard of a British public school he did rather well
by us.

We had one inestimable privilege at that school, and that was spiritual
neglect. We dealt with one another with the forcible simplicity of
natural boys, we “cheeked,” and “punched” and “clouted”; we thought
ourselves Red Indians and cowboys and such-like honourable things, and
not young English gentlemen; we never felt the strain of “Onward
Christian soldiers,” nor were swayed by any premature piety in the cold
oak pew of our Sunday devotions. All that was good. We spent our rare
pennies in the uncensored reading matter of the village dame’s shop, on
the _Boys of England_, and honest penny dreadfuls—ripping stuff, stuff
that anticipated Haggard and Stevenson, badly printed and queerly
illustrated, and very very good for us. On our half-holidays we were
allowed the unusual freedom of rambling in twos and threes wide and far
about the land, talking experimentally, dreaming wildly. There was much
in those walks! To this day the landscape of the Kentish world, with
its low broad distances, its hop gardens and golden stretches of wheat,
its oasts and square church towers, its background of downland and
hangers, has for me a faint sense of adventure added to the pleasure of
its beauty. We smoked on occasion, but nobody put us up to the proper
“boyish” things to do; we never “robbed an orchard” for example, though
there were orchards all about us, we thought stealing was sinful, we
stole incidental apples and turnips and strawberries from the fields
indeed, but in a criminal inglorious fashion, and afterwards we were
ashamed. We had our days of adventure, but they were natural accidents,
our own adventures. There was one hot day when several of us, walking
out towards Maidstone, were incited by the devil to despise ginger
beer, and we fuddled ourselves dreadfully with ale; and a time when our
young minds were infected to the pitch of buying pistols, by the legend
of the Wild West. Young Roots from Highbury came back with a revolver
and cartridges, and we went off six strong to live a free wild life one
holiday afternoon. We fired our first shot deep in the old flint mine
at Chiselstead, and nearly burst our ear drums; then we fired in a
primrose studded wood by Pickthorn Green, and I gave a false alarm of
“keeper,” and we fled in disorder for a mile. After which Roots
suddenly shot at a pheasant in the high road by Chiselstead, and then
young Barker told lies about the severity of the game laws and made
Roots sore afraid, and we hid the pistol in a dry ditch outside the
school field. A day or so after we got in again, and ignoring a certain
fouling and rusting of the barrel, tried for a rabbit at three hundred
yards. Young Roots blew a molehill at twenty paces into a dust cloud,
burnt his fingers, and scorched his face; and the weapon having once
displayed this strange disposition to flame back upon the shooter, was
not subsequently fired.

One main source of excitement for us was “cheeking” people in vans and
carts upon the Goudhurst road; and getting myself into a monstrous
white mess in the chalk pits beyond the village, and catching yellow
jaundice as a sequel to bathing stark naked with three other Adamites,
old Ewart leading that function, in the rivulet across Hickson’s
meadows, are among my _memorabilia_. Those free imaginative afternoons!
how much they were for us! how much they did for us! All streams came
from the then undiscovered “sources of the Nile” in those days, all
thickets were Indian jungles, and our best game, I say it with pride, I
invented. I got it out of the Bladesover saloon. We found a wood where
“Trespassing” was forbidden, and did the “Retreat of the Ten Thousand”
through it from end to end, cutting our way bravely through a host of
nettle beds that barred our path, and not forgetting to weep and kneel
when at last we emerged within sight of the High Road Sea. So we have
burst at times, weeping and rejoicing, upon startled wayfarers. Usually
I took the part of that distinguished general Xenōphen—and please note
the quantity of the ō. I have all my classical names like
that,—Socrates rhymes with Bates for me, and except when the bleak eye
of some scholar warns me of his standards of judgment, I use those dear
old mispronunciations still. The little splash into Latin made during
my days as a chemist washed off nothing of the habit. Well,—if I met
those great gentlemen of the past with their accents carelessly
adjusted I did at least meet them alive, as an equal, and in a living
tongue. Altogether my school might easily have been worse for me, and
among other good things it gave me a friend who has lasted my life out.

This was Ewart, who is now a monumental artist at Woking, after many
vicissitudes. Dear chap, how he did stick out of his clothes to be
sure! He was a longlimbed lout, ridiculously tall beside my more youth
full compactness, and, except that there was no black moustache under
his nose blob, he had the same round knobby face as he has to-day, the
same bright and active hazel brown eyes, the stare, the meditative
moment, the insinuating reply. Surely no boy ever played the fool as
Bob Ewart used to play it, no boy had a readier knack of mantling the
world with wonder. Commonness vanished before Ewart, at his expository
touch all things became memorable and rare. From him I first heard tell
of love, but only after its barbs were already sticking in my heart. He
was, I know now the bastard of that great improvident artist, Rickmann
Ewart; he brought the light of a lax world that at least had not turned
its back upon beauty, into the growing fermentation of my mind.

I won his heart by a version of Vathek, and after that we were
inseparable yarning friends. We merged our intellectual stock so
completely that I wonder sometimes how much I did not become Ewart, how
much Ewart is not vicariously and derivatively me.

VII

And then when I had newly passed my fourteenth birthday, came my tragic
disgrace.

It was in my midsummer holidays that the thing happened, and it was
through the Honourable Beatrice Normandy. She had “come into my life,”
as they say, before I was twelve.

She descended unexpectedly into a peaceful interlude that followed the
annual going of those Three Great Women. She came into the old nursery
upstairs, and every day she had tea with us in the housekeeper’s room.
She was eight, and she came with a nurse called Nannie; and to begin
with, I did not like her at all.

Nobody liked this irruption into the downstairs rooms; the two “gave
trouble,”—a dire offence; Nannie’s sense of duty to her charge led to
requests and demands that took my mother’s breath away. Eggs at unusual
times, the reboiling of milk, the rejection of an excellent milk
pudding—not negotiated respectfully but dictated as of right. Nannie
was a dark, longfeatured, taciturn woman in a grey dress; she had a
furtive inflexibility of manner that finally dismayed and crushed and
overcame. She conveyed she was “under orders”—like a Greek tragedy. She
was that strange product of the old time, a devoted, trusted servant;
she had, as it were, banked all her pride and will with the greater,
more powerful people who employed her, in return for a life-long
security of servitude—the bargain was nonetheless binding for being
implicit. Finally they were to pension her, and she would die the hated
treasure of a boarding-house. She had built up in herself an enormous
habit of reference to these upstairs people, she had curbed down all
discordant murmurings of her soul, her very instincts were perverted or
surrendered. She was sexless, her personal pride was all transferred,
she mothered another woman’s child with a hard, joyless devotion that
was at least entirely compatible with a stoical separation. She treated
us all as things that counted for nothing save to fetch and carry for
her charge. But the Honourable Beatrice could condescend.

The queer chances of later years come between me and a distinctly
separated memory of that childish face. When I think of Beatrice, I
think of her as I came to know her at a later time, when at last I came
to know her so well that indeed now I could draw her, and show a
hundred little delicate things you would miss in looking at her. But
even then I remember how I noted the infinite delicacy of her childish
skin and the fine eyebrow, finer than the finest feather that ever one
felt on the breast of a bird. She was one of those elfin, rather
precocious little girls, quick coloured, with dark hair, naturally
curling dusky hair that was sometimes astray over her eyes, and eyes
that were sometimes impishly dark, and sometimes a clear brown yellow.
And from the very outset, after a most cursory attention to Rabbits,
she decided that the only really interesting thing at the tea-table was
myself.

The elders talked in their formal dull way—telling Nannie the trite old
things about the park and the village that they told every one, and
Beatrice watched me across the table with a pitiless little curiosity
that made me uncomfortable.

“Nannie,” she said, pointing, and Nannie left a question of my mother’s
disregarded to attend to her; “is he a servant boy?”

“S-s-sh,” said Nannie. “He’s Master Ponderevo.”

“Is he a servant boy?” repeated Beatrice.

“He’s a schoolboy,” said my mother.

“Then may I talk to him, Nannie?”

Nannie surveyed me with brutal inhumanity. “You mustn’t talk too much,”
she said to her charge, and cut cake into fingers for her.

“No,” she added decisively, as Beatrice made to speak.

Beatrice became malignant. Her eyes explored me with unjustifiable
hostility. “He’s got dirty hands,” she said, stabbing at the forbidden
fruit. “And there’s a fray to his collar.”

Then she gave herself up to cake with an appearance of entire
forgetfulness of me that filled me with hate and a passionate desire to
compel her to admire me.... And the next day before tea, I did for the
first time in my life, freely, without command or any compulsion, wash
my hands.

So our acquaintance began, and presently was deepened by a whim of
hers. She had a cold and was kept indoors, and confronted Nannie
suddenly with the alternative of being hopelessly naughty, which in her
case involved a generous amount of screaming unsuitable for the ears of
an elderly, shaky, rich aunt, or having me up to the nursery to play
with her all the afternoon. Nannie came downstairs and borrowed me in a
careworn manner; and I was handed over to the little creature as if I
was some large variety of kitten. I had never had anything to do with a
little girl before, I thought she was more beautiful and wonderful and
bright than anything else could possibly be in life, and she found me
the gentlest of slaves—though at the same time, as I made evident,
fairly strong. And Nannie was amazed to find the afternoon slip
cheerfully and rapidly away. She praised my manners to Lady Drew and to
my mother, who said she was glad to hear well of me, and after that I
played with Beatrice several times. The toys she had remain in my
memory still as great splendid things, gigantic to all my previous
experience of toys, and we even went to the great doll’s house on the
nursery landing to play discreetly with that, the great doll’s house
that the Prince Regent had given Sir Harry Drew’s first-born (who died
at five), that was a not ineffectual model of Bladesover itself, and
contained eighty-five dolls and had cost hundreds of pounds. I played
under imperious direction with that toy of glory.

I went back to school when that holiday was over, dreaming of beautiful
things, and got Ewart to talk to me of love; and I made a great story
out of the doll’s house, a story that, taken over into Ewart’s hands,
speedily grew to an island doll’s city all our own.

One of the dolls, I privately decided, was like Beatrice.

One other holiday there was when I saw something of her—oddly enough my
memory of that second holiday in which she played a part is vague—and
then came a gap of a year, and then my disgrace.

VIII

Now I sit down to write my story and tell over again things in their
order, I find for the first time how inconsecutive and irrational a
thing the memory can be. One recalls acts and cannot recall motives;
one recalls quite vividly moments that stand out inexplicably—things
adrift, joining on to nothing, leading nowhere. I think I must have
seen Beatrice and her half-brother quite a number of times in my last
holiday at Bladesover, but I really cannot recall more than a little of
the quality of the circumstances. That great crisis of my boyhood
stands out very vividly as an effect, as a sort of cardinal thing for
me, but when I look for details, particularly details that led up to
the crisis—I cannot find them in any developing order at all. This
halfbrother, Archie Garvell, was a new factor in the affair. I remember
him clearly as a fair-haired, supercilious looking, weedily-lank boy,
much taller than I, but I should imagine very little heavier, and that
we hated each other by a sort of instinct from the beginning; and yet I
cannot remember my first meeting with him at all.

Looking back into these past things—it is like rummaging in a neglected
attic that has experienced the attentions of some whimsical robber—I
cannot even account for the presence of these children at Bladesover.
They were, I know, among the innumerable cousins of Lady Drew, and
according to the theories of downstairs candidates for the ultimate
possession of Bladesover. If they were, their candidature was
unsuccessful. But that great place, with all its faded splendour, its
fine furniture, its large traditions, was entirely at the old lady’s
disposition; and I am inclined to think it is true that she used this
fact to torment and dominate a number of eligible people. Lord Osprey
was among the number of these, and she showed these hospitalities to
his motherless child and step-child, partly, no doubt, because he was
poor, but quite as much, I nowadays imagine, in the dim hope of finding
some affectionate or imaginative outcome of contact with them. Nannie
had dropped out of the world this second time, and Beatrice was in the
charge of an extremely amiable and ineffectual poor army-class young
woman whose name I never knew. They were, I think, two remarkably
illmanaged and enterprising children. I seem to remember too, that it
was understood that I was not a fit companion for them, and that our
meetings had to be as unostentatious as possible. It was Beatrice who
insisted upon our meeting.

I am certain I knew quite a lot about love at fourteen and that I was
quite as much in love with Beatrice then as any impassioned adult could
be, and that Beatrice was, in her way, in love with me. It is part of
the decent and useful pretences of our world that children of the age
at which we were, think nothing, feel nothing, know nothing of love. It
is wonderful what people the English are for keeping up pretences. But
indeed I cannot avoid telling that Beatrice and I talked of love and
kissed and embraced one another.

I recall something of one talk under the overhanging bushes of the
shrubbery—I on the park side of the stone wall, and the lady of my
worship a little inelegantly astride thereon. Inelegantly do I say? you
should have seen the sweet imp as I remember her. Just her poise on the
wall comes suddenly clear before me, and behind her the light various
branches of the bushes of the shrubbery that my feet might not profane,
and far away and high behind her, dim and stately, the cornice of the
great façade of Bladesover rose against the dappled sky. Our talk must
have been serious and business-like, for we were discussing my social
position.

“I don’t love Archie,” she had said, _apropos_ of nothing; and then in
a whisper, leaning forward with the hair about her face, “I love
_you!_”

But she had been a little pressing to have it clear that I was not and
could not be a servant.

“You’ll never be a servant—ever!”

I swore that very readily, and it is a vow I have kept by nature.

“What will you be?” said she.

I ran my mind hastily over the professions.

“Will you be a soldier?” she asked.

“And be bawled at by duffers? No fear!” said I. “Leave that to the
plough-boys.”

“But an officer?”

“I don’t know,” I said, evading a shameful difficulty.

“I’d rather go into the navy.”

“Wouldn’t you like to fight?”

“I’d like to fight,” I said. “But a common soldier it’s no honour to
have to be told to fight and to be looked down upon while you do it,
and how could I be an officer?”

“Couldn’t you be?” she said, and looked at me doubtfully; and the
spaces of the social system opened between us.

Then, as became a male of spirit, I took upon myself to brag and lie my
way through this trouble. I said I was a poor man, and poor men went
into the navy; that I “knew” mathematics, which no army officer did;
and I claimed Nelson for an exemplar, and spoke very highly of my
outlook upon blue water. “He loved Lady Hamilton,” I said, “although
she _was_ a lady—and I will love you.”

We were somewhere near that when the egregious governess became
audible, calling “Beeee-âtrice! Beeee-e-âtrice!”

“Snifty beast!” said my lady, and tried to get on with the
conversation; but that governess made things impossible.

“Come here!” said my lady suddenly, holding out a grubby hand; and I
went very close to her, and she put her little head down upon the wall
until her black fog of hair tickled my cheek.

“You are my humble, faithful lover,” she demanded in a whisper, her
warm flushed face near touching mine, and her eyes very dark and
lustrous.

“I am your humble, faithful lover,” I whispered back.

And she put her arm about my head and put out her lips and we kissed,
and boy though I was, I was all atremble. So we two kissed for the
first time.

“_Beeee-e-e_-â-trice!” fearfully close.

My lady had vanished, with one wild kick of her black-stocking leg. A
moment after, I heard her sustaining the reproaches of her governess,
and explaining her failure to answer with an admirable lucidity and
disingenuousness.

I felt it was unnecessary for me to be seen just then, and I vanished
guiltily round the corner into the West Wood, and so to love-dreams and
single-handed play, wandering along one of those meandering bracken
valleys that varied Bladesover park. And that day and for many days
that kiss upon my lips was a seal, and by night the seed of dreams.

Then I remember an expedition we made—she, I, and her half-brother—into
those West Woods—they two were supposed to be playing in the
shrubbery—and how we were Indians there, and made a wigwam out of a
pile of beech logs, and how we stalked deer, crept near and watched
rabbits feeding in a glade, and almost got a squirrel. It was play
seasoned with plentiful disputing between me and young Garvell, for
each firmly insisted upon the leading _rôles_, and only my wider
reading—I had read ten stories to his one—gave me the ascendency over
him. Also I scored over him by knowing how to find the eagle in a
bracken stem. And somehow—I don’t remember what led to it at all—I and
Beatrice, two hot and ruffled creatures, crept in among the tall
bracken and hid from him. The great fronds rose above us, five feet or
more, and as I had learnt how to wriggle through that undergrowth with
the minimum of betrayal by tossing greenery above, I led the way. The
ground under bracken is beautifully clear and faintly scented in warm
weather; the stems come up black and then green; if you crawl flat, it
is a tropical forest in miniature. I led the way and Beatrice crawled
behind, and then as the green of the further glade opened before us,
stopped. She crawled up to me, her hot little face came close to mine;
once more she looked and breathed close to me, and suddenly she flung
her arm about my neck and dragged me to earth beside her, and kissed me
and kissed me again. We kissed, we embraced and kissed again, all
without a word; we desisted, we stared and hesitated—then in a suddenly
damped mood and a little perplexed at ourselves, crawled out, to be
presently run down and caught in the tamest way by Archie.

That comes back very clearly to me, and other vague memories—I know old
Hall and his gun, out shooting at jackdaws, came into our common
experiences, but I don’t remember how; and then at last, abruptly, our
fight in the Warren stands out. The Warren, like most places in England
that have that name, was not particularly a warren, it was a long slope
of thorns and beeches through which a path ran, and made an alternative
route to the downhill carriage road between Bladesover and Ropedean. I
don’t know how we three got there, but I have an uncertain fancy it was
connected with a visit paid by the governess to the Ropedean vicarage
people. But suddenly Archie and I, in discussing a game, fell into a
dispute for Beatrice. I had made him the fairest offer: I was to be a
Spanish nobleman, she was to be my wife, and he was to be a tribe of
Indians trying to carry her off. It seems to me a fairly attractive
offer to a boy to be a whole tribe of Indians with a chance of such a
booty. But Archie suddenly took offence.

“No,” he said; “we can’t have that!”

“Can’t have what?”

“You can’t be a gentleman, because you aren’t. And you can’t play
Beatrice is your wife. It’s—it’s impertinent.”

“But” I said, and looked at her.

Some earlier grudge in the day’s affairs must have been in Archie’s
mind. “We let you play with us,” said Archie; “but we can’t have things
like that.”

“What rot!” said Beatrice. “He can if he likes.”

But he carried his point. I let him carry it, and only began to grow
angry three or four minutes later. Then we were still discussing play
and disputing about another game. Nothing seemed right for all of us.

“We don’t want you to play with us at all,” said Archie.

“Yes, we do,” said Beatrice.

“He drops his aitches like anything.”

“No, ’e doesn’t,” said I, in the heat of the moment.

“There you go!” he cried. “E, he says. E! E! E!”

He pointed a finger at me. He had struck to the heart of my shame. I
made the only possible reply by a rush at him. “Hello!” he cried, at my
blackavised attack. He dropped back into an attitude that had some
style in it, parried my blow, got back at my cheek, and laughed with
surprise and relief at his own success. Whereupon I became a thing of
murderous rage. He could box as well or better than I—he had yet to
realise I knew anything of that at all—but I had fought once or twice
to a finish with bare fists. I was used to inflicting and enduring
savage hurting, and I doubt if he had ever fought. I hadn’t fought ten
seconds before I felt this softness in him, realised all that quality
of modern upper-class England that never goes to the quick, that hedges
about rules and those petty points of honour that are the ultimate
comminution of honour, that claims credit for things demonstrably half
done. He seemed to think that first hit of his and one or two others
were going to matter, that I ought to give in when presently my lip
bled and dripped blood upon my clothes. So before we had been at it a
minute he had ceased to be aggressive except in momentary spurts, and I
was knocking him about almost as I wanted to do; and demanding
breathlessly and fiercely, after our school manner, whether he had had
enough, not knowing that by his high code and his soft training it was
equally impossible for him to either buck-up and beat me, or give in.

I have a very distinct impression of Beatrice dancing about us during
the affair in a state of unladylike appreciation, but I was too
preoccupied to hear much of what she was saying. But she certainly
backed us both, and I am inclined to think now—it may be the
disillusionment of my ripened years—whichever she thought was winning.

Then young Garvell, giving way before my slogging, stumbled and fell
over a big flint, and I, still following the tradition of my class and
school, promptly flung myself on him to finish him. We were busy with
each other on the ground when we became aware of a dreadful
interruption.

“Shut up, you _fool!_” said Archie.

“Oh, Lady Drew!” I heard Beatrice cry. “They’re fighting! They’re
fighting something awful!”

I looked over my shoulder. Archie’s wish to get up became irresistible,
and my resolve to go on with him vanished altogether.

I became aware of the two old ladies, presences of black and purple
silk and fur and shining dark things; they had walked up through the
Warren, while the horses took the hill easily, and so had come upon us.
Beatrice had gone to them at once with an air of taking refuge, and
stood beside and a little behind them. We both rose dejectedly. The two
old ladies were evidently quite dreadfully shocked, and peering at us
with their poor old eyes; and never had I seen such a tremblement in
Lady Drew’s lorgnettes.

“You’ve never been fighting?” said Lady Drew.

“You have been fighting.”

“It wasn’t proper fighting,” snapped Archie, with accusing eyes on me.

“It’s Mrs. Ponderevo’s George!” said Miss Somerville, so adding a
conviction for ingratitude to my evident sacrilege.

“How could he _dare?_” cried Lady Drew, becoming very awful.

“He broke the rules” said Archie, sobbing for breath. “I slipped,
and—he hit me while I was down. He knelt on me.”

“How could you _dare?_” said Lady Drew.

I produced an experienced handkerchief rolled up into a tight ball, and
wiped the blood from my chin, but I offered no explanation of my
daring. Among other things that prevented that, I was too short of
breath.

“He didn’t fight fair,” sobbed Archie.

Beatrice, from behind the old ladies, regarded me intently and without
hostility. I am inclined to think the modification of my face through
the damage to my lip interested her. It became dimly apparent to my
confused intelligence that I must not say these two had been playing
with me. That would not be after the rules of their game. I resolved in
this difficult situation upon a sulky silence, and to take whatever
consequences might follow.

IX

The powers of justice in Bladesover made an extraordinary mess of my
case.

I have regretfully to admit that the Honourable Beatrice Normandy did,
at the age of ten, betray me, abandon me, and lie most abominably about
me. She was, as a matter of fact, panic-stricken about me, conscience
stricken too; she bolted from the very thought of my being her
affianced lover and so forth, from the faintest memory of kissing; she
was indeed altogether disgraceful and human in her betrayal. She and
her half-brother lied in perfect concord, and I was presented as a
wanton assailant of my social betters. They were waiting about in the
Warren, when I came up and spoke to them, etc.

On the whole, I now perceive Lady Drew’s decisions were, in the light
of the evidence, reasonable and merciful.

They were conveyed to me by my mother, who was, I really believe, even
more shocked by the grossness of my social insubordination than Lady
Drew. She dilated on her ladyship’s kindnesses to me, on the effrontery
and wickedness of my procedure, and so came at last to the terms of my
penance. “You must go up to young Mr. Garvell, and beg his pardon.”

“I won’t beg his pardon,” I said, speaking for the first time.

My mother paused, incredulous.

I folded my arms on her table-cloth, and delivered my wicked little
ultimatum. “I won’t beg his pardon nohow,” I said. “See?”

“Then you will have to go off to your uncle Frapp at Chatham.”

“I don’t care where I have to go or what I have to do, I won’t beg his
pardon,” I said.

And I didn’t.

After that I was one against the world. Perhaps in my mother’s heart
there lurked some pity for me, but she did not show it. She took the
side of the young gentleman; she tried hard, she tried very hard, to
make me say I was sorry I had struck him. Sorry!

I couldn’t explain.

So I went into exile in the dog-cart to Redwood station, with Jukes the
coachman, coldly silent, driving me, and all my personal belongings in
a small American cloth portmanteau behind.

I felt I had much to embitter me; the game had and the beginnings of
fairness by any standards I knew.... But the thing that embittered me
most was that the Honourable Beatrice Normandy should have repudiated
and fled from me as though I was some sort of leper, and not even have
taken a chance or so, to give me a good-bye. She might have done that
anyhow! Supposing I had told on her! But the son of a servant counts as
a servant. She had forgotten and now remembered.

I solaced myself with some extraordinary dream of coming back to
Bladesover, stern, powerful, after the fashion of Coriolanus. I do not
recall the details, but I have no doubt I displayed great
magnanimity...

Well, anyhow I never said I was sorry for pounding young Garvell, and I
am not sorry to this day.




CHAPTER THE SECOND
OF MY LAUNCH INTO THE WORLD AND THE LAST I SAW OF BLADESOVER


I

When I was thus banished from Bladesover House, as it was then thought
for good and all, I was sent by my mother in a vindictive spirit, first
to her cousin Nicodemus Frapp, and then, as a fully indentured
apprentice, to my uncle Ponderevo.

I ran away from the care of my cousin Nicodemus back to Bladesover
House.

My cousin Nicodemus Frapp was a baker in a back street—a slum
rather—just off that miserable narrow mean high road that threads those
exquisite beads, Rochester and Chatham. He was, I must admit, a shock
to me, much dominated by a young, plump, prolific, malingering wife; a
bent, slow-moving, unwilling dark man with flour in his hair and
eyelashes, in the lines of his face and the seams of his coat. I’ve
never had a chance to correct my early impression of him, and he still
remains an almost dreadful memory, a sort of caricature of incompetent
simplicity. As I remember him, indeed, he presented the servile
tradition perfected. He had no pride in his person; fine clothes and
dressing up wasn’t “for the likes of” him, so that he got his wife, who
was no artist at it, to cut his black hair at irregular intervals, and
let his nails become disagreeable to the fastidious eye; he had no
pride in his business nor any initiative; his only virtues were not
doing certain things and hard work. “Your uncle,” said my mother—all
grown-up cousins were uncles by courtesy among the Victorian
middle-class—“isn’t much to look at or talk to, but he’s a Good
Hard-Working Man.” There was a sort of base honourableness about toil,
however needless, in that system of inversion. Another point of honour
was to rise at or before dawn, and then laboriously muddle about.

It was very distinctly impressed on my mind that the Good Hard-Working
Man would have thought it “fal-lallish” to own a pocket handkerchief.
Poor old Frapp—dirty and crushed by, product of, Bladesover’s
magnificence! He made no fight against the world at all, he was
floundering in small debts that were not so small but that finally they
overwhelmed him, whenever there was occasion for any exertion his wife
fell back upon pains and her “condition,” and God sent them many
children, most of whom died, and so, by their coming and going, gave a
double exercise in the virtues of submission.

Resignation to God’s will was the common device of these people in the
face of every duty and every emergency. There were no books in the
house; I doubt if either of them had retained the capacity for reading
consecutively for more than a minute or so, and it was with amazement
that day after day, over and above stale bread, one beheld food and
again more food amidst the litter that held permanent session on the
living-room table.

One might have doubted if either of them felt discomfort in this dusty
darkness of existence, if it was not that they did visibly seek
consolation. They sought this and found it of a Sunday, not in strong
drink and raving, but in imaginary draughts of blood. They met with
twenty or thirty other darkened and unclean people, all dressed in
dingy colours that would not show the dirt, in a little brick-built
chapel equipped with a spavined roarer of a harmonium, and there
solaced their minds on the thought that all that was fair and free in
life, all that struggled, all that planned and made, all pride and
beauty and honour, all fine and enjoyable things, were irrevocably
damned to everlasting torments. They were the self-appointed confidants
of God’s mockery of his own creation. So at any rate they stick in my
mind. Vaguer, and yet hardly less agreeable than this cosmic jest, this
coming “Yah, clever!” and general serving out and “showing up” of the
lucky, the bold, and the cheerful, was their own predestination to
Glory.

“There is a Fountain, filled with Blood
Drawn from Emmanuel’s Veins,”


so they sang. I hear the drone and wheeze of that hymn now. I hated
them with the bitter uncharitable condemnation of boyhood, and a twinge
of that hate comes back to me. As I write the words, the sounds and
then the scene return, these obscure, undignified people, a fat woman
with asthma, an old Welsh milk-seller with a tumour on his bald head,
who was the intellectual leader of the sect, a huge-voiced haberdasher
with a big black beard, a white-faced, extraordinarily pregnant woman,
his wife, a spectacled rate collector with a bent back.... I hear the
talk about souls, the strange battered old phrases that were coined
ages ago in the seaports of the sun-dry Levant, of balm of Gilead and
manna in the desert, of gourds that give shade and water in a thirsty
land; I recall again the way in which at the conclusion of the service
the talk remained pious in form but became medical in substance, and
how the women got together for obstetric whisperings. I, as a boy, did
not matter, and might overhear.

If Bladesover is my key for the explanation of England, I think my
invincible persuasion that I understand Russia was engendered by the
circle of Uncle Frapp.

I slept in a dingy sheeted bed with the two elder survivors of Frapp
fecundity, and spent my week days in helping in the laborious disorder
of the shop and bakehouse, in incidental deliveries of bread and so
forth, and in parrying the probings of my uncle into my relations with
the Blood, and his confidential explanations that ten shillings a
week—which was what my mother paid him—was not enough to cover my
accommodation. He was very anxious to keep that, but also he wanted
more. There were neither books nor any seat nor corner in that house
where reading was possible, no newspaper ever brought the clash of
worldly things into its heavenward seclusion; horror of it all grew in
me daily, and whenever I could I escaped into the streets and tramped
about Chatham. The news shops appealed to me particularly. One saw
there smudgy illustrated sheets, the _Police News_ in particular, in
which vilely drawn pictures brought home to the dullest intelligence an
interminable succession of squalid crimes, women murdered and put into
boxes, buried under floors, old men bludgeoned at midnight by robbers,
people thrust suddenly out of trains, happy lovers shot, vitrioled and
so forth by rivals. I got my first glimpse of the life of pleasure in
foully drawn pictures of “police raids” on this and that. Interspersed
with these sheets were others in which Sloper, the urban John Bull, had
his fling with gin bottle and obese umbrella, or the kindly empty faces
of the Royal Family appeared and reappeared, visiting this, opening
that, getting married, getting offspring, lying in state, doing
everything but anything, a wonderful, good-meaning, impenetrable race
apart.

I have never revisited Chatham; the impression it has left on my mind
is one of squalid compression, unlit by any gleam of a maturer charity.
All its effects arranged themselves as antithetical to the Bladesover
effects. They confirmed and intensified all that Bladesover suggested.
Bladesover declared itself to be the land, to be essentially England; I
have already told how its airy spaciousness, its wide dignity, seemed
to thrust village, church, and vicarage into corners, into a secondary
and conditional significance. Here one gathered the corollary of that.
Since the whole wide country of Kent was made up of contiguous
Bladesovers and for the gentlefolk, the surplus of population, all who
were not good tenants nor good labourers, Church of England, submissive
and respectful, were necessarily thrust together, jostled out of sight,
to fester as they might in this place that had the colours and even the
smells of a well-packed dustbin. They should be grateful even for that;
that, one felt, was the theory of it all.

And I loafed about this wilderness of crowded dinginess, with young,
receptive, wide-open eyes, and through the blessing (or curse) of some
fairy godmother of mine, asking and asking again: “But after all,
_why_—”

I wandered up through Rochester once, and had a glimpse of the Stour
valley above the town, all horrible with cement works and foully
smoking chimneys and rows of workmen’s cottages, minute, ugly,
uncomfortable, and grimy. So I had my first intimation of how
industrialism must live in a landlord’s land. I spent some hours, too,
in the streets that give upon the river, drawn by the spell of the sea.
But I saw barges and ships stripped of magic and mostly devoted to
cement, ice, timber, and coal. The sailors looked to me gross and
slovenly men, and the shipping struck me as clumsy, ugly, old, and
dirty. I discovered that most sails don’t fit the ships that hoist
them, and that there may be as pitiful and squalid a display of poverty
with a vessel as with a man. When I saw colliers unloading, watched the
workers in the hold filling up silly little sacks and the succession of
blackened, half-naked men that ran to and fro with these along a plank
over a thirty-foot drop into filth and mud, I was first seized with
admiration of their courage and toughness and then, “But after all,
_why_—?” and the stupid ugliness of all this waste of muscle and
endurance came home to me. Among other things it obviously wasted and
deteriorated the coal.... And I had imagined great things of the sea!

Well, anyhow, for a time that vocation was stilled.

But such impressions came into my leisure, and of that I had no excess.
Most of my time was spent doing things for Uncle Frapp, and my evenings
and nights perforce in the company of the two eldest of my cousins. He
was errand boy at an oil shop and fervently pious, and of him I saw
nothing until the evening except at meals; the other was enjoying the
midsummer holidays without any great elation; a singularly thin and
abject, stunted creature he was, whose chief liveliness was to pretend
to be a monkey, and who I am now convinced had some secret disease that
drained his vitality away. If I met him now I should think him a
pitiful little creature and be extremely sorry for him. Then I felt
only a wondering aversion. He sniffed horribly, he was tired out by a
couple of miles of loafing, he never started any conversation, and he
seemed to prefer his own company to mine. His mother, poor woman, said
he was the “thoughtful one.”

Serious trouble came suddenly out of a conversation we held in bed one
night. Some particularly pious phrase of my elder cousin’s irritated me
extremely, and I avowed outright my entire disbelief in the whole
scheme of revealed religion. I had never said a word about my doubts to
any one before, except to Ewart who had first evolved them. I had never
settled my doubts until at this moment when I spoke. But it came to me
then that the whole scheme of salvation of the Frappes was not simply
doubtful, but impossible. I fired this discovery out into the darkness
with the greatest promptitude.

My abrupt denials certainly scared my cousin amazingly.

At first they could not understand what I was saying, and when they did
I fully believe they expected an instant answer in thunderbolts and
flames. They gave me more room in the bed forthwith, and then the elder
sat up and expressed his sense of my awfulness. I was already a little
frightened at my temerity, but when he asked me categorically to unsay
what I had said, what could I do but confirm my repudiation?

“There’s no hell,” I said, “and no eternal punishment. No God would be
such a fool as that.”

My elder cousin cried aloud in horror, and the younger lay scared, but
listening. “Then you mean,” said my elder cousin, when at last he could
bring himself to argue, “you might do just as you liked?”

“If you were cad enough,” said I.

Our little voices went on interminably, and at one stage my cousin got
out of bed and made his brother do likewise, and knelt in the night
dimness and prayed at me. That I found trying, but I held out
valiantly. “Forgive him,” said my cousin, “he knows not what he
sayeth.”

“You can pray if you like,” I said, “but if you’re going to cheek me in
your prayers I draw the line.”

The last I remember of that great discussion was my cousin deploring
the fact that he “should ever sleep in the same bed with an Infidel!”

The next day he astonished me by telling the whole business to his
father. This was quite outside all my codes. Uncle Nicodemus sprang it
upon me at the midday meal.

“You been sayin’ queer things, George,” he said abruptly. “You better
mind what you’re saying.”

“What did he say, father?” said Mrs. Frapp.

“Things I couldn’t’ repeat,” said he.

“What things?” I asked hotly.

“Ask ’_im_,” said my uncle, pointing with his knife to his informant,
and making me realise the nature of my offence. My aunt looked at the
witness. “Not—?” she framed a question.

“Wuss,” said my uncle. “Blarsphemy.”

My aunt couldn’t touch another mouthful. I was already a little
troubled in my conscience by my daring, and now I began to feel the
black enormity of the course upon which I had embarked.

“I was only talking sense,” I said.

I had a still more dreadful moment when presently I met my cousin in
the brick alley behind the yard, that led back to his grocer’s shop.

“You sneak!” I said, and smacked his face hard forthwith. “Now then,”
said I.

He started back, astonished and alarmed. His eyes met mine, and I saw a
sudden gleam of resolution. He turned his other cheek to me.

“’It it,” he said. “’It it. _I’ll_ forgive you.”

I felt I had never encountered a more detestable way of evading a
licking. I shoved him against the wall and left him there, forgiving
me, and went back into the house.

“You better not speak to your cousins, George,” said my aunt, “till
you’re in a better state of mind.”

I became an outcast forthwith. At supper that night a gloomy silence
was broken by my cousin saying,

“’E ’it me for telling you, and I turned the other cheek, muvver.”

“’E’s got the evil one be’ind ’im now, a ridin’ on ’is back,” said my
aunt, to the grave discomfort of the eldest girl, who sat beside me.

After supper my uncle, in a few ill-chosen words, prayed me to repent
before I slept.

“Suppose you was took in your sleep, George,” he said; “where’d you be
then? You jest think of that me boy.” By this time I was thoroughly
miserable and frightened, and this suggestion unnerved me dreadfully
but I kept up an impenitent front. “To wake in ’ell,” said Uncle
Nicodemus, in gentle tones. “You don’t want to wake in ’ell, George,
burnin’ and screamin’ for ever, do you? You wouldn’t like that?”

He tried very hard to get me to “jest ’ave a look at the bake’ouse
fire” before I retired. “It might move you,” he said.

I was awake longest that night. My cousins slept, the sleep of faith on
either side of me. I decided I would whisper my prayers, and stopped
midway because I was ashamed, and perhaps also because I had an idea
one didn’t square God like that.

“No,” I said, with a sudden confidence, “damn me if you’re coward
enough.... But you’re not. No! You couldn’t be!”

I woke my cousins up with emphatic digs, and told them as much,
triumphantly, and went very peacefully to sleep with my act of faith
accomplished.

I slept not only through that night, but for all my nights since then.
So far as any fear of Divine injustice goes, I sleep soundly, and
shall, I know, to the end of things. That declaration was an epoch in
my spiritual life.

II

But I didn’t expect to have the whole meeting on Sunday turned on to
me.

It was. It all comes back to me, that convergence of attention, even
the faint leathery smell of its atmosphere returns, and the coarse feel
of my aunt’s black dress beside me in contact with my hand. I see again
the old Welsh milkman “wrestling” with me, they all wrestled with me,
by prayer or exhortation. And I was holding out stoutly, though
convinced now by the contagion of their universal conviction that by
doing so I was certainly and hopelessly damned. I felt that they were
right, that God was probably like them, and that on the whole it didn’t
matter. And to simplify the business thoroughly I had declared I didn’t
believe anything at all. They confuted me by texts from Scripture which
I now perceive was an illegitimate method of reply. When I got home,
still impenitent and eternally lost and secretly very lonely and
miserable and alarmed, Uncle Nicodemus docked my Sunday pudding.

One person only spoke to me like a human being on that day of wrath,
and that was the younger Frapp. He came up to me in the afternoon while
I was confined upstairs with a Bible and my own thoughts.

“’Ello,” he said, and fretted about.

“D’you mean to say there isn’t—no one,” he said, funking the word.

“No one?”

“No one watching yer—always.”

“Why should there be?” I asked.

“You can’t ’elp thoughts,” said my cousin, “anyhow. You mean—” He
stopped hovering. “I s’pose I oughtn’t to be talking to you.”

He hesitated and flitted away with a guilty back glance over his
shoulder....

The following week made life quite intolerable for me; these people
forced me at last into an Atheism that terrified me. When I learnt that
next Sunday the wrestling was to be resumed, my courage failed me
altogether.

I happened upon a map of Kent in a stationer’s window on Saturday, and
that set me thinking of one form of release. I studied it intently for
half an hour perhaps, on Saturday night, got a route list of villages
well fixed in my memory, and got up and started for Bladesover about
five on Sunday morning while my two bed mates were still fast asleep.

III

I remember something, but not so much of it as I should like to recall,
of my long tramp to Bladesover House. The distance from Chatham is
almost exactly seventeen miles, and it took me until nearly one. It was
very interesting and I do not think I was very fatigued, though I got
rather pinched by one boot.

The morning must have been very clear, because I remember that near
Itchinstow Hall I looked back and saw the estuary of the Thames, that
river that has since played so large a part in my life. But at the time
I did not know it was the Thames, I thought this great expanse of mud
flats and water was the sea, which I had never yet seen nearly. And out
upon it stood ships, sailing ships and a steamer or so, going up to
London or down out into the great seas of the world. I stood for a long
time watching these and thinking whether after all I should not have
done better to have run away to sea.

The nearer I drew to Bladesover, the more doubtful I grew of the
duality of my reception, and the more I regretted that alternative. I
suppose it was the dirty clumsiness of the shipping I had seen nearly,
that put me out of mind of that. I took a short cut through the Warren
across the corner of the main park to intercept the people from the
church. I wanted to avoid meeting any one before I met my mother, and
so I went to a place where the path passed between banks, and without
exactly hiding, stood up among the bushes. This place among other
advantages eliminated any chance of seeing Lady Drew, who would drive
round by the carriage road.

Standing up to waylay in this fashion I had a queer feeling of
brigandage, as though I was some intrusive sort of bandit among these
orderly things. It is the first time I remember having that outlaw
feeling distinctly, a feeling that has played a large part in my
subsequent life. I felt there existed no place for me that I had to
drive myself in.

Presently, down the hill, the servants appeared, straggling by twos and
threes, first some of the garden people and the butler’s wife with
them, then the two laundry maids, odd inseparable old creatures, then
the first footman talking to the butler’s little girl, and at last,
walking grave and breathless beside old Ann and Miss Fison, the black
figure of my mother.

My boyish mind suggested the adoption of a playful form of appearance.
“Coo-ee, mother” said I, coming out against the sky, “Coo-ee!”

My mother looked up, went very white, and put her hand to her bosom.

I suppose there was a fearful fuss about me. And of course I was quite
unable to explain my reappearance. But I held out stoutly, “I won’t go
back to Chatham; I’ll drown myself first.” The next day my mother
carried me off to Wimblehurst, took me fiercely and aggressively to an
uncle I had never heard of before, near though the place was to us. She
gave me no word as to what was to happen, and I was too subdued by her
manifest wrath and humiliation at my last misdemeanour to demand
information. I don’t for one moment think Lady Drew was “nice” about
me. The finality of my banishment was endorsed and underlined and
stamped home. I wished very much now that I had run away to sea, in
spite of the coal dust and squalour Rochester had revealed to me.
Perhaps over seas one came to different lands.

IV

I do not remember much of my journey to Wimblehurst with my mother
except the image of her as sitting bolt upright, as rather disdaining
the third-class carriage in which we traveled, and how she looked away
from me out of the window when she spoke of my uncle. “I have not seen
your uncle,” she said, “since he was a boy....” She added grudgingly,
“Then he was supposed to be clever.”

She took little interest in such qualities as cleverness.

“He married about three years ago, and set up for himself in
Wimblehurst.... So I suppose she had some money.”

She mused on scenes she had long dismissed from her mind. “Teddy,” she
said at last in the tone of one who has been feeling in the dark and
finds. “He was called Teddy... about your age.... Now he must be
twenty-six or seven.”

I thought of my uncle as Teddy directly I saw him; there was something
in his personal appearance that in the light of that memory phrased
itself at once as Teddiness—a certain Teddidity. To describe it in and
other terms is more difficult. It is nimbleness without grace, and
alertness without intelligence. He whisked out of his shop upon the
pavement, a short figure in grey and wearing grey carpet slippers; one
had a sense of a young fattish face behind gilt glasses, wiry hair that
stuck up and forward over the forehead, an irregular nose that had its
aquiline moments, and that the body betrayed an equatorial laxity, an
incipient “bow window” as the image goes. He jerked out of the shop,
came to a stand on the pavement outside, regarded something in the
window with infinite appreciation, stroked his chin, and, as abruptly,
shot sideways into the door again, charging through it as it were
behind an extended hand.

“That must be him,” said my mother, catching at her breath.

We came past the window whose contents I was presently to know by
heart, a very ordinary chemist’s window except that there was a
frictional electrical machine, an air pump and two or three tripods and
retorts replacing the customary blue, yellow, and red bottles above.
There was a plaster of Paris horse to indicate veterinary medicines
among these breakables, and below were scent packets and diffusers and
sponges and soda-water syphons and such-like things. Only in the middle
there was a rubricated card, very neatly painted by hand, with these
words—

Buy Ponderevo’s Cough Linctus _now_.
NOW!
WHY?
Twopence Cheaper than in Winter.
You Store Apples! why not the Medicine
You are Bound to Need?


in which appeal I was to recognise presently my uncle’s distinctive
note.

My uncle’s face appeared above a card of infant’s comforters in the
glass pane of the door. I perceived his eyes were brown, and that his
glasses creased his nose. It was manifest he did not know us from Adam.
A stare of scrutiny allowed an expression of commercial deference to
appear in front of it, and my uncle flung open the door.

“You don’t know me?” panted my mother.

My uncle would not own he did not, but his curiosity was manifest. My
mother sat down on one of the little chairs before the soap and patent
medicine-piled counter, and her lips opened and closed.

“A glass of water, madam,” said my uncle, waved his hand in a sort of
curve and shot away.

My mother drank the water and spoke. “That boy,” she said, “takes after
his father. He grows more like him every day.... And so I have brought
him to you.”

“His father, madam?”

“George.”

For a moment the chemist was still at a loss. He stood behind the
counter with the glass my mother had returned to him in his hand. Then
comprehension grew.

“By Gosh!” he said. “Lord!” he cried. His glasses fell off. He
disappeared replacing them, behind a pile of boxed-up bottles of blood
mixture. “Eleven thousand virgins!” I heard him cry. The glass was
banged down. “O-ri-ental Gums!”

He shot away out of the shop through some masked door. One heard his
voice. “Susan! Susan!”

Then he reappeared with an extended hand. “Well, how are you?” he said.
“I was never so surprised in my life. Fancy!... _You!_”

He shook my mother’s impassive hand and then mine very warmly holding
his glasses on with his left forefinger.

“Come right in!” he cried—“come right in! Better late than never!” and
led the way into the parlour behind the shop.

After Bladesover that apartment struck me as stuffy and petty, but it
was very comfortable in comparison with the Frapp living-room. It had a
faint, disintegrating smell of meals about it, and my most immediate
impression was of the remarkable fact that something was hung about or
wrapped round or draped over everything. There was bright-patterned
muslin round the gas-bracket in the middle of the room, round the
mirror over the mantel, stuff with ball-fringe along the mantel and
casing in the fireplace,—I first saw ball-fringe here—and even the lamp
on the little bureau wore a shade like a large muslin hat. The
table-cloth had ball-fringe and so had the window curtains, and the
carpet was a bed of roses. There were little cupboards on either side
of the fireplace, and in the recesses, ill-made shelves packed with
books, and enriched with pinked American cloth. There was a dictionary
lying face downward on the table, and the open bureau was littered with
foolscap paper and the evidences of recently abandoned toil. My eye
caught “The Ponderevo Patent Flat, a Machine you can Live in,” written
in large firm letters. My uncle opened a little door like a cupboard
door in the corner of this room, and revealed the narrowest twist of
staircase I had ever set eyes upon. “Susan!” he bawled again. “Wantje.
Some one to see you. Surprisin’.”

There came an inaudible reply, and a sudden loud bump over our heads as
of some article of domestic utility pettishly flung aside, then the
cautious steps of someone descending the twist, and then my aunt
appeared in the doorway with her hand upon the jamb.

“It’s Aunt Ponderevo,” cried my uncle. “George’s wife—and she’s brought
over her son!” His eye roamed about the room. He darted to the bureau
with a sudden impulse, and turned the sheet about the patent flat face
down. Then he waved his glasses at us, “You know, Susan, my elder
brother George. I told you about ’im lots of times.”

He fretted across to the hearthrug and took up a position there,
replaced his glasses and coughed.

My aunt Susan seemed to be taking it in. She was then rather a pretty
slender woman of twenty-three or four, I suppose, and I remember being
struck by the blueness of her eyes and the clear freshness of her
complexion. She had little features, a button nose, a pretty chin and a
long graceful neck that stuck out of her pale blue cotton morning
dress. There was a look of half-assumed perplexity on her face, a
little quizzical wrinkle of the brow that suggested a faintly amused
attempt to follow my uncle’s mental operations, a vain attempt and a
certain hopelessness that had in succession become habitual. She seemed
to be saying, “Oh Lord! What’s he giving me _this_ time?” And as came
to know her better I detected, as a complication of her effort of
apprehension, a subsidiary riddle to “What’s he giving me?” and that
was—to borrow a phrase from my schoolboy language “Is it keeps?” She
looked at my mother and me, and back to her husband again.

“You know,” he said. “George.”

“Well,” she said to my mother, descending the last three steps of the
staircase and holding out her hand! “you’re welcome. Though it’s a
surprise.... I can’t ask you to _have_ anything, I’m afraid, for there
isn’t anything in the house.” She smiled, and looked at her husband
banteringly. “Unless he makes up something with his old chemicals,
which he’s quite equal to doing.”

My mother shook hands stiffly, and told me to kiss my aunt....

“Well, let’s all sit down,” said my uncle, suddenly whistling through
his clenched teeth, and briskly rubbing his hands together. He put up a
chair for my mother, raised the blind of the little window, lowered it
again, and returned to his hearthrug. “I’m sure,” he said, as one who
decides, “I’m very glad to see you.”

V

As they talked I gave my attention pretty exclusively to my uncle.

I noted him in great detail. I remember now his partially unbuttoned
waistcoat, as though something had occurred to distract him as he did
it up, and a little cut upon his chin. I liked a certain humour in his
eyes. I watched, too, with the fascination that things have for an
observant boy, the play of his lips—they were a little oblique, and
there was something “slipshod,” if one may strain a word so far, about
his mouth, so that he lisped and sibilated ever and again and the
coming and going of a curious expression, triumphant in quality it was,
upon his face as he talked. He fingered his glasses, which did not seem
to fit his nose, fretted with things in his waistcoat pockets or put
his hands behind him, looked over our heads, and ever and again rose to
his toes and dropped back on his heels. He had a way of drawing air in
at times through his teeth that gave a whispering zest to his speech
It’s a sound I can only represent as a soft Zzzz.

He did most of the talking. My mother repeated what she had already
said in the shop, “I have brought George over to you,” and then
desisted for a time from the real business in hand. “You find this a
comfortable house?” she asked; and this being affirmed: “It looks—very
convenient.... Not too big to be a trouble—no. You like Wimblehurst, I
suppose?”

My uncle retorted with some inquiries about the great people of
Bladesover, and my mother answered in the character of a personal
friend of Lady Drew’s. The talk hung for a time, and then my uncle
embarked upon a dissertation upon Wimblehurst.

“This place,” he began, “isn’t of course quite the place I ought to be
in.”

My mother nodded as though she had expected that.

“It gives me no Scope,” he went on. “It’s dead-and-alive. Nothing
happens.”

“He’s always wanting something to happen,” said my aunt Susan. “Some
day he’ll get a shower of things and they’ll be too much for him.”

“Not they,” said my uncle, buoyantly.

“Do you find business—slack?” asked my mother.

“Oh! one rubs along. But there’s no Development—no growth. They just
come along here and buy pills when they want ’em—and a horseball or
such. They’ve got to be ill before there’s a prescription. That sort
they are. You can’t get ’em to launch out, you can’t get ’em to take up
anything new. For instance, I’ve been trying lately—induce them to buy
their medicines in advance, and in larger quantities. But they won’t
look for it! Then I tried to float a little notion of mine, sort of an
insurance scheme for colds; you pay so much a week, and when you’ve got
a cold you get a bottle of Cough Linctus so long as you can produce a
substantial sniff. See? But Lord! they’ve no capacity for ideas, they
don’t catch on; no Jump about the place, no Life. Live!—they trickle,
and what one has to do here is to trickle too—Zzzz.”

“Ah!” said my mother.

“It doesn’t suit me,” said my uncle. “I’m the cascading sort.”

“George was that,” said my mother after a pondering moment.

My aunt Susan took up the parable with an affectionate glance at her
husband.

“He’s always trying to make his old business jump,” she said. “Always
putting fresh cards in the window, or getting up to something. You’d
hardly believe. It makes ME jump sometimes.”

“But it does no good,” said my uncle.

“It does no good,” said his wife. “It’s not his miloo...”

Presently they came upon a wide pause.

From the beginning of their conversation there had been the promise of
this pause, and I pricked my ears. I knew perfectly what was bound to
come; they were going to talk of my father. I was enormously
strengthened in my persuasion when I found my mother’s eyes resting
thoughtfully upon me in the silence, and than my uncle looked at me and
then my aunt. I struggled unavailingly to produce an expression of meek
stupidity.

“I think,” said my uncle, “that George will find it more amusing to
have a turn in the market-place than to sit here talking with us.
There’s a pair of stocks there, George—very interesting. Old-fashioned
stocks.”

“I don’t mind sitting here,” I said.

My uncle rose and in the most friendly way led me through the shop. He
stood on his doorstep and jerked amiable directions to me.

“Ain’t it sleepy, George, eh? There’s the butcher’s dog over there,
asleep in the road-half an hour from midday! If the last Trump sounded
I don’t believe it would wake. Nobody would wake! The chaps up there in
the churchyard—they’d just turn over and say: ‘Naar—you don’t catch us,
you don’t! See?’.... Well, you’ll find the stocks just round that
corner.”

He watched me out of sight.

So I never heard what they said about my father after all.

VI

When I returned, my uncle had in some remarkable way become larger and
central. “Tha’chu, George?” he cried, when the shop-door bell sounded.
“Come right through”; and I found him, as it were, in the chairman’s
place before the draped grate.

The three of them regarded me.

“We have been talking of making you a chemist, George,” said my uncle.

My mother looked at me. “I had hoped,” she said, “that Lady Drew would
have done something for him—” She stopped.

“In what way?” said my uncle.

“She might have spoken to some one, got him into something perhaps....”
She had the servant’s invincible persuasion that all good things are
done by patronage.

“He is not the sort of boy for whom things are done,” she added,
dismissing these dreams. “He doesn’t accommodate himself. When he
thinks Lady Drew wishes a thing, he seems not to wish it. Towards Mr.
Redgrave, too, he has been—disrespectful—he is like his father.”

“Who’s Mr. Redgrave?”

“The Vicar.”

“A bit independent?” said my uncle, briskly.

“Disobedient,” said my mother. “He has no idea of his place. He seems
to think he can get on by slighting people and flouting them. He’ll
learn perhaps before it is too late.”

My uncle stroked his cut chin and me. “Have you learnt any Latin?” he
asked abruptly.

I said I had not.

“He’ll have to learn a little Latin,” he explained to my mother, “to
qualify. H’m. He could go down to the chap at the grammar school
here—it’s just been routed into existence again by the Charity
Commissioners and have lessons.”

“What, me learn Latin!” I cried, with emotion.

“A little,” he said.

“I’ve always wanted” I said and; “_Latin!_”

I had long been obsessed by the idea that having no Latin was a
disadvantage in the world, and Archie Garvell had driven the point of
this pretty earnestly home. The literature I had read at Bladesover had
all tended that way. Latin had had a quality of emancipation for me
that I find it difficult to convey. And suddenly, when I had supposed
all learning was at an end for me, I heard this!

“It’s no good to you, of course,” said my uncle, “except to pass exams
with, but there you are!”

“You’ll have to learn Latin because you have to learn Latin,” said my
mother, “not because you want to. And afterwards you will have to learn
all sorts of other things....”

The idea that I was to go on learning, that to read and master the
contents of books was still to be justifiable as a duty, overwhelmed
all other facts. I had had it rather clear in my mind for some weeks
that all that kind of opportunity might close to me for ever. I began
to take a lively interest in this new project.

“Then shall I live here?” I asked, “with you, and study... as well as
work in the shop?”

“That’s the way of it,” said my uncle.

I parted from my mother that day in a dream, so sudden and important
was this new aspect of things to me. I was to learn Latin! Now that the
humiliation of my failure at Bladesover was past for her, now that she
had a little got over her first intense repugnance at this resort to my
uncle and contrived something that seemed like a possible provision for
my future, the tenderness natural to a parting far more significant
than any of our previous partings crept into her manner.

She sat in the train to return, I remember, and I stood at the open
door of her compartment, and neither of us knew how soon we should
cease for ever to be a trouble to one another.

“You must be a good boy, George,” she said. “You must learn.... And you
mustn’t set yourself up against those who are above you and better than
you.... Or envy them.”

“No, mother,” I said.

I promised carelessly. Her eyes were fixed upon me. I was wondering
whether I could by any means begin Latin that night.

Something touched her heart then, some thought, some memory; perhaps
some premonition.... The solitary porter began slamming carriage doors.

“George” she said hastily, almost shamefully, “kiss me!”

I stepped up into her compartment as she bent downward.

She caught me in her arms quite eagerly, she pressed me to her—a
strange thing for her to do. I perceived her eyes were extraordinarily
bright, and then this brightness burst along the lower lids and rolled
down her cheeks.

For the first and last time in my life I saw my mother’s tears. Then
she had gone, leaving me discomforted and perplexed, forgetting for a
time even that I was to learn Latin, thinking of my mother as of
something new and strange.

The thing recurred though I sought to dismiss it, it stuck itself into
my memory against the day of fuller understanding. Poor, proud,
habitual, sternly narrow soul! poor difficult and misunderstanding son!
it was the first time that ever it dawned upon me that my mother also
might perhaps feel.

VII

My mother died suddenly and, it was thought by Lady Drew,
inconsiderately, the following spring. Her ladyship instantly fled to
Folkestone with Miss Somerville and Fison, until the funeral should be
over and my mother’s successor installed.

My uncle took me over to the funeral. I remember there was a sort of
prolonged crisis in the days preceding this because, directly he heard
of my loss, he had sent a pair of check trousers to the Judkins people
in London to be dyed black, and they did not come back in time. He
became very excited on the third day, and sent a number of increasingly
fiery telegrams without any result whatever, and succumbed next morning
with a very ill grace to my aunt Susan’s insistence upon the resources
of his dress-suit. In my memory those black legs of his, in a
particularly thin and shiny black cloth—for evidently his dress-suit
dated from adolescent and slenderer days—straddle like the Colossus of
Rhodes over my approach to my mother’s funeral. Moreover, I was
inconvenienced and distracted by a silk hat he had bought me, my first
silk hat, much ennobled, as his was also, by a deep mourning band.

I remember, but rather indistinctly, my mother’s white paneled
housekeeper’s room and the touch of oddness about it that she was not
there, and the various familiar faces made strange by black, and I seem
to recall the exaggerated self-consciousness that arose out of their
focussed attention. No doubt the sense of the new silk hat came and
went and came again in my emotional chaos. Then something comes out
clear and sorrowful, rises out clear and sheer from among all these
rather base and inconsequent things, and once again I walk before all
the other mourners close behind her coffin as it is carried along the
churchyard path to her grave, with the old vicar’s slow voice saying
regretfully and unconvincingly above me, triumphant solemn things.

“I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord; he that believeth
in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and
believeth in me shall never die.”

Never die! The day was a high and glorious morning in spring, and all
the trees were budding and bursting into green. Everywhere there were
blossoms and flowers; the pear trees and cherry trees in the sexton’s
garden were sunlit snow, there were nodding daffodils and early tulips
in the graveyard beds, great multitudes of daisies, and everywhere the
birds seemed singing. And in the middle was the brown coffin end,
tilting on men’s shoulders and half occluded by the vicar’s Oxford
hood.

And so we came to my mother’s waiting grave.

For a time I was very observant, watching the coffin lowered, hearing
the words of the ritual. It seemed a very curious business altogether.

Suddenly as the service drew to its end, I felt something had still to
be said which had not been said, realised that she had withdrawn in
silence, neither forgiving me nor hearing from me—those now lost
assurances. Suddenly I knew I had not understood. Suddenly I saw her
tenderly; remembered not so much tender or kindly things of her as her
crossed wishes and the ways in which I had thwarted her. Surprisingly I
realised that behind all her hardness and severity she had loved me,
that I was the only thing she had ever loved and that until this moment
I had never loved her. And now she was there and deaf and blind to me,
pitifully defeated in her designs for me, covered from me so that she
could not know....

I dug my nails into the palms of my hands, I set my teeth, but tears
blinded me, sobs would have choked me had speech been required of me.
The old vicar read on, there came a mumbled response—and so on to the
end. I wept as it were internally, and only when we had come out of the
churchyard could I think and speak calmly again.

Stamped across this memory are the little black figures of my uncle and
Rabbits, telling Avebury, the sexton and undertaker, that “it had all
passed off very well—very well indeed.”

VIII

That is the last I shall tell of Bladesover. The dropscene falls on
that, and it comes no more as an actual presence into this novel. I did
indeed go back there once again, but under circumstances quite
immaterial to my story. But in a sense Bladesover has never left me; it
is, as I said at the outset, one of those dominant explanatory
impressions that make the framework of my mind. Bladesover illuminates
England; it has become all that is spacious, dignified pretentious, and
truly conservative in English life. It is my social datum. That is why
I have drawn it here on so large a scale.

When I came back at last to the real Bladesover on an inconsequent
visit, everything was far smaller than I could have supposed possible.
It was as though everything had shivered and shrivelled a little at the
Lichtenstein touch. The harp was still in the saloon, but there was a
different grand piano with a painted lid and a metrostyle pianola, and
an extraordinary quantity of artistic litter and _bric-à-brac_
scattered about. There was the trail of the Bond Street showroom over
it all. The furniture was still under chintz, but it wasn’t the same
sort of chintz although it pretended to be, and the lustre-dangling
chandeliers had passed away. Lady Lichtenstein’s books replaced the
brown volumes I had browsed among—they were mostly presentation copies
of contemporary novels and the _National Review_ and the _Empire
Review_, and the _Nineteenth Century and After_ jostled current books
on the tables—English new books in gaudy catchpenny “artistic” covers,
French and Italian novels in yellow, German art handbooks of almost
incredible ugliness. There were abundant evidences that her ladyship
was playing with the Keltic renascence, and a great number of ugly cats
made of china—she “collected” china and stoneware cats—stood about
everywhere—in all colours, in all kinds of deliberately comic, highly
glazed distortion.

It is nonsense to pretend that finance makes any better aristocrats
than rent. Nothing can make an aristocrat but pride, knowledge,
training, and the sword. These people were no improvement on the Drews,
none whatever. There was no effect of a beneficial replacement of
passive unintelligent people by active intelligent ones. One felt that
a smaller but more enterprising and intensely undignified variety of
stupidity had replaced the large dullness of the old gentry, and that
was all. Bladesover, I thought, had undergone just the same change
between the seventies and the new century that had overtaken the dear
old _Times_, and heaven knows how much more of the decorous British
fabric. These Lichtensteins and their like seem to have no promise in
them at all of any fresh vitality for the kingdom. I do not believe in
their intelligence or their power—they have nothing new about them at
all, nothing creative nor rejuvenescent, no more than a disorderly
instinct of acquisition; and the prevalence of them and their kind is
but a phase in the broad slow decay of the great social organism of
England. They could not have made Bladesover they cannot replace it;
they just happen to break out over it—saprophytically.

Well—that was my last impression of Bladesover.




CHAPTER THE THIRD
THE WIMBLEHURST APPRENTICESHIP


I

So far as I can remember now, except for that one emotional phase by
the graveside, I passed through all these experiences rather callously.
I had already, with the facility of youth, changed my world, ceased to
think at all of the old school routine and put Bladesover aside for
digestion at a latter stage. I took up my new world in Wimblehurst with
the chemist’s shop as its hub, set to work at Latin and materia medica,
and concentrated upon the present with all my heart. Wimblehurst is an
exceptionally quiet and grey Sussex town rare among south of England
towns in being largely built of stone. I found something very agreeable
and picturesque in its clean cobbled streets, its odd turnings and
abrupt corners; and in the pleasant park that crowds up one side of the
town. The whole place is under the Eastry dominion and it was the
Eastry influence and dignity that kept its railway station a mile and
three-quarters away. Eastry House is so close that it dominates the
whole; one goes across the marketplace (with its old lock-up and
stocks), past the great pre-reformation church, a fine grey shell, like
some empty skull from which the life has fled, and there at once are
the huge wrought-iron gates, and one peeps through them to see the
façade of this place, very white and large and fine, down a long avenue
of yews. Eastry was far greater than Bladesover and an altogether
completer example of the eighteenth century system. It ruled not two
villages, but a borough, that had sent its sons and cousins to
parliament almost as a matter of right so long as its franchise
endured. Every one was in the system, every one—except my uncle. He
stood out and complained.

My uncle was the first real breach I found in the great front of
Bladesover the world had presented me, for Chatham was not so much a
breach as a confirmation. But my uncle had no respect for Bladesover
and Eastry—none whatever. He did not believe in them. He was blind even
to what they were. He propounded strange phrases about them, he
exfoliated and wagged about novel and incredible ideas.

“This place,” said my uncle, surveying it from his open doorway in the
dignified stillness of a summer afternoon, “wants Waking Up!”

I was sorting up patent medicines in the corner.

“I’d like to let a dozen young Americans loose into it,” said my uncle.
“Then we’d see.”

I made a tick against Mother Shipton’s Sleeping Syrup. We had cleared
our forward stock.

“Things must be happening _somewhere_, George,” he broke out in a
querulously rising note as he came back into the little shop. He
fiddled with the piled dummy boxes of fancy soap and scent and so forth
that adorned the end of the counter, then turned about petulantly,
stuck his hands deeply into his pockets and withdrew one to scratch his
head. “I must do _something_,” he said. “I can’t stand it.

“I must invent something. And shove it.... I could.

“Or a play. There’s a deal of money in a play, George. What would you
think of me writing a play eh?... There’s all sorts of things to be
done.

“Or the stog-igschange.”

He fell into that meditative whistling of his.

“Sac-ramental wine!” he swore, “this isn’t the world—it’s Cold Mutton
Fat! That’s what Wimblehurst is! Cold Mutton Fat!—dead and stiff! And
I’m buried in it up to the arm pits. Nothing ever happens, nobody wants
things to happen ‘scept me! Up in London, George, things happen.
America! I wish to Heaven, George, I’d been born American—where things
hum.

“What can one do here? How can one grow? While we’re sleepin’ here with
our Capital oozing away into Lord Eastry’s pockets for rent-men are up
there....” He indicated London as remotely over the top of the
dispensing counter, and then as a scene of great activity by a whirl of
the hand and a wink and a meaning smile at me.

“What sort of things do they do?” I asked.

“Rush about,” he said. “Do things! Somethin’ glorious. There’s cover
gambling. Ever heard of that, George?” He drew the air in through his
teeth. “You put down a hundred say, and buy ten thousand pounds worth.
See? That’s a cover of one per cent. Things go up one, you sell,
realise cent per cent; down, whiff, it’s gone! Try again! Cent per
cent, George, every day. Men are made or done for in an hour. And the
shoutin’! Zzzz.... Well, that’s one way, George. Then another
way—there’s Corners!”

“They’re rather big things, aren’t they?” I ventured.

“Oh, if you go in for wheat or steel—yes. But suppose you tackled a
little thing, George. Just some little thing that only needed a few
thousands. Drugs for example. Shoved all you had into it—staked your
liver on it, so to speak. Take a drug—take ipecac, for example. Take a
lot of ipecac. Take all there is! See? There you are! There aren’t
unlimited supplies of ipecacuanha—can’t be!—and it’s a thing people
must have. Then quinine again! You watch your chance, wait for a
tropical war breaking out, let’s say, and collar all the quinine. Where
ARE they? Must have quinine, you know. Eh? Zzzz.

“Lord! there’s no end of things—no end of _little_ things.
Dill-water—all the suffering babes yowling for it. Eucalyptus
again—cascara—witch hazel—menthol—all the toothache things. Then
there’s antiseptics, and curare, cocaine....”

“Rather a nuisance to the doctors,” I reflected.

“They got to look out for themselves. By Jove, yes. They’ll do you if
they can, and you do them. Like brigands. That makes it romantic.
That’s the Romance of Commerce, George. You’re in the mountains there!
Think of having all the quinine in the world, and some millionaire’s
pampered wife gone ill with malaria, eh? That’s a squeeze, George, eh?
Eh? Millionaire on his motor car outside, offering you any price you
liked. That ’ud wake up Wimblehurst.... Lord! You haven’t an Idea down
here. Not an idea. Zzzz.”

He passed into a rapt dream, from which escaped such fragments as:
“Fifty per cent. advance sir; security—to-morrow. Zzzz.”

The idea of cornering a drug struck upon my mind then as a sort of
irresponsible monkey trick that no one would ever be permitted to do in
reality. It was the sort of nonsense one would talk to make Ewart laugh
and set him going on to still odder possibilities. I thought it was
part of my uncle’s way of talking. But I’ve learnt differently since.
The whole trend of modern money-making is to foresee something that
will presently be needed and put it out of reach, and then to haggle
yourself wealthy. You buy up land upon which people will presently want
to build houses, you secure rights that will bar vitally important
developments, and so on, and so on. Of course the naïve intelligence of
a boy does not grasp the subtler developments of human inadequacy. He
begins life with a disposition to believe in the wisdom of grown-up
people, he does not realise how casual and disingenuous has been the
development of law and custom, and he thinks that somewhere in the
state there is a power as irresistible as a head master’s to check
mischievous and foolish enterprises of every sort. I will confess that
when my uncle talked of cornering quinine, I had a clear impression
that any one who contrived to do that would pretty certainly go to
jail. Now I know that any one who could really bring it off would be
much more likely to go to the House of Lords!

My uncle ranged over the gilt labels of his bottles and drawers for a
while, dreaming of corners in this and that. But at last he reverted to
Wimblehurst again.

“You got to be in London when these things are in hand. Down here—!

“Jee-rusalem!” he cried. “Why did I plant myself here? Everything’s
done. The game’s over. Here’s Lord Eastry, and he’s got everything,
except what his lawyers get, and before you get any more change this
way you’ll have to dynamite him—and them. _He_ doesn’t want anything
more to happen. Why should he? Any chance ’ud be a loss to him. He
wants everything to burble along and burble along and go on as it’s
going for the next ten thousand years, Eastry after Eastry, one parson
down another come, one grocer dead, get another! Any one with any ideas
better go away. They _have_ gone away! Look at all these blessed people
in this place! Look at ’em! All fast asleep, doing their business out
of habit—in a sort of dream, Stuffed men would do just as well—just.
They’ve all shook down into their places. _They_ don’t want anything to
happen either. They’re all broken in. There you are! Only what are they
all alive for?...

“Why can’t they get a clockwork chemist?”

He concluded as he often concluded these talks. “I must invent
something,—that’s about what I must do. Zzzz. Some convenience.
Something people want.... Strike out.... You can’t think, George, of
anything everybody wants and hasn’t got? I mean something you could
turn out retail under a shilling, say? Well, _you_ think, whenever you
haven’t got anything better to do. See?”

II

So I remember my uncle in that first phase, young, but already a little
fat, restless, fretful, garrulous, putting in my fermenting head all
sorts of discrepant ideas. Certainly he was educational....

For me the years at Wimblehurst were years of pretty active growth.
Most of my leisure and much of my time in the shop I spent in study. I
speedily mastered the modicum of Latin necessary for my qualifying
examinations, and—a little assisted by the Government Science and Art
Department classes that were held in the Grammar School—went on with my
mathematics. There were classes in physics, in chemistry, in
mathematics and machine drawing, and I took up these subjects with
considerable avidity. Exercise I got chiefly in the form of walks.
There was some cricket in the summer and football in the winter
sustained by young men’s clubs that levied a parasitic blackmail of the
big people and the sitting member, but I was never very keen at these
games. I didn’t find any very close companions among the youths of
Wimblehurst. They struck me, after my cockney schoolmates, as loutish
and slow, servile and furtive, spiteful and mean. _We_ used to swagger,
but these countrymen dragged their feet and hated an equal who didn’t;
we talked loud, but you only got the real thoughts of Wimblehurst in a
knowing undertone behind its hand. And even then they weren’t much in
the way of thoughts.

No, I didn’t like those young countrymen, and I’m no believer in the
English countryside under the Bladesover system as a breeding ground
for honourable men. One hears a frightful lot of nonsense about the
Rural Exodus and the degeneration wrought by town life upon our
population. To my mind, the English townsman, even in the slums, is
infinitely better spiritually, more courageous, more imaginative and
cleaner, than his agricultural cousin. I’ve seen them both when they
didn’t think they were being observed, and I know. There was something
about my Wimblehurst companions that disgusted me. It’s hard to define.
Heaven knows that at that cockney boarding-school at Goudhurst we were
coarse enough; the Wimblehurst youngsters had neither words nor courage
for the sort of thing we used to do—for our bad language, for example;
but, on the other hand, they displayed a sort of sluggish, real
lewdness, lewdness is the word—a baseness of attitude. Whatever we
exiled urbans did at Goudhurst was touched with something, however
coarse, of romantic imagination. We had read the _Boys of England_, and
told each other stories. In the English countryside there are no books
at all, no songs, no drama, no valiant sin even; all these things have
never come or they were taken away and hidden generations ago, and the
imagination aborts and bestialises. That, I think, is where the real
difference against the English rural man lies. It is because I know
this that I do not share in the common repinings because our
countryside is being depopulated, because our population is passing
through the furnace of the towns. They starve, they suffer, no doubt,
but they come out of it hardened, they come out of it with souls.

Of an evening the Wimblehurst blade, shiny-faced from a wash and with
some loud finery, a coloured waistcoat or a vivid tie, would betake
himself to the Eastry Arms billiard-room, or to the bar parlour of some
minor pub where nap could be played. One soon sickened of his slow
knowingness, the cunning observation of his deadened eyes, his idea of
a “good story,” always, always told in undertones, poor dirty worm! his
shrewd, elaborate maneuvers for some petty advantage, a drink to the
good or such-like deal. There rises before my eyes as I write, young
Hopley Dodd, the son of the Wimblehurst auctioneer, the pride of
Wimblehurst, its finest flower, with his fur waistcoat and his bulldog
pipe, his riding breeches—he had no horse—and his gaiters, as he used
to sit, leaning forward and watching the billiard-table from under the
brim of his artfully tilted hat. A half-dozen phrases constituted his
conversation: “hard lines!” he used to say, and “Good baazness,” in a
bass bleat. Moreover, he had a long slow whistle that was esteemed the
very cream of humorous comment. Night after night he was there.

Also you knew he would not understand that _I_ could play billiards,
and regarded every stroke I made as a fluke. For a beginner I didn’t
play so badly, I thought. I’m not so sure now; that was my opinion at
the time. But young Dodd’s scepticism and the “good baazness” finally
cured me of my disposition to frequent the Eastry Arms, and so these
noises had their value in my world.

I made no friends among the young men of the place at all, and though I
was entering upon adolescence I have no love-affair to tell of here.
Not that I was not waking up to that aspect of life in my middle teens
I did, indeed, in various slightly informal ways scrape acquaintance
with casual Wimblehurst girls; with a little dressmaker’s apprentice I
got upon shyly speaking terms, and a pupil teacher in the National
School went further and was “talked about” in connection with me but I
was not by any means touched by any reality of passion for either of
these young people; love—love as yet came to me only in my dreams. I
only kissed these girls once or twice. They rather disconcerted than
developed those dreams. They were so clearly not “it.” I shall have
much to say of love in this story, but I may break it to the reader now
that it is my role to be a rather ineffectual lover. Desire I knew well
enough—indeed, too well; but love I have been shy of. In all my early
enterprises in the war of the sexes, I was torn between the urgency of
the body and a habit of romantic fantasy that wanted every phase of the
adventure to be generous and beautiful. And I had a curiously haunting
memory of Beatrice, of her kisses in the bracken and her kiss upon the
wall, that somehow pitched the standard too high for Wimblehurst’s
opportunities. I will not deny I did in a boyish way attempt a shy,
rude adventure or so in love-making at Wimblehurst; but through these
various influences, I didn’t bring things off to any extent at all. I
left behind me no devastating memories, no splendid reputation. I came
away at last, still inexperienced and a little thwarted, with only a
natural growth of interest and desire in sexual things.

If I fell in love with any one in Wimblehurst it was with my aunt. She
treated me with a kindliness that was only half maternal—she petted my
books, she knew about my certificates, she made fun of me in a way that
stirred my heart to her. Quite unconsciously I grew fond of her....

My adolescent years at Wimblehurst were on the whole laborious,
uneventful years that began in short jackets and left me in many ways
nearly a man, years so uneventful that the Calculus of Variations is
associated with one winter, and an examination in Physics for Science
and Art department Honours marks an epoch. Many divergent impulses
stirred within me, but the master impulse was a grave young disposition
to work and learn and thereby in some not very clearly defined way get
out of the Wimblehurst world into which I had fallen. I wrote with some
frequency to Ewart, self-conscious, but, as I remember them, not
intelligent letters, dated in Latin and with lapses into Latin
quotation that roused Ewart to parody. There was something about me in
those days more than a little priggish. But it was, to do myself
justice, something more than the petty pride of learning. I had a very
grave sense of discipline and preparation that I am not ashamed at all
to remember. I was serious. More serious than I am at the present time.
More serious, indeed, than any adult seems to be. I was capable then of
efforts—of nobilities.... They are beyond me now. I don’t see why, at
forty, I shouldn’t confess I respect my own youth. I had dropped being
a boy quite abruptly. I thought I was presently to go out into a larger
and quite important world and do significant things there. I thought I
was destined to do something definite to a world that had a definite
purpose. I did not understand then, as I do now, that life was to
consist largely in the world’s doing things to me. Young people never
do seem to understand that aspect of things. And, as I say, among my
educational influences my uncle, all unsuspected, played a leading
part, and perhaps among other things gave my discontent with
Wimblehurst, my desire to get away from that clean and picturesque
emptiness, a form and expression that helped to emphasise it. In a way
that definition made me patient. “Presently I shall get to London,” I
said, echoing him.

I remember him now as talking, always talking, in those days. He talked
to me of theology, he talked of politics, of the wonders of science and
the marvels of art, of the passions and the affections, of the
immortality of the soul and the peculiar actions of drugs; but
predominantly and constantly he talked of getting on, of enterprises,
of inventions and great fortunes, of Rothschilds, silver kings,
Vanderbilts, Goulds, flotations, realisations and the marvelous ways of
Chance with men—in all localities, that is to say, that are not
absolutely sunken to the level of Cold Mutton Fat.

When I think of those early talks, I figure him always in one of three
positions. Either we were in the dispensing lair behind a high barrier,
he pounding up things in a mortar perhaps, and I rolling pill-stuff
into long rolls and cutting it up with a sort of broad, fluted knife,
or he stood looking out of the shop door against the case of sponges
and spray-diffusers, while I surveyed him from behind the counter, or
he leant against the little drawers behind the counter, and I hovered
dusting in front. The thought of those early days brings back to my
nostrils the faint smell of scent that was always in the air, marbled
now with streaks of this drug and now of that, and to my eyes the rows
of jejune glass bottles with gold labels, mirror-reflected, that stood
behind him. My aunt, I remember, used sometimes to come into the shop
in a state of aggressive sprightliness, a sort of connubial ragging
expedition, and get much fun over the abbreviated Latinity of those
gilt inscriptions. “Ol Amjig, George,” she would read derisively, “and
he pretends it’s almond oil! Snap!—and that’s mustard. Did you _ever_,
George?

“Look at him, George, looking dignified. I’d like to put an old label
on to _him_ round the middle like his bottles are, with Ol Pondo on it.
That’s Latin for Impostor, George _must_ be. He’d look lovely with a
stopper.”

“_You_ want a stopper,” said my uncle, projecting his face....

My aunt, dear soul, was in those days quite thin and slender, with a
delicate rosebud completion and a disposition to connubial badinage, to
a sort of gentle skylarking. There was a silvery ghost of lisping in
her speech. She was a great humourist, and as the constraint of my
presence at meals wore off, I became more and more aware of a filmy but
extensive net of nonsense she had woven about her domestic relations
until it had become the reality of her life. She affected a derisive
attitude to the world at large and applied the epithet “old” to more
things than I have ever heard linked to it before or since. “Here’s the
old news-paper,” she used to say—to my uncle. “Now don’t go and get it
in the butter, you silly old Sardine!”

“What’s the day of the week, Susan?” my uncle would ask.

“Old Monday, Sossidge,” she would say, and add, “I got all my Old
Washing to do. Don’t I _know_ it!”...

She had evidently been the wit and joy of a large circle of
schoolfellows, and this style had become a second nature with her. It
made her very delightful to me in that quiet place. Her customary walk
even had a sort of hello! in it. Her chief preoccupation in life was, I
believe, to make my uncle laugh, and when by some new nickname, some
new quaintness or absurdity, she achieved that end, she was, behind a
mask of sober amazement, the happiest woman on earth. My uncle’s laugh
when it did come, I must admit was, as Baedeker says, “rewarding.” It
began with gusty blowings and snortings, and opened into a clear “Ha
ha!” but in fullest development it included, in those youthful days,
falling about anyhow and doubling up tightly, and whackings of the
stomach, and tears and cries of anguish. I never in my life heard my
uncle laugh to his maximum except at her; he was commonly too much in
earnest for that, and he didn’t laugh much at all, to my knowledge,
after those early years. Also she threw things at him to an enormous
extent in her resolve to keep things lively in spite of Wimblehurst;
sponges out of stock she threw, cushions, balls of paper, clean
washing, bread; and once up the yard when they thought that I and the
errand boy and the diminutive maid of all work were safely out of the
way, she smashed a boxful of eight-ounce bottles I had left to drain,
assaulting my uncle with a new soft broom. Sometimes she would shy
things at me—but not often. There seemed always laughter round and
about her—all three of us would share hysterics at times—and on one
occasion the two of them came home from church shockingly ashamed of
themselves, because of a storm of mirth during the sermon. The vicar,
it seems, had tried to blow his nose with a black glove as well as the
customary pocket-handkerchief. And afterwards she had picked up her own
glove by the finger, and looking innocently but intently sideways, had
suddenly by this simple expedient exploded my uncle altogether. We had
it all over again at dinner.

“But it shows you,” cried my uncle, suddenly becoming grave, “what
Wimblehurst is, to have us all laughing at a little thing like that! We
weren’t the only ones that giggled. Not by any means! And, Lord! it
_was_ funny!”

Socially, my uncle and aunt were almost completely isolated. In places
like Wimblehurst the tradesmen’s lives always are isolated socially,
all of them, unless they have a sister or a bosom friend among the
other wives, but the husbands met in various bar-parlours or in the
billiard-room of the Eastry Arms. But my uncle, for the most part,
spent his evenings at home. When first he arrived in Wimblehurst I
think he had spread his effect of abounding ideas and enterprise rather
too aggressively; and Wimblehurst, after a temporary subjugation, had
rebelled and done its best to make a butt of him. His appearance in a
public-house led to a pause in any conversation that was going on.

“Come to tell us about everything, Mr. Pond’revo?” some one would say
politely.

“You wait,” my uncle used to answer, disconcerted, and sulk for the
rest of his visit.

Or some one with an immense air of innocence would remark to the world
generally, “They’re talkin’ of rebuildin’ Wimblehurst all over again,
I’m told. Anybody heard anything of it? Going to make it a reg’lar
smartgoin’, enterprisin’ place—kind of Crystal Pallas.”

“Earthquake and a pestilence before you get _that_,” my uncle would
mutter, to the infinite delight of every one, and add something
inaudible about “Cold Mutton Fat.”...

III

We were torn apart by a financial accident to my uncle of which I did
not at first grasp the full bearings. He had developed what I regarded
as an innocent intellectual recreation which he called stock-market
meteorology. I think he got the idea from one use of curves in the
graphic presentation of associated variations that he saw me plotting.
He secured some of my squared paper and, having cast about for a time,
decided to trace the rise and fall of certain lines and railways.
“There’s something in this, George,” he said, and I little dreamt that
among other things that were in it, was the whole of his spare money
and most of what my mother had left to him in trust for me.

“It’s as plain as can be,” he said. “See, here’s one system of waves
and here’s another! These are prices for Union Pacifics—extending over
a month. Now next week, mark my words, they’ll be down one whole point.
We’re getting near the steep part of the curve again. See? It’s
absolutely scientific. It’s verifiable. Well, and apply it! You buy in
the hollow and sell on the crest, and there you are!”

I was so convinced of the triviality of this amusement that to find at
last that he had taken it in the most disastrous earnest overwhelmed
me.

He took me for a long walk to break it to me, over the hills towards
Yare and across the great gorse commons by Hazelbrow.

“There are ups and downs in life, George,” he said—halfway across that
great open space, and paused against the sky.... “I left out one factor
in the Union Pacific analysis.”

“_Did_ you?” I said, struck by the sudden chance in his voice. “But you
don’t mean?”

I stopped and turned on him in the narrow sandy rut of pathway and he
stopped likewise.

“I do, George. I _do_ mean. It’s bust me! I’m a bankrupt here and now.”

“Then—?”

“The shop’s bust too. I shall have to get out of that.”

“And me?”

“Oh, you!—_you’re_ all right. You can transfer your apprenticeship,
and—er—well, I’m not the sort of man to be careless with trust funds,
you can be sure. I kept that aspect in mind. There’s some of it left
George—trust me!—quite a decent little sum.”

“But you and aunt?”

“It isn’t _quite_ the way we meant to leave Wimblehurst, George; but we
shall have to go. Sale; all the things shoved about and ticketed—lot a
hundred and one. Ugh!... It’s been a larky little house in some ways.
The first we had. Furnishing—a spree in its way.... Very happy...” His
face winced at some memory. “Let’s go on, George,” he said shortly,
near choking, I could see.

I turned my back on him, and did not look round again for a little
while.

“That’s how it is, you see, George.” I heard him after a time.

When we were back in the high road again he came alongside, and for a
time we walked in silence.

“Don’t say anything home yet,” he said presently. “Fortunes of War. I
got to pick the proper time with Susan—else she’ll get depressed. Not
that she isn’t a first-rate brick whatever comes along.”

“All right,” I said, “I’ll be careful”; and it seemed to me for the
time altogether too selfish to bother him with any further inquiries
about his responsibility as my trustee. He gave a little sigh of relief
at my note of assent, and was presently talking quite cheerfully of his
plans.... But he had, I remember, one lapse into moodiness that came
and went suddenly. “Those others!” he said, as though the thought had
stung him for the first time.

“What others?” I asked.

“Damn them!” said he.

“But what others?”

“All those damned stick-in-the-mud-and-die-slowly tradespeople: Ruck,
the butcher, Marbel, the grocer. Snape! Gord! George, _how_ they’ll
grin!”

I thought him over in the next few weeks, and I remember now in great
detail the last talk we had together before he handed over the shop and
me to his successor. For he had the good luck to sell his business,
“lock, stock, and barrel”—in which expression I found myself and my
indentures included. The horrors of a sale by auction of the furniture
even were avoided.

I remember that either coming or going on that occasion, Ruck, the
butcher, stood in his doorway and regarded us with a grin that showed
his long teeth.

“You half-witted hog!” said my uncle. “You grinning hyaena”; and then,
“Pleasant day, Mr. Ruck.”

“Goin’ to make your fortun’ in London, then?” said Mr. Ruck, with slow
enjoyment.

That last excursion took us along the causeway to Beeching, and so up
the downs and round almost as far as Steadhurst, home. My moods, as we
went, made a mingled web. By this time I had really grasped the fact
that my uncle had, in plain English, robbed me; the little
accumulations of my mother, six hundred pounds and more, that would
have educated me and started me in business, had been eaten into and
was mostly gone into the unexpected hollow that ought to have been a
crest of the Union Pacific curve, and of the remainder he still gave no
account. I was too young and inexperienced to insist on this or know
how to get it, but the thought of it all made streaks of decidedly
black anger in that scheme of interwoven feelings. And you know, I was
also acutely sorry for him—almost as sorry as I was for my aunt Susan.
Even then I had quite found him out. I knew him to be weaker than
myself; his incurable, irresponsible childishness was as clear to me
then as it was on his deathbed, his redeeming and excusing imaginative
silliness. Through some odd mental twist perhaps I was disposed to
exonerate him even at the cost of blaming my poor old mother who had
left things in his untrustworthy hands.

I should have forgiven him altogether, I believe, if he had been in any
manner apologetic to me; but he wasn’t that. He kept reassuring me in a
way I found irritating. Mostly, however, his solicitude was for Aunt
Susan and himself.

“It’s these Crises, George,” he said, “try Character. Your aunt’s come
out well, my boy.”

He made meditative noises for a space.

“Had her cry of course,”—the thing had been only too painfully evident
to me in her eyes and swollen face—“who wouldn’t? But now—buoyant
again!... She’s a Corker.

“We’ll be sorry to leave the little house of course. It’s a bit like
Adam and Eve, you know. Lord! what a chap old Milton was!

“‘The world was all before them, where to choose
Their place of rest, and Providence their guide.’


“It sounds, George.... Providence their guide!... Well—thank goodness
there’s no imeedgit prospect of either Cain or Abel!”

“After all, it won’t be so bad up there. Not the scenery, perhaps, or
the air we get here, but—_Life!_ We’ve got very comfortable little
rooms, very comfortable considering, and I shall rise. We’re not done
yet, we’re not beaten; don’t think that, George. I shall pay twenty
shillings in the pound before I’ve done—you mark my words,
George,—twenty—five to you.... I got this situation within twenty-four
hours—others offered. It’s an important firm—one of the best in London.
I looked to that. I might have got four or five shillings a week
more—elsewhere. Quarters I could name. But I said to them plainly,
wages to go on with, but opportunity’s my game—development. We
understood each other.”

He threw out his chest, and the little round eyes behind his glasses
rested valiantly on imaginary employers.

We would go on in silence for a space while he revised and restated
that encounter. Then he would break out abruptly with some banal
phrase.

“The Battle of Life, George, my boy,” he would cry, or “Ups and Downs!”

He ignored or waived the poor little attempts I made to ascertain my
own position. “That’s all right,” he would say; or, “Leave all that to
me. _I’ll_ look after them.” And he would drift away towards the
philosophy and moral of the situation. What was I to do?

“Never put all your resources into one chance, George; that’s the
lesson I draw from this. Have forces in reserve. It was a hundred to
one, George, that I was right—a hundred to one. I worked it out
afterwards. And here we are spiked on the off-chance. If I’d have only
kept back a little, I’d have had it on U.P. next day, like a shot, and
come out on the rise. There you are!”

His thoughts took a graver turn.

“It’s where you’ll bump up against Chance like this, George, that you
feel the need of religion. Your hard-and-fast scientific men—your
Spencers and Huxleys—they don’t understand that. I do. I’ve thought of
it a lot lately—in bed and about. I was thinking of it this morning
while I shaved. It’s not irreverent for me to say it, I hope—but God
comes in on the off-chance, George. See? Don’t you be too cocksure of
anything, good or bad. That’s what I make out of it. I could have
sworn. Well, do you think I—particular as I am—would have touched those
Union Pacifics with trust money at all, if I hadn’t thought it a
thoroughly good thing—good without spot or blemish?... And it was bad!

“It’s a lesson to me. You start in to get a hundred percent. and you
come out with that. It means, in a way, a reproof for Pride. I’ve
thought of that, George—in the Night Watches. I was thinking this
morning when I was shaving, that that’s where the good of it all comes
in. At the bottom I’m a mystic in these affairs. You calculate you’re
going to do this or that, but at bottom who knows at all _what_ he’s
doing? When you most think you’re doing things, they’re being done
right over your head. _You’re_ being done—in a sense. Take a hundred-to
one chance, or one to a hundred—what does it matter? You’re being Led.”

It’s odd that I heard this at the time with unutterable contempt, and
now that I recall it—well, I ask myself, what have I got better?

“I wish,” said I, becoming for a moment outrageous, “_you_ were being
Led to give me some account of my money, uncle.”

“Not without a bit of paper to figure on, George, I can’t. But you
trust me about that never fear. You trust me.”

And in the end I had to.

I think the bankruptcy hit my aunt pretty hard. There was, so far as I
can remember now, a complete cessation of all those cheerful outbreaks
of elasticity, no more skylarking in the shop nor scampering about the
house. But there was no fuss that I saw, and only little signs in her
complexion of the fits of weeping that must have taken her. She didn’t
cry at the end, though to me her face with its strain of
self-possession was more pathetic than any weeping. “Well” she said to
me as she came through the shop to the cab, “Here’s old orf, George!
Orf to Mome number two! Good-bye!” And she took me in her arms and
kissed me and pressed me to her. Then she dived straight for the cab
before I could answer her.

My uncle followed, and he seemed to me a trifle too valiant and
confident in his bearing for reality. He was unusually white in the
face. He spoke to his successor at the counter. “Here we go!” he said.
“One down, the other up. You’ll find it a quiet little business so long
as you run it on quiet lines—a nice quiet little business. There’s
nothing more? No? Well, if you want to know anything write to me. I’ll
always explain fully. Anything—business, place or people. You’ll find
Pil Antibil. a little overstocked by-the-by, I found it soothed my mind
the day before yesterday making ’em, and I made ’em all day. Thousands!
And where’s George? Ah! there you are! I’ll write to you, George,
_fully_, about all that affair. Fully!”

It became clear to me as if for the first time, that I was really
parting from my aunt Susan. I went out on to the pavement and saw her
head craned forward, her wide-open blue eyes and her little face intent
on the shop that had combined for her all the charms of a big doll’s
house and a little home of her very own. “Good-bye!” she said to it and
to me. Our eyes met for a moment—perplexed. My uncle bustled out and
gave a few totally unnecessary directions to the cabman and got in
beside her. “All right?” asked the driver. “Right,” said I; and he woke
up the horse with a flick of his whip. My aunt’s eyes surveyed me
again. “Stick to your old science and things, George, and write and
tell me when they make you a Professor,” she said cheerfully.

She stared at me for a second longer with eyes growing wider and
brighter and a smile that had become fixed, glanced again at the bright
little shop still saying “Ponderevo” with all the emphasis of its
fascia, and then flopped back hastily out of sight of me into the
recesses of the cab. Then it had gone from before me and I beheld Mr.
Snape, the hairdresser, inside his store regarding its departure with a
quiet satisfaction and exchanging smiles and significant headshakes
with Mr. Marbel.

IV

I was left, I say, as part of the lock, stock, and barrel, at
Wimblehurst with my new master, a Mr. Mantell; who plays no part in the
progress of this story except in so far as he effaced my uncle’s
traces. So soon as the freshness of this new personality faded, I began
to find Wimblehurst not only a dull but a lonely place, and to miss my
aunt Susan immensely. The advertisements of the summer terms for Cough
Linctus were removed; the bottles of coloured water—red, green, and
yellow—restored to their places; the horse announcing veterinary
medicine, which my uncle, sizzling all the while, had coloured in
careful portraiture of a Goodwood favourite, rewhitened; and I turned
myself even more resolutely than before to Latin (until the passing of
my preliminary examination enabled me to drop that), and then to
mathematics and science.

There were classes in Electricity and Magnetism at the Grammar School.
I took a little “elementary” prize in that in my first year and a medal
in my third; and in Chemistry and Human Physiology and Sound, Light and
Heat, I did well. There was also a lighter, more discursive subject
called Physiography, in which one ranged among the sciences and
encountered Geology as a process of evolution from Eozoon to Eastry
House, and Astronomy as a record of celestial movements of the most
austere and invariable integrity. I learnt out of badly-written,
condensed little text-books, and with the minimum of experiment, but
still I learnt. Only thirty years ago it was, and I remember I learnt
of the electric light as an expensive, impracticable toy, the telephone
as a curiosity, electric traction as a practical absurdity. There was
no argon, no radium, no phagocytes—at least to my knowledge, and
aluminium was a dear, infrequent metal. The fastest ships in the world
went then at nineteen knots, and no one but a lunatic here and there
ever thought it possible that men might fly.

Many things have happened since then, but the last glance I had of
Wimblehurst two years ago remarked no change whatever in its pleasant
tranquillity. They had not even built any fresh houses—at least not
actually in the town, though about the station there had been some
building. But it was a good place to do work in, for all its
quiescence. I was soon beyond the small requirements of the
Pharmaceutical Society’s examination, and as they do not permit
candidates to sit for that until one and twenty, I was presently
filling up my time and preventing my studies becoming too desultory by
making an attack upon the London University degree of Bachelor of
Science, which impressed me then as a very splendid but almost
impossible achievement. The degree in mathematics and chemistry
appealed to me as particularly congenial—albeit giddily inaccessible. I
set to work. I had presently to arrange a holiday and go to London to
matriculate, and so it was I came upon my aunt and uncle again. In many
ways that visit marked an epoch. It was my first impression of London
at all. I was then nineteen, and by a conspiracy of chances my nearest
approach to that human wilderness had been my brief visit to Chatham.
Chatham too had been my largest town. So that I got London at last with
an exceptional freshness of effect, as the sudden revelation of a whole
unsuspected other side to life.

I came to it on a dull and smoky day by the South Eastern Railway, and
our train was half an hour late, stopping and going on and stopping
again. I marked beyond Chiselhurst the growing multitude of villas, and
so came stage by stage through multiplying houses and diminishing
interspaces of market garden and dingy grass to regions of interlacing
railway lines, big factories, gasometers and wide reeking swamps of
dingy little homes, more of them and more and more. The number of these
and their dinginess and poverty increased, and here rose a great public
house and here a Board School and there a gaunt factory; and away to
the east there loomed for a time a queer, incongruous forest of masts
and spars. The congestion of houses intensified and piled up presently
into tenements; I marveled more and more at this boundless world of
dingy people; whiffs of industrial smell, of leather, of brewing,
drifted into the carriage; the sky darkened, I rumbled thunderously
over bridges, van-crowded streets, peered down on and crossed the
Thames with an abrupt eclat of sound. I got an effect of tall
warehouses, of grey water, barge crowded, of broad banks of
indescribable mud, and then I was in Cannon Street Station—a monstrous
dirty cavern with trains packed across its vast floor and more porters
standing along the platform than I had ever been in my life before. I
alighted with my portmanteau and struggled along, realising for the
first time just how small and weak I could still upon occasion feel. In
this world, I felt, an Honours medal in Electricity and magnetism
counted for nothing at all.

Afterwards I drove in a cab down a canon of rushing street between high
warehouses, and peeped up astonished at the blackened greys of Saint
Paul’s. The traffic of Cheapside—it was mostly in horse omnibuses in
those days—seemed stupendous, its roar was stupendous; I wondered where
the money came from to employ so many cabs, what industry could support
the endless jostling stream of silk-hatted, frock-coated, hurrying men.
Down a turning I found the Temperance Hotel Mr. Mantell had recommended
to me. The porter in a green uniform who took over my portmanteau,
seemed, I thought, to despise me a good deal.

V

Matriculation kept me for four full days and then came an afternoon to
spare, and I sought out Tottenham Court Road through a perplexing
network of various and crowded streets. But this London was vast! it
was endless! it seemed the whole world had changed into packed
frontages and hoardings and street spaces. I got there at last and made
inquiries, and I found my uncle behind the counter of the pharmacy he
managed, an establishment that did not impress me as doing a
particularly high-class trade. “Lord!” he said at the sight of me, “I
was wanting something to happen!”

He greeted me warmly. I had grown taller, and he, I thought, had grown
shorter and smaller and rounder but otherwise he was unchanged. He
struck me as being rather shabby, and the silk hat he produced and put
on, when, after mysterious negotiations in the back premises he
achieved his freedom to accompany me, was past its first youth; but he
was as buoyant and confident as ever.

“Come to ask me about all _that_,” he cried. “I’ve never written yet.”

“Oh, among other things,” said I, with a sudden regrettable politeness,
and waived the topic of his trusteeship to ask after my aunt Susan.

“We’ll have her out of it,” he said suddenly; “we’ll go somewhere. We
don’t get you in London every day.”

“It’s my first visit,” I said, “I’ve never seen London before”; and
that made him ask me what I thought of it, and the rest of the talk was
London, London, to the exclusion of all smaller topics. He took me up
the Hampstead Road almost to the Cobden statue, plunged into some back
streets to the left, and came at last to a blistered front door that
responded to his latch-key, one of a long series of blistered front
doors with fanlights and apartment cards above. We found ourselves in a
drab-coloured passage that was not only narrow and dirty but
desolatingly empty, and then he opened a door and revealed my aunt
sitting at the window with a little sewing-machine on a bamboo
occasional table before her, and “work”—a plum-coloured walking dress I
judged at its most analytical stage—scattered over the rest of the
apartment.

At the first glance I judged my aunt was plumper than she had been, but
her complexion was just as fresh and her China blue eye as bright as in
the old days.

“London,” she said, didn’t “get blacks” on her.

She still “cheeked” my uncle, I was pleased to find. “What are you old
Poking in for at _this_ time—_Gubbitt?_” she said when he appeared, and
she still looked with a practised eye for the facetious side of things.
When she saw me behind him, she gave a little cry and stood up radiant.
Then she became grave.

I was surprised at my own emotion in seeing her. She held me at arm’s
length for a moment, a hand on each shoulder, and looked at me with a
sort of glad scrutiny. She seemed to hesitate, and then pecked little
kiss off my cheek.

“You’re a man, George,” she said, as she released me, and continued to
look at me for a while.

Their _ménage_ was one of a very common type in London. They occupied
what is called the dining-room floor of a small house, and they had the
use of a little inconvenient kitchen in the basement that had once been
scullery. The two rooms, bedroom behind and living room in front, were
separated by folding-doors that were never now thrown back, and indeed,
in the presence of a visitor, not used at all. There was of course no
bathroom or anything of that sort available, and there was no water
supply except to the kitchen below. My aunt did all the domestic work,
though she could have afforded to pay for help if the build of the
place had not rendered that inconvenient to the pitch of impossibility.
There was no sort of help available except that of indoor servants, for
whom she had no accommodation. The furniture was their own; it was
partly secondhand, but on the whole it seemed cheerful to my eye, and
my aunt’s bias for cheap, gay-figured muslin had found ample score. In
many ways I should think it must have been an extremely inconvenient
and cramped sort of home, but at the time I took it, as I was taking
everything, as being there and in the nature of things. I did not see
the oddness of solvent decent people living in a habitation so clearly
neither designed nor adapted for their needs, so wasteful of labour and
so devoid of beauty as this was, and it is only now as I describe this
that I find myself thinking of the essential absurdity of an
intelligent community living in such makeshift homes. It strikes me now
as the next thing to wearing second-hand clothes.

You see it was a natural growth, part of that system to which
Bladesover, I hold, is the key. There are wide regions of London, miles
of streets of houses, that appear to have been originally designed for
prosperous-middle-class homes of the early Victorian type. There must
have been a perfect fury of such building in the thirties, forties, and
fifties. Street after street must have been rushed into being, Campden
Town way, Pentonville way, Brompton way, West Kensington way in the
Victoria region and all over the minor suburbs of the south side.

I am doubtful if many of these houses had any long use as the
residences of single families if from the very first almost their
tenants did not makeshift and take lodgers and sublet. They were built
with basements, in which their servants worked and lived—servants of a
more submissive and troglodytic generation who did not mind stairs. The
dining-room (with folding doors) was a little above the ground level,
and in that the wholesome boiled and roast with damp boiled potatoes
and then pie to follow, was consumed and the numerous family read and
worked in the evening, and above was the drawing-room (also with
folding doors), where the infrequent callers were received. That was
the vision at which those industrious builders aimed. Even while these
houses were being run up, the threads upon the loom of fate were
shaping to abolish altogether the type of household that would have
fitted them. Means of transit were developing to carry the moderately
prosperous middle-class families out of London, education and factory
employment were whittling away at the supply of rough, hardworking,
obedient girls who would stand the subterranean drudgery of these
places, new classes of hard-up middle-class people such as my uncle,
employees of various types, were coming into existence, for whom no
homes were provided. None of these classes have ideas of what they
ought to be, or fit in any legitimate way into the Bladesover theory
that dominates our minds. It was nobody’s concern to see them housed
under civilised conditions, and the beautiful laws of supply and demand
had free play. They had to squeeze in. The landlords came out
financially intact from their blundering enterprise. More and more
these houses fell into the hands of married artisans, or struggling
widows or old servants with savings, who became responsible for the
quarterly rent and tried to sweat a living by sub-letting furnished or
unfurnished apartments.

I remember now that a poor grey-haired old woman who had an air of
having been roused from a nap in the dust bin, came out into the area
and looked up at us as we three went out from the front door to “see
London” under my uncle’s direction. She was the sub-letting occupier;
she squeezed out a precarious living by taking the house whole and
sub-letting it in detail and she made her food and got the shelter of
an attic above and a basement below by the transaction. And if she
didn’t chance to “let” steadily, out she went to pauperdom and some
other poor, sordid old adventurer tried in her place....

It is a foolish community that can house whole classes, useful and
helpful, honest and loyal classes, in such squalidly unsuitable
dwellings. It is by no means the social economy it seems, to use up old
women, savings and inexperience in order to meet the landlord’s
demands. But any one who doubts this thing is going on right up to
to-day need only spend an afternoon in hunting for lodgings in any of
the regions of London I have named.

But where has my story got to? My uncle, I say, decided I must be shown
London, and out we three went as soon as my aunt had got her hat on, to
catch all that was left of the day.

VI

It pleased my uncle extremely to find I had never seen London before.
He took possession of the metropolis forthwith. “London, George,” he
said, “takes a lot of understanding. It’s a great place. Immense. The
richest town in the world, the biggest port, the greatest manufacturing
town, the Imperial city—the centre of civilisation, the heart of the
world! See those sandwich men down there! That third one’s hat! Fair
treat! You don’t see poverty like that in Wimblehurst George! And many
of them high Oxford honour men too. Brought down by drink! It’s a
wonderful place, George—a whirlpool, a maelstrom! whirls you up and
whirls you down.”

I have a very confused memory of that afternoon’s inspection of London.
My uncle took us to and fro showing us over his London, talking
erratically, following a route of his own. Sometimes we were walking,
sometimes we were on the tops of great staggering horse omnibuses in a
heaving jumble of traffic, and at one point we had tea in an Aerated
Bread Shop. But I remember very distinctly how we passed down Park Lane
under an overcast sky, and how my uncle pointed out the house of this
child of good fortune and that with succulent appreciation.

I remember, too, that as he talked I would find my aunt watching my
face as if to check the soundness of his talk by my expression.

“Been in love yet, George?” she asked suddenly, over a bun in the
tea-shop.

“Too busy, aunt,” I told her.

She bit her bun extensively, and gesticulated with the remnant to
indicate that she had more to say.

“How are _you_ going to make your fortune?” she said so soon as she
could speak again. “You haven’t told us that.”

“’Lectricity,” said my uncle, taking breath after a deep draught of
tea.

“If I make it at all,” I said. “For my part I think shall be satisfied
with something less than a fortune.”

“We’re going to make ours—suddenly,” she said.

“So _he_ old says.” She jerked her head at my uncle.

“He won’t tell me when—so I can’t get anything ready. But it’s coming.
Going to ride in our carriage and have a garden. Garden—like a
bishop’s.”

She finished her bun and twiddled crumbs from her fingers. “I shall be
glad of the garden,” she said. “It’s going to be a real big one with
rosaries and things. Fountains in it. Pampas grass. Hothouses.”

“You’ll get it all right,” said my uncle, who had reddened a little.

“Grey horses in the carriage, George,” she said. “It’s nice to think
about when one’s dull. And dinners in restaurants often and often. And
theatres—in the stalls. And money and money and money.”

“You may joke,” said my uncle, and hummed for a moment.

“Just as though an old Porpoise like him would ever make money,” she
said, turning her eyes upon his profile with a sudden lapse to
affection. “He’ll just porpoise about.”

“I’ll do something,” said my uncle, “you bet! Zzzz!” and rapped with a
shilling on the marble table.

“When you do you’ll have to buy me a new pair of gloves,” she said,
“anyhow. That finger’s past mending. Look! you Cabbage—you.” And she
held the split under his nose, and pulled a face of comical fierceness.

My uncle smiled at these sallies at the time, but afterwards, when I
went back with him to the Pharmacy—the low-class business grew brisker
in the evening and they kept open late—he reverted to it in a low
expository tone. “Your aunt’s a bit impatient, George. She gets at me.
It’s only natural.... A woman doesn’t understand how long it takes to
build up a position. No.... In certain directions now—I
am—quietly—building up a position. Now here.... I get this room. I have
my three assistants. Zzzz. It’s a position that, judged by the
criterion of imeedjit income, isn’t perhaps so good as I deserve, but
strategically—yes. It’s what I want. I make my plans. I rally my
attack.”

“What plans,” I said, “are you making?”

“Well, George, there’s one thing you can rely upon, I’m doing nothing
in a hurry. I turn over this one and that, and I don’t
talk—indiscreetly. There’s—No! I don’t think I can tell you that. And
yet, why NOT?”

He got up and closed the door into the shop. “I’ve told no one,” he
remarked, as he sat down again. “I owe you something.”

His face flushed slightly, he leant forward over the little table
towards me.

“Listen!” he said.

I listened.

“Tono-Bungay,” said my uncle very slowly and distinctly.

I thought he was asking me to hear some remote, strange noise. “I don’t
hear anything,” I said reluctantly to his expectant face. He smiled
undefeated. “Try again,” he said, and repeated, “Tono-Bungay.”

“Oh, _that!_” I said.

“Eh?” said he.

“But what is it?”

“Ah!” said my uncle, rejoicing and expanding. “What _is_ it? That’s
what you got to ask? What _won’t_ it be?” He dug me violently in what
he supposed to be my ribs. “George,” he cried—“George, watch this
place! There’s more to follow.”

And that was all I could get from him.

That, I believe, was the very first time that the words Tono-Bungay
ever heard on earth—unless my uncle indulged in monologues in his
chamber—a highly probable thing. Its utterance certainly did not seem
to me at the time to mark any sort of epoch, and had I been told this
word was the Open Sesame to whatever pride and pleasure the grimy front
of London hid from us that evening, I should have laughed aloud.

“Coming now to business,” I said after a pause, and with a chill sense
of effort; and I opened the question of his trust.

My uncle sighed, and leant back in his chair. “I wish I could make all
this business as clear to you as it is to me,” he said. “However—Go on!
Say what you have to say.”

VII

After I left my uncle that evening I gave way to a feeling of profound
depression. My uncle and aunt seemed to me to be leading—I have already
used the word too often, but I must use it again—_dingy_ lives. They
seemed to be adrift in a limitless crowd of dingy people, wearing
shabby clothes, living uncomfortably in shabby second-hand houses,
going to and fro on pavements that had always a thin veneer of greasy,
slippery mud, under grey skies that showed no gleam of hope of anything
for them but dinginess until they died. It seemed absolutely clear to
me that my mother’s little savings had been swallowed up and that my
own prospect was all too certainly to drop into and be swallowed up
myself sooner or later by this dingy London ocean. The London that was
to be an adventurous escape from the slumber of Wimblehurst, had
vanished from my dreams. I saw my uncle pointing to the houses in Park
Lane and showing a frayed shirt-cuff as he did so. I heard my aunt:
“I’m to ride in my carriage then. So he old says.”

My feelings towards my uncle were extraordinarily mixed. I was
intensely sorry not only for my aunt Susan but for him—for it seemed
indisputable that as they were living then so they must go on—and at
the same time I was angry with the garrulous vanity and illness that
had elipped all my chance of independent study, and imprisoned her in
those grey apartments. When I got back to Wimblehurst I allowed myself
to write him a boyishly sarcastic and sincerely bitter letter. He never
replied. Then, believing it to be the only way of escape for me, I set
myself far more grimly and resolutely to my studies than I had ever
done before. After a time I wrote to him in more moderate terms, and he
answered me evasively. And then I tried to dismiss him from my mind and
went on working.

Yes, that first raid upon London under the moist and chilly depression
of January had an immense effect upon me. It was for me an epoch-making
disappointment. I had thought of London as a large, free, welcoming,
adventurous place, and I saw it slovenly and harsh and irresponsive.

I did not realise at all what human things might be found behind those
grey frontages, what weakness that whole forbidding façade might
presently confess. It is the constant error of youth to over-estimate
the Will in things. I did not see that the dirt, the discouragement,
the discomfort of London could be due simply to the fact that London
was a witless old giantess of a town, too slack and stupid to keep
herself clean and maintain a brave face to the word. No! I suffered
from the sort of illusion that burnt witches in the seventeenth
century. I endued her grubby disorder with a sinister and magnificent
quality of intention.

And my uncle’s gestures and promises filled me with doubt and a sort of
fear for him. He seemed to me a lost little creature, too silly to be
silent, in a vast implacable condemnation. I was full of pity and a
sort of tenderness for my aunt Susan, who was doomed to follow his
erratic fortunes mocked by his grandiloquent promises.

I was to learn better. But I worked with the terror of the grim
underside of London in my soul during all my last year at Wimblehurst.




BOOK THE SECOND
THE RISE OF TONO-BUNGAY




CHAPTER THE FIRST
HOW I BECAME A LONDON STUDENT AND WENT ASTRAY


I

I came to live in London, as I shall tell you, when I was nearly
twenty-two. Wimblehurst dwindles in perspective, is now in this book a
little place far off, Bladesover no more than a small pinkish speck of
frontage among the distant Kentish hills; the scene broadens out,
becomes multitudinous and limitless, full of the sense of vast
irrelevant movement. I do not remember my second coming to London as I
do my first, for my early impressions, save that an October memory of
softened amber sunshine stands out, amber sunshine falling on grey
house fronts I know not where. That, and a sense of a large
tranquillity.

I could fill a book, I think, with a more or less imaginary account of
how I came to apprehend London, how first in one aspect and then in
another it grew in my mind. Each day my accumulating impressions were
added to and qualified and brought into relationship with new ones;
they fused inseparably with others that were purely personal and
accidental. I find myself with a certain comprehensive perception of
London, complete indeed, incurably indistinct in places and yet in some
way a whole that began with my first visit and is still being mellowed
and enriched.

London!

At first, no doubt, it was a chaos of streets and people and buildings
and reasonless going to and fro. I do not remember that I ever
struggled very steadily to understand it, or explored it with any but a
personal and adventurous intention. Yet in time there has grown up in
me a kind of theory of London; I do think I see lines of an ordered
structure out of which it has grown, detected a process that is
something more than a confusion of casual accidents though indeed it
may be no more than a process of disease.

I said at the outset of my first book that I find in Bladesover the
clue to all England. Well, I certainly imagine it is the clue to the
structure of London. There have been no revolutions no deliberate
restatements or abandonments of opinion in England since the days of
the fine gentry, since 1688 or thereabouts, the days when Bladesover
was built; there have been changes, dissolving forest replacing forest,
if you will; but then it was that the broad lines of the English system
set firmly. And as I have gone to and fro in London in certain regions
constantly the thought has recurred this is Bladesover House, this
answers to Bladesover House. The fine gentry may have gone; they have
indeed largely gone, I think; rich merchants may have replaced them,
financial adventurers or what not. That does not matter; the shape is
still Bladesover.

I am most reminded of Bladesover and Eastry by all those regions round
about the West End parks; for example, estate parks, each more or less
in relation to a palace or group of great houses. The roads and back
ways of Mayfair and all about St. James’s again, albeit perhaps of a
later growth in point of time, were of the very spirit and
architectural texture of the Bladesover passages and yards; they had
the same smells, the space, the large cleanest and always going to and
fro where one met unmistakable Olympians and even more unmistakable
valets, butlers, footmen in mufti. There were moments when I seemed to
glimpse down areas the white panelling, the very chintz of my mother’s
room again.

I could trace out now on a map what I would call the Great-House
region; passing south-westward into Belgravia, becoming diffused and
sporadic westward, finding its last systematic outbreak round and about
Regent’s Park. The Duke of Devonshire’s place in Piccadilly, in all its
insolent ugliness, pleases me particularly; it is the quintessence of
the thing; Apsley House is all in the manner of my theory, Park Lane
has its quite typical mansions, and they run along the border of the
Green Park and St. James’s. And I struck out a truth one day in
Cromwell Road quite suddenly, as I looked over the Natural History
Museum “By Jove,” said I “but this is the little assemblage of cases of
stuffed birds and animals upon the Bladesover staircase grown enormous,
and yonder as the corresponding thing to the Bladesover curios and
porcelain is the Art Museume and there in the little observatories in
Exhibition Road is old Sir Cuthbert’s Gregorian telescope that I hunted
out in the storeroom and put together.” And diving into the Art Museum
under this inspiration, I came to a little reading-room and found as I
had inferred, old brown books!

It was really a good piece of social comparative anatomy I did that
day; all these museums and libraries that are dotted over London
between Piccadilly and West Kensington, and indeed the museum and
library movement throughout the world, sprang from the elegant leisure
of the gentlemen of taste. Theirs were the first libraries, the first
houses of culture; by my rat-like raids into the Bladesover saloon I
became, as it were, the last dwindled representative of such a man of
letters as Swift. But now these things have escaped out of the Great
House altogether, and taken on a strange independent life of their own.

It is this idea of escaping parts from the seventeenth century system
of Bladesover, of proliferating and overgrowing elements from the
Estates, that to this day seems to me the best explanation, not simply
of London, but of all England. England is a country of great Renascence
landed gentlefolk who have been unconsciously outgrown and overgrown.
The proper shops for Bladesover custom were still to be found in Regent
Street and Bond Street in my early London days in those days they had
been but lightly touched by the American’s profaning hand—and in
Piccadilly. I found the doctor’s house of the country village or
country town up and down Harley Street, multiplied but not otherwise
different, and the family solicitor (by the hundred) further eastward
in the abandoned houses of a previous generation of gentlepeople, and
down in Westminster, behind Palladian fronts, the public offices
sheltered in large Bladesoverish rooms and looked out on St. James’s
Park. The Parliament Houses of lords and gentlemen, the parliament
house that was horrified when merchants and brewers came thrusting into
it a hundred years ago, stood out upon its terrace gathering the whole
system together into a head.

And the more I have paralleled these things with my Bladesover-Eastry
model, the more evident it has become to me that the balance is not the
same, and the more evident is the presence of great new forces, blind
forces of invasion, of growth. The railway termini on the north side of
London have been kept as remote as Eastry had kept the railway-station
from Wimblehurst, they stop on the very outskirts of the estates, but
from the south, the South Eastern railway had butted its great stupid
rusty iron head of Charing Cross station, that great head that came
smashing down in 1905—clean across the river, between Somerset House
and Whitehall. The south side had no protecting estate. Factory
chimneys smoke right over against Westminster with an air of carelessly
not having permission, and the whole effect of industrial London and of
all London east of Temple Bar and of the huge dingy immensity of London
port is to me of something disproportionately large, something morbidly
expanded, without plan or intention, dark and sinister toward the clean
clear social assurance of the West End. And south of this central
London, south-east, south-west, far west, north-west, all round the
northern hills, are similar disproportionate growths, endless streets
of undistinguished houses, undistinguished industries, shabby families,
second-rate shops, inexplicable people who in a once fashionable phrase
do not “exist.” All these aspects have suggested to my mind at times,
do suggest to this day, the unorganised, abundant substance of some
tumorous growth-process, a process which indeed bursts all the outlines
of the affected carcass and protrudes such masses as ignoble
comfortable Croydon, as tragic impoverished West Ham. To this day I ask
myself will those masses ever become structural, will they indeed shape
into anything new whatever, or is that cancerous image their true and
ultimate diagnosis?...

Moreover, together with this hypertrophy there is an immigration of
elements that have never understood and never will understand the great
tradition, wedges of foreign settlement embedded in the heart of this
yeasty English expansion. One day I remember wandering eastward out of
pure curiosity—it must have been in my early student days—and
discovering a shabbily bright foreign quarter, shops displaying Hebrew
placards and weird, unfamiliar commodities and a concourse of
bright-eyed, eagle-nosed people talking some incomprehensible gibberish
between the shops and the barrows. And soon I became quite familiar
with the devious, vicious, dirtily-pleasant eroticism of Soho. I found
those crowded streets a vast relief from the dull grey exterior of
Brompton where I lodged and lived my daily life. In Soho, indeed, I got
my first inkling of the factor of replacement that is so important in
both the English and the American process.

Even in the West End, in Mayfair and the square, about Pall Mall, Ewart
was presently to remind me the face of the old aristocratic dignity was
fairer than its substance; here were actors and actresses, here money
lenders and Jews, here bold financial adventurers, and I thought of my
uncle’s frayed cuff as he pointed out this house in Park Lane and that.
That was so and so’s who made a corner in borax, and that palace
belonged to that hero among modern adventurers, Barmentrude, who used
to be an I.D.B.,—an illicit diamond buyer that is to say. A city of
Bladesovers, the capital of a kingdom of Bladesovers, all much shaken
and many altogether in decay, parasitically occupied, insidiously
replaced by alien, unsympathetic and irresponsible elements; and with a
ruling an adventitious and miscellaneous empire of a quarter of this
daedal earth complex laws, intricate social necessities, disturbing
insatiable suggestions, followed from this. Such was the world into
which I had come, into which I had in some way to thrust myself and fit
my problem, my temptations, my efforts, my patriotic instinct, all my
moral instincts, my physical appetites, my dreams and my sanity.

London! I came up to it, young and without advisers, rather priggish,
rather dangerously open-minded and very open-eyed, and with
something—it is, I think, the common gift of imaginative youth, and I
claim it unblushingly—fine in me, finer than the world and seeking fine
responses. I did not want simply to live or simply to live happily or
well; I wanted to serve and do and make—with some nobility. It was in
me. It is in half the youth of the world.

II

I had come to London as a scholar. I had taken the Vincent Bradley
scholarship of the Pharmaceutical Society, but I threw this up when I
found that my work of the Science and Art Department in mathematics,
physics and chemistry had given me one of the minor Technical Board
Scholarships at the Consolidated Technical Schools at South Kensington.
This latter was in mechanics and metallurgy; and I hesitated between
the two. The Vincent Bradley gave me £70 a year and quite the best
start-off a pharmaceutical chemist could have; the South Kensington
thing was worth about twenty-two shillings a week, and the prospects it
opened were vague. But it meant far more scientific work than the
former, and I was still under the impulse of that great intellectual
appetite that is part of the adolescence of men of my type. Moreover it
seemed to lead towards engineering, in which I imagined—I imagine to
this day—my particular use is to be found. I took its greater
uncertainty as a fair risk. I came up very keen, not doubting that the
really hard and steady industry that had carried me through Wimblehurst
would go on still in the new surroundings.

Only from the very first it didn’t....

When I look back now at my Wimblehurst days, I still find myself
surprised at the amount of steady grinding study, of strenuous
self-discipline that I maintained throughout my apprenticeship. In many
ways I think that time was the most honourable period in my life. I
wish I could say with a certain mind that my motives in working so well
were large and honourable too. To a certain extent they were so; there
was a fine sincere curiosity, a desire for the strength and power of
scientific knowledge and a passion for intellectual exercise; but I do
not think those forces alone would have kept me at it so grimly and
closely if Wimblehurst had not been so dull, so limited and so
observant. Directly I came into the London atmosphere, tasting freedom,
tasting irresponsibility and the pull of new forces altogether, my
discipline fell from me like a garment. Wimblehurst to a youngster in
my position offered no temptations worth counting, no interests to
conflict with study, no vices—such vices as it offered were coarsely
stripped of any imaginative glamourfull drunkenness, clumsy leering
shameful lust, no social intercourse even to waste one’s time, and on
the other hand it would minister greatly to the self-esteem of a
conspicuously industrious student. One was marked as “clever,” one
played up to the part, and one’s little accomplishment stood out finely
in one’s private reckoning against the sunlit small ignorance of that
agreeable place. One went with an intent rush across the market square,
one took one’s exercise with as dramatic a sense of an ordered day as
an Oxford don, one burnt the midnight oil quite consciously at the rare
respectful, benighted passer-by. And one stood out finely in the local
paper with one’s unapproachable yearly harvest of certificates. Thus I
was not only a genuinely keen student, but also a little of a prig and
poseur in those days—and the latter kept the former at it, as London
made clear.

Moreover Wimblehurst had given me no outlet in any other direction.

But I did not realise all this when I came to London, did not perceive
how the change of atmosphere began at once to warp and distribute my
energies. In the first place I became invisible. If I idled for a day,
no one except my fellow-students (who evidently had no awe for me)
remarked it. No one saw my midnight taper; no one pointed me out as I
crossed the street as an astonishing intellectual phenomenon. In the
next place I became inconsiderable. In Wimblehurst I felt I stood for
Science; nobody there seemed to have so much as I and to have it so
fully and completely. In London I walked ignorant in an immensity, and
it was clear that among my fellow-students from the midlands and the
north I was ill-equipped and under-trained. With the utmost exertion I
should only take a secondary position among them. And finally, in the
third place, I was distracted by voluminous new interests; London took
hold of me, and Science, which had been the universe, shrank back to
the dimensions of tiresome little formulae compacted in a book. I came
to London in late September, and it was a very different London from
that great greyly-overcast, smoke-stained house-wilderness of my first
impressions. I reached it by Victoria and not by Cannon Street, and its
centre was now in Exhibition Road. It shone, pale amber, blue-grey and
tenderly spacious and fine under clear autumnal skies, a London of
hugely handsome buildings and vistas and distances, a London of gardens
and labyrinthine tall museums, of old trees and remote palaces and
artificial waters. I lodged near by in West Brompton at a house in a
little square.

So London faced me the second time, making me forget altogether for a
while the grey, drizzling city visage that had first looked upon me. I
settled down and went to and fro to my lectures and laboratory; in the
beginning I worked hard, and only slowly did the curiosity that
presently possessed me to know more of this huge urban province arise,
the desire to find something beyond mechanism that I could serve, some
use other than learning. With this was a growing sense of loneliness, a
desire for adventure and intercourse. I found myself in the evenings
poring over a map of London I had bought, instead of copying out
lecture notes—and on Sundays I made explorations, taking omnibus rides
east and west and north and south, and to enlarging and broadening the
sense of great swarming hinterlands of humanity with whom I had no
dealings, of whom I knew nothing....

The whole illimitable place teemed with suggestions of indefinite and
sometimes outrageous possibility, of hidden but magnificent meanings.

It wasn’t simply that I received a vast impression of space and
multitude and opportunity; intimate things also were suddenly dragged
from neglected, veiled and darkened corners into an acute vividness of
perception. Close at hand in the big art museum I came for the first
time upon the beauty of nudity, which I had hitherto held to be a
shameful secret, flaunted and gloried in; I was made aware of beauty as
not only permissible, but desirable and frequent and of a thousand
hitherto unsuspected rich aspects of life. One night in a real rapture,
I walked round the upper gallery of the Albert Hall and listened for
the first time to great music; I believe now that it was a rendering of
Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony....

My apprehension of spaces and places was reinforced by a quickened
apprehension of persons. A constant stream of people passed by me, eyes
met and challenged mine and passed—more and more I wanted then to
stay—if I went eastward towards Piccadilly, women who seemed then to my
boyish inexperience softly splendid and alluring, murmured to me as
they passed. Extraordinarily life unveiled. The very hoardings
clamoured strangely at one’s senses and curiosities. One bought
pamphlets and papers full of strange and daring ideas transcending
one’s boldest; in the parks one heard men discussing the very existence
of God, denying the rights of property, debating a hundred things that
one dared not think about in Wimblehurst. And after the ordinary
overcast day, after dull mornings, came twilight, and London lit up and
became a thing of white and yellow and red jewels of light and
wonderful floods of golden illumination and stupendous and unfathomable
shadows—and there were no longer any mean or shabby people—but a great
mysterious movement of unaccountable beings....

Always I was coming on the queerest new aspects. Late one Saturday
night I found myself one of a great slow-moving crowd between the
blazing shops and the flaring barrows in the Harrow Road; I got into
conversation with two bold-eyed girls, bought them boxes of chocolate,
made the acquaintance of father and mother and various younger brothers
and sisters, sat in a public-house hilariously with them all, standing
and being stood drinks, and left them in the small hours at the door of
“home,” never to see them again. And once I was accosted on the
outskirts of a Salvation Army meeting in one of the parks by a
silk-hatted young man of eager and serious discourse, who argued
against scepticism with me, invited me home to tea into a clean and
cheerful family of brothers and sisters and friends, and there I spent
the evening singing hymns to the harmonium (which reminded me of
half-forgotten Chatham), and wishing all the sisters were not so
obviously engaged....

Then on the remote hill of this boundless city-world I found Ewart.

III

How well I remember the first morning, a bright Sunday morning in early
October, when I raided in upon Ewart! I found my old schoolfellow in
bed in a room over an oil-shop in a back street at the foot of Highgate
Hill. His landlady, a pleasant, dirty young woman with soft-brown eyes,
brought down his message for me to come up; and up I went. The room
presented itself as ample and interesting in detail and shabby with a
quite commendable shabbiness. I had an impression of brown walls—they
were papered with brown paper—of a long shelf along one side of the
room, with dusty plaster casts and a small cheap lay figure of a horse,
of a table and something of grey wax partially covered with a cloth,
and of scattered drawings. There was a gas stove in one corner, and
some enameled ware that had been used for overnight cooking. The
oilcloth on the floor was streaked with a peculiar white dust. Ewart
himself was not in the first instance visible, but only a fourfold
canvas screen at the end of the room from which shouts proceeded of
“Come on!” then his wiry black hair, very much rumpled, and a staring
red-brown eye and his stump of a nose came round the edge of this at a
height of about three feet from the ground “It’s old Ponderevo!” he
said, “the Early bird! And he’s caught the worm! By Jove, but it’s cold
this morning! Come round here and sit on the bed!”

I walked round, wrung his hand, and we surveyed one another.

He was lying on a small wooden fold-up bed, the scanty covering of
which was supplemented by an overcoat and an elderly but still cheerful
pair of check trousers, and he was wearing pajamas of a virulent pink
and green. His neck seemed longer and more stringy than it had been
even in our schooldays, and his upper lip had a wiry black moustache.
The rest of his ruddy, knobby countenance, his erratic hair and his
general hairy leanness had not even—to my perceptions grown.

“By Jove!” he said, “you’ve got quite decent-looking, Ponderevo! What
do you think of me?”

“You’re all right. What are you doing here?”

“Art, my son—sculpture! And incidentally—” He hesitated. “I ply a
trade. Will you hand me that pipe and those smoking things? So! You
can’t make coffee, eh? Well, try your hand. Cast down this
screen—no—fold it up and so we’ll go into the other room. I’ll keep in
bed all the same. The fire’s a gas stove. Yes. Don’t make it bang. too
loud as you light it—I can’t stand it this morning. You won’t smoke ...
Well, it does me good to see you again, Ponderevo. Tell me what you’re
doing, and how you’re getting on.”

He directed me in the service of his simple hospitality, and presently
I came back to his bed and sat down and smiled at him there, smoking
comfortably, with his hands under his head, surveying me.

“How’s Life’s Morning, Ponderevo? By Jove, it must be nearly six years
since we met! They’ve got moustaches. We’ve fleshed ourselves a bit,
eh? And you?”

I felt a pipe was becoming after all, and that lit, I gave him a
favourable sketch of my career.

“Science! And you’ve worked like that! While I’ve been potting round
doing odd jobs for stone-masons and people, and trying to get to
sculpture. I’ve a sort of feeling that the chisel—I began with
painting, Ponderevo, and found I was colour-blind, colour-blind enough
to stop it. I’ve drawn about and thought about—thought more
particularly. I give myself three days a week as an art student, and
the rest of the time I’ve a sort of trade that keeps me. And we’re
still in the beginning of things, young men starting. Do you remember
the old times at Goudhurst, our doll’s-house island, the Retreat of the
Ten Thousand Young Holmes and the rabbits, eh? It’s surprising, if you
think of it, to find we are still young. And we used to talk of what we
would be, and we used to talk of love! I suppose you know all about
that now, Ponderevo?”

I finished and hesitated on some vague foolish lie, “No,” I said, a
little ashamed of the truth. “Do you? I’ve been too busy.”

“I’m just beginning—just as we were then. Things happen.”

He sucked at his pipe for a space and stared at the plaster cast of a
flayed hand that hung on the wall.

“The fact is, Ponderevo, I’m beginning to find life a most
extraordinary queer set-out; the things that pull one, the things that
don’t. The wants—This business of sex. It’s a net. No end to it, no way
out of it, no sense in it. There are times when women take possession
of me, when my mind is like a painted ceiling at Hampton Court with the
pride of the flesh sprawling all over it. _Why>?_... And then again
sometimes when I have to encounter a woman, I am overwhelmed by a
terror of tantalising boredom—I fly, I hide, I do anything. You’ve got
your scientific explanations perhaps; what’s Nature and the universe up
to in that matter?”

“It’s her way, I gather, of securing the continuity of the species.”

“But it doesn’t,” said Ewart. “That’s just it! No. I have succumbed
to—dissipation—down the hill there. Euston Road way. And it was damned
ugly and mean, and I hate having done it. And the continuity of the
species—Lord!... And why does Nature make a man so infernally ready for
drinks? There’s no sense in that anyhow.” He sat up in bed, to put this
question with the greater earnestness. “And why has she given me a most
violent desire towards sculpture and an equally violent desire to leave
off work directly I begin it, eh?... Let’s have some more coffee. I put
it to you, these things puzzle me, Ponderevo. They dishearten me. They
keep me in bed.”

He had an air of having saved up these difficulties for me for some
time. He sat with his chin almost touching his knees, sucking at his
pipe.

“That’s what I mean,” he went on, “when I say life is getting on to me
as extraordinarily queer, I don’t see my game, nor why I was invited.
And I don’t make anything of the world outside either. What do _you_
make of it?”

“London,” I began. “It’s—so enormous!”

“Isn’t it! And it’s all up to nothing. You find chaps keeping grocers’
shops—why the _devil_, Ponderevo, do they keep grocers’ shops? They all
do it very carefully, very steadily, very meanly. You find people
running about and doing the most remarkable things being policemen, for
example, and burglars. They go about these businesses quite gravely and
earnestly. I somehow—can’t go about mine. Is there any sense in it at
all—anywhere?”

“There must be sense in it,” I said. “We’re young.”

“We’re young—yes. But one must inquire. The grocer’s a grocer because,
I suppose, he sees he comes in there. Feels that on the whole it
amounts to a call.... But the bother is I don’t see where I come in at
all. Do you?”

“Where _you_ come in?”

“No, where _you _come in.”

“Not exactly, yet,” I said. “I want to do some good in the
world—something—something effectual, before I die. I have a sort of
idea my scientific work—I don’t know.”

“Yes,” he mused. “And I’ve got a sort of idea my sculpture,—but _how_
it is to come in and _why_,—I’ve no idea at all.” He hugged his knees
for a space. “That’s what puzzles me, Ponderevo, no end.”

He became animated. “If you will look in that cupboard,” he said, “you
will find an old respectable looking roll on a plate and a knife
somewhere and a gallipot containing butter. You give them me and I’ll
make my breakfast, and then if you don’t mind watching me paddle about
at my simple toilet I’ll get up. Then we’ll go for a walk and talk
about this affair of life further. And about Art and Literature and
anything else that crops up on the way.... Yes, that’s the gallipot.
Cockroach got in it? Chuck him out—damned interloper....”

So in the first five minutes of our talk, as I seem to remember it now,
old Ewart struck the note that ran through all that morning’s
intercourse....

To me it was a most memorable talk because it opened out quite new
horizons of thought. I’d been working rather close and out of touch
with Ewart’s free gesticulating way. He was pessimistic that day and
sceptical to the very root of things. He made me feel clearly, what I
had not felt at all before, the general adventurousness of life,
particularly of life at the stage we had reached, and also the absence
of definite objects, of any concerted purpose in the lives that were
going on all round us. He made me feel, too, how ready I was to take up
commonplace assumptions. Just as I had always imagined that somewhere
in social arrangements there was certainly a Head-Master who would
intervene if one went too far, so I had always had a sort of implicit
belief that in our England there were somewhere people who understood
what we were all, as a nation, about. That crumpled into his pit of
doubt and vanished.

He brought out, sharply cut and certain, the immense effect of
purposelessness in London that I was already indistinctly feeling. We
found ourselves at last returning through Highgate Cemetery and
Waterlow Park—and Ewart was talking.

“Look at it there,” he said, stopping and pointing to the great vale of
London spreading wide and far. “It’s like a sea—and we swim in it. And
at last down we go, and then up we come—washed up here.” He swung his
arms to the long slopes about us, tombs and headstones in long
perspectives, in limitless rows.

“We’re young, Ponderevo, but sooner or later our whitened memories will
wash up on one of these beaches, on some such beach as this. George
Ponderevo, F.R.S., Sidney Ewart, R.I.P. Look at the rows of ’em!”

He paused. “Do you see that hand? The hand, I mean, pointing upward, on
the top of a blunted obelisk. Yes. Well, that’s what I do for a
living—when I’m not thinking, or drinking, or prowling, or making love,
or pretending I’m trying to be a sculptor without either the money or
the morals for a model. See? And I do those hearts afire and those
pensive angel guardians with the palm of peace. Damned well I do ’em
and damned cheap! I’m a sweated victim, Ponderevo...”

That was the way of it, anyhow. I drank deep of talk that day; we went
into theology, into philosophy; I had my first glimpse of socialism. I
felt as though I had been silent in a silence since I and he had
parted. At the thought of socialism Ewart’s moods changed for a time to
a sort of energy. “After all, all this confounded vagueness _might_ be
altered. If you could get men to work together...”

It was a good talk that rambled through all the universe. I thought I
was giving my mind refreshment, but indeed it was dissipation. All
sorts of ideas, even now, carry me back as it were to a fountain-head,
to Waterlow Park and my resuscitated Ewart. There stretches away south
of us long garden slopes and white gravestones and the wide expanse of
London, and somewhere in the picture is a red old wall, sun-warmed, and
a great blaze of Michaelmas daisies set off with late golden sunflowers
and a drift of mottled, blood-red, fallen leaves. It was with me that
day as though I had lifted my head suddenly out of dull and immediate
things and looked at life altogether.... But it played the very devil
with the copying up of my arrears of notes to which I had vowed the
latter half of that day.

After that reunion Ewart and I met much and talked much, and in our
subsequent encounters his monologue was interrupted and I took my
share. He had exercised me so greatly that I lay awake at nights
thinking him over, and discoursed and answered him in my head as I went
in the morning to the College. I am by nature a doer and only by the
way a critic; his philosophical assertion of the incalculable vagueness
of life which fitted his natural indolence roused my more irritable and
energetic nature to active protests. “It’s all so pointless,” I said,
“because people are slack and because it’s in the ebb of an age. But
you’re a socialist. Well, let’s bring that about! And there’s a
purpose. There you are!”

Ewart gave me all my first conceptions of socialism; in a little while
I was an enthusiastic socialist and he was a passive resister to the
practical exposition of the theories he had taught me. “We must join
some organisation,” I said. “We ought to do things.... We ought to go
and speak at street corners. People don’t know.”

You must figure me a rather ill-dressed young man in a state of great
earnestness, standing up in that shabby studio of his and saying these
things, perhaps with some gesticulations, and Ewart with a clay-smudged
face, dressed perhaps in a flannel shirt and trousers, with a pipe in
his mouth, squatting philosophically at a table, working at some chunk
of clay that never got beyond suggestion.

“I wonder why one doesn’t want to,” he said.

It was only very slowly I came to gauge Ewart’s real position in the
scheme of things, to understand how deliberate and complete was this
detachment of his from the moral condemnation and responsibilities that
played so fine a part in his talk. His was essentially the nature of an
artistic appreciator; he could find interest and beauty in endless
aspects of things that I marked as evil, or at least as not negotiable;
and the impulse I had towards self-deception, to sustained and
consistent self-devotion, disturbed and detached and pointless as it
was at that time, he had indeed a sort of admiration for but no
sympathy. Like many fantastic and ample talkers he was at bottom
secretive, and he gave me a series of little shocks of discovery
throughout our intercourse.

The first of these came in the realisation that he quite seriously
meant to do nothing in the world at all towards reforming the evils he
laid bare in so easy and dexterous a manner. The next came in the
sudden appearance of a person called “Milly”—I’ve forgotten her
surname—whom I found in his room one evening, simply attired in a blue
wrap—the rest of her costume behind the screen—smoking cigarettes and
sharing a flagon of an amazingly cheap and self-assertive grocer’s wine
Ewart affected, called “Canary Sack.” “Hullo!” said Ewart, as I came
in. “This is Milly, you know. She’s been being a model—she IS a model
really.... (keep calm, Ponderevo!) Have some sack?”

Milly was a woman of thirty, perhaps, with a broad, rather pretty face,
a placid disposition, a bad accent and delightful blond hair that waved
off her head with an irrepressible variety of charm; and whenever Ewart
spoke she beamed at him. Ewart was always sketching this hair of hers
and embarking upon clay statuettes of her that were never finished. She
was, I know now, a woman of the streets, whom Ewart had picked up in
the most casual manner, and who had fallen in love with him, but my
inexperience in those days was too great for me to place her then, and
Ewart offered no elucidations. She came to him, he went to her, they
took holidays together in the country when certainly she sustained her
fair share of their expenditure. I suspect him now even of taking money
from her. Odd old Ewart! It was a relationship so alien to my orderly
conceptions of honour, to what I could imagine any friend of mine
doing, that I really hardly saw it with it there under my nose. But I
see it and I think I understand it now....

Before I fully grasped the discursive manner in which Ewart was
committed to his particular way in life, I did, I say, as the broad
constructive ideas of socialism took hold of me, try to get him to work
with me in some definite fashion as a socialist.

“We ought to join on to other socialists,” I said.

“They’ve got something.”

“Let’s go and look at some first.”

After some pains we discovered the office of the Fabian Society,
lurking in a cellar in Clement’s Inn; and we went and interviewed a
rather discouraging secretary who stood astraddle in front of a fire
and questioned us severely and seemed to doubt the integrity of our
intentions profoundly. He advised us to attend the next open meeting in
Clifford’s Inn and gave us the necessary data. We both contrived to get
to the affair, and heard a discursive gritty paper on Trusts and one of
the most inconclusive discussions you can imagine. Three-quarters of
the speakers seemed under some jocular obsession which took the form of
pretending to be conceited. It was a sort of family joke, and as
strangers to the family we did not like it.... As we came out through
the narrow passage from Clifford’s Inn to the Strand, Ewart suddenly
pitched upon a wizened, spectacled little man in a vast felt hat and a
large orange tie.

“How many members are there in this Fabian Society of yours?” he asked.

The little man became at once defensive in his manner.

“About seven hundred,” he said; “perhaps eight.”

“Like—like the ones here?”

The little man gave a nervous self-satisfied laugh. “I suppose they’re
up to sample,” he said.

The little man dropped out of existence and we emerged upon the Strand.
Ewart twisted his arm into a queerly eloquent gesture that gathered up
all the tall façades of the banks, the business places, the projecting
clock and towers of the Law Courts, the advertisements, the luminous
signs, into one social immensity, into a capitalistic system gigantic
and invincible.

“These socialists have no sense of proportion,” he said. “What can you
expect of them?”

IV

Ewart, as the embodiment of talk, was certainly a leading factor in my
conspicuous failure to go on studying. Social theory in its first crude
form of Democratic Socialism gripped my intelligence more and more
powerfully. I argued in the laboratory with the man who shared my bench
until we quarreled and did not speak and also I fell in love.

The ferment of sex had been creeping into my being like a slowly
advancing tide through all my Wimblehurst days, the stimulus of London
was like the rising of a wind out of the sea that brings the waves in
fast and high. Ewart had his share in that. More and more acutely and
unmistakably did my perception of beauty, form and sound, my desire for
adventure, my desire for intercourse, converge on this central and
commanding business of the individual life. I had to get me a mate.

I began to fall in love faintly with girls I passed in the street, with
women who sat before me in trains, with girl fellow-students, with
ladies in passing carriages, with loiterers at the corners, with
neat-handed waitresses in shops and tea-rooms, with pictures even of
girls and women. On my rare visits to the theatre I always became
exalted, and found the actresses and even the spectators about me
mysterious, attractive, creatures of deep interest and desire. I had a
stronger and stronger sense that among these glancing, passing
multitudes there was somewhere one who was for me. And in spite of
every antagonistic force in the world, there was something in my very
marrow that insisted: “Stop! Look at this one! Think of her! Won’t she
do? This signifies—this before all things signifies! Stop! Why are you
hurrying by? This may be the predestined person—before all others.”

It is odd that I can’t remember when first I saw Marion, who became my
wife—whom I was to make wretched, who was to make me wretched, who was
to pluck that fine generalised possibility of love out of my early
manhood and make it a personal conflict. I became aware of her as one
of a number of interesting attractive figures that moved about in my
world, that glanced back at my eyes, that flitted by with a kind of
averted watchfulness. I would meet her coming through the Art Museum,
which was my short cut to the Brompton Road, or see her sitting,
reading as I thought, in one of the bays of the Education Library. But
really, as I found out afterwards, she never read. She used to come
there to eat a bun in quiet. She was a very gracefully-moving figure of
a girl then, very plainly dressed, with dark brown hair I remember, in
a knot low on her neck behind that confessed the pretty roundness of
her head and harmonised with the admirable lines of ears and cheek, the
grave serenity of mouth and brow.

She stood out among the other girls very distinctly because they
dressed more than she did, struck emphatic notes of colour, startled
one by novelties in hats and bows and things. I’ve always hated the
rustle, the disconcerting colour boundaries, the smart unnatural angles
of women’s clothes. Her plain black dress gave her a starkness....

I do remember, though, how one afternoon I discovered the peculiar
appeal of her form for me. I had been restless with my work and had
finally slipped out of the Laboratory and come over to the Art Museum
to lounge among the pictures. I came upon her in an odd corner of the
Sheepshanks gallery, intently copying something from a picture that
hung high. I had just been in the gallery of casts from the antique, my
mind was all alive with my newly awakened sense of line, and there she
stood with face upturned, her body drooping forward from the hips just
a little—memorably graceful—feminine.

After that I know I sought to see her, felt a distinctive emotion at
her presence, began to imagine things about her. I no longer thought of
generalised womanhood or of this casual person or that. I thought of
her.

An accident brought us together. I found myself one Monday morning in
an omnibus staggering westward from Victoria—I was returning from a
Sunday I’d spent at Wimblehurst in response to a unique freak of
hospitality on the part of Mr. Mantell. She was the sole other inside
passenger. And when the time came to pay her fare, she became an
extremely scared, disconcerted and fumbling young woman; she had left
her purse at home.

Luckily I had some money.

She looked at me with startled, troubled brown eyes; she permitted my
proffered payment to the conductor with a certain ungraciousness that
seemed a part of her shyness, and then as she rose to go, she thanked
me with an obvious affectation of ease.

“Thank you so much,” she said in a pleasant soft voice; and then less
gracefully, “Awfully kind of you, you know.”

I fancy I made polite noises. But just then I wasn’t disposed to be
critical. I was full of the sense of her presence; her arm was
stretched out over me as she moved past me, the gracious slenderness of
her body was near me. The words we used didn’t seem very greatly to
matter. I had vague ideas of getting out with her—and I didn’t.

That encounter, I have no doubt, exercised me enormously. I lay awake
at night rehearsing it, and wondering about the next phase of our
relationship. That took the form of the return of my twopence. I was in
the Science Library, digging something out of the _Encyclopædia
Britannica_, when she appeared beside me and placed on the open page an
evidently premeditated thin envelope, bulgingly confessing the coins
within.

“It was so very kind of you,” she said, “the other day. I don’t know
what I should have done, Mr.—”

I supplied my name. “I knew,” I said, “you were a student here.”

“Not exactly a student. I—”

“Well, anyhow, I knew you were here frequently. And I’m a student
myself at the Consolidated Technical Schools.”

I plunged into autobiography and questionings, and so entangled her in
a conversation that got a quality of intimacy through the fact that,
out of deference to our fellow-readers, we were obliged to speak in
undertones. And I have no doubt that in substance it was singularly
banal. Indeed I have an impression that all our early conversations
were incredibly banal. We met several times in a manner
half-accidental, half furtive and wholly awkward. Mentally I didn’t
take hold of her. I never did take hold of her mentally. Her talk, I
now know all too clearly, was shallow, pretentious, evasive. Only—even
to this day—I don’t remember it as in any way vulgar. She was, I could
see quite clearly, anxious to overstate or conceal her real social
status, a little desirous to be taken for a student in the art school
and a little ashamed that she wasn’t. She came to the museum to “copy
things,” and this, I gathered, had something to do with some way of
partially earning her living that I wasn’t to inquire into. I told her
things about myself, vain things that I felt might appeal to her, but
that I learnt long afterwards made her think me “conceited.” We talked
of books, but there she was very much on her guard and secretive, and
rather more freely of pictures. She “liked” pictures. I think from the
outset I appreciated and did not for a moment resent that hers was a
commonplace mind, that she was the unconscious custodian of something
that had gripped my most intimate instinct, that she embodied the hope
of a possibility, was the careless proprietor of a physical quality
that had turned my head like strong wine. I felt I had to stick to our
acquaintance, flat as it was. Presently we should get through these
irrelevant exterior things, and come to the reality of love beneath.

I saw her in dreams released, as it were, from herself, beautiful,
worshipful, glowing. And sometimes when we were together, we would come
on silences through sheer lack of matter, and then my eyes would feast
on her, and the silence seemed like the drawing back of a curtain—her
superficial self. Odd, I confess. Odd, particularly, the enormous hold
of certain things about her upon me, a certain slight rounded duskiness
of skin, a certain perfection of modelling in her lips, her brow, a
certain fine flow about the shoulders. She wasn’t indeed beautiful to
many people—these things are beyond explaining. She had manifest
defects of form and feature, and they didn’t matter at all. Her
complexion was bad, but I don’t think it would have mattered if it had
been positively unwholesome. I had extraordinarily limited,
extraordinarily painful, desires. I longed intolerably to kiss her
lips.

V

The affair was immensely serious and commanding to me. I don’t remember
that in these earlier phases I had any thought of turning back at all.
It was clear to me that she regarded me with an eye entirely more
critical than I had for her, that she didn’t like my scholarly
untidiness, my want of even the most commonplace style. “Why do you
wear collars like that?” she said, and sent me in pursuit of
gentlemanly neckwear. I remember when she invited me a little abruptly
one day to come to tea at her home on the following Sunday and meet her
father and mother and aunt, that I immediately doubted whether my
hitherto unsuspected best clothes would create the impression she
desired me to make on her belongings. I put off the encounter until the
Sunday after, to get myself in order. I had a morning coat made and I
bought a silk hat, and had my reward in the first glance of admiration
she ever gave me. I wonder how many of my sex are as preposterous. I
was, you see, abandoning all my beliefs, my conventions unasked. I was
forgetting myself immensely. And there was a conscious shame in it all.
Never a word—did I breathe to Ewart—to any living soul of what was
going on.

Her father and mother and aunt struck me as the dismalest of people,
and her home in Walham Green was chiefly notable for its black and
amber tapestry carpets and curtains and table-cloths, and the age and
irrelevance of its books, mostly books with faded gilt on the covers.
The windows were fortified against the intrusive eye by cheap lace
curtains and an “art pot” upon an unstable octagonal table. Several
framed Art School drawings of Marion’s, bearing official South
Kensington marks of approval, adorned the room, and there was a black
and gilt piano with a hymn-book on the top of it. There were draped
mirrors over all the mantels, and above the sideboard in the
dining-room in which we sat at tea was a portrait of her father,
villainously truthful after the manner of such works. I couldn’t see a
trace of the beauty I found in her in either parent, yet she somehow
contrived to be like them both.

These people pretended in a way that reminded me of the Three Great
Women in my mother’s room, but they had not nearly so much social
knowledge and did not do it nearly so well. Also, I remarked, they did
it with an eye on Marion. They had wanted to thank me, they said, for
the kindness to their daughter in the matter of the ‘bus fare, and so
accounted for anything unusual in their invitation. They posed as
simple gentlefolk, a little hostile to the rush and gadding-about of
London, preferring a secluded and unpretentious quiet.

When Marion got out the white table-cloth from the sideboard-drawer for
tea, a card bearing the word “APARTMENTS” fell to the floor. I picked
it up and gave it to her before I realised from her quickened colour
that I should not have seen it; that probably had been removed from the
window in honour of my coming.

Her father spoke once in a large remote way of he claims of business
engagements, and it was only long afterwards I realised that he was a
supernumerary clerk in the Walham Green Gas Works and otherwise a
useful man at home. He was a large, loose, fattish man with
unintelligent brown eyes magnified by spectacles; he wore an
ill-fitting frock-coat and a paper collar, and he showed me, as his
great treasure and interest, a large Bible which he had grangerised
with photographs of pictures. Also he cultivated the little garden-yard
behind the house, and he had a small greenhouse with tomatoes. “I wish
I ’ad ’eat,” he said. “One can do such a lot with ’eat. But I suppose
you can’t ’ave everything you want in this world.”

Both he and Marion’s mother treated her with a deference that struck me
as the most natural thing in the world. Her own manner changed, became
more authoritative and watchful, her shyness disappeared. She had taken
a line of her own I gathered, draped the mirror, got the second-hand
piano, and broken her parents in.

Her mother must once have been a pretty woman; she had regular features
and Marion’s hair without its lustre, but she was thin and careworn.
The aunt, Miss Ramboat, was a large, abnormally shy person very like
her brother, and I don’t recall anything she said on this occasion.

To begin with there was a good deal of tension, Marion was frightfully
nervous and every one was under the necessity of behaving in a
mysteriously unreal fashion until I plunged, became talkative and made
a certain ease and interest. I told them of the schools, of my
lodgings, of Wimblehurst and my apprenticeship days. “There’s a lot of
this Science about nowadays,” Mr. Ramboat reflected; “but I sometimes
wonder a bit what good it is?”

I was young enough to be led into what he called “a bit of a
discussion,” which Marion truncated before our voices became unduly
raised. “I dare say,” she said, “there’s much to be said on both
sides.”

I remember Marion’s mother asked me what church I attended, and that I
replied evasively. After tea there was music and we sang hymns. I
doubted if I had a voice when this was proposed, but that was held to
be a trivial objection, and I found sitting close beside the sweep of
hair from Marion’s brow had many compensations. I discovered her mother
sitting in the horsehair armchair and regarding us sentimentally. I
went for a walk with Marion towards Putney Bridge, and then there was
more singing and a supper of cold bacon and pie, after which Mr.
Ramboat and I smoked. During that walk, I remember, she told me the
import of her sketchings and copyings in the museum. A cousin of a
friend of hers whom she spoke of as Smithie, had developed an original
business in a sort of tea-gown garment which she called a Persian Robe,
a plain sort of wrap with a gaily embroidered yoke, and Marion went
there and worked in the busy times. In the times that weren’t busy she
designed novelties in yokes by an assiduous use of eyes and note-book
in the museum, and went home and traced out the captured forms on the
foundation material. “I don’t get much,” said Marion, “but it’s
interesting, and in the busy times we work all day. Of course the
workgirls are dreadfully common, but we don’t say much to them. And
Smithie talks enough for ten.”

I quite understood the workgirls were dreadfully common.

I don’t remember that the Walham Green _ménage_ and the quality of
these people, nor the light they threw on Marion, detracted in the
slightest degree at that time from the intent resolve that held me to
make her mine. I didn’t like them. But I took them as part of the
affair. Indeed, on the whole, I think they threw her up by an effect of
contrast; she was so obviously controlling them, so consciously
superior to them.

More and more of my time did I give to this passion that possessed me.
I began to think chiefly of ways of pleasing Marion, of acts of
devotion, of treats, of sumptuous presents for her, of appeals she
would understand. If at times she was manifestly unintelligent, in her
ignorance became indisputable, I told myself her simple instincts were
worth all the education and intelligence in the world. And to this day
I think I wasn’t really wrong about her. There was something
extraordinarily fine about her, something simple and high, that
flickered in and out of her ignorance and commonness and limitations
like the tongue from the mouth of a snake....

One night I was privileged to meet her and bring her home from an
entertainment at the Birkbeck Institute. We came back on the
underground railway and we travelled first-class—that being the highest
class available. We were alone in the carriage, and for the first time
I ventured to put my arm about her.

“You mustn’t,” she said feebly.

“I love you,” I whispered suddenly with my heart beating wildly, drew
her to me, drew all her beauty to me and kissed her cool and
unresisting lips.

“Love me?” she said, struggling away from me, “Don’t!” and then, as the
train ran into a station, “You must tell no one.... I don’t know....
You shouldn’t have done that....”

Then two other people got in with us and terminated my wooing for a
time.

When we found ourselves alone together, walking towards Battersea, she
had decided to be offended. I parted from her unforgiven and terribly
distressed.

When we met again, she told me I must never say “that” again.

I had dreamt that to kiss her lips was ultimate satisfaction. But it
was indeed only the beginning of desires. I told her my one ambition
was to marry her.

“But,” she said, “you’re not in a position—What’s the good of talking
like that?”

I stared at her. “I mean to,” I said.

“You can’t,” she answered. “It will be years”

“But I love you,” I insisted.

I stood not a yard from the sweet lips I had kissed; I stood within
arm’s length of the inanimate beauty I desired to quicken, and I saw
opening between us a gulf of years, toil, waiting, disappointments and
an immense uncertainty.

“I love you,” I said. “Don’t you love me?”

She looked me in the face with grave irresponsive eyes.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I _like_ you, of course.... One has to be
sensibl...”

I can remember now my sense of frustration by her unresilient reply. I
should have perceived then that for her my ardour had no quickening
fire. But how was I to know? I had let myself come to want her, my
imagination endowed her with infinite possibilities. I wanted her and
wanted her, stupidly and instinctively....

“But,” I said “Love—!”

“One has to be sensible,” she replied. “I like going about with you.
Can’t we keep as we are?’”

VI

Well, you begin to understand my breakdown now, I have been copious
enough with these apologia. My work got more and more spiritless, my
behaviour degenerated, my punctuality declined; I was more and more
outclassed in the steady grind by my fellow-students. Such supplies of
moral energy as I still had at command shaped now in the direction of
serving Marion rather than science.

I fell away dreadfully, more and more I shirked and skulked; the humped
men from the north, the pale men with thin, clenched minds, the intent,
hard-breathing students I found against me, fell at last from keen
rivalry to moral contempt. Even a girl got above me upon one of the
lists. Then indeed I made it a point of honour to show by my public
disregard of every rule that I really did not even pretend to try.

So one day I found myself sitting in a mood of considerable
astonishment in Kensington Gardens, reacting on a recent heated
interview with the school Registrar in which I had displayed more
spirit than sense. I was astonished chiefly at my stupendous falling
away from all the militant ideals of unflinching study I had brought up
from Wimblehurst. I had displayed myself, as the Registrar put it, “an
unmitigated rotter.” My failure to get marks in the written examination
had only been equalled by the insufficiency of my practical work.

“I ask you,” the Registrar had said, “what will become of you when your
scholarship runs out?”

It certainly was an interesting question. What _was_ going to become of
me?

It was clear there would be nothing for me in the schools as I had once
dared to hope; there seemed, indeed, scarcely anything in the world
except an illpaid assistantship in some provincial organized Science
School or grammar school. I knew that for that sort of work, without a
degree or any qualification, one earned hardly a bare living and had
little leisure to struggle up to anything better. If only I had even as
little as fifty pounds I might hold out in London and take my B.Sc.
degree, and quadruple my chances! My bitterness against my uncle
returned at the thought. After all, he had some of my money still, or
ought to have. Why shouldn’t I act within my rights, threaten to ‘take
proceedings’? I meditated for a space on the idea, and then returned to
the Science Library and wrote him a very considerable and occasionally
pungent letter.

That letter to my uncle was the nadir of my failure. Its remarkable
consequences, which ended my student days altogether, I will tell in
the next chapter.

I say “my failure.” Yet there are times when I can even doubt whether
that period was a failure at all, when I become defensively critical of
those exacting courses I did not follow, the encyclopaedic process of
scientific exhaustion from which I was distracted. My mind was not
inactive, even if it fed on forbidden food. I did not learn what my
professors and demonstrators had resolved I should learn, but I learnt
many things. My mind learnt to swing wide and to swing by itself.

After all, those other fellows who took high places in the College
examinations and were the professor’s model boys haven’t done so
amazingly. Some are professors themselves, some technical experts; not
one can show things done such as I, following my own interest, have
achieved. For I have built boats that smack across the water like
whiplashes; no one ever dreamt of such boats until I built them; and I
have surprised three secrets that are more than technical discoveries,
in the unexpected hiding-places of Nature. I have come nearer flying
than any man has done. Could I have done as much if I had had a turn
for obeying those rather mediocre professors at the college who
proposed to train my mind? If I had been _trained_ in research—that
ridiculous contradiction in terms—should I have done more than produce
additions to the existing store of little papers with blunted
conclusions, of which there are already too many? I see no sense in
mock modesty upon this matter. Even by the standards of worldly success
I am, by the side of my fellow-students, no failure. I had my F.R.S. by
the time I was thirty-seven, and if I am not very wealthy poverty is as
far from me as the Spanish Inquisition. Suppose I had stamped down on
the head of my wandering curiosity, locked my imagination in a box just
when it wanted to grow out to things, worked by so-and-so’s excellent
method and so-and-so’s indications, where should I be now?

I may be all wrong in this. It may be I should be a far more efficient
man than I am if I had cut off all those divergent expenditures of
energy, plugged up my curiosity about society with more currently
acceptable rubbish or other, abandoned Ewart, evaded Marion instead of
pursuing her, concentrated. But I don’t believe it!

However, I certainly believed it completely and was filled with remorse
on that afternoon when I sat dejectedly in Kensington Gardens and
reviewed, in the light of the Registrar’s pertinent questions my first
two years in London.




CHAPTER THE SECOND
THE DAWN COMES, AND MY UNCLE APPEARS IN A NEW SILK HAT


I

Throughout my student days I had not seen my uncle. I refrained from
going to him in spite of an occasional regret that in this way I
estranged myself from my aunt Susan, and I maintained a sulky attitude
of mind towards him. And I don’t think that once in all that time I
gave a thought to that mystic word of his that was to alter all the
world for us. Yet I had not altogether forgotten it. It was with a
touch of memory, dim transient perplexity if no more—why did this thing
seem in some way personal?—that I read a new inscription upon the
hoardings:

THE SECRET OF VIGOUR,
TONO-BUNGAY.


That was all. It was simple and yet in some way arresting. I found
myself repeating the word after I had passed; it roused one’s attention
like the sound of distant guns. “Tono”—what’s that? and deep, rich,
unhurrying;—“_bun_—gay!”

Then came my uncle’s amazing telegram, his answer to my hostile note:
“_Come to me at once you are wanted three hundred a year certain
tono-bungay._”

“By Jove!” I cried, “of course!

“It’s something—. A patent-medicine! I wonder what he wants with me.”

In his Napoleonic way my uncle had omitted to give an address. His
telegram had been handed in at Farringdon Road, and after complex
meditations I replied to Ponderevo, Farringdon Road, trusting to the
rarity of our surname to reach him.

“Where are you?” I asked.

His reply came promptly:

“192A, Raggett Street, E.C.”

The next day I took an unsanctioned holiday after the morning’s
lecture. I discovered my uncle in a wonderfully new silk hat—oh, a
splendid hat! with a rolling brim that went beyond the common fashion.
It was decidedly too big for him—that was its only fault. It was stuck
on the back of his head, and he was in a white waistcoat and shirt
sleeves. He welcomed me with a forgetfulness of my bitter satire and my
hostile abstinence that was almost divine. His glasses fell off at the
sight of me. His round inexpressive eyes shone brightly. He held out
his plump short hand.

“Here we are, George! What did I tell you? Needn’t whisper it now, my
boy. Shout it—_loud!_ spread it about! Tell every one! Tono—TONO—,
TONO-BUNGAY!”

Raggett Street, you must understand, was a thoroughfare over which some
one had distributed large quantities of cabbage stumps and leaves. It
opened out of the upper end of Farringdon Street, and 192A was a shop
with the plate-glass front coloured chocolate, on which several of the
same bills I had read upon the hoardings had been stuck. The floor was
covered by street mud that had been brought in on dirty boots, and
three energetic young men of the hooligan type, in neck-wraps and caps,
were packing wooden cases with papered-up bottles, amidst much straw
and confusion. The counter was littered with these same swathed
bottles, of a pattern then novel but now amazingly familiar in the
world, the blue paper with the coruscating figure of a genially nude
giant, and the printed directions of how under practically all
circumstances to take Tono-Bungay. Beyond the counter on one side
opened a staircase down which I seem to remember a girl descending with
a further consignment of bottles, and the rest of the background was a
high partition, also chocolate, with “Temporary Laboratory” inscribed
upon it in white letters, and over a door that pierced it, “Office.”
Here I rapped, inaudible amid much hammering, and then entered
unanswered to find my uncle, dressed as I have described, one hand
gripping a sheath of letters, and the other scratching his head as he
dictated to one of three toiling typewriter girls. Behind him was a
further partition and a door inscribed “ABSOLUTELY PRIVATE—NO
ADMISSION,” thereon. This partition was of wood painted the universal
chocolate, up to about eight feet from the ground, and then of glass.
Through the glass I saw dimly a crowded suggestion of crucibles and
glass retorts, and—by Jove!—yes!—the dear old Wimblehurst air-pump
still! It gave me quite a little thrill—that air-pump! And beside it
was the electrical machine—but something—some serious trouble—had
happened to that. All these were evidently placed on a shelf just at
the level to show.

“Come right into the sanctum,” said my uncle, after he had finished
something about “esteemed consideration,” and whisked me through the
door into a room that quite amazingly failed to verify the promise of
that apparatus. It was papered with dingy wall-paper that had peeled in
places; it contained a fireplace, an easy-chair with a cushion, a table
on which stood two or three big bottles, a number of cigar-boxes on the
mantel, whisky Tantalus and a row of soda syphons. He shut the door
after me carefully.

“Well, here we are!” he said. “Going strong! Have a whisky, George?
No!—Wise man! Neither will I! You see me at it! At it—hard!”

“Hard at what?”

“Read it,” and he thrust into my hand a label—that label that has now
become one of the most familiar objects of the chemist’s shop, the
greenish-blue rather old-fashioned bordering, the legend, the name in
good black type, very clear, and the strong man all set about with
lightning flashes above the double column of skilful lies in red—the
label of Tono-Bungay. “It’s afloat,” he said, as I stood puzzling at
this. “It’s afloat. I’m afloat!” And suddenly he burst out singing in
that throaty tenor of his—

“I’m afloat, I’m afloat on the fierce flowing tide,
The ocean’s my home and my bark is my bride!


“Ripping song that is, George. Not so much a bark as a solution, but
still—it does! Here we are at it! By-the-by! Half a mo’! I’ve thought
of a thing.” He whisked out, leaving me to examine this nuclear spot at
leisure while his voice became dictatorial without. The den struck me
as in its large grey dirty way quite unprecedented and extraordinary.
The bottles were all labelled simply A, B, C, and so forth, and that
dear old apparatus above, seen from this side, was even more patiently
“on the shelf” than when it had been used to impress Wimblehurst. I saw
nothing for it but to sit down in the chair and await my uncle’s
explanations. I remarked a frock-coat with satin lapels behind the
door; there was a dignified umbrella in the corner and a clothes-brush
and a hat-brush stood on a side-table. My uncle returned in five
minutes looking at his watch—a gold watch—“Gettin’ lunch-time, George,”
he said. “You’d better come and have lunch with me!”

“How’s Aunt Susan?” I asked.

“Exuberant. Never saw her so larky. This has bucked her up something
wonderful—all this.”

“All what?”

“Tono-Bungay.”

“What is Tono-Bungay?” I asked.

My uncle hesitated. “Tell you after lunch, George,” he said. “Come
along!” and having locked up the sanctum after himself, led the way
along a narrow dirty pavement, lined with barrows and swept at times by
avalanche-like porters bearing burthens to vans, to Farringdon Street.
He hailed a passing cab superbly, and the cabman was infinitely
respectful. “Schäfer’s,” he said, and off we went side by side—and with
me more and more amazed at all these things—to Schäfer’s Hotel, the
second of the two big places with huge lace curtain-covered windows,
near the corner of Blackfriars Bridge.

I will confess I felt a magic charm in our relative proportions as the
two colossal, pale-blue-and-red liveried porters of Schäfers’ held open
the inner doors for us with a respectful salutation that in some manner
they seemed to confine wholly to my uncle. Instead of being about four
inches taller, I felt at least the same size as he, and very much
slenderer. Still more respectful—waiters relieved him of the new hat
and the dignified umbrella, and took his orders for our lunch. He gave
them with a fine assurance.

He nodded to several of the waiters.

“They know me, George, already,” he said. “Point me out. Live place!
Eye for coming men!”

The detailed business of the lunch engaged our attention for a while,
and then I leant across my plate. “And NOW?” said I.

“It’s the secret of vigour. Didn’t you read that label?”

“Yes, but—”

“It’s selling like hot cakes.”

“And what is it?” I pressed.

“Well,” said my uncle, and then leant forward and spoke softly under
cover of his hand, “It’s nothing more or less than...”

(But here an unfortunate scruple intervenes. After all, Tono-Bungay is
still a marketable commodity and in the hands of purchasers, who bought
it from—among other vendors—me. No! I am afraid I cannot give it away—)

“You see,” said my uncle in a slow confidential whisper, with eyes very
wide and a creased forehead, “it’s nice because of the” (here he
mentioned a flavouring matter and an aromatic spirit), “it’s
stimulating because of” (here he mentioned two very vivid tonics, one
with a marked action on the kidney.) “And the” (here he mentioned two
other ingredients) “makes it pretty intoxicating. Cocks their tails.
Then there’s” (but I touch on the essential secret.) “And there you
are. I got it out of an old book of recipes—all except the” (here he
mentioned the more virulent substance, the one that assails the
kidneys), “which is my idea! Modern touch! There you are!”

He reverted to the direction of our lunch.

Presently he was leading the way to the lounge—sumptuous piece in red
morocco and yellow glazed crockery, with incredible vistas of settees
and sofas and things, and there I found myself grouped with him in two
excessively upholstered chairs with an earthenware Moorish table
between us bearing coffee and Benedictine, and I was tasting the
delights of a tenpenny cigar. My uncle smoked a similar cigar in an
habituated manner, and he looked energetic and knowing and luxurious
and most unexpectedly a little bounder, round the end of it. It was
just a trivial flaw upon our swagger, perhaps that we both were clear
our cigars had to be “mild.” He got obliquely across the spaces of his
great armchair so as to incline confidentially to my ear, he curled up
his little legs, and I, in my longer way, adopted a corresponding
receptive obliquity. I felt that we should strike an unbiased observer
as a couple of very deep and wily and developing and repulsive persons.

“I want to let you into this”—puff—“George,” said my uncle round the
end of his cigar. “For many reasons.”

His voice grew lower and more cunning. He made explanations that to my
inexperience did not completely explain. I retain an impression of a
long credit and a share with a firm of wholesale chemists, of a credit
and a prospective share with some pirate printers, of a third share for
a leading magazine and newspaper proprietor.

“I played ’em off one against the other,” said my uncle. I took his
point in an instant. He had gone to each of them in turn and said the
others had come in.

“I put up four hundred pounds,” said my uncle, “myself and my all. And
you know—”

He assumed a brisk confidence. “I hadn’t five hundred pence. At least—”

For a moment he really was just a little embarrassed. “I _did_” he
said, “produce capital. You see, there was that trust affair of yours—I
ought, I suppose—in strict legality—to have put that straight first.
Zzzz....

“It was a bold thing to do,” said my uncle, shifting the venue from the
region of honour to the region of courage. And then with a
characteristic outburst of piety, “Thank God it’s all come right!

“And now, I suppose, you ask where do YOU come in? Well, fact is I’ve
always believed in you, George. You’ve got—it’s a sort of dismal grit.
Bark your shins, rouse you, and you’ll go! You’d rush any position you
had a mind to rush. I know a bit about character, George—trust me.
You’ve got—” He clenched his hands and thrust them out suddenly, and at
the same time said, with explosive violence, “Wooosh! Yes. You have!
The way you put away that Latin at Wimblehurst; I’ve never forgotten
it.

“Wo-oo-oo-osh! Your science and all that! Wo-oo-oo-osh! I know my
limitations. There’s things I can do, and” (he spoke in a whisper, as
though this was the first hint of his life’s secret) “there’s things I
can’t. Well, I can create this business, but I can’t make it go. I’m
too voluminous—I’m a boiler-over, not a simmering stick-at-it._You_
keep on _hotting up and hotting up_. Papin’s digester. That’s you,
steady and long and piling up,—then, wo-oo-oo-oo-osh. Come in and
stiffen these niggers. Teach them that wo-oo-oo-oo-osh. There you are!
That’s what I’m after. You! Nobody else believes you’re more than a
boy. Come right in with me and be a man. Eh, George? Think of the fun
of it—a thing on the go—a Real Live Thing! Wooshing it up! Making it
buzz and spin! Whoo-oo-oo.”—He made alluring expanding circles in the
air with his hand. “Eh?”

His proposal, sinking to confidential undertones again, took more
definite shape. I was to give all my time and energy to developing and
organising. “You shan’t write a single advertisement, or give a single
assurance” he declared. “I can do all that.” And the telegram was no
flourish; I was to have three hundred a year. Three hundred a year.
(“That’s nothing,” said my uncle, “the thing to freeze on to, when the
time comes, is your tenth of the vendor’s share.”)

Three hundred a year certain, anyhow! It was an enormous income to me.
For a moment I was altogether staggered. Could there be that much money
in the whole concern? I looked about me at the sumptuous furniture of
Schäfer’s Hotel. No doubt there were many such incomes.

My head was spinning with unwonted Benedictine and Burgundy.

“Let me go back and look at the game again,” I said. “Let me see
upstairs and round about.”

I did.

“What do you think of it all?” my uncle asked at last.

“Well, for one thing,” I said, “why don’t you have those girls working
in a decently ventilated room? Apart from any other consideration,
they’d work twice as briskly. And they ought to cover the corks before
labelling round the bottle.”

“Why?” said my uncle.

“Because—they sometimes make a mucker of the cork job, and then the
label’s wasted.”

“Come and change it, George,” said my uncle, with sudden fervour “Come
here and make a machine of it. You can. Make it all slick, and then
make it woosh. I know you can. Oh! I know you can.”

II

I seem to remember very quick changes of mind after that lunch. The
muzzy exaltation of the unaccustomed stimulants gave way very rapidly
to a model of pellucid and impartial clairvoyance which is one of my
habitual mental states. It is intermittent; it leaves me for weeks
together, I know, but back it comes at last like justice on circuit,
and calls up all my impression, all my illusions, all my willful and
passionate proceedings. We came downstairs again into that inner room
which pretended to be a scientific laboratory through its high glass
lights, and indeed was a lurking place. My uncle pressed a cigarette on
me, and I took it and stood before the empty fireplace while he propped
his umbrella in the corner, deposited the new silk hat that was a
little too big for him on the table, blew copiously and produced a
second cigar.

It came into my head that he had shrunken very much in size since the
Wimblehurst days, that the cannon ball he had swallowed was rather more
evident and shameless than it had been, his skin less fresh and the
nose between his glasses, which still didn’t quite fit, much redder.
And just then he seemed much laxer in his muscles and not quite as
alertly quick in his movements. But he evidently wasn’t aware of the
degenerative nature of his changes as he sat there, looking suddenly
quite little under my eyes.

“Well, George!” he said, quite happily unconscious of my silent
criticism, “what do you think of it all?”

“Well,” I said, “in the first place—it’s a damned swindle!”

“Tut! tut!” said my uncle. “It’s as straight as—It’s fair trading!”

“So much the worse for trading,” I said.

“It’s the sort of thing everybody does. After all, there’s no harm in
the stuff—and it may do good. It might do a lot of good—giving people
confidence, f’rinstance, against an epidemic. See? Why not? don’t see
where your swindle comes in.”

“H’m,” I said. “It’s a thing you either see or don’t see.”

“I’d like to know what sort of trading isn’t a swindle in its way.
Everybody who does a large advertised trade is selling something common
on the strength of saying it’s uncommon. Look at Chickson—they made him
a baronet. Look at Lord Radmore, who did it on lying about the alkali
in soap! Rippin’ ads those were of his too!”

“You don’t mean to say you think doing this stuff up in bottles and
swearing it’s the quintessence of strength and making poor devils buy
it at that, is straight?”

“Why not, George? How do we know it mayn’t be the quintessence to them
so far as they’re concerned?”

“Oh!” I said, and shrugged my shoulders.

“There’s Faith. You put Faith in ’em.... I grant our labels are a bit
emphatic. Christian Science, really. No good setting people against the
medicine. Tell me a solitary trade nowadays that hasn’t to be—emphatic.
It’s the modern way! Everybody understands it—everybody allows for it.”

“But the world would be no worse and rather better, if all this stuff
of yours was run down a conduit into the Thames.”

“Don’t see that, George, at all. ’Mong other things, all our people
would be out of work. Unemployed! I grant you Tono-Bungay _may_ be—not
_quite_ so good a find for the world as Peruvian bark, but the point
is, George—it _makes trade!_ And the world lives on trade. Commerce! A
romantic exchange of commodities and property. Romance. ’Magination.
See? You must look at these things in a broad light. Look at the
wood—and forget the trees! And hang it, George! we got to do these
things! There’s no way unless you do. What do _you_ mean to do—anyhow?”

“There’s ways of living,” I said, “Without either fraud or lying.”

“You’re a bit stiff, George. There’s no fraud in this affair, I’ll bet
my hat. But what do you propose to do? Go as chemist to some one who
_is_ running a business, and draw a salary without a share like I offer
you. Much sense in that! It comes out of the swindle as you call
it—just the same.”

“Some businesses are straight and quiet, anyhow; supply a sound article
that is really needed, don’t shout advertisements.”

“No, George. There you’re behind the times. The last of that sort was
sold up ‘bout five years ago.”

“Well, there’s scientific research.”

“And who pays for that? Who put up that big City and Guilds place at
South Kensington? Enterprising business men! They fancy they’ll have a
bit of science going on, they want a handy Expert ever and again, and
there you are! And what do you get for research when you’ve done it?
Just a bare living and no outlook. They just keep you to make
discoveries, and if they fancy they’ll use ’em they do.”

“One can teach.”

“How much a year, George? How much a year? I suppose you must respect
Carlyle! Well, you take Carlyle’s test—solvency. (Lord! what a book
that French Revolution of his is!) See what the world pays teachers and
discoverers and what it pays business men! That shows the ones it
really wants. There’s a justice in these big things, George, over and
above the apparent injustice. I tell you it wants trade. It’s Trade
that makes the world go round! Argosies! Venice! Empire!”

My uncle suddenly rose to his feet.

“You think it over, George. You think it over! And come up on Sunday to
the new place—we got rooms in Gower Street now—and see your aunt. She’s
often asked for you, George often and often, and thrown it up at me
about that bit of property—though I’ve always said and always will,
that twenty-five shillings in the pound is what I’ll pay you and
interest up to the nail. And think it over. It isn’t me I ask you to
help. It’s yourself. It’s your aunt Susan. It’s the whole concern. It’s
the commerce of your country. And we want you badly. I tell you
straight, I know my limitations. You could take this place, you could
make it go! I can see you at it—looking rather sour. Woosh is the word,
George.”

And he smiled endearingly.

“I got to dictate a letter,” he said, ending the smile, and vanished
into the outer room.

III

I didn’t succumb without a struggle to my uncle’s allurements. Indeed,
I held out for a week while I contemplated life and my prospects. It
was a crowded and muddled contemplation. It invaded even my sleep.

My interview with the Registrar, my talk with my uncle, my abrupt
discovery of the hopeless futility of my passion for Marion, had
combined to bring me to sense of crisis. What was I going to do with
life?

I remember certain phases of my indecisions very well.

I remember going home from our talk. I went down Farringdon Street to
the Embankment because I thought to go home by Holborn and Oxford
Street would be too crowded for thinking.... That piece of Embankment
from Blackfriars to Westminster still reminds me of that momentous
hesitation.

You know, from first to last, I saw the business with my eyes open, I
saw its ethical and moral values quite clearly. Never for a moment do I
remember myself faltering from my persuasion that the sale of
Tono-Bungay was a thoroughly dishonest proceeding. The stuff was, I
perceived, a mischievous trash, slightly stimulating, aromatic and
attractive, likely to become a bad habit and train people in the
habitual use of stronger tonics and insidiously dangerous to people
with defective kidneys. It would cost about sevenpence the large bottle
to make, including bottling, and we were to sell it at half a crown
plus the cost of the patent medicine stamp. A thing that I will confess
deterred me from the outset far more than the sense of dishonesty in
this affair, was the supreme silliness of the whole concern. I still
clung to the idea that the world of men was or should be a sane and
just organisation, and the idea that I should set myself gravely, just
at the fine springtime of my life, to developing a monstrous bottling
and packing warehouse, bottling rubbish for the consumption of foolish,
credulous and depressed people, had in it a touch of insanity. My early
beliefs still clung to me. I felt assured that somewhere there must be
a hitch in the fine prospect of ease and wealth under such conditions;
that somewhere, a little overgrown, perhaps, but still traceable, lay a
neglected, wasted path of use and honour for me.

My inclination to refuse the whole thing increased rather than
diminished at first as I went along the Embankment. In my uncle’s
presence there had been a sort of glamour that had prevented an
outright refusal. It was a revival of affection for him I felt in his
presence, I think, in part, and in part an instinctive feeling that I
must consider him as my host. But much more was it a curious persuasion
he had the knack of inspiring—a persuasion not so much of his integrity
and capacity as of the reciprocal and yielding foolishness of the
world. One felt that he was silly and wild, but in some way silly and
wild after the fashion of the universe. After all, one must live
somehow. I astonished him and myself by temporising.

“No,” said I, “I’ll think it over!”

And as I went along the embankment the first effect was all against my
uncle. He shrank—for a little while he continued to shrink—in
perspective until he was only a very small shabby little man in a dirty
back street, sending off a few hundred bottles of rubbish to foolish
buyers. The great buildings on the right of us, the Inns and the School
Board place—as it was then—Somerset House, the big hotels, the great
bridges, Westminster’s outlines ahead, had an effect of grey largeness
that reduced him to the proportions of a busy black beetle in a crack
in the floor.

And then my eye caught the advertisements on the south side of
“Sorber’s Food,” of “Cracknell’s Ferric Wine,” very bright and
prosperous signs, illuminated at night, and I realised how
astonishingly they looked at home there, how evidently part they were
in the whole thing.

I saw a man come charging out of Palace Yard—the policeman touched his
helmet to him—with a hat and a bearing astonishingly like my uncle’s.
After all,—didn’t Cracknell himself sit in the House?

Tono-Bungay shouted at me from a hoarding near Adelphi Terrace; I saw
it afar off near Carfax Street; it cried out again upon me in
Kensington High Street, and burst into a perfect clamour; six or seven
times I saw it as I drew near my diggings. It certainly had an air of
being something more than a dream.

Yes, I thought it over—thoroughly enough.... Trade rules the world.
Wealth rather than trade! The thing was true, and true too was my
uncle’s proposition that the quickest way to get wealth is to sell the
cheapest thing possible in the dearest bottle. He was frightfully right
after all. _Pecunia non olet_,—a Roman emperor said that. Perhaps my
great heroes in Plutarch were no more than such men, fine now only
because they are distant; perhaps after all this Socialism to which I
had been drawn was only a foolish dream, only the more foolish because
all its promises were conditionally true. Morris and these others
played with it wittingly; it gave a zest, a touch of substance, to
their aesthetic pleasures. Never would there be good faith enough to
bring such things about. They knew it; every one, except a few young
fools, knew it. As I crossed the corner of St. James’s Park wrapped in
thought, I dodged back just in time to escape a prancing pair of greys.
A stout, common-looking woman, very magnificently dressed, regarded me
from the carriage with a scornful eye. “No doubt,” thought I, “a
pill-vendor’s wife....”

Running through all my thoughts, surging out like a refrain, was my
uncle’s master-stroke, his admirable touch of praise: “Make it all
slick—and then make it go Woosh. I know you can! Oh! I _know_ you can!”

IV

Ewart as a moral influence was unsatisfactory. I had made up my mind to
put the whole thing before him, partly to see how he took it, and
partly to hear how it sounded when it was said. I asked him to come and
eat with me in an Italian place near Panton Street where one could get
a curious, interesting, glutting sort of dinner for eighteen-pence. He
came with a disconcerting black-eye that he wouldn’t explain. “Not so
much a black-eye,” he said, “as the aftermath of a purple patch....
What’s your difficulty?”

“I’ll tell you with the salad,” I said.

But as a matter of fact I didn’t tell him. I threw out that I was
doubtful whether I ought to go into trade, or stick to teaching in view
of my deepening socialist proclivities; and he, warming with the
unaccustomed generosity of a sixteen-penny Chianti, ran on from that
without any further inquiry as to my trouble.

His utterances roved wide and loose.

“The reality of life, my dear Ponderevo,” I remember him saying very
impressively and punctuating with the nut-crackers as he spoke, “is
Chromatic Conflict ... and Form. Get hold of that and let all these
other questions go. The Socialist will tell you one sort of colour and
shape is right, the Individualist another. What does it all amount to?
What _does_ it all amount to? _Nothing!_ I have no advice to give
anyone,—except to avoid regrets. Be yourself, seek after such beautiful
things as your own sense determines to be beautiful. And don’t mind the
headache in the morning.... For what, after all, is a morning,
Ponderevo? It isn’t like the upper part of a day!”

He paused impressively.

“What Rot!” I cried, after a confused attempt to apprehend him.

“Isn’t it! And it’s my bedrock wisdom in the matter! Take it or leave
it, my dear George; take it or leave it.”... He put down the
nut-crackers out of my reach and lugged a greasy-looking note-book from
his pocket. “I’m going to steal this mustard pot,” he said.

I made noises of remonstrance.

“Only as a matter of design. I’ve got to do an old beast’s tomb.

“Wholesale grocer. I’ll put it on his corners,—four mustard pots. I
dare say he’d be glad of a mustard plaster now to cool him, poor devil,
where he is. But anyhow,—here goes!”

V

It came to me in the small hours that the real moral touchstone for
this great doubting of mind was Marion. I lay composing statements of
my problem and imagined myself delivering them to her—and she,
goddess-like and beautiful; giving her fine, simply-worded judgment.

“You see, it’s just to give one’s self over to the Capitalistic
System,” I imagined myself saying in good Socialist jargon; “it’s
surrendering all one’s beliefs. We _may_ succeed, we _may_ grow rich,
but where would the satisfaction be?”

Then she would say, “No! That wouldn’t be right.”

“But the alternative is to wait!”

Then suddenly she would become a goddess. She would turn upon me
frankly and nobly, with shining eyes, with arms held out. “No,” she
would say, “we love one another. Nothing ignoble shall ever touch us.
We love one another. Why wait to tell each other that, dear? What does
it matter that we are poor and may keep poor?”

But indeed the conversation didn’t go at all in that direction. At the
sight of her my nocturnal eloquence became preposterous and all the
moral values altered altogether. I had waited for her outside the door
of the Parsian-robe establishment in Kensington High Street and walked
home with her thence. I remember how she emerged into the warm evening
light and that she wore a brown straw hat that made her, for once not
only beautiful but pretty.

“I like that hat,” I said by way of opening; and she smiled her rare
delightful smile at me.

“I love you,” I said in an undertone, as we jostled closer on the
pavement.

She shook her head forbiddingly, but she still smiled. Then—“Be
sensible!”

The High Street pavement is too narrow and crowded for conversation and
we were some way westward before we spoke again.

“Look here,” I said; “I want you, Marion. Don’t you understand? I want
you.”

“Now!” she cried warningly.

I do not know if the reader will understand how a passionate lover, an
immense admiration and desire, can be shot with a gleam of positive
hatred. Such a gleam there was in me at the serene self-complacency of
that “_Now!_” It vanished almost before I felt it. I found no warning
in it of the antagonisms latent between us.

“Marion,” I said, “this isn’t a trifling matter to me. I love you; I
would die to get you.... Don’t you care?”

“But what is the good?”

“You don’t care,” I cried. “You don’t care a rap!”

“You know I care,” she answered. “If I didn’t—If I didn’t like you very
much, should I let you come and meet me—go about with you?”

“Well then,” I said, “promise to marry me!”

“If I do, what difference will it make?”

We were separated by two men carrying a ladder who drove between us
unawares.

“Marion,” I asked when we got together again, “I tell you I want you to
marry me.”

“We can’t.”

“Why not?”

“We can’t marry—in the street.”

“We could take our chance!”

“I wish you wouldn’t go on talking like this. What is the good?”

She suddenly gave way to gloom. “It’s no good marrying” she said.
“One’s only miserable. I’ve seen other girls. When one’s alone one has
a little pocket-money anyhow, one can go about a little. But think of
being married and no money, and perhaps children—you can’t be sure....”

She poured out this concentrated philosophy of her class and type in
jerky uncompleted sentences, with knitted brows, with discontented eyes
towards the westward glow—forgetful, it seemed, for a moment even of
me.

“Look here, Marion,” I said abruptly, “what would you marry on?”

“What _is_ the good?” she began.

“Would you marry on three hundred a year?”

She looked at me for a moment. “That’s six pounds a week,” she said.
“One could manage on that, easily. Smithie’s brother—No, he only gets
two hundred and fifty. He married a typewriting girl.”

“Will you marry me if I get three hundred a year?”

She looked at me again, with a curious gleam of hope.

“_If!_” she said.

I held out my hand and looked her in the eyes. “It’s a bargain,” I
said.

She hesitated and touched my hand for an instant. “It’s silly,” she
remarked as she did so. “It means really we’re—” She paused.

“Yes?” said I.

“Engaged. You’ll have to wait years. What good can it do you?”

“Not so many years.” I answered.

For a moment she brooded.

Then she glanced at me with a smile, half-sweet, half-wistful, that has
stuck in my memory for ever.

“I like you!” she said. “I shall like to be engaged to you.”

And, faint on the threshold of hearing, I caught her ventured “dear!”
It’s odd that in writing this down my memory passed over all that
intervened and I feel it all again, and once again I’m Marion’s boyish
lover taking great joy in such rare and little things.

VI

At last I went to the address my uncle had given me in Gower Street,
and found my aunt Susan waiting tea for him.

Directly I came into the room I appreciated the change in outlook that
the achievement of Tono-Bungay had made almost as vividly as when I saw
my uncle’s new hat. The furniture of the room struck upon my eye as
almost stately. The chairs and sofa were covered with chintz which gave
it a dim, remote flavour of Bladesover; the mantel, the cornice, the
gas pendant were larger and finer than the sort of thing I had grown
accustomed to in London. And I was shown in by a real housemaid with
real tails to her cap, and great quantities of reddish hair. There was
my aunt too looking bright and pretty, in a blue-patterned tea-wrap
with bows that seemed to me the quintessence of fashion. She was
sitting in a chair by the open window with quite a pile of
yellow-labelled books on the occasional table beside her. Before the
large, paper-decorated fireplace stood a three-tiered cake-stand
displaying assorted cakes, and a tray with all the tea equipage except
the teapot, was on the large centre-table. The carpet was thick, and a
spice of adventure was given it by a number of dyed sheep-skin mats.

“Hel-_lo!_” said my aunt as I appeared. “It’s George!”

“Shall I serve the tea now, Mem?” said the real housemaid, surveying
our greeting coldly.

“Not till Mr. Ponderevo comes, Meggie,” said my aunt, and grimaced with
extraordinary swiftness and virulence as the housemaid turned her back.

“Meggie she calls herself,” said my aunt as the door closed, and left
me to infer a certain want of sympathy.

“You’re looking very jolly, aunt,” said I.

“What do you think of all this old Business he’s got?” asked my aunt.

“Seems a promising thing,” I said.

“I suppose there is a business somewhere?”

“Haven’t you seen it?”

“‘Fraid I’d say something AT it George, if I did. So he won’t let me.
It came on quite suddenly. Brooding he was and writing letters and
sizzling something awful—like a chestnut going to pop. Then he came
home one day saying Tono-Bungay till I thought he was clean off his
onion, and singing—what was it?”

“‘I’m afloat, I’m afloat,’” I guessed.

“The very thing. You’ve heard him. And saying our fortunes were made.
Took me out to the Ho’burm Restaurant, George,—dinner, and we had
champagne, stuff that blows up the back of your nose and makes you go
_So_, and he said at last he’d got things worthy of me—and we moved
here next day. It’s a swell house, George. Three pounds a week for the
rooms. And he says the Business’ll stand it.”

She looked at me doubtfully.

“Either do that or smash,” I said profoundly.

We discussed the question for a moment mutely with our eyes. My aunt
slapped the pile of books from Mudie’s.

“I’ve been having such a Go of reading, George. You never did!”

“What do you think of the business?” I asked.

“Well, they’ve let him have money,” she said, and thought and raised
her eyebrows.

“It’s been a time,” she went on. “The flapping about! Me sitting doing
nothing and him on the go like a rocket. He’s done wonders. But he
wants you, George—he wants you. Sometimes he’s full of hope—talks of
when we’re going to have a carriage and be in society—makes it seem so
natural and topsy-turvy, I hardly know whether my old heels aren’t up
here listening to him, and my old head on the floor.... Then he gets
depressed. Says he wants restraint. Says he can make a splash but can’t
keep on. Says if you don’t come in everything will smash—But you are
coming in?”

She paused and looked at me.

“Well—”

“You don’t say you won’t come in!”

“But look here, aunt,” I said, “do you understand quite?... It’s a
quack medicine. It’s trash.”

“There’s no law against selling quack medicine that I know of,” said my
aunt. She thought for a minute and became unusually grave. “It’s our
only chance, George,” she said. “If it doesn’t go...”

There came the slamming of a door, and a loud bellowing from the next
apartment through the folding doors. “Here-er Shee _Rulk_ lies _Poo_
Tom Bo—oling.”

“Silly old Concertina! Hark at him, George!” She raised her voice.
“Don’t sing that, you old Walrus, you! Sing ‘I’m afloat!’”

One leaf of the folding doors opened and my uncle appeared.

“Hullo, George! Come along at last? Gossome tea-cake, Susan?”

“Thought it over George?” he said abruptly.

“Yes,” said I.

“Coming in?”

I paused for a last moment and nodded yes.

“Ah!” he cried. “Why couldn’t you say that a week ago?”

“I’ve had false ideas about the world,” I said. “Oh! they don’t matter
now! Yes, I’ll come, I’ll take my chance with you, I won’t hesitate
again.”

And I didn’t. I stuck to that resolution for seven long years.




CHAPTER THE THIRD
HOW WE MADE TONO-BUNGAY HUM


I

So I made my peace with my uncle, and we set out upon this bright
enterprise of selling slightly injurious rubbish at
one-and-three-halfpence and two-and-nine a bottle, including the
Government stamp. We made Tono-Bungay hum! It brought us wealth,
influence, respect, the confidence of endless people. All that my uncle
promised me proved truth and understatement; Tono-Bungay carried me to
freedoms and powers that no life of scientific research, no passionate
service of humanity could ever have given me....

It was my uncle’s genius that did it. No doubt he needed me,—I was, I
will admit, his indispensable right hand; but his was the brain to
conceive. He wrote every advertisement; some of them even he sketched.
You must remember that his were the days before the Time took to
enterprise and the vociferous hawking of that antiquated
_Encyclopædia_. That alluring, button-holing,
let-me-just-tell-you-quite-soberly-something-you-ought-to-know style of
newspaper advertisement, with every now and then a convulsive jump of
some attractive phrase into capitals, was then almost a novelty. “Many
people who are MODERATELY well think they are QUITE well,” was one of
his early efforts. The jerks in capitals were, “DO NOT NEED DRUGS OR
MEDICINE,” and “SIMPLY A PROPER REGIMEN TO GET YOU IN TONE.” One was
warned against the chemist or druggist who pushed “much-advertised
nostrums” on one’s attention. That trash did more harm than good. The
thing needed was regimen—and Tono-Bungay!

Very early, too, was that bright little quarter column, at least it was
usually a quarter column in the evening papers: “HILARITY—Tono-Bungay.
Like Mountain Air in the Veins.” The penetrating trio of questions:
“Are you bored with your Business? Are you bored with your Dinner. Are
you bored with your Wife?”—that, too, was in our Gower Street days.
Both these we had in our first campaign when we worked London south
central, and west; and then, too, we had our first poster—the HEALTH,
BEAUTY, AND STRENGTH one. That was his design; I happen still to have
got by me the first sketch he made for it. I have reproduced it here
with one or two others to enable the reader to understand the mental
quality that initiated these familiar ornaments of London.

(The second one is about eighteen months later, the germ of the
well-known “Fog” poster; the third was designed for an influenza
epidemic, but never issued.)

These things were only incidental in my department. I had to polish
them up for the artist and arrange the business of printing and
distribution, and after my uncle had had a violent and needless quarrel
with the advertising manager of the _Daily Regulator_ about the amount
of display given to one of his happy thoughts, I also took up the
negotiations of advertisements for the press.

We discussed and worked out distribution together first in the
drawing-room floor in Gower Street with my aunt sometimes helping very
shrewdly, and then, with a steadily improving type of cigar and older
and older whisky, in his smuggery at their first house, the one in
Beckenham. Often we worked far into the night sometimes until dawn.

We really worked infernally hard, and, I recall, we worked with a very
decided enthusiasm, not simply on my uncle’s part but mine, It was a
game, an absurd but absurdly interesting game, and the points were
scored in cases of bottles. People think a happy notion is enough to
make a man rich, that fortunes can be made without toil. It’s a dream,
as every millionaire (except one or two lucky gamblers) can testify; I
doubt if J.D. Rockefeller in the early days of Standard Oil, worked
harder than we did. We worked far into the night—and we also worked all
day. We made a rule to be always dropping in at the factory unannounced
to keep things right—for at first we could afford no properly
responsible underlings—and we traveled London, pretending to be our own
representatives and making all sorts of special arrangements.

But none of this was my special work, and as soon as we could get other
men in, I dropped the traveling, though my uncle found it particularly
interesting and kept it up for years. “Does me good, George, to see the
chaps behind their counters like I was once,” he explained. My special
and distinctive duty was to give Tono-Bungay substance and an outward
and visible bottle, to translate my uncle’s great imaginings into the
creation of case after case of labelled bottles of nonsense, and the
punctual discharge of them by railway, road and steamer towards their
ultimate goal in the Great Stomach of the People. By all modern
standards the business was, as my uncle would say, “absolutely _bonâ
fide_.” We sold our stuff and got the money, and spent the money
honestly in lies and clamour to sell more stuff. Section by section we
spread it over the whole of the British Isles; first working the
middle-class London suburbs, then the outer suburbs, then the home
counties, then going (with new bills and a more pious style of “ad”)
into Wales, a great field always for a new patent-medicine, and then
into Lancashire.

My uncle had in his inner office a big map of England, and as we took
up fresh sections of the local press and our consignments invaded new
areas, flags for advertisements and pink underlines for orders showed
our progress.

“The romance of modern commerce, George!” my uncle would say, rubbing
his hands together and drawing in air through his teeth. “The romance
of modern commerce, eh? Conquest. Province by province. Like sogers.”

We subjugated England and Wales; we rolled over the Cheviots with a
special adaptation containing eleven per cent. of absolute alcohol;
“Tono-Bungay: Thistle Brand.” We also had the Fog poster adapted to a
kilted Briton in a misty Highland scene.

Under the shadow of our great leading line we were presently taking
subsidiary specialties into action; “Tono-Bungay Hair Stimulant” was
our first supplement. Then came “Concentrated Tono-Bungay” for the
eyes. That didn’t go, but we had a considerable success with the Hair
Stimulant. We broached the subject, I remember, in a little catechism
beginning: “Why does the hair fall out? Because the follicles are
fagged. What are the follicles?...” So it went on to the climax that
the Hair Stimulant contained all “The essential principles of that most
reviving tonic, Tono-Bungay, together with an emollient and nutritious
oil derived from crude Neat’s Foot Oil by a process of refinement,
separation and deodorization.... It will be manifest to any one of
scientific attainments that in Neat’s Foot Oil derived from the hoofs
and horns of beasts, we must necessarily have a natural skin and hair
lubricant.”

And we also did admirable things with our next subsidiaries,
“Tono-Bungay Lozenges,” and “Tono-Bungay Chocolate.” These we urged
upon the public for their extraordinary nutritive and recuperative
value in cases of fatigue and strain. We gave them posters and
illustrated advertisements showing climbers hanging from marvelously
vertical cliffs, cyclist champions upon the track, mounted messengers
engaged in Aix-to-Ghent rides, soldiers lying out in action under a hot
sun. “You can GO for twenty-four hours,” we declared, “on Tono-Bungay
Chocolate.” We didn’t say whether you could return on the same
commodity. We also showed a dreadfully barristerish barrister, wig,
side-whiskers, teeth, a horribly life-like portrait of all existing
barristers, talking at a table, and beneath, this legend: “A Four
Hours’ Speech on Tono-Bungay Lozenges, and as fresh as when he began.”
Then brought in regiments of school-teachers, revivalist ministers,
politicians and the like. I really do believe there was an element of
“kick” in the strychnine in these lozenges, especially in those made
according to our earlier formula. For we altered all our
formulae—invariably weakening them enormously as sales got ahead.

In a little while—so it seems to me now—we were employing travelers and
opening up Great Britain at the rate of a hundred square miles a day.
All the organisation throughout was sketched in a crude, entangled,
half-inspired fashion by my uncle, and all of it had to be worked out
into a practicable scheme of quantities and expenditure by me. We had a
lot of trouble finding our travelers; in the end at least half of them
were Irish-Americans, a wonderful breed for selling medicine. We had
still more trouble over our factory manager, because of the secrets of
the inner room, and in the end we got a very capable woman, Mrs.
Hampton Diggs, who had formerly managed a large millinery workroom,
whom we could trust to keep everything in good working order without
finding out anything that wasn’t put exactly under her loyal and
energetic nose. She conceived a high opinion of Tono-Bungay and took it
in all forms and large quantities so long as I knew her. It didn’t seem
to do her any harm. And she kept the girls going quite wonderfully.

My uncle’s last addition to the Tono-Bungay group was the Tono-Bungay
Mouthwash. The reader has probably read a hundred times that inspiring
inquiry of his, “You are Young Yet, but are you Sure Nothing has Aged
your Gums?”

And after that we took over the agency for three or four good American
lines that worked in with our own, and could be handled with it; Texan
Embrocation, and “23—to clear the system” were the chief....

I set down these bare facts. To me they are all linked with the figure
of my uncle. In some of the old seventeenth and early eighteenth
century prayerbooks at Bladesover there used to be illustrations with
long scrolls coming out of the mouths of the wood-cut figures. I wish I
could write all this last chapter on a scroll coming out of the head of
my uncle, show it all the time as unfolding and pouring out from a
short, fattening, small-legged man with stiff cropped hair, disobedient
glasses on a perky little nose, and a round stare behind them. I wish I
could show you him breathing hard and a little through his nose as his
pen scrabbled out some absurd inspiration for a poster or a picture
page, and make you hear his voice, charged with solemn import like the
voice of a squeaky prophet, saying, “George! list’n! I got an ideer. I
got a notion! George!”

I should put myself into the same picture. Best setting for us, I
think, would be the Beckenham snuggery, because there we worked
hardest. It would be the lamplit room of the early nineties, and the
clock upon the mantel would indicate midnight or later. We would be
sitting on either side of the fire, I with a pipe, my uncle with a
cigar or cigarette. There would be glasses standing inside the brass
fender. Our expressions would be very grave. My uncle used to sit right
back in his armchair; his toes always turned in when he was sitting
down and his legs had a way of looking curved, as though they hadn’t
bones or joints but were stuffed with sawdust.

“George, whad’yer think of T.B. for sea-sickness?” he would say.

“No good that I can imagine.”

“Oom! No harm _trying_, George. We can but try.”

I would suck my pipe. “Hard to get at. Unless we sold our stuff
specially at the docks. Might do a special at Cook’s office, or in the
Continental Bradshaw.”

“It ’ud give ’em confidence, George.”

He would Zzzz, with his glasses reflecting the red of the glowing
coals.

“No good hiding our light under a Bushel,” he would remark.

I never really determined whether my uncle regarded Tono-Bungay as a
fraud, or whether he didn’t come to believe in it in a kind of way by
the mere reiteration of his own assertions. I think that his average
attitude was one of kindly, almost parental, toleration. I remember
saying on one occasion, “But you don’t suppose this stuff ever did a
human being the slightest good all?” and how his face assumed a look of
protest, as of one reproving harshness and dogmatism.

“You’ve a hard nature, George,” he said. “You’re too ready to run
things down. How can one _tell?_ How can one venture to _tell?_...”

I suppose any creative and developing game would have interested me in
those years. At any rate, I know I put as much zeal into this
Tono-Bungay as any young lieutenant could have done who suddenly found
himself in command of a ship. It was extraordinarily interesting to me
to figure out the advantage accruing from this shortening of the
process or that, and to weigh it against the capital cost of the
alteration. I made a sort of machine for sticking on the labels, that I
patented; to this day there is a little trickle of royalties to me from
that. I also contrived to have our mixture made concentrated, got the
bottles, which all came sliding down a guarded slant-way, nearly filled
with distilled water at one tap, and dripped our magic ingredients in
at the next. This was an immense economy of space for the inner
sanctum. For the bottling we needed special taps, and these, too, I
invented and patented.

We had a sort of endless band of bottles sliding along an inclined
glass trough made slippery with running water. At one end a girl held
them up to the light, put aside any that were imperfect and placed the
others in the trough; the filling was automatic; at the other end a
girl slipped in the cork and drove it home with a little mallet. Each
tank, the little one for the vivifying ingredients and the big one for
distilled water, had a level indicator, and inside I had a float
arrangement that stopped the slide whenever either had sunk too low.
Another girl stood ready with my machine to label the corked bottles
and hand them to the three packers, who slipped them into their outer
papers and put them, with a pad of corrugated paper between each pair,
into a little groove from which they could be made to slide neatly into
position in our standard packing-case. It sounds wild, I know, but I
believe I was the first man in the city of London to pack patent
medicines through the side of the packing-case, to discover there was a
better way in than by the lid. Our cases packed themselves,
practically; had only to be put into position on a little wheeled tray
and when full pulled to the lift that dropped them to the men
downstairs, who padded up the free space and nailed on top and side.
Our girls, moreover, packed with corrugated paper and matchbook-wood
box partitions when everybody else was using expensive young men to
pack through the top of the box with straw, many breakages and much
waste and confusion.

II

As I look back at them now, those energetic years seem all compacted to
a year or so; from the days of our first hazardous beginning in
Farringdon Street with barely a thousand pounds’ worth of stuff or
credit all told—and that got by something perilously like snatching—to
the days when my uncle went to the public on behalf of himself and me
(one-tenth share) and our silent partners, the drug wholesalers and the
printing people and the owner of that group of magazines and
newspapers, to ask with honest confidence for £150,000. Those silent
partners were remarkably sorry, I know, that they had not taken larger
shares and given us longer credit when the subscriptions came pouring
in. My uncle had a clear half to play with (including the one-tenth
understood to be mine).

£150,000—think of it!—for the goodwill in a string of lies and a trade
in bottles of mitigated water! Do you realise the madness of the world
that sanctions such a thing? Perhaps you don’t. At times use and wont
certainly blinded me. If it had not been for Ewart, I don’t think I
should have had an inkling of the wonderfulness of this development of
my fortunes; I should have grown accustomed to it, fallen in with all
its delusions as completely as my uncle presently did. He was immensely
proud of the flotation. “They’ve never been given such value,” he said,
“for a dozen years.” But Ewart, with his gesticulating hairy hands and
bony wrists, his single-handed chorus to all this as it played itself
over again in my memory, and he kept my fundamental absurdity
illuminated for me during all this astonishing time.

“It’s just on all fours with the rest of things,” he remarked; “only
more so. You needn’t think you’re anything out of the way.”

I remember one disquisition very distinctly. It was just after Ewart
had been to Paris on a mysterious expedition to “rough in” some work
for a rising American sculptor. This young man had a commission for an
allegorical figure of Truth (draped, of course) for his State Capitol,
and he needed help. Ewart had returned with his hair cut _en brosse_
and with his costume completely translated into French. He wore, I
remember, a bicycling suit of purplish-brown, baggy beyond ageing—the
only creditable thing about it was that it had evidently not been made
for him—a voluminous black tie, a decadent soft felt hat and several
French expletives of a sinister description. “Silly clothes, aren’t
they?” he said at the sight of my startled eye. “I don’t know why I
got’m. They seemed all right over there.”

He had come down to our Raggett Street place to discuss a benevolent
project of mine for a poster by him, and he scattered remarkable
discourse over the heads (I hope it was over the heads) of our
bottlers.

“What I like about it all, Ponderevo, is its poetry.... That’s where we
get the pull of the animals. No animal would ever run a factory like
this. Think!... One remembers the Beaver, of course. He might very
possibly bottle things, but would he stick a label round ’em and sell
’em? The Beaver is a dreamy fool, I’ll admit, him and his dams, but
after all there’s a sort of protection about ’em, a kind of muddy
practicality! They prevent things getting at him. And it’s not your
poetry only. It’s the poetry of the customer too. Poet answering to
poet—soul to soul. Health, Strength and Beauty—in a bottle—the magic
philtre! Like a fairy tale....

“Think of the people to whom your bottles of footle go! (I’m calling it
footle, Ponderevo, out of praise,” he said in parenthesis.)

“Think of the little clerks and jaded women and overworked people.
People overstrained with wanting to do, people overstrained with
wanting to be.... People, in fact, overstrained.... The real trouble of
life, Ponderevo, isn’t that we exist—that’s a vulgar error; the real
trouble is that we _don’t_ really exist and we want to. That’s what
this—in the highest sense—just stands for! The hunger to be—for
once—really alive—to the finger tips!...

“Nobody wants to do and be the things people are—nobody. YOU don’t want
to preside over this—this bottling; I don’t want to wear these beastly
clothes and be led about by you; nobody wants to keep on sticking
labels on silly bottles at so many farthings a gross. That isn’t
existing! That’s—sus—_substratum_. None of us want to be what we are,
or to do what we do. Except as a sort of basis. What do we want? _You_
know. _I_ know. Nobody confesses. What we all want to be is something
perpetually young and beautiful—young Joves—young Joves, Ponderevo”—his
voice became loud, harsh and declamatory—“pursuing coy half-willing
nymphs through everlasting forests.”...

There was a just-perceptible listening hang in the work about us.

“Come downstairs,” I interrupted, “we can talk better there.”

“I can talk better here,” he answered.

He was just going on, but fortunately the implacable face of Mrs.
Hampton Diggs appeared down the aisle of bottling machines.

“All right,” he said, “I’ll come.”

In the little sanctum below, my uncle was taking a digestive pause
after his lunch and by no means alert. His presence sent Ewart back to
the theme of modern commerce, over the excellent cigar my uncle gave
him. He behaved with the elaborate deference due to a business magnate
from an unknown man.

“What I was pointing out to your nephew, sir,” said Ewart, putting both
elbows on the table, “was the poetry of commerce. He doesn’t, you know,
seem to see it at all.”

My uncle nodded brightly. “Whad I tell ’im,” he said round his cigar.

“We are artists. You and I, sir, can talk, if you will permit me, as
one artist to another. It’s advertisement has—done it. Advertisement
has revolutionised trade and industry; it is going to revolutionise the
world. The old merchant used to tote about commodities; the new one
creates values. Doesn’t need to tote. He takes something that isn’t
worth anything—or something that isn’t particularly worth anything—and
he makes it worth something. He takes mustard that is just like anybody
else’s mustard, and he goes about saying, shouting, singing, chalking
on walls, writing inside people’s books, putting it everywhere,
‘Smith’s Mustard is the Best.’ And behold it is the best!”

“True,” said my uncle, chubbily and with a dreamy sense of mysticism;
“true!”

“It’s just like an artist; he takes a lump of white marble on the verge
of a lime-kiln, he chips it about, he makes—he makes a monument to
himself—and others—a monument the world will not willingly let die.
Talking of mustard, sir, I was at Clapham Junction the other day, and
all the banks are overgrown with horse radish that’s got loose from a
garden somewhere. You know what horseradish is—grows like
wildfire—spreads—spreads. I stood at the end of the platform looking at
the stuff and thinking about it. ‘Like fame,’ I thought, ‘rank and wild
where it isn’t wanted. Why don’t the really good things in life grow
like horseradish?’ I thought. My mind went off in a peculiar way it
does from that to the idea that mustard costs a penny a tin—I bought
some the other day for a ham I had. It came into my head that it would
be ripping good business to use horseradish to adulterate mustard. I
had a sort of idea that I could plunge into business on that, get rich
and come back to my own proper monumental art again. And then I said,
‘But _why_ adulterate? I don’t like the idea of adulteration.’”

“Shabby,” said my uncle, nodding his head. “Bound to get found out!”

“And totally unnecessary, too! Why not do up a mixture—three-quarters
pounded horseradish and a quarter mustard—give it a fancy name—and sell
it at twice the mustard price. See? I very nearly started the business
straight away, only something happened. My train came along.”

“Jolly good ideer,” said my uncle. He looked at me. “That really is an
ideer, George,” he said.

“Take shavin’s, again! You know that poem of Longfellow’s, sir, that
sounds exactly like the first declension. What is it?—‘Marr’s a maker,
men say!’”

My uncle nodded and gurgled some quotation that died away.

“Jolly good poem, George,” he said in an aside to me.

“Well, it’s about a carpenter and a poetic Victorian child, you know,
and some shavin’s. The child made no end out of the shavin’s. So might
you. Powder ’em. They might be anything. Soak ’em in
jipper,—Xylo-tobacco! Powder’em and get a little tar and turpentinous
smell in,—wood-packing for hot baths—a Certain Cure for the scourge of
Influenza! There’s all these patent grain foods,—what Americans call
cereals. I believe I’m right, sir, in saying they’re sawdust.”

“No!” said my uncle, removing his cigar; “as far as I can find out it’s
really grain,—spoilt grain.... I’ve been going into that.”

“Well, there you are!” said Ewart. “Say it’s spoilt grain. It carried
out my case just as well. Your modern commerce is no more buying and
selling than sculpture. It’s mercy—it’s salvation. It’s rescue work! It
takes all sorts of fallen commodities by the hand and raises them. Cana
isn’t in it. You turn water—into Tono-Bungay.”

“Tono-Bungay’s all right,” said my uncle, suddenly grave. “We aren’t
talking of Tono-Bungay.”

“Your nephew, sir, is hard; he wants everything to go to a sort of
predestinated end; he’s a Calvinist of Commerce. Offer him a dustbin
full of stuff; he calls it refuse—passes by on the other side. Now
_you_, sir you’d make cinders respect themselves.”

My uncle regarded him dubiously for a moment. But there was a touch of
appreciation in his eye.

“Might make ’em into a sort of sanitary brick,” he reflected over his
cigar end.

“Or a friable biscuit. Why _not?_ You might advertise: ‘Why are Birds
so Bright? Because they digest their food perfectly! Why do they digest
their food so perfectly? Because they have a gizzard! Why hasn’t man a
gizzard? Because he can buy Ponderevo’s Asphalt Triturating, Friable
Biscuit—Which is Better.’”

He delivered the last words in a shout, with his hairy hand flourished
in the air....

“Damn clever fellow,” said my uncle, after he had one. “I know a man
when I see one. He’d do. But drunk, I should say. But that only makes
some chap brighter. If he WANTS to do that poster, he can. Zzzz. That
ideer of his about the horseradish. There’s something in that, George.
I’m going to think over that....”

I may say at once that my poster project came to nothing in the end,
though Ewart devoted an interesting week to the matter. He let his
unfortunate disposition to irony run away with him. He produced a
picture of two beavers with a subtle likeness, he said, to myself and
my uncle—the likeness to my uncle certainly wasn’t half bad—and they
were bottling rows and rows of Tono-Bungay, with the legend “Modern
commerce.” It certainly wouldn’t have sold a case, though he urged it
on me one cheerful evening on the ground that it would “arouse
curiosity.” In addition he produced a quite shocking study of my uncle,
excessively and needlessly nude, but, so far as I was able to judge, an
admirable likeness, engaged in feats of strength of a Gargantuan type
before an audience of deboshed and shattered ladies. The legend,
“Health, Beauty, Strength,” below, gave a needed point to his parody.
This he hung up in the studio over the oil shop, with a flap of brown
paper; by way of a curtain over it to accentuate its libellous offence.




CHAPTER THE FOURTH
MARION


I

As I look back on those days in which we built up the great Tono-Bungay
property out of human hope and credit for bottles and rent and
printing, I see my life as it were arranged in two parallel columns of
unequal width, a wider, more diffused, eventful and various one which
continually broadens out, the business side of my life, and a narrow,
darker and darkling one shot ever and again with a gleam of happiness,
my home-life with Marion. For, of course, I married Marion.

I didn’t, as a matter of fact, marry her until a year after Tono-Bungay
was thoroughly afloat, and then only after conflicts and discussions of
a quite strenuous sort. By that time I was twenty-four. It seems the
next thing to childhood now. We were both in certain directions
unusually ignorant and simple; we were temperamentally antagonistic,
and we hadn’t—I don’t think we were capable of—an idea in common. She
was young and extraordinarily conventional—she seemed never to have an
idea of her own but always the idea of her class—and I was young and
sceptical, enterprising and passionate; the two links that held us
together were the intense appeal her physical beauty had for me, and
her appreciation of her importance in my thoughts. There can be no
doubt of my passion for her. In her I had discovered woman desired. The
nights I have lain awake on account of her, writhing, biting my wrists
in a fever of longing! ...

I have told how I got myself a silk hat and black coat to please her on
Sunday—to the derision of some of my fellow-students who charged to
meet me, and how we became engaged. But that was only the beginning of
our difference. To her that meant the beginning of a not unpleasant
little secrecy, an occasional use of verbal endearments, perhaps even
kisses. It was something to go on indefinitely, interfering in no way
with her gossiping spells of work at Smithie’s. To me it was a pledge
to come together into the utmost intimacy of soul and body so soon as
we could contrive it....

I don’t know if it will strike the reader that I am setting out to
discuss the queer, unwise love relationship and my bungle of a marriage
with excessive solemnity. But to me it seems to reach out to vastly
wider issues than our little personal affair. I’ve thought over my
life. In these last few years I’ve tried to get at least a little
wisdom out of it. And in particular I’ve thought over this part of my
life. I’m enormously impressed by the ignorant, unguided way in which
we two entangled ourselves with each other. It seems to me the queerest
thing in all this network of misunderstandings and misstatements and
faulty and ramshackle conventions which makes up our social order as
the individual meets it, that we should have come together so
accidentally and so blindly. Because we were no more than samples of
the common fate. Love is not only the cardinal fact in the individual
life, but the most important concern of the community; after all, the
way in which the young people of this generation pair off determines
the fate of the nation; all the other affairs of the State are
subsidiary to that. And we leave it to flushed and blundering youth to
stumble on its own significance, with nothing to guide in but shocked
looks and sentimental twaddle and base whisperings and cant-smeared
examples.

I have tried to indicate something of my own sexual development in the
preceding chapter. Nobody was ever frank and decent with me in this
relation; nobody, no book, ever came and said to me thus and thus is
the world made, and so and so is necessary. Everything came obscurely,
indefinitely, perplexingly; and all I knew of law or convention in the
matter had the form of threatenings and prohibitions. Except through
the furtive, shameful talk of my coevals at Goudhurst and Wimblehurst,
I was not even warned against quite horrible dangers. My ideas were
made partly of instinct, partly of a romantic imagination, partly woven
out of a medley of scraps of suggestion that came to me haphazard. I
had read widely and confusedly “Vathek,” Shelley, Tom Paine, Plutarch,
Carlyle, Haeckel, William Morris, the Bible, the _Freethinker_, the
_Clarion_, “The Woman Who Did,”—I mention the ingredients that come
first to mind. All sorts of ideas were jumbled up in me and never a
lucid explanation. But it was evident to me that the world regarded
Shelley, for example, as a very heroic as well as beautiful person; and
that to defy convention and succumb magnificently to passion was the
proper thing to do to gain the respect and affection of all decent
people.

And the make-up of Marion’s mind in the matter was an equally
irrational affair. Her training had been one, not simply of silences,
but suppressions. An enormous force of suggestion had so shaped her
that the intense natural fastidiousness of girlhood had developed into
an absolute perversion of instinct. For all that is cardinal in this
essential business of life she had one inseparable epithet—“horrid.”
Without any such training she would have been a shy lover, but now she
was an impossible one. For the rest she had derived, I suppose, partly
from the sort of fiction she got from the Public Library, and partly
from the workroom talk at Smithie’s. So far as the former origin went,
she had an idea of love as a state of worship and service on the part
of the man and of condescension on the part of the woman. There was
nothing “horrid” about it in any fiction she had read. The man gave
presents, did services, sought to be in every way delightful. The woman
“went out” with him, smiled at him, was kissed by him in decorous
secrecy, and if he chanced to offend, denied her countenance and
presence. Usually she did something “for his good” to him, made him go
to church, made him give up smoking or gambling, smartened him up.
Quite at the end of the story came a marriage, and after that the
interest ceased.

That was the tenor of Marion’s fiction; but I think the work-table
conversation at Smithie’s did something to modify that. At Smithie’s it
was recognised, I think, that a “fellow” was a possession to be
desired; that it was better to be engaged to a fellow than not; that
fellows had to be kept—they might be mislaid, they might even be
stolen. There was a case of stealing at Smithie’s, and many tears.

Smithie I met before we were married, and afterwards she became a
frequent visitor to our house at Ealing. She was a thin, bright-eyed,
hawk-nosed girl of thirtyodd, with prominent teeth, a high-pitched,
eager voice and a disposition to be urgently smart in her dress. Her
hats were startling and various, but invariably disconcerting, and she
talked in a rapid, nervous flow that was hilarious rather than witty,
and broken by little screams of “Oh, my _dear!_” and “you never did!”
She was the first woman I ever met who used scent. Poor old Smithie!
What a harmless, kindly soul she really was, and how heartily I
detested her! Out of the profits on the Persian robes she supported a
sister’s family of three children, she “helped” a worthless brother,
and overflowed in help even to her workgirls, but that didn’t weigh
with me in those youthfully-narrow times. It was one of the intense
minor irritations of my married life that Smithie’s whirlwind chatter
seemed to me to have far more influence with Marion than anything I had
to say. Before all things I coveted her grip upon Marion’s inaccessible
mind.

In the workroom at Smithie’s, I gathered, they always spoke of me
demurely as “A Certain Person.” I was rumoured to be dreadfully
“clever,” and there were doubts—not altogether without justification—of
the sweetness of my temper.

II

Well, these general explanations will enable the reader to understand
the distressful times we two had together when presently I began to
feel on a footing with Marion and to fumble conversationally for the
mind and the wonderful passion I felt, obstinately and stupidity, must
be in her. I think she thought me the maddest of sane men; “clever,” in
fact, which at Smithie’s was, I suppose, the next thing to insanity, a
word intimating incomprehensible and incalculable motives.... She could
be shocked at anything, she misunderstood everything, and her weapon
was a sulky silence that knitted her brows, spoilt her mouth and robbed
her face of beauty. “Well, if we can’t agree, I don’t see why you
should go on talking,” she used to say. That would always enrage me
beyond measure. Or, “I’m afraid I’m not clever enough to understand
that.”

Silly little people! I see it all now, but then I was no older than she
and I couldn’t see anything but that Marion, for some inexplicable
reason, wouldn’t come alive.

We would contrive semi-surreptitious walks on Sunday, and part
speechless with the anger of indefinable offences. Poor Marion! The
things I tried to put before her, my fermenting ideas about theology,
about Socialism, about aesthetics—the very words appalled her, gave her
the faint chill of approaching impropriety, the terror of a very
present intellectual impossibility. Then by an enormous effort I would
suppress myself for a time and continue a talk that made her happy,
about Smithie’s brother, about the new girl who had come to the
workroom, about the house we would presently live in. But there we
differed a little. I wanted to be accessible to St. Paul’s or Cannon
Street Station, and she had set her mind quite resolutely upon
Ealing.... It wasn’t by any means quarreling all the time, you
understand. She liked me to play the lover “nicely”; she liked the
effect of going about—we had lunches, we went to Earl’s Court, to Kew,
to theatres and concerts, but not often to concerts, because, though
Marion “liked” music, she didn’t like “too much of it,” to picture
shows—and there was a nonsensical sort of babytalk I picked up—I forget
where now—that became a mighty peacemaker.

Her worst offence for me was an occasional excursion into the Smithie
style of dressing, debased West Kensington. For she had no sense at all
of her own beauty. She had no comprehension whatever of beauty of the
body, and she could slash her beautiful lines to rags with hat-brims
and trimmings. Thank Heaven! a natural refinement, a natural timidity,
and her extremely slender purse kept her from the real Smithie
efflorescence! Poor, simple, beautiful, kindly limited Marion! Now that
I am forty-five, I can look back at her with all my old admiration and
none of my old bitterness with a new affection and not a scrap of
passion, and take her part against the equally stupid,
drivingly-energetic, sensuous, intellectual sprawl I used to be. I was
a young beast for her to have married—a hound beast. With her it was my
business to understand and control—and I exacted fellowship,
passion....

We became engaged, as I have told; we broke it off and joined again. We
went through a succession of such phases. We had no sort of idea what
was wrong with us. Presently we were formally engaged. I had a
wonderful interview with her father, in which he was stupendously grave
and _h_—less, wanted to know about my origins and was tolerant
(exasperatingly tolerant) because my mother was a servant, and
afterwards her mother took to kissing me, and I bought a ring. But the
speechless aunt, I gathered, didn’t approve—having doubts of my
religiosity. Whenever we were estranged we could keep apart for days;
and to begin with, every such separation was a relief. And then I would
want her; a restless longing would come upon me. I would think of the
flow of her arms, of the soft, gracious bend of her body. I would lie
awake or dream of a transfigured Marion of light and fire. It was
indeed Dame Nature driving me on to womankind in her stupid, inexorable
way; but I thought it was the need of Marion that troubled me. So I
always went back to Marion at last and made it up and more or less
conceded or ignored whatever thing had parted us, and more and more I
urged her to marry me....

In the long run that became a fixed idea. It entangled my will and my
pride; I told myself I was not going to be beaten. I hardened to the
business. I think, as a matter of fact, my real passion for Marion had
waned enormously long before we were married, that she had lived it
down by sheer irresponsiveness. When I felt sure of my three hundred a
year she stipulated for delay, twelve months’ delay, “to see how things
would turn out.” There were times when she seemed simply an antagonist
holding out irritatingly against something I had to settle. Moreover, I
began to be greatly distracted by the interest and excitement of
Tono-Bungay’s success, by the change and movement in things, the going
to and fro. I would forget her for days together, and then desire her
with an irritating intensity at last, one Saturday afternoon, after a
brooding morning, I determined almost savagely that these delays must
end.

I went off to the little home at Walham Green, and made Marion come
with me to Putney Common. Marion wasn’t at home when I got there and I
had to fret for a time and talk to her father, who was just back from
his office, he explained, and enjoying himself in his own way in the
greenhouse.

“I’m going to ask your daughter to marry me!” I said. “I think we’ve
been waiting long enough.”

“I don’t approve of long engagements either,” said her father. “But
Marion will have her own way about it, anyhow. Seen this new powdered
fertiliser?”

I went in to talk to Mrs. Ramboat. “She’ll want time to get her
things,” said Mrs. Ramboat....

I and Marion sat down together on a little seat under some trees at the
top of Putney Hill, and I came to my point abruptly.

“Look here, Marion,” I said, “are you going to marry me or are you
not?”

She smiled at me. “Well,” she said, “we’re engaged—aren’t we?”

“That can’t go on for ever. Will you marry me next week?”

She looked me in the face. “We can’t,” she said.

“You promised to marry me when I had three hundred a year.”

She was silent for a space. “Can’t we go on for a time as we are? We
_could_ marry on three hundred a year. But it means a very little
house. There’s Smithie’s brother. They manage on two hundred and fifty,
but that’s very little. She says they have a semi-detached house almost
on the road, and hardly a bit of garden. And the wall to next-door is
so thin they hear everything. When her baby cries—they rap. And people
stand against the railings and talk.... Can’t we wait? You’re doing so
well.”

An extraordinary bitterness possessed me at this invasion of the
stupendous beautiful business of love by sordid necessity. I answered
her with immense restraint.

“If,” I said, “we could have a double-fronted, detached house—at
Ealing, say—with a square patch of lawn in front and a garden
behind—and—and a tiled bathroom.”

“That would be sixty pounds a year at least.”

“Which means five hundred a year.... Yes, well, you see, I told my
uncle I wanted that, and I’ve got it.”

“Got what?”

“Five hundred pounds a year.”

“Five hundred pounds!”

I burst into laughter that had more than a taste of bitterness.

“Yes,” I said, “really! and _now_ what do you think?”

“Yes,” she said, a little flushed; “but be sensible! Do you really mean
you’ve got a Rise, all at once, of two hundred a year?”

“To marry on—yes.”

She scrutinised me a moment. “You’ve done this as a surprise!” she
said, and laughed at my laughter. She had become radiant, and that made
me radiant, too.

“Yes,” I said, “yes,” and laughed no longer bitterly.

She clasped her hands and looked me in the eyes.

She was so pleased that I forgot absolutely my disgust of a moment
before. I forgot that she had raised her price two hundred pounds a
year and that I had bought her at that.

“Come!” I said, standing up; “let’s go towards the sunset, dear, and
talk about it all. Do you know—this is a most beautiful world, an
amazingly beautiful world, and when the sunset falls upon you it makes
you into shining gold. No, not gold—into golden glass.... Into
something better that either glass or gold.”...

And for all that evening I wooed her and kept her glad. She made me
repeat my assurances over again and still doubted a little.

We furnished that double-fronted house from attic—it ran to an attic—to
cellar, and created a garden.

“Do you know Pampas Grass?” said Marion. “I love Pampas Grass... if
there is room.”

“You shall have Pampas Grass,” I declared. And there were moments as we
went in imagination about that house together, when my whole being
cried out to take her in my arms—now. But I refrained. On that aspect
of life I touched very lightly in that talk, very lightly because I had
had my lessons. She promised to marry me within two months’ time.
Shyly, reluctantly, she named a day, and next afternoon, in heat and
wrath, we “broke it off” again for the last time. We split upon
procedure. I refused flatly to have a normal wedding with wedding cake,
in white favours, carriages and the rest of it. It dawned upon me
suddenly in conversation with her and her mother, that this was
implied. I blurted out my objection forthwith, and this time it wasn’t
any ordinary difference of opinion; it was a “row.” I don’t remember a
quarter of the things we flung out in that dispute. I remember her
mother reiterating in tones of gentle remonstrance: “But, George dear,
you _must_ have a cake—to send home.” I think we all reiterated things.
I seem to remember a refrain of my own: “A marriage is too sacred a
thing, too private a thing, for this display. Her father came in and
stood behind me against the wall, and her aunt appeared beside the
sideboard and stood with arms, looking from speaker to speaker, a
sternly gratified prophetess. It didn’t occur to me then! How painful
it was to Marion for these people to witness my rebellion.

“But, George,” said her father, “what sort of marriage do you want? You
don’t want to go to one of those there registry offices?”

“That’s exactly what I’d like to do. Marriage is too private a thing—”

“I shouldn’t feel married,” said Mrs. Ramboat.

“Look here, Marion,” I said; “we are going to be married at a registry
office. I don’t believe in all these fripperies and superstitions, and
I won’t submit to them. I’ve agreed to all sorts of things to please
you.”

“What’s he agreed to?” said her father—unheeded.

“I can’t marry at a registry office,” said Marion, sallow-white.

“Very well,” I said. “I’ll marry nowhere else.”

“I can’t marry at a registry office.”

“Very well,” I said, standing up, white and tense and it amazed me, but
I was also exultant; “then we won’t marry at all.”

She leant forward over the table, staring blankly. But presently her
half-averted face began to haunt me as she had sat at the table, and
her arm and the long droop of her shoulder.

III

The next day I did an unexampled thing. I sent a telegram to my uncle,
“_Bad temper not coming to business_,” and set off for Highgate and
Ewart. He was actually at work—on a bust of Millie, and seemed very
glad for any interruption.

“Ewart, you old Fool,” I said, “knock off and come for a day’s gossip.
I’m rotten. There’s a sympathetic sort of lunacy about you. Let’s go to
Staines and paddle up to Windsor.”

“Girl?” said Ewart, putting down a chisel.

“Yes.”

That was all I told him of my affair.

“I’ve got no money,” he remarked, to clear up ambiguity in my
invitation.

We got a jar of shandy-gaff, some food, and, on Ewart’s suggestion, two
Japanese sunshades in Staines; we demanded extra cushions at the
boathouse and we spent an enormously soothing day in discourse and
meditation, our boat moored in a shady place this side of Windsor. I
seem to remember Ewart with a cushion forward, only his heels and
sunshade and some black ends of hair showing, a voice and no more,
against the shining, smoothly-streaming mirror of the trees and bushes.

“It’s not worth it,” was the burthen of the voice. “You’d better get
yourself a Millie, Ponderevo, and then you wouldn’t feel so upset.”

“No,” I said decidedly, “that’s not my way.”

A thread of smoke ascended from Ewart for a while, like smoke from an
altar.

“Everything’s a muddle, and you think it isn’t. Nobody knows where we
are—because, as a matter of fact we aren’t anywhere. Are women
property—or are they fellow-creatures? Or a sort of proprietary
goddesses? They’re so obviously fellow-creatures. You believe in the
goddess?”

“No,” I said, “that’s not my idea.”

“What is your idea?”

“Well”

“H’m,” said Ewart, in my pause.

“My idea,” I said, “is to meet one person who will belong to me—to whom
I shall belong—body and soul. No half-gods! Wait till she comes. If she
comes at all.... We must come to each other young and pure.”

“There’s no such thing as a pure person or an impure person.... Mixed
to begin with.”

This was so manifestly true that it silenced me altogether.

“And if you belong to her and she to you, Ponderevo—which end’s the
head?”

I made no answer except an impatient “oh!”

For a time we smoked in silence....

“Did I tell you, Ponderevo, of a wonderful discovery I’ve made?” Ewart
began presently.

“No,” I said, “what is it?”

“There’s no Mrs. Grundy.”

“No?”

“No! Practically not. I’ve just thought all that business out. She’s
merely an instrument, Ponderevo. She’s borne the blame. Grundy’s a man.
Grundy unmasked. Rather lean and out of sorts. Early middle age. With
bunchy black whiskers and a worried eye. Been good so far, and it’s
fretting him! Moods! There’s Grundy in a state of sexual panic, for
example,—‘For God’s sake cover it up! They get together—they get
together! It’s too exciting! The most dreadful things are happening!’
Rushing about—long arms going like a windmill. ‘They must be kept
apart!’ Starts out for an absolute obliteration of everything absolute
separations. One side of the road for men, and the other for women, and
a hoarding—without posters between them. Every boy and girl to be sewed
up in a sack and sealed, just the head and hands and feet out until
twenty-one. Music abolished, calico garments for the lower animals!
Sparrows to be suppressed—ab-so-lutely.”

I laughed abruptly.

“Well, that’s Mr. Grundy in one mood—and it puts Mrs. Grundy—She’s a
much-maligned person, Ponderevo—a rake at heart—and it puts her in a
most painful state of fluster—most painful! She’s an amenable creature.
When Grundy tells her things are shocking, she’s shocked—pink and
breathless. She goes about trying to conceal her profound sense of
guilt behind a haughty expression....

“Grundy, meanwhile, is in a state of complete whirlabout. Long lean
knuckly hands pointing and gesticulating! ‘They’re still thinking of
things—thinking of things! It’s dreadful. They get it out of books. I
can’t imagine where they get it! I must watch! There’re people over
there whispering! Nobody ought to whisper!—There’s something suggestive
in the mere act! Then, pictures! In the museum—things too dreadful for
words. Why can’t we have pure art—with the anatomy all wrong and pure
and nice—and pure fiction pure poetry, instead of all this stuff with
allusions—allusions?... Excuse me! There’s something up behind that
locked door! The keyhole! In the interests of public morality—yes, Sir,
as a pure good man—I insist—_I’ll_ look—it won’t hurt me—I insist on
looking my duty—M’m’m—the keyhole!’”

He kicked his legs about extravagantly, and I laughed again.

“That’s Grundy in one mood, Ponderevo. It isn’t Mrs. Grundy. That’s one
of the lies we tell about women. They’re too simple. Simple! Woman ARE
simple! They take on just what men tell ’em.”

Ewart meditated for a space. “Just exactly as it’s put to them,” he
said, and resumed the moods of Mr. Grundy.

“Then you get old Grundy in another mood. Ever caught him nosing,
Ponderevo? Mad with the idea of mysterious, unknown, wicked, delicious
things. Things that aren’t respectable. Wow! Things he mustn’t do!...
Any one who knows about these things, knows there’s just as much
mystery and deliciousness about Grundy’s forbidden things as there is
about eating ham. Jolly nice if it’s a bright morning and you’re well
and hungry and having breakfast in the open air. Jolly unattractive if
you’re off colour. But Grundy’s covered it all up and hidden it and put
mucky shades and covers over it until he’s forgotten it. Begins to
fester round it in his mind. Has dreadful struggles—with himself about
impure thoughts.... Then you set Grundy with hot ears,—curious in
undertones. Grundy on the loose, Grundy in a hoarse whisper and with
furtive eyes and convulsive movements—making things indecent.
Evolving—in dense vapours—indecency!

“Grundy sins. Oh, yes, he’s a hypocrite. Sneaks round a corner and sins
ugly. It’s Grundy and his dark corners that make vice, vice! We
artists—we have no vices.

“And then he’s frantic with repentance. And wants to be cruel to fallen
women and decent harmless sculptors of the simple nude—like me—and so
back to his panic again.”

“Mrs. Grundy, I suppose, doesn’t know he sins,” I remarked.

“No? I’m not so sure.... But, bless her heart she’s a woman.... She’s a
woman. Then again you get Grundy with a large greasy smile—like an
accident to a butter tub—all over his face, being Liberal Minded—Grundy
in his Anti-Puritan moments, ‘trying not to see Harm in it’—Grundy the
friend of innocent pleasure. He makes you sick with the Harm he’s
trying not to see in it...

“And that’s why everything’s wrong, Ponderevo. Grundy, damn him! stands
in the light, and we young people can’t see. His moods affect us. We
catch his gusts of panic, his disease of nosing, his greasiness. We
don’t know what we may think, what we may say, he does his silly utmost
to prevent our reading and seeing the one thing, the one sort of
discussion we find—quite naturally and properly—supremely interesting.
So we don’t adolescence; we blunder up to sex. Dare—dare to look—and he
may dirt you for ever! The girls are terror-stricken to silence by his
significant whiskers, by the bleary something in his eyes.”

Suddenly Ewart, with an almost Jack-in-the-box effect, sat up.

“He’s about us everywhere, Ponderevo,” he said, very solemnly.
“Sometimes—sometimes I think he is—in our blood. In _mine_.”

He regarded me for my opinion very earnestly, with his pipe in the
corner of his mouth.

“You’re the remotest cousin he ever had,” I said.

I reflected. “Look here, Ewart,” I asked, “how would you have things
different?”

He wrinkled up his queer face, regarded the wait and made his pipe
gurgle for a space, thinking deeply.

“There are complications, I admit. We’ve grown up under the terror of
Grundy and that innocent but docile and—yes—formidable lady, his wife.
I don’t know how far the complications aren’t a disease, a sort of
bleaching under the Grundy shadow.... It is possible there are things I
have still to learn about women.... Man has eaten of the Tree of
Knowledge. His innocence is gone. You can’t have your cake and eat it.
We’re in for knowledge; let’s have it plain and straight. I should
begin, I think, by abolishing the ideas of decency and indecency....”

“Grundy would have fits!” I injected.

“Grundy, Ponderevo, would have cold douches—publicly—if the sight was
not too painful—three times a day.... But I don’t think, mind you, that
I should let the sexes run about together. No. The fact behind the
sexes—is sex. It’s no good humbugging. It trails about—even in the best
mixed company. Tugs at your ankle. The men get showing off and
quarrelling—and the women. Or they’re bored. I suppose the ancestral
males have competed for the ancestral females ever since they were both
some sort of grubby little reptile. You aren’t going to alter that in a
thousand years or so.... Never should you have a mixed company,
never—except with only one man or only one woman. How would that be?...

“Or duets only?...

“How to manage it? Some rule of etiquette, perhaps.”... He became
portentously grave.

Then his long hand went out in weird gestures.

“I seem to see—I seem to see—a sort of City of Women, Ponderevo.
Yes.... A walled enclosure—good stone-mason’s work—a city wall, high as
the walls of Rome, going about a garden. Dozens of square miles of
garden—trees—fountains—arbours—lakes. Lawns on which the women play,
avenues in which they gossip, boats.... Women like that sort of thing.
Any woman who’s been to a good eventful girls’ school lives on the
memory of it for the rest of her life. It’s one of the pathetic things
about women—the superiority of school and college—to anything they get
afterwards. And this city-garden of women will have beautiful places
for music, places for beautiful dresses, places for beautiful work.
Everything a woman can want. Nurseries. Kindergartens. Schools. And no
man—except to do rough work, perhaps—ever comes in. The men live in a
world where they can hunt and engineer, invent and mine and
manufacture, sail ships, drink deep and practice the arts, and fight—”

“Yes,” I said, “but—”

He stilled me with a gesture.

“I’m coming to that. The homes of the women, Ponderevo, will be set in
the wall of their city; each woman will have her own particular house
and home, furnished after her own heart in her own manner—with a little
balcony on the outside wall. Built into the wall—and a little balcony.
And there she will go and look out, when the mood takes her, and all
round the city there will be a broad road and seats and great shady
trees. And men will stroll up and down there when they feel the need of
feminine company; when, for instance, they want to talk about their
souls or their characters or any of the things that only women will
stand.... The women will lean over and look at the men and smile and
talk to them as they fancy. And each woman will have this; she will
have a little silken ladder she can let down if she chooses—if she
wants to talk closer...”

“The men would still be competing.”

“There perhaps—yes. But they’d have to abide by the women’s decisions.”

I raised one or two difficulties, and for a while we played with this
idea.

“Ewart,” I said, “this is like Doll’s Island.

“Suppose,” I reflected, “an unsuccessful man laid siege to a balcony
and wouldn’t let his rival come near it?”

“Move him on,” said Ewart, “by a special regulation. As one does
organ-grinders. No difficulty about that. And you could forbid it—make
it against the etiquette. No life is decent without etiquette.... And
people obey etiquette sooner than laws...”

“H’m,” I said, and was struck by an idea that is remote in the world of
a young man. “How about children?” I asked; “in the City? Girls are all
very well. But boys, for example—grow up.”

“Ah!” said Ewart. “Yes. I forgot. They mustn’t grow up inside....
They’d turn out the boys when they were seven. The father must come
with a little pony and a little gun and manly wear, and take the boy
away. Then one could come afterwards to one’s mother’s balcony.... It
must be fine to have a mother. The father and the son...”

“This is all very pretty in its way,” I said at last, “but it’s a
dream. Let’s come back to reality. What I want to know is, what are you
going to do in Brompton, let us say, or Walham Green _now?_”

“Oh! damn it!” he remarked, “Walham Green! What a chap you are,
Ponderevo!” and he made an abrupt end to his discourse. He wouldn’t
even reply to my tentatives for a time.

“While I was talking just now,” he remarked presently,

“I had a quite different idea.”

“What?”

“For a masterpiece. A series. Like the busts of the Cæsars. Only not
heads, you know. We don’t see the people who do things to us
nowadays...”

“How will you do it, then?”

“Hands—a series of hands! The hands of the Twentieth Century. I’ll do
it. Some day some one will discover it—go there—see what I have done,
and what is meant by it.”

“See it where?”

“On the tombs. Why not? The Unknown Master of the Highgate Slope! All
the little, soft feminine hands, the nervous ugly males, the hands of
the flops, and the hands of the snatchers! And Grundy’s loose, lean,
knuckly affair—Grundy the terror!—the little wrinkles and the thumb!
Only it ought to hold all the others together—in a slightly disturbing
squeeze....Like Rodin’s great Hand—you know the thing!”

IV

I forget how many days intervened between that last breaking off of our
engagement and Marion’s surrender. But I recall now the sharpness of my
emotion, the concentrated spirit of tears and laughter in my throat as
I read the words of her unexpected letter—“I have thought over
everything, and I was selfish....” I rushed off to Walham Green that
evening to give back all she had given me, to beat her altogether at
giving. She was extraordinarily gentle and generous that time, I
remember, and when at last I left her, she kissed me very sweetly.

So we were married.

We were married with all the customary incongruity. I gave—perhaps
after a while not altogether ungrudgingly—and what I gave, Marion took,
with a manifest satisfaction. After all, I was being sensible. So that
we had three livery carriages to the church (one of the pairs of horses
matched) and coachmen—with improvised flavour and very shabby silk
hats—bearing white favours on their whips, and my uncle intervened with
splendour and insisted upon having a wedding breakfast sent in from a
caterer’s in Hammersmith. The table had a great display of
chrysanthemums, and there was orange blossom in the significant place
and a wonderful cake. We also circulated upwards of a score of wedges
of that accompanied by silver-printed cards in which Marion’s name of
Ramboat was stricken out by an arrow in favour of Ponderevo. We had a
little rally of Marion’s relations, and several friends and friends’
friends from Smithie’s appeared in the church and drifted vestry-ward.
I produced my aunt and uncle a select group of two. The effect in that
shabby little house was one of exhilarating congestion. The side-board,
in which lived the table-cloth and the “Apartments” card, was used for
a display of the presents, eked out by the unused balance of the
silver-printed cards.

Marion wore the white raiment of a bride, white silk and satin, that
did not suit her, that made her seem large and strange to me; she
obtruded bows and unfamiliar contours. She went through all this
strange ritual of an English wedding with a sacramental gravity that I
was altogether too young and egotistical to comprehend. It was all
extraordinarily central and important to her; it was no more than an
offensive, complicated, and disconcerting intrusion of a world I was
already beginning to criticise very bitterly, to me. What was all this
fuss for? The mere indecent advertisement that I had been passionately
in love with Marion! I think, however, that Marion was only very
remotely aware of my smouldering exasperation at having in the end
behaved “nicely.” I had played—up to the extent of dressing my part; I
had an admirably cut frock—coat, a new silk hat, trousers as light as I
could endure them—lighter, in fact—a white waistcoat, night tie, light
gloves. Marion, seeing me despondent had the unusual enterprise to
whisper to me that I looked lovely; I knew too well I didn’t look
myself. I looked like a special coloured supplement to _Men’s Wear_, or
_The Tailor and Cutter_, Full Dress For Ceremonial Occasions. I had
even the disconcerting sensations of an unfamiliar collar. I felt
lost—in a strange body, and when I glanced down myself for reassurance,
the straight white abdomen, the alien legs confirmed that impression.

My uncle was my best man, and looked like a banker—a little banker—in
flower. He wore a white rose in his buttonhole. He wasn’t, I think,
particularly talkative. At least I recall very little from him.

“George” he said once or twice, “this is a great occasion for you—a
very great occasion.” He spoke a little doubtfully.

You see I had told him nothing about Marion until about a week before
the wedding; both he and my aunt had been taken altogether by surprise.
They couldn’t, as people say, “make it out.” My aunt was intensely
interested, much more than my uncle; it was then, I think, for the
first time that I really saw that she cared for me. She got me alone, I
remember, after I had made my announcement. “Now, George,” she said,
“tell me everything about her. Why didn’t you tell—ME at least—before?”

I was surprised to find how difficult it was to tell her about Marion.
I perplexed her.

“Then is she beautiful?” she asked at last.

“I don’t know what you’ll think of her,” I parried. “I think—”

“Yes?”

“I think she might be the most beautiful person in the world.”

“And isn’t she? To you?”

“Of course,” I said, nodding my head. “Yes. She IS...”

And while I don’t remember anything my uncle said or did at the
wedding, I do remember very distinctly certain little things, scrutiny,
solicitude, a curious rare flash of intimacy in my aunt’s eyes. It
dawned on me that I wasn’t hiding anything from her at all. She was
dressed very smartly, wearing a big-plumed hat that made her neck seem
longer and slenderer than ever, and when she walked up the aisle with
that rolling stride of hers and her eye all on Marion, perplexed into
self-forgetfulness, it wasn’t somehow funny. She was, I do believe,
giving my marriage more thought than I had done, she was concerned
beyond measure at my black rage and Marion’s blindness, she was looking
with eyes that knew what loving is—for love.

In the vestry she turned away as we signed, and I verily believe she
was crying, though to this day I can’t say why she should have cried,
and she was near crying too when she squeezed my hand at parting—and
she never said a word or looked at me, but just squeezed my hand....

If I had not been so grim in spirit, I think I should have found much
of my wedding amusing. I remember a lot of ridiculous detail that still
declines to be funny in my memory. The officiating clergyman had a
cold, and turned his “n’s” to “d’s,” and he made the most mechanical
compliment conceivable about the bride’s age when the register was
signed. Every bride he had ever married had had it, one knew. And two
middle-aged spinsters, cousins of Marion’s and dressmakers at Barking,
stand out. They wore marvellously bright and gay blouses and dim old
skirts, and had an immense respect for Mr. Ramboat. They threw rice;
they brought a whole bag with them and gave handfuls away to unknown
little boys at the church door and so created a Lilliputian riot; and
one had meant to throw a slipper. It was a very warm old silk slipper,
I know, because she dropped it out of a pocket in the aisle—there was a
sort of jumble in the aisle—and I picked it up for her. I don’t think
she actually threw it, for as we drove away from the church I saw her
in a dreadful, and, it seemed to me, hopeless, struggle with her
pocket; and afterwards my eye caught the missile of good fortune lying,
it or its fellow, most obviously mislaid, behind the umbrella-stand in
the hall....

The whole business was much more absurd, more incoherent, more human
than I had anticipated, but I was far too young and serious to let the
latter quality atone for its shortcomings. I am so remote from this
phase of my youth that I can look back at it all as dispassionately as
one looks at a picture—at some wonderful, perfect sort of picture that
is inexhaustible; but at the time these things filled me with
unspeakable resentment. Now I go round it all, look into its details,
generalise about its aspects. I’m interested, for example, to square it
with my Bladesover theory of the British social scheme. Under stress of
tradition we were all of us trying in the fermenting chaos of London to
carry out the marriage ceremonies of a Bladesover tenant or one of the
chubby middling sort of people in some dependent country town. There a
marriage is a public function with a public significance. There the
church is to a large extent the gathering-place of the community, and
your going to be married a thing of importance to every one you pass on
the road. It is a change of status that quite legitimately interests
the whole neighbourhood. But in London there are no neighbours, nobody
knows, nobody cares. An absolute stranger in an office took my notice,
and our banns were proclaimed to ears that had never previously heard
our names. The clergyman, even, who married us had never seen us
before, and didn’t in any degree intimate that he wanted to see us
again.

Neighbours in London! The Ramboats did not know the names of the people
on either side of them. As I waited for Marion before we started off
upon our honeymoon flight, Mr. Ramboat, I remember, came and stood
beside me and stared out of the window.

“There was a funeral over there yesterday,” he said, by way of making
conversation, and moved his head at the house opposite. “Quite a smart
affair it was with a glass ’earse....”

And our little procession of three carriages with white-favour-adorned
horses and drivers, went through all the huge, noisy, indifferent
traffic like a lost china image in the coal-chute of an ironclad.
Nobody made way for us, nobody cared for us; the driver of an omnibus
jeered; for a long time we crawled behind an unamiable dust-cart. The
irrelevant clatter and tumult gave a queer flavour of indecency to this
public coming together of lovers. We seemed to have obtruded ourselves
shamelessly. The crowd that gathered outside the church would have
gathered in the same spirit and with greater alacrity for a street
accident....

At Charing Cross—we were going to Hastings—the experienced eye of the
guard detected the significance of our unusual costume and he secured
us a compartment.

“Well,” said I, as the train moved out of the station, “_That’s_ all
over!” And I turned to Marion—a little unfamiliar still, in her
unfamiliar clothes—and smiled.

She regarded me gravely, timidly.

“You’re not cross?” she asked.

“Cross! Why?”

“At having it all proper.”

“My dear Marion!” said I, and by way of answer took and kissed her
white-gloved, leather-scented hand....

I don’t remember much else about the journey, an hour or so it was of
undistinguished time—for we were both confused and a little fatigued
and Marion had a slight headache and did not want caresses. I fell into
a reverie about my aunt, and realised as if it were a new discovery,
that I cared for her very greatly. I was acutely sorry I had not told
her earlier of my marriage.

But you will not want to hear the history of my honeymoon. I have told
all that was needed to serve my present purpose. Thus and thus it was
the Will in things had its way with me. Driven by forces I did not
understand, diverted altogether from the science, the curiosities and
work to which I had once given myself, I fought my way through a tangle
of traditions, customs, obstacles and absurdities, enraged myself,
limited myself, gave myself to occupations I saw with the clearest
vision were dishonourable and vain, and at last achieved the end of
purblind Nature, the relentless immediacy of her desire, and held, far
short of happiness, Marion weeping and reluctant in my arms.

V

Who can tell the story of the slow estrangement of two married people,
the weakening of first this bond and then that of that complex contact?
Least of all can one of the two participants. Even now, with an
interval of fifteen years to clear it up for me, I still find a mass of
impressions of Marion as confused, as discordant, as unsystematic and
self-contradictory as life. I think of this thing and love her, of that
and hate her—of a hundred aspects in which I can now see her with an
unimpassioned sympathy. As I sit here trying to render some vision of
this infinitely confused process, I recall moments of hard and fierce
estrangement, moments of clouded intimacy, the passage of transition
all forgotten. We talked a little language together whence were
“friends,” and I was “Mutney” and she was “Ming,” and we kept up such
an outward show that till the very end Smithie thought our household
the most amiable in the world.

I cannot tell to the full how Marion thwarted me and failed in that
life of intimate emotions which is the kernel of love. That life of
intimate emotions is made up of little things. A beautiful face differs
from an ugly one by a difference of surfaces and proportions that are
sometimes almost infinitesimally small. I find myself setting down
little things and little things; none of them do more than demonstrate
those essential temperamental discords I have already sought to make
clear. Some readers will understand—to others I shall seem no more than
an unfeeling brute who couldn’t make allowances.... It’s easy to make
allowances now; but to be young and ardent and to make allowances, to
see one’s married life open before one, the life that seemed in its
dawn a glory, a garden of roses, a place of deep sweet mysteries and
heart throbs and wonderful silences, and to see it a vista of
tolerations and baby-talk; a compromise, the least effectual thing in
all one’s life.

Every love romance I read seemed to mock our dull intercourse, every
poem, every beautiful picture reflected upon the uneventful succession
of grey hours we had together. I think our real difference was one of
aesthetic sensibility.

I do still recall as the worst and most disastrous aspect of all that
time, her absolute disregard of her own beauty. It’s the pettiest thing
to record, I know, but she could wear curl-papers in my presence. It
was her idea, too, to “wear out” her old clothes and her failures at
home when “no one was likely to see her”—“no one” being myself. She
allowed me to accumulate a store of ungracious and slovenly
memories....

All our conceptions of life differed. I remember how we differed about
furniture. We spent three or four days in Tottenham Court Road, and she
chose the things she fancied with an inexorable resolution,—sweeping
aside my suggestions with—“Oh, _you_ want such queer things.” She
pursued some limited, clearly seen and experienced ideal—that excluded
all other possibilities. Over every mantel was a mirror that was
draped, our sideboard was wonderfully good and splendid with beveled
glass, we had lamps on long metal stalks and cozy corners and plants in
grog-tubs. Smithie approved it all. There wasn’t a place where one
could sit and read in the whole house. My books went upon shelves in
the dining-room recess. And we had a piano though Marion’s playing was
at an elementary level.

You know, it was the cruelest luck for Marion that I, with my
restlessness, my scepticism, my constantly developing ideas, had
insisted on marriage with her. She had no faculty of growth or change;
she had taken her mould, she had set in the limited ideas of her
peculiar class. She preserved her conception of what was right in
drawing-room chairs and in marriage ceremonial and in every relation of
life with a simple and luminous honesty and conviction, with an immense
unimaginative inflexibility—as a tailor-bird builds its nest or a
beaver makes its dam.

Let me hasten over this history of disappointments and separation. I
might tell of waxings and waning of love between us, but the whole was
waning. Sometimes she would do things for me, make me a tie or a pair
of slippers, and fill me with none the less gratitude because the
things were absurd. She ran our home and our one servant with a hard,
bright efficiency. She was inordinately proud of house and garden.
Always, by her lights, she did her duty by me.

Presently the rapid development of Tono-Bungay began to take me into
the provinces, and I would be away sometimes for a week together. This
she did not like; it left her “dull,” she said, but after a time she
began to go to Smithie’s again and to develop an independence of me. At
Smithie’s she was now a woman with a position; she had money to spend.
She would take Smithie to theatres and out to lunch and talk
interminably of the business, and Smithie became a sort of permanent
weekender with us. Also Marion got a spaniel and began to dabble with
the minor arts, with poker-work and a Kodak and hyacinths in glasses.
She called once on a neighbour. Her parents left Walham Green—her
father severed his connection with the gas-works—and came to live in a
small house I took for them near us, and they were much with us.

Odd the littleness of the things that exasperate when the fountains of
life are embittered! My father-in-law was perpetually catching me in
moody moments and urging me to take to gardening. He irritated me
beyond measure.

“You think too much,” he would say. “If you was to let in a bit with a
spade, you might soon ’ave that garden of yours a Vision of Flowers.
That’s better than thinking, George.”

Or in a torrent of exasperation, “I CARN’T think, George, why you don’t
get a bit of glass ’ere. This sunny corner you c’d do wonders with a
bit of glass.”

And in the summer time he never came in without performing a sort of
conjuring trick in the hall, and taking cucumbers and tomatoes from
unexpected points of his person. “All out o’ MY little bit,” he’d say
in exemplary tones. He left a trail of vegetable produce in the most
unusual places, on mantel boards, sideboards, the tops of pictures.
Heavens! how the sudden unexpected tomato could annoy me!...

It did much to widen our estrangement that Marion and my aunt failed to
make friends, became, by a sort of instinct, antagonistic.

My aunt, to begin with, called rather frequently, for she was really
anxious to know Marion. At first she would arrive like a whirlwind and
pervade the house with an atmosphere of hello! She dressed already with
that cheerfully extravagant abandon that signalised her accession to
fortune, and dressed her best for these visits.

She wanted to play the mother to me, I fancy, to tell Marion occult
secrets about the way I wore out my boots and how I never could think
to put on thicker things in cold weather. But Marion received her with
that defensive suspiciousness of the shy person, thinking only of the
possible criticism of herself; and my aunt, perceiving this, became
nervous and slangy...

“She says such queer things,” said Marion once, discussing her. “But I
suppose it’s witty.”

“Yes,” I said; “it _is_ witty.”

“If I said things like she does—”

The queer things my aunt said were nothing to the queer things she
didn’t say. I remember her in our drawing-room one day, and how she
cocked her eye—it’s the only expression—at the India-rubber plant in a
Doulton-ware pot which Marion had placed on the corner of the piano.

She was on the very verge of speech. Then suddenly she caught my
expression, and shrank up like a cat that has been discovered looking
at the milk.

Then a wicked impulse took her.

“Didn’t say an old word, George,” she insisted, looking me full in the
eye.

I smiled. “You’re a dear,” I said, “not to,” as Marion came lowering
into the room to welcome her. But I felt extraordinarily like a
traitor—to the India-rubber plant, I suppose—for all that nothing had
been said...

“Your aunt makes Game of people,” was Marion’s verdict, and,
open-mindedly: “I suppose it’s all right... for her.”

Several times we went to the house in Beckenham for lunch, and once or
twice to dinner. My aunt did her peculiar best to be friends, but
Marion was implacable. She was also, I know, intensely uncomfortable,
and she adopted as her social method, an exhausting silence, replying
compactly and without giving openings to anything that was said to her.

The gaps between my aunt’s visits grew wider and wider.

My married existence became at last like a narrow deep groove in the
broad expanse of interests in which I was living. I went about the
world; I met a great number of varied personalities; I read endless
books in trains as I went to and fro. I developed social relationships
at my uncle’s house that Marion did not share. The seeds of new ideas
poured in upon me and grew in me. Those early and middle years of one’s
third decade are, I suppose, for a man the years of greatest mental
growth. They are restless years and full of vague enterprise.

Each time I returned to Ealing, life there seemed more alien, narrow,
and unattractive—and Marion less beautiful and more limited and
difficult—until at last she was robbed of every particle of her magic.
She gave me always a cooler welcome, I think, until she seemed entirely
apathetic. I never asked myself then what heartaches she might hide or
what her discontents might be.

I would come home hoping nothing, expecting nothing.

This was my fated life, and I had chosen it. I became more sensitive to
the defects I had once disregarded altogether; I began to associate her
sallow complexion with her temperamental insufficiency, and the heavier
lines of her mouth and nostril with her moods of discontent. We drifted
apart; wider and wider the gap opened. I tired of baby-talk and
stereotyped little fondlings; I tired of the latest intelligence from
those wonderful workrooms, and showed it all too plainly; we hardly
spoke when we were alone together. The mere unreciprocated physical
residue of my passion remained—an exasperation between us.

No children came to save us. Marion had acquired at Smithie’s a disgust
and dread of maternity. All that was the fruition and quintessence of
the “horrid” elements in life, a disgusting thing, a last indignity
that overtook unwary women. I doubt indeed a little if children would
have saved us; we should have differed so fatally about their
upbringing.

Altogether, I remember my life with Marion as a long distress, now
hard, now tender. It was in those days that I first became critical of
my life and burdened with a sense of error and maladjustment. I would
lie awake in the night, asking myself the purpose of things, reviewing
my unsatisfying, ungainly home-life, my days spent in rascal enterprise
and rubbish-selling, contrasting all I was being and doing with my
adolescent ambitions, my Wimblehurst dreams. My circumstances had an
air of finality, and I asked myself in vain why I had forced myself
into them.

VI

The end of our intolerable situation came suddenly and unexpectedly,
but in a way that I suppose was almost inevitable.

My alienated affections wandered, and I was unfaithful to Marion.

I won’t pretend to extenuate the quality of my conduct. I was a young
and fairly vigorous male; all my appetite for love had been roused and
whetted and none of it had been satisfied by my love affair and my
marriage. I had pursued an elusive gleam of beauty to the disregard of
all else, and it had failed me. It had faded when I had hoped it would
grow brighter. I despaired of life and was embittered. And things
happened as I am telling. I don’t draw any moral at all in the matter,
and as for social remedies, I leave them to the social reformer. I’ve
got to a time of life when the only theories that interest me are
generalisations about realities.

To go to our inner office in Raggett Street I had to walk through a
room in which the typists worked. They were the correspondence typists;
our books and invoicing had long since overflowed into the premises we
had had the luck to secure on either side of us. I was, I must confess,
always in a faintly cloudily-emotional way aware of that collection of
for the most part round-shouldered femininity, but presently one of the
girls detached herself from the others and got a real hold upon my
attention. I appreciated her at first as a straight little back, a
neater back than any of the others; as a softly rounded neck with a
smiling necklace of sham pearls; as chestnut hair very neatly done—and
as a side-long glance; presently as a quickly turned face that looked
for me.

My eye would seek her as I went through on business things—I dictated
some letters to her and so discovered she had pretty, soft-looking
hands with pink nails. Once or twice, meeting casually, we looked one
another for the flash of a second in the eyes.

That was all. But it was enough in the mysterious free-masonry of sex
to say essential things. We had a secret between us.

One day I came into Raggett Street at lunch time and she was alone,
sitting at her desk. She glanced up as I entered, and then became very
still, with a downcast face and her hands clenched on the table. I
walked right by her to the door of the inner office, stopped, came back
and stood over her.

We neither of us spoke for quite a perceptible time. I was trembling
violently.

“Is that one of the new typewriters?” I asked at last for the sake of
speaking.

She looked up at me without a word, with her face flushed and her eyes
alight, and I bent down and kissed her lips. She leant back to put an
arm about me, drew my face to her and kissed me again and again. I
lifted her and held her in my arms. She gave a little smothered cry to
feel herself so held.

Never before had I known the quality of passionate kisses.

Somebody became audible in the shop outside.

We started back from one another with flushed faces and bright and
burning eyes.

“We can’t talk here,” I whispered with a confident intimacy. “Where do
you go at five?”

“Along the Embankment to Charing Cross,” she answered as intimately.
“None of the others go that way...”

“About half-past five?”

“Yes, half-past five...”

The door from the shop opened, and she sat down very quickly.

“I’m glad,” I said in a commonplace voice, “that these new typewriters
are all right.”

I went into the inner office and routed out the paysheet in order to
find her name—Effie Rink. And did no work at all that afternoon. I
fretted about that dingy little den like a beast in a cage.

When presently I went out, Effie was working with an extraordinary
appearance of calm—and there was no look for me at all....

We met and had our talk that evening, a talk in whispers when there was
none to overhear; we came to an understanding. It was strangely unlike
any dream of romance I had ever entertained.

VII

I came back after a week’s absence to my home again—a changed man. I
had lived out my first rush of passion for Effie, had come to a
contemplation of my position. I had gauged Effie’s place in the scheme
of things, and parted from her for a time. She was back in her place at
Raggett Street after a temporary indisposition. I did not feel in any
way penitent or ashamed, I know, as I opened the little cast-iron gate
that kept Marion’s front grader and Pampas Grass from the wandering
dog. Indeed, if anything, I felt as if I had vindicated some right that
had been in question. I came back to Marion with no sense of
wrong-doing at all with, indeed, a new friendliness towards her. I
don’t know how it may be proper to feel on such occasions; that is how
I felt.

I followed her in our drawing-room, standing beside the tall lamp-stand
that half filled the bay as though she had just turned from watching
for me at the window. There was something in her pale face that
arrested me. She looked as if she had not been sleeping. She did not
come forward to greet me.

“You’ve come home,” she said.

“As I wrote to you.”

She stood very still, a dusky figure against the bright window.

“Where have you been?” she asked.

“East Coast,” I said easily.

She paused for a moment. “I _know_,” she said.

I stared at her. It was the most amazing moment in any life....

“By Jove!” I said at last, “I believe you do!”

“And then you come home to me!”

I walked to the hearthrug and stood quite still there regarding this
new situation.

“I didn’t dream,” she began. “How could you do such a thing?”

It seemed a long interval before either of us spoke another word.

“Who knows about it?” I asked at last.

“Smithie’s brother. They were at Cromer.”

“Confound Cromer! Yes!”

“How could you bring yourself”

I felt a spasm of petulant annoyance at this unexpected catastrophe.

“I should like to wring Smithie’s brother’s neck,” I said....

Marion spoke in dry, broken fragments of sentences. “You... I’d always
thought that anyhow you couldn’t deceive me... I suppose all men are
horrid—about this.”

“It doesn’t strike me as horrid. It seems to me the most necessary
consequence—and natural thing in the world.”

I became aware of some one moving about in the passage, and went and
shut the door of the room, then I walked back to the hearthrug and
turned.

“It’s rough on you,” I said. “But I didn’t mean you to know. You’ve
never cared for me. I’ve had the devil of a time. Why should you mind?”

She sat down in a draped armchair. “I _have_ cared for you,” she said.

I shrugged my shoulders.

“I suppose,” she said, “_she_ cares for you?”

I had no answer.

“Where is she now?”

“Oh! does it matter to you?... Look here, Marion! This—this I didn’t
anticipate. I didn’t mean this thing to smash down on you like this.
But, you know, something had to happen. I’m sorry—sorry to the bottom
of my heart that things have come to this between us. But indeed, I’m
taken by surprise. I don’t know where I am—I don’t know how we got
here. Things took me by surprise. I found myself alone with her one
day. I kissed her. I went on. It seemed stupid to go back. And
besides—why should I have gone back? Why should I? From first to last,
I’ve hardly thought of it as touching you.... Damn!”

She scrutinised my face, and pulled at the ball-fringe of the little
table beside her.

“To think of it,” she said. “I don’t believe I can ever touch you
again.”

We kept a long silence. I was only beginning to realise in the most
superficial way the immense catastrophe that had happened between us.
Enormous issues had rushed upon us. I felt unprepared and altogether
inadequate. I was unreasonably angry. There came a rush of stupid
expressions to my mind that my rising sense of the supreme importance
of the moment saved me from saying. The gap of silence widened until it
threatened to become the vast memorable margin of some one among a
thousand trivial possibilities of speech that would vex our relations
for ever.

Our little general servant tapped at the door—Marion always liked the
servant to tap—and appeared.

“Tea, M’m,” she said—and vanished, leaving the door open.

“I will go upstairs,” said I, and stopped. “I will go upstairs” I
repeated, “and put my bag in the spare room.”

We remained motionless and silent for a few seconds.

“Mother is having tea with us to-day,” Marion remarked at last, and
dropped the worried end of ball-fringe and stood up slowly....

And so, with this immense discussion of our changed relations hanging
over us, we presently had tea with the unsuspecting Mrs. Ramboat and
the spaniel. Mrs. Ramboat was too well trained in her position to
remark upon our somber preoccupation. She kept a thin trickle of talk
going, and told us, I remember, that Mr. Ramboat was “troubled” about
his cannas.

“They don’t come up and they won’t come up. He’s been round and had an
explanation with the man who sold him the bulbs—and he’s very heated
and upset.”

The spaniel was a great bore, begging and doing small tricks first at
one and then at the other of us. Neither of us used his name. You see
we had called him Miggles, and made a sort of trio in the baby-talk of
Mutney and Miggles and Ming.

VIII

Then presently we resumed our monstrous, momentous dialogue. I can’t
now make out how long that dialogue went on. It spread itself, I know,
in heavy fragments over either three days or four. I remember myself
grouped with Marion, talking sitting on our bed in her room, talking
standing in our dining-room, saving this thing or that. Twice we went
for long walks. And we had a long evening alone together, with jaded
nerves and hearts that fluctuated between a hard and dreary recognition
of facts and, on my part at least, a strange unwonted tenderness;
because in some extraordinary way this crisis had destroyed our mutual
apathy and made us feel one another again.

It was a dialogue that had discrepant parts that fell into lumps of
talk that failed to join on to their predecessors, that began again at
a different level, higher or lower, that assumed new aspects in the
intervals and assimilated new considerations. We discussed the fact
that we two were no longer lovers; never before had we faced that. It
seems a strange thing to write, but as I look back, I see clearly that
those several days were the time when Marion and I were closest
together, looked for the first and last time faithfully and steadfastly
into each other’s soul. For those days only, there were no pretences, I
made no concessions to her nor she to me; we concealed nothing,
exaggerated nothing. We had done with pretending. We had it out plainly
and soberly with each other. Mood followed mood and got its stark
expression.

Of course there was quarreling between us, bitter quarreling, and we
said things to one another—long pent-up things that bruised and crushed
and cut. But over it all in my memory now is an effect of deliberate
confrontation, and the figure of Marion stands up, pale, melancholy,
tear-stained, injured, implacable and dignified.

“You love her?” she asked once, and jerked that doubt into my mind.

I struggled with tangled ideas and emotions. “I don’t know what love
is. It’s all sorts of things—it’s made of a dozen strands twisted in a
thousand ways.”

“But you want her? You want her now—when you think of her?”

“Yes,” I reflected. “I want her—right enough.”

“And me? Where do I come in?”

“I suppose you come in here.”

“Well, but what are you going to do?”

“Do!” I said with the exasperation of the situation growing upon me.
“What do you want me to do?”

As I look back upon all that time—across a gulf of fifteen active
years—I find I see it with an understanding judgment. I see it as if it
were the business of some one else—indeed of two other
people—intimately known yet judged without passion. I see now that this
shock, this sudden immense disillusionment, did in real fact bring out
a mind and soul in Marion; that for the first time she emerged from
habits, timidities, imitations, phrases and a certain narrow
will-impulse, and became a personality.

Her ruling motive at first was, I think, an indignant and outraged
pride. This situation must end. She asked me categorically to give up
Effie, and I, full of fresh and glowing memories, absolutely refused.

“It’s too late, Marion,” I said. “It can’t be done like that.”

“Then we can’t very well go on living together,” she said. “Can we?”

“Very well,” I deliberated “if you must have it so.”

“Well, can we?”

“Can you stay in this house? I mean—if I go away?”

“I don’t know.... I don’t think I could.”

“Then—what do you want?”

Slowly we worked our way from point to point, until at last the word
“divorce” was before us.

“If we can’t live together we ought to be free,” said Marion.

“I don’t know anything of divorce,” I said—“if you mean that. I don’t
know how it is done. I shall have to ask somebody—or look it up....
Perhaps, after all, it is the thing to do. We may as well face it.”

We began to talk ourselves into a realisation of what our divergent
futures might be. I came back on the evening of that day with my
questions answered by a solicitor.

“We can’t as a matter of fact,” I said, “get divorced as things are.
Apparently, so far as the law goes you’ve got to stand this sort of
thing. It’s silly but that is the law. However, it’s easy to arrange a
divorce. In addition to adultery there must be desertion or cruelty. To
establish cruelty I should have to strike you, or something of that
sort, before witnesses. That’s impossible—but it’s simple to desert you
legally. I have to go away from you; that’s all. I can go on sending
you money—and you bring a suit, what is it?—for Restitution of Conjugal
Rights. The Court orders me to return. I disobey. Then you can go on to
divorce me. You get a Decree Nisi, and once more the Court tries to
make me come back. If we don’t make it up within six months and if you
don’t behave scandalously the Decree is made absolute. That’s the end
of the fuss. That’s how one gets unmarried. It’s easier, you see, to
marry than unmarry.”

“And then—how do I live? What becomes of me?”

“You’ll have an income. They call it alimony. From a third to a half of
my present income—more if you like—I don’t mind—three hundred a year,
say. You’ve got your old people to keep and you’ll need all that.”

“And then—then you’ll be free?”

“Both of us.”

“And all this life you’ve hated”

I looked up at her wrung and bitter face. “I haven’t hated it,” I lied,
my voice near breaking with the pain of it all. “Have you?”

IX

The perplexing thing about life is the irresolvable complexity of
reality, of things and relations alike. Nothing is simple. Every wrong
done has a certain justice in it, and every good deed has dregs of
evil. As for us, young still, and still without self-knowledge,
resounded a hundred discordant notes in the harsh angle of that shock.
We were furiously angry with each other, tender with each other,
callously selfish, generously self-sacrificing.

I remember Marion saying innumerable detached things that didn’t hang
together one with another, that contradicted one another, that were,
nevertheless, all in their places profoundly true and sincere. I see
them now as so many vain experiments in her effort to apprehend the
crumpled confusions of our complex moral landslide. Some I found
irritating beyond measure. I answered her—sometimes quite abominably.

“Of course,” she would say again and again, “my life has been a
failure.”

“I’ve besieged you for three years,” I would retort “asking it not to
be. You’ve done as you pleased. If I’ve turned away at last—”

Or again she would revive all the stresses before our marriage.

“How you must hate me! I made you wait. Well now—I suppose you have
your revenge.”

“_Revenge!_” I echoed.

Then she would try over the aspects of our new separated lives.

“I ought to earn my own living,” she would insist.

“I want to be quite independent. I’ve always hated London. Perhaps I
shall try a poultry farm and bees. You won’t mind at first my being a
burden. Afterwards—”

“We’ve settled all that,” I said.

“I suppose you will hate me anyhow...”

There were times when she seemed to regard our separation with absolute
complacency, when she would plan all sorts of freedoms and
characteristic interests.

“I shall go out a lot with Smithie,” she said.

And once she said an ugly thing that I did indeed hate her for that I
cannot even now quite forgive her.

“Your aunt will rejoice at all this. She never cared for me...”

Into my memory of these pains and stresses comes the figure of Smithie,
full-charged with emotion, so breathless in the presence of the horrid
villain of the piece that she could make no articulate sounds. She had
long tearful confidences with Marion, I know, sympathetic close
clingings. There were moments when only absolute speechlessness
prevented her giving me a stupendous “talking-to”—I could see it in her
eye. The wrong things she would have said! And I recall, too, Mrs.
Ramboat’s slow awakening to something in, the air, the growing
expression of solicitude in her eye, only her well-trained fear of
Marion keeping her from speech.

And at last through all this welter, like a thing fated and altogether
beyond our control, parting came to Marion and me.

I hardened my heart, or I could not have gone. For at the last it came
to Marion that she was parting from me for ever. That overbore all
other things, had turned our last hour to anguish. She forgot for a
time the prospect of moving into a new house, she forgot the outrage on
her proprietorship and pride. For the first time in her life she really
showed strong emotions in regard to me, for the first time, perhaps,
they really came to her. She began to weep slow, reluctant tears. I
came into her room, and found her asprawl on the bed, weeping.

“I didn’t know,” she cried. “Oh! I didn’t understand!”

“I’ve been a fool. All my life is a wreck!

“I shall be alone!..._Mutney!_ Mutney, don’t leave me! Oh! Mutney! I
didn’t understand.”

I had to harden my heart indeed, for it seemed to me at moments in
those last hours together that at last, too late, the longed-for thing
had happened and Marion had come alive. A new-born hunger for me lit
her eyes.

“Don’t leave me!” she said, “don’t leave me!” She clung to me; she
kissed me with tear-salt lips.

I was promised now and pledged, and I hardened my heart against this
impossible dawn. Yet it seems to me that there were moments when it
needed but a cry, but one word to have united us again for all our
lives. Could we have united again? Would that passage have enlightened
us for ever or should we have fallen back in a week or so into the old
estrangement, the old temperamental opposition?

Of that there is now no telling. Our own resolve carried us on our
predestined way. We behaved more and more like separating lovers,
parting inexorably, but all the preparations we had set going worked on
like a machine, and we made no attempt to stop them. My trunks and
boxes went to the station. I packed my bag with Marion standing before
me. We were like children who had hurt each other horribly in sheer
stupidity, who didn’t know now how to remedy it. We belonged to each
other immensely—immensely. The cab came to the little iron gate.

“Good-bye!” I said.

“Good-bye.”

For a moment we held one another in each other’s arms and
kissed—incredibly without malice. We heard our little servant in the
passage going to open the door. For the last time we pressed ourselves
to one another. We were not lovers nor enemies, but two human souls in
a frank community of pain. I tore myself from her.

“Go away,” I said to the servant, seeing that Marion had followed me
down.

I felt her standing behind me as I spoke to the cab man.

I got into the cab, resolutely not looking back, and then as it started
jumped up, craned out and looked at the door.

It was wide open, but she had disappeared....

I wonder—I suppose she ran upstairs.

X

So I parted from Marion at an extremity of perturbation and regret, and
went, as I had promised and arranged, to Effie, who was waiting for me
in apartments near Orpington. I remember her upon the station platform,
a bright, flitting figure looking along the train for me, and our walk
over the fields in the twilight. I had expected an immense sense of
relief where at last the stresses of separation were over, but now I
found I was beyond measure wretched and perplexed, full of the
profoundest persuasion of irreparable error. The dusk and somber Marion
were so alike, her sorrow seemed to be all about me. I had to hold
myself to my own plans, to remember that I must keep faith with Effie,
with Effie who had made no terms, exacted no guarantees, but flung
herself into my hands.

We went across the evening fields in silence, towards a sky of
deepening gold and purple, and Effie was close beside me always, very
close, glancing up ever and again at my face.

Certainly she knew I grieved for Marion, that ours was now no joyful
reunion. But she showed no resentment and no jealousy. Extraordinarily,
she did not compete against Marion. Never once in all our time together
did she say an adverse word of Marion....

She set herself presently to dispel the shadow that brooded over me
with the same instinctive skill that some women will show with the
trouble of a child. She made herself my glad and pretty slave and
handmaid; she forced me at last to rejoice in her. Yet at the back of
it all Marion remained, stupid and tearful and infinitely distressful,
so that I was almost intolerably unhappy for her—for her and the dead
body of my married love.

It is all, as I tell it now, unaccountable to me. I go back into these
remote parts, these rarely visited uplands and lonely tares of memory,
and it seems to me still a strange country. I had thought I might be
going to some sensuous paradise with Effie, but desire which fills the
universe before its satisfaction, vanishes utterly like the going of
daylight—with achievement. All the facts and forms of life remain
darkling and cold. It was an upland of melancholy questionings, a
region from which I saw all the world at new angles and in new aspects;
I had outflanked passion and romance.

I had come into a condition of vast perplexities. For the first time in
my life, at least so it seems to me now in this retrospect, I looked at
my existence as a whole.

Since this was nothing, what was I doing? What was I for?

I was going to and fro about Tono-Bungay—the business I had taken up to
secure Marion and which held me now in spite of our intimate
separation—and snatching odd week-ends and nights for Orpington, and
all the while I struggled with these obstinate interrogations. I used
to fall into musing in the trains, I became even a little inaccurate
and forgetful about business things. I have the clearest memory of
myself sitting thoughtful in the evening sunlight on a grassy hillside
that looked toward Seven Oaks and commanded a wide sweep of country,
and that I was thinking out my destiny. I could almost write my thought
down now, I believe, as they came to me that afternoon. Effie, restless
little cockney that she was, rustled and struggled in a hedgerow below,
gathering flowers, discovering flowers she had never seen before. I
had. I remember, a letter from Marion in my pocket. I had even made
some tentatives for return, for a reconciliation; Heaven knows now how
I had put it! but her cold, ill-written letter repelled me. I perceived
I could never face that old inconclusive dullness of life again, that
stagnant disappointment. That, anyhow, wasn’t possible. But what was
possible? I could see no way of honour or fine living before me at all.

“What am I to do with life?” that was the question that besieged me.

I wondered if all the world was even as I, urged to this by one motive
and to that by another, creatures of chance and impulse and unmeaning
traditions. Had I indeed to abide by what I had said and done and
chosen? Was there nothing for me in honour but to provide for Effie, go
back penitent to Marion and keep to my trade in rubbish—or find some
fresh one—and so work out the residue of my days? I didn’t accept that
for a moment. But what else was I to do? I wondered if my case was the
case of many men, whether in former ages, too, men had been so
guideless, so uncharted, so haphazard in their journey into life. In
the Middle Ages, in the old Catholic days, one went to a priest, and he
said with all the finality of natural law, this you are and this you
must do. I wondered whether even in the Middle Ages I should have
accepted that ruling without question.

I remember too very distinctly how Effie came and sat beside me on a
little box: that was before the casement window of our room.

“Gloomkins,” said she.

I smiled and remained head on hand, looking out of the window forgetful
of her.

“Did you love your wife so well?” she whispered softly.

“Oh!” I cried, recalled again; “I don’t know. I don’t understand these
things. Life is a thing that hurts, my dear! It hurts without logic or
reason. I’ve blundered! I didn’t understand. Anyhow—there is no need to
go hurting you, is there?”

And I turned about and drew her to me, and kissed her ear....

Yes, I had a very bad time—I still recall. I suffered, I suppose, from
a sort of _ennui_ of the imagination. I found myself without an object
to hold my will together. I sought. I read restlessly and discursively.
I tried Ewart and got no help from him. As I regard it all now in this
retrospect, it seems to me as if in those days of disgust and abandoned
aims I discovered myself for the first time. Before that I had seen
only the world and things in it, had sought them self-forgetful of all
but my impulse. Now I found myself _grouped_ with a system of appetites
and satisfactions, with much work to do—and no desire, it seemed, left
in me.

There were moments when I thought of suicide. At times my life appeared
before me in bleak, relentless light, a series of ignorances, crude
blunderings, degradation and cruelty. I had what the old theologians
call a “conviction of sin.” I sought salvation—not perhaps in the
formula a Methodist preacher would recognise but salvation
nevertheless.

Men find their salvation nowadays in many ways. Names and forms don’t,
I think, matter very much; the real need is something that we can hold
and that holds one. I have known a man find that determining factor in
a dry-plate factory, and another in writing a history of the Manor. So
long as it holds one, it does not matter. Many men and women nowadays
take up some concrete aspect of Socialism or social reform. But
Socialism for me has always been a little bit too human, too set about
with personalities and foolishness. It isn’t my line. I don’t like
things so human. I don’t think I’m blind to the fun, the surprises, the
jolly little coarsenesses and insufficiency of life, to the “humour of
it,” as people say, and to adventure, but that isn’t the root of the
matter with me. There’s no humour in my blood. I’m in earnest in warp
and woof. I stumble and flounder, but I know that over all these merry
immediate things, there are other things that are great and serene,
very high, beautiful things—the reality. I haven’t got it, but it’s
there nevertheless. I’m a spiritual guttersnipe in love with
unimaginable goddesses. I’ve never seen the goddesses nor ever
shall—but it takes all the fun out of the mud—and at times I fear it
takes all the kindliness, too.

But I’m talking of things I can’t expect the reader to understand,
because I don’t half understand them myself. There is something links
things for me, a sunset or so, a mood or so, the high air, something
there was in Marion’s form and colour, something I find and lose in
Mantegna’s pictures, something in the lines of these boats I make. (You
should see X2, my last and best!)

I can’t explain myself, I perceive. Perhaps it all comes to this, that
I am a hard and morally limited cad with a mind beyond my merits.
Naturally I resist that as a complete solution. Anyhow, I had a sense
of inexorable need, of distress and insufficiency that was unendurable,
and for a time this aeronautical engineering allayed it....

In the end of this particular crisis of which I tell so badly, I
idealised Science. I decided that in power and knowledge lay the
salvation of my life, the secret that would fill my need; that to these
things I would give myself.

I emerged at last like a man who has been diving in darkness, clutching
at a new resolve for which he had groped desperately and long.

I came into the inner office suddenly one day—it must have been just
before the time of Marion’s suit for restitution—and sat down before my
uncle.

“Look here,” I said, “I’m sick of this.”

“Hul_lo!_” he answered, and put some papers aside.

“What’s up, George?”

“Things are wrong.”

“As how?”

“My life,” I said, “it’s a mess, an infinite mess.”

“She’s been a stupid girl, George,” he said; “I partly understand. But
you’re quit of her now, practically, and there’s just as good fish in
the sea—”

“Oh! it’s not that!” I cried. “That’s only the part that shows. I’m
sick—I’m sick of all this damned rascality.”

“Eh? Eh?” said my uncle. “_What_—rascality?”

“Oh, _you_ know. I want some _stuff_, man. I want something to hold on
to. I shall go amok if I don’t get it. I’m a different sort of beast
from you. You float in all this bunkum. _I_ feel like a man floundering
in a universe of soapsuds, up and downs, east and west. I can’t stand
it. I must get my foot on something solid or—I don’t know what.”

I laughed at the consternation in his face.

“I mean it,” I said. “I’ve been thinking it over. I’ve made up my mind.
It’s no good arguing. I shall go in for work—real work. No! this isn’t
work; it’s only laborious cheating. But I’ve got an idea! It’s an old
idea—I thought of years ago, but it came back to me. Look here! Why
should I fence about with you? I believe the time has come for flying
to be possible. Real flying!”

“Flying!”

I stuck to that, and it helped me through the worst time in my life. My
uncle, after some half-hearted resistance and a talk with my aunt,
behaved like the father of a spoilt son. He fixed up an arrangement
that gave me capital to play with, released me from too constant a
solicitude for the newer business developments—this was in what I may
call the later Moggs period of our enterprises—and I went to work at
once with grim intensity.

But I will tell of my soaring and flying machines in the proper place.
I’ve been leaving the story of my uncle altogether too long. I wanted
merely to tell how it was I took to this work. I took to these
experiments after I had sought something that Marion in some
indefinable way had seemed to promise. I toiled and forgot myself for a
time, and did many things. Science too has been something of an
irresponsive mistress since, though I’ve served her better than I
served Marion. But at the time Science, with her order, her inhuman
distance, yet steely certainties, saved me from despair.

Well, I have still to fly; but incidentally I have invented the
lightest engines in the world.

I am trying to tell of all the things that happened to me. It’s hard
enough simply to get it put down in the remotest degree right. But this
is a novel, not a treatise. Don’t imagine that I am coming presently to
any sort of solution of my difficulties. Here among my drawings and
hammerings _now_, I still question unanswering problems. All my life
has been at bottom, _seeking_, disbelieving always, dissatisfied always
with the thing seen and the thing believed, seeking something in toil,
in force, in danger, something whose name and nature I do not clearly
understand, something beautiful, worshipful, enduring, mine profoundly
and fundamentally, and the utter redemption of myself; I don’t know—all
I can tell is that it is something I have ever failed to find.

XI

But before I finish this chapter and book altogether and go on with the
great adventure of my uncle’s career. I may perhaps tell what else
remains to tell of Marion and Effie, and then for a time set my private
life behind me.

For a time Marion and I corresponded with some regularity, writing
friendly but rather uninforming letters about small business things.
The clumsy process of divorce completed itself.

She left the house at Ealing and went into the country with her aunt
and parents, taking a small farm near Lewes in Sussex. She put up
glass, she put in heat for her father, happy man! and spoke of figs and
peaches. The thing seemed to promise well throughout a spring and
summer, but the Sussex winter after London was too much for the
Ramboats. They got very muddy and dull; Mr. Ramboat killed a cow by
improper feeding, and that disheartened them all. A twelvemonth saw the
enterprise in difficulties. I had to help her out of this, and then
they returned to London and she went into partnership with Smithie at
Streatham, and ran a business that was intimated on the firm’s
stationery as “Robes.” The parents and aunt were stowed away in a
cottage somewhere. After that the letters became infrequent. But in one
I remember a postscript that had a little stab of our old intimacy:
“Poor old Miggles is dead.”

Nearly eight years slipped by. I grew up. I grew in experience, in
capacity, until I was fully a man, but with many new interests, living
on a larger scale in a wider world than I could have dreamt of in my
Marion days. Her letters become rare and insignificant. At last came a
gap of silence that made me curious. For eighteen months or more I had
nothing from Marion save her quarterly receipts through the bank. Then
I damned at Smithie, and wrote a card to Marion.

“Dear Marion,” I said, “how goes it?”

She astonished me tremendously by telling me she had married again—“a
Mr. Wachorn, a leading agent in the paper-pattern trade.” But she still
wrote on the Ponderevo and Smith (Robes) notepaper, from the Ponderevo
and Smith address.

And that, except for a little difference of opinion about the
continuance of alimony which gave me some passages of anger, and the
use of my name by the firm, which also annoyed me, is the end of
Marion’s history for me, and she vanishes out of this story. I do not
know where she is or what she is doing. I do not know whether she is
alive or dead. It seems to me utterly grotesque that two people who
have stood so close to one another as she and I should be so separated,
but so it is between us.

Effie, too, I have parted from, though I still see her at times.
Between us there was never any intention of marriage nor intimacy of
soul. She had a sudden, fierce, hot-blooded passion for me and I for
her, but I was not her first lover nor her last. She was in another
world from Marion. She had a queer, delightful nature; I’ve no memory
of ever seeing her sullen or malicious. She was—indeed she was
magnificently—eupeptic. That, I think, was the central secret of her
agreeableness, and, moreover, that she was infinitely kind-hearted. I
helped her at last into an opening she coveted, and she amazed me by a
sudden display of business capacity. She has now a typewriting bureau
in Riffle’s Inn, and she runs it with a brisk vigour and considerable
success, albeit a certain plumpness has overtaken her. And she still
loves her kind. She married a year or so ago a boy half her age—a
wretch of a poet, a wretched poet, and given to drugs, a thing with
lank fair hair always getting into his blue eyes, and limp legs. She
did it, she said, because he needed nursing....

But enough of this disaster of my marriage and of my early love
affairs; I have told all that is needed for my picture to explain how I
came to take up aeroplane experiments and engineering science; let me
get back to my essential story, to Tono-Bungay and my uncle’s
promotions and to the vision of the world these things have given me.




BOOK THE THIRD
THE GREAT DAYS OF TONO-BUNGAY




CHAPTER THE FIRST
THE HARDINGHAM HOTEL, AND HOW WE BECAME BIG PEOPLE


I

But now that I resume the main line of my story it may be well to
describe the personal appearance of my uncle as I remember him during
those magnificent years that followed his passage from trade to
finance. The little man plumped up very considerably during the
creation of the Tono-Bungay property, but with the increasing
excitements that followed that first flotation came dyspepsia and a
certain flabbiness and falling away. His abdomen—if the reader will
pardon my taking his features in the order of their value—had at first
a nice full roundness, but afterwards it lost tone without, however,
losing size. He always went as though he was proud of it and would make
as much of it as possible. To the last his movements remained quick and
sudden, his short firm legs, as he walked, seemed to twinkle rather
than display the scissors-stride of common humanity, and he never
seemed to have knees, but instead, a dispersed flexibility of limb.

There was, I seem to remember, a secular intensification of his
features; his nose developed character, became aggressive, stuck out at
the world more and more; the obliquity of his mouth, I think,
increased. From the face that returns to my memory projects a long
cigar that is sometimes cocked jauntily up from the higher corner, that
sometimes droops from the lower;—it was as eloquent as a dog’s tail,
and he removed it only for the more emphatic modes of speech. He
assumed a broad black ribbon for his glasses, and wore them more and
more askew as time went on. His hair seemed to stiffen with success,
but towards the climax it thinned greatly over the crown, and he
brushed it hard back over his ears where, however, it stuck out
fiercely. It always stuck out fiercely over his forehead, up and
forward.

He adopted an urban style of dressing with the onset of Tono-Bungay and
rarely abandoned it. He preferred silk hats with ample rich brims,
often a trifle large for him by modern ideas, and he wore them at
various angles to his axis; his taste in trouserings was towards fairly
emphatic stripes and his trouser cut was neat; he liked his frock-coat
long and full, although that seemed to shorten him. He displayed a
number of valuable rings, and I remember one upon his left little
finger with a large red stone bearing Gnostic symbols. “Clever chaps,
those Gnostics, George,” he told me. “Means a lot. Lucky!” He never had
any but a black mohair watch-chair. In the country he affected grey and
a large grey cloth top-hat, except when motoring; then he would have a
brown deer-stalker cap and a fur suit of esquimaux cut with a sort of
boot-end to the trousers. Of an evening he would wear white waistcoats
and plain gold studs. He hated diamonds. “Flashy,” he said they were.
“Might as well wear—an income tax-receipt. All very well for Park Lane.
Unsold stock. Not my style. Sober financier, George.”

So much for his visible presence. For a time it was very familiar to
the world, for at the crest of the boom he allowed quite a number of
photographs and at least one pencil sketch to be published in the
sixpenny papers.

His voice declined during those years from his early tenor to a flat
rich quality of sound that my knowledge of music is inadequate to
describe. His Zzz-ing inrush of air became less frequent as he ripened,
but returned in moments of excitement. Throughout his career, in spite
of his increasing and at last astounding opulence, his more intimate
habits remained as simple as they had been at Wimblehurst. He would
never avail himself of the services of a valet; at the very climax of
his greatness his trousers were folded by a housemaid and his shoulders
brushed as he left his house or hotel. He became wary about breakfast
as life advanced, and at one time talked much of Dr. Haig and uric
acid. But for other meals he remained reasonably omnivorous. He was
something of a gastronome, and would eat anything he particularly liked
in an audible manner, and perspire upon his forehead. He was a
studiously moderate drinker—except when the spirit of some public
banquet or some great occasion caught him and bore him beyond his
wariness—there he would, as it were, drink inadvertently and become
flushed and talkative—about everything but his business projects.

To make the portrait complete one wants to convey an effect of sudden,
quick bursts of movement like the jumps of a Chinese-cracker to
indicate that his pose whatever it is, has been preceded and will be
followed by a rush. If I were painting him, I should certainly give him
for a background that distressed, uneasy sky that was popular in the
eighteenth century, and at a convenient distance a throbbing motor-car,
very big and contemporary, a secretary hurrying with papers, and an
alert chauffeur.

Such was the figure that created and directed the great property of
Tono-Bungay, and from the successful reconstruction of that company
passed on to a slow crescendo of magnificent creations and promotions
until the whole world of investors marveled. I have already I think,
mentioned how, long before we offered Tono Bungay to the public, we
took over the English agency of certain American specialties. To this
was presently added our exploitation of Moggs’ Domestic Soap, and so he
took up the Domestic Convenience Campaign that, coupled with his
equatorial rotundity and a certain resolute convexity in his bearings
won my uncle his Napoleonic title.

II

It illustrates the romantic element in modern commerce that my uncle
met young Moggs at a city dinner—I think it was the Bottle-makers’
Company—when both were some way advanced beyond the initial sobriety of
the occasion. This was the grandson of the original Moggs, and a very
typical instance of an educated, cultivated, degenerate plutocrat. His
people had taken him about in his youth as the Ruskins took their John
and fostered a passion for history in him, and the actual management of
the Moggs’ industry had devolved upon a cousin and a junior partner.

Mr. Moggs, being of a studious and refined disposition, had just
decided—after a careful search for a congenial subject in which he
would not be constantly reminded of soap—to devote himself to the
History of the Thebaid, when this cousin died suddenly and precipitated
responsibilities upon him. In the frankness of conviviality, Moggs
bewailed the uncongenial task thus thrust into his hands, and my uncle
offered to lighten his burden by a partnership then and there. They
even got to terms—extremely muzzy terms, but terms nevertheless.

Each gentleman wrote the name and address of the other on his cuff, and
they separated in a mood of brotherly carelessness, and next morning
neither seems to have thought to rescue his shirt from the wash until
it was too late. My uncle made a painful struggle—it was one of my
business mornings—to recall name and particulars.

“He was an aquarium-faced, long, blond sort of chap, George, with
glasses and a genteel accent,” he said.

I was puzzled. “Aquarium-faced?”

“You know how they look at you. His stuff was soap, I’m pretty nearly
certain. And he had a name—And the thing was the straightest
Bit-of-All-right you ever. I was clear enough to spot that...”

We went out at last with knitted brows, and wandered up into Finsbury
seeking a good, well-stocked looking grocer. We called first on a
chemist for a pick-me-up for my uncle, and then we found the shop we
needed.

“I want,” said my uncle, “half a pound of every sort of soap you got.
Yes, I want to take them now. Wait a moment, George.... Now what sort
of soap d’you call _that?_”

At the third repetition of that question the young man said, “Moggs’
Domestic.”

“Right,” said my uncle. “You needn’t guess again. Come along, George,
let’s go to a telephone and get on to Moggs. Oh—the order? Certainly. I
confirm it. Send it all—send it all to the Bishop of London; he’ll have
some good use for it—(First-rate man, George, he is—charities and all
that)—and put it down to me, here’s a card—Ponderevo—Tono-Bungay.”

Then we went on to Moggs and found him in a camel-hair dressing-jacket
in a luxurious bed, drinking China tea, and got the shape of everything
but the figures fixed by lunch time.

Young Moggs enlarged my mind considerably; he was a sort of thing I
hadn’t met before; he seemed quite clean and well-informed and he
assured me to never read newspapers nor used soap in any form at all,
“Delicate skin,” he said.

“No objection to our advertising you wide and free?” said my uncle.

“I draw the line at railway stations,” said Moggs, “south-coast cliffs,
theatre programmes, books by me and poetry generally—scenery—oh!—and
the _Mercure de France_.”

“We’ll get along,” said my uncle.

“So long as you don’t annoy me,” said Moggs, lighting a cigarette, “you
can make me as rich as you like.”

We certainly made him no poorer. His was the first firm that was
advertised by a circumstantial history; we even got to illustrated
magazine articles telling of the quaint past of Moggs. We concocted
Moggsiana. Trusting to our partner’s preoccupation with the
uncommercial aspects of life, we gave graceful history—of Moggs the
First, Moggs the Second, Moggs the Third, and Moggs the Fourth. You
must, unless you are very young, remember some of them and our
admirable block of a Georgian shop window. My uncle brought early
nineteenth-century memoirs, soaked himself in the style, and devised
stories about old Moggs the First and the Duke of Wellington, George
the Third and the soap dealer (“almost certainly old Moggs”). Very soon
we had added to the original Moggs’ Primrose several varieties of
scented and superfatted, a “special nurseries used in the household of
the Duke of Kent and for the old Queen in Infancy,” a plate powder,
“the Paragon,” and a knife powder. We roped in a good little
second-rate black-lead firm, and carried their origins back into the
mists of antiquity. It was my uncle’s own unaided idea that we should
associate that commodity with the Black Prince. He became industriously
curious about the past of black-lead. I remember his button-holing the
president of the Pepys Society.

“I say, is there any black-lead in Pepys? You know—black-lead—for
grates! _Or does he pass it over as a matter of course?_”

He became in those days the terror of eminent historians. “Don’t want
your drum and trumpet history—no fear,” he used to say. “Don’t want to
know who was who’s mistress, and why so-and-so devastated such a
province; that’s bound to be all lies and upsy-down anyhow. Not my
affair. Nobody’s affair now. Chaps who did it didn’t clearly know....
What I want to know is, in the Middle Ages, did they do anything for
Housemaid’s Knee? What did they put in their hot baths after jousting,
and was the Black Prince—you know the Black Prince—was he enameled or
painted, or what? I think myself, black-leaded—very likely—like
pipe-clay—but _did_ they use blacking so early?”

So it came about that in designing and writing those Moggs’ Soap
Advertisements, that wrought a revolution in that department of
literature, my uncle was brought to realise not only the lost history,
but also the enormous field for invention and enterprise that lurked
among the little articles, the dustpans and mincers, the mousetraps and
carpet-sweepers that fringe the shops of the oilman and domestic
ironmonger. He was recalled to one of the dreams of his youth, to his
conception of the Ponderevo Patent Flat that had been in his mind so
early as the days before I went to serve him at Wimblehurst. “The Home,
George,” he said, “wants straightening up. Silly muddle! Things that
get in the way. Got to organise it.”

For a time he displayed something like the zeal of a genuine social
reformer in relation to these matters.

“We’ve got to bring the Home Up to Date? That’s my idee, George. We got
to make a civilised domestic machine out of these relics of barbarism.
I’m going to hunt up inventors, make a corner in d’mestic ideas.
Everything. Balls of string that won’t dissolve into a tangle, and gum
that won’t dry into horn. See? Then after conveniences—beauty. Beauty,
George! All these few things ought to be made fit to look at; it’s your
aunt’s idea, that. Beautiful jam-pots! Get one of those new art chaps
to design all the things they make ugly now. Patent carpet-sweepers by
these greenwood chaps, housemaid’s boxes it’ll be a pleasure to fall
over—rich coloured house-flannels. Zzzz. Pails, f’rinstance. Hang ’em
up on the walls like warming-pans. All the polishes and things in such
tins—you’ll want to cuddle ’em, George! See the notion? ‘Sted of all
the silly ugly things we got.”...

We had some magnificent visions; they so affected me that when I passed
ironmongers and oil-shops they seemed to me as full of promise as trees
in late winter, flushed with the effort to burst into leaf and
flower.... And really we did do much towards that very brightness these
shops display. They were dingy things in the eighties compared to what
our efforts have made them now, grey quiet displays.

Well, I don’t intend to write down here the tortuous financial history
of Moggs’ Limited, which was our first development of Moggs and Sons;
nor will I tell very much of how from that we spread ourselves with a
larger and larger conception throughout the chandlery and minor
ironmongery, how we became agents for this little commodity, partners
in that, got a tentacle round the neck of a specialised manufacturer or
so, secured a pull upon this or that supply of raw material, and so
prepared the way for our second flotation, Domestic Utilities; “Do it,”
they reordered it in the city. And then came the reconstruction of
Tono-Bungay, and then “Household services” and the Boom!

That sort of development is not to be told in detail in a novel. I
have, indeed, told much of it elsewhere. It is to be found set out at
length, painfully at length, in my uncle’s examination and mine in the
bankruptcy proceedings, and in my own various statements after his
death. Some people know everything in that story, some know it all too
well, most do not want the details, it is the story of a man of
imagination among figures, and unless you are prepared to collate
columns of pounds, shillings and pence, compare dates and check
additions, you will find it very unmeaning and perplexing. And after
all, you wouldn’t find the early figures so much wrong as _strained_.
In the matter of Moggs and Do Ut, as in the first Tono-Bungay promotion
and in its reconstruction, we left the court by city standards without
a stain on our characters. The great amalgamation of Household Services
was my uncle’s first really big-scale enterprise and his first display
of bolder methods: for this we bought back Do Ut, Moggs (going strong
with a seven per cent. dividend) and acquired Skinnerton’s polishes,
the Riffleshaw properties and the Runcorn’s mincer and coffee-mill
business. To that Amalgamation I was really not a party; I left it to
my uncle because I was then beginning to get keen upon the soaring
experiments I had taken on from the results then to hand of Lilienthal,
Pilcher and the Wright brothers. I was developing a glider into a
flyer. I meant to apply power to this glider as soon as I could work
out one or two residual problems affecting the longitudinal stability.
I knew that I had a sufficiently light motor in my own modification of
Bridger’s light turbine, but I knew too that until I had cured my
aeroplane of a tendency demanding constant alertness from me, a
tendency to jerk up its nose at unexpected moments and slide back upon
me, the application of an engine would be little short of suicide.

But that I will tell about later. The point I was coming to was that I
did not realise until after the crash how recklessly my uncle had kept
his promise of paying a dividend of over eight per cent. on the
ordinary shares of that hugely over-capitalised enterprise, Household
Services.

I drifted out of business affairs into my research much more than
either I or my uncle had contemplated. Finance was much less to my
taste than the organisation of the Tono-Bungay factory. In the new
field of enterprise there was a great deal of bluffing and gambling, of
taking chances and concealing material facts—and these are hateful
things to the scientific type of mind. It wasn’t fear I felt so much as
an uneasy inaccuracy. I didn’t realise dangers, I simply disliked the
sloppy, relaxing quality of this new sort of work. I was at last
constantly making excuses not to come up to him in London. The latter
part of his business career recedes therefore beyond the circle of any
particular life. I lived more or less with him; I talked, I advised, I
helped him at times to fight his Sunday crowd at Crest Hill, but I did
not follow nor guide him. From the Do Ut time onward he rushed up the
financial world like a bubble in water and left me like some busy
water-thing down below in the deeps.

Anyhow, he was an immense success. The public was, I think,
particularly attracted by the homely familiarity of his field of
work—you never lost sight of your investment they felt, with the name
on the house-flannel and shaving-strop—and its allegiance was secured
by the Egyptian solidity of his apparent results. Tono-Bungay, after
its reconstruction, paid thirteen, Moggs seven, Domestic Utilities had
been a safe-looking nine; here was Household Services with eight; on
such a showing he had merely to buy and sell Roeburn’s Antiseptic
fluid, Razor soaks and Bath crystals in three weeks to clear twenty
thousand pounds.

I do think that as a matter of fact Roeburn’s was good value at the
price at which he gave it to the public, at least until it was strained
by ill-conserved advertisement. It was a period of expansion and
confidence; much money was seeking investment and “Industrials” were
the fashion. Prices were rising all round. There remained little more
for my uncle to do therefore, in his climb to the high unstable crest
of Financial Greatness but, as he said, to “grasp the cosmic oyster,
George, while it gaped,” which, being translated, meant for him to buy
respectable businesses confidently and courageously at the vendor’s
estimate, add thirty or forty thousand to the price and sell them
again. His sole difficulty indeed was the tactful management of the
load of shares that each of these transactions left upon his hands. But
I thought so little of these later things that I never fully
appreciated the peculiar inconveniences of that until it was too late
to help him.

III

When I think of my uncle near the days of his Great Boom and in
connection with the actualities of his enterprises, I think of him as I
used to see him in the suite of rooms he occupied in the Hardingham
Hotel, seated at a great old oak writing-table, smoking, drinking, and
incoherently busy; that was his typical financial aspect—our evenings,
our mornings, our holidays, our motor-car expeditions, Lady Grove and
Crest Hill belong to an altogether different set of memories.

These rooms in the Hardingham were a string of apartments along one
handsome thick-carpeted corridor. All the doors upon the corridor were
locked except the first; and my uncle’s bedroom, breakfast-room and
private sanctum were the least accessible and served by an entrance
from the adjacent passage, which he also used at times as a means of
escape from importunate callers. The most eternal room was a general
waiting-room and very business-like in quality; it had one or two
uneasy sofas, a number of chairs, a green baize table, and a collection
of the very best Moggs and Tone posters: and the plush carpets normal
to the Hardingham had been replaced by a grey-green cork linoleum; Here
I would always find a remarkable miscellany of people presided over by
a peculiarly faithful and ferocious looking commissioner, Ropper, who
guarded the door that led a step nearer my uncle. Usually there would
be a parson or so, and one or two widows; hairy, eyeglassy, middle-aged
gentlemen, some of them looking singularly like Edward Ponderevos who
hadn’t come off, a variety of young and youngish men more or less
attractively dressed, some with papers protruding from their pockets,
others with their papers decently concealed. And wonderful, incidental,
frowsy people.

All these persons maintained a practically hopeless siege—sometimes for
weeks together; they had better have stayed at home. Next came a room
full of people who had some sort of appointment, and here one would
find smart-looking people, brilliantly dressed, nervous women hiding
behind magazines, nonconformist divines, clergy in gaiters, real
business men, these latter for the most part gentlemen in admirable
morning dress who stood up and scrutinised my uncle’s taste in water
colours manfully and sometimes by the hour together. Young men again
were here of various social origins, young Americans, treasonable
clerks from other concerns, university young men, keen-looking, most of
them, resolute, reserved, but on a sort of hair trigger, ready at any
moment to be most voluble, most persuasive.

This room had a window, too, looking out into the hotel courtyard with
its fern-set fountains and mosaic pavement, and the young men would
stand against this and sometimes even mutter. One day I heard one
repeating in all urgent whisper as I passed “But you don’t quite see,
Mr. Ponderevo, the full advantages, the _full_ advantages—” I met his
eye and he was embarrassed.

Then came a room with a couple of secretaries—no typewriters, because
my uncle hated the clatter—and a casual person or two sitting about,
projectors whose projects were being entertained. Here and in a further
room nearer the private apartments, my uncle’s correspondence underwent
an exhaustive process of pruning and digestion before it reached him.
Then the two little rooms in which my uncle talked; my magic uncle who
had got the investing public—to whom all things were possible. As one
came in we would find him squatting with his cigar up and an expression
of dubious beatitude upon his face, while some one urged him to grow
still richer by this or that.

“That’ju, George?” he used to say. “Come in. Here’s a thing. Tell
him—Mister—over again. Have a drink, George? No! Wise man! Liss’n.”

I was always ready to listen. All sorts of financial marvels came out
of the Hardingham, more particularly during my uncle’s last great
flurry, but they were nothing to the projects that passed in. It was
the little brown and gold room he sat in usually. He had had it
redecorated by Bordingly and half a dozen Sussex pictures by Webster
hung about it. Latterly he wore a velveteen jacket of a golden-brown
colour in this apartment that I think over-emphasised its esthetic
intention, and he also added some gross Chinese bronzes.

He was, on the whole, a very happy man throughout all that wildly
enterprising time. He made and, as I shall tell in its place, spent
great sums of money. He was constantly in violent motion, constantly
stimulated mentally and physically and rarely tired. About him was an
atmosphere of immense deference much of his waking life was triumphal
and all his dreams. I doubt if he had any dissatisfaction with himself
at all until the crash bore him down. Things must have gone very
rapidly with him.... I think he must have been very happy.

As I sit here writing about all these things, jerking down notes and
throwing them aside in my attempt to give some literary form to the
tale of our promotions, the marvel of it all comes to me as if it came
for the first time the supreme unreason of it. At the climax of his
Boom, my uncle at the most sparing estimate must have possessed in
substance and credit about two million pounds’-worth of property to set
off against his vague colossal liabilities, and from first to last he
must have had a controlling influence in the direction of nearly thirty
millions.

This irrational muddle of a community in which we live gave him that,
paid him at that rate for sitting in a room and scheming and telling it
lies. For he created nothing, he invented nothing, he economised
nothing. I cannot claim that a single one of the great businesses we
organised added any real value to human life at all. Several like
Tono-Bungay were unmitigated frauds by any honest standard, the giving
of nothing coated in advertisements for money. And the things the
Hardingham gave out, I repeat, were nothing to the things that came in.
I think of the long procession of people who sat down before us and
propounded this and that. Now it was a device for selling bread under a
fancy name and so escaping the laws as to weight—this was afterwards
floated as the Decorticated Health-Bread Company and bumped against the
law—now it was a new scheme for still more strident advertisement, now
it was a story of unsuspected deposits of minerals, now a cheap and
nasty substitute for this or that common necessity, now the treachery
of a too well-informed employee, anxious to become our partner. It was
all put to us tentatively, persuasively. Sometimes one had a large pink
blusterous person trying to carry us off our feet by his pseudo-boyish
frankness, now some dyspeptically yellow whisperer, now some earnest,
specially dressed youth with an eye-glass and a buttonhole, now some
homely-speaking, shrewd Manchester man or some Scotchman eager to be
very clear and full.

Many came in couples or trios, often in tow of an explanatory
solicitor. Some were white and earnest, some flustered beyond measure
at their opportunity. Some of them begged and prayed to be taken up. My
uncle chose what he wanted and left the rest. He became very autocratic
to these applicants.

He felt he could make them, and they felt so too. He had but to say
“No!” and they faded out of existence.... He had become a sort of
vortex to which wealth flowed of its own accord. His possessions
increased by heaps; his shares, his leaseholds and mortgages and
debentures.

Behind his first-line things he found it necessary at last, and
sanctioned by all the precincts, to set up three general trading
companies, the London and African Investment Company, the British
Traders’ Loan Company, and Business Organisations Limited. This was in
the culminating time when I had least to do with affairs. I don’t say
that with any desire to exculpate myself; I admit I was a director of
all three, and I will confess I was willfully incurious in that
capacity. Each of these companies ended its financial year solvent by
selling great holdings of shares to one or other of its sisters, and
paying a dividend out of the proceeds. I sat at the table and agreed.
That was our method of equilibrium at the iridescent climax of the
bubble.

You perceive now, however, the nature of the services for which this
fantastic community have him unmanageable wealth and power and real
respect. It was all a monstrous payment for courageous fiction, a
gratuity in return for the one reality of human life—illusion. We gave
them a feeling of hope and profit; we sent a tidal wave of water and
confidence into their stranded affairs. “We mint Faith, George,” said
my uncle one day. “That’s what we do. And by Jove we got to keep
minting! We been making human confidence ever since I drove the first
cork of Tono-Bungay.”

“Coining” would have been a better word than minting! And yet, you
know, in a sense he was right. Civilisation is possible only through
confidence, so that we can bank our money and go unarmed about the
streets. The bank reserve or a policeman keeping order in a jostling
multitude of people, are only slightly less impudent bluffs than my
uncle’s prospectuses. They couldn’t for a moment “make good” if the
quarter of what they guarantee was demanded of them. The whole of this
modern mercantile investing civilisation is indeed such stuff as dreams
are made of. A mass of people swelters and toils, great railway systems
grow, cities arise to the skies and spread wide and far, mines are
opened, factories hum, foundries roar, ships plough the seas, countries
are settled; about this busy striving world the rich owners go,
controlling all, enjoying all, confident and creating the confidence
that draws us all together into a reluctant, nearly unconscious
brotherhood. I wonder and plan my engines. The flags flutter, the
crowds cheer, the legislatures meet. Yet it seems to me indeed at times
that all this present commercial civilisation is no more than my poor
uncle’s career writ large, a swelling, thinning bubble of assurances;
that its arithmetic is just as unsound, its dividends as ill-advised,
its ultimate aim as vague and forgotten; that it all drifts on perhaps
to some tremendous parallel to his individual disaster...

Well, so it was we Boomed, and for four years and a half we lived a
life of mingled substance and moonshine. Until our particular
unsoundness overtook us we went about in the most magnificent of
motor-cars upon tangible high roads, made ourselves conspicuous and
stately in splendid houses, ate sumptuously and had a perpetual stream
of notes and money trickling into our pockets; hundreds of thousands of
men and women respected us, saluted us and gave us toil and honour; I
asked, and my worksheets rose, my aeroplanes swooped out of nothingness
to scare the downland pe-wits; my uncle waved his hand and Lady Grove
and all its associations of chivalry and ancient peace were his; waved
again, and architects were busy planning the great palace he never
finished at Crest Hill and an army of folkmen gathered to do his
bidding, blue marble came from Canada, and timber from New Zealand; and
beneath it all, you know, there was nothing but fictitious values as
evanescent as rainbow gold.

IV

I pass the Hardingham ever and again and glance aside through the great
archway at the fountain and the ferns, and think of those receding days
when I was so near the centre of our eddy of greed and enterprise. I
see again my uncle’s face, white and intent, and hear him discourse,
hear him make consciously Napoleonic decisions, “grip” his nettles, put
his “finger on the spot,” “bluff,” say “snap.” He became particularly
addicted to the last idiom. Towards the end every conceivable act took
the form of saying “snap!”

The odd fish that came to us! And among others came Gordon-Nasmyth,
that queer blend of romance and illegality who was destined to drag me
into the most irrelevant adventure in my life the Mordet Island affair;
and leave me, as they say, with blood upon my hands. It is remarkable
how little it troubles my conscience and how much it stirs my
imagination, that particular memory of the life I took. The story of
Mordet Island has been told in a government report and told all wrong;
there are still excellent reasons for leaving it wrong in places, but
the liveliest appeals of discretion forbid my leaving it out
altogether.

I’ve still the vividest memory of Gordon-Nasmyth’s appearance in the
inner sanctum, a lank, sunburnt person in tweeds with a yellow-brown
hatchet face and one faded blue eye—the other was a closed and sunken
lid—and how he told us with a stiff affectation of ease his incredible
story of this great heap of quap that lay abandoned or undiscovered on
the beach behind Mordet’s Island among white dead mangroves and the
black ooze of brackish water.

“What’s quap?” said my uncle on the fourth repetition of the word.

“They call it quap, or quab, or quabb,” said Gordon-Nasmyth; “but our
relations weren’t friendly enough to get the accent right....

“But there the stuff is for the taking. They don’t know about it.
Nobody knows about it. I got down to the damned place in a canoe alone.
The boys wouldn’t come. I pretended to be botanising.” ...

To begin with, Gordon-Nasmyth was inclined to be dramatic.

“Look here,” he said when he first came in, shutting the door rather
carefully behind him as he spoke, “do you two men—yes or no—want to put
up six thousand—for—a clear good chance of fifteen hundred per cent. on
your money in a year?”

“We’re always getting chances like that,” said my uncle, cocking his
cigar offensively, wiping his glasses and tilting his chair back. “We
stick to a safe twenty.”

Gordon-Nasmyth’s quick temper showed in a slight stiffening of his
attitude.

“Don’t you believe him,” said I, getting up before he could reply.
“You’re different, and I know your books. We’re very glad you’ve come
to us. Confound it, uncle! Its Gordon-Nasmyth! Sit down. What is it?
Minerals?”

“Quap,” said Gordon-Nasmyth, fixing his eye on me, “in heaps.”

“In heaps,” said my uncle softly, with his glasses very oblique.

“You’re only fit for the grocery,” said Gordon-Nasmyth scornfully,
sitting down and helping himself to one of my uncle’s cigars. “I’m
sorry I came. But, still, now I’m here.... And first as to quap; quap,
sir, is the most radio-active stuff in the world. That’s quap! It’s a
festering mass of earths and heavy metals, polonium, radium, ythorium,
thorium, carium, and new things, too. There’s a stuff called
Xk—provisionally. There they are, mucked up together in a sort of
rotting sand. What it is, how it got made, I don’t know. It’s like as
if some young creator had been playing about there. There it lies in
two heaps, one small, one great, and the world for miles about it is
blasted and scorched and dead. You can have it for the getting. You’ve
got to take it—that’s all!”

“That sounds all right,” said I. “Have you samples?”

“Well—_should_ I? You can have anything—up to two ounces.”

“Where is it?”...

His blue eye smiled at me and scrutinised me. He smoked and was
fragmentary for a time, fending off my questions; then his story began
to piece itself together. He conjured up a vision of this strange
forgotten kink in the world’s littoral, of the long meandering channels
that spread and divaricate and spend their burden of mud and silt
within the thunderbelt of Atlantic surf, of the dense tangled
vegetation that creeps into the shimmering water with root and sucker.
He gave a sense of heat and a perpetual reek of vegetable decay, and
told how at last comes a break among these things, an arena fringed
with bone-white dead trees, a sight of the hard-blue sea line beyond
the dazzling surf and a wide desolation of dirty shingle and mud,
bleached and scarred.... A little way off among charred dead weeds
stands the abandoned station,—abandoned because every man who stayed
two months at that station stayed to die, eaten up mysteriously like a
leper with its dismantled sheds and its decaying pier of wormrotten and
oblique piles and planks, still insecurely possible.

And in the midst, two clumsy heaps shaped like the backs of hogs, one
small, one great, sticking out under a rib of rock that cuts the space
across,—quap!

“There it is,” said Gordon-Nasmyth, “worth three pounds an ounce, if
it’s worth a penny; two great heaps of it, rotten stuff and soft, ready
to shovel and wheel, and you may get it by the ton!”

“How did it get there?”

“God knows! ... There it is—for the taking! In a country where you
mustn’t trade. In a country where the company waits for good kind men
to find it riches and then take ’em away from ’em. There you have
it—derelict.”

“Can’t you do any sort of deal?”

“They’re too damned stupid. You’ve got to go and take it. That’s all.”

“They might catch you.”

“They might, of course. But they’re not great at catching.”

We went into the particulars of that difficulty. “They wouldn’t catch
me, because I’d sink first. Give me a yacht,” said Gordon-Nasmyth;
“that’s all I need.”

“But if you get caught,” said my uncle.

I am inclined to think Gordon-Nasmyth imagined we would give him a
cheque for six thousand pounds on the strength of his talk. It was very
good talk, but we didn’t do that. I stipulated for samples of his stuff
for analysis, and he consented—reluctantly.

I think, on the whole, he would rather I didn’t examine samples. He
made a motion pocketwards, that gave us an invincible persuasion that
he had a sample upon him, and that at the last instant he decided not
to produce it prematurely.

There was evidently a curious strain of secretiveness in him. He didn’t
like to give us samples, and he wouldn’t indicate within three hundred
miles the position of this Mordet Island of his. He had it clear in his
mind that he had a secret of immense value, and he had no idea at all
of just how far he ought to go with business people. And so presently,
to gain time for these hesitations of his, he began to talk of other
things. He talked very well. He talked of the Dutch East Indies and of
the Congo, of Portuguese East Africa and Paraguay, of Malays and rich
Chinese merchants, Dyaks and negroes and the spread of the Mahometan
world in Africa to-day. And all this time he was trying to judge if we
were good enough to trust with his adventure. Our cosy inner office
became a little place, and all our business cold and lifeless exploits
beside his glimpses of strange minglings of men, of slayings unavenged
and curious customs, of trade where no writs run, and the dark
treacheries of eastern ports and uncharted channels.

We had neither of us gone abroad except for a few vulgar raids on
Paris; our world was England, are the places of origin of half the raw
material of the goods we sold had seemed to us as remote as fairyland
or the forest of Arden. But Gordon-Nasmyth made it so real and intimate
for us that afternoon—for me, at any rate—that it seemed like something
seen and forgotten and now again remembered.

And in the end he produced his sample, a little lump of muddy clay
speckled with brownish grains, in a glass bottle wrapped about with
lead and flannel—red flannel it was, I remember—a hue which is, I know,
popularly supposed to double all the mystical efficacies of flannel.

“Don’t carry it about on you,” said Gordon-Nasmyth. “It makes a sore.”

I took the stuff to Thorold, and Thorold had the exquisite agony of
discovering two new elements in what was then a confidential analysis.
He has christened them and published since, but at the time
Gordon-Nasmyth wouldn’t hear for a moment of our publication of any
facts at all; indeed, he flew into a violent passion and abused me
mercilessly even for showing the stuff to Thorold. “I thought you were
going to analyse it yourself,” he said with the touching persuasion of
the layman that a scientific man knows and practises at the sciences.

I made some commercial inquiries, and there seemed even then much truth
in Gordon-Nasmyth’s estimate of the value of the stuff. It was before
the days of Capern’s discovery of the value of canadium and his use of
it in the Capern filament, but the cerium and thorium alone were worth
the money he extracted for the gas-mantles then in vogue. There were,
however, doubts. Indeed, there were numerous doubts. What were the
limits of the gas-mantle trade? How much thorium, not to speak of
cerium, could they take at a maximum. Suppose that quantity was high
enough to justify our shipload, came doubts in another quarter. Were
the heaps up to sample? Were they as big as he said? Was
Gordon-Nasmyth—imaginative? And if these values held, could we after
all get the stuff? It wasn’t ours. It was on forbidden ground. You see,
there were doubts of every grade and class in the way of this
adventure.

We went some way, nevertheless, in the discussion of his project,
though I think we tried his patience. Then suddenly he vanished from
London, and I saw no more of him for a year and a half.

My uncle said that was what he had expected, and when at last
Gordon-Nasmyth reappeared and mentioned in an incidental way that he
had been to Paraguay on private (and we guessed passionate) affairs,
the business of the “quap” expedition had to be begun again at the
beginning. My uncle was disposed to be altogether sceptical, but I
wasn’t so decided. I think I was drawn by its picturesque aspects. But
we neither of us dreamt of touching it seriously until Capern’s
discovery.

Nasmyth’s story had laid hold of my imagination like one small, intense
picture of tropical sunshine hung on a wall of grey business affairs. I
kept it going during Gordon-Nasmyth’s intermittent appearances in
England. Every now and then he and I would meet and reinforce its
effect. We would lunch in London, or he would cone to see my gliders at
Crest Hill, and make new projects for getting at those heaps again now
with me, now alone.

At times they became a sort of fairy-story with us, an imaginative
exercise. And there came Capern’s discovery of what he called the ideal
filament and with it an altogether less problematical quality about the
business side of quap. For the ideal filament needed five per cent. of
canadium, and canadium was known to the world only as a newly separated
constituent of a variety of the rare mineral rutile. But to Thorold it
was better known as an element in a mysterious sample brought to him by
me, and to me it was known as one of the elements in quap. I told my
uncle, and we jumped on to the process at once. We found that
Gordon-Nasmyth, still unaware of the altered value of the stuff, and
still thinking of the experimental prices of radium and the rarity
value of cerium, had got hold of a cousin named Pollack, made some
extraordinary transaction about his life insurance policy, and was
buying a brig. We put in, put down three thousand pounds, and forthwith
the life insurance transaction and the Pollack side of this finance
vanished into thin air, leaving Pollack, I regret to say, in the brig
and in the secret—except so far as canadium and the filament went—as
residuum. We discussed earnestly whether we should charter a steamer or
go on with the brig, but we decided on the brig as a less conspicuous
instrument for an enterprise that was after all, to put it plainly,
stealing.

But that was one of our last enterprises before our great crisis, and I
will tell of it in its place.

So it was quap came into our affairs, came in as a fairy-tale and
became real. More and more real it grew until at last it was real,
until at last I saw with my eyes the heaps my imagination had seen for
so long, and felt between my fingers again that half-gritty, half soft
texture of quap, like sanded moist-sugar mixed with clay in which there
stirs something—

One must feel it to understand.

V

All sorts of things came to the Hardingham and offered themselves to my
uncle. Gordon-Nasmyth stands but only because he played a part at last
in the crisis of our fortunes. So much came to us that it seemed to me
at times as though the whole world of human affairs was ready to
prostitute itself to our real and imaginary millions. As I look back, I
am still dazzled and incredulous to think of the quality of our
opportunities.

We did the most extraordinary things; things that it seems absurd to me
to leave to any casual man of wealth and enterprise who cares to do
them. I had some amazing perceptions of just how modern thought and the
supply of fact to the general mind may be controlled by money. Among
other things that my uncle offered for, he tried very hard to buy the
_British Medical Journal_ and the _Lancet_, and run them on what he
called modern lines, and when they resisted him he talked very
vigorously for a time of organising a rival enterprise. That was a very
magnificent idea indeed in its way; it would have given a tremendous
advantage in the handling of innumerable specialties and indeed I
scarcely know how far it would not have put the medical profession in
our grip. It still amazes me—I shall die amazed—that such a thing can
be possible in the modern state. If my uncle failed to bring the thing
off, some one else may succeed. But I doubt, even if he had got both
these weeklies, whether his peculiar style would have suited them. The
change of purpose would have shown. He would have found it difficult to
keep up their dignity.

He certainly did not keep up the dignity of the _Sacred Grove_, an
important critical organ which he acquired one day—by saying “snap”—for
eight hundred pounds. He got it “lock, stock and barrel”—under one or
other of which three aspects the editor was included. Even at that
price it didn’t pay. If you are a literary person you will remember the
bright new cover he gave that representative organ of British
intellectual culture, and how his sound business instincts jarred with
the exalted pretensions of a vanishing age. One old wrapper I
discovered the other day runs:—

“THE SACRED GROVE.”

_A Weekly Magazine of Art, Philosophy, Science and Belles Lettres._

HAVE YOU A NASTY TASTE IN YOUR MOUTH?
IT IS LIVER.

YOU NEED ONE TWENTY-THREE PILL.
(JUST ONE.)
NOT A DRUG BUT A LIVE AMERICAN REMEDY.

CONTENTS.

A Hitherto Unpublished Letter from Walter Pater.
Charlotte Brontë’s Maternal Great Aunt.
A New Catholic History of England.
The Genius of Shakespeare.
Correspondence:—The Mendelian Hypothesis; The Split Infinitive;
“Commence,” or “Begin;” Claverhouse; Socialism and the Individual; The
Dignity of Letters.
Folk-lore Gossip.
The Stage; the Paradox of Acting.
Travel Biography, Verse, Fiction, etc.

THE BEST PILL IN THE WORLD FOR AN IRREGULAR LIVER


I suppose it is some lingering traces of the Bladesover tradition to me
that makes this combination of letters and pills seem so incongruous,
just as I suppose it is a lingering trace of Plutarch and my
ineradicable boyish imagination that at bottom our State should be
wise, sane and dignified, that makes me think a country which leaves
its medical and literary criticism, or indeed any such vitally
important criticism, entirely to private enterprise and open to the
advances of any purchaser must be in a frankly hopeless condition.
These are ideal conceptions of mine.

As a matter of fact, nothing would be more entirely natural and
representative of the relations of learning, thought and the economic
situation in the world at the present time than this cover of the
_Sacred Grove_—the quiet conservatism of the one element embedded in
the aggressive brilliance of the other; the contrasted notes of bold
physiological experiment and extreme mental immobility.

VI

There comes back, too, among these Hardingham memories, an impression
of a drizzling November day, and how we looked out of the windows upon
a procession of the London unemployed.

It was like looking down a well into some momentarily revealed nether
world. Some thousands of needy ineffectual men had been raked together
to trail their spiritless misery through the West Eire with an appeal
that was also in its way a weak and insubstantial threat: “It is Work
we need, not Charity.”

There they were, half-phantom through the fog, a silent, foot-dragging,
interminable, grey procession. They carried wet, dirty banners, they
rattled boxes for pence; these men who had not said “snap” in the right
place, the men who had “snapped” too eagerly, the men who had never
said “snap,” the men who had never had a chance of saying “snap.” A
shambling, shameful stream they made, oozing along the street, the
gutter waste of competitive civilisation. And we stood high out of it
all, as high as if we looked godlike from another world, standing in a
room beautifully lit and furnished, skillfully warmed, filled with
costly things.

“There,” thought I, “but for the grace of God, go George and Edward
Ponderevo.”

But my uncle’s thoughts ran in a different channel, and he made that
vision the test of a spirited but inconclusive harangue upon Tariff
Reform.




CHAPTER THE SECOND
OUR PROGRESS FROM CAMDEN TOWN TO CREST HILL


I

So far my history of my aunt and uncle has dealt chiefly with his
industrial and financial exploits. But side by side with that history
of inflation from the infinitesimal to the immense is another
development, the change year by year from the shabby impecuniosity of
the Camden Town lodging to the lavish munificence of the Crest Hill
marble staircase and my aunt’s golden bed, the bed that was facsimiled
from Fontainebleau. And the odd thing is that as I come to this nearer
part of my story I find it much more difficult to tell than the clear
little perspective memories of the earlier days. Impressions crowd upon
one another and overlap one another; I was presently to fall in love
again, to be seized by a passion to which I still faintly respond, a
passion that still clouds my mind. I came and went between Ealing and
my aunt and uncle, and presently between Effie and clubland, and then
between business and a life of research that became far more
continuous, infinitely more consecutive and memorable than any of these
other sets of experiences. I didn’t witness a regular social progress
therefore; my aunt and uncle went up in the world, so far as I was
concerned, as if they were displayed by an early cinematograph, with
little jumps and flickers.

As I recall this side of our life, the figure of my round-eyes,
button-nosed, pink-and-white Aunt Susan tends always to the central
position. We drove the car and sustained the car, she sat in it with a
magnificent variety of headgear poised upon her delicate neck, and
always with that faint ghost of a lisp no misspelling can
render—commented on and illuminated the new aspects.

I’ve already sketched the little home behind the Wimblehurst chemist’s
shop, the lodging near the Cobden statue, and the apartments in Gower
Street. Thence my aunt and uncle went into a flat in Redgauntlet
Mansions. There they lived when I married. It was a compact flat, with
very little for a woman to do in it In those days my aunt, I think,
used to find the time heavy upon her hands, and so she took to books
and reading, and after a time even to going to lectures in the
afternoon. I began to find unexpected books upon her table:
sociological books, travels, Shaw’s plays. “Hullo!” I said, at the
sight of some volume of the latter.

“I’m keeping a mind, George,” she explained.

“Eh?”

“Keeping a mind. Dogs I never cared for. It’s been a toss-up between
setting up a mind and setting up a soul. It’s jolly lucky for Him and
you it’s a mind. I’ve joined the London Library, and I’m going in for
the Royal Institution and every blessed lecture that comes along next
winter. You’d better look out.”...

And I remember her coming in late one evening with a note-book in her
hand.

“Where ya been, Susan?” said my uncle.

“Birkbeck—Physiology. I’m getting on.” She sat down and took off her
gloves. “You’re just glass to me,” she sighed, and then in a note of
grave reproach: “You old _Package!_ I had no idea! The Things you’ve
kept from me!”

Presently they were setting; up the house at Beckengham, and my aunt
intermitted her intellectual activities. The house at Beckengham was
something of an enterprise for them at that time, a reasonably large
place by the standards of the early years of Tono-Bungay. It was a big,
rather gaunt villa, with a conservatory and a shrubbery, a tennis-lawn,
a quite considerable vegetable garden, and a small disused coach-house.
I had some glimpses of the excitements of its inauguration, but not
many because of the estrangement between my aunt and Marion.

My aunt went into that house with considerable zest, and my uncle
distinguished himself by the thoroughness with which he did the
repainting and replumbing. He had all the drains up and most of the
garden with them, and stood administrative on heaps—administrating
whisky to the workmen. I found him there one day, most Napoleonic, on a
little Elba of dirt, in an atmosphere that defies print. He also, I
remember, chose what he considered cheerful contrasts of colours for
the painting of the woodwork. This exasperated my aunt extremely—she
called him a “Pestilential old Splosher” with an unusual note of
earnestness—and he also enraged her into novelties of abuse by giving
each bedroom the name of some favourite hero—Cliff, Napoleon, Cæsar,
and so forth—and having it painted on the door in gilt letters on a
black label. “Martin Luther” was kept for me. Only her respect for
domestic discipline, she said, prevented her retaliating with “Old
Pondo” on the housemaid’s cupboard.

Also he went and ordered one of the completest sets of garden
requisites I have ever seen—and had them all painted a hard clear blue.
My aunt got herself large tins of a kindlier hued enamel and had
everything secretly recoated, and this done, she found great joy in the
garden and became an ardent rose grower and herbaceous borderer,
leaving her Mind, indeed, to damp evenings and the winter months. When
I think of her at Beckenham, I always think first of her as dressed in
that blue cotton stuff she affected, with her arms in huge gauntleted
gardening gloves, a trowel in one hand and a small but no doubt hardy
and promising annual, limp and very young-looking and sheepish, in the
other.

Beckenham, in the persons of a vicar, a doctor’s wife, and a large
proud lady called Hogberry, “called” on my uncle and aunt almost at
once, so soon in fact as the lawn was down again, and afterwards my
aunt made friends with a quiet gentlewoman next door, a propos of an
overhanging cherry tree and the need of repairing the party fence. So
she resumed her place in society from which she had fallen with the
disaster of Wimblehurst. She made a partially facetious study of the
etiquette of her position, had cards engraved and retaliated calls. And
then she received a card for one of Mrs. Hogberry’s At Homes, gave an
old garden party herself, participated in a bazaar and sale of work,
and was really becoming quite cheerfully entangled in Beckenham society
when she was suddenly taken up by the roots again by my uncle and
transplanted to Chiselhurst.

“Old Trek, George,” she said compactly, “Onward and Up,” when I found
her superintending the loading of two big furniture vans. “Go up and
say good-bye to ‘Martin Luther,’ and then I’ll see what you can do to
help me.”

II

I look into the jumbled stores of the middle distance of memory, and
Beckenham seems to me a quite transitory phase. But really they were
there several years; through nearly all my married life, in fact, and
far longer than the year and odd months we lived together at
Wimblehurst. But the Wimblehurst time with them is fuller in my memory
by far then the Beckenham period. There comes back to me with a quite
considerable amount of detail the effect of that garden party of my
aunt’s and of a little social misbehaviour of which I was guilty on
that occasion. It’s like a scrap from another life. It’s all set in
what is for me a kind of cutaneous feeling, the feeling of rather
ill-cut city clothes, frock coat and grey trousers, and of a high
collar and tie worn in sunshine among flowers. I have still a quite
vivid memory of the little trapezoidal lawn, of the gathering, and
particularly of the hats and feathers of the gathering, of the
parlour-maid and the blue tea-cups, and of the magnificent presence of
Mrs. Hogberry and of her clear, resonant voice. It was a voice that
would have gone with a garden party on a larger scale; it went into
adjacent premises; it included the gardener who was far up the
vegetable patch and technically out of play. The only other men were my
aunt’s doctor, two of the clergy, amiable contrasted men, and Mrs.
Hogberry’s imperfectly grown-up son, a youth just bursting into collar.
The rest were women, except for a young girl or so in a state of
speechless good behaviour. Marion also was there.

Marion and I had arrived a little estranged, and I remember her as a
silent presence, a shadow across all that sunlit emptiness of
intercourse. We had embittered each other with one of those miserable
little disputes that seemed so unavoidable between us. She had, with
the help of Smithie, dressed rather elaborately for the occasion, and
when she saw me prepared to accompany her in, I think it was a grey
suit, she protested that silk hat and frock coat were imperative. I was
recalcitrant, she quoted an illustrated paper showing a garden party
with the King present, and finally I capitulated—but after my evil
habit, resentfully.... Eh, dear! those old quarrels, how pitiful they
were, how trivial! And how sorrowful they are to recall! I think they
grow more sorrowful as I grow older, and all the small passionate
reasons for our mutual anger fade and fade out of memory.

The impression that Beckenham company has left on my mind is one of a
modest unreality; they were all maintaining a front of unspecified
social pretension, and evading the display of the economic facts of the
case. Most of the husbands were “in business” off stage, it would have
been outrageous to ask what the business was—and the wives were giving
their energies to produce, with the assistance of novels and the
illustrated magazines, a moralised version of the afternoon life of the
aristocratic class. They hadn’t the intellectual or moral enterprise of
the upper-class woman, they had no political interests, they had no
views about anything, and consequently they were, I remember, extremely
difficult to talk to. They all sat about in the summer-house and in
garden-chairs, and were very hatty and ruffley and sunshady. Three
ladies and the curate played croquet with a general immense gravity,
broken by occasional loud cries of feigned distress from the curate.
“Oh! Whacking me about again! Augh!”

The dominant social fact that afternoon was Mrs. Hogberry; she took up
a certain position commanding the croquet and went on, as my aunt said
to me in an incidental aside, “like an old Roundabout.” She talked of
the way in which Beckenham society was getting mixed, and turned on to
a touching letter she had recently received from her former nurse at
Little Gossdean. Followed a loud account of Little Gossdean and how
much she and her eight sisters had been looked up to there. “My poor
mother was quite a little Queen there,” she said. “And such _nice_
Common people! People say the country labourers are getting
disrespectful nowadays. It isn’t so—not if they’re properly treated.
Here of course in Beckenham it’s different. I won’t call the people we
get here a Poor—they’re certainly not a proper Poor. They’re Masses. I
always tell Mr. Bugshoot they’re Masses, and ought to be treated as
such.”...

Dim memories of Mrs. Mackridge floated through my mind as I listened to
her....

I was whirled on this roundabout for a bit, and then had the fortune to
fall off into a _tête-à-tête_ with a lady whom my aunt introduced as
Mrs. Mumble—but then she introduced everybody to me as Mumble that
afternoon, either by way of humour or necessity.

That must have been one of my earliest essays in the art of polite
conversation, and I remember that I began by criticising the local
railway service, and that at the third sentence or thereabouts Mrs.
Mumble said in a distinctly bright and encouraging way that she feared
I was a very “frivolous” person.

I wonder now what it was I said that was “frivolous.”

I don’t know what happened to end that conversation, or if it had an
end. I remember talking to one of the clergy for a time rather
awkwardly, and being given a sort of topographical history of
Beckenham, which he assured me time after time was “Quite an old place.
_Quite_ an old place.” As though I had treated it as new and he meant
to be very patient but very convincing. Then we hung up in a distinct
pause, and my aunt rescued me. “George,” she said in a confidential
undertone, “keep the pot a-boiling.” And then audibly, “I say, will you
both old trot about with tea a bit?”

“Only too delighted to _trot_ for you, Mrs. Ponderevo,” said the
clergyman, becoming fearfully expert and in his elements; “only too
delighted.”

I found we were near a rustic table, and that the housemaid was behind
us in a suitable position to catch us on the rebound with the tea
things.

“Trot!” repeated the clergyman to me, much amused; “excellent
expression!” And I just saved him from the tray as he turned about.

We handed tea for a while....

“Give ’em cakes,” said my aunt, flushed, but well in hand. “Helps ’em
to talk, George. Always talk best after a little nourishment. Like
throwing a bit of turf down an old geyser.”

She surveyed the gathering with a predominant blue eye and helped
herself to tea.

“They keep on going stiff,” she said in an undertone.... “I’ve done my
best.”

“It’s been a huge success,” I said encouragingly.

“That boy has had his legs crossed in that position and hasn’t spoken
for ten minutes. Stiffer and stiffer. Brittle. He’s beginning a dry
cough—always a bad sign, George.... Walk ’em about, shall I?—rub their
noses with snow?”

Happily she didn’t. I got myself involved with the gentlewoman from
next door, a pensive, languid-looking little woman with a low voice,
and fell talking; our topic, Cats and Dogs, and which it was we liked
best.

“I always feel,” said the pensive little woman, “that there’s something
about a dog—A cat hasn’t got it.”

“Yes,” I found myself admitting with great enthusiasm, “there is
something. And yet again—”

“Oh! I know there’s something about a cat, too. But it isn’t the same.”

“Not quite the same,” I admitted; “but still it’s something.”

“Ah! But such a different something!”

“More sinuous.”

“Much more.”

“Ever so much more.”

“It makes all the difference, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” I said, “_all_.”

She glanced at me gravely and sighed a long, deeply felt “_Yes_.”

A long pause.

The thing seemed to me to amount to a stale-mate. Fear came into my
heart and much perplexity.

“The—er—Roses,” I said. I felt like a drowning man. “Those roses—don’t
you think they are—very beautiful flowers?”

“Aren’t they!” she agreed gently. “There seems to be something in
roses—something—I don’t know how to express it.”

“Something,” I said helpfully.

“Yes,” she said, “something. Isn’t there?”

“So few people see it,” I said; “more’s the pity!”

She sighed and said again very softly, “_Yes_.”...

There was another long pause. I looked at her and she was thinking
dreamily. The drowning sensation returned, the fear and enfeeblement. I
perceived by a sort of inspiration that her tea-cup was empty.

“Let me take your cup,” I said abruptly, and, that secured, made for
the table by the summer-house. I had no intention then of deserting my
aunt. But close at hand the big French window of the drawing-room
yawned inviting and suggestive. I can feel all that temptation now, and
particularly the provocation of my collar. In an instant I was lost. I
would—Just for a moment!

I dashed in, put down the cup on the keys of the grand piano and fled
upstairs, softly, swiftly, three steps at a time, to the sanctuary of
my uncle’s study, his snuggery. I arrived there breathless, convinced
there was no return for me. I was very glad and ashamed of myself, and
desperate. By means of a penknife I contrived to break open his cabinet
of cigars, drew a chair to the window, took off my coat, collar and
tie, and remained smoking guiltily and rebelliously, and peeping
through the blind at the assembly on the lawn until it was altogether
gone....

The clergymen, I thought, were wonderful.

III

A few such pictures of those early days at Beckenham stand out, and
then I find myself among the Chiselhurst memories. The Chiselhurst
mansion had “grounds” rather than a mere garden, and there was a
gardener’s cottage and a little lodge at the gate. The ascendant
movement was always far more in evidence there than at Beckenham. The
velocity was increasing.

One night picks itself out as typical, as, in its way, marking an
epoch. I was there, I think, about some advertisement stuff, on some
sort of business anyhow, and my uncle and aunt had come back in a fly
from a dinner at the Runcorns. (Even there he was nibbling at Runcorn
with the idea of our great Amalgamation budding in his mind.) I got
down there, I suppose, about eleven. I found the two of them sitting in
the study, my aunt on a chair-arm with a whimsical pensiveness on her
face, regarding my uncle, and he, much extended and very rotund, in the
low arm-chair drawn up to the fender.

“Look here, George,” said my uncle, after my first greetings. “I just
been saying: We aren’t Oh Fay!”

“Eh?”

“Not Oh Fay! Socially!”

“Old _Fly_, he means, George—French!”

“Oh! Didn’t think of French. One never knows where to have him. What’s
gone wrong to-night?”

“I been thinking. It isn’t any particular thing. I ate too much of that
fishy stuff at first, like salt frog spawn, and was a bit confused by
olives; and—well, I didn’t know which wine was which. Had to say _that_
each time. It puts your talk all wrong. And she wasn’t in evening
dress, not like the others. We can’t go on in that style, George—not a
proper ad.”

“I’m not sure you were right,” I said, “in having a fly.”

“We got to do it all better,” said my uncle, “we got to do it in Style.
Smart business, smart men. She tries to pass it off as humorous”—my
aunt pulled a grimace—“it isn’t humorous! See! We’re on the up-grade
now, fair and square. We’re going to be big. We aren’t going to be
laughed at as Poovenoos, see!”

“Nobody laughed at you,” said my aunt. “Old Bladder!”

“Nobody isn’t going to laugh at me,” said my uncle, glancing at his
contours and suddenly sitting up.

My aunt raised her eyebrows slightly, swung her foot, and said nothing.

“We aren’t keeping pace with our own progress, George. We got to. We’re
bumping against new people, and they set up to be gentlefolks—etiquette
dinners and all the rest of it. They give themselves airs and expect us
to be fish-out-of-water. We aren’t going to be. They think we’ve no
Style. Well, we give them Style for our advertisements, and we’re going
to give ’em Style all through.... You needn’t be born to it to dance
well on the wires of the Bond Street tradesmen. See?”

I handed him the cigar-box.

“Runcorn hadn’t cigars like these,” he said, truncating one lovingly.
“We beat him at cigars. We’ll beat him all round.”

My aunt and I regarded him, full of apprehensions.

“I got idees,” he said darkly to the cigar, deepening our dread.

He pocketed his cigar-cutter and spoke again.

“We got to learn all the rotten little game first. See, F’rinstance, we
got to get samples of all the blessed wines there are—and learn ’em up.
Stern, Smoor, Burgundy, all of ’em! She took Stern to-night—and when
she tasted it first—you pulled a face, Susan, you did. I saw you. It
surprised you. You bunched your nose. We got to get used to wine and
not do that. We got to get used to wearing evening dress—_you_, Susan,
too.”

“Always have had a tendency to stick out of my clothes,” said my aunt.
“However—Who cares?” She shrugged her shoulders.

I had never seen my uncle so immensely serious.

“Got to get the hang of etiquette,” he went on to the fire. “Horses
even. Practise everything. Dine every night in evening dress.... Get a
brougham or something. Learn up golf and tennis and things. Country
gentleman. Oh Fay. It isn’t only freedom from Goochery.”

“Eh?” I said.

“Oh!—Gawshery, if you like!”

“French, George,” said my aunt. “But _I’m_ not ol’ Gooch. I made that
face for fun.”

“It isn’t only freedom from Gawshery. We got to have Style. See! Style!
Just all right and one better. That’s what I call Style. We can do it,
and we will.”

He mumbled his cigar and smoked for a space, leaning forward and
looking into the fire.

“What is it,” he asked, “after all? What is it? Tips about eating; tips
about drinking. Clothes. How to hold yourself, and not say jes’ the few
little things they know for certain are wrong—jes’ the shibboleth
things.”

He was silent again, and the cigar crept up from the horizontal towards
the zenith as the confidence of his mouth increased.

“Learn the whole bag of tricks in six months.” he said, becoming more
cheerful. “Ah, Susan? Beat it out! George, you in particular ought to
get hold of it. Ought to get into a good club, and all that.”

“Always ready to learn!” I said. “Ever since you gave me the chance of
Latin. So far we don’t seem to have hit upon any Latin-speaking stratum
in the population.”

“We’ve come to French,” said my aunt, “anyhow.”

“It’s a very useful language,” said my uncle. “Put a point on things.
Zzzz. As for accent, no Englishman has an accent. No Englishman
pronounces French properly. Don’t you tell _me_. It’s a Bluff.—It’s all
a Bluff. Life’s a Bluff—practically. That’s why it’s so important,
Susan, for us to attend to Style. Le Steel Say Lum. The Style it’s the
man. Whad you laughing at, Susan? George, you’re not smoking. These
cigars are good for the mind.... What do _you_ think of it all? We got
to adapt ourselves. We have—so far.... Not going to be beat by these
silly things.”

IV

“What do you think of it, George?” he insisted.

What I said I thought of it I don’t now recall. Only I have very
distinctly the impression of meeting for a moment my aunt’s
impenetrable eye. And anyhow he started in with his accustomed energy
to rape the mysteries of the Costly Life, and become the calmest of its
lords. On the whole, I think he did it—thoroughly. I have crowded
memories, a little difficult to disentangle, of his experimental
stages, his experimental proceedings. It’s hard at times to say which
memory comes in front of which. I recall him as presenting on the whole
a series of small surprises, as being again and again, unexpectedly, a
little more self-confident, a little more polished, a little richer and
finer, a little more aware of the positions and values of things and
men.

There was a time—it must have been very early—when I saw him deeply
impressed by the splendours of the dining-room of the National Liberal
Club. Heaven knows who our host was or what that particular little
“feed” was about now!—all that sticks is the impression of our
straggling entry, a string of six or seven guests, and my uncle looking
about him at the numerous bright red-shaded tables, at the exotics in
great Majolica jars, at the shining ceramic columns and pilasters, at
the impressive portraits of Liberal statesmen and heroes, and all that
contributes to the ensemble of that palatial spectacle. He was betrayed
into a whisper to me, “This is all Right, George!” he said. That
artless comment seems almost incredible as I set it down; there came a
time so speedily when not even the clubs of New York could have
overawed my uncle, and when he could walk through the bowing
magnificence of the Royal Grand Hotel to his chosen table in that
aggressively exquisite gallery upon the river, with all the easy calm
of one of earth’s legitimate kings.

The two of them learnt the new game rapidly and well; they experimented
abroad, they experimented at home. At Chiselhurst, with the aid of a
new, very costly, but highly instructive cook, they tried over
everything they heard of that roused their curiosity and had any
reputation for difficulty, from asparagus to plover’s eggs. They
afterwards got a gardener who could wait at table—and he brought the
soil home to one. Then there came a butler.

I remember my aunt’s first dinner-gown very brightly, and how she stood
before the fire in the drawing-room confessing once unsuspected pretty
arms with all the courage she possessed, and looking over her shoulder
at herself in a mirror.

“A ham,” she remarked reflectively, “must feel like this. Just a
necklace.”...

I attempted, I think, some commonplace compliment.

My uncle appeared at the door in a white waistcoat and with his hands
in his trouser pockets; he halted and surveyed her critically.

“Couldn’t tell you from a duchess, Susan,” he remarked. “I’d like to
have you painted, standin’ at the fire like that. Sargent! You
look—spirited, somehow. Lord!—I wish some of those damned tradesmen at
Wimblehurst could see you.”...

They did a lot of week-ending at hotels, and sometimes I went down with
them. We seemed to fall into a vast drifting crowd of social learners.
I don’t know whether it is due simply to my changed circumstances, but
it seems to me there have been immensely disproportionate developments
of the hotel-frequenting and restaurant-using population during the
last twenty years. It is not only, I think, that there are crowds of
people who, like we were, are in the economically ascendant phase, but
whole masses of the prosperous section of the population must be
altering its habits, giving up high-tea for dinner and taking to
evening dress, using the week-end hotels as a practise-ground for these
new social arts. A swift and systematic conversion to gentility has
been going on, I am convinced, throughout the whole commercial
upper-middle class since I was twenty-one. Curiously mixed was the
personal quality of the people one saw in these raids. There were
conscientiously refined and low-voiced people reeking with proud
bashfulness; there were aggressively smart people using pet diminutives
for each other loudly and seeking fresh occasions for brilliant
rudeness; there were awkward husbands and wives quarrelling furtively
about their manners and ill at ease under the eye of the winter;
cheerfully amiable and often discrepant couples with a disposition to
inconspicuous corners, and the jolly sort, affecting an unaffected
ease; plump happy ladies who laughed too loud, and gentlemen in evening
dress who subsequently “got their pipes.” And nobody, you knew, was
anybody, however expensively they dressed and whatever rooms they took.

I look back now with a curious remoteness of spirit to those crowded
dining-rooms with their dispersed tables and their inevitable
red-shaded lights and the unsympathetic, unskillful waiters, and the
choice of “Thig or Glear, Sir?” I’ve not dined in that way, in that
sort of place, now for five years—it must be quite five years, so
specialised and narrow is my life becoming.

My uncle’s earlier motor-car phases work in with these associations,
and there stands out a little bright vignette of the hall of the
Magnificent, Bexhill-on-Sea, and people dressed for dinner and sitting
about amidst the scarlet furniture—satin and white-enameled woodwork
until the gong should gather them; and my aunt is there, very
marvelously wrapped about in a dust cloak and a cage-like veil, and
there are hotel porters and under-porters very alert, and an obsequious
manager; and the tall young lady in black from the office is surprised
into admiration, and in the middle of the picture is my uncle, making
his first appearance in that Esquimaux costume I have already
mentioned, a short figure, compactly immense, hugely goggled, wearing a
sort of brown rubber proboscis, and surmounted by a table-land of
motoring cap.

V

So it was we recognised our new needs as fresh invaders of the upper
levels of the social system, and set ourselves quite consciously to the
acquisition of Style and _Savoir Faire_. We became part of what is
nowadays quite an important element in the confusion of our world, that
multitude of economically ascendant people who are learning how to
spend money. It is made up of financial people, the owners of the
businesses that are eating up their competitors, inventors of new
sources of wealth, such as ourselves; it includes nearly all America as
one sees it on the European stage. It is a various multitude having
only this in common: they are all moving, and particularly their
womankind are moving, from conditions in which means were insistently
finite, things were few, and customs simple, towards a limitless
expenditure and the sphere of attraction of Bond Street, Fifth Avenue,
and Paris. Their general effect is one of progressive revolution, of
limitless rope.

They discover suddenly indulgences their moral code never foresaw and
has no provision for, elaborations, ornaments, possessions beyond their
wildest dreams. With an immense astonished zest they begin _shopping_,
begin a systematic adaptation to a new life crowded and brilliant with
things shopped, with jewels, maids, butlers, coachmen, electric
broughams, hired town and country houses. They plunge into it as one
plunges into a career; as a class, they talk, think, and dream
possessions. Their literature, their Press, turns all on that; immense
illustrated weeklies of unsurpassed magnificence guide them in domestic
architecture, in the art of owning a garden, in the achievement of the
sumptuous in motor-cars, in an elaborate sporting equipment, in the
purchase and control of their estates, in travel and stupendous hotels.
Once they begin to move they go far and fast. Acquisition becomes the
substance of their lives. They find a world organised to gratify that
passion. In a brief year or so they are connoisseurs. They join in the
plunder of the eighteenth century, buy rare old books, fine old
pictures, good old furniture. Their first crude conception of dazzling
suites of the newly perfect is replaced almost from the outset by a
jackdaw dream of accumulating costly discrepant old things.

I seem to remember my uncle taking to shopping quite suddenly. In the
Beckenham days and in the early Chiselhurst days he was chiefly
interested in getting money, and except for his onslaught on the
Beckenham house, bothered very little about his personal surroundings
and possessions. I forget now when the change came and he began to
spend. Some accident must have revealed to him this new source of
power, or some subtle shifting occurred in the tissues of his brain. He
began to spend and “shop.” So soon as he began to shop, he began to
shop violently. He began buying pictures, and then, oddly enough, old
clocks. For the Chiselhurst house he bought nearly a dozen grandfather
clocks and three copper warming pans. After that he bought much
furniture. Then he plunged into art patronage, and began to commission
pictures and to make presents to churches and institutions. His buying
increased with a regular acceleration. Its development was a part of
the mental changes that came to him in the wild excitements of the last
four years of his ascent. Towards the climax he was a furious spender;
he shopped with large unexpected purchases, he shopped like a mind
seeking expression, he shopped to astonish and dismay; shopped
_crescendo_, shopped _fortissimo, con molto espressione_ until the
magnificent smash of Crest Hill eroded his shopping for ever. Always it
was he who shopped. My aunt did not shine as a purchaser. It is a
curious thing, due to I know not what fine strain in her composition,
that my aunt never set any great store upon possessions. She plunged
through that crowded bazaar of Vanity Fair during those feverish years,
spending no doubt freely and largely, but spending with detachment and
a touch of humorous contempt for the things, even the “old” things,
that money can buy. It came to me suddenly one afternoon just how
detached she was, as I saw her going towards the Hardingham, sitting
up, as she always did, rather stiffly in her electric brougham,
regarding the glittering world with interested and ironically innocent
blue eyes from under the brim of a hat that defied comment. “No one,” I
thought, “would sit so apart if she hadn’t dreams—and what are her
dreams?”

I’d never thought.

And I remember, too, an outburst of scornful description after she had
lunched with a party of women at the Imperial Cosmic Club. She came
round to my rooms on the chance of finding me there, and I gave her
tea. She professed herself tired and cross, and flung herself into my
chair....

“George,” she cried, “the Things women are! Do _I_ stink of money?”

“Lunching?” I asked.

She nodded.

“Plutocratic ladies?”

“Yes.”

“Oriental type?”

“Oh! Like a burst hareem!... Bragging of possessions.... They feel you.
They feel your clothes, George, to see if they are good!”

I soothed her as well as I could. “They _are_ Good aren’t they?” I
said.

“It’s the old pawnshop in their blood,” she said, drinking tea; and
then in infinite disgust, “They run their hands over your clothes—they
paw you.”

I had a moment of doubt whether perhaps she had not been discovered in
possession of unsuspected forgeries. I don’t know. After that my eyes
were quickened, and I began to see for myself women running their hands
over other women’s furs, scrutinising their lace, even demanding to
handle jewelry, appraising, envying, testing. They have a kind of
etiquette. The woman who feels says, “What beautiful sables?” “What
lovely lace?” The woman felt admits proudly: “It’s Real, you know,” or
disavows pretension modestly and hastily, “It’s Rot Good.” In each
other’s houses they peer at the pictures, handle the selvage of
hangings, look at the bottoms of china....

I wonder if it IS the old pawnshop in the blood.

I doubt if Lady Drew and the Olympians did that sort of thing, but here
I may be only clinging to another of my former illusions about
aristocracy and the State. Perhaps always possessions have been Booty,
and never anywhere has there been such a thing as house and furnishings
native and natural to the women and men who made use of them....

VI

For me, at least, it marked an epoch in my uncle’s career when I learnt
one day that he had “shopped” Lady Grove. I realised a fresh, wide,
unpreluded step. He took me by surprise with the sudden change of scale
from such portable possessions as jewels and motor-cars to a stretch of
countryside. The transaction was Napoleonic; he was told of the place;
he said “snap”; there were no preliminary desirings or searchings. Then
he came home and said what he had done. Even my aunt was for a day or
so measurably awestricken by this exploit in purchase, and we both went
down with him to see the house in a mood near consternation. It struck
us then as a very lordly place indeed. I remember the three of us
standing on the terrace that looked westward, surveying the
sky-reflecting windows of the house, and a feeling of unwarrantable
intrusion comes back to me.

Lady Grove, you know, is a very beautiful house indeed, a still and
gracious place, whose age-long seclusion was only effectively broken
with the toot of the coming of the motor-car. An old Catholic family
had died out in it, century by century, and was now altogether dead.
Portions of the fabric are thirteenth century, and its last
architectural revision was Tudor; within, it is for the most part dark
and chilly, save for two or three favoured rooms and its tall-windowed,
oak-galleried hall. Its terrace is its noblest feature; a very wide,
broad lawn it is, bordered by a low stone battlement, and there is a
great cedar in one corner under whose level branches one looks out
across the blue distances of the Weald, blue distances that are made
extraordinarily Italian in quality by virtue of the dark masses of that
single tree. It is a very high terrace; southward one looks down upon
the tops of wayfaring trees and spruces, and westward on a steep slope
of beechwood, through which the road comes. One turns back to the still
old house, and sees a grey and lichenous façade with a very finely
arched entrance. It was warmed by the afternoon light and touched with
the colour of a few neglected roses and a pyracanthus. It seemed to me
that the most modern owner conceivable in this serene fine place was
some bearded scholarly man in a black cassock, gentle-voiced and
white-handed, or some very soft-robed, grey gentlewoman. And there was
my uncle holding his goggles in a sealskin glove, wiping the glass with
a pocket-handkerchief, and asking my aunt if Lady Grove wasn’t a “Bit
of all Right.”

My aunt made him no answer.

“The man who built this,” I speculated, “wore armour and carried a
sword.”

“There’s some of it inside still,” said my uncle.

We went inside. An old woman with very white hair was in charge of the
place and cringed rather obviously to the new master. She evidently
found him a very strange and frightful apparition indeed, and was
dreadfully afraid of him. But if the surviving present bowed down to
us, the past did not. We stood up to the dark, long portraits of the
extinguished race—one was a Holbein—and looked them in their sidelong
eyes. They looked back at us. We all, I know, felt the enigmatical
quality in them. Even my uncle was momentarily embarrassed, I think, by
that invincibly self-complacent expression. It was just as though,
after all, he had _not_ bought them up and replaced them altogether; as
though that, secretly, they knew better and could smile at him.

The spirit of the place was akin to Bladesover, but touched with
something older and remoter. That armour that stood about had once
served in tilt-yards, if indeed it had not served in battle, and this
family had sent its blood and treasure, time after time, upon the most
romantic quest in history, to Palestine. Dreams, loyalties, place and
honour, how utterly had it all evaporated, leaving, at last, the final
expression of its spirit, these quaint painted smiles, these smiles of
triumphant completion! It had evaporated, indeed, long before the
ultimate Durgan had died, and in his old age he had cumbered the place
with Early Victorian cushions and carpets and tapestry table-cloths and
invalid appliances of a type even more extinct, it seemed to us, than
the crusades.... Yes, it was different from Bladesover.

“Bit stuffy, George,” said my uncle. “They hadn’t much idea of
ventilation when this was built.”

One of the panelled rooms was half-filled with presses and a
four-poster bed. “Might be the ghost room,” said my uncle; but it did
not seem to me that so retiring a family as the Durgans, so old and
completely exhausted a family as the Durgans, was likely to haunt
anybody. What living thing now had any concern with their honour and
judgments and good and evil deeds? Ghosts and witchcraft were a later
innovation—that fashion came from Scotland with the Stuarts.

Afterwards, prying for epitaphs, we found a marble crusader with a
broken nose, under a battered canopy of fretted stone, outside the
restricted limits of the present Duffield church, and half buried in
nettles. “Ichabod,” said my uncle. “Eh? We shall be like that, Susan,
some day.... I’m going to clean him up a bit and put a railing to keep
off the children.”

“Old saved at the eleventh hour,” said my aunt, quoting one of the less
successful advertisements of Tono-Bungay.

But I don’t think my uncle heard her.

It was by our captured crusader that the vicar found us. He came round
the corner at us briskly, a little out of breath. He had an air of
having been running after us since the first toot of our horn had
warned the village of our presence. He was an Oxford man, clean-shaven,
with a cadaverous complexion and a guardedly respectful manner, a
cultivated intonation, and a general air of accommodation to the new
order of things. These Oxford men are the Greeks of our plutocratic
empire. He was a Tory in spirit, and what one may call an adapted Tory
by stress of circumstances; that is to say, he was no longer a
legitimist; he was prepared for the substitution of new lords for old.
We were pill vendors he knew, and no doubt horribly vulgar in soul; but
then it might have been some polygamous Indian rajah, a great strain on
a good man’s tact, or some Jew with an inherited expression of
contempt. Anyhow, we were English, and neither Dissenters nor
Socialists, and he was cheerfully prepared to do what he could to make
gentlemen of both of us. He might have preferred Americans for some
reasons; they are not so obviously taken from one part of the social
system and dumped down in another, and they are more teachable; but in
this world we cannot always be choosers. So he was very bright and
pleasant with us, showed us the church, gossiped informingly about our
neighbours on the countryside—Tux, the banker; Lord Boom, the magazine
and newspaper proprietor; Lord Carnaby, that great sportsman, and old
Lady Osprey. And finally he took us by way of a village lane—three
children bobbed convulsively with eyes of terror for my uncle—through a
meticulous garden to a big, slovenly Vicarage with faded Victorian
furniture and a faded Victorian wife, who gave us tea and introduced us
to a confusing family dispersed among a lot of disintegrating basket
chairs upon the edge of a well-used tennis lawn.

These people interested me. They were a common type, no doubt, but they
were new to me. There were two lank sons who had been playing singles
at tennis, red-eared youths growing black moustaches, and dressed in
conscientiously untidy tweeds and unbuttoned and ungirt Norfolk
jackets. There were a number of ill-nourished-looking daughters,
sensible and economical in their costume, the younger still with long,
brown-stockinged legs, and the eldest present—there were, we
discovered, one or two hidden away—displaying a large gold cross and
other aggressive ecclesiastical symbols; there were two or three
fox-terriers, a retrieverish mongrel, and an old, bloody-eyed and very
evil-smelling St. Bernard. There was a jackdaw. There was, moreover, an
ambiguous, silent lady that my aunt subsequently decided must be a very
deaf paying guest. Two or three other people had concealed themselves
at our coming and left unfinished teas behind them. Rugs and cushions
lay among the chairs, and two of the latter were, I noted, covered with
Union Jacks.

The vicar introduced us sketchily, and the faded Victorian wife
regarded my aunt with a mixture of conventional scorn and abject
respect, and talked to her in a languid, persistent voice about people
in the neighbourhood whom my aunt could not possibly know.

My aunt received these personalia cheerfully, with her blue eyes
flitting from point to point, and coming back again and again to the
pinched faces of the daughters and the cross upon the eldest’s breast.
Encouraged by my aunt’s manner, the vicar’s wife grew patronising and
kindly, and made it evident that she could do much to bridge the social
gulf between ourselves and the people of family about us.

I had just snatches of that conversation. “Mrs. Merridew brought him
quite a lot of money. Her father, I believe, had been in the Spanish
wine trade—quite a lady though. And after that he fell off his horse
and cracked his brain pan and took to fishing and farming. I’m sure
you’ll like to know them. He’s _most_ amusing.... The daughter had a
disappointment and went to China as a missionary and got mixed up in a
massacre.”...

“The most beautiful silks and things she brought back, you’d hardly
believe!”

“Yes, they gave them to propitiate her. You see, they didn’t understand
the difference, and they thought that as they’d been massacring people,
_they’d_ be massacred. They didn’t understand the difference
Christianity makes.”...

“Seven bishops they’ve had in the family!”

“Married a Papist and was quite lost to them.”...

“He failed some dreadful examination and had to go into the
militia.”...

“So she bit his leg as hard as ever she could and he let go.”...

“Had four of his ribs amputated.”...

“Caught meningitis and was carried off in a week.”

“Had to have a large piece of silver tube let into his throat, and if
he wants to talk he puts his finger on it. It makes him so interesting,
I think. You feel he’s sincere somehow. A most charming man in every
way.”

“Preserved them both in spirits very luckily, and there they are in his
study, though of course he doesn’t show them to everybody.”

The silent lady, unperturbed by these apparently exciting topics,
scrutinised my aunt’s costume with a singular intensity, and was
visibly moved when she unbuttoned her dust cloak and flung it wide.
Meanwhile we men conversed, one of the more spirited daughters listened
brightly, and the youths lay on the grass at our feet. My uncle offered
them cigars, but they both declined,—out of bashfulness, it seemed to
me, whereas the vicar, I think, accepted out of tact. When we were not
looking at them directly, these young men would kick each other
furtively.

Under the influence of my uncle’s cigar, the vicar’s mind had soared
beyond the limits of the district. “This Socialism,” he said, “seems
making great headway.”

My uncle shook his head. “We’re too individualistic in this country for
that sort of nonsense,” he said “Everybody’s business is nobody’s
business. That’s where they go wrong.”

“They have some intelligent people in their ranks, I am told,” said the
vicar, “writers and so forth. Quite a distinguished playwright, my
eldest daughter was telling me—I forget his name.

“Milly, dear! Oh! she’s not here. Painters, too, they have. This
Socialist, it seems to me, is part of the Unrest of the Age.... But, as
you say, the spirit of the people is against it. In the country, at any
rate. The people down here are too sturdily independent in their small
way—and too sensible altogether.”...

“It’s a great thing for Duffield to have Lady Grove occupied again,” he
was saying when my wandering attention came back from some attractive
casualty in his wife’s discourse. “People have always looked up to the
house and considering all things, old Mr. Durgan really was
extraordinarily good—extraordinarily good. You intend to give us a good
deal of your time here, I hope.”

“I mean to do my duty by the Parish,” said my uncle.

“I’m sincerely glad to hear it—sincerely. We’ve missed—the house
influence. An English village isn’t complete—People get out of hand.
Life grows dull. The young people drift away to London.”

He enjoyed his cigar gingerly for a moment.

“We shall look to you to liven things up,” he said, poor man!

My uncle cocked his cigar and removed it from his mouth.

“What you think the place wants?” he asked.

He did not wait for an answer. “I been thinking while you been
talking—things one might do. Cricket—a good English game—sports. Build
the chaps a pavilion perhaps. Then every village ought to have a
miniature rifle range.”

“Ye-ees,” said the vicar. “Provided, of course, there isn’t a constant
popping.”...

“Manage _that_ all right,” said my uncle. “Thing’d be a sort of long
shed. Paint it red. British colour. Then there’s a Union Jack for the
church and the village school. Paint the school red, too, p’raps. Not
enough colour about now. Too grey. Then a maypole.”

“How far our people would take up that sort of thing—” began the vicar.

“I’m all for getting that good old English spirit back again,” said my
uncle. “Merrymakings. Lads and lasses dancing on the village green.
Harvest home. Fairings. Yule Log—all the rest of it.”

“How would old Sally Glue do for a May Queen?” asked one of the sons in
the slight pause that followed.

“Or Annie Glassbound?” said the other, with the huge virile guffaw of a
young man whose voice has only recently broken.

“Sally Glue is eighty-five,” explained the vicar, “and Annie Glassbound
is well—a young lady of extremely generous proportions. And not quite
right, you know. Not quite right—here.” He tapped his brow.

“Generous proportions!” said the eldest son, and the guffaws were
renewed.

“You see,” said the vicar, “all the brisker girls go into service in or
near London. The life of excitement attracts them. And no doubt the
higher wages have something to do with it. And the liberty to wear
finery. And generally—freedom from restraint. So that there might be a
little difficulty perhaps to find a May Queen here just at present who
was really young and er—pretty.... Of course I couldn’t think of any of
my girls—or anything of that sort.”

“We got to attract ’em back,” said my uncle. “That’s what I feel about
it. We got to Buck-Up the country. The English country is a going
concern still; just as the Established Church—if you’ll excuse me
saying it, is a going concern. Just as Oxford is—or Cambridge. Or any
of those old, fine old things. Only it wants fresh capital, fresh idees
and fresh methods. Light railways, f’rinstance—scientific use of
drainage. Wire fencing machinery—all that.”

The vicar’s face for one moment betrayed dismay. Perhaps he was
thinking of his country walks amids the hawthorns and honeysuckle.

“There’s great things,” said my uncle, “to be done on Mod’un lines with
Village Jam and Pickles—boiled in the country.”

It was the reverberation of this last sentence in my mind, I think,
that sharpened my sentimental sympathy as we went through the
straggling village street and across the trim green on our way back to
London. It seemed that afternoon the most tranquil and idyllic
collection of creeper-sheltered homes you can imagine; thatch still
lingered on a whitewashed cottage or two, pyracanthus, wall-flowers,
and daffodils abounded, and an unsystematic orchard or so was white
with blossom above and gay with bulbs below. I noted a row of straw
beehives, beehive-shaped, beehives of the type long since condemned as
inefficient by all progressive minds, and in the doctor’s acre of grass
a flock of two whole sheep was grazing,—no doubt he’d taken them on
account. Two men and one old woman made gestures of abject vassalage,
and my uncle replied with a lordly gesture of his great motoring
glove....

“England’s full of Bits like this,” said my uncle, leaning over the
front seat and looking back with great satisfaction. The black glare of
his goggles rested for a time on the receding turrets of Lady Grove
just peeping over the trees.

“I shall have a flagstaff, I think,” he considered. “Then one could
show when one is in residence. The villagers will like to know.”...

I reflected. “They will” I said. “They’re used to liking to know.”...

My aunt had been unusually silent. Suddenly she spoke. “He says Snap,”
she remarked; “he buys that place. And a nice old job of Housekeeping
he gives me! He sails through the village swelling like an old turkey.
And who’ll have to scoot the butler? Me! Who’s got to forget all she
ever knew and start again? Me! Who’s got to trek from Chiselhurst and
be a great lady? Me! ... You old Bother! Just when I was settling down
and beginning to feel at home.”

My uncle turned his goggles to her. “Ah! _this_ time it is home,
Susan.... We got there.”

VII

It seems to me now but a step from the buying of Lady Grove to the
beginning of Crest Hill, from the days when the former was a stupendous
achievement to the days when it was too small and dark and inconvenient
altogether for a great financier’s use. For me that was a period of
increasing detachment from our business and the great world of London;
I saw it more and more in broken glimpses, and sometimes I was working
in my little pavilion above Lady Grove for a fortnight together; even
when I came up it was often solely for a meeting of the aeronautical
society or for one of the learned societies or to consult literature or
employ searchers or some such special business. For my uncle it was a
period of stupendous inflation. Each time I met him I found him more
confident, more comprehensive, more consciously a factor in great
affairs. Soon he was no longer an associate of merely business men; he
was big enough for the attentions of greater powers.

I grew used to discovering some item of personal news about him in my
evening paper, or to the sight of a full-page portrait of him in a
sixpenny magazine. Usually the news was of some munificent act, some
romantic piece of buying or giving or some fresh rumour of
reconstruction. He saved, you will remember, the Parbury Reynolds for
the country. Or at times, it would be an interview or my uncle’s
contribution to some symposium on the “Secret of Success,” or such-like
topic. Or wonderful tales of his power of work, of his wonderful
organisation to get things done, of his instant decisions and
remarkable power of judging his fellow-men. They repeated his great
_mot:_ “Eight hour working day—I want eighty hours!”

He became modestly but resolutely “public.” They cartooned him in
_Vanity Fair_. One year my aunt, looking indeed a very gracious,
slender lady, faced the portrait of the King in the great room at
Burlington House, and the next year saw a medallion of my uncle by
Ewart, looking out upon the world, proud and imperial, but on the whole
a trifle too prominently convex, from the walls of the New Gallery.

I shared only intermittently in his social experiences. People knew of
me, it is true, and many of them sought to make through me a sort of
flank attack upon him, and there was a legend, owing, very
unreasonably, partly to my growing scientific reputation and partly to
an element of reserve in my manner, that I played a much larger share
in planning his operations than was actually the case. This led to one
or two very intimate private dinners, to my inclusion in one or two
house parties and various odd offers of introductions and services that
I didn’t for the most part accept. Among other people who sought me in
this way was Archie Garvell, now a smart, impecunious soldier of no
particular distinction, who would, I think, have been quite prepared to
develop any sporting instincts I possessed, and who was beautifully
unaware of our former contact. He was always offering me winners; no
doubt in a spirit of anticipatory exchange for some really good thing
in our more scientific and certain method of getting something for
nothing....

In spite of my preoccupation with my experiments, work, I did, I find
now that I come to ransack my impressions, see a great deal of the
great world during those eventful years; I had a near view of the
machinery by which an astounding Empire is run, rubbed shoulders and
exchanged experiences with bishops and statesmen, political women and
women who were not political, physicians and soldiers, artists and
authors, the directors of great journals, philanthropists and all sorts
of eminent, significant people. I saw the statesmen without their
orders and the bishops with but a little purple silk left over from
their canonicals, inhaling, not incensen but cigar smoke. I could look
at them all the better because, for the most part, they were not
looking at me but at my uncle, and calculating consciously or
unconsciously how they might use him and assimilate him to their
system, the most unpremeditated, subtle, successful and aimless
plutocracy that ever encumbered the destinies of mankind. Not one of
them, so far as I could see, until disaster overtook him, resented his
lies, his almost naked dishonesty of method, the disorderly disturbance
of this trade and that, caused by his spasmodic operations. I can see
them now about him, see them polite, watchful, various; his stiff
compact little figure always a centre of attention, his wiry hair, his
brief nose, his under-lip, electric with self-confidence. Wandering
marginally through distinguished gatherings, I would catch the
whispers: “That’s Mr. Ponderevo!”

“The little man?”

“Yes, the little bounder with the glasses.”

“They say he’s made—“...

Or I would see him on some parterre of a platform beside my aunt’s
hurraying hat, amidst titles and costumes, “holding his end up,” as he
would say, subscribing heavily to obvious charities, even at times
making brief convulsive speeches in some good cause before the most
exalted audiences. “Mr. Chairman, your Royal Highness, my Lords, Ladies
and Gentlemen,” he would begin amidst subsiding applause and adjust
those obstinate glasses and thrust back the wings of his frock-coat and
rest his hands upon his hips and speak his fragment with ever and again
an incidental Zzzz. His hands would fret about him as he spoke, fiddle
his glasses, feel in his waistcoat pockets; ever and again he would
rise slowly to his toes as a sentence unwound jerkily like a clockwork
snake, and drop back on his heels at the end. They were the very
gestures of our first encounter when he had stood before the empty
fireplace in his minute draped parlour and talked of my future to my
mother.

In those measurelessly long hot afternoons in the little shop at
Wimblehurst he had talked and dreamt of the Romance of Modern Commerce.
Here, surely, was his romance come true.

VIII

People say that my uncle lost his head at the crest of his fortunes,
but if one may tell so much truth of a man one has in a manner loved,
he never had very much head to lose. He was always imaginative,
erratic, inconsistent, recklessly inexact, and his inundation of wealth
merely gave him scope for these qualities. It is true, indeed, that
towards the climax he became intensely irritable at times and impatient
of contradiction, but that, I think, was rather the gnawing uneasiness
of sanity than any mental disturbance. But I find it hard either to
judge him or convey the full development of him to the reader. I saw
too much of him; my memory is choked with disarranged moods and
aspects. Now he is distended with megalomania, now he is deflated, now
he is quarrelsome, now impenetrably self-satisfied, but always he is
sudden, jerky, fragmentary, energetic, and—in some subtle fundamental
way that I find difficult to define—absurd.

There stands out—because of the tranquil beauty of its setting
perhaps—a talk we had in the veranda of the little pavilion near my
worksheds behind Crest Hill in which my aeroplanes and navigable
balloons were housed. It was one of many similar conversations, and I
do not know why it in particular should survive its fellows. It happens
so. He had come up to me after his coffee to consult me about a certain
chalice which in a moment of splendour and under the importunity of a
countess he had determined to give to a deserving church in the
east-end. I, in a moment of even rasher generosity, had suggested Ewart
as a possible artist. Ewart had produced at once an admirable sketch
for the sacred vessel surrounded by a sort of wreath of Millies with
open arms and wings and had drawn fifty pounds on the strength of it.
After that came a series of vexatious delays. The chalice became less
and less of a commercial man’s chalice, acquired more and more the
elusive quality of the Holy Grail, and at last even the drawing
receded.

My uncle grew restive.... “You see, George, they’ll begin to want the
blasted thing!”

“What blasted thing?”

“That chalice, damn it! They’re beginning to ask questions. It isn’t
Business, George.”

“It’s art,” I protested, “and religion.”

“That’s all very well. But it’s not a good ad for us, George, to make a
promise and not deliver the goods.... I’ll have to write off your
friend Ewart as a bad debt, that’s what it comes to, and go to a decent
firm.”...

We sat outside on deck chairs in the veranda of the pavilion, smoked,
drank whisky, and, the chalice disposed of, meditated. His temporary
annoyance passed. It was an altogether splendid summer night, following
a blazing, indolent day. Full moonlight brought out dimly the lines of
the receding hills, one wave beyond another; far beyond were the
pin-point lights of Leatherhead, and in the foreground the little stage
from which I used to start upon my gliders gleamed like wet steel. The
season must have been high June, for down in the woods that hid the
lights of the Lady Grove windows, I remember the nightingales thrilled
and gurgled....

“We got here, George,” said my uncle, ending a long pause. “Didn’t I
say?”

“Say!—when?” I asked.

“In that hole in the To’nem Court Road, eh? It’s been a Straight Square
Fight, and here we are!”

I nodded.

“’Member me telling you—Tono-Bungay?.... Well.... I’d just that
afternoon thought of it!”

“I’ve fancied at times;” I admitted.

“It’s a great world, George, nowadays, with a fair chance for every one
who lays hold of things. The career ouvert to the Talons—eh?
Tono-Bungay. Think of it! It’s a great world and a growing world, and
I’m glad we’re in it—and getting a pull. We’re getting big people,
George. Things come to us. Eh? This Palestine thing.”...

He meditated for a time and Zzzzed softly. Then he became still.

His theme was taken up by a cricket in the grass until he himself was
ready to resume it. The cricket too seemed to fancy that in some scheme
of its own it had got there. “Chirrrrrrup” it said; “chirrrrrrup.”

“Lord, what a place that was at Wimblehurst!” he broke out. “If ever I
get a day off we’ll motor there, George, and run over that dog that
sleeps in the High Street. Always was a dog asleep there—always.
Always... I’d like to see the old shop again. I daresay old Ruck still
stands between the sheep at his door, grinning with all his teeth, and
Marbel, silly beggar! comes out with his white apron on and a pencil
stuck behind his ear, trying to look awake... Wonder if they know it’s
me? I’d like ’em somehow to know it’s me.”

“They’ll have had the International Tea Company and all sorts of people
cutting them up,” I said. “And that dog’s been on the pavement this six
years—can’t sleep even there, poor dear, because of the motor-horns and
its shattered nerves.”

“Movin’ everywhere,” said my uncle. “I expect you’re right.... It’s a
big time we’re in, George. It’s a big Progressive On-coming Imperial
Time. This Palestine business—the daring of it.... It’s, it’s a
Process, George. And we got our hands on it. Here we sit—with our hands
on it, George. Entrusted.

“It seems quiet to—night. But if we could see and hear.” He waved his
cigar towards Leatherhead and London.

“There they are, millions, George. Jes’ think of what they’ve been up
to to-day—those ten millions—each one doing his own particular job. You
can’t grasp it. It’s like old Whitman says—what is it he says? Well,
anyway it’s like old Whitman. Fine chap, Whitman! Fine old chap! Queer,
you can’t quote him. ... And these millions aren’t anything. There’s
the millions over seas, hundreds of millions, Chinese, M’rocco, Africa
generally, ’Merica.... Well, here we are, with power, with leisure,
picked out—because we’ve been energetic, because we’ve seized
opportunities, because we’ve made things hum when other people have
waited for them to hum. See? Here we are—with our hands on it. Big
people. Big growing people. In a sort of way,—Forces.”

He paused. “It’s wonderful, George,” he said.

“Anglo-Saxon energy,” I said softly to the night.

“That’s it, George—energy. It’s put things in our grip—threads, wires,
stretching out and out, George, from that little office of ours, out to
West Africa, out to Egypt, out to Inja, out east, west, north and
south. Running the world practically. Running it faster and faster.
Creative. There’s that Palestine canal affair. Marvellous idee! Suppose
we take that up, suppose we let ourselves in for it, us and the others,
and run that water sluice from the Mediterranean into the Dead Sea
Valley—think of the difference it will make! All the desert blooming
like a rose, Jericho lost for ever, all the Holy Places under water....
Very likely destroy Christianity.”...

He mused for a space. “Cuttin’ canals,” murmured my uncle. “Making
tunnels.... New countries.... New centres.... Zzzz.... Finance.... Not
only Palestine.

“I wonder where we shall get before we done, George? We got a lot of
big things going. We got the investing public sound and sure. I don’t
see why in the end we shouldn’t be very big. There’s difficulties but
I’m equal to them. We’re still a bit soft in our bones, but they’ll
harden all right.... I suppose, after all, I’m worth something like a
million, George, cleared up and settled. If I got out of things now.
It’s a great time, George, a wonderful time!”...

I glanced through the twilight at his convexity and I must confess it
struck me that on the whole he wasn’t particularly good value.

“We got our hands on things, George, us big people. We got to hang
together, George run the show. Join up with the old order like that
mill-wheel of Kipling’s. (Finest thing he ever wrote, George; I jes’
been reading it again. Made me buy Lady Grove.) Well, we got to run the
country, George. It’s ours. Make it a Scientific Organised Business
Enterprise. Put idees into it. ’Lectrify it. Run the Press. Run all
sorts of developments. All sorts of developments. I been talking to
Lord Boom. I been talking to all sorts of people. Great things.
Progress. The world on business lines. Only jes’ beginning.”...

He fell into a deep meditation.

He Zzzzed for a time and ceased.

“_Yes_,” he said at last in the tone of a man who has at last emerged
with ultimate solutions to the profoundest problems.

“What?” I said after a seemly pause.

My uncle hung fire for a moment and it seemed to me the fate of nations
trembled in the balance. Then he spoke as one who speaks from the very
bottom of his heart—and I think it was the very bottom of his heart.

“I’d jes’ like to drop into the Eastry Arms, jes’ when all those
beggars in the parlour are sittin’ down to whist, Ruck and Marbel and
all, and give ’em ten minutes of my mind, George. Straight from the
shoulder. Jes’ exactly what I think of them. It’s a little thing, but
I’d like to do it jes’ once before I die.”...

He rested on that for some time Zzzz-ing.

Then he broke out at a new place in a tone of detached criticism.

“There’s Boom,” he reflected.

“It’s a wonderful system this old British system, George. It’s staid
and stable and yet it has a place for new men. We come up and take our
places. It’s almost expected. We take a hand. That’s where our
Democracy differs from America. Over there a man succeeds; all he gets
is money. Here there’s a system open to every one—practically.... Chaps
like Boom—come from nowhere.”

His voice ceased. I reflected upon the spirit of his words. Suddenly I
kicked my feet in the air, rolled on my side and sat up suddenly on my
deck chair with my legs down.

“You don’t mean it!” I said.

“Mean what, George?”

“Subscription to the party funds. Reciprocal advantage. Have we got to
that?”

“Whad you driving at, George?”

“You know. They’d never do it, man!”

“Do what?” he said feebly; and, “Why shouldn’t they?”

“They’d not even go to a baronetcy. _No!_.... And yet, of course,
there’s Boom! And Collingshead and Gorver. They’ve done beer, they’ve
done snippets! After all Tono-Bungay—it’s not like a turf commission
agent or anything like that!... There have of course been some very
gentlemanly commission agents. It isn’t like a fool of a scientific man
who can’t make money!”

My uncle grunted; we’d differed on that issue before.

A malignant humour took possession of me. “What would they call you?” I
speculated. “The vicar would like Duffield. Too much like Duffer!
Difficult thing, a title.” I ran my mind over various possibilities.
“Why not take a leaf from a socialist tract I came upon yesterday. Chap
says we’re all getting delocalised. Beautiful word—delocalised! Why not
be the first delocalised peer? That gives you—Tono-Bungay! There is a
Bungay, you know. Lord Tono of Bungay—in bottles everywhere. Eh?”

My uncle astonished me by losing his temper.

“Damn it. George, you don’t seem to see I’m serious! You’re always
sneering at Tono-Bungay! As though it was some sort of swindle. It was
perfec’ly legitimate trade, perfec’ly legitimate. Good value and a good
article.... When I come up here and tell you plans and exchange
idees—you sneer at me. You _do_. You don’t see—it’s a big thing. It’s a
big thing. You got to get used to new circumstances. You got to face
what lies before us. You got to drop that tone.”

IX

My uncle was not altogether swallowed up in business and ambition. He
kept in touch with modern thought. For example, he was, I know, greatly
swayed by what he called “This Overman idee, Nietzsche—all that stuff.”

He mingled those comforting suggestions of a potent and exceptional
human being emancipated from the pettier limitations of integrity with
the Napoleonic legend. It gave his imagination a considerable outlet.
That Napoleonic legend! The real mischief of Napoleon’s immensely
disastrous and accidental career began only when he was dead and the
romantic type of mind was free to elaborate his character. I do believe
that my uncle would have made a far less egregious smash if there had
been no Napoleonic legend to misguide him. He was in many ways better
and infinitely kinder than his career. But when in doubt between decent
conduct and a base advantage, that cult came in more and more
influentially: “think of Napoleon; think what the inflexibly-wilful
Napoleon would have done with such scruples as yours;” that was the
rule, and the end was invariably a new step in dishonour.

My uncle was in an unsystematic way a collector of Napoleonic relics;
the bigger the book about his hero the more readily he bought it; he
purchased letters and tinsel and weapons that bore however remotely
upon the Man of Destiny, and he even secured in Geneva, though he never
brought home, an old coach in which Buonaparte might have ridden; he
crowded the quiet walls of Lady Grove with engravings and figures of
him, preferring, my aunt remarked, the more convex portraits with the
white vest and those statuettes with the hands behind the back which
threw forward the figure. The Durgans watched him through it all,
sardonically.

And he would stand after breakfast at times in the light of the window
at Lady Grove, a little apart, with two fingers of one hand stuck
between his waistcoat-buttons and his chin sunken, thinking,—the most
preposterous little fat man in the world. It made my aunt feel, she
said, “like an old Field Marshal—knocks me into a cocked hat, George!”

Perhaps this Napoleonic bias made him a little less frequent with his
cigars than he would otherwise have been, but of that I cannot be sure,
and it certainly caused my aunt a considerable amount of vexation after
he had read _Napoleon and the Fair Sex_, because for a time that roused
him to a sense of a side of life he had in his commercial
preoccupations very largely forgotten. Suggestion plays so great a part
in this field. My uncle took the next opportunity and had an “affair”!

It was not a very impassioned affair, and the exact particulars never
of course reached me. It is quite by chance I know anything of it at
all. One evening I was surprised to come upon my uncle in a mixture of
Bohemia and smart people at an At Home in the flat of Robbert, the R.A.
who painted my aunt, and he was standing a little apart in a recess,
talking or rather being talked to in undertones by a plump, blond
little woman in pale blue, a Helen Scrymgeour who wrote novels and was
organising a weekly magazine. I elbowed a large lady who was saying
something about them, but I didn’t need to hear the thing she said to
perceive the relationship of the two. It hit me like a placard on a
hoarding. I was amazed the whole gathering did not see it. Perhaps they
did. She was wearing a remarkably fine diamond necklace, much too fine
for journalism, and regarding him with that quality of questionable
proprietorship, of leashed but straining intimacy, that seems
inseparable from this sort of affair. It is so much more palpable than
matrimony. If anything was wanted to complete my conviction it was my
uncles’s eyes when presently he became aware of mine, a certain
embarrassment and a certain pride and defiance. And the next day he
made an opportunity to praise the lady’s intelligence to me concisely,
lest I should miss the point of it all.

After that I heard some gossip—from a friend of the lady’s. I was much
too curious to do anything but listen. I had never in all my life
imagined my uncle in an amorous attitude. It would appear that she
called him her “God in the Car”—after the hero in a novel of Anthony
Hope’s. It was essential to the convention of their relations that he
should go relentlessly whenever business called, and it was generally
arranged that it did call. To him women were an incident, it was
understood between them; Ambition was the master-passion. A great world
called him and the noble hunger for Power. I have never been able to
discover just how honest Mrs. Scrymgeour was in all this, but it is
quite possible the immense glamour of his financial largeness prevailed
with her and that she did bring a really romantic feeling to their
encounters. There must have been some extraordinary moments....

I was a good deal exercised and distressed about my aunt when I
realised what was afoot. I thought it would prove a terrible
humiliation to her. I suspected her of keeping up a brave front with
the loss of my uncle’s affections fretting at her heart, but there I
simply underestimated her. She didn’t hear for some time and when she
did hear she was extremely angry and energetic. The sentimental
situation didn’t trouble her for a moment. She decided that my uncle
“wanted smacking.” She accentuated herself with an unexpected new hat,
went and gave him an inconceivable talking-to at the Hardingham, and
then came round to “blow-up” me for not telling her what was going on
before....

I tried to bring her to a proper sense of the accepted values in this
affair, but my aunt’s originality of outlook was never so invincible.
“Men don’t tell on one another in affairs of passion,” I protested, and
such-like worldly excuses.

“Women!” she said in high indignation, “and men! It isn’t women and
men—it’s him and me, George! Why don’t you talk sense?

“Old passion’s all very well, George, in its way, and I’m the last
person to be jealous. But this is old nonsense.... I’m not going to let
him show off what a silly old lobster he is to other women.... I’ll
mark every scrap of his underclothes with red letters,
‘Ponderevo-Private’—every scrap.

“Going about making love indeed,—in abdominal belts!—at his time of
life!”

I cannot imagine what passed between her and my uncle. But I have no
doubt that for once her customary badinage was laid aside. How they
talked then I do not know, for I who knew them so well had never heard
that much of intimacy between them. At any rate it was a concerned and
preoccupied “God in the Car” I had to deal with in the next few days,
unusually Zzzz-y and given to slight impatient gestures that had
nothing to do with the current conversation. And it was evident that in
all directions he was finding things unusually difficult to explain.

All the intimate moments in this affair were hidden from me, but in the
end my aunt triumphed. He did not so much throw as jerk over Mrs.
Scrymgeour, and she did not so much make a novel of it as upset a huge
pailful of attenuated and adulterated female soul upon this occasion.
My aunt did not appear in that, even remotely. So that it is doubtful
if the lady knew the real causes of her abandonment. The Napoleonic
hero was practically unmarried, and he threw over his lady as Napoleon
threw over Josephine for a great alliance.

It was a triumph for my aunt, but it had its price. For some time it
was evident things were strained between them. He gave up the lady, but
he resented having to do so, deeply. She had meant more to his
imagination than one could have supposed. He wouldn’t for a long time
“come round.” He became touchy and impatient and secretive towards my
aunt, and she, I noted, after an amazing check or so, stopped that
stream of kindly abuse that had flowed for so long and had been so
great a refreshment in their lives. They were both the poorer for its
cessation, both less happy. She devoted herself more and more to Lady
Grove and the humours and complications of its management. The servants
took to her—as they say—she god-mothered three Susans during her rule,
the coachman’s, the gardener’s, and the Up Hill gamekeeper’s. She got
together a library of old household books that were in the vein of the
place. She revived the still-room, and became a great artist in jellies
and elder and cowslip wine.

X

And while I neglected the development of my uncle’s finances—and my
own, in my scientific work and my absorbing conflict with the
difficulties of flying,—his schemes grew more and more expansive and
hazardous, and his spending wilder and laxer. I believe that a haunting
sense of the intensifying unsoundness of his position accounts largely
for his increasing irritability and his increasing secretiveness with
my aunt and myself during these crowning years. He dreaded, I think,
having to explain, he feared our jests might pierce unwittingly to the
truth. Even in the privacy of his mind he would not face the truth. He
was accumulating unrealisable securities in his safes until they hung a
potential avalanche over the economic world. But his buying became a
fever, and his restless desire to keep it up with himself that he was
making a triumphant progress to limitless wealth gnawed deeper and
deeper. A curious feature of this time with him was his buying over and
over again of similar things. His ideas seemed to run in series. Within
a twelve-month he bought five new motor-cars, each more swift and
powerful than its predecessor, and only the repeated prompt resignation
of his chief chauffeur at each moment of danger, prevented his driving
them himself. He used them more and more. He developed a passion for
locomotion for its own sake.

Then he began to chafe at Lady Grove, fretted by a chance jest he had
overheard at a dinner. “This house, George,” he said. “It’s a misfit.
There’s no elbow-room in it; it’s choked with old memories. And I can’t
stand all these damned Durgans!

“That chap in the corner, George. No! the other corner! The man in a
cherry-coloured coat. He watched you! He’d look silly if I stuck a
poker through his Gizzard!”

“He’d look,” I reflected, “much as he does now. As though he was
amused.”

He replaced his glasses, which had fallen at his emotion, and glared at
his antagonists. “What are they? What are they all, the lot of ’em?
Dead as Mutton! They just stuck in the mud. They didn’t even rise to
the Reformation. The old out-of-date Reformation! Move with the
times!—they moved against the times.

“Just a Family of Failure,—they never even tried!

“They’re jes’, George, exactly what I’m not. Exactly. It isn’t
suitable.... All this living in the Past.

“And I want a bigger place too, George. I want air and sunlight and
room to move about and more service. A house where you can get a Move
on things! Zzzz. Why! it’s like a discord—it jars—even to have the
telephone.... There’s nothing, nothing except the terrace, that’s worth
a Rap. It’s all dark and old and dried up and full of old-fashioned
things—musty old idees—fitter for a silver-fish than a modern man.... I
don’t know how I got here.”

He broke out into a new grievance. “That damned vicar,” he complained,
“thinks I ought to think myself lucky to get this place! Every time I
meet him I can see him think it.... One of these days, George I’ll show
him what a Mod’un house is like!”

And he did.

I remember the day when he declared, as Americans say, for Crest Hill.
He had come up to see my new gas plant, for I was then only just
beginning to experiment with auxiliary collapsible balloons, and all
the time the shine of his glasses was wandering away to the open down
beyond. “Let’s go back to Lady Grove over the hill,” he said.
“Something I want to show you. Something fine!”

It was an empty sunlit place that summer evening, sky and earth warm
with sundown, and a pe-wit or so just accentuating the pleasant
stillness that ends a long clear day. A beautiful peace, it was, to
wreck for ever. And there was my uncle, the modern man of power, in his
grey top-hat and his grey suit and his black-ribboned glasses, short,
thin-legged, large-stomached, pointing and gesticulating, threatening
this calm.

He began with a wave of his arm. “That’s the place, George,” he said.
“See?”

“Eh!” I cried—for I had been thinking of remote things.

“I got it.”

“Got what?”

“For a house!—a Twentieth Century house! That’s the place for it!”

One of his characteristic phrases was begotten in him.

“Four-square to the winds of heaven, George!” he said. “Eh? Four-square
to the winds of heaven!”

“You’ll get the winds up here,” I said.

“A mammoth house it ought to be, George—to suit these hills.”

“Quite,” I said.

“Great galleries and things—running out there and there—See? I been
thinking of it, George! Looking out all this way—across the Weald. With
its back to Lady Grove.”

“And the morning sun in its eye.”

“Like an eagle, George,—like an eagle!”

So he broached to me what speedily became the leading occupation of his
culminating years, Crest Hill. But all the world has heard of that
extravagant place which grew and changed its plans as it grew, and
bubbled like a salted snail, and burgeoned and bulged and evermore
grew. I know not what delirium of pinnacles and terraces and arcades
and corridors glittered at last upon the uplands of his mind; the
place, for all that its expansion was terminated abruptly by our
collapse, is wonderful enough as it stands,—that empty instinctive
building of a childless man. His chief architect was a young man named
Westminster, whose work he had picked out in the architecture room of
the Royal Academy on account of a certain grandiose courage in it, but
with him he associated from time to time a number of fellow
professionals, stonemasons, sanitary engineers, painters, sculptors,
scribes, metal workers, wood carvers, furniture designers, ceramic
specialists, landscape gardeners, and the man who designs the
arrangement and ventilation of the various new houses in the London
Zoological Gardens. In addition he had his own ideas. The thing
occupied his mind at all times, but it held it completely from Friday
night to Monday morning. He would come down to Lady Grove on Friday
night in a crowded motor-car that almost dripped architects. He didn’t,
however, confine himself to architects; every one was liable to an
invitation to week-end and view Crest Hill, and many an eager promoter,
unaware of how Napoleonically and completely my uncle had
departmentalised his mind, tried to creep up to him by way of tiles and
ventilators and new electric fittings. Always on Sunday mornings,
unless the weather was vile, he would, so soon as breakfast and his
secretaries were disposed of, visit the site with a considerable
retinue, and alter and develop plans, making modifications, Zzzz-ing,
giving immense new orders verbally—an unsatisfactory way, as
Westminster and the contractors ultimately found.

There he stands in my memory, the symbol of this age for me, the man of
luck and advertisement, the current master of the world. There he
stands upon the great outward sweep of the terrace before the huge main
entrance, a little figure, ridiculously disproportionate to that
forty-foot arch, with the granite ball behind him—the astronomical
ball, brass coopered, that represented the world, with a little
adjustable tube of lenses on a gun-metal arm that focussed the sun upon
just that point of the earth on which it chanced to be shining
vertically. There he stands, Napoleonically grouped with his retinue
men in tweeds and golfing-suits, a little solicitor, whose name I
forget, in grey trousers and a black jacket, and Westminster in Jaeger
underclothing, a floriferous tie, and peculiar brown cloth of his own.

The downland breeze flutters my uncle’s coat-tails, disarranges his
stiff hair, and insists on the evidence of undisciplined appetites in
face and form, as he points out this or that feature in the prospect to
his attentive collaborator.

Below are hundreds of feet of wheeling-planks, ditches, excavations,
heaps of earth, piles of garden stone from the Wealden ridges. On
either hand the walls of his irrelevant unmeaning palace rise at one
time he had working in that place—disturbing the economic balance of
the whole countryside by their presence—upwards of three thousand
men....

So he poses for my picture amidst the raw beginnings that were never to
be completed. He did the strangest things about that place, things more
and more detached from any conception of financial scale, things more
and more apart from sober humanity. He seemed to think himself, at
last, released from any such limitations. He moved a quite considerable
hill, and nearly sixty mature trees were moved with it to open his
prospect eastward, moved it about two hundred feet to the south. At
another time he caught a suggestion from some city restaurant and made
a billiard-room roofed with plate glass beneath the waters of his
ornamental lake. He furnished one wing while its roof still awaited
completion. He had a swimming bath thirty feet square next to his
bedroom upstairs, and to crown it all he commenced a great wall to hold
all his dominions together, free from the invasion of common men. It
was a ten-foot wall, glass surmounted, and had it been completed as he
intended it, it would have had a total length of nearly eleven miles.
Some of it towards the last was so dishonestly built that it collapsed
within a year upon its foundations, but some miles of it still stand. I
never think of it now but what I think of the hundreds of eager little
investors who followed his “star,” whose hopes and lives, whose wives’
security and children’s prospects are all mixed up beyond redemption
with that flaking mortar....

It is curious how many of these modern financiers of chance and bluff
have ended their careers by building. It was not merely my uncle.
Sooner or later they all seem to bring their luck to the test of
realisation, try to make their fluid opulence coagulate out as bricks
and mortar, bring moonshine into relations with a weekly wages-sheet.
Then the whole fabric of confidence and imagination totters—and down
they come....

When I think of that despoiled hillside, that colossal litter of bricks
and mortar, and crude roads and paths, the scaffolding and sheds, the
general quality of unforeseeing outrage upon the peace of nature, I am
reminded of a chat I had with the vicar one bleak day after he had
witnessed a glide. He talked to me of aeronautics as I stood in jersey
and shorts beside my machine, fresh from alighting, and his cadaverous
face failed to conceal a peculiar desolation that possessed him.

“Almost you convince me,” he said, coming up to me, “against my
will.... A marvellous invention! But it will take you a long time, sir,
before you can emulate that perfect mechanism—the wing of a bird.”

He looked at my sheds.

“You’ve changed the look of this valley, too,” he said.

“Temporary defilements,” I remarked, guessing what was in his mind.

“Of course. Things come and go. Things come and go. But—H’m. I’ve just
been up over the hill to look at Mr. Edward Ponderevo’s new house.
That—that is something more permanent. A magnificent place!—in many
ways. Imposing. I’ve never somehow brought myself to go that way
before. Things are greatly advanced.... We find—the great number of
strangers introduced into the villages about here by these operations,
working-men chiefly, a little embarrassing. It put us out. They bring a
new spirit into the place; betting—ideas—all sorts of queer notions.
Our publicans like it, of course. And they come and sleep in one’s
outhouses—and make the place a little unsafe at nights. The other
morning I couldn’t sleep—a slight dyspepsia—and I looked out of the
window. I was amazed to see people going by on bicycles. A silent
procession. I counted ninety-seven—in the dawn. All going up to the new
road for Crest Hill. Remarkable I thought it. And so I’ve been up to
see what they were doing.”

“They would have been more than remarkable thirty years ago,” I said.

“Yes, indeed. Things change. We think nothing of it now at
all—comparatively. And that big house—”

He raised his eyebrows. “Really stupendous! Stupendous.

“All the hillside—the old turf—cut to ribbons!”

His eye searched my face. “We’ve grown so accustomed to look up to Lady
Grove,” he said, and smiled in search of sympathy. “It shifts our
centre of gravity.”

“Things will readjust themselves,” I lied.

He snatched at the phrase. “Of course,” he said.

“They’ll readjust themselves—settle down again. Must. In the old way.
It’s bound to come right again—a comforting thought. Yes. After all,
Lady Grove itself had to be built once upon a time—was—to begin
with—artificial.”

His eye returned to my aeroplane. He sought to dismiss his graver
preoccupations. “I should think twice,” he remarked, “before I trusted
myself to that concern.... But I suppose one grows accustomed to the
motion.”

He bade me good morning and went his way, bowed and thoughtful....

He had kept the truth from his mind a long time, but that morning it
had forced its way to him with an aspect that brooked no denial that
this time it was not just changes that were coming in his world, but
that all his world lay open and defenceless, conquered and surrendered,
doomed so far as he could see, root and branch, scale and form alike,
to change.




CHAPTER THE THIRD
SOARING


I

For nearly all the time that my uncle was incubating and hatching Crest
Hill I was busy in a little transverse valley between that great
beginning and Lady Grove with more and more costly and ambitious
experiments in aerial navigation. This work was indeed the main
substance of my life through all the great time of the Tono-Bungay
symphony.

I have told already how I came to devote myself to this system of
inquiries, how in a sort of disgust with the common adventure of life I
took up the dropped ends of my college studies, taking them up again
with a man’s resolution instead of a boy’s ambition. From the first I
did well at this work. It—was, I think, largely a case of special
aptitude, of a peculiar irrelevant vein of faculty running through my
mind. It is one of those things men seem to have by chance, that has
little or nothing to do with their general merit, and which it is
ridiculous to be either conceited or modest about. I did get through a
very big mass of work in those years, working for a time with a
concentrated fierceness that left little of such energy or capacity as
I possess unused. I worked out a series of problems connected with the
stability of bodies pitching in the air and the internal movements of
the wind, and I also revolutionised one leading part at last of the
theory of explosive engines. These things are to be found in the
_Philosophical Transactions_, the _Mathematical Journal_, and less
frequently in one or two other such publications, and they needn’t
detain us here. Indeed, I doubt if I could write about them here. One
acquires a sort of shorthand for one’s notes and mind in relation to
such special work. I have never taught; nor lectured, that is to say, I
have never had to express my thoughts about mechanical things in
ordinary everyday language, and I doubt very much if I could do so now
without extreme tedium.

My work was, to begin with, very largely theoretical. I was able to
attack such early necessities of verification as arose with quite
little models, using a turntable to get the motion through the air, and
cane, whalebone and silk as building material. But a time came when
incalculable factors crept in, factors of human capacity and factors of
insufficient experimental knowledge, when one must needs guess and try.
Then I had to enlarge the scale of my operations, and soon I had
enlarged them very greatly. I set to work almost concurrently on the
balance and stability of gliders and upon the steering of inflated
bags, the latter a particularly expensive branch of work. I was no
doubt moved by something of the same spirit of lavish expenditure that
was running away with my uncle in these developments. Presently my
establishment above Lady Grove had grown to a painted wood chalet big
enough to accommodate six men, and in which I would sometimes live for
three weeks together; to a gasometer, to a motor-house, to three big
corrugated-roofed sheds and lock-up houses, to a stage from which to
start gliders, to a workshop and so forth. A rough road was made. We
brought up gas from Cheaping and electricity from Woking, which place I
found also afforded a friendly workshop for larger operations than I
could manage. I had the luck also to find a man who seemed my
heaven-sent second-in-command—Cothope his name was. He was a
self-educated-man; he had formerly been a sapper and he was one of the
best and handiest working engineers alive. Without him I do not think I
could have achieved half what I have done. At times he has been not so
much my assistant as my collaborator, and has followed my fortunes to
this day. Other men came and went as I needed them.

I do not know how far it is possible to convey to any one who has not
experienced it, the peculiar interest, the peculiar satisfaction that
lies in a sustained research when one is not hampered by want of money.
It is a different thing from any other sort of human effort. You are
free from the exasperating conflict with your fellow-creatures
altogether—at least so far as the essential work goes; that for me is
its peculiar merit. Scientific truth is the remotest of mistresses; she
hides in strange places, she is attained by tortuous and laborious
roads, but _she is always there!_ Win to her and she will not fail you;
she is yours and mankind’s for ever. She is reality, the one reality I
have found in this strange disorder of existence. She will not sulk
with you nor misunderstand you nor cheat you of your reward upon some
petty doubt. You cannot change her by advertisement or clamour, nor
stifle her in vulgarities. Things grow under your hands when you serve
her, things that are permanent as nothing else is permanent in the
whole life of man. That, I think, is the peculiar satisfaction of
science and its enduring reward....

The taking up of experimental work produced a great change in my
personal habits. I have told how already once in my life at Wimblehurst
I had a period of discipline and continuous effort, and how, when I
came to South Kensington, I became demoralised by the immense effect of
London, by its innumerable imperative demands upon my attention and
curiosity. And I parted with much of my personal pride when I gave up
science for the development of Tono-Bungay. But my poverty kept me
abstinent and my youthful romanticism kept me chaste until my married
life was well under way. Then in all directions I relaxed. I did a
large amount of work, but I never troubled to think whether it was my
maximum nor whether the moods and indolences that came to me at times
were avoidable things. With the coming of plenty I ate abundantly and
foolishly, drank freely and followed my impulses more and more
carelessly. I felt no reason why I should do anything else. Never at
any point did I use myself to the edge of my capacity. The emotional
crisis of my divorce did not produce any immediate change in these
matters of personal discipline. I found some difficulty at first in
concentrating my mind upon scientific work, it was so much more
exacting than business, but I got over that difficulty by smoking. I
became an inordinate cigar smoker; it gave me moods of profound
depression, but I treated these usually by the homeopathic method,—by
lighting another cigar. I didn’t realise at all how loose my moral and
nervous fibre had become until I reached the practical side of my
investigations and was face to face with the necessity of finding out
just how it felt to use a glider and just what a man could do with one.

I got into this relaxed habit of living in spite of very real
tendencies in my nature towards discipline. I’ve never been in love
with self-indulgence. That philosophy of the loose lip and the lax
paunch is one for which I’ve always had an instinctive distrust. I like
bare things, stripped things, plain, austere and continent things, fine
lines and cold colours. But in these plethoric times when there is too
much coarse stuff for everybody and the struggle for life takes the
form of competitive advertisement and the effort to fill your
neighbour’s eye, when there is no urgent demand either for personal
courage, sound nerves or stark beauty, we find ourselves by accident.
Always before these times the bulk of the people did not over-eat
themselves, because they couldn’t, whether they wanted to do so or not,
and all but a very few were kept “fit” by unavoidable exercise and
personal danger. Now, if only he pitch his standard low enough and keep
free from pride, almost any one can achieve a sort of excess. You can
go through contemporary life fudging and evading, indulging and
slacking, never really hungry nor frightened nor passionately stirred,
your highest moment a mere sentimental orgasm, and your first real
contact with primary and elemental necessities, the sweat of your
death-bed. So I think it was with my uncle; so, very nearly, it was
with me.

But the glider brought me up smartly. I had to find out how these
things went down the air, and the only way to find out is to go down
with one. And for a time I wouldn’t face it.

There is something impersonal about a book, I suppose. At any rate I
find myself able to write down here just the confession I’ve never been
able to make to any one face to face, the frightful trouble it was to
me to bring myself to do what I suppose every other coloured boy in the
West Indies could do without turning a hair, and that is to fling
myself off for my first soar down the wind. The first trial was bound
to be the worst; it was an experiment I made with life, and the chance
of death or injury was, I supposed, about equal to the chance of
success. I believed that with a dawn-like lucidity. I had begun with a
glider that I imagined was on the lines of the Wright brothers’
aeroplane, but I could not be sure. It might turn over. I might upset
it. It might burrow its nose at the end and smash itself and me. The
conditions of the flight necessitated alert attention; it wasn’t a
thing to be done by jumping off and shutting one’s eyes or getting
angry or drunk to do it. One had to use one’s weight to balance. And
when at last I did it it was horrible—for ten seconds. For ten seconds
or so, as I swept down the air flattened on my infernal framework and
with the wind in my eyes, the rush of the ground beneath me filled me
with sick and helpless terror; I felt as though some violent
oscillatory current was throbbing in brain and back bone, and I groaned
aloud. I set my teeth and groaned. It was a groan wrung out of me in
spite of myself. My sensations of terror swooped to a climax. And then,
you know, they ended!

Suddenly my terror was over and done with. I was soaring through the
air right way up, steadily, and no mischance had happened. I felt
intensely alive and my nerves were strung like a bow. I shifted a limb,
swerved and shouted between fear and triumph as I recovered from the
swerve and heeled the other way and steadied myself.

I thought I was going to hit a rook that was flying athwart me,—it was
queer with what projectile silence that jumped upon me out of
nothingness, and I yelled helplessly, “Get out of the way!” The bird
doubled itself up like a partly inverted V, flapped, went up to the
right abruptly and vanished from my circle of interest. Then I saw the
shadow of my aeroplane keeping a fixed distance before me and very
steady, and the turf as it seemed streaming out behind it. The turf!—it
wasn’t after all streaming so impossibly fast.

When I came gliding down to the safe spread of level green I had
chosen, I was as cool and ready as a city clerk who drops off an
omnibus in motion, and I had learnt much more than soaring. I tilted up
her nose at the right moment, levelled again and grounded like a
snowflake on a windless day. I lay flat for an instant and then knelt
up and got on my feet atremble, but very satisfied with myself. Cothope
was running down the hill to me. ...

But from that day I went into training, and I kept myself in training
for many months. I had delayed my experiments for very nearly six weeks
on various excuses because of my dread of this first flight, because of
the slackness of body and spirit that had come to me with the business
life. The shame of that cowardice spurred me none the less because it
was probably altogether my own secret. I felt that Cothope at any rate
might suspect. Well,—he shouldn’t suspect again.

It is curious that I remember that shame and self accusation and its
consequences far more distinctly than I recall the weeks of vacillation
before I soared. For a time I went altogether without alcohol, I
stopped smoking altogether and ate very sparingly, and every day I did
something that called a little upon my nerves and muscles. I soared as
frequently as I could. I substituted a motor-bicycle for the London
train and took my chances in the southward traffic, and I even tried
what thrills were to be got upon a horse. But they put me on made
horses, and I conceived a perhaps unworthy contempt for the certitudes
of equestrian exercise in comparison with the adventures of mechanism.
Also I walked along the high wall at the back of Lady Grove garden, and
at last brought myself to stride the gap where the gate comes. If I
didn’t altogether get rid of a certain giddy instinct by such
exercises, at least I trained my will until it didn’t matter. And soon
I no longer dreaded flight, but was eager to go higher into the air,
and I came to esteem soaring upon a glider, that even over the deepest
dip in the ground had barely forty feet of fall beneath it, a mere
mockery of what flight might be. I began to dream of the keener
freshness in the air high above the beechwoods, and it was rather to
satisfy that desire than as any legitimate development of my proper
work that presently I turned a part of my energies and the bulk of my
private income to the problem of the navigable balloon.

II

I had gone far beyond that initial stage; I had had two smashes and a
broken rib which my aunt nursed with great energy, and was getting some
reputation in the aeronautic world when, suddenly, as though she had
never really left it, the Honourable Beatrice Normandy, dark-eyed, and
with the old disorderly wave of the hair from her brow, came back into
my life. She came riding down a grass path in the thickets below Lady
Grove, perched up on a huge black horse, and the old Earl of Carnaby
and Archie Garvell, her half-brother, were with her. My uncle had been
bothering me about the Crest Hill hot-water pipes, and we were
returning by a path transverse to theirs and came out upon them
suddenly. Old Carnaby was trespassing on our ground, and so he hailed
us in a friendly fashion and pulled up to talk to us.

I didn’t note Beatrice at all at first. I was interested in Lord
Carnaby, that remarkable vestige of his own brilliant youth. I had
heard of him, but never seen him. For a man of sixty-five who had
sinned all the sins, so they said, and laid waste the most magnificent
political debut of any man of his generation, he seemed to me to be
looking remarkably fit and fresh. He was a lean little man with
grey-blue eyes in his brown face, and his cracked voice was the worst
thing in his effect.

“Hope you don’t mind us coming this way, Ponderevo,” he cried; and my
uncle, who was sometimes a little too general and generous with titles,
answered, “Not at all, my lord, not at all! Glad you make use of it!”

“You’re building a great place over the hill,” said Carnaby.

“Thought I’d make a show for once,” said my uncle. “It looks big
because it’s spread out for the sun.”

“Air and sunlight,” said the earl. “You can’t have too much of them.
But before our time they used to build for shelter and water and the
high road.”

Then I discovered that the silent figure behind the earl was Beatrice.

I’d forgotten her sufficiently to think for a moment that she hadn’t
changed at all since she had watched me from behind the skirts of Lady
Drew. She was looking at me, and her dainty brow under her broad
brimmed hat—she was wearing a grey hat and loose unbuttoned coat—was
knit with perplexity, trying, I suppose, to remember where she had seen
me before. Her shaded eyes met mine with that mute question....

It seemed incredible to me she didn’t remember.

“Well,” said the earl and touched his horse.

Garvell was patting the neck of his horse, which was inclined to
fidget, and disregarding me. He nodded over his shoulder and followed.
His movement seemed to release a train of memories in her. She glanced
suddenly at him and then back at me with a flash of recognition that
warmed instantly to a faint smile. She hesitated as if to speak to me,
smiled broadly and understandingly and turned to follow the others. All
three broke into a canter and she did not look back. I stood for a
second or so at the crossing of the lanes, watching her recede, and
then became aware that my uncle was already some paces off and talking
over his shoulder in the belief that I was close behind. I turned about
and strode to overtake him. My mind was full of Beatrice and this
surprise. I remembered her simply as a Normandy. I’d clean forgotten
that Garvell was the son and she the step-daughter of our neighbour,
Lady Osprey. Indeed, I’d probably forgotten at that time that we had
Lady Osprey as a neighbour. There was no reason at all for remembering
it. It was amazing to find her in this Surrey countryside, when I’d
never thought of her as living anywhere in the world but at Bladesover
Park, near forty miles and twenty years away. She was so alive—so
unchanged! The same quick warm blood was in her cheeks. It seemed only
yesterday that we had kissed among the bracken stems....

“Eh?” I said.

“I say he’s good stuff,” said my uncle. “You can say what you like
against the aristocracy, George; Lord Carnaby’s rattling good stuff.
There’s a sort of _Savoir Faire_, something—it’s an old-fashioned
phrase, George, but a good one there’s a Bong-Tong.... It’s like the
Oxford turf, George, you can’t grow it in a year. I wonder how they do
it. It’s living always on a Scale, George. It’s being there from the
beginning.”...

“She might,” I said to myself, “be a picture by Romney come alive!”

“They tell all these stories about him,” said my uncle, “but what do
they all amount to?”

“Gods!” I said to myself; “but why have I forgotten for so long? Those
queer little brows of hers, the touch of mischief in her eyes—the way
she breaks into a smile!”

“I don’t blame him,” said my uncle. “Mostly it’s imagination. That and
leisure, George. When I was a young man I was kept pretty busy. So were
you. Even then—!”

What puzzled me more particularly was the queer trick of my memory that
had never recalled anything vital of Beatrice whatever when I met
Garvell again that had, indeed, recalled nothing except a boyish
antagonism and our fight. Now when my senses were full of her, it
seemed incredible that I could ever have forgotten....

III

“Oh, Crikey!” said my aunt, reading a letter behind her coffee-machine.
“_Here’s_ a young woman, George!”

We were breakfasting together in the big window bay at Lady Grove that
looks upon the iris beds; my uncle was in London.

I sounded an interrogative note and decapitated an egg.

“Who’s Beatrice Normandy?” asked my aunt. “I’ve not heard of her
before.”

“She the young woman?”

“Yes. Says she knows you. I’m no hand at old etiquette, George, but her
line is a bit unusual. Practically she says she’s going to make her
mother—”

“Eh? Step-mother, isn’t it?”

“You seem to know a lot about her. She says ‘mother’—Lady Osprey.
They’re to call on me, anyhow, next Wednesday week at four, and there’s
got to be you for tea.”

“Eh?”

“You—for tea.

“H’m. She had rather—force of character. When I knew her before.”

I became aware of my aunt’s head sticking out obliquely from behind the
coffee-machine and regarding me with wide blue curiosity. I met her
gaze for a moment, flinched, coloured, and laughed.

“I’ve known her longer than I’ve known you,” I said, and explained at
length.

My aunt kept her eye on me over and round the coffee-machine as I did
so. She was greatly interested, and asked several elucidatory
questions.

“Why didn’t you tell me the day you saw her? You’ve had her on your
mind for a week,” she said.

“It IS odd I didn’t tell you,” I admitted.

“You thought I’d get a Down on her,” said my aunt conclusively. “That’s
what you thought” and opened the rest of her letters.

The two ladies came in a pony-carriage with conspicuous punctuality,
and I had the unusual experience of seeing my aunt entertaining
callers. We had tea upon the terrace under the cedar, but old Lady
Osprey, being an embittered Protestant, had never before seen the
inside of the house, and we made a sort of tour of inspection that
reminded me of my first visit to the place. In spite of my
preoccupation with Beatrice, I stored a queer little memory of the
contrast between the two other women; my aunt, tall, slender and
awkward, in a simple blue homekeeping dress, an omnivorous reader and a
very authentic wit, and the lady of pedigree, short and plump, dressed
with Victorian fussiness, living at the intellectual level of palmistry
and genteel fiction, pink in the face and generally flustered by a
sense of my aunt’s social strangeness and disposed under the
circumstances to behave rather like an imitation of the more queenly
moments of her own cook. The one seemed made of whalebone, the other of
dough. My aunt was nervous, partly through the intrinsic difficulty of
handling the lady and partly because of her passionate desire to watch
Beatrice and me, and her nervousness took a common form with her, a
wider clumsiness of gesture and an exacerbation of her habitual oddity
of phrase which did much to deepen the pink perplexity of the lady of
title. For instance, I heard my aunt admit that one of the Stuart
Durgan ladies did look a bit “balmy on the crumpet”; she described the
knights of the age of chivalry as “korvorting about on the off-chance
of a dragon”; she explained she was “always old mucking about the
garden,” and instead of offering me a Garibaldi biscuit, she asked me
with that faint lisp of hers, to “have some squashed flies, George.” I
felt convinced Lady Osprey would describe her as “a most eccentric
person” on the very first opportunity;—“a most eccentric person.” One
could see her, as people say, “shaping” for that.

Beatrice was dressed very quietly in brown, with a simple but
courageous broad-brimmed hat, and an unexpected quality of being
grown-up and responsible. She guided her step-mother through the first
encounter, scrutinised my aunt, and got us all well in movement through
the house, and then she turned her attention to me with a quick and
half-confident smile.

“We haven’t met,” she said, “since—”

“It was in the Warren.”

“Of course,” she said, “the Warren! I remembered it all except just the
name.... I was eight.”

Her smiling eyes insisted on my memories being thorough. I looked up
and met them squarely, a little at a loss for what I should say.

“I gave you away pretty completely,” she said, meditating upon my face.
“And afterwards I gave way Archie.”

She turned her face away from the others, and her voice fell ever so
little.

“They gave him a licking for telling lies!” she said, as though that
was a pleasant memory. “And when it was all over I went to our wigwam.
You remember the wigwam?”

“Out in the West Wood?”

“Yes—and cried—for all the evil I had done you, I suppose.... I’ve
often thought of it since.”...

Lady Osprey stopped for us to overtake her. “My dear!” she said to
Beatrice. “Such a beautiful gallery!” Then she stared very hard at me,
puzzled in the most naked fashion to understand who I might be.

“People say the oak staircase is rather good,” said my aunt, and led
the way.

Lady Osprey, with her skirts gathered for the ascent to the gallery and
her hand on the newel, turned and addressed a look full of meaning
overflowing indeed with meanings—at her charge. The chief meaning no
doubt was caution about myself, but much of it was just meaning at
large. I chanced to catch the response in a mirror and detected
Beatrice with her nose wrinkled into a swift and entirely diabolical
grimace. Lady Osprey became a deeper shade of pink and speechless with
indignation—it was evident she disavowed all further responsibility, as
she followed my aunt upstairs.

“It’s dark, but there’s a sort of dignity,” said Beatrice very
distinctly, regarding the hall with serene tranquillity, and allowing
the unwilling feet on the stairs to widen their distance from us. She
stood a step up, so that she looked down a little upon me and over me
at the old hall.

She turned upon me abruptly when she thought her step-mother was beyond
ear-shot.

“But how did you get here?” she asked.

“Here?”

“All this.” She indicated space and leisure by a wave of the hand at
hall and tall windows and sunlit terrace. “Weren’t you the
housekeeper’s son?”

“I’ve adventured. My uncle has become—a great financier. He used to be
a little chemist about twenty miles from Bladesover. We’re promoters
now, amalgamators, big people on the new model.”

“I understand.” She regarded me with interested eyes, visibly thinking
me out.

“And you recognised me?” I asked.

“After a second or so. I saw you recognised me. I couldn’t place you,
but I knew I knew you. Then Archie being there helped me to remember.”

“I’m glad to meet again,” I ventured. “I’d never forgotten you.”

“One doesn’t forget those childish things.”

We regarded one another for a moment with a curiously easy and
confident satisfaction in coming together again. I can’t explain our
ready zest in one another. The thing was so. We pleased each other, we
had no doubt in our minds that we pleased each other. From the first we
were at our ease with one another. “So picturesque, so very
picturesque,” came a voice from above, and then: “Bee-atrice!”

“I’ve a hundred things I want to know about you,” she said with an easy
intimacy, as we went up the winding steps....

As the four of us sat at tea together under the cedar on the terrace
she asked questions about my aeronautics. My aunt helped with a word or
so about my broken ribs. Lady Osprey evidently regarded flying as a
most indesirable and improper topic—a blasphemous intrusion upon the
angels. “It isn’t flying,” I explained. “We don’t fly yet.”

“You never will,” she said compactly. “You never will.”

“Well,” I said, “we do what we can.”

The little lady lifted a small gloved hand and indicated a height of
about four feet from the ground. “Thus far,” she said, “thus far—_and
no farther!_ No!”

She became emphatically pink. “_No_,” she said again quite
conclusively, and coughed shortly. “Thank you,” she said to her ninth
or tenth cake. Beatrice burst into cheerful laughter with her eye on
me. I was lying on the turf, and this perhaps caused a slight confusion
about the primordial curse in Lady Osprey’s mind.

“Upon his belly shall he go,” she said with quiet distinctness, “all
the days of his life.”

After which we talked no more of aeronautics.

Beatrice sat bunched together in a chair and regarded me with exactly
the same scrutiny, I thought, the same adventurous aggression, that I
had faced long ago at the tea-table in my mother’s room. She was
amazingly like that little Princess of my Bladesover memories, the
wilful misbehaviours of her hair seemed the same—her voice; things one
would have expected to be changed altogether. She formed her plans in
the same quick way, and acted with the same irresponsible decision.

She stood up abruptly.

“What is there beyond the terrace?” she said, and found me promptly
beside her.

I invented a view for her.

At the further corner from the cedar she perched herself up upon the
parapet and achieved an air of comfort among the lichenous stones. “Now
tell me,” she said, “all about yourself. Tell me about yourself; I know
such duffers of men! They all do the same things. How did you get—here?
All my men _were_ here. They couldn’t have got here if they hadn’t been
here always. They wouldn’t have thought it right. You’ve climbed.”

“If it’s climbing,” I said.

She went off at a tangent. “It’s—I don’t know if you’ll
understand—interesting to meet you again. I’ve remembered you. I don’t
know why, but I have. I’ve used you as a sort of lay figure—when I’ve
told myself stories. But you’ve always been rather stiff and difficult
in my stories—in ready-made clothes—a Labour Member or a Bradlaugh, or
something like that. You’re not like that a bit. And yet you _are!_”

She looked at me. “Was it much of a fight? They make out it is.”

“I don’t know why.”

“I was shot up here by an accident,” I said. “There was no fight at
all. Except to keep honest, perhaps and I made no great figure in that.
I and my uncle mixed a medicine and it blew us up. No merit in that!
But you’ve been here all the time. Tell me what you have done first.”

“One thing we didn’t do.” She meditated for a moment.

“What?” said I.

“Produce a little half-brother for Bladesover. So it went to the
Phillbrick gang. And they let it! And I and my step-mother—we let, too.
And live in a little house.”

She nodded her head vaguely over her shoulder and turned to me again.
“Well, suppose it was an accident. Here you are! Now you’re here, what
are you going to do? You’re young. Is it to be Parliament? heard some
men the other day talking about you. Before I knew you were you. They
said that was what you ought to do.”...

She put me through my intentions with a close and vital curiosity. It
was just as she had tried to imagine me a soldier and place me years
ago. She made me feel more planless and incidental than ever. “You want
to make a flying-machine,” she pursued, “and when you fly? What then?
Would it be for fighting?”

I told her something of my experimental work. She had never heard of
the soaring aeroplane, and was excited by the thought, and keen to hear
about it. She had thought all the work so far had been a mere
projecting of impossible machines. For her Pilcher and Lilienthal had
died in vain. She did not know such men had lived in the world.

“But that’s dangerous!” she said, with a note of discovery.

“Oh!—it’s dangerous.”

“Bee-atrice!” Lady Osprey called.

Beatrice dropped from the wall to her feet.

“Where do you do this soaring?”

“Beyond the high Barrows. East of Crest Hill and the wood.”

“Do you mind people coming to see?”

“Whenever you please. Only let me know”

“I’ll take my chance some day. Some day soon.” She looked at me
thoughtfully, smiled, and our talk was at an end.

IV

All my later work in aeronautics is associated in my memory with the
quality of Beatrice, with her incidental presence, with things she said
and did and things I thought of that had reference to her.

In the spring of that year I had got to a flying machine that lacked
nothing but longitudinal stability. My model flew like a bird for fifty
or a hundred yards or so, and then either dived and broke its nose or,
what was commoner, reared up, slid back and smashed its propeller. The
rhythm of the pitching puzzled me. I felt it must obey some laws not
yet quite clearly stated. I became therefore a student of theory and
literature for a time; I hit upon the string of considerations that led
me to what is called Ponderevo’s Principle and my F.R.S., and I worked
this out in three long papers. Meanwhile I made a lot of turn-table and
glider models and started in upon an idea of combining gas-bags and
gliders. Balloon work was new to me. I had made one or two ascents in
the balloons of the Aëro Club before I started my gasometer and the
balloon shed and gave Cothope a couple of months with Sir Peter
Rumchase. My uncle found part of the money for these developments; he
was growing interested and competitive in this business because of Lord
Boom’s prize and the amount of _réclame_ involved, and it was at his
request that I named my first navigable balloon Lord Roberts Alpha.

Lord Roberts A very nearly terminated all my investigations. My idea
both in this and its more successful and famous younger brother, Lord
Roberts β, was to utilise the idea of a contractile balloon with a
rigid flat base, a balloon shaped rather like an inverted boat that
should almost support the apparatus, but not quite. The gas-bag was of
the chambered sort used for these long forms, and not with an internal
balloonette. The trouble was to make the thing contractile. This I
sought to do by fixing a long, fine-meshed silk net over it that was
fastened to be rolled up on two longitudinal rods. Practically I
contracted my sausage gas-bag by netting it down. The ends were too
complex for me to describe here, but I thought them out elaborately and
they were very carefully planned. Lord Roberts A was furnished with a
single big screw forward, and there was a rudder aft. The engine was
the first one to be, so to speak, right in the plane of the gas-bag. I
lay immediately under the balloon on a sort of glider framework, far
away from either engine or rudder, controlling them by wire-pulls
constructed on the principle of the well-known Bowden brake of the
cyclist.

But Lord Roberts A has been pretty exhaustively figured and described
in various aeronautical publications. The unforeseen defect was the
badness of the work in the silk netting. It tore aft as soon as I began
to contract the balloon, and the last two segments immediately bulged
through the hole, exactly as an inner tube will bulge through the
ruptured outer cover of a pneumatic tire, and then the sharp edge of
the torn net cut the oiled-silk of the distended last segment along a
weak seam and burst it with a loud report.

Up to that point the whole thing had been going on extremely well. As a
navigable balloon and before I contracted it, the Lord Roberts A was an
unqualified success. It had run out of the shed admirably at nine or
ten miles an hour or more, and although there was a gentle southwester
blowing, it had gone up and turned and faced it as well as any craft of
the sort I have ever seen.

I lay in my customary glider position, horizontal and face downward,
and the invisibility of all the machinery gave an extraordinary effect
of independent levitation. Only by looking up, as it were, and turning
my head back could I see the flat aeroplane bottom of the balloon and
the rapid successive passages, swish, swish, swish of the vans of the
propeller. I made a wide circle over Lady Grove and Duffield and out
towards Effingham and came back quite successfully to the
starting-point.

Down below in the October sunlight were my sheds and the little group
that had been summoned to witness the start, their faces craned upward
and most of them scrutinising my expression through field-glasses. I
could see Carnaby and Beatrice on horseback, and two girls I did not
know with them; Cothope and three or four workmen I employed; my aunt
and Mrs. Levinstein, who was staying with her, on foot, and Dimmock,
the veterinary surgeon, and one or two others. My shadow moved a little
to the north of them like the shadow of a fish. At Lady Grove the
servants were out on the lawn, and the Duffield school playground
swarmed with children too indifferent to aeronautics to cease their
playing. But in the Crest Hill direction—the place looked
extraordinarily squat and ugly from above—there were knots and strings
of staring workmen everywhere—not one of them working, but all agape.
(But now I write it, it occurs to me that perhaps it was their dinner
hour; it was certainly near twelve.) I hung for a moment or so enjoying
the soar, then turned about to face a clear stretch of open down, let
the engine out to full speed and set my rollers at work rolling in the
net, and so tightening the gas-bags. Instantly the pace quickened with
the diminished resistance...

In that moment before the bang I think I must have been really flying.
Before the net ripped, just in the instant when my balloon was at its
systole, the whole apparatus was, I am convinced, heavier than air.
That, however, is a claim that has been disputed, and in any case this
sort of priority is a very trivial thing.

Then came a sudden retardation, instantly followed by an inexpressibly
disconcerting tilt downward of the machine. That I still recall with
horror. I couldn’t see what was happening at all and I couldn’t
imagine. It was a mysterious, inexplicable dive. The thing, it seemed,
without rhyme or reason, was kicking up its heels in the air. The bang
followed immediately, and I perceived I was falling rapidly.

I was too much taken by surprise to think of the proper cause of the
report. I don’t even know what I made of it. I was obsessed, I suppose,
by that perpetual dread of the modern aeronaut, a flash between engine
and balloon. Yet obviously I wasn’t wrapped in flames. I ought to have
realised instantly it wasn’t that. I did, at any rate, whatever other
impressions there were, release the winding of the outer net and let
the balloon expand again, and that no doubt did something to break my
fall. I don’t remember doing that. Indeed, all I do remember is the
giddy effect upon the landscape of falling swiftly upon it down a flat
spiral, the hurried rush of fields and trees and cottages on my left
shoulder and the overhung feeling as if the whole apparatus was
pressing down the top of my head. I didn’t stop or attempt to stop the
screw. That was going on, swish, swish, swish all the time.

Cothope really knows more about the fall than I do. He describes the
easterly start, the tilt, and the appearance and bursting of a sort of
bladder aft. Then down I swooped, very swiftly, but not nearly so
steeply as I imagined I was doing. “Fifteen or twenty degrees,” said
Cothope, “to be exact.” From him it was that I learnt that I let the
nets loose again, and so arrested my fall. He thinks I was more in
control of myself than I remember.

But I do not see why I should have forgotten so excellent a resolution.
His impression is that I was really steering and trying to drop into
the Farthing Down beeches. “You hit the trees,” he said, “and the whole
affair stood on its nose among them, and then very slowly crumpled up.
I saw you’d been jerked out, as I thought, and I didn’t stay for more.
I rushed for my bicycle.”

As a matter of fact, it was purely accidental that I came down in the
woods. I am reasonably certain that I had no more control then than a
thing in a parcel. I remember I felt a sort of wincing, “Now it comes!”
as the trees rushed up to me. If I remember that, I should remember
steering. Then the propeller smashed, everything stopped with a jerk,
and I was falling into a mass of yellowing leaves, and Lord Roberts A,
so it seemed to me, was going back into the sky.

I felt twigs and things hit me in the face, but I didn’t feel injured
at the time; I clutched at things that broke, tumbled through a froth
of green and yellow into a shadowy world of great bark-covered arms,
and there, snatching wildly, got a grip on a fair round branch, and
hung.

I became intensely alert and clear-headed. I held by that branch for a
moment and then looked about me, and caught at another, and then found
myself holding to a practicable fork. I swung forward to that and got a
leg around it below its junction, and so was able presently to clamber
down, climbing very coolly and deliberately. I dropped ten feet or so
from the lowest branch and fell on my feet. “That’s all right,” I said,
and stared up through the tree to see what I could of the deflated and
crumpled remains that had once been Lord Roberts A festooned on the
branches it had broken. “Gods!” I said, “what a tumble!”

I wiped something that trickled from my face and was shocked to see my
hand covered with blood. I looked at myself and saw what seemed to me
an astonishing quantity of blood running down my arm and shoulder. I
perceived my mouth was full of blood. It’s a queer moment when one
realises one is hurt, and perhaps badly hurt, and has still to discover
just how far one is hurt. I explored my face carefully and found
unfamiliar contours on the left side. The broken end of a branch had
driven right through my cheek, damaging my cheek and teeth and gums,
and left a splinter of itself stuck, like an explorer’s
fartherest-point flag, in the upper maxillary. That and a sprained
wrist were all my damage. But I bled as though I had been chopped to
pieces, and it seemed to me that my face had been driven in. I can’t
describe just the horrible disgust I felt at that.

“This blood must be stopped, anyhow,” I said, thickheadedly.

“I wonder where there’s a spider’s web”—an odd twist for my mind to
take. But it was the only treatment that occurred to me.

I must have conceived some idea of going home unaided, because I was
thirty yards from the tree before I dropped.

Then a kind of black disc appeared in the middle of the world and
rushed out to the edge of things and blotted them out. I don’t remember
falling down. I fainted from excitement, disgust at my injury and loss
of blood, and lay there until Cothope found me.

He was the first to find me, scorching as he did over the downland
turf, and making a wide course to get the Carnaby plantations at their
narrowest. Then presently, while he was trying to apply the methodical
teachings of the St. John’s Ambulance classes to a rather abnormal
case, Beatrice came galloping through the trees full-tilt, with Lord
Carnaby hard behind her, and she was hatless, muddy from a fall, and
white as death. “And cool as a cucumber, too,” said Cothope, turning it
over in his mind as he told me.

(“They never seem quite to have their heads, and never seem quite to
lose ’em,” said Cothope, generalising about the sex.)

Also he witnessed she acted with remarkable decision. The question was
whether I should be taken to the house her step-mother occupied at
Bedley Corner, the Carnaby dower house, or down to Carnaby’s place at
Easting. Beatrice had no doubt in the matter, for she meant to nurse
me. Carnaby didn’t seem to want that to happen. “She _would_ have it
wasn’t half so far,” said Cothope. “She faced us out....

“I hate to be faced out of my opinion, so I’ve taken a pedometer over
it since. It’s exactly forty-three yards further.

“Lord Carnaby looked at her pretty straight,” said Cothope, finishing
the picture; “and then he give in.”

V

But my story has made a jump from June to October, and during that time
my relations with Beatrice and the countryside that was her setting had
developed in many directions. She came and went, moving in an orbit for
which I had no data, going to London and Paris, into Wales and
Northampton, while her stepmother, on some independent system of her
own, also vanished and recurred intermittently. At home they obeyed the
rule of an inflexible old maid, Charlotte, and Beatrice exercised all
the rights of proprietorship in Carnaby’s extensive stables. Her
interest in me was from the first undisguised. She found her way to my
worksheds and developed rapidly, in spite of the sincere discouragement
of Cothope, into a keen amateur of aeronautics. She would come
sometimes in the morning, sometimes in the afternoon, sometimes afoot
with an Irish terrier, sometimes riding. She would come for three or
four days every day, vanish for a fortnight or three weeks, return.

It was not long before I came to look for her. From the first I found
her immensely interesting. To me she was a new feminine type
altogether—I have made it plain, I think, how limited was my knowledge
of women. But she made me not simply interested in her, but in myself.
She became for me something that greatly changes a man’s world. How
shall I put it? She became an audience. Since I’ve emerged from the
emotional developments of the affair I have thought it out in a hundred
aspects, and it does seem to me that this way in which men and women
make audiences for one another is a curiously influential force in
their lives. For some it seems an audience is a vital necessity, they
seek audiences as creatures seek food; others again, my uncle among
them, can play to an imaginary audience. I, I think, have lived and can
live without one. In my adolescence I was my own audience and my own
court of honour. And to have an audience in one’s mind is to play a
part, to become self-conscious and dramatic. For many years I had been
self-forgetful and scientific. I had lived for work and impersonal
interests until I found scrutiny, applause and expectation in
Beatrice’s eyes. Then I began to live for the effect I imagined I made
upon her, to make that very soon the principal value in my life. I
played to her. I did things for the look of them. I began to dream more
and more of beautiful situations and fine poses and groupings with her
and for her.

I put these things down because they puzzle me. I think I was in love
with Beatrice, as being in love is usually understood; but it was quite
a different state altogether from my passionate hunger for Marion, or
my keen, sensuous desire for and pleasure in Effie. These were selfish,
sincere things, fundamental and instinctive, as sincere as the leap of
a tiger. But until matters drew to a crisis with Beatrice, there was an
immense imaginative insurgence of a quite different quality. I am
setting down here very gravely, and perhaps absurdly, what are no doubt
elementary commonplaces for innumerable people. This love that grew up
between Beatrice and myself was, I think—I put it quite tentatively and
rather curiously—romantic love. That unfortunate and truncated affair
of my uncle and the Scrymgeour lady was really of the same stuff, if a
little different in quality. I have to admit that. The factor of
audience was of primary importance in either else.

Its effect upon me was to make me in many respects adolescent again. It
made me keener upon the point of honour, and anxious and eager to do
high and splendid things, and in particular, brave things. So far it
ennobled and upheld me. But it did also push me towards vulgar and
showy things. At bottom it was disingenuous; it gave my life the
quality of stage scenery, with one side to the audience, another side
that wasn’t meant to show, and an economy of substance. It certainly
robbed my work of high patience and quality. I cut down the toil of
research in my eagerness and her eagerness for fine flourishes in the
air, flights that would tell. I shirked the longer road.

And it robbed me, too, of any fine perception of absurdity.

Yet that was not everything in our relationship. The elemental thing
was there also. It came in very suddenly.

It was one day in the summer, though I do not now recall without
reference to my experimental memoranda whether it was in July or
August. I was working with a new and more bird-like aeroplane with wing
curvatures studied from Lilienthal, Pilcher and Phillips, that I
thought would give a different rhythm for the pitching oscillations
than anything I’d had before. I was soaring my long course from the
framework on the old barrow by my sheds down to Tinker’s Corner. It is
a clear stretch of downland, except for two or three thickets of box
and thorn to the right of my course; one transverse trough, in which
there is bush and a small rabbit warren, comes in from the east. I had
started, and was very intent on the peculiar long swoop with which any
new arrangement flew. Then, without any sort of notice, right ahead of
me appeared Beatrice, riding towards Tinker’s Corner to waylay and talk
to me. She looked round over her shoulder, saw me coming, touched her
horse to a gallop, and then the brute bolted right into the path of my
machine.

There was a queer moment of doubt whether we shouldn’t all smash
together. I had to make up my mind very quickly whether I would
pitch-up and drop backward at once and take my chance of falling
undamaged—a poor chance it would have been—in order to avoid any risk
to her, or whether I would lift against the wind and soar right over
her. This latter I did. She had already got her horse in hand when I
came up to her. Her woman’s body lay along his neck, and she glanced up
as I, with wings aspread, and every nerve in a state of tension, swept
over her.

Then I had landed, and was going back to where her horse stood still
and trembling.

We exchanged no greetings. She slid from her saddle into my arms, and
for one instant I held her.

“Those great wings,” she said, and that was all.

She lay in my arms, and I thought for a moment she had fainted.

“Very near a nasty accident,” said Cothope, coming up and regarding our
grouping with disfavour. He took her horse by the bridle. “Very
dangerous thing coming across us like that.”

Beatrice disengaged herself from me, stood for a moment trembling, and
then sat down on the turf “I’ll just sit down for a moment,” she said.

“Oh!” she said.

She covered her face with her hands, while Cothope looked at her with
an expression between suspicion and impatience.

For some moments nobody moved. Then Cothope remarked that perhaps he’d
better get her water.

As for me, I was filled with a new outrageous idea, begotten I scarcely
know how from this incident, with its instant contacts and swift
emotions, and that was that I must make love to and possess Beatrice. I
see no particular reason why that thought should have come to me in
that moment, but it did. I do not believe that before then I had
thought of our relations in such terms at all. Suddenly, as I remember
it, the factor of passion came. She crouched there, and I stood over
her, and neither of us said a word. But it was just as though something
had been shouted from the sky.

Cothope had gone twenty paces perhaps when she uncovered her face. “I
shan’t want any water,” she said. “Call him back.”

VI

After that the spirit of our relations changed. The old ease had gone.
She came to me less frequently, and when she came she would have some
one with her, usually old Carnaby, and he would do the bulk of the
talking. All through September she was away. When we were alone
together there was a curious constraint. We became clouds of
inexpressible feeling towards one another; we could think of nothing
that was not too momentous for words.

Then came the smash of Lord Roberts A, and I found myself with a
bandaged face in a bedroom in the Bedley Corner dower-house with
Beatrice presiding over an inefficient nurse, Lady Osprey very pink and
shocked in the background, and my aunt jealously intervening.

My injuries were much more showy than serious, and I could have been
taken to Lady Grove next day, but Beatrice would not permit that, and
kept me at Bedley Corner three clear days. In the afternoon of the
second day she became extremely solicitous for the proper aeration of
the nurse, packed her off for an hour in a brisk rain, and sat by me
alone.

I asked her to marry me.

All the whole I must admit it was not a situation that lent itself to
eloquence. I lay on my back and talked through bandages, and with some
little difficulty, for my tongue and mouth had swollen. But I was
feverish and in pain, and the emotional suspense I had been in so long
with regard to her became now an unendurable impatience.

“Comfortable?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Shall I read to you?”

“No. I want to talk.”

“You can’t. I’d better talk to you.”

“No,” I said, “I want to talk to you.”

She came and stood by my bedside and looked me in the eyes. “I don’t—I
don’t want you to talk to me,” she said. “I thought you couldn’t talk.”

“I get few chances—of you.”

“You’d better not talk. Don’t talk now. Let me chatter instead. You
ought not to talk.”

“It isn’t much,” I said.

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“I’m not going to be disfigured,” I said. “Only a scar.”

“Oh!” she said, as if she had expected something quite different. “Did
you think you’d become a sort of gargoyle?”

“L’Homme qui Rit!—I didn’t know. But that’s all right. Jolly flowers
those are!”

“Michaelmas daisies,” she said. “I’m glad you’r not disfigured, and
those are perennial sunflowers. Do you know no flowers at all? When I
saw you on the ground I certainly thought you were dead. You ought to
have been, by all the rules of the game.”

She said some other things, but I was thinking of my next move.

“Are we social equals?” I said abruptly.

She stared at me. “Queer question,” she said.

“But are we?”

“H’m. Difficult to say. But why do you ask? Is the daughter of a
courtesy Baron who died—of general disreputableness, I believe—before
his father—? I give it up. Does it matter?”

“No. My mind is confused. I want to know if you will marry me.”

She whitened and said nothing. I suddenly felt I must plead with her.
“Damn these bandages!” I said, breaking into ineffectual febrile rage.

She roused herself to her duties as nurse. “What are you doing? Why are
you trying to sit up? Sit down! Don’t touch your bandages. I told you
not to talk.”

She stood helpless for a moment, then took me firmly by the shoulders
and pushed me back upon the pillow. She gripped the wrist of the hand I
had raised to my face.

“I told you not to talk,” she whispered close to my face. “I asked you
not to talk. Why couldn’t you do as I asked you?”

“You’ve been avoiding me for a month,” I said.

“I know. You might have known. Put your hand back—down by your side.”

I obeyed. She sat on the edge of the bed. A flush had come to her
cheeks, and her eyes were very bright. “I asked you,” she repeated,
“not to talk.”

My eyes questioned her mutely.

She put her hand on my chest. Her eyes were tormented.

“How can I answer you now?” she said.

“How can I say anything now?”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

She made no answer.

“Do you mean it must be ‘No’?”

She nodded.

“But” I said, and my whole soul was full of accusations.

“I know,” she said. “I can’t explain. I can’t. But it has to be ‘No!’
It can’t be. It’s utterly, finally, for ever impossible.... Keep your
hands still!”

“But,” I said, “when we met again—”

“I can’t marry. I can’t and won’t.”

She stood up. “Why did you talk?” she cried, “couldn’t you _see?_”

She seemed to have something it was impossible to say.

She came to the table beside my bed and pulled the Michaelmas daisies
awry. “Why did you talk like that?” she said in a tone of infinite
bitterness. “To begin like that!”

“But what is it?” I said. “Is it some circumstance—my social position?”

“Oh, _damn_ your social position!” she cried.

She went and stood at the further window, staring out at the rain. For
a long time we were absolutely still. The wind and rain came in little
gusts upon the pane. She turned to me abruptly.

“You didn’t ask me if I loved you,” she said.

“Oh, if it’s _that!_” said I.

“It’s not that,” she said. “But if you want to know—” She paused.

“I do,” she said.

We stared at one another.

“I do—with all my heart, if you want to know.”

“Then, why the devil—?” I asked.

She made no answer. She walked across the room to the piano and began
to play, rather noisily and rapidly, with odd gusts of emphasis, the
shepherd’s pipe music from the last act in “Tristan and Isolde.”
Presently she missed a note, failed again, ran her finger heavily up
the scale, struck the piano passionately with her fist, making a feeble
jar in the treble, jumped up, and went out of the room....

The nurse found me still wearing my helmet of bandages, partially
dressed, and pottering round the room to find the rest of my clothes. I
was in a state of exasperated hunger for Beatrice, and I was too
inflamed and weakened to conceal the state of my mind. I was feebly
angry because of the irritation of dressing, and particularly of the
struggle to put on my trousers without being able to see my legs. I was
staggering about, and once I had fallen over a chair and I had upset
the jar of Michaelmas daisies.

I must have been a detestable spectacle. “I’ll go back to bed,” said I,
“if I may have a word with Miss Beatrice. I’ve got something to say to
her. That’s why I’m dressing.”

My point was conceded, but there were long delays. Whether the
household had my ultimatum or whether she told Beatrice directly I do
not know, and what Lady Osprey can have made of it in the former case I
don’t imagine.

At last Beatrice came and stood by my bedside. “Well?” she said.

“All I want to say,” I said with the querulous note of a misunderstood
child, “is that I can’t take this as final. I want to see you and talk
when I’m better, and write. I can’t do anything now. I can’t argue.”

I was overtaken with self-pity and began to snivel, “I can’t rest. You
see? I can’t do anything.”

She sat down beside me again and spoke softly. “I promise I will talk
it all over with you again. When you are well. I promise I will meet
you somewhere so that we can talk. You can’t talk now.

“I asked you not to talk now. All you want to know you shall know...
Will that do?”

“I’d like to know”

She looked round to see the door was closed, stood up and went to it.

Then she crouched beside me and began whispering very softly and
rapidly with her face close to me.

“Dear,” she said, “I love you. If it will make you happy to marry me, I
will marry you. I was in a mood just now—a stupid, inconsiderate mood.
Of course I will marry you. You are my prince, my king. Women are such
things of mood—or I would have behaved differently. We say ‘No’ when we
mean ‘Yes’—and fly into crises. So now, Yes—yes—yes. I will. I can’t
even kiss you. Give me your hand to kiss that. Understand, I am yours.
Do you understand? I am yours just as if we had been married fifty
years. Your wife—Beatrice. Is that enough? Now—now will you rest?”

“Yes,” I said, “but why?”

“There are complications. There are difficulties. When you are better
you will be able to—understand them. But now they don’t matter. Only
you know this must be secret—for a time. Absolutely secret between us.
Will you promise that?”

“Yes,” I said, “I understand. I wish I could kiss you.”

She laid her head down beside mine for a moment and then she kissed my
hand.

“I don’t care what difficulties there are,” I said, and I shut my eyes.

VII

But I was only beginning to gauge the unaccountable elements in
Beatrice. For a week after my return to Lady Grove I had no sign of
her, and then she called with Lady Osprey and brought a huge bunch of
perennial sunflowers and Michaelmas daisies, “just the old flowers
there were in your room,” said my aunt, with a relentless eye on me. I
didn’t get any talk alone with Beatrice then, and she took occasion to
tell us she was going to London for some indefinite number of weeks. I
couldn’t even pledge her to write to me, and when she did it was a
brief, enigmatical, friendly letter with not a word of the reality
between us.

I wrote back a love letter—my first love letter—and she made no reply
for eight days. Then came a scrawl: “I can’t write letters. Wait till
we can talk. Are you better?”

I think the reader would be amused if he could see the papers on my
desk as I write all this, the mangled and disfigured pages, the
experimental arrangements of notes, the sheets of suggestions balanced
in constellations, the blottesque intellectual battlegrounds over which
I have been fighting. I find this account of my relations to Beatrice
quite the most difficult part of my story to write. I happen to be a
very objective-minded person, I forget my moods, and this was so much
an affair of moods. And even such moods and emotions as I recall are
very difficult to convey. To me it is about as difficult as describing
a taste or a scent.

Then the objective story is made up of little things that are difficult
to set in a proper order. And love in an hysterical passion, now high,
now low, now exalted, and now intensely physical. No one has ever yet
dared to tell a love story completely, its alternations, its comings
and goings, its debased moments, its hate. The love stories we tell,
tell only the net consequence, the ruling effect....

How can I rescue from the past now the mystical quality of Beatrice; my
intense longing for her; the overwhelming, irrational, formless desire?
How can I explain how intimately that worship mingled with a high,
impatient resolve to make her mine, to take her by strength and
courage, to do my loving in a violent heroic manner? And then the
doubts, the puzzled arrest at the fact of her fluctuations, at her
refusal to marry me, at the fact that even when at last she returned to
Bedley Corner she seemed to evade me?

That exasperated me and perplexed me beyond measure.

I felt that it was treachery. I thought of every conceivable
explanation, and the most exalted and romantic confidence in her did
not simply alternate, but mingled with the basest misgivings.

And into the tangle of memories comes the figure of Carnaby, coming out
slowly from the background to a position of significance, as an
influence, as a predominant strand in the nets that kept us apart, as a
rival. What were the forces that pulled her away from me when it was so
clearly manifest she loved me? Did she think of marrying him? Had I
invaded some long-planned scheme? It was evident he did not like me,
that in some way I spoilt the world for him. She returned to Bedley
Corner, and for some weeks she was flitting about me, and never once
could I have talk with her alone. When she came to my sheds Carnaby was
always with her, jealously observant. (Why the devil couldn’t she send
him about his business?) The days slipped by and my anger gathered.

All this mingles with the making of Lord Roberts β. I had resolved upon
that one night as I lay awake at Bedley Corner; I got it planned out
before the bandages were off my face. I conceived this second navigable
balloon in a grandiose manner. It was to be a second Lord Roberts α,
only more so; it was to be three times as big, large enough to carry
three men, and it was to be an altogether triumphant vindication of my
claims upon the air. The framework was to be hollow like a bird’s
bones, airtight, and the air pumped in or out, and the weight of fuel I
carried changed. I talked much and boasted to Cothope—whom I suspected
of scepticisms about this new type—of what it would do, and it
progressed—slowly. It progressed slowly because I was restless and
uncertain. At times I would go away to London to snatch some chance of
seeing Beatrice there, at times nothing but a day of gliding and hard
and dangerous exercise would satisfy me. And now in the newspapers, in
conversation, in everything about me, arose a new invader of my mental
states. Something was happening to the great schemes of my uncle’s
affairs; people were beginning to doubt, to question. It was the first
quiver of his tremendous insecurity, the first wobble of that gigantic
credit top he had kept spinning so long.

There were comings and goings, November and December slipped by. I had
two unsatisfactory meetings with Beatrice, meetings that had no
privacy—in which we said things of the sort that need atmosphere,
baldly and furtively. I wrote to her several times and she wrote back
notes that I would sometimes respond to altogether, sometimes condemn
as insincere evasions. “You don’t understand. I can’t just now explain.
Be patient with me. Leave things a little while to me.” She wrote.

I would talk aloud to these notes and wrangle over them in my
workroom—while the plans of Lord Roberts β waited.

“You don’t give me a chance!” I would say. “Why don’t you let me know
the secret? That’s what I’m for—to settle difficulties! to tell
difficulties to!”

And at last I could hold out no longer against these accumulating
pressures.

I took an arrogant, outrageous line that left her no loopholes; I
behaved as though we were living in a melodrama.

“You must come and talk to me,” I wrote, “or I will come and take you.
I want you—and the time runs away.”

We met in a ride in the upper plantations. It must have been early in
January, for there was snow on the ground and on the branches of the
trees. We walked to and fro for an hour or more, and from the first I
pitched the key high in romance and made understandings impossible. It
was our worst time together. I boasted like an actor, and she, I know
not why, was tired and spiritless.

Now I think over that talk in the light of all that has happened since,
I can imagine how she came to me full of a human appeal I was too
foolish to let her make. I don’t know. I confess I have never
completely understood Beatrice. I confess I am still perplexed at many
things she said and did. That afternoon, anyhow, I was impossible. I
posed and scolded. I was—I said it—for “taking the Universe by the
throat!”

“If it was only that,” she said, but though I heard, I did not heed
her.

At last she gave way to me and talked no more. Instead she looked at
me—as a thing beyond her controlling, but none the less
interesting—much as she had looked at me from behind the skirts of Lady
Drew in the Warren when we were children together.

Once even I thought she smiled faintly.

“What are the difficulties” I cried, “there’s no difficulty I will not
overcome for you! Do your people think I’m no equal for you? Who says
it? My dear, tell me to win a title! I’ll do it in five years!...

“Here am I just grown a man at the sight of you. I have wanted
something to fight for. Let me fight for you!...

“I’m rich without intending it. Let me mean it, give me an honourable
excuse for it, and I’ll put all this rotten old Warren of England at
your feet!”

I said such things as that. I write them down here in all their
resounding base pride. I said these empty and foolish things, and they
are part of me. Why should I still cling to pride and be ashamed? I
shouted her down.

I passed from such megalomania to petty accusations.

“You think Carnaby is a better man than I?” I said.

“No!” she cried, stung to speech. “No!”

“You think we’re unsubstantial. You’ve listened to all these rumours
Boom has started because we talked of a newspaper of our own. When you
are with me you know I’m a man; when you get away from me you think I’m
a cheat and a cad.... There’s not a word of truth in the things they
say about us. I’ve been slack. I’ve left things. But we have only to
exert ourselves. You do not know how wide and far we have spread our
nets. Even now we have a coup—an expedition—in hand. It will put us on
a footing.”...

Her eyes asked mutely and asked in vain that I would cease to boast of
the very qualities she admired in me.

In the night I could not sleep for thinking of that talk and the vulgar
things I had said in it. I could not understand the drift my mind had
taken. I was acutely disgusted. And my unwonted doubts about myself
spread from a merely personal discontent to our financial position. It
was all very well to talk as I had done of wealth and power and
peerages, but what did I know nowadays of my uncle’s position? Suppose
in the midst of such boasting and confidence there came some turn I did
not suspect, some rottenness he had concealed from me? I resolved I had
been playing with aeronautics long enough; that next morning I would go
to him and have things clear between us.

I caught an early train and went up to the Hardingham.

I went up to the Hardingham through a dense London fog to see how
things really stood. Before I had talked to my uncle for ten minutes I
felt like a man who has just awakened in a bleak, inhospitable room out
of a grandiose dream.




CHAPTER THE FOURTH
HOW I STOLE THE HEAPS OF QUAP FROM MORDET ISLAND


I

“We got to make a fight for it,” said my uncle. “We got to face the
music!”

I remember that even at the sight of him I had a sense of impending
calamity. He sat under the electric light with the shadow of his hair
making bars down his face. He looked shrunken, and as though his skin
had suddenly got loose and yellow. The decorations of the room seemed
to have lost freshness, and outside the blinds were up—there was not so
much fog as a dun darkness. One saw the dingy outlines of the chimneys
opposite quite distinctly, and then a sky of such brown as only London
can display.

“I saw a placard,” I said: “‘More Ponderevity.’”

“That’s Boom,” he said. “Boom and his damned newspapers. He’s trying to
fight me down. Ever since I offered to buy the _Daily Decorator_ he’s
been at me. And he thinks consolidating Do Ut cut down the ads. He
wants everything, damn him! He’s got no sense of dealing. I’d like to
bash his face!”

“Well,” I said, “what’s to be done?”

“Keep going,” said my uncle.

“I’ll smash Boom yet,” he said, with sudden savagery.

“Nothing else?” I asked.

“We got to keep going. There’s a scare on. Did you notice the rooms?
Half the people out there this morning are reporters. And if I talk
they touch it up!... They didn’t used to touch things up! Now they put
in character touches—insulting you. Don’t know what journalism’s coming
to. It’s all Boom’s doing.”

He cursed Lord Boom with considerable imaginative vigour.

“Well,” said I, “what can he do?”

“Shove us up against time, George; make money tight for us. We been
handling a lot of money—and he tightens us up.”

“We’re sound?”

“Oh, we’re sound, George. Trust me for that! But all the same—There’s
such a lot of imagination in these things.... We’re sound enough.
That’s not it.”

He blew. “Damn Boom!” he said, and his eyes over his glasses met mine
defiantly.

“We can’t, I suppose, run close hauled for a bitstop expenditure?”

“Where?”

“Well,—Crest Hill”

“What!” he shouted. “Me stop Crest Hill for Boom!” He waved a fist as
if to hit his inkpot, and controlled himself with difficulty. He spoke
at last in a reasonable voice. “If I did,” he said, “he’d kick up a
fuss. It’s no good, even if I wanted to. Everybody’s watching the
place. If I was to stop building we’d be down in a week.”

He had an idea. “I wish I could do something to start a strike or
something. No such luck. Treat those workmen a sight too well. No, sink
or swim, Crest Hill goes on until we’re under water.”

I began to ask questions and irritated him instantly.

“Oh, dash these explanations, George!” he cried; “You only make things
look rottener than they are. It’s your way. It isn’t a case of figures.
We’re all right—there’s only one thing we got to do.”

“Yes?”

“Show value, George. That’s where this quap comes in; that’s why I fell
in so readily with what you brought to me week before last. Here we
are, we got our option on the perfect filament, and all we want’s
canadium. Nobody knows there’s more canadium in the world than will go
on the edge of a sixpence except me and you. Nobody has an idee the
perfect filament’s more than just a bit of theorising. Fifty tons of
quap and we’d turn that bit of theorising into something. We’d make the
lamp trade sit on its tail and howl. We’d put Ediswan and all of ’em
into a parcel without last year’s trousers and a hat, and swap ’em off
for a pot of geraniums. See? We’d do it through Business Organisations,
and there you are! See? Capern’s Patent Filament!

“The Ideal and the Real! George, we’ll do it! We’ll bring it off! And
then we’ll give such a facer to Boom, he’ll think for fifty years. He’s
laying up for our London and African meeting. Let him. He can turn the
whole paper on to us. He says the Business Organisations shares aren’t
worth fifty-two and we quote ’em at eighty-four. Well, here we are
gettin’ ready for him—loading our gun.”

His pose was triumphant.

“Yes,” I said, “that’s all right. But I can’t help thinking where
should we be if we hadn’t just by accident got Capern’s Perfect
Filament. Because, you know it was an accident—my buying up that.”

He crumpled up his nose into an expression of impatient distaste at my
unreasonableness.

“And after all, the meeting’s in June, and you haven’t begun to get the
quap! After all, we’ve still got to load our gun.”

“They start on Toosday.”

“Have they got the brig?”

“They’ve got a brig.”

“Gordon-Nasmyth!” I doubted.

“Safe as a bank,” he said. “More I see of that man the more I like him.
All I wish is we’d got a steamer instead of a sailing ship.”

“And,” I went on, “you seem to overlook what used to weigh with us a
bit. This canadium side of the business and the Capern chance has
rushed you off your legs. After all—it’s stealing, and in its way an
international outrage. They’ve got two gunboats on the coast.”

I jumped up and went and stared out at the fog.

“And, by Jove, it’s about our only chance! I didn’t dream.”

I turned on him. “I’ve been up in the air,” I said.

“Heaven knows where I haven’t been. And here’s our only chance—and you
give it to that adventurous lunatic to play in his own way—in a brig!”

“Well, you had a voice—”

“I wish I’d been in this before. We ought to have run out a steamer to
Lagos or one of those West Coast places and done it from there. Fancy a
brig in the channel at this time of year, if it blows southwest!”

“I dessay you’d have shoved it, George. Still you know, George.... I
believe in him.”

“Yes,” I said. “Yes, I believe in him, too. In a way. Still—”

We took up a telegram that was lying on his desk and opened it. His
face became a livid yellow. He put the flimsy paper down with a slow,
reluctant movement and took off his glasses.

“George,” he said, “the luck’s against us.”

“What?”

He grimaced with his mouth—in the queerest way at the telegram.

“That.”

I took it up and read:

“Motor smash compound fracture of the leg gordon nasmyth what price
mordet now”

For a moment neither of us spoke.

“That’s all right,” I said at last.

“Eh?” said my uncle.

“_I’m_ going. I’ll get that quap or bust.”

II

I had a ridiculous persuasion that I was “saving the situation.”

“I’m going,” I said quite consciously and dramatically. I saw the whole
affair—how shall I put it?—in American colours.

I sat down beside him. “Give me all the data you’ve got,” I said, “and
I’ll pull this thing off.”

“But nobody knows exactly where—”

“Nasmyth does, and he’ll tell me.”

“He’s been very close,” said my uncle, and regarded me.

“He’ll tell me all right, now he’s smashed.”

He thought. “I believe he will.”

“George,” he said, “if you pull this thing off—Once or twice before
you’ve stepped in—with that sort of Woosh of yours—”

He left the sentence unfinished.

“Give me that note-book,” I said, “and tell me all you know. Where’s
the ship? Where’s Pollack? And where’s that telegram from? If that
quap’s to be got, I’ll get it or bust. If you’ll hold on here until I
get back with it.”...

And so it was I jumped into the wildest adventure of my life.

I requisitioned my uncle’s best car forthwith. I went down that night
to the place of despatch named on Nasmyth’s telegram, Bampton S.O.
Oxon, routed him out with a little trouble from that centre, made
things right with him and got his explicit directions; and I was
inspecting the _Maud Mary_ with young Pollack, his cousin and aide, the
following afternoon. She was rather a shock to me and not at all in my
style, a beast of a brig inured to the potato trade, and she reeked
from end to end with the faint, subtle smell of raw potatoes so that it
prevailed even over the temporary smell of new paint. She was a beast
of a brig, all hold and dirty framework, and they had ballasted her
with old iron and old rails and iron sleepers, and got a miscellaneous
lot of spades and iron wheelbarrows against the loading of the quap. I
thought her over with Pollack, one of those tall blond young men who
smoke pipes and don’t help much, and then by myself, and as a result I
did my best to sweep Gravesend clean of wheeling planks, and got in as
much cord and small rope as I could for lashing. I had an idea we might
need to run up a jetty. In addition to much ballast she held, remotely
hidden in a sort of inadvertent way a certain number of ambiguous cases
which I didn’t examine, but which I gathered were a provision against
the need of a trade.

The captain was a most extraordinary creature, under the impression we
were after copper ore; he was a Roumanian Jew, with twitching,
excitable features, who had made his way to a certificate after some
preliminary naval experiences in the Black Sea. The mate was an Essex
man of impenetrable reserve. The crew were astoundingly ill-clad and
destitute and dirty; most of them youths, unwashed, out of colliers.
One, the cook was a mulatto; and one, the best-built fellow of them
all, was a Breton. There was some subterfuge about our position on
board—I forget the particulars now—I was called the supercargo and
Pollack was the steward. This added to the piratical flavour that
insufficient funds and Gordon-Nasmyth’s original genius had already
given the enterprise.

Those two days of bustle at Gravesend, under dingy skies, in narrow,
dirty streets, were a new experience for me. It is like nothing else in
my life. I realised that I was a modern and a civilised man. I found
the food filthy and the coffee horrible; the whole town stank in my
nostrils, the landlord of the Good Intent on the quay had a stand-up
quarrel with us before I could get even a hot bath, and the bedroom I
slept in was infested by a quantity of exotic but voracious flat
parasites called locally “bugs,” in the walls, in the woodwork,
everywhere. I fought them with insect powder, and found them comatose
in the morning. I was dipping down into the dingy underworld of the
contemporary state, and I liked it no better than I did my first dip
into it when I stayed with my Uncle Nicodemus Frapp at the bakery at
Chatham—where, by-the-by, we had to deal with cockroaches of a smaller,
darker variety, and also with bugs of sorts.

Let me confess that through all this time before we started I was
immensely self-conscious, and that Beatrice played the part of audience
in my imagination throughout. I was, as I say, “saving the situation,”
and I was acutely aware of that. The evening before we sailed, instead
of revising our medicine-chest as I had intended, I took the car and
ran across country to Lady Grove to tell my aunt of the journey I was
making, dress, and astonish Lady Osprey by an after dinner call.

The two ladies were at home and alone beside a big fire that seemed
wonderfully cheerful after the winter night. I remember the effect of
the little parlour in which they sat as very bright and domestic. Lady
Osprey, in a costume of mauve and lace, sat on a chintz sofa and played
an elaborately spread-out patience by the light of a tall shaded lamp;
Beatrice, in a whiteness that showed her throat, smoked a cigarette in
an armchair and read with a lamp at her elbow. The room was
white-panelled and chintz-curtained. About those two bright centres of
light were warm dark shadow, in which a circular mirror shone like a
pool of brown water. I carried off my raid by behaving like a slave of
etiquette. There were moments when I think I really made Lady Osprey
believe that my call was an unavoidable necessity, that it would have
been negligent of me not to call just how and when I did. But at the
best those were transitory moments.

They received me with disciplined amazement. Lady Osprey was interested
in my face and scrutinised the scar. Beatrice stood behind her
solicitude. Our eyes met, and in hers I could see startled
interrogations.

“I’m going,” I said, “to the west coast of Africa.”

They asked questions, but it suited my mood to be vague.

“We’ve interests there. It is urgent I should go. I don’t know when I
may return.”

After that I perceived Beatrice surveyed me steadily.

The conversation was rather difficult. I embarked upon lengthy thanks
for their kindness to me after my accident. I tried to understand Lady
Osprey’s game of patience, but it didn’t appear that Lady Osprey was
anxious for me to understand her patience. I came to the verge of
taking my leave.

“You needn’t go yet,” said Beatrice, abruptly.

She walked across to the piano, took a pile of music from the cabinet
near, surveyed Lady Osprey’s back, and with a gesture to me dropped it
all deliberately on to the floor.

“Must talk,” she said, kneeling close to me as I helped her to pick it
up. “Turn my pages. At the piano.”

“I can’t read music.”

“Turn my pages.”

Presently we were at the piano, and Beatrice was playing with noisy
inaccuracy. She glanced over her shoulder and Lady Osprey had resumed
her patience. The old lady was very pink, and appeared to be absorbed
in some attempt to cheat herself without our observing it.

“Isn’t West Africa a vile climate?” “Are you going to live there?” “Why
are you going?”

Beatrice asked these questions in a low voice and gave me no chance to
answer. Then taking a rhythm from the music before her, she said—

“At the back of the house is a garden—a door in the wall—on the lane.
Understand?”

I turned over the pages without any effect on her playing.

“When?” I asked.

She dealt in chords. “I wish I _could_ play this!” she said.
“Midnight.”

She gave her attention to the music for a time.

“You may have to wait.”

“I’ll wait.”

She brought her playing to an end by—as school boys say—“stashing it
up.”

“I can’t play to-night,” she said, standing up and meeting my eyes. “I
wanted to give you a parting voluntary.”

“Was that Wagner, Beatrice?” asked Lady Osprey looking up from her
cards. “It sounded very confused.”

I took my leave. I had a curious twinge of conscience as I parted from
Lady Osprey. Either a first intimation of middle-age or my inexperience
in romantic affairs was to blame, but I felt a very distinct objection
to the prospect of invading this good lady’s premises from the garden
door. I motored up to the pavilion, found Cothope reading in bed, told
him for the first time of West Africa, spent an hour with him in
settling all the outstanding details of Lord Roberts β, and left that
in his hands to finish against my return. I sent the motor back to Lady
Grove, and still wearing my fur coat—for the January night was damp and
bitterly cold—walked to Bedley Corner. I found the lane to the back of
the Dower House without any difficulty, and was at the door in the wall
with ten minutes to spare. I lit a cigar and fell to walking up and
down. This queer flavour of intrigue, this nocturnal garden-door
business, had taken me by surprise and changed my mental altitudes. I
was startled out of my egotistical pose and thinking intently of
Beatrice, of that elfin quality in her that always pleased me, that
always took me by surprise, that had made her for example so instantly
conceive this meeting.

She came within a minute of midnight; the door opened softly and she
appeared, a short, grey figure in a motor-coat of sheepskin, bareheaded
to the cold drizzle. She flitted up to me, and her eyes were shadows in
her dusky face.

“Why are you going to West Africa?” she asked at once.

“Business crisis. I have to go.”

“You’re not going—? You’re coming back?”

“Three or four months,” I said, “at most.”

“Then, it’s nothing to do with me?”

“Nothing,” I said. “Why should it have?”

“Oh, that’s all right. One never knows what people think or what people
fancy.” She took me by the arm, “Let’s go for a walk,” she said.

I looked about me at darkness and rain.

“That’s all right,” she laughed. “We can go along the lane and into the
Old Woking Road. Do you mind? Of course you don’t. My head. It doesn’t
matter. One never meets anybody.”

“How do you know?”

“I’ve wandered like this before.... Of course. Did you think”—she
nodded her head back at her home—“that’s all?”

“No, by Jove!” I cried; “it’s manifest it isn’t.”

She took my arm and turned me down the lane. “Night’s my time,” she
said by my side. “There’s a touch of the werewolf in my blood. One
never knows in these old families.... I’ve wondered often.... Here we
are, anyhow, alone in the world. Just darkness and cold and a sky of
clouds and wet. And we—together.

“I like the wet on my face and hair, don’t you? When do you sail?”

I told her to-morrow.

“Oh, well, there’s no to-morrow now. You and I!” She stopped and
confronted me.

“You don’t say a word except to answer!”

“No,” I said.

“Last time you did all the talking.”

“Like a fool. Now—”

We looked at each other’s two dim faces. “You’re glad to be here?”

“I’m glad—I’m beginning to be—it’s more than glad.”

She put her hands on my shoulders and drew me down to kiss her.

“Ah!” she said, and for a moment or so we just clung to one another.

“That’s all,” she said, releasing herself. “What bundles of clothes we
are to-night. I felt we should kiss some day again. Always. The last
time was ages ago.”

“Among the fern stalks.”

“Among the bracken. You remember. And your lips were cold. Were mine?
The same lips—after so long—after so much!... And now let’s trudge
through this blotted-out world together for a time. Yes, let me take
your arm. Just trudge. See? Hold tight to me because I know the way—and
don’t talk—don’t talk. Unless you want to talk.... Let me tell you
things! You see, dear, the whole world is blotted out—it’s dead and
gone, and we’re in this place. This dark wild place.... We’re dead. Or
all the world is dead. No! We’re dead. No one can see us. We’re
shadows. We’ve got out of our positions, out of our bodies—and
together. That’s the good thing of it—together. But that’s why the
world can’t see us and why we hardly see the world. Sssh! Is it all
right?”

“It’s all right,” I said.

We stumbled along for a time in a close silence. We passed a dim-lit,
rain-veiled window.

“The silly world,” she said, “the silly world! It eats and sleeps. If
the wet didn’t patter so from the trees we’d hear it snoring. It’s
dreaming such stupid things—stupid judgments. It doesn’t know we are
passing, we two—free of it—clear of it. You and I!”

We pressed against each other reassuringly.

“I’m glad we’re dead,” she whispered. “I’m glad we’re dead. I was tired
of it, dear. I was so tired of it, dear, and so entangled.”

She stopped abruptly.

We splashed through a string of puddles. I began to remember things I
had meant to say.

“Look here!” I cried. “I want to help you beyond measure. You are
entangled. What is the trouble? I asked you to marry me. You said you
would. But there’s something.”

My thoughts sounded clumsy as I said them.

“Is it something about my position?... Or is it something—perhaps—about
some other man?”

There was an immense assenting silence.

“You’ve puzzled me so. At first—I mean quite early—I thought you meant
to make me marry you.”

“I did.”

“And then?”

“To-night,” she said after a long pause, “I can’t explain. No! I can’t
explain. I love you! But—explanations! To-night my dear, here we are in
the world alone—and the world doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. Here I
am in the cold with you and my bed away there deserted. I’d tell you—I
_will_ tell you when things enable me to tell you, and soon enough they
will. But to-night—I won’t—I won’t.”

She left my side and went in front of me.

She turned upon me. “Look here,” she said, “I insist upon your being
dead. Do you understand? I’m not joking. To-night you and I are out of
life. It’s our time together. There may be other times, but this we
won’t spoil. We’re—in Hades if you like. Where there’s nothing to hide
and nothing to tell. No bodies even. No bothers. We loved each
other—down there—and were kept apart, but now it doesn’t matter. It’s
over.... If you won’t agree to that—I will go home.”

“I wanted,” I began.

“I know. Oh! my dear, if you’d only understand I understand. If you’d
only not care—and love me to-night.”

“I do love you,” I said.

“Then _love_ me,” she answered, “and leave all the things that bother
you. Love me! Here I am!”

“But!—”

“No!” she said.

“Well, have your way.”

So she carried her point, and we wandered into the night together and
Beatrice talked to me of love....

I’d never heard a woman before in all my life who could talk of love,
who could lay bare and develop and touch with imagination all that mass
of fine emotion every woman, it may be, hides. She had read of love,
she had thought of love, a thousand sweet lyrics had sounded through
her brain and left fine fragments in her memory; she poured it out, all
of it, shamelessly, skilfully, for me. I cannot give any sense of that
talk, I cannot even tell how much of the delight of it was the magic of
her voice, the glow of her near presence. And always we walked swathed
warmly through a chilly air, along dim, interminable greasy roads—with
never a soul abroad it seemed to us, never a beast in the fields.

“Why do people love each other?” I said.

“Why not?”

“But why do I love you? Why is your voice better than any voice, your
face sweeter than any face?”

“And why do I love you?” she asked; “not only what is fine in you, but
what isn’t? Why do I love your dullness, your arrogance? For I do.
To—night I love the very raindrops on the fur of your coat!”...

So we talked; and at last very wet, still glowing but a little tired,
we parted at the garden door. We had been wandering for two hours in
our strange irrational community of happiness, and all the world about
us, and particularly Lady Osprey and her household, had been asleep—and
dreaming of anything rather than Beatrice in the night and rain.

She stood in the doorway, a muffled figure with eyes that glowed.

“Come back,” she whispered. “I shall wait for you.”

She hesitated.

She touched the lapel of my coat. “I love you NOW,” she said, and
lifted her face to mine.

I held her to me and was atremble from top to toe. “O God!” I cried.
“And I must go!”

She slipped from my arms and paused, regarding me. For an instant the
world seemed full of fantastic possibilities.

“Yes, _Go!_” she said, and vanished and slammed the door upon me,
leaving me alone like a man new fallen from fairyland in the black
darkness of the night.

III

That expedition to Mordet Island stands apart from all the rest of my
life, detached, a piece by itself with an atmosphere of its own. It
would, I suppose, make a book by itself—it has made a fairly voluminous
official report—but so far as this novel of mine goes it is merely an
episode, a contributory experience, and I mean to keep it at that.

Vile weather, an impatient fretting against unbearable slowness and
delay, sea—sickness, general discomfort and humiliating self—revelation
are the master values of these memories.

I was sick all through the journey out. I don’t know why. It was the
only time I was ever sea-sick, and I have seen some pretty bad weather
since I became a boat-builder. But that phantom smell of potatoes was
peculiarly vile to me. Coming back on the brig we were all ill, every
one of us, so soon as we got to sea, poisoned, I firmly believe, by
quap. On the way out most of the others recovered in a few days, but
the stuffiness below, the coarse food, the cramped dirty accommodation
kept me, if not actually sea-sick, in a state of acute physical
wretchedness the whole time. The ship abounded in cockroaches and more
intimate vermin. I was cold all the time until after we passed Cape
Verde, then I became steamily hot; I had been too preoccupied with
Beatrice and my keen desire to get the _Maud Mary_ under way at once,
to consider a proper wardrobe for myself, and in particular I lacked a
coat. Heavens! how I lacked that coat! And, moreover, I was cooped up
with two of the worst bores in Christendom, Pollack and the captain.
Pollack, after conducting his illness in a style better adapted to the
capacity of an opera house than a small compartment, suddenly got
insupportably well and breezy, and produced a manly pipe in which he
smoked a tobacco as blond as himself, and divided his time almost
equally between smoking it and trying to clean it. “There’s only three
things you can clean a pipe with,” he used to remark with a twist of
paper in hand. “The best’s a feather, the second’s a straw, and the
third’s a girl’s hairpin. I never see such a ship. You can’t find any
of ’em. Last time I came this way I did find hairpins anyway, and found
’em on the floor of the captain’s cabin. Regular deposit. Eh?...
Feelin’ better?”

At which I usually swore.

“Oh, you’ll be all right soon. Don’t mind my puffin’ a bit? Eh?”

He never tired of asking me to “have a hand at Nap. Good game. Makes
you forget it, and that’s half the battle.”

He would sit swaying with the rolling of the ship and suck at his pipe
of blond tobacco and look with an inexpressibly sage but somnolent blue
eye at the captain by the hour together. “Captain’s a Card,” he would
say over and over again as the outcome of these meditations. “He’d like
to know what we’re up to. He’d like to know—no end.”

That did seem to be the captain’s ruling idea. But he also wanted to
impress me with the notion that he was a gentleman of good family and
to air a number of views adverse to the English, to English literature,
to the English constitution, and the like.

He had learnt the sea in the Roumanian navy, and English out of a book;
he would still at times pronounce the e’s at the end of “there” and
“here”; he was a naturalised Englishman, and he drove me into a
reluctant and uncongenial patriotism by his everlasting carping at
things English. Pollack would set himself to “draw him out.” Heaven
alone can tell how near I came to murder.

Fifty-three days I had outward, cooped up with these two and a shy and
profoundly depressed mate who read the Bible on Sundays and spent the
rest of his leisure in lethargy, three and fifty days of life cooped up
in a perpetual smell, in a persistent sick hunger that turned from the
sight of food, in darkness, cold and wet, in a lightly ballasted ship
that rolled and pitched and swayed. And all the time the sands in the
hour-glass of my uncle’s fortunes were streaming out. Misery! Amidst it
all I remember only one thing brightly, one morning of sunshine in the
Bay of Biscay and a vision of frothing waves, sapphire green, a bird
following our wake and our masts rolling about the sky. Then wind and
rain close in on us again.

You must not imagine they were ordinary days, days, I mean, of an
average length; they were not so much days as long damp slabs of time
that stretched each one to the horizon, and much of that length was
night. One paraded the staggering deck in a borrowed sou’-wester hour
after hour in the chilly, windy, splashing and spitting darkness, or
sat in the cabin, bored and ill, and looked at the faces of those
inseparable companions by the help of a lamp that gave smell rather
than light. Then one would see going up, up, up, and then sinking down,
down, down, Pollack, extinct pipe in mouth, humorously observant,
bringing his mind slowly to the seventy-seventh decision that the
captain was a Card, while the words flowed from the latter in a nimble
incessant good. “Dis England eet is not a country aristocratic, no! Eet
is a glorified bourgeoisie! Eet is plutocratic. In England dere is no
aristocracy since de Wars of Roses. In the rest of Europe east of the
Latins, yes; in England, no.

“Eet is all middle-class, youra England. Everything you look at,
middle-class. Respectable! Everything good—eet is, you say, shocking.
Madame Grundy! Eet is all limited and computing and self-seeking. Dat
is why your art is so limited, youra fiction, your philosophin, why you
are all so inartistic. You want nothing but profit! What will pay! What
would you?”...

He had all those violent adjuncts to speech we Western Europeans have
abandoned, shruggings of the shoulders, waving of the arms, thrusting
out of the face, wonderful grimaces and twiddlings of the hands under
your nose until you wanted to hit them away. Day after day it went on,
and I had to keep any anger to myself, to reserve myself for the time
ahead when it would be necessary to see the quap was got aboard and
stowed—knee deep in this man’s astonishment. I knew he would make a
thousand objections to all we had before us. He talked like a drugged
man. It ran glibly over his tongue. And all the time one could see his
seamanship fretting him, he was gnawed by responsibility, perpetually
uneasy about the ship’s position, perpetually imagining dangers. If a
sea hit us exceptionally hard he’d be out of the cabin in an instant
making an outcry of inquiries, and he was pursued by a dread of the
hold, of ballast shifting, of insidious wicked leaks. As we drew near
the African coast his fear of rocks and shoals became infectious.

“I do not know dis coast,” he used to say. “I cama hera because
Gordon-Nasmyth was coming too. Den he does not come!”

“Fortunes of war,” I said, and tried to think in vain if any motive but
sheer haphazard could have guided Gordon-Nasmyth in the choice of these
two men. I think perhaps Gordon-Nasmyth had the artistic temperament
and wanted contrasts, and also that the captain helped him to express
his own malignant Anti-Britishism.

He was indeed an exceptionally inefficient captain. On the whole I was
glad I had come even at the eleventh hour to see to things.

(The captain, by-the-by, did at last, out of sheer nervousness, get
aground at the end of Mordet’s Island, but we got off in an hour or so
with a swell and a little hard work in the boat.)

I suspected the mate of his opinion of the captain long before he
expressed it. He was, I say, a taciturn man, but one day speech broke
through him. He had been sitting at the table with his arms folded on
it, musing drearily, pipe in mouth, and the voice of the captain
drifted down from above.

The mate lifted his heavy eyes to me and regarded me for a moment. Then
he began to heave with the beginnings of speech. He disembarrassed
himself of his pipe. I cowered with expectation. Speech was coming at
last. Before he spoke he nodded reassuringly once or twice.

“E—”

He moved his head strangely and mysteriously, but a child might have
known he spoke of the captain.

“E’s a foreigner.”

He regarded me doubtfully for a time, and at last decided for the sake
of lucidity to clench the matter.

“That’s what E is—a _Dago!_”

He nodded like a man who gives a last tap to a nail, and I could see he
considered his remark well and truly laid. His face, though still
resolute, became as tranquil and uneventful as a huge hall after a
public meeting has dispersed out of it, and finally he closed and
locked it with his pipe.

“Roumanian Jew, isn’t he?” I said.

He nodded darkly and almost forbiddingly.

More would have been too much. The thing was said. But from that time
forth I knew I could depend upon him and that he and I were friends. It
happens I never did have to depend upon him, but that does not affect
our relationship.

Forward the crew lived lives very much after the fashion of ours, more
crowded, more cramped and dirty, wetter, steamier, more verminous. The
coarse food they had was still not so coarse but that they did not
think they were living “like fighting cocks.” So far as I could make
out they were all nearly destitute men; hardly any of them had a proper
sea outfit, and what small possessions they had were a source of mutual
distrust. And as we pitched and floundered southward they gambled and
fought, were brutal to one another, argued and wrangled loudly, until
we protested at the uproar.

There’s no romance about the sea in a small sailing ship as I saw it.
The romance is in the mind of the landsman dreamer. These brigs and
schooners and brigantines that still stand out from every little port
are relics from an age of petty trade, as rotten and obsolescent as a
Georgian house that has sunken into a slum. They are indeed just
floating fragments of slum, much as icebergs are floating fragments of
glacier. The civilised man who has learnt to wash, who has developed a
sense of physical honour, of cleanly temperate feeding, of time, can
endure them no more. They pass, and the clanking coal-wasting steamers
will follow them, giving place to cleaner, finer things....

But so it was I made my voyage to Africa, and came at last into a world
of steamy fogs and a hot smell of vegetable decay, and into sound and
sight of surf and distant intermittent glimpses of the coast. I lived a
strange concentrated life through all that time, such a life as a
creature must do that has fallen in a well. All my former ways ceased,
all my old vistas became memories.

The situation I was saving was very small and distant now; I felt its
urgency no more. Beatrice and Lady Grove, my uncle and the Hardingham,
my soaring in the air and my habitual wide vision of swift effectual
things, became as remote as if they were in some world I had left for
ever....

IV

All these African memories stand by themselves. It was for me an
expedition into the realms of undisciplined nature out of the world
that is ruled by men, my first bout with that hot side of our mother
that gives you the jungle—that cold side that gives you the air-eddy I
was beginning to know passing well. They are memories woven upon a
fabric of sunshine and heat and a constant warm smell of decay. They
end in rain—such rain as I had never seen before, a vehement, a frantic
downpouring of water, but our first slow passage through the channels
behind Mordet’s Island was in incandescent sunshine.

There we go in my memory still, a blistered dirty ship with patched
sails and a battered mermaid to present _Maud Mary_, sounding and
taking thought between high ranks of forest whose trees come out
knee-deep at last in the water. There we go with a little breeze on our
quarter, Mordet Island rounded and the quap, it might be within a day
of us.

Here and there strange blossoms woke the dank intensities of green with
a trumpet call of colour. Things crept among the jungle and peeped and
dashed back rustling into stillness. Always in the sluggishly drifting,
opaque water were eddyings and stirrings; little rushes of bubbles came
chuckling up light-heartedly from this or that submerged conflict and
tragedy; now and again were crocodiles like a stranded fleet of logs
basking in the sun. Still it was by day, a dreary stillness broken only
by insect sounds and the creaking and flapping of our progress, by the
calling of the soundings and the captain’s confused shouts; but in the
night as we lay moored to a clump of trees the darkness brought a
thousand swampy things to life and out of the forest came screaming and
howlings, screaming and yells that made us glad to be afloat. And once
we saw between the tree stems long blazing fires. We passed two or
three villages landward, and brown-black women and children came and
stared at us and gesticulated, and once a man came out in a boat from a
creek and hailed us in an unknown tongue; and so at last we came to a
great open place, a broad lake rimmed with a desolation of mud and
bleached refuse and dead trees, free from crocodiles or water birds or
sight or sound of any living thing, and saw far off, even as Nasmyth
had described, the ruins of the deserted station, and hard by two
little heaps of buff-hued rubbish under a great rib of rock, the quap!
The forest receded. The land to the right of us fell away and became
barren, and far on across notch in its backbone was surf and the sea.

We took the ship in towards those heaps and the ruined jetty slowly and
carefully. The captain came and talked.

“This is eet?” he said.

“Yes,” said I.

“Is eet for trade we have come?”

This was ironical.

“No,” said I.

“Gordon-Nasmyth would haf told me long ago what it ees for we haf
come.”

“I’ll tell you now,” I said. “We are going to lay in as close as we can
to those two heaps of stuff—you see them?—under the rock. Then we are
going to chuck all our ballast overboard and take those in. Then we’re
going home.”

“May I presume to ask—is eet gold?”

“No,” I said incivilly, “it isn’t.”

“Then what is it?”

“It’s stuff—of some commercial value.”

“We can’t do eet,” he said.

“We can,” I answered reassuringly.

“We can’t,” he said as confidently. “I don’t mean what you mean. You
know so liddle—But—dis is forbidden country.”

I turned on him suddenly angry and met bright excited eyes. For a
minute we scrutinised one another. Then I said, “That’s our risk. Trade
is forbidden. But this isn’t trade.... This thing’s got to be done.”

His eyes glittered and he shook his head....

The brig stood in slowly through the twilight toward this strange
scorched and blistered stretch of beach, and the man at the wheel
strained his ears to listening the low-voiced angry argument that began
between myself and the captain, that was presently joined by Pollack.
We moored at last within a hundred yards of our goal, and all through
our dinner and far into the night we argued intermittently and fiercely
with the captain about our right to load just what we pleased. “I will
haf nothing to do with eet,” he persisted. “I wash my hands.” It seemed
that night as though we argued in vain. “If it is not trade,” he said,
“it is prospecting and mining. That is worse. Any one who knows
anything—outside England—knows that is worse.”

We argued and I lost my temper and swore at him. Pollack kept cooler
and chewed his pipe watchfully with that blue eye of his upon the
captain’s gestures. Finally I went on deck to cool. The sky was
overcast I discovered all the men were in a knot forward, staring at
the faint quivering luminosity that had spread over the heaps of quap,
a phosphorescence such as one sees at times on rotting wood. And about
the beach east and west there were patches and streaks of something
like diluted moonshine....

In the small hours I was still awake and turning over scheme after
scheme in my mind whereby I might circumvent the captain’s opposition.
I meant to get that quap aboard if I had to kill some one to do it.
Never in my life had I been so thwarted! After this intolerable voyage!
There came a rap at my cabin door and then it opened and I made out a
bearded face. “Come in,” I said, and a black voluble figure I could
just see obscurely came in to talk in my private ear and fill my cabin
with its whisperings and gestures. It was the captain. He, too, had
been awake and thinking things over. He had come to explain—enormously.
I lay there hating him and wondering if I and Pollack could lock him in
his cabin and run the ship without him. “I do not want to spoil dis
expedition,” emerged from a cloud of protestations, and then I was able
to disentangle “a commission—shush a small commission—for special
risks!” “Special risks” became frequent. I let him explain himself out.
It appeared he was also demanding an apology for something I had said.
No doubt I had insulted him generously. At last came definite offers. I
broke my silence and bargained.

“Pollack!” I cried and hammered the partition.

“What’s up?” asked Pollack.

I stated the case concisely.

There came a silence.

“He’s a Card,” said Pollack. “Let’s give him his commission. I don’t
mind.”

“Eh?” I cried.

“I said he was a Card, that’s all,” said Pollack. “I’m coming.”

He appeared in my doorway a faint white figure joined our vehement
whisperings.

We had to buy the captain off; we had to promise him ten per cent. of
our problematical profits. We were to give him ten per cent. on what we
sold the cargo for over and above his legitimate pay, and I found in my
out-bargained and disordered state small consolation in the thought
that I, as the Gordon-Nasmyth expedition, was to sell the stuff to
myself as Business Organisations. And he further exasperated me by
insisting on having our bargain in writing. “In the form of a letter,”
he insisted.

“All right,” I acquiesced, “in the form of a letter. Here goes! Get a
light!”

“And the apology,” he said, folding up the letter.

“All right,” I said; “Apology.”

My hand shook with anger as I wrote, and afterwards I could not sleep
for hate of him. At last I got up. I suffered, I found, from an unusual
clumsiness. I struck my toe against my cabin door, and cut myself as I
shaved. I found myself at last pacing the deck under the dawn in a mood
of extreme exasperation. The sun rose abruptly and splashed light
blindingly into my eyes and I swore at the sun. I found myself
imagining fresh obstacles with the men and talking aloud in
anticipatory rehearsal of the consequent row.

The malaria of the quap was already in my blood.

V

Sooner or later the ridiculous embargo that now lies upon all the coast
eastward of Mordet Island will be lifted and the reality of the
deposits of quap ascertained. I am sure that we were merely taking the
outcrop of a stratum of nodulated deposits that dip steeply seaward.
Those heaps were merely the crumbled out contents of two irregular
cavities in the rock; they are as natural as any talus or heap of that
kind, and the mud along the edge of the water for miles is mixed with
quap, and is radio-active and lifeless and faintly phosphorescent at
night. But the reader will find the full particulars of my impression
of all this in the _Geological Magazine_ for October, 1905, and to that
I must refer him. There, too, he will find my unconfirmed theories of
its nature. If I am right it is something far more significant from the
scientific point of view than those incidental constituents of various
rare metals, pitchblende, rutile, and the like, upon which the
revolutionary discoveries of the last decade are based. Those are just
little molecular centres of disintegration, of that mysterious decay
and rotting of those elements, elements once regarded as the most
stable things in nature. But there is something—the only word that
comes near it is _cancerous_—and that is not very near, about the whole
of quap, something that creeps and lives as a disease lives by
destroying; an elemental stirring and disarrangement, incalculably
maleficent and strange.

This is no imaginative comparison of mine. To my mind radio-activity is
a real disease of matter. Moreover, it is a contagious disease. It
spreads. You bring those debased and crumbling atoms near others and
those too presently catch the trick of swinging themselves out of
coherent existence. It is in matter exactly what the decay of our old
culture is in society, a loss of traditions and distinctions and
assured reactions. When I think of these inexplicable dissolvent
centres that have come into being in our globe—these quap heaps are
surely by far the largest that have yet been found in the world; the
rest as yet mere specks in grains and crystals—I am haunted by a
grotesque fancy of the ultimate eating away and dry-rotting and
dispersal of all our world. So that while man still struggles and
dreams his very substance will change and crumble from beneath him. I
mention this here as a queer persistent fancy. Suppose, indeed, that is
to be the end of our planet; no splendid climax and finale, no towering
accumulation of achievements, but just—atomic decay! I add that to the
ideas of the suffocating comet, the dark body out of space, the burning
out of the sun, the distorted orbit, as a new and far more possible
end—as Science can see ends—to this strange by-play of matter that we
call human life. I do not believe this can be the end; no human soul
can believe in such an end and go on living, but to it science points
as a possible thing, science and reason alike. If single human
beings—if one single ricketty infant—can be born as it were by accident
and die futile, why not the whole race? These are questions I have
never answered, that now I never attempt to answer, but the thought of
quap and its mysteries brings them back to me.

I can witness that the beach and mud for two miles or more either way
was a lifeless beach—lifeless as I could have imagined no tropical mud
could ever be, and all the dead branches and leaves and rotting dead
fish and so forth that drifted ashore became presently shrivelled and
white. Sometimes crocodiles would come up out of the water and bask,
and now and then water birds would explore the mud and rocky ribs that
rose out of it, in a mood of transitory speculation. That was its
utmost admiration. And the air felt at once hot and austere, dry and
blistering, and altogether different the warm moist embrace that had
met us at our first African landfall and to which we had grown
accustomed.

I believe that the primary influence of the quap upon us was to
increase the conductivity of our nerves, but that is a mere
unjustifiable speculation on my part. At any rate it gave a sort of
east wind effect to life. We all became irritable, clumsy, languid and
disposed to be impatient with our languor. We moored the brig to the
rocks with difficulty, and got aground on mud and decided to stick
there and tow off when we had done—the bottom was as greasy as butter.
Our efforts to fix up planks and sleepers in order to wheel the quap
aboard were as ill-conceived as that sort of work can be—and that sort
of work can at times be very ill-conceived. The captain had a
superstitious fear of his hold: he became wildly gesticulatory and
expository and incompetent at the bare thought of it. His shouts still
echo in my memory, becoming as each crisis approached less and less
like any known tongue.

But I cannot now write the history of those days of blundering and
toil: of how Milton, one of the boys, fell from a plank to the beach,
thirty feet perhaps, with his barrow and broke his arm and I believe a
rib, of how I and Pollack set the limb and nursed him through the fever
that followed, of how one man after another succumbed to a feverish
malaria, and how I—by virtue of my scientific reputation—was obliged to
play the part of doctor and dose them with quinine, and then finding
that worse than nothing, with rum and small doses of Easton’s Syrup, of
which there chanced to be a case of bottles aboard—Heaven and
Gordon-Nasmyth know why. For three long days we lay in misery and never
shipped a barrow-load. Then, when they resumed, the men’s hands broke
out into sores. There were no gloves available; and I tried to get
them, while they shovelled and wheeled, to cover their hands with
stockings or greased rags. They would not do this on account of the
heat and discomfort. This attempt of mine did, however, direct their
attention to the quap as the source of their illness and precipitated
what in the end finished our lading, an informal strike. “We’ve had
enough of this,” they said, and they meant it. They came aft to say as
much. They cowed the captain.

Through all these days the weather was variously vile, first a furnace
heat under a sky of a scowling intensity of blue, then a hot fog that
stuck in one’s throat like wool and turned the men on the planks into
colourless figures of giants, then a wild burst of thunderstorms, mad
elemental uproar and rain. Through it all, against illness, heat,
confusion of mind, one master impetus prevailed with me, to keep the
shipping going, to maintain one motif at least, whatever else arose or
ceased, the chuff of the spades, the squeaking and shriek of the
barrows, the pluppa, pluppa, pluppa, as the men came trotting along the
swinging high planks, and then at last, the dollop, dollop, as the
stuff shot into the hold. “Another barrow-load, thank God! Another
fifteen hundred, or it may be two thousand pounds, for the saving of
Ponderevo!...”

I found out many things about myself and humanity in those weeks of
effort behind Mordet Island. I understand now the heart of the sweater,
of the harsh employer, of the nigger-driver. I had brought these men
into a danger they didn’t understand, I was fiercely resolved to
overcome their opposition and bend and use them for my purpose, and I
hated the men. But I hated all humanity during the time that the quap
was near me.

And my mind was pervaded, too, by a sense of urgency and by the fear
that we should be discovered and our proceedings stopped. I wanted to
get out to sea again—to be beating up northward with our plunder. I was
afraid our masts showed to seaward and might betray us to some curious
passer on the high sea. And one evening near the end I saw a canoe with
three natives far off down the lake; I got field-glasses from the
captain and scrutinised them, and I could see them staring at us. One
man might have been a half-breed and was dressed in white. They watched
us for some time very quietly and then paddled off into some channel in
the forest shadows.

And for three nights running, so that it took a painful grip upon my
inflamed imagination, I dreamt of my uncle’s face, only that it was
ghastly white like a clown’s, and the throat was cut from ear to ear—a
long ochreous cut. “Too late,” he said; “Too late!...”

VI

A day or so after we had got to work upon the quap I found myself so
sleepless and miserable that the ship became unendurable. Just before
the rush of sunrise I borrowed Pollack’s gun, walked down the planks,
clambered over the quap heaps and prowled along the beach. I went
perhaps a mile and a half that day and some distance beyond the ruins
of the old station. I became interested in the desolation about me, and
found when I returned that I was able to sleep for nearly an hour. It
was delightful to have been alone for so long,—no captain, no Pollack,
no one. Accordingly I repeated this expedition the next morning and the
next until it became a custom with me. There was little for me to do
once the digging and wheeling was organised, and so these prowlings of
mine grew longer and longer, and presently I began to take food with
me.

I pushed these walks far beyond the area desolated by the quap. On the
edges of that was first a zone of stunted vegetation, then a sort of
swampy jungle that was difficult to penetrate, and then the beginnings
of the forest, a scene of huge tree stems and tangled creeper ropes and
roots mingled with oozy mud. Here I used to loaf in a state between
botanising and reverie—always very anxious to know what was up above in
the sunlight—and here it was I murdered a man.

It was the most unmeaning and purposeless murder imaginable. Even as I
write down its well-remembered particulars there comes again the sense
of its strangeness, its pointlessness, its incompatibility with any of
the neat and definite theories people hold about life and the meaning
of the world. I did this thing and I want to tell of my doing it, but
why I did it and particularly why I should be held responsible for it I
cannot explain.

That morning I had come upon a track in the forest, and it had occurred
to me as a disagreeable idea that this was a human pathway. I didn’t
want to come upon any human beings. The less our expedition saw of the
African population the better for its prospects. Thus far we had been
singularly free from native pestering. So I turned back and was making
my way over mud and roots and dead fronds and petals scattered from the
green world above when abruptly I saw my victim.

I became aware of him perhaps forty feet off standing quite still and
regarding me.

He wasn’t by any means a pretty figure. He was very black and naked
except for a dirty loin-cloth, his legs were ill-shaped and his toes
spread wide and the upper edge of his cloth and a girdle of string cut
his clumsy abdomen into folds. His forehead was low, his nose very flat
and his lower lip swollen and purplish-red. His hair was short and
fuzzy, and about his neck was a string and a little purse of skin. He
carried a musket, and a powder-flask was stuck in his girdle. It was a
curious confrontation. There opposed to him stood I, a little soiled,
perhaps, but still a rather elaborately civilised human being, born,
bred and trained in a vague tradition. In my hand was an unaccustomed
gun. And each of us was essentially a teeming, vivid brain, tensely
excited by the encounter, quite unaware of the other’s mental content
or what to do with him.

He stepped back a pace or so, stumbled and turned to run.

“Stop,” I cried; “stop, you fool!” and started to run after him,
shouting such things in English. But I was no match for him over the
roots and mud.

I had a preposterous idea. “He mustn’t get away and tell them!”

And with that instantly I brought both feet together, raised my gun,
aimed quite coolly, drew the trigger carefully and shot him neatly in
the back.

I saw, and saw with a leap of pure exaltation, the smash of my bullet
between his shoulder blades. “Got him,” said I, dropping my gun and
down he flopped and died without a groan. “By Jove!” I cried with note
of surprise, “I’ve killed him!” I looked about me and then went forward
cautiously, in a mood between curiosity and astonishment, to look at
this man whose soul I had flung so unceremoniously out of our common
world. I went to him, not as one goes to something one has made or
done, but as one approaches something found.

He was frightfully smashed out in front; he must have died in the
instant. I stooped and raised him by his shoulder and realised that. I
dropped him, and stood about and peered about me through the trees. “My
word!” I said. He was the second dead human being—apart, I mean, from
surgical properties and mummies and common shows of that sort—that I
have ever seen. I stood over him wondering, wondering beyond measure.

A practical idea came into that confusion. Had any one heard the gun?

I reloaded.

After a time I felt securer, and gave my mind again to the dead I had
killed. What must I do?

It occurred to me that perhaps I ought to bury him. At any rate, I
ought to hide him. I reflected coolly, and then put my gun within easy
reach and dragged him by the arm towards a place where the mud seemed
soft, and thrust him in. His powder-flask slipped from his loin-cloth,
and I went back to get it. Then I pressed him down with the butt of my
rifle.

Afterwards this all seemed to me most horrible, but at the time it was
entirely a matter-of-fact transaction. I looked round for any other
visible evidence of his fate, looked round as one does when one packs
one’s portmanteau in an hotel bedroom.

When I got my bearings, and carefully returned towards the ship. I had
the mood of grave concentration of a boy who has lapsed into poaching.
And the business only began to assume proper proportions for me as I
got near the ship, to seem any other kind of thing than the killing of
a bird or rabbit.

In the night, however, it took on enormous and portentous forms. “By
God!” I cried suddenly, starting wide awake; “but it was murder!”

I lay after that wide awake, staring at my memories. In some odd way
these visions mixed up with my dream of in my uncle in his despair. The
black body which saw now damaged and partly buried, but which,
nevertheless, I no longer felt was dead but acutely alive and
perceiving, I mixed up with the ochreous slash under my uncle’s face. I
tried to dismiss this horrible obsession from my mind, but it prevailed
over all my efforts.

The next day was utterly black with my sense of that ugly creature’s
body. I am the least superstitious of men, but it drew me. It drew me
back into those thickets to the very place where I had hidden him.

Some evil and detestable beast had been at him, and he lay disinterred.

Methodically I buried his swollen and mangled carcass again, and
returned to the ship for another night of dreams. Next day for all the
morning I resisted the impulse to go to him, and played nap with
Pollack with my secret gnawing at me, and in the evening started to go
and was near benighted. I never told a soul of them of this thing I had
done.

Next day I went early, and he had gone, and there were human footmarks
and ugly stains round the muddy hole from which he had been dragged.

I returned to the ship, disconcerted and perplexed. That day it was the
men came aft, with blistered hands and faces, and sullen eyes. When
they proclaimed, through Edwards, their spokesman, “We’ve had enough of
this, and we mean it,” I answered very readily, “So have I. Let’s go.”

VII

We were none too soon. People had been reconnoitring us, the telegraph
had been at work, and we were not four hours at sea before we ran
against the gunboat that had been sent down the coast to look for us
and that would have caught us behind the island like a beast in a trap.
It was a night of driving cloud that gave intermittent gleams of
moonlight; the wind and sea were strong and we were rolling along
through a drift of rails and mist. Suddenly the world was white with
moonshine. The gunboat came out as a long dark shape wallowing on the
water to the east.

She sighted the _Maud Mary_ at once, and fired some sort of popgun to
arrest us.

The mate turned to me.

“Shall I tell the captain?”

“The captain be damned” said I, and we let him sleep through two hours
of chase till a rainstorm swallowed us up. Then we changed our course
and sailed right across them, and by morning only her smoke was
showing.

We were clear of Africa—and with the booty aboard I did not see what
stood between us and home.

For the first time since I had fallen sick in the Thames my spirits
rose. I was sea-sick and physically disgusted, of course, but I felt
kindly in spite of my qualms. So far as I could calculate then the
situation was saved. I saw myself returning triumphantly into the
Thames, and nothing on earth to prevent old Capern’s Perfect Filament
going on the market in fortnight. I had the monopoly of electric lamps
beneath my feet.

I was released from the spell of that bloodstained black body all mixed
up with grey-black mud. I was going back to baths and decent food and
aeronautics and Beatrice. I was going back to Beatrice and my real life
again—out of this well into which I had fallen. It would have needed
something more than sea-sickness and quap fever to prevent my spirits
rising.

I told the captain that I agreed with him that the British were the
scum of Europe, the westward drift of all the people, a disgusting
rabble, and I lost three pounds by attenuated retail to Pollack at
ha’penny nap and euchre.

And then you know, as we got out into the Atlantic this side of Cape
Verde, the ship began to go to pieces. I don’t pretend for one moment
to understand what happened. But I think Greiffenhagen’s recent work on
the effects of radium upon ligneous tissue does rather carry out my
idea that emanations from quap have rapid rotting effect upon woody
fibre.

From the first there had been a different feel about the ship, and as
the big winds and waves began to strain her she commenced leaking. Soon
she was leaking—not at any particular point, but everywhere. She did
not spring a leak, I mean, but water came in first of all near the
decaying edges of her planks, and then through them.

I firmly believe the water came through the wood. First it began to
ooze, then to trickle. It was like trying to carry moist sugar in a
thin paper bag. Soon we were taking in water as though we had opened a
door in her bottom.

Once it began, the thing went ahead beyond all fighting. For a day or
so we did our best, and I can still remember in my limbs and back the
pumping—the fatigue in my arms and the memory of a clear little dribble
of water that jerked as one pumped, and of knocking off and the being
awakened to go on again, and of fatigue piling up upon fatigue. At last
we ceased to think of anything but pumping; one became a thing of
torment enchanted, doomed to pump for ever. I still remember it as pure
relief when at last Pollack came to me pipe in mouth.

“The captain says the damned thing’s going down right now;” he
remarked, chewing his mouthpiece. “Eh?”

“Good idea!” I said. “One can’t go on pumping for ever.”

And without hurry or alacrity, sullenly and wearily we got into the
boats and pulled away from the _Maud Mary_ until we were clear of her,
and then we stayed resting on our oars, motionless upon a glassy sea,
waiting for her to sink. We were all silent, even the captain was
silent until she went down. And then he spoke quite mildly in an
undertone.

“Dat is the first ship I haf ever lost.... And it was not a fair game!
It wass not a cargo any man should take. No!”

I stared at the slow eddies that circled above the departed _Maud
Mary_, and the last chance of Business Organisations. I felt weary
beyond emotion. I thought of my heroics to Beatrice and my uncle, of my
prompt “_I’ll_ go,” and of all the ineffectual months I had spent after
this headlong decision. I was moved to laughter at myself and fate.

But the captain and the men did not laugh. The men scowled at me and
rubbed their sore and blistered hands, and set themselves to row....

As all the world knows we were picked up by the Union Castle liner,
_Portland Castle_.

The hairdresser aboard was a wonderful man, and he even improvised me a
dress suit, and produced a clean shirt and warm underclothing. I had a
hot bath, and dressed and dined and drank a bottle of Burgundy.

“Now,” I said, “are there any newspapers? I want to know what’s been
happening in the world.”

My steward gave me what he had, but I landed at Plymouth still largely
ignorant of the course of events. I shook off Pollack, and left the
captain and mate in an hotel, and the men in a Sailor’s Home until I
could send to pay them off, and I made my way to the station.

The newspapers I bought, the placards I saw, all England indeed
resounded to my uncle’s bankruptcy.




BOOK THE FOURTH
THE AFTERMATH OF TONO-BUNGAY




CHAPTER THE FIRST
THE STICK OF THE ROCKET


I

That evening I talked with my uncle in the Hardingham for the last
time. The atmosphere of the place had altered quite shockingly. Instead
of the crowd of importunate courtiers there were just half a dozen
uninviting men, journalists waiting for an interview. Ropper the big
commissionaire was still there, but now indeed he was defending my
uncle from something more than time-wasting intrusions. I found the
little man alone in the inner office pretending to work, but really
brooding. He was looking yellow and deflated.

“Lord!” he said at the sight of me. “You’re lean, George. It makes that
scar of yours show up.”

We regarded each other gravely for a time.

“Quap,” I said, “is at the bottom of the Atlantic. There’s some
bills—We’ve got to pay the men.”

“Seen the papers?”

“Read ’em all in the train.”

“At bay,” he said. “I been at bay for a week.... Yelping round me....
And me facing the music. I’m feelin’ a bit tired.”

He blew and wiped his glasses.

“My stomack isn’t what it was,” he explained. “One finds it—these
times. How did it all happen, George? Your Marconigram—it took me in
the wind a bit.”

I told him concisely. He nodded to the paragraphs of my narrative and
at the end he poured something from a medicine bottle into a sticky
little wineglass and drank it. I became aware of the presence of drugs,
of three or four small bottles before him among his disorder of papers,
of a faint elusively familiar odour in the room.

“Yes,” he said, wiping his lips and recorking the bottle. “You’ve done
your best, George. The luck’s been against us.”

He reflected, bottle in hand. “Sometimes the luck goes with you and
sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes it doesn’t. And then where are you?
Grass in the oven! Fight or no fight.”

He asked a few questions and then his thoughts came back to his own
urgent affairs. I tried to get some comprehensive account of the
situation from him, but he would not give it.

“Oh, I wish I’d had you. I wish I’d had you, George. I’ve had a lot on
my hands. You’re clear headed at times.”

“What has happened?”

“Oh! Boom!—infernal things.”

“Yes, but—how? I’m just off the sea, remember.”

“It’d worry me too much to tell you now. It’s tied up in a skein.”

He muttered something to himself and mused darkly, and roused himself
to say—

“Besides—you’d better keep out of it. It’s getting tight. Get ’em
talking. Go down to Crest Hill and fly. That’s _your_ affair.”

For a time his manner set free queer anxieties in my brain again.

I will confess that that Mordet Island nightmare of mine returned, and
as I looked at him his hand went out for the drug again. “Stomach,
George,” he said.

“I been fightin’ on that. Every man fights on some thing—gives way
somewheres—head, heart, liver—something. Zzzz. Gives way somewhere.
Napoleon did at last. All through the Waterloo campaign, his stomach—it
wasn’t a stomach! Worse than mine, no end.”

The mood of depression passed as the drug worked within him. His eyes
brightened. He began to talk big. He began to dress up the situation
for my eyes, to recover what he had admitted to me. He put it as a
retreat from Russia. There were still the chances of Leipzig.

“It’s a battle, George—a big fight. We’re fighting for millions. I’ve
still chances. There’s still a card or so. I can’t tell all my
plans—like speaking on the stroke.”

“You might,” I began.

“I can’t, George. It’s like asking to look at some embryo. You got to
wait. I know. In a sort of way, I know. But to tell it—No! You been
away so long. And everything’s got complicated.”

My perception of disastrous entanglements deepened with the rise of his
spirits. It was evident that I could only help to tie him up in
whatever net was weaving round his mind by forcing questions and
explanations upon him. My thoughts flew off at another angle. “How’s
Aunt Susan?” said I.

I had to repeat the question. His busy whispering lips stopped for a
moment, and he answered in the note of one who repeats a formula.

“She’d like to be in the battle with me. She’d like to be here in
London. But there’s corners I got to turn alone.” His eye rested for a
moment on the little bottle beside him. “And things have happened.

“You might go down now and talk to her,” he said, in a directer voice.
“I shall be down to-morrow night, I think.”

He looked up as though he hoped that would end our talk.

“For the week-end?” I asked.

“For the week-end. Thank God for week-ends, George!”

II

My return home to Lady Grove was a very different thing from what I had
anticipated when I had got out to sea with my load of quap and fancied
the Perfect-Filament was safe within my grasp. As I walked through the
evening light along the downs, the summer stillness seemed like the
stillness of something newly dead. There were no lurking workmen any
more, no cyclists on the high road.

Cessation was manifest everywhere. There had been, I learnt from my
aunt, a touching and quite voluntary demonstration when the Crest Hill
work had come to an end and the men had drawn their last pay; they had
cheered my uncle and hooted the contractors and Lord Boom.

I cannot now recall the manner in which my aunt and I greeted one
another. I must have been very tired there, but whatever impression was
made has gone out of my memory. But I recall very clearly how we sat at
the little round table near the big window that gave on the terrace,
and dined and talked. I remember her talking of my uncle.

She asked after him, and whether he seemed well. “I wish I could help,”
she said. “But I’ve never helped him much, never. His way of doing
things was never mine. And since—since—. Since he began to get so rich,
he’s kept things from me. In the old days—it was different....

“There he is—I don’t know what he’s doing. He won’t have me near
him....

“More’s kept from me than anyone. The very servants won’t let me know.
They try and stop the worst of the papers—Boom’s things—from coming
upstairs.... I suppose they’ve got him in a corner, George. Poor old
Teddy! Poor old Adam and Eve we are! Ficial Receivers with flaming
swords to drive us out of our garden! I’d hoped we’d never have another
Trek. Well—anyway, it won’t be Crest Hill.... But it’s hard on Teddy.
He must be in such a mess up there. Poor old chap. I suppose we can’t
help him. I suppose we’d only worry him. Have some more soup
George—while there is some?...”

The next day was one of those days of strong perception that stand out
clear in one’s memory when the common course of days is blurred. I can
recall now the awakening in the large familiar room that was always
kept for me, and how I lay staring at its chintz-covered chairs, its
spaced fine furniture, its glimpse of the cedars without, and thought
that all this had to end.

I have never been greedy for money, I have never wanted to be rich, but
I felt now an immense sense of impending deprivation. I read the
newspapers after breakfast—I and my aunt together—and then I walked up
to see what Cothope had done in the matter of Lord Roberts β. Never
before had I appreciated so acutely the ample brightness of the Lady
Grove gardens, the dignity and wide peace of all about me. It was one
of those warm mornings in late May that have won all the glory of
summer without losing the gay delicacy of spring. The shrubbery was
bright with laburnum and lilac, the beds swarmed with daffodils and
narcissi and with lilies of the valley in the shade.

I went along the well-kept paths among the rhododendra and through the
private gate into the woods where the bluebells and common orchid were
in profusion. Never before had I tasted so completely the fine sense of
privilege and ownership. And all this has to end, I told myself, all
this has to end.

Neither my uncle nor I had made any provision for disaster; all we had
was in the game, and I had little doubt now of the completeness of our
ruin. For the first time in my life since he had sent me that wonderful
telegram of his I had to consider that common anxiety of
mankind,—Employment. I had to come off my magic carpet and walk once
more in the world.

And suddenly I found myself at the cross drives where I had seen
Beatrice for the first time after so many years. It is strange, but so
far as I can recollect I had not thought of her once since I had landed
at Plymouth. No doubt she had filled the background of my mind, but I
do not remember one definite, clear thought. I had been intent on my
uncle and the financial collapse.

It came like a blow in the face now; all that, too, had to end!

Suddenly I was filled with the thought of her and a great longing for
her. What would she do when she realised our immense disaster? What
would she do? How would she take it? It filled me with astonishment to
realise how little I could tell....

Should I perhaps presently happen upon her?

I went on through the plantations and out upon the downs, and thence I
saw Cothope with a new glider of his own design soaring down wind to my
old familiar “grounding” place. To judge by its long rhythm it was a
very good glider. “Like Cothope’s cheek,” thought I, “to go on with the
research. I wonder if he’s keeping notes.... But all this will have to
stop.”

He was sincerely glad to see me. “It’s been a rum go,” he said.

He had been there without wages for a month, a man forgotten in the
rush of events.

“I just stuck on and did what I could with the stuff. I got a bit of
money of my own—and I said to myself, ‘Well, here you are with the gear
and no one to look after you. You won’t get such a chance again, my
boy, not in all your born days. Why not make what you can with it? ‘”

“How’s Lord Roberts β?”

Cothope lifted his eyebrows. “I’ve had to refrain,” he said. “But he’s
looking very handsome.”

“Gods!” I said, “I’d like to get him up just once before we smash. You
read the papers? You know we’re going to smash?”

“Oh! I read the papers. It’s scandalous, sir, such work as ours should
depend on things like that. You and I ought to be under the State, sir,
if you’ll excuse me.”

“Nothing to excuse,” I said. “I’ve always been a Socialist—of a sort—in
theory. Let’s go and have a look at him. How is he? Deflated?”

“Just about quarter full. That last oil glaze of yours holds the gas
something beautiful. He’s not lost a cubic metre a week.”...

Cothope returned to Socialism as we went toward the sheds.

“Glad to think you’re a Socialist, sir,” he said, “it’s the only
civilised state. I been a Socialist some years—off the _Clarion_. It’s
a rotten scramble, this world. It takes the things we make and invent
and it plays the silly fool with ’em. We scientific people, we’ll have
to take things over and stop all this financing and advertisement and
that. It’s too silly. It’s a noosance. Look at us!”

Lord Roberts _B_, even in his partially deflated condition in his shed,
was a fine thing to stare up at. I stood side by side with Cothope
regarding him, and it was borne in upon me more acutely than ever that
all this had to end. I had a feeling just like the feeling of a boy who
wants to do wrong, that I would use up the stuff while I had it before
the creditors descended. I had a queer fancy, too, I remember, that if
I could get into the air it would advertise my return to Beatrice.

“We’ll fill her,” I said concisely.

“It’s all ready,” said Cothope, and added as an afterthought, “unless
they cut off the gas.”...

I worked and interested myself with Cothope all the morning and for a
time forgot my other troubles. But the thought of Beatrice flooded me
slowly and steadily. It became an unintelligent sick longing to see
her. I felt that I could not wait for the filling of Lord Roberts β,
that I must hunt her up and see her soon. I got everything forward and
lunched with Cothope, and then with the feeblest excuses left him in
order to prowl down through the woods towards Bedley Corner. I became a
prey to wretched hesitations and diffidence. Ought I to go near her
now? I asked myself, reviewing all the social abasements of my early
years. At last, about five, I called at the Dower House. I was greeted
by their Charlotte—with a forbidding eye and a cold astonishment.

Both Beatrice and Lady Osprey were out.

There came into my head some prowling dream of meeting her. I went
along the lane towards Woking, the lane down which we had walked five
months ago in the wind and rain.

I mooned for a time in our former footsteps, then swore and turned back
across the fields, and then conceived a distaste for Cothope and went
Downward. At last I found myself looking down on the huge abandoned
masses of the Crest Hill house.

That gave my mind a twist into a new channel. My uncle came uppermost
again. What a strange, melancholy emptiness of intention that stricken
enterprise seemed in the even evening sunlight, what vulgar
magnificence and crudity and utter absurdity! It was as idiotic as the
pyramids. I sat down on the stile, staring at it as though I had never
seen that forest of scaffold poles, that waste of walls and bricks and
plaster and shaped stones, that wilderness of broken soil and wheeling
tracks and dumps before. It struck me suddenly as the compactest image
and sample of all that passes for Progress, of all the
advertisement-inflated spending, the aimless building up and pulling
down, the enterprise and promise of my age. This was our fruit, this
was what he had done, I and my uncle, in the fashion of our time. We
were its leaders and exponents, we were the thing it most flourishingly
produced. For this futility in its end, for an epoch of such futility,
the solemn scroll of history had unfolded....

“Great God!” I cried, “but is this Life?”

For this the armies drilled, for this the Law was administered and the
prisons did their duty, for this the millions toiled and perished in
suffering, in order that a few of us should build palaces we never
finished, make billiard-rooms under ponds, run imbecile walls round
irrational estates, scorch about the world in motor-cars, devise
flying-machines, play golf and a dozen such foolish games of ball,
crowd into chattering dinner parties, gamble and make our lives one
vast, dismal spectacle of witless waste! So it struck me then, and for
a time I could think of no other interpretation. This was Life! It came
to me like a revelation, a revelation at once incredible and
indisputable of the abysmal folly of our being.

III

I was roused from such thoughts by the sound of footsteps behind me.

I turned half hopeful—so foolish is a lover’s imagination, and stopped
amazed. It was my uncle. His face was white—white as I had seen it in
my dream.

“Hullo!” I said, and stared. “Why aren’t you in London?”

“It’s all up,” he said....

“Adjudicated?”

“No!”

I stared at him for a moment, and then got off the stile.

We stood swaying and then came forward with a weak motion of his arms
like a man who cannot see distinctly, and caught at and leant upon the
stile. For a moment we were absolutely still. He made a clumsy gesture
towards the great futility below and choked. I discovered that his face
was wet with tears, that his wet glasses blinded him. He put up his
little fat hand and clawed them off clumsily, felt inefficiently for
his pocket-handkerchief, and then, to my horror, as he clung to me, he
began to weep aloud, this little, old worldworn swindler. It wasn’t
just sobbing or shedding tears, it was crying as a child cries. It was
oh! terrible!

“It’s cruel,” he blubbered at last. “They asked me questions. They
_kep_’ asking me questions, George.”

He sought for utterance, and spluttered.

“The Bloody bullies!” he shouted. “The Bloody Bullies.”

He ceased to weep. He became suddenly rapid and explanatory.

“It’s not a fair game, George. They tire you out. And I’m not well. My
stomach’s all wrong. And I been and got a cold. I always been li’ble to
cold, and this one’s on my chest. And then they tell you to speak up.
They bait you—and bait you, and bait you. It’s torture. The strain of
it. You can’t remember what you said. You’re bound to contradict
yourself. It’s like Russia, George.... It isn’t fair play.... Prominent
man. I’ve been next at dinners with that chap, Neal; I’ve told him
stories—and he’s bitter! Sets out to ruin me. Don’t ask a civil
question—bellows.” He broke down again. “I’ve been bellowed at, I been
bullied, I been treated like a dog. Dirty cads they are! Dirty cads!
I’d rather be a Three-Card Sharper than a barrister; I’d rather sell
cat’s-meat in the streets.

“They sprung things on me this morning, things I didn’t expect. They
rushed me! I’d got it all in my hands and then I was jumped. By Neal!
Neal I’ve given city tips to! Neal! I’ve helped Neal....

“I couldn’t swallow a mouthful—not in the lunch hour. I couldn’t face
it. It’s true, George—I couldn’t face it. I said I’d get a bit of air
and slipped out and down to the Embankment, and there I took a boat to
Richmond. Some idee. I took a rowing boat when I got there and I rowed
about on the river for a bit. A lot of chaps and girls there was on the
bank laughed at my shirt-sleeves and top hat. Dessay they thought it
was a pleasure trip. Fat lot of pleasure! I rowed round for a bit and
came in. Then I came on here. Windsor way. And there they are in London
doing what they like with me.... I don’t care!”

“But” I said, looking down at him, perplexed.

“It’s abscondin’. They’ll have a warrant.”

“I don’t understand,” I said.

“It’s all up, George—all up and over.

“And I thought I’d live in that place, George and die a lord! It’s a
great place, reely, an imperial—if anyone has the sense to buy it and
finish it. That terrace—”

I stood thinking him over.

“Look here!” I said. “What’s that about—a warrant? Are you sure they’ll
get a warrant? I’m sorry uncle; but what have you done?”

“Haven’t I told you?”

“Yes, but they won’t do very much to you for that. They’ll only bring
you up for the rest of your examination.”

He remained silent for a time. At last he spoke—speaking with
difficulty.

“It’s worse than that. I’ve done something. They’re bound to get it
out. Practically they _have_ got it out.”

“What?”

“Writin’ things down—I done something.”

For the first time in his life, I believe, he felt and looked ashamed.
It filled me with remorse to see him suffer so.

“We’ve all done things,” I said. “It’s part of the game the world makes
us play. If they want to arrest you—and you’ve got no cards in your
hand—! They mustn’t arrest you.”

“No. That’s partly why I went to Richmond. But I never thought—”

His little bloodshot eyes stared at Crest Hill.

“That chap Wittaker Wright,” he said, “he had his stuff ready. I
haven’t. Now you got it, George. That’s the sort of hole I’m in.”

IV

That memory of my uncle at the gate is very clear and full. I am able
to recall even the undertow of my thoughts while he was speaking. I
remember my pity and affection for him in his misery growing and
stirring within me, my realisation that at any risk I must help him.
But then comes indistinctness again. I was beginning to act. I know I
persuaded him to put himself in my hands, and began at once to plan and
do. I think that when we act most we remember least, that just in the
measure that the impulse of our impressions translates itself into
schemes and movements, it ceases to record itself in memories. I know I
resolved to get him away at once, and to use the Lord Roberts β in
effecting that. It was clear he was soon to be a hunted man, and it
seemed to me already unsafe for him to try the ordinary Continental
routes in his flight. I had to evolve some scheme, and evolve it
rapidly, how we might drop most inconspicuously into the world across
the water. My resolve to have one flight at least in my airship fitted
with this like hand to glove. It seemed to me we might be able to cross
over the water in the night, set our airship adrift, and turn up as
pedestrian tourists in Normandy or Brittany, and so get away. That, at
any rate, was my ruling idea.

I sent off Cothope with a dummy note to Woking, because I did not want
to implicate him, and took my uncle to the pavilion. I went down to my
aunt, and made a clean breast of the situation. She became admirably
competent. We went into his dressing-room and ruthlessly broke his
locks. I got a pair of brown boots, a tweed suit and a cap of his, and
indeed a plausible walking outfit, and a little game bag for his
pedestrian gear; and, in addition, a big motoring overcoat and a supply
of rugs to add to those I had at the pavilion. I also got a flask of
brandy, and she made sandwiches. I don’t remember any servants
appearing, and I forget where she got those sandwiches. Meanwhile we
talked. Afterwards I thought with what a sure confidence we talked to
each other.

“What’s he done?” she said.

“D’you mind knowing?”

“No conscience left, thank God!”

“I think—forgery!”

There was just a little pause. “Can you carry this bundle?” she asked.

I lifted it.

“No woman ever has respected the law—ever,” she said. “It’s too
silly.... The things it lets you do! And then pulls you up—like a mad
nurse minding a child.”

She carried some rugs for me through the shrubbery in the darkling.

“They’ll think we’re going mooning,” she said, jerking her head at the
household. “I wonder what they make of us—criminals.” ... An immense
droning note came as if in answer to that. It startled us both for a
moment. “The dears!” she said. “It’s the gong for dinner!... But I wish
I could help little Teddy, George. It’s awful to think of him there
with hot eyes, red and dry. And I know—the sight of me makes him feel
sore. Things I said, George. If I could have seen, I’d have let him
have an omnibusful of Scrymgeours. I cut him up. He’d never thought I
meant it before.... I’ll help all I can, anyhow.”

I turned at something in her voice, and got a moon light gleam of tears
upon her face.

“Could _she_ have helped?” she asked abruptly.

“_She?_”

“That woman.”

“My God!” I cried, “_helped!_ Those—things don’t help!”

“Tell me again what I ought to do,” she said after a silence.

I went over the plans I had made for communicating, and the things I
thought she might do. I had given her the address of a solicitor she
might put some trust in.

“But you must act for yourself,” I insisted.

“Roughly,” I said, “it’s a scramble. You must get what you can for us,
and follow as you can.”

She nodded.

She came right up to the pavilion and hovered for a time shyly, and
then went away.

I found my uncle in my sitting-room in an arm-chair, with his feet upon
the fender of the gas stove, which he had lit, and now he was feebly
drunken with my whisky, and very weary in body and spirit, and inclined
to be cowardly.

“I lef’ my drops,” he said.

He changed his clothes slowly and unwillingly. I had to bully him, I
had almost to shove him to the airship and tuck him up upon its wicker
flat. Single-handed I made but a clumsy start; we scraped along the
roof of the shed and bent a van of the propeller, and for a time I hung
underneath without his offering a hand to help me to clamber up. If it
hadn’t been for a sort of anchoring trolley device of Cothope’s, a sort
of slip anchor running on a rail, we should never have got clear at
all.

V

The incidents of our flight in Lord Roberts β do not arrange themselves
in any consecutive order. To think of that adventure is like dipping
haphazard into an album of views. One is reminded first of this and
then of that. We were both lying down on a horizontal plate of
basketwork; for Lord Roberts β had none of the elegant accommodation of
a balloon. I lay forward, and my uncle behind me in such a position
that he could see hardly anything of our flight. We were protected from
rolling over simply by netting between the steel stays. It was
impossible for us to stand up at all; we had either to lie or crawl on
all fours over the basket work. Amidships were lockers made of Watson’s
Aulite material,—and between these it was that I had put my uncle,
wrapped in rugs. I wore sealskin motoring boots and gloves, and a
motoring fur coat over my tweeds, and I controlled the engine by Bowden
wires and levers forward.

The early part of that night’s experience was made up of warmth, of
moonlit Surrey and Sussex landscape, and of a rapid and successful
flight, ascending and swooping, and then ascending again southward. I
could not watch the clouds because the airship overhung me; I could not
see the stars nor gauge the meteorological happening, but it was fairly
clear to me that a wind shifting between north and northeast was
gathering strength, and after I had satisfied myself by a series of
entirely successful expansions and contractions of the real
air-worthiness of Lord Roberts β, I stopped the engine to save my
petrol, and let the monster drift, checking its progress by the dim
landscape below. My uncle lay quite still behind me, saying little and
staring in front of him, and I was left to my own thoughts and
sensations.

My thoughts, whatever they were, have long since faded out of memory,
and my sensations have merged into one continuous memory of an
countryside lying, as it seemed, under snow, with square patches of
dimness, white phantoms of roads, rents and pools of velvety blackness,
and lamp-jewelled houses. I remember a train boring its way like a
hastening caterpillar of fire across the landscape, and how distinctly
I heard its clatter. Every town and street was buttoned with street
lamps. I came quite close to the South Downs near Lewes, and all the
lights were out in the houses, and the people gone to bed. We left the
land a little to the east of Brighton, and by that time Brighton was
well abed. and the brightly lit sea-front deserted. Then I let out the
gas chamber to its fullest extent and rose. I like to be high above
water.

I do not clearly know what happened in the night. I think I must have
dozed, and probably my uncle slept. I remember that once or twice I
heard him talking in an eager, muffled voice to himself, or to an
imaginary court. But there can be no doubt the wind changed right round
into the east, and that we were carried far down the Channel without
any suspicion of the immense leeway we were making. I remember the kind
of stupid perplexity with which I saw the dawn breaking over a grey
waste of water, below, and realised that something was wrong. I was so
stupid that it was only after the sunrise I really noticed the trend of
the foam caps below, and perceived we were in a severe easterly gale.
Even then, instead of heading southeasterly, I set the engine going,
headed south, and so continued a course that must needs have either
just hit Ushant, or carry us over the Bay of Biscay. I thought I was
east of Cherbourg, when I was far to the west and stopped my engine in
that belief, and then set it going again. I did actually sight the
coast of Brittany to the southeast in the late afternoon, and that it
was woke me up to the gravity of our position. I discovered it by
accident in the southeast, when I was looking for it in the southwest.
I turned about east and faced the wind for some time, and finding I had
no chance in its teeth, went high, where it seemed less violent, and
tried to make a course southeast. It was only then that I realised what
a gale I was in. I had been going westward, and perhaps even in gusts
north of west, at a pace of fifty or sixty miles an hour.

Then I began what I suppose would be called a Fight against the east
wind. One calls it a Fight, but it was really almost as unlike a fight
as plain sewing. The wind tried to drive me westwardly, and I tried to
get as much as I could eastwardly, with the wind beating and rocking us
irregularly, but by no means unbearably, for about twelve hours. My
hope lay in the wind abating, and our keeping in the air and eastward
of Finisterre until it did, and the chief danger was the exhaustion of
our petrol. It was a long and anxious and almost meditative time; we
were fairly warm, and only slowly getting hungry, and except that my
uncle grumbled a little and produced some philosophical reflections,
and began to fuss about having a temperature, we talked very little. I
was tired and sulky, and chiefly worried about the engine. I had to
resist a tendency to crawl back and look at it. I did not care to risk
contracting our gas chamber for fear of losing gas. Nothing was less
like a fight. I know that in popular magazines, and so forth, all such
occasions as this are depicted in terms of hysteria. Captains save
their ships engineers complete their bridges, generals conduct their
battles, in a state of dancing excitement, foaming recondite
technicalities at the lips. I suppose that sort of thing works up the
reader, but so far as it professes to represent reality, I am convinced
it is all childish nonsense, schoolboys of fifteen, girls of eighteen,
and literary men all their lives, may have these squealing fits, but my
own experience is that most exciting scenes are not exciting, and most
of the urgent moments in life are met by steady-headed men.

Neither I nor my uncle spent the night in ejaculations, nor in humorous
allusions, nor any of these things. We remained lumpish.

My uncle stuck in his place and grumbled about his stomach, and
occasionally rambled off into expositions of his financial position and
denunciations of Neal—he certainly struck out one or two good phrases
for Neal—and I crawled about at rare intervals in a vague sort of way
and grunted, and our basketwork creaked continually, and the wind on
our quarter made a sort of ruffled flapping in the wall of the gas
chamber. For all our wraps we got frightfully cold as the night wore
on.

I must have dozed, and it was still dark when I realised with a start
that we were nearly due south of, and a long way from, a
regularly-flashing lighthouse, standing out before the glow of some
great town, and then that the thing that had awakened me was the
cessation of our engine, and that we were driving back to the west.

Then, indeed, for a time I felt the grim thrill of life. I crawled
forward to the cords of the release valves, made my uncle crawl forward
too, and let out the gas until we were falling down through the air
like a clumsy glider towards the vague greyness that was land.

Something must have intervened here that I have forgotten.

I saw the lights of Bordeaux when it was quite dark, a nebulous haze
against black; of that I am reasonably sure. But certainly our fall
took place in the cold, uncertain light of early dawn. I am, at least,
equally sure of that. And Mimizan, near where we dropped, is fifty
miles from Bordeaux, whose harbour lights I must have seen.

I remember coming down at last with a curious indifference, and
actually rousing myself to steer. But the actual coming to earth was
exciting enough. I remember our prolonged dragging landfall, and the
difficulty I had to get clear, and how a gust of wind caught Lord
Roberts B as my uncle stumbled away from the ropes and litter, and
dropped me heavily, and threw me on to my knees. Then came the
realisation that the monster was almost consciously disentangling
itself for escape, and then the light leap of its rebound. The rope
slipped out of reach of my hand. I remember running knee-deep in a salt
pool in hopeless pursuit of the airship.

As it dragged and rose seaward, and how only after it had escaped my
uttermost effort to recapture it, did I realise that this was quite the
best thing that could have happened. It drove swiftly over the sandy
dunes, lifting and falling, and was hidden by a clump of windbitten
trees. Then it reappeared much further off, and still receding. It
soared for a time, and sank slowly, and after that I saw it no more. I
suppose it fell into the sea and got wetted with salt water and heavy,
and so became deflated and sank.

It was never found, and there was never a report of anyone seeing it
after it escaped from me.

VI

But if I find it hard to tell the story of our long flight through the
air overseas, at least that dawn in France stands cold and clear and
full. I see again almost as if I saw once more with my bodily eyes the
ridges of sand rising behind ridges of sand, grey and cold and
black-browed, with an insufficient grass. I feel again the clear, cold
chill of dawn, and hear the distant barking of a dog. I find myself
asking again, “What shall we do now?” and trying to scheme with brain
tired beyond measure.

At first my uncle occupied my attention. He was shivering a good deal,
and it was all I could do to resist my desire to get him into a
comfortable bed at once. But I wanted to appear plausibly in this part
of the world. I felt it would not do to turn up anywhere at dawn and
rest, it would be altogether too conspicuous; we must rest until the
day was well advanced, and then appear as road-stained pedestrians
seeking a meal. I gave him most of what was left of the biscuits,
emptied our flasks, and advised him to sleep, but at first it was too
cold, albeit I wrapped the big fur rug around him.

I was struck now by the flushed weariness of his face, and the look of
age the grey stubble on his unshaved chin gave him. He sat crumpled up,
shivering and coughing, munching reluctantly, but drinking eagerly, and
whimpering a little, a dreadfully pitiful figure to me. But we had to
go through with it; there was no way out for us.

Presently the sun rose over the pines, and the sand grew rapidly warm.
My uncle had done eating, and sat with his wrists resting on his knees,
the most hopeless looking of lost souls.

“I’m ill,” he said, “I’m damnably ill! I can feel it in my skin!”

Then—it was horrible to me—he cried, “I ought to be in bed; I ought to
be in bed... instead of flying about,” and suddenly he burst into
tears.

I stood up. “Go to sleep, man!” I said, and took the rug from him, and
spread it out and rolled him up in it.

“It’s all very well,” he protested; “I’m not young enough—”

“Lift up your head,” I interrupted, and put his knapsack under it.

“They’ll catch us here, just as much as in an inn,” he grumbled and
then lay still.

Presently, after a long time, I perceived he was asleep. His breath
came with peculiar wheezings, and every now and again he would cough. I
was very stiff and tired myself, and perhaps I dozed. I don’t remember.
I remember only sitting, as it seemed, nigh interminably, beside him,
too weary even to think in that sandy desolation.

No one came near us; no creature, not even a dog. I roused myself at
last, feeling that it was vain to seek to seem other than abnormal, and
with an effort that was like lifting a sky of lead, we made our way
through the wearisome sand to a farmhouse. There I feigned even a more
insufficient French than I possess naturally, and let it appear that we
were pedestrians from Biarritz who had lost our way along the shore and
got benighted.

This explained us pretty well, I thought, and we got most heartening
coffee and a cart to a little roadside station. My uncle grew more and
more manifestly ill with every stage of our journey. I got him to
Bayonne, where he refused at first to eat, and was afterwards very
sick, and then took him shivering and collapsed up a little branch line
to a frontier place called Luzon Gare.

We found one homely inn with two small bedrooms, kept by a kindly
Basque woman. I got him to bed, and that night shared his room, and
after an hour or so of sleep he woke up in a raging fever and with a
wandering mind, cursing Neal and repeating long, inaccurate lists of
figures. He was manifestly a case for a doctor, and in the morning we
got one in. He was a young man from Montpelier, just beginning to
practise, and very mysterious and technical and modern and unhelpful.
He spoke of cold and exposure, and _la grippe_ and pneumonia. He gave
many explicit and difficult directions.... I perceived it devolved upon
me to organise nursing and a sick-room. I installed a _religieuse_ in
the second bedroom of the inn, and took a room for myself in the inn of
Port de Luzon, a quarter of a mile away.

VII

And now my story converges on what, in that queer corner of refuge out
of the world, was destined to be my uncle’s deathbed. There is a
background of the Pyrenees, of blue hills and sunlit houses, of the old
castle of Luzon and a noisy cascading river, and for a foreground the
dim, stuffy room whose windows both the _religieuse_ and hostess
conspired to shut, with its waxed floor, its four-poster bed, its
characteristically French chairs and fireplace, its champagne bottles
and dirty basins and used towels and packets of _Somatosé_ on the
table. And in the sickly air of the confined space in behind the
curtains of the bed lay my little uncle, with an effect of being
enthroned and secluded, or sat up, or writhed and tossed in his last
dealings of life. One went and drew back the edge of the curtains if
one wanted to speak to him or look at him.

Usually he was propped up against pillows, because so he breathed more
easily. He slept hardly at all.

I have a confused memory of vigils and mornings and afternoons spent by
that bedside, and how the _religieuse_ hovered about me, and how meek
and good and inefficient she was, and how horribly black were her
nails. Other figures come and go, and particularly the doctor, a young
man plumply rococo, in bicycling dress, with fine waxen features, a
little pointed beard, and the long black frizzy hair and huge tie of a
minor poet. Bright and clear-cut and irrelevant are memories of the
Basque hostess of my uncle’s inn and of the family of Spanish people
who entertained me and prepared the most amazingly elaborate meals for
me, with soup and salad and chicken and remarkable sweets. They were
all very kind and sympathetic people, systematically so. And
constantly, without attracting attention, I was trying to get
newspapers from home.

My uncle is central to all these impressions.

I have tried to make you picture him, time after time, as the young man
of the Wimblehurst chemist’s shop, as the shabby assistant in Tottenham
Court Road, as the adventurer of the early days of Tono-Bungay, as the
confident, preposterous plutocrat. And now I have to tell of him
strangely changed under the shadow of oncoming death, with his skin lax
and yellow and glistening with sweat, his eyes large and glassy, his
countenance unfamiliar through the growth of a beard, his nose pinched
and thin. Never had he looked so small as now. And he talked to me in a
whispering, strained voice of great issues, of why his life had been,
and whither he was going. Poor little man! that last phase is, as it
were, disconnected from all the other phases. It was as if he crawled
out from the ruins of his career, and looked about him before he died.
For he had quite clear-minded states in the intervals of his delirium.

He knew he was almost certainly dying. In a way that took the burthen
of his cares off his mind. There was no more Neal to face, no more
flights or evasions, no punishments.

“It has been a great career, George,” he said, “but I shall be glad to
rest. Glad to rest!... Glad to rest.”

His mind ran rather upon his career, and usually, I am glad to recall,
with a note of satisfaction and approval. In his delirious phases he
would most often exaggerate this self-satisfaction, and talk of his
splendours. He would pluck at the sheet and stare before him, and
whisper half-audible fragments of sentences.

“What is this great place, these cloud-capped towers, these any
pinnacles?... Ilion. Sky-pointing.... Ilion House, the residence of one
of our great merchant princes.... Terrace above terrace. Reaching to
the heavens.... Kingdoms Cæsar never knew.... A great poet, George.
Zzzz. Kingdoms Cæsar never knew.... Under entirely new management.

“Greatness....Millions... Universities.... He stands on the terrace—on
the upper terrace—directing—directing—by the globe—directing—the
trade.”

It was hard at times to tell when his sane talk ceased and his delirium
began. The secret springs of his life, the vain imaginations were
revealed. I sometimes think that all the life of man sprawls abed,
careless and unkempt, until it must needs clothe and wash itself and
come forth seemly in act and speech for the encounter with one’s
fellow-men. I suspect that all things unspoken in our souls partake
somewhat of the laxity of delirium and dementia. Certainly from those
slimy, tormented lips above the bristling grey beard came nothing but
dreams and disconnected fancies....

Sometimes he raved about Neal, threatened Neal. “What has he got
invested?” he said. “Does he think he can escape me?... If I followed
him up.... Ruin. Ruin.... One would think _I_ had taken his money.”

And sometimes he reverted to our airship flight. “It’s too long,
George, too long and too cold. I’m too old a man—too old—for this sort
of thing.... You know you’re not saving—you’re killing me.”

Towards the end it became evident our identity was discovered. I found
the press, and especially Boom’s section of it, had made a sort of hue
and cry for us, sent special commissioners to hunt for us, and though
none of these emissaries reached us until my uncle was dead, one felt
the forewash of that storm of energy. The thing got into the popular
French press. People became curious in their manner towards us, and a
number of fresh faces appeared about the weak little struggle that went
on in the closeness behind the curtains of the bed. The young doctor
insisted on consultations, and a motor-car came up from Biarritz, and
suddenly odd people with questioning eyes began to poke in with
inquiries and help. Though nothing was said, I could feel that we were
no longer regarded as simple middle-class tourists; about me, as I
went, I perceived almost as though it trailed visibly, the prestige of
Finance and a criminal notoriety. Local personages of a plump and
prosperous quality appeared in the inn making inquiries, the Luzon
priest became helpful, people watched our window, and stared at me as I
went to and fro; and then we had a raid from a little English clergyman
and his amiable, capable wife in severely Anglican blacks, who swooped
down upon us like virtuous but resolute vultures from the adjacent
village of Saint Jean de Pollack.

The clergyman was one of those odd types that oscillate between remote
country towns in England and the conduct of English Church services on
mutual terms in enterprising hotels abroad, a tremulous, obstinate
little being with sporadic hairs upon his face, spectacles, a red
button nose, and aged black raiment. He was evidently enormously
impressed by my uncle’s monetary greatness, and by his own inkling of
our identity, and he shone and brimmed over with tact and fussy
helpfulness. He was eager to share the watching of the bedside with me,
he proffered services with both hands, and as I was now getting into
touch with affairs in London again, and trying to disentangle the
gigantic details of the smash from the papers I had succeeded in
getting from Biarritz, I accepted his offers pretty generously, and
began the studies in modern finance that lay before me. I had got so
out of touch with the old traditions of religion that I overlooked the
manifest possibility of his attacking my poor, sinking vestiges of an
uncle with theological solicitudes. My attention was called to that,
however, very speedily by a polite but urgent quarrel between himself
and the Basque landlady as to the necessity of her hanging a cheap
crucifix in the shadow over the bed, where it might catch my uncle’s
eye, where, indeed, I found it had caught his eye.

“Good Lord!” I cried; “is _that_ still going on!”

That night the little clergyman watched, and in the small hours he
raised a false alarm that my uncle was dying, and made an extraordinary
fuss. He raised the house. I shall never forget that scene, I think,
which began with a tapping at my bedroom door just after I had fallen
asleep, and his voice—

“If you want to see your uncle before he goes, you must come now.”

The stuffy little room was crowded when I reached it, and lit by three
flickering candles. I felt I was back in the eighteenth century. There
lay my poor uncle amidst indescribably tumbled bedclothes, weary of
life beyond measure, weary and rambling, and the little clergyman
trying to hold his hand and his attention, and repeating over and over
again:

“Mr. Ponderevo, Mr. Ponderevo, it is all right. It is all right.

“Only Believe! ‘Believe on me, and ye shall be saved’!”

Close at hand was the doctor with one of those cruel and idiotic
injection needles modern science puts in the hands of these
half-educated young men, keeping my uncle flickeringly alive for no
reason whatever. The _religieuse_ hovered sleepily in the background
with an overdue and neglected dose. In addition, the landlady had not
only got up herself, but roused an aged crone of a mother and a
partially imbecile husband, and there was also a fattish, stolid man in
grey alpaca, with an air of importance—who he was and how he got there,
I don’t know. I rather fancy the doctor explained him to me in French I
did not understand. And they were all there, wearily nocturnal, hastily
and carelessly dressed, intent upon the life that flickered and sank,
making a public and curious show of its going, queer shapes of human
beings lit by three uncertain candles, and every soul of them keenly
and avidly resolved to be in at the death. The doctor stood, the others
were all sitting on chairs the landlady had brought in and arranged for
them.

And my uncle spoilt the climax, and did not die.

I replaced the little clergyman on the chair by the bedside, and he
hovered about the room.

“I think,” he whispered to me mysteriously, as he gave place to me, “I
believe—it is well with him.”

I heard him trying to render the stock phrases of Low Church piety into
French for the benefit of the stolid man in grey alpaca. Then he
knocked a glass off the table, and scrabbled for the fragments. From
the first I doubted the theory of an immediate death. I consulted the
doctor in urgent whispers. I turned round to get champagne, and nearly
fell over the clergyman’s legs. He was on his knees at the additional
chair the Basque landlady had got on my arrival, and he was praying
aloud, “Oh, Heavenly Father, have mercy on this thy Child....” I
hustled him up and out of the way, and in another minute he was down at
another chair praying again, and barring the path of the _religieuse_,
who had found me the corkscrew. Something put into my head that
tremendous blasphemy of Carlyle’s about “the last mew of a drowning
kitten.” He found a third chair vacant presently; it was as if he was
playing a game.

“Good Heavens!” I said, “we must clear these people out,” and with a
certain urgency I did.

I had a temporary lapse of memory, and forgot all my French. I drove
them out mainly by gesture, and opened the window, to the universal
horror. I intimated the death scene was postponed, and, as a matter of
fact, my uncle did not die until the next night.

I did not let the little clergyman come near him again, and I was
watchful for any sign that his mind had been troubled. But he made
none. He talked once about “that parson chap.”

“Didn’t bother you?” I asked.

“Wanted something,” he said.

I kept silence, listening keenly to his mutterings. I understood him to
say, “They wanted too much.” His face puckered like a child’s going to
cry. “You can’t get a safe six per cent.,” he said. I had for a moment
a wild suspicion that those urgent talks had not been altogether
spiritual, but that, I think, was a quite unworthy and unjust
suspicion. The little clergyman was as simple and honest as the day. My
uncle was simply generalising about his class.

But it may have been these talks that set loose some long dormant
string of ideas in my uncle’s brain, ideas the things of this world had
long suppressed and hidden altogether. Near the end he suddenly became
clearminded and lucid, albeit very weak, and his voice was little, but
clear.

“George,” he said.

“I’m here,” I said, “close beside you.”

“George. You have always been responsible for the science. George. You
know better than I do. Is—Is it proved?”

“What proved?”

“Either way?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Death ends all. After so much—Such splendid beginnin’s. Somewhere.
Something.”

I stared at him amazed. His sunken eyes were very grave.

“What do you expect?” I said in wonder.

He would not answer. “Aspirations,” he whispered. He fell into a broken
monologue, regardless of me. “Trailing clouds of glory,” he said, and
“first-rate poet, first-rate....George was always hard. Always.”

For a long time there was silence.

Then he made a gesture that he wished to speak.

“Seems to me, George”

I bent my head down, and he tried to lift his hand to my shoulder. I
raised him a little on his pillows, and listened.

“It seems to me, George, always—there must be something in me—that
won’t die.”

He looked at me as though the decision rested with me.

“I think,” he said; “—something.”

Then, for a moment, his mind wandered. “Just a little link,” he
whispered almost pleadingly, and lay quite still, but presently he was
uneasy again.

“Some other world”

“Perhaps,” I said. “Who knows?”

“Some other world.”

“Not the same scope for enterprise,” I said.

“No.”

He became silent. I sat leaning down to him, and following out my own
thoughts, and presently the _religieuse_ resumed her periodic conflict
with the window fastening. For a time he struggled for breath.... It
seemed such nonsense that he should have to suffer so—poor silly little
man!

“George,” he whispered, and his weak little hand came out. “_Perhaps_—”

He said no more, but I perceived from the expression of his eyes that
he thought the question had been put.

“Yes, I think so;” I said stoutly.

“Aren’t you sure?”

“Oh—practically sure,” said I, and I think he tried to squeeze my hand.
And there I sat, holding his hand tight, and trying to think what seeds
of immortality could be found in all his being, what sort of ghost
there was in _him_ to wander out into the bleak immensities. Queer
fancies came to me.... He lay still for a long time, save for a brief
struggle or so for breath and ever and again I wiped his mouth and
lips.

I fell into a pit of thought. I did not remark at first the change that
was creeping over his face. He lay back on his pillow, made a faint
zzzing sound that ceased, and presently and quite quietly he
died—greatly comforted by my assurance. I do not know when he died. His
hand relaxed insensibly. Suddenly, with a start, with a shock, I found
that his mouth had fallen open, and that he was dead....

VIII

It was dark night when I left his deathbed and went back to my own inn
down the straggling street of Luzon.

That return to my inn sticks in my memory also as a thing apart, as an
experience apart. Within was a subdued bustle of women, a flitting of
lights, and the doing of petty offices to that queer, exhausted thing
that had once been my active and urgent little uncle. For me those
offices were irksome and impertinent. I slammed the door, and went out
into the warm, foggy drizzle of the village street lit by blurred
specks of light in great voids of darkness, and never a soul abroad.
That warm veil of fog produced an effect of vast seclusion. The very
houses by the roadside peered through it as if from another world. The
stillness of the night was marked by an occasional remote baying of
dogs; all these people kept dogs because of the near neighbourhood of
the frontier.

Death!

It was one of those rare seasons of relief, when for a little time one
walks a little outside of and beside life. I felt as I sometimes feel
after the end of a play. I saw the whole business of my uncle’s life as
something familiar and completed. It was done, like a play one leaves,
like a book one closes. I thought of the push and the promotions, the
noise of London, the crowded, various company of people through which
our lives had gone, the public meetings, the excitements, the dinners
and disputations, and suddenly it appeared to me that none of these
things existed.

It came to me like a discovery that none of these things existed.

Before and after I have thought and called life a phantasmagoria, but
never have I felt its truth as I did that night.... We had parted; we
two who had kept company so long had parted. But there was, I knew, no
end to him or me. He had died a dream death, and ended a dream; his
pain dream was over. It seemed to me almost as though I had died, too.
What did it matter, since it was unreality, all of it, the pain and
desire, the beginning and the end? There was no reality except this
solitary road, this quite solitary road, along which one went rather
puzzled, rather tired....

Part of the fog became a big mastiff that came towards me and stopped
and slunk round me, growling, barked gruffly, and shortly and presently
became fog again.

My mind swayed back to the ancient beliefs and fears of our race. My
doubts and disbeliefs slipped from me like a loosely fitting garment. I
wondered quite simply what dogs bayed about the path of that other
walker in the darkness, what shapes, what lights, it might be, loomed
about him as he went his way from our last encounter on earth—along the
paths that are real, and the way that endures for ever?

IX

Last belated figure in that grouping round my uncle’s deathbed is my
aunt. When it was beyond all hope that my uncle could live I threw
aside whatever concealment remained to us and telegraphed directly to
her. But she came too late to see him living. She saw him calm and
still, strangely unlike his habitual garrulous animation, an unfamiliar
inflexibility.

“It isn’t like him,” she whispered, awed by this alien dignity.

I remember her chiefly as she talked and wept upon the bridge below the
old castle. We had got rid of some amateurish reporters from Biarritz,
and had walked together in the hot morning sunshine down through Port
Luzon. There, for a time, we stood leaning on the parapet of the bridge
and surveying the distant peeks, the rich blue masses of the Pyrenees.
For a long time we said nothing, and then she began talking.

“Life’s a rum Go, George!” she began. “Who would have thought, when I
used to darn your stockings at old Wimblehurst, that this would be the
end of the story? It seems far away now—that little shop, his and my
first home. The glow of the bottles, the big coloured bottles! Do you
remember how the light shone on the mahogany drawers? The little gilt
letters! _Ol Amjig_, and _S’nap!_ I can remember it all—bright and
shining—like a Dutch picture. Real! And yesterday. And here we are in a
dream. You a man—and me an old woman, George. And poor little Teddy,
who used to rush about and talk—making that noise he did—Oh!”

She choked, and the tears flowed unrestrained. She wept, and I was glad
to see her weeping.

She stood leaning over the bridge; her tear-wet handkerchief gripped in
her clenched hand.

“Just an hour in the old shop again—and him talking. Before things got
done. Before they got hold of him. And fooled him.

“Men oughtn’t to be so tempted with business and things....

“They didn’t hurt him, George?” she asked suddenly.

For a moment I was puzzled.

“Here, I mean,” she said.

“No,” I lied stoutly, suppressing the memory of that foolish injection
needle I had caught the young doctor using.

“I wonder, George, if they’ll let him talk in Heaven....”

She faced me. “Oh! George, dear, my heart aches, and I don’t know what
I say and do. Give me your arm to lean on—it’s good to have you, dear,
and lean upon you.... Yes, I know you care for me. That’s why I’m
talking. We’ve always loved one another, and never said anything about
it, and you understand, and I understand. But my heart’s torn to pieces
by this, torn to rags, and things drop out I’ve kept in it. It’s true
he wasn’t a husband much for me at the last. But he was my child,
George, he was my child and all my children, my silly child, and life
has knocked him about for me, and I’ve never had a say in the matter;
never a say; it’s puffed him up and smashed him—like an old bag—under
my eyes. I was clever enough to see it, and not clever enough to
prevent it, and all I could do was to jeer. I’ve had to make what I
could of it. Like most people. Like most of us.... But it wasn’t fair,
George. It wasn’t fair. Life and Death—great serious things—why
couldn’t they leave him alone, and his lies and ways? If _we_ could see
the lightness of it—

“Why couldn’t they leave him alone?” she repeated in a whisper as we
went towards the inn.




CHAPTER THE SECOND
LOVE AMONG THE WRECKAGE


I

When I came back I found that my share in the escape and death of my
uncle had made me for a time a notorious and even popular character.
For two weeks I was kept in London “facing the music,” as he would have
said, and making things easy for my aunt, and I still marvel at the
consideration with which the world treated me. For now it was open and
manifest that I and my uncle were no more than specimens of a modern
species of brigand, wasting the savings of the public out of the sheer
wantonness of enterprise. I think that in a way, his death produced a
reaction in my favour and my flight, of which some particulars now
appeared stuck in the popular imagination. It seemed a more daring and
difficult feat than it was, and I couldn’t very well write to the
papers to sustain my private estimate. There can be little doubt that
men infinitely prefer the appearance of dash and enterprise to simple
honesty. No one believed I was not an arch plotter in his financing.
Yet they favoured me. I even got permission from the trustee to occupy
my chalet for a fortnight while I cleared up the mass of papers,
calculations, notes of work, drawings and the like, that I left in
disorder when I started on that impulsive raid upon the Mordet quap
heaps.

I was there alone. I got work for Cothope with the Ilchesters, for whom
I now build these destroyers. They wanted him at once, and he was short
of money, so I let him go and managed very philosophically by myself.

But I found it hard to fix my attention on aeronautics, I had been away
from the work for a full half-year and more, a half-year crowded with
intense disconcerting things. For a time my brain refused these fine
problems of balance and adjustment altogether; it wanted to think about
my uncle’s dropping jaw, my aunt’s reluctant tears, about dead negroes
and pestilential swamps, about the evident realities of cruelty and
pain, about life and death. Moreover, it was weary with the frightful
pile of figures and documents at the Hardingham, a task to which this
raid to Lady Grove was simply an interlude. And there was Beatrice.

On the second morning, as I sat out upon the veranda recalling memories
and striving in vain to attend to some too succinct pencil notes of
Cothope’s, Beatrice rode up suddenly from behind the pavilion, and
pulled rein and became still; Beatrice, a little flushed from riding
and sitting on a big black horse.

I did not instantly rise. I stared at her. “_You!_” I said.

She looked at me steadily. “Me,” she said

I did not trouble about any civilities. I stood up and asked point
blank a question that came into my head.

“Whose horse is that?” I said.

She looked me in the eyes. “Carnaby’s,” she answered.

“How did you get here—this way?”

“The wall’s down.”

“Down? Already?”

“A great bit of it between the plantations.”

“And you rode through, and got here by chance?”

“I saw you yesterday. And I rode over to see you.” I had now come close
to her, and stood looking up into her face.

“I’m a mere vestige,” I said.

She made no answer, but remained regarding me steadfastly with a
curious air of proprietorship.

“You know I’m the living survivor now of the great smash. I’m rolling
and dropping down through all the scaffolding of the social system....
It’s all a chance whether I roll out free at the bottom, or go down a
crack into the darkness out of sight for a year or two.”

“The sun,” she remarked irrelevantly, “has burnt you.... I’m getting
down.”

She swung herself down into my arms, and stood beside me face to face.

“Where’s Cothope?” she asked.

“Gone.”

Her eyes flitted to the pavilion and back to me. We stood close
together, extraordinarily intimate, and extraordinarily apart.

“I’ve never seen this cottage of yours,” she said, “and I want to.”

She flung the bridle of her horse round the veranda post, and I helped
her tie it.

“Did you get what you went for to Africa?” she asked.

“No,” I said, “I lost my ship.”

“And that lost everything?”

“Everything.”

She walked before me into the living-room of the chalet, and I saw that
she gripped her riding-whip very tightly in her hand. She looked about
her for a moment,—and then at me.

“It’s comfortable,” she remarked.

Our eyes met in a conversation very different from the one upon our
lips. A sombre glow surrounded us, drew us together; an unwonted
shyness kept us apart. She roused herself, after an instant’s pause, to
examine my furniture.

“You have chintz curtains. I thought men were too feckless to have
curtains without a woman. But, of course, your aunt did that! And a
couch and a brass fender, and—is that a pianola? That is your desk. I
thought men’s desks were always untidy, and covered with dust and
tobacco ash.”

She flitted to my colour prints and my little case of books. Then she
went to the pianola. I watched her intently.

“Does this thing play?” she said.

“What?” I asked.

“Does this thing play?”

I roused myself from my preoccupation.

“Like a musical gorilla with fingers all of one length. And a sort of
soul.... It’s all the world of music to me.”

“What do you play?”

“Beethoven, when I want to clear up my head while I’m working. He
is—how one would always like to work. Sometimes Chopin and those
others, but Beethoven. Beethoven mainly. Yes.”

Silence again between us. She spoke with an effort.

“Play me something.” She turned from me and explored the rack of music
rolls, became interested and took a piece, the first part of the
Kreutzer Sonata, hesitated. “No,” she said, “that!”

She gave me Brahms’ Second Concerto, Op. 58, and curled up on the sofa
watching me as I set myself slowly to play....

“I say,” he said when I had done, “that’s fine. I didn’t know those
things could play like that. I’m all astir...”

She came and stood over me, looking at me. “I’m going to have a
concert,” she said abruptly, and laughed uneasily and hovered at the
pigeon-holes. “Now—now what shall I have?” She chose more of Brahms.
Then we came to the Kreutzer Sonata. It is queer how Tolstoy has loaded
that with suggestions, debauched it, made it a scandalous and intimate
symbol. When I had played the first part of that, she came up to the
pianola and hesitated over me. I sat stiffly—waiting.

Suddenly she seized my downcast head and kissed my hair. She caught at
my face between her hands and kissed my lips. I put my arms about her
and we kissed together. I sprang to my feet and clasped her.

“Beatrice!” I said. “Beatrice!”

“My dear,” she whispered, nearly breathless, with her arms about me.
“Oh! my dear!”

II

Love, like everything else in this immense process of social
disorganisation in which we live, is a thing adrift, a fruitless thing
broken away from its connexions. I tell of this love affair here
because of its irrelevance, because it is so remarkable that it should
mean nothing, and be nothing except itself. It glows in my memory like
some bright casual flower starting up amidst the _débris_ of a
catastrophe. For nearly a fortnight we two met and made love together.
Once more this mighty passion, that our aimless civilisation has
fettered and maimed and sterilised and debased, gripped me and filled
me with passionate delights and solemn joys—that were all, you know,
futile and purposeless. Once more I had the persuasion “This matters.
Nothing else matters so much as this.” We were both infinitely grave in
such happiness as we had. I do not remember any laughter at all between
us.

Twelve days it lasted from that encounter in my chalet until our
parting.

Except at the end, they were days of supreme summer, and there was a
waxing moon. We met recklessly day by day. We were so intent upon each
other at first so intent upon expressing ourselves to each other, and
getting at each other, that we troubled very little about the
appearance of our relationship. We met almost openly.... We talked of
ten thousand things, and of ourselves. We loved. We made love. There is
no prose of mine that can tell of hours transfigured. The facts are
nothing. Everything we touched, the meanest things, became glorious.
How can I render bare tenderness and delight and mutual possession? I
sit here at my desk thinking of untellable things.

I have come to know so much of love that I know now what love might be.
We loved, scarred and stained; we parted—basely and inevitably, but at
least I met love.

I remember as we sat in a Canadian canoe, in a reedy, bush-masked
shallow we had discovered operating out of that pine-shaded Woking
canal, how she fell talking of the things that happened to her before
she met me again....

She told me things, and they so joined and welded together other things
that lay disconnected in my memory, that it seemed to me I had always
known what she told me. And yet indeed I had not known nor suspected
it, save perhaps for a luminous, transitory suspicion ever and again.

She made me see how life had shaped her. She told me of her girlhood
after I had known her. “We were poor and pretending and managing. We
hacked about on visits and things. I ought to have married. The chances
I had weren’t particularly good chances. I didn’t like ’em.”

She paused. “Then Carnaby came along.”

I remained quite still. She spoke now with downcast eyes, and one
finger just touching the water.

“One gets bored, bored beyond redemption. One does about to these huge
expensive houses I suppose—the scale’s immense. One makes one’s self
useful to the other women, and agreeable to the men. One has to
dress.... One has food and exercise and leisure, It’s the leisure, and
the space, and the blank opportunity it seems a sin not to fill.
Carnaby isn’t like the other men. He’s bigger.... They go about making
love. Everybody’s making love. I did.... And I don’t do things by
halves.”

She stopped.

“You knew?”—she asked, looking up, quite steadily. I nodded.

“Since when?”

“Those last days.... It hasn’t seemed to matter really. I was a little
surprised.”

She looked at me quietly. “Cothope knew,” she said. “By instinct. I
could feel it.”

“I suppose,” I began, “once, this would have mattered immensely. Now—”

“Nothing matters,” she said, completing me. “I felt I had to tell you.
I wanted you to understand why I didn’t marry you—with both hands. I
have loved you”—she paused—“have loved you ever since the day I kissed
you in the bracken. Only—I forgot.”

And suddenly she dropped her face upon her hands, and sobbed
passionately—

“I forgot—I forgot,” she cried, and became still....

I dabbled my paddle in the water. “Look here!” I said; “forget again!
Here am I—a ruined man. Marry me.”

She shook her head without looking up.

We were still for a long time. “Marry me!” I whispered.

She looked up, twined back a whisp of hair, and answered
dispassionately—

“I wish I could. Anyhow, we have had this time. It has been a fine
time—has it been—for you also? I haven’t nudged you all I had to give.
It’s a poor gift—except for what it means and might have been. But we
are near the end of it now.”

“Why?” I asked. “Marry me! Why should we two—”

“You think,” she said, “I could take courage and come to you and be
your everyday wife—while you work and are poor?”

“Why not?” said I.

She looked at me gravely, with extended finger. “Do you really think
that—of me? Haven’t you seen me—all?”

I hesitated.

“Never once have I really meant marrying you,” she insisted. “Never
once. I fell in love with you from the first. But when you seemed a
successful man, I told myself I wouldn’t. I was love-sick for you, and
you were so stupid, I came near it then. But I knew I wasn’t good
enough. What could I have been to you? A woman with bad habits and bad
associations, a woman smirched. And what could I do for you or be to
you? If I wasn’t good enough to be a rich man’s wife, I’m certainly not
good enough to be a poor one’s. Forgive me for talking sense to you
now, but I wanted to tell you this somehow.”

She stopped at my gesture. I sat up, and the canoe rocked with my
movement.

“I don’t care,” I said. “I want to marry you and make you my wife!”

“No,” she said, “don’t spoil things. That is impossible!”

“Impossible!”

“Think! I can’t do my own hair! Do you mean you will get me a maid?”

“Good God!” I cried, disconcerted beyond measure, “won’t you learn to
do your own hair for me? Do you mean to say you can love a man—”

She flung out her hands at me. “Don’t spoil it,” she cried. “I have
given you all I have, I have given you all I can. If I could do it, if
I was good enough to do it, I would. But I am a woman spoilt and
ruined, dear, and you are a ruined man. When we are making love we’re
lovers—but think of the gulf between us in habits and ways of thought,
in will and training, when we are not making love. Think of it—and
don’t think of it! Don’t think of it yet. We have snatched some hours.
We still may have some hours!”

She suddenly knelt forward toward me, with a glowing darkness in her
eyes. “Who cares if it upsets?” she cried. “If you say another word I
will kiss you. And go to the bottom clutching you.

“I’m not afraid of that. I’m not a bit afraid of that. I’ll die with
you. Choose a death, and I’ll die with you—readily. Do listen to me! I
love you. I shall always love you. It’s because I love you that I won’t
go down to become a dirty familiar thing with you amidst the grime.
I’ve given all I can. I’ve had all I can.... Tell me,” and she crept
nearer, “have I been like the dusk to you, like the warm dusk? Is there
magic still? Listen to the ripple of water from your paddle. Look at
the warm evening light in the sky. Who cares if the canoe upsets? Come
nearer to me. Oh, my love! come near! So.”

She drew me to her and our lips met.

III

I asked her to marry me once again.

It was our last morning together, and we had met very early, about
sunrise, knowing that we were to part. No sun shone that day. The sky
was overcast, the morning chilly and lit by a clear, cold, spiritless
light. A heavy dampness in the air verged close on rain. When I think
of that morning, it has always the quality of greying ashes wet with
rain.

Beatrice too had changed. The spring had gone out of her movement; it
came to me, for the first time, that some day she might grow old. She
had become one flesh with the rest of common humanity; the softness had
gone from her voice and manner, the dusky magic of her presence had
gone. I saw these things with perfect clearness, and they made me sorry
for them and for her. But they altered my love not a whit, abated it
nothing. And when we had talked awkwardly for half a dozen sentences, I
came dully to my point.

“And now,” I cried, “will you marry me?”

“No,” she said, “I shall keep to my life here.”

I asked her to marry me in a year’s time. She shook her head.

“This world is a soft world,” I said, “in spite of my present
disasters. I know now how to do things. If I had you to work for—in a
year I could be a prosperous man.”

“No,” she said, “I will put it brutally, I shall go back to Carnaby.”

“But—!” I did not feel angry. I had no sort of jealousy, no wounded
pride, no sense of injury. I had only a sense of grey desolation, of
hopeless cross-purposes.

“Look here,” she said. “I have been awake all night and every night. I
have been thinking of this—every moment when we have not been together.
I’m not answering you on an impulse. I love you. I love you. I’ll say
that over ten thousand times. But here we are—”

“The rest of life together,” I said.

“It wouldn’t be together. Now we are together. Now we have been
together. We are full of memories I do not feel I can ever forget a
single one.”

“Nor I.”

“And I want to close it and leave it at that. You see, dear, what else
is there to do?”

She turned her white face to me. “All I know of love, all I have ever
dreamt or learnt of love I have packed into these days for you. You
think we might live together and go on loving. No! For you I will have
no vain repetitions. You have had the best and all of me. Would you
have us, after this, meet again in London or Paris or somewhere,
scuffle to some wretched dressmaker’s, meet in a _cabinet
particulier?_”

“No,” I said. “I want you to marry me. I want you to play the game of
life with me as an honest woman should. Come and live with me. Be my
wife and squaw. Bear me children.”

I looked at her white, drawn face, and it seemed to me I might carry
her yet. I spluttered for words.

“My God! Beatrice!” I cried; “but this is cowardice and folly! Are
_you_ afraid of life? You of all people! What does it matter what has
been or what we were? Here we are with the world before us! Start clean
and new with me. We’ll fight it through! I’m not such a simple lover
that I’ll not tell you plainly when you go wrong, and fight our
difference out with you. It’s the one thing I want, the one thing I
need—to have you, and more of you and more! This love-making—it’s
love-making. It’s just a part of us, an incident—”

She shook her head and stopped me abruptly. “It’s all,” she said.

“All!” I protested.

“I’m wiser than you. Wiser beyond words.” She turned her eyes to me and
they shone with tears.

“I wouldn’t have you say anything—but what you’re saying,” she said.
“But it’s nonsense, dear. You know it’s nonsense as you say it.”

I tried to keep up the heroic note, but she would not listen to it.

“It’s no good,” she cried almost petulantly. “This little world has
made us what we are. Don’t you see—don’t you see what I am? I can make
love. I can make love and be loved, prettily. Dear, don’t blame me. I
have given you all I have. If I had anything more—I have gone through
it all over and over again—thought it out. This morning my head aches,
my eyes ache.

“The light has gone out of me and I am a sick and tired woman. But I’m
talking wisdom—bitter wisdom. I couldn’t be any sort of helper to you,
any sort of wife, any sort of mother. I’m spoilt.

“I’m spoilt by this rich idle way of living, until every habit is
wrong, every taste wrong. The world is wrong. People can be ruined by
wealth just as much as by poverty. Do you think I wouldn’t face life
with you if I could, if I wasn’t absolutely certain I should be down
and dragging in the first half-mile of the journey? Here I am—damned!
Damned! But I won’t damn you. You know what I am! You know. You are too
clear and simple not to know the truth. You try to romance and hector,
but you know the truth. I am a little cad—sold and done. I’m—. My dear,
you think I’ve been misbehaving, but all these days I’ve been on my
best behaviour.... You don’t understand, because you’re a man.

“A woman, when she’s spoilt, is _spoilt_. She’s dirty in grain. She’s
done.”

She walked on weeping.

“You’re a fool to want me,” she said. “You’re a fool to want me—for my
sake just as much as yours. We’ve done all we can. It’s just
romancing—”

She dashed the tears from her eyes and turned upon me. “Don’t you
understand?” she challenged. “Don’t you know?”

We faced one another in silence for a moment.

“Yes,” I said, “I know.”

For a long time we spoke never a word, but walked on together, slowly
and sorrowfully, reluctant to turn about towards our parting. When at
last we did, she broke silence again.

“I’ve had you,” she said.

“Heaven and hell,” I said, “can’t alter that.”

“I’ve wanted—” she went on. “I’ve talked to you in the nights and made
up speeches. Now when I want to make them I’m tongue-tied. But to me
it’s just as if the moments we have had lasted for ever. Moods and
states come and go. To-day my light is out...”

To this day I cannot determine whether she said or whether I imagined
she said “chloral.” Perhaps a half-conscious diagnosis flashed it on my
brain. Perhaps I am the victim of some perverse imaginative freak of
memory, some hinted possibility that scratched and seared. There the
word stands in my memory, as if it were written in fire.

We came to the door of Lady Osprey’s garden at last, and it was
beginning to drizzle.

She held out her hands and I took them.

“Yours,” she said, in a weary unimpassioned voice; “all that I had—such
as it was. Will you forget?”

“Never,” I answered.

“Never a touch or a word of it?”

“No.”

“You will,” she said.

We looked at one another in silence, and her face full of fatigue and
misery.

What could I do? What was there to do?

“I wish—” I said, and stopped.

“Good-bye.”

IV

That should have been the last I saw of her, but, indeed, I was
destined to see her once again. Two days after I was at Lady Grove, I
forget altogether upon what errand, and as I walked back to the station
believing her to be gone away she came upon me, and she was riding with
Carnaby, just as I had seen them first. The encounter jumped upon us
unprepared. She rode by, her eyes dark in her white face, and scarcely
noticed me. She winced and grew stiff at the sight of me and bowed her
head. But Carnaby, because he thought I was a broken and discomfited
man, saluted me with an easy friendliness, and shouted some genial
commonplace to me.

They passed out of sight and left me by the roadside....

And then, indeed, I tasted the ultimate bitterness of life. For the
first time I felt utter futility, and was wrung by emotion that begot
no action, by shame and pity beyond words. I had parted from her dully
and I had seen my uncle break and die with dry eyes and a steady mind,
but this chance sight of my lost Beatrice brought me to tears. My face
was wrung, and tears came pouring down my cheeks. All the magic she had
for me had changed to wild sorrow. “Oh God!” I cried, “this is too
much,” and turned my face after her and made appealing gestures to the
beech trees and cursed at fate. I wanted to do preposterous things, to
pursue her, to save her, to turn life back so that she might begin
again. I wonder what would have happened had I overtaken them in
pursuit, breathless with running, uttering incoherent words, weeping,
expostulatory. I came near to doing that.

There was nothing in earth or heaven to respect my curses or weeping.
In the midst of it a man who had been trimming the opposite hedge
appeared and stared at me.

Abruptly, ridiculously, I dissembled before him and went on and caught
my train....

But the pain I felt then I have felt a hundred times; it is with me as
I write. It haunts this book, I see, that is what haunts this book,
from end to end.




CHAPTER THE THIRD
NIGHT AND THE OPEN SEA


I

I have tried throughout all this story to tell things as they happened
to me. In the beginning—the sheets are still here on the table, grimy
and dogs-eared and old-looking—I said I wanted to tell _myself_ and the
world in which I found myself, and I have done my best. But whether I
have succeeded I cannot imagine. All this writing is grey now and dead
and trite and unmeaning to me; some of it I know by heart. I am the
last person to judge it.

As I turn over the big pile of manuscript before me certain things
become clearer to me, and particularly the immense inconsequences of my
experiences. It is, I see now that I have it all before me, a story of
activity and urgency and sterility. I have called it _Tono-Bungay_, but
I had far better have called it _Waste_. I have told of childless
Marion, of my childless aunt, of Beatrice wasted and wasteful and
futile. What hope is there for a people whose women become fruitless? I
think of all the energy I have given to vain things. I think of my
industrious scheming with my uncle, of Crest Hill’s vast cessation, of
his resonant strenuous career. Ten thousand men have envied him and
wished to live as he lived. It is all one spectacle of forces running
to waste, of people who use and do not replace, the story of a country
hectic with a wasting aimless fever of trade and money-making and
pleasure-seeking. And now I build destroyers!

Other people may see this country in other terms; this is how I have
seen it. In some early chapter in this heap I compared all our present
colour and abundance to October foliage before the frosts nip down the
leaves. That I still feel was a good image. Perhaps I see wrongly. It
may be I see decay all about me because I am, in a sense, decay. To
others it may be a scene of achievement and construction radiant with
hope. I, too, have a sort of hope, but it is a remote hope, a hope that
finds no promise in this Empire or in any of the great things of our
time.

How they will look in history I do not know, how time and chance will
prove them I cannot guess; that is how they have mirrored themselves on
one contemporary mind.

II

Concurrently with writing the last chapter of this book I have been
much engaged by the affairs of a new destroyer we have completed. It
has been an oddly complementary alternation of occupations. Three weeks
or so ago this novel had to be put aside in order that I might give all
my time day and night to the fitting and finishing of the engines. Last
Thursday X 2, for so we call her, was done and I took her down the
Thames and went out nearly to Texel for a trial of speed.

It is curious how at times one’s impressions will all fuse and run
together into a sort of unity and become continuous with things that
have hitherto been utterly alien and remote. That rush down the river
became mysteriously connected with this book.

As I passed down the Thames I seemed in a new and parallel manner to be
passing all England in review. I saw it then as I had wanted my readers
to see it. The thought came to me slowly as I picked my way through the
Pool; it stood out clear as I went dreaming into the night out upon the
wide North Sea.

It wasn’t so much thinking at the time as a sort of photographic
thought that came and grew clear. X2 went ripping through the dirty
oily water as scissors rip through canvas, and the front of my mind was
all intent with getting her through under the bridges and in and out
among the steam-boats and barges and rowing-boats and piers. I lived
with my hands and eyes hard ahead. I thought nothing then of any
appearances but obstacles, but for all that the back of my mind took
the photographic memory of it complete and vivid....

“This,” it came to me, “is England. That is what I wanted to give in my
book. This!”

We started in the late afternoon. We throbbed out of our yard above
Hammersmith Bridge, fussed about for a moment, and headed down stream.
We came at an easy rush down Craven Reach, past Fulham and Hurlingham,
past the long stretches of muddy meadow And muddy suburb to Battersea
and Chelsea, round the cape of tidy frontage that is Grosvenor Road and
under Vauxhall Bridge, and Westminster opened before us. We cleared a
string of coal barges and there on the left in the October sunshine
stood the Parliament houses, and the flag was flying and Parliament was
sitting.

I saw it at the time unseeingly; afterwards it came into my mind as the
centre of the whole broad panoramic effect of that afternoon. The stiff
square lace of Victorian Gothic with its Dutch clock of a tower came
upon me suddenly and stared and whirled past in a slow half pirouette
and became still, I know, behind me as if watching me recede. “Aren’t
you going to respect me, then?” it seemed to say.

Not I! There in that great pile of Victorian architecture the landlords
and the lawyers, the bishops, the railway men and the magnates of
commerce go to and fro—in their incurable tradition of commercialised
Bladesovery, of meretricious gentry and nobility sold for riches. I
have been near enough to know. The Irish and the Labour-men run about
among their feet, making a fuss, effecting little, they’ve got no
better plans that I can see. Respect it indeed! There’s a certain
paraphernalia of dignity, but whom does it deceive? The King comes down
in a gilt coach to open the show and wears long robes and a crown; and
there’s a display of stout and slender legs in white stockings and
stout and slender legs in black stockings and artful old gentlemen in
ermine. I was reminded of one congested afternoon I had spent with my
aunt amidst a cluster of agitated women’s hats in the Royal Gallery of
the House of Lords and how I saw the King going to open Parliament, and
the Duke of Devonshire looking like a gorgeous pedlar and terribly
bored with the cap of maintenance on a tray before him hung by slings
from his shoulder. A wonderful spectacle!

It is quaint, no doubt, this England—it is even dignified in places—and
full of mellow associations. That does not alter the quality of the
realities these robes conceal. The realities are greedy trade, base
profit—seeking, bold advertisement; and kingship and chivalry, spite of
this wearing of treasured robes, are as dead among it all as that
crusader my uncle championed against the nettles outside the Duffield
church.

I have thought much of that bright afternoon’s panorama.

To run down the Thames so is to run one’s hand over the pages in the
book of England from end to end. One begins in Craven Reach and it is
as if one were in the heart of old England. Behind us are Kew and
Hampton Court with their memories of Kings and Cardinals, and one runs
at first between Fulham’s episcopal garden parties and Hurlingham’s
playground for the sporting instinct of our race. The whole effect is
English. There is space, there are old trees and all the best qualities
of the home-land in that upper reach. Putney, too, looks Anglican on a
dwindling scale. And then for a stretch the newer developments slop
over, one misses Bladesover and there come first squalid stretches of
mean homes right and left and then the dingy industrialism of the south
side, and on the north bank the polite long front of nice houses,
artistic, literary, administrative people’s residences, that stretches
from Cheyne Walk nearly to Westminster and hides a wilderness of slums.
What a long slow crescendo that is, mile after mile, with the houses
crowding closelier, the multiplying succession of church towers, the
architectural moments, the successive bridges, until you come out into
the second movement of the piece with Lambeth’s old palace under your
quarter and the houses of Parliament on your bow! Westminster Bridge is
ahead of you then, and through it you flash, and in a moment the
round-faced clock tower cranes up to peer at you again and New Scotland
Yard squares at you, a fat beef-eater of a policeman disguised
miraculously as a Bastille.

For a stretch you have the essential London; you have Charing Cross
railway station, heart of the world, and the Embankment on the north
side with its new hotels overshadowing its Georgian and Victorian
architecture, and mud and great warehouses and factories, chimneys,
shot towers, advertisements on the south. The northward skyline grows
more intricate and pleasing, and more and more does one thank God for
Wren. Somerset House is as picturesque as the civil war, one is
reminded again of the original England, one feels in the fretted sky
the quality of Restoration Lace.

And then comes Astor’s strong box and the lawyers’ Inns.

(I had a passing memory of myself there, how once I had trudged along
the Embankment westward, weighing my uncle’s offer of three hundred
pounds a year....)

Through that central essential London reach I drove, and X2 bored her
nose under the foam regardless of it all like a black hound going
through reeds—on what trail even I who made her cannot tell.

And in this reach, too, one first meets the seagulls and is reminded of
the sea. Blackfriars one takes—just under these two bridges and just
between them is the finest bridge moment in the world—and behold,
soaring up, hanging in the sky over a rude tumult of warehouses, over a
jostling competition of traders, irrelevantly beautiful and altogether
remote, Saint Paul’s! “Of course!” one says, “Saint Paul’s!” It is the
very figure of whatever fineness the old Anglican culture achieved,
detached, a more dignified and chastened Saint Peter’s, colder, greyer,
but still ornate; it has never been over thrown, never disavowed, only
the tall warehouses and all the roar of traffic have forgotten it,
every one has forgotten it; the steamships, the barges, go heedlessly
by regardless of it, intricacies of telephone wires and poles cut
blackly into its thin mysteries, and presently, when in a moment the
traffic permits you and you look round for it, it has dissolved like a
cloud into the grey blues of the London sky.

And then the traditional and ostensible England falls from you
altogether. The third movement begins, the last great movement in the
London symphony, in which the trim scheme of the old order is
altogether dwarfed and swallowed up. Comes London Bridge, and the great
warehouses tower up about you, waving stupendous cranes, the gulls
circle and scream in your ears, large ships lie among their lighters,
and one is in the port of the world. Again and again in this book I
have written of England as a feudal scheme overtaken by fatty
degeneration and stupendous accidents of hypertrophy.

For the last time I must strike that note as the memory of the dear
neat little sunlit ancient Tower of London lying away in a gap among
the warehouses comes back to me, that little accumulation of buildings
so provincially pleasant and dignified, overshadowed by the vulgarest,
most typical exploit of modern England, the sham Gothic casings to the
ironwork of the Tower Bridge. That Tower Bridge is the very balance and
confirmation of Westminster’s dull pinnacles and tower. That sham
Gothic bridge; in the very gates of our mother of change, the Sea!

But after that one is in a world of accident and nature. For the third
part of the panorama of London is beyond all law, order, and
precedence; it is the seaport and the sea. One goes down the widening
reaches through a monstrous variety of shipping, great steamers, great
sailing-ships, trailing the flags of all the world, a monstrous
confusion of lighters, witches’ conferences of brown-sailed barges,
wallowing tugs, a tumultuous crowding and jostling of cranes and spars,
and wharves and stores, and assertive inscriptions. Huge vistas of dock
open right and left of one, and here and there beyond and amidst it all
are church towers, little patches of indescribably old-fashioned and
worn-out houses, riverside pubs and the like, vestiges of townships
that were long since torn to fragments and submerged in these new
growths. And amidst it all no plan appears, no intention, no
comprehensive desire. That is the very key of it all. Each day one
feels that the pressure of commerce and traffic grew, grew insensibly
monstrous, and first this man made a wharf and that erected a crane,
and then this company set to work and then that, and so they jostled
together to make this unassimilable enormity of traffic. Through it we
dodged and drove eager for the high seas.

I remember how I laughed aloud at the glimpse of the name of a London
County Council steamboat that ran across me. _Caxton_ it was called,
and another was _Pepys_, and another was _Shakespeare_. They seemed so
wildly out of place, splashing about in that confusion. One wanted to
take them out and wipe them and put them back in some English
gentleman’s library. Everything was alive about them, flash ing,
splashing, and passing, ships moving, tugs panting, hawsers taut,
barges going down with men toiling at the sweeps, the water all a-swirl
with the wash of shipping, scaling into millions of little wavelets,
curling and frothing under the whip of the unceasing wind. Past it all
we drove. And at Greenwich to the south, you know, there stands a fine
stone frontage where all the victories are recorded in a Painted Hall,
and beside it is the “Ship” where once upon a time those gentlemen of
Westminster used to have an annual dinner—before the port of London got
too much for them altogether. The old façade of the Hospital was just
warming to the sunset as we went by, and after that, right and left,
the river opened, the sense of the sea increased and prevailed, reach
after reach from Northfleet to the Nore.

And out you come at last with the sun behind you into the eastern sea.
You speed up and tear the oily water louder and faster, siroo,
siroo-swish-siroo, and the hills of Kent—over which I once fled from
the Christian teachings of Nicodemus Frapp—fall away on the right hand
and Essex on the left. They fall away and vanish into blue haze, and
the tall slow ships behind the tugs, scarce moving ships and wallowing
sturdy tugs, are all wrought of wet gold as one goes frothing by. They
stand out, bound on strange missions of life and death, to the killing
of men in unfamiliar lands. And now behind us is blue mystery and the
phantom flash of unseen lights, and presently even these are gone, and
I and my destroyer tear out to the unknown across a great grey space.
We tear into the great spaces of the future and the turbines fall to
talking in unfamiliar tongues. Out to the open we go, to windy freedom
and trackless ways. Light after light goes down. England and the
Kingdom, Britain and the Empire, the old prides and the old devotions,
glide abeam, astern, sink down upon the horizon, pass—pass. The river
passes—London passes, England passes...

III

This is the note I have tried to emphasise, the note that sounds clear
in my mind when I think of anything beyond the purely personal aspects
of my story.

It is a note of crumbling and confusion, of change and seemingly
aimless swelling, of a bubbling up and medley of futile loves and
sorrows. But through the confusion sounds another note. Through the
confusion something drives, something that is at once human achievement
and the most inhuman of all existing things. Something comes out of
it.... How can I express the values of a thing at once so essential and
so immaterial. It is something that calls upon such men as I with an
irresistible appeal.

I have figured it in my last section by the symbol of my destroyer,
stark and swift, irrelevant to most human interests. Sometimes I call
this reality Science, sometimes I call it Truth. But it is something we
draw by pain and effort ont of the heart of life, that we disentangle
and make clear. Other men serve it, I know, in art, in literature, in
social invention, and see it in a thousand different figures, under a
hundred names. I see it always as austerity, as beauty. This thing we
make clear is the heart of life. It is the one enduring thing. Men and
nations, epochs and civilisation pass each making its contribution I do
not know what it is, this something, except that it is supreme. It is,
a something, a quality, an element, one may find now in colours, now in
norms, now in sounds, now in thoughts. It emerges from life with each
year one lives and feels, and generation by generation and age by age,
but the how and why of it are all beyond the compass of my mind....

Yet the full sense of it was with me all that night as I drove, lonely
above the rush and murmur of my engines, out upon the weltering circle
of the sea.

Far out to the northeast there came the flicker of a squadron of
warships waving white swords of light about the sky. I kept them
hull-down, and presently they were mere summer lightning over the
watery edge of the globe.... I fell into thought that was nearly
formless, into doubts and dreams that have no words, and it seemed good
to me to drive ahead and on and or through the windy starlight, over
the long black waves.

IV

It was morning and day before I returned with the four sick and
starving journalists who had got permission to come with me, up the
shining river, and past the old grey Tower....

I recall the back views of those journalists very distinctly, going
with a certain damp weariness of movement, along a side street away
from the river. They were good men and bore me no malice, and they
served me up to the public in turgid degenerate Kiplingese, as a modest
button on the complacent stomach of the Empire. Though as a matter of
fact, X2 isn’t intended for the empire, or indeed for the hands of any
European power. We offered it to our own people first, but they would
have nothing to do with me, and I have long since ceased to trouble
much about such questions. I have come to see myself from the outside,
my country from the outside—without illusions. We make and pass.

We are all things that make and pass striving upon a hidden mission,
out to the open sea.




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