(A Variation)
“The dancer, my Mother, is very sad. She sits with her head on her hands. She looks into the emptiness. It is frightful to watch. I have tried to make her pray, my Mother, but the poor girl does not know how; she has no belief. She refuses even to confess herself. She is pagan—but quite pagan. What could one do for her, my Mother—to cheer her a little during these hours? I have tried to make her tell me of her life. She does not answer. She sits and looks always into the emptiness. It does me harm in the heart to see her. Is there nothing one can do to comfort her a little before she dies? To die so young—so full of life; for her who has no faith! To be shot—so young, so beautiful; but it is frightful, my Mother!”
The little elderly Sister raised her hands and crossed them on her grey-clothed breast. Her eyes, brown and mild, looked up, questioning the face before her, wax-pale under its coif and smooth grey hair. Straight, thin, as it were bodiless, beneath her grey and white garb, the Mother Superior stoodpondering. The spy-woman in her charge, a dancer with gipsy blood they said—or was it Moorish?—who had wormed secrets from her French naval lover and sold them to the Germans in Spain. At the trial they said there was no doubt. And they had brought her to the convent saying: “Keep her for us till the fifteenth. She will be better with you than in prison.” To be shot—a woman! It made one shiver! And yet—it was war! It was for France!
And, looking down at the little elderly Sister, the Mother Superior answered:
“One must see, my daughter. Take me to her cell.”
They went in gently. The dancer was sitting on her bed. There was no colour in her skin save the saffron sprinkled into it by eastern blood. The face was oval, the eyebrows slanted a little up; black hair formed on her forehead a V reversed; her lips, sensuous but fine, showed a gleam of teeth. Her arms were crossed as though compressing the fire within her supple body. Her eyes, colour of Malaga wine, looked through and beyond the whitened walls, through and beyond her visitors, like the eyes of a caged leopard.
The Mother Superior spoke:
“What can we do for you, my daughter?”
The dancer shrugged.
“You suffer, my daughter. They tell me you do not pray. It is a pity.”
The dancer’s passing smile had the sweetness of something tasted, of a rich tune, a long kiss; she shook her head.
“One would not say anything to trouble you, my daughter; one feels pity for your suffering. One comprehends. Is there a book you would read; some wine you would like; in a word, anything which could distract you a little?”
The dancer clasped her hands behind her neck. The movement was beautiful, sinuous—all her body beautiful. A faint colour came into the Mother Superior’s waxen cheeks.
“Would you wish to dance for us, my daughter?”
On the dancer’s face the smile came again and did not pass.
“Willingly. It will give me pleasure, madame!”
“That is well! Your dresses shall be brought. This evening in the refectory after the meal. If you wish music—one can place a piano. Sister Mathilde is a good musician.”
“Music—some simple dances. Madame, could I smoke?”
“Certainly, my daughter. I will have cigarettes brought to you.”
The dancer stretched out her hand. Between her own thin hands the Mother Superior felt its supple warmth. To-morrow it would be cold and stiff!
“Au revoir! then, my daughter....”
“The dancer will dance for us!” This was the word. One waited, expectant, as for a miracle. One placed the piano; procured music; sat eating the evening meal—whispering. The strangeness of it! The intrusion! The little gay ghosts of memories! Ah! the dramatic, the marvellous event! Soon the meal was finished; the tables cleared, removed; against the wall on the long benches sixty grey white-coifed figures waited—in the centre the Mother Superior, at the piano Sister Mathilde.
The little elderly Sister came first; then, down the long whitened refectory, the dancer swaying slowly over the dark-oak floor. Every head was turned—alone the Mother Superior sat motionless. If only it did not put notions into some light heads!
The dancer wore a full skirt of black silk, she had silvery shoes and stockings, round her waist was a broad tight network of gold, over her bust tight silvery tissue, with black lace draped; her armswere bare; a red flower was set to one side of her black hair; she held a black and ivory fan. Her lips were just touched with red, her eyes just touched with black; her powdered face was like a mask. She stood in the very centre, with eyes cast down. Sister Mathilde began to play. The dancer lifted her fan. In that dance of Spain she hardly moved from where she stood, swaying, shivering, spinning, poised; but her eyes darted from this face to that of the long row of faces, where so many feelings were expressed—curiosity and doubt, pleasure, timidity, horror, sympathy. Sister Mathilde ceased playing. A little murmur broke along the line of nuns, and the dancer smiled. Sister Mathilde began again to play. For a moment the dancer listened as if to catch the rhythm of music strange to her; then her feet moved, her lips parted, sweet and gay she was, like a butterfly, without a care; and on the lips of the watching faces smiles came, and little murmurs of pleasure escaped.
The Mother Superior sat without moving, her lips pressed together, her fingers interlaced. Images from the past kept starting out, and falling back, like figures from some curious old musical box. She was remembering her lover killed in the Franco-Prussian war, her entrance into religion all that time ago. This figure fromthe heathen world, with the red flower in her black hair, the whitened face, the sweetened eyes, stirred a yearning for her own gay pulses, before they had seemed to die, and she brought them to the church to bury them.
The music ceased; began again. Now it was a Habañera, awakening remembrance of those pulses after they were buried—secret, throbbing, dark. The Mother Superior turned her face to left and right. Had she been wise? So many light heads, so many young hearts! And yet how not soothe the last dark hours of this poor heathen girl—the hours so few! She was happy dancing. Yes, she was happy! What power! And what abandonment! It was frightening. She was holding every eye—the eyes even of Sister Louise—holding them as a snake holds a rabbit’s eyes. The Mother Superior nearly smiled. That poor Sister Louise! And then, just beyond that face of fascinated horror, she saw young Sister Marie. How the child stared—what eyes, what lips! Sister Marie—so young—just twenty—her lover killed in the war—but one year dead! Sister Marie—prettiest in all the convent! Her hands—how tightly they seemed pressed together on her lap! And—but, yes—it was at Sister Marie that the dancer looked; at Sister Marie she was twirling and writhing thosesupple limbs! For Sister Marie the strange sweet smile came and went on those enticing lips. In dance after dance—like a bee on a favourite flower—to Sister Marie the dancer seemed to cling. And the Mother Superior thought: ‘Have I done a work of mercy, or—the Devil’s?’
Close along the line of nuns the dancer swept; her eyes were glowing, her face proud. On Sister Marie a look alighted, a touch with the fan, a blown kiss, “Gracias, Señoras! Adios!”
And swaying, as she had come, she glided away over the dark floor; and the little old Sister followed.
A sighing sound rose from the long row of nuns; and—yes—one sob!
“Go to your rooms, my daughters! Sister Marie!”
The young nun came forward; tears were in her eyes.
“Sister Marie, pray that the sins of that poor soul be forgiven. But, yes, my child, it is sad. Go to your room, and pray!”
With what grace the child walked! She, too, had the limbs of beauty, and the Mother Superior sighed....
Morning, cold and grey, a sprinkle of snow on the ground. They came for the dancer duringMass. Later a sound of firing! With trembling lips the Mother Superior prayed for the soul dancing before her God....
That evening they searched for Sister Marie, and could not find her. After two days a letter came.
“Forgive me, my Mother. I have gone back to life.“Marie.”
“Forgive me, my Mother. I have gone back to life.
“Marie.”
Life out of death! The Mother Superior sat quite still. Figures from the past were stealing out again; and the dancer’s face with the red flower in her hair, the dark sweetened eyes, the lips, touched with a flying finger, parted in a kiss!
1922.
Mist enwrapped Restington-on-Sea; not very thick, but exceedingly clammy. It decked the autumn trees in weirdness, cobwebbed the tamarisks, and compelled Henry Ivor to shut his window, excluding the faint hiss and rustle from the beach. He seldom wrote after tea without the accompaniment of fresh air, and was drowsing over his pen when his housekeeper entered.
“A couple to see you, sir; they came once before, when you was away.”
Ivor blinked. “Well, show them in.”
When the door was again opened a scent of whisky came in first, then a man, a woman, and a dog.
Ivor laid down his pen, and rose; he had never seen any of them before, and immediately doubted whether he wanted to see any of them again. Never able, however, to be disagreeable at a moment’s notice, he waited defensively. The man, who might have been thirty-five, pale, warped, and thin, seemed to extract his face from the grip of nerves.
“Hearing you were down here, sir, and being in the printing trade, if you understand my meaning——”
Ivor nodded; he did not want to nod, but it seemed unavoidable; and he looked at the woman. Her face was buttoned, the most expressionless he had ever seen.
“Well?” he said.
The man’s lips, thin and down at one corner, writhed again.
“You being a well-known writer,” he said, and the scent of whisky deepened.
Ivor thought: ‘It wants courage to beg; it’s damp too. Perhaps he’s only primed himself.’
“Well?” he said again.
“If you understand me,” said the man, “I’m in a very delicate position. I expect you know Mr. Gloy—Charles Gloy—editor ofCribbage——”
“No,” said Ivor. “But will you sit down?” And he placed two chairs.
The man and the woman sat down on their edges, the dog, too, sat on its edge! Ivor regarded it—a Schipperke—thinking:
‘Did they bring their dog to undermine me?’ As to that, it was the only kind of dog he did not like, but it looked damp and woeful.
“My brother works for Mr. Gloy,” said theman; “so, being at Beachhampton—out of a job, if you understand my meaning—I brought my wife—you being a well-known philanthropist——”
Ivor nervously took out a cigarette, and nervously put it back.
“I don’t know what I can do for you,” he murmured.
“I’m one to speak the truth,” resumed the man, “if you follow me——” And Ivor did—he followed on and on behind a wandering tale of printing, the war, ill-health. At last he said in despair:
“I really can’t recommend people I know nothing about. What exactly do you want me to do?”
The woman’s face seemed suddenly to lose a button, as if she were going to cry, but just then the dog whimpered; she took it up on her lap. Ivor thought:
‘How much have I got on me?’
“The fact is, Mr. Ivor,” said the man, “I’m broke to the world, if you understand my meaning. If once I could get back to London——”
“What do you say, madam?”
The woman’s mouth quivered and mumbled; Ivor stopped her with his hand.
“Well,” he said, “I can give you enough to get up to London with, and a little over. Butthat’s all, I’m afraid. And, forgive me, I’m very busy.” He stood up. The man rose also.
“I don’t want to say anything about my wife; you’ll forgive my mentioning it, but there’s not a lady in England that’s her equal at makin’ babies’ slippers.”
“Indeed!” said Ivor. “Well, here you are!” And he held out some pound notes. The man took the notes; one of his trouser-legs was pitiably patched.
“I’m sure I’m more than grateful——” he said; and looking at Ivor as if he expected to be contradicted, added: “I can’t say better than that, can I?”
“No,” said Ivor, and opened the door.
“I’ll be ready to repay you as soon as ever I can—if you understand my meaning.”
“Yes,” said Ivor. “Good-day! Good-day, Mrs. ——! Good-bye, little dog!”
One by one the three passed him and went out into the mist. Ivor saw them trailing down the road, shut the outer door, returned to his chair, sighed profoundly, and took up his pen.
When he had written three pages, and it was getting too dusk to see, his housekeeper came in.
“There’s a boy from the Black Cow, sir, come to say they want you down there.”
“Wantme?”
“Yes, sir. That couple—the boy says they don’t know what to do with them. They gave your name as being a friend.”
“Good Lord!”
“Yes, sir; and the landlord says they don’t seem to know where they come from like.”
“Heavens!” said Ivor. He got up, however, put on his overcoat, and went out.
In the lighted doorway of the Black Cow stood the landlord.
“Sorry to have troubled you, sir, but really I can’t tell how to deal with these friends of yours.”
Ivor frowned. “I only saw them for the first time this afternoon. I just gave them money to go up to London with. Are they drunk?”
“Drunk!” said the landlord. “Well, if I’d known the man was half gone when he came in—of course I’d never—— As to the woman, she sits and smiles. I can’t get them to budge, and it’s early closin’——”
“Well,” muttered Ivor, “let’s look at them!” And he followed the landlord in.
On the window-seat in the bar parlour those two were sitting, with mugs beside them, and the dog asleep on the feet of the woman, whose lips were unbuttoned in a foolish smile. Ivor looked at the man; his face was blank and beatific. Specimensof a damp and doleful world, they now seemed almost blissful.
“Mist’ Ivor?” said the man suddenly.
“Yes,” said Ivor, “but I thought you wanted to go up to London. The station’s not half a mile.”
“Cert’nly—go up to London.”
“Come along, then; I’ll show you the way.”
“Ve’y good, we can walk, if you understand my meaning.” And the man stood up, the dog and the woman also. All three passed unsteadily out.
The man walked first, then the woman, then the dog, wavering into the dusky mist. Ivor followed, praying that they might meet no traffic. The man’s voice broke the silence in front.
“Hen’y Ivor!” Ivor closed up nervously.
“Hen’y Ivor! I see ’m sayin’ to ’mself: ‘What’ll they move on for!’ I see him, if y’ understand my meaning. Wha’sh he good for—Hen’y Ivor—only writer o’ books. Is he any better than me—no! Not ’s good, if you f-follow me. I see ’m thinkin’: ‘How can I get rid of ’m?’” He stood still suddenly, almost on Ivor’s toes. “Where’s dog—carry th’ dog—get ’is feet wet.”
The woman stooped unsteadily, picked up the dog, and they both wavered on again. Ivor walkedalongside now, grim and apprehensive. The man seemed to have become aware of him.
“Mist’ Ivor,” he said. “Thought so—I’m not tight—can’t say better than that, can I?—I’m not writer of books like you—not plutocrat, if you understand my meaning. Want to ask you question: What would you do if you was me?”
There was silence, but for the slip-slippering of the woman’s feet behind.
“I don’ blame you,” said the man, whose speech was getting thicker; “you can’t help being a plutothrist. But whash the good of anything for me, except ob-oblivion, if you follow me?”
A faint radiance shone through the mist. The station building loomed suddenly quite close. Ivor steered towards it.
“Goin’ up t’ London,” said the man. “Qui’ right!”
He lurched past into the lighted entry, and the woman followed with the dog. Ivor saw them waver through the doorway. And, spinning round, he ran into the mist. ‘Perfectly true!’ he thought while he was running. Perfectly true! Why had he helped them? What did he care so long as he got rid of man, woman, and dog?
1922.
Hubert Marsland, the landscape painter, returning from a day’s sketching on the river in the summer of 1921, had occasion to stay the progress of his two-seater about ten miles from London for a minor repair, and while his car was being seen to, strolled away from the garage to have a look at a house where he had often spent his holidays as a boy. Walking through a gateway and passing a large gravel-pit on his left, he was soon opposite the house, which stood back a little in its grounds. Very much changed! More pretentious, not so homely as when his uncle and aunt lived there, and he used to play cricket on this warren opposite, where the cricket ground, it seemed, had been turned into a golf course. It was late—the dinner hour, nobody playing, and passing on to the links he stood digesting the geography. Here must have been where the old pavilion was. And there—still turfed—where he had made that particularly nice stroke to leg, when he went in last and carried his bat for thirteen. Thirty-nine years ago—his sixteenth birthday. How vividly he remembered hisnew pads! A. P. Lucas had played against them and only made thirty-two. One founded one’s style on A. P. Lucas in those days—feet in front of the bat, and pointed a little forward, elegant; you never saw it now, and a good thing too—one could sacrifice too much to style! Still, the tendency was all the other way; style was too much ‘off,’ perhaps!
He stepped back into the sun and sat down on the grass. Peaceful—very still! The haze of the distant downs was visible between his uncle’s old house and the next; and there was the clump of elms on the far side behind which the sun would be going down just as it used to then. He pressed the palms of his hands to the turf. A glorious summer—something like that summer of long ago. And warmth from the turf, or perhaps from the past, crept into his heart, and made it ache a little. Just here he must have sat, after his innings, at Mrs. Monteith’s feet peeping out of a flounced dress. Lord! The fools boys were! How headlong and uncalculating their devotions! A softness in voice and eyes, a smile, a touch or two—and they were slaves! Young fools, but good young fools. And, standing behind her chair—he could see him now—that other idol, Captain MacKay, with his face of browned ivory—just thecolour of that elephant’s tusk his uncle had, which had gone so yellow—and his perfect black moustache, his white tie, check suit, carnation, spats, Malacca cane—all so fascinating! Mrs. Monteith, ‘the grass widow’ they had called her! He remembered the look in people’s eyes, the tone in their voices. Such a pretty woman! He had ‘fallen for her’ at first sight, as the Yanks put it—her special scent, her daintiness, her voice! And that day on the river, when she made much of him, and Captain MacKay attended Evelyn Curtiss so assiduously that he was expected to propose. Quaint period! They used the word courting then, wore full skirts, high stays; and himself a blue elastic belt round his white-flannelled waist. And in the evening afterwards, his aunt had said with an arch smile: “Good-night,sillyboy!” Silly boy, indeed, with a flower the grass widow had dropped pressed by his cheek into his pillow! What folly! And that next Sunday—looking forward to church—passionately brushing his top hat; all through the service spying at her creamy profile, two pews in front on the left, between goat-bearded old Hallgrave, her uncle, and her pink, broad, white-haired aunt; scheming to get near her when she came out, lingering, lurking, getting just a smile and the rustle of herflounces. Ah, ha! A little went a long way then! And the last day of his holidays and its night with the first introduction to reality. Who said the Victorian Age was innocent?
Marsland put his palm up to his cheek. No! the dew was not yet falling! And his mind lightly turned and tossed his memories of women, as a man turns and tosses hay to air it; but nothing remembered gave him quite the feeling of that first experience.
His aunt’s dance! His first white waistcoat, boughtad hoc, from the local tailor, his tie laboriously imitating the hero—Captain MacKay’s. All came back with such freshness in the quiet of the warren—the expectancy, the humble shy excitement, the breathless asking for a dance, the writing ‘Mrs. Monteith’ twice on his little gilt-edged programme with its tiny tasselled white pencil; her slow-moving fan, her smile. And the first dance when it came; what infinite care not to tread on her white satin toes; what a thrill when her arm pressed his in the crush—such holy rapture, about all the first part of that evening, with yet another dance to come! If only he could have twirled her and ‘reversed’ like his pattern, Captain MacKay! Then delirium growing as the second dance came near, making him cut hispartner—the cool grass-scented air out on the dark terrace, with the chafers booming by, and in the starshine the poplars wondrously tall, the careful adjustment of his tie and waistcoat, the careful polishing of his hot face! A long breath then, and into the house to find her! Ballroom, supper-room, stairs, library, billiard-room, all drawn blank—‘Estudiantina’ going on and on, and he a wandering, white-waistcoated young ghost. Ah! The conservatory—and the hurrying there! And then the moment which had always been, was even now, such a blurred, confused impression. Smothered voices from between a clump of flowers: “I saw her.” “Who was the man?” A glimpse, gone past in a flash, of an ivory face, a black moustache! And then her voice: “Hubert;” and her hot hand clasping his, drawing him to her; her scent, her face smiling, very set! A rustling behind the flowers, those people spying; and suddenly her lips on his cheek, the kiss sounding in his ears, her voice saying, very softly: “Hubert, dear boy!” The rustle receded, ceased. What a long, silent minute, then, among the ferns and blossoms in the dusk with her face close to his, pale, perturbed, before she led him out into the light, while he was slowly realising that she had made use of him to shelter her. A boy—not oldenough to be her lover, but old enough to save her name and that of Captain Mackay! Her kiss—the last of many. Oh, no! not uponhislips,hischeeks! Hard work realising that! A boy—of no account—a boy, who in a day would be at school again, kissed thatheandshemight renew their intrigue unsuspected!
How had he behaved the rest of that evening of romance bedrabbled? He hardly knew. Betrayed with a kiss! Two idols in the dust! And did they care what he was feeling? Not they! All they cared for was to cover up their tracks with him! But somehow—somehow—he had never shown her that he knew. Only, when their dance was over, and someone came and took her for the next, he escaped up to his little room, tore off his gloves, his waistcoat; lay on his bed, thought bitter thoughts. A boy! There he had stayed, with the thrum of the music in his ears, till at last it died away for good and the carriages were gone, and the night was quiet.
Squatting on the warren grass, still warm and dewless, Marsland rubbed his knees. Nothing like boys for generosity! And, with a little smile, he thought of his aunt next morning, half-arch and half-concerned: “It isn’t nice, dear, to sit out in dark corners, and—well, perhaps, it wasn’t yourfault, but still, it isn’t nice—not—quite——” and of how suddenly she had stopped, looking in his face, where his lips were curling in his first ironic laugh. She had never forgiven him that laugh—thinking him a cynical young Lothario? And Marsland thought: ‘Live and learn! Wonder what became of those two? Victorian Age! Hatches were battened down in those days! But, innocent—my hat!’
Ah! The sun was off, dew falling! He got up, rubbing his knees to take the stiffness out of them. Pigeons in the wood beyond were calling. A window in his uncle’s old home blazed like a jewel in the sun’s last rays between the poplar trees. Heh! dear—a little long-ago affair!
1922.
In these days no man of genius need starve. The following story of my friend Bruce may be taken as proof of this assertion. Nearly sixty when I first knew him, he must have written already some fifteen books, which had earned him the reputation of ‘a genius’ with the few who know. He used to live in York Street, Adelphi, where he had two rooms up the very shaky staircase of a house chiefly remarkable for the fact that its front door seemed always open. I suppose there never was a writer more indifferent to what people thought of him. He profoundly neglected the Press—not with one of those neglects which grow on writers from reading reviews of their own works—he seemed never to read criticism, but with the basic neglect of ‘an original,’ a nomadic spirit, a stranger in modern civilisation, who would leave his attics for long months of wandering and come back there to hibernate and write a book. He was a tall, thin man, with a face rather like Mark Twain’s, black eyebrows which bristled and shot up, a bitten, drooping grey moustache, and fuzzy grey hair; buthis eyes were like owl’s eyes, piercing, melancholy, dark brown, and gave to his rugged face the extraordinary expression of a spirit remote from the flesh which had captured it. He was a bachelor, who seemed to avoid women; perhaps they had ‘learned’ him that; for he must have been very attractive to them.
The year of which I write had been to my friend Bruce the devil, monetarily speaking. With his passion for writing that for which his age had no taste—what could he expect? His last book had been a complete frost. He had undergone, too, an operation which had cost him much money and left him very weak. When I went to see him that October I found him stretched out on two chairs, smoking the Brazilian cigarettes which he affected—and which always affected me, so black and strong they were, in their yellow maize-leaf coverings. He had a writing-pad on his knee, and sheets of paper scattered all around. The room had a very meagre look. I had not seen him for a year and more, but he looked up at me as if I’d been in yesterday.
“Hallo!” he said. “I went into a thing they call a cinema last night. Have you ever been?”
“Ever been? Do you know how long the cinema has been going? Since about 1900.”
“Well! What athing! I’m writing a skit on it!”
“How—a skit?”
“Parody—wildest yarn you ever read.”
He took up a sheet of paper and began chuckling to himself.
“My heroine,” he said, “is an Octoroon. Her eyes swim, and her lovely bosom heaves. Everybody wants her, and she’s more virtuous than words can say. The situations she doesn’t succumb to would freeze your blood; they’d roast your marrow. She has a perfect devil of a brother, with whom she was brought up, and who knows her deep dark secret and wants to trade her off to a millionaire who also has a deep dark secret. Altogether there are four deep dark secrets in my yarn. It’s a corker.”
“What a waste of your time!” I said.
“My time!” he answered fiercely. “What’s the use of my time? Nobody buys my books.”
“Who’s attending you?”
“Doctors! They take your money, that’s all. I’ve got no money. Don’t talk about me!” Again he took up a sheet of manuscript; and chuckled.
“Last night—at that place—they had—good God!—a race between a train and a motor-car. Well, I’ve got one between a train, a motor-car, a flying machine, and a horse.”
I sat up.
“May I have a look at your skit,” I said, “when you’ve finished it?”
“Itisfinished. Wrote it straight off. D’you think I could stop and then go on again with a thing like that?” He gathered the sheets and held them out to me. “Take the thing—it’s amused me to do it. The heroine’s secret is that she isn’t an Octoroon at all; she’s a De La Casse—purest Creole blood of the South; and her villainous brother isn’t her brother; and the bad millionaire isn’t a millionaire; and her penniless lover is. It’s rich, I tell you!”
“Thanks,” I said dryly, and took the sheets.
I went away concerned about my friend, his illness and his poverty, especially his poverty, for I saw no end to it.
After dinner that evening I began languidly to read his skit. I had not read two pages of the thirty-five before I started up, sat down again, and feverishly read on. Skit! By George! He had written a perfect scenario—or, rather, that which wanted the merest professional touching-up to be perfect. I was excited. It was a little gold-mine if properly handled. Any good film company, I felt convinced, would catch at it. Yes! But how to handle it? Bruce was such an unaccountable creature, such a wild old bird! Imagine his havingonly just realised the cinema! If I told him his skit was a serious film, he would say: “Good God!” and put it in the fire, priceless though it was. And yet, how could I market it withoutcarte blanche, and how getcarte blanchewithout giving my discovery away? I was deathly keen on getting some money for him; and this thing, properly worked, might almost make him independent. I felt as if I had a priceless museum piece which a single stumble might shatter to fragments. The tone of his voice when he spoke of the cinema—“What athing!”—kept coming back to me. He was prickly proud, too—very difficult about money. Could I work it without telling him anything? I knew he never looked at a newspaper. But should I be justified in taking advantage of that—in getting the thing accepted and produced without his knowing? I revolved the question for hours, and went to see him again next day.
He was reading.
“Hallo! You again? What do you think of this theory—that the Egyptians derive from a Saharan civilisation?”
“I don’t think,” I said.
“It’s nonsense. This fellow——”
I interrupted him.
“Do you want that skit back, or can I keep it?”
“Skit? What skit?”
“The thing you gave me yesterday.”
“That! Light your fire with it. This fellow——”
“Yes,” I said; “I’ll light a fire with it. I see you’re busy.”
“Oh, no! I’m not,” he said. “I’ve nothing to do. What’s the good of my writing? I earn less and less with every book that comes out. I’m dying of poverty.”
“That’s because you won’t consider the Public.”
“How can I consider the Public when I don’t know what they want?”
“Because you won’t take the trouble to find out. If I suggested a way to you of pleasing the Public and making money you’d kick me out of the room.”
And the words, “For instance, I’ve got a little gold-mine of yours in my pocket,” were on the tip of my tongue, but I choked them back. ‘Daren’t risk it!’ I thought. ‘He’s given you the thing.Carte blanche—cartes serrés!’
I took the gold-mine away and promptly rough-shaped it for the film. It was perfectly easy, without any alteration of the story. Then I was faced with the temptation to put his name to it. The point was this: If I took it to a film company as an authorless scenario I should only get authorless terms; whereas, if I put his name to it, with a littletalking I could double the terms at least. The film public didn’t know his name, of course, but the inner literary public did, and it’s wonderful how you can impress the market with the word ‘genius’ judiciously used. It was too dangerous, however; and at last I hit on a middle course. I would take it to them with no name attached, but tell them it was by ‘a genius,’ and suggest that they could make capital out of the incognito. I knew they would feel itwasby a genius.
I took it to an excellent company next day with a covering note saying: “The author, a man of recognised literary genius, for certain reasons prefers to remain unknown.” They took a fortnight in which to rise, but they rose. They had to. The thing was too good in itself. For a week I played them over terms. Twice I delivered an ultimatum—twice they surrendered: they knew too well what they had got. I could have made a contract with two thousand pounds down which would have brought at least another two thousand pounds before the contract term closed; but I compounded for one that gave me three thousand pounds down as likely to lead to less difficulty with Bruce. The terms were not a whit too good for what was really the ‘acme’ of scenarios. If I could have been quite open I could certainly have done better. Finally, however, I signed the contract, delivered themanuscript, and received a cheque for the price. I was elated, and at the same time knew that my troubles were just beginning. With Bruce’s feeling about the film how the deuce should I get him to take the money? Could I go to his publishers and conspire with them to trickle it out to him gradually as if it came from his books? That meant letting them into the secret; besides, he was too used to receiving practically nothing from his books; it would lead him to make enquiry, and the secret was bound to come out. Could I get a lawyer to spring an inheritance on him? That would mean no end of lying and elaboration, even if a lawyer would consent. Should I send him the money in Bank of England notes with the words: ‘From a lifelong admirer of your genius?’ I was afraid he would suspect a trick, or stolen notes, and go to the police to trace them. Or should I just go, put the cheque on the table and tell him the truth?
The question worried me terribly, for I didn’t feel entitled to consult others who knew him. It was the sort of thing that, if talked over, would certainly leak out. It was not desirable, however, to delay cashing a big cheque like that. Besides, they had started on the production. It happened to be a slack time, with a dearth of good films, so that they were rushing it on. And in the meantime there was Bruce—starved of everything he wanted,unable to get away for want of money, depressed about his health and his future. And yet so completely had he always seemed to me different, strange, superior to this civilisation of ours, that the idea of going to him and saying simply: “This is yours, for the film you wrote,” scared me. I could hear his: “I? Write for the cinema? What do you mean?”
When I came to think of it, I had surely taken an extravagant liberty in marketing the thing without consulting him. I felt he would never forgive that, and my feeling towards him was so affectionate, even reverential, that I simply hated the idea of being wiped out of his good books. At last I hit on a way that by introducing my own interest might break my fall. I cashed the cheque, lodged the money at my bank, drew my own cheque on it for the full amount, and, armed with that and the contract, went to see him.
He was lying on two chairs smoking his Brazilians and playing with a stray cat which had attached itself to him. He seemed rather less prickly than usual, and, after beating about the bushes of his health and other matters, I began:
“I’ve got a confession to make, Bruce.”
“Confession!” he said. “What confession?”
“You remember that skit on the film you wrote and gave me about six weeks ago?”
“No.”
“Yes, you do—about an Octoroon.”
He chuckled. “Oh! ah! That!”
I took a deep breath, and went on:
“Well, I sold it; and the price of course belongs to you.”
“What? Who’d print a thing like that?”
“It isn’t printed. It’s been made into a film—super-film, they call it.”
His hand came to a pause on the cat’s back, and he glared at me. I hastened on:
“I ought to have told you what I was doing, but you’re so prickly, and you’ve got such confounded superior notions. I thought if I did you’d be biting off your nose to spite your own face. The fact is it made a marvellous scenario. Here’s the contract, and here’s a cheque on my bank for the price—three thousand pounds. If you like to treat me as your agent, you owe me three hundred pounds. I don’t expect it, but I’m not proud like you, and I shan’t sneeze.”
“Good God!” he said.
“Yes, I know. But it’s all nonsense, Bruce. You can carry scruples to altogether too great length. Tainted source! Everything’s tainted, if you come to that. The film’s a quite justified expression of modern civilisation—a natural outcome of the age. It gives amusement; it affordspleasure. It may be vulgar, it may be cheap, but wearevulgar, and wearecheap, and it’s no use pretending we’re not—not you, of course, Bruce, but people at large. A vulgar age wants vulgar amusement, and if we can give it that amusement we ought to; life’s not too cheery, anyway.”
The glare in his eyes was almost paralysing me, but I managed to stammer on:
“You live out of the world—you don’t realise what humdrum people want; something to balance the greyness, the—the banality of their lives. They want blood, thrill, sensation of all sorts. You didn’t mean to give it them, but you have, you’ve done them a benefit, whether you wish to or not, and the money’s yours and you’ve got to take it.”
The cat suddenly jumped down. I waited for the storm to burst.
“I know,” I dashed on, “that you hate and despise the film——”
Suddenly his voice boomed out:
“Bosh! What are you talking about? Film! I go there every other night.”
It was my turn to say “Good God!” And ramming contract and cheque into his empty hand, I bolted, closely followed by the cat.
1923.
It was disconcerting to the Governor. The man’s smile was so peculiar. Of course, these educated prisoners—doctors, solicitors, parsons—one could never say good-bye to them quite without awkwardness; couldn’t dismiss them with the usual “Shake hands! Hope you’ll keep straight and have luck.” No! With the finish of his sentence a gentleman resumed a kind of equality, ceased to be a number, ceased even being a name without a prefix, to which the law and the newspapers with their unfailing sense of what was proper at once reduced a prisoner on, or even before, his conviction. No. 299 was once more Dr. Philip Raider, in a suit of dark-grey tweeds, lean and limber, with grey hair grown again in readiness for the outer world, with deep-set, shining eyes, and that peculiar smile—a difficult subject. The Governor decided suddenly to say only: “Well, good-bye, Dr. Raider”; and, holding out his hand, he found it remain in contact with nothing.
So the fellow was going out in defiant mood—was he! The Governor felt it rather hard after more than two years; and his mind retraced his recollections of this prisoner. An illegal operation case! Not a good ‘mixer’—not that his prisoners were allowed to mix; still, always reassuring to know that they would if not strenuously prevented! Record—Exemplary. Chaplain’s report—Nothing doing (or words to that effect). Work—Bookbinding. Quite! But—chief memory—that of a long loose figure loping round at exercise, rather like a wolf. And there he stood! The tall Governor felt at the moment oddly short. He raised his hand from its posture of not too splendid isolation, and put the closure with a gesture. No. 299’s lips moved:
“Is that all?”
Accustomed to being ‘sirred’ to the last, the Governor reddened. But the accent was so refined that he decided not to mention it.
“Yes, that’s all.”
“Thank you. Good-morning.”
The eyes shone from under the brows, the smile curled the lips under the long, fine, slightly hooked nose; the man loped easily to the door. He carried his hands well. He made no noise going out. Damn! The fellow had looked so exactly as ifhe had been thinking, ‘You poor devil!’ The Governor gazed round his office. Highly specialised life, no doubt! The windows had bars; it was here that he saw refractory prisoners in the morning, early. And, thrusting his hands into his pockets, he frowned....
Outside, the head warder, straight, blue-clothed, grizzled, walked ahead, with a bunch of keys.
“All in order,” he said to the blue-clothed janitor. “No. 299—going out. Anyone waiting for him?”
“No, sir.”
“Right. Open!”
The door clanged under the key.
“Good-day to you,” said the head warder.
The released prisoner turned his smiling face and nodded; turned it to the janitor, nodded again, and walked out between them, putting on a grey felt hat. The door clanged under the key.
“Smiling!” remarked the janitor.
“Ah! Cool customer,” said the head warder. “Clever man, though, I’m told.”
His voice sounded resentful, a little surprised, as if he had missed the last word by saying it....
Hands in pockets, the released prisoner walked at leisure in the centre of the pavement. AnOctober day of misty sunshine, and the streets full of people seeking the midday meal. And if they chanced to glance at this passer-by their eyes would fly away at once, as a finger flies from a too hot iron....
On the platform the prison chaplain, who had a day off and was going up to town, saw a face under a grey hat which seemed vaguely familiar.
“Yes,” said a voice. “Late—299. Raider.”
The chaplain felt surprise.
“Oh, ah!” he stammered. “You went out to-day, I think. I hope you——”
“Don’t mention it!”
The train came clattering in. The chaplain entered a third-class compartment; Late—299 followed. The chaplain experienced something of a shock. Extremely unlike a prisoner! And this prisoner, out of whom he had, so to speak, had no change whatever these two years past, had always made him feel uncomfortable. There he sat opposite, turning his paper, smoking a cigarette, as if on terms of perfect equality. Lowering his own journal, the chaplain looked out of the window, trying to select a course of conduct; then, conscious that he was being staredat, he took a flying look at hisvis-à-vis. The man’s face seemed saying: “Feel a bit awkward, don’t you? But don’t worry. I’ve no ill feeling. You have a devilish poor time.”
Unable to find the proper reply to this look, the chaplain remarked:
“Nice day. Country’s looking beautiful.”
Late—299 turned those shining eyes of his towards the landscape. The man had a hungry face in spite of his smile; and the chaplain asked:
“Will you have a sandwich?”
“Thanks....”
“Forgive my enquiring,” said the chaplain presently, blowing crumbs off his knees, “but what will you do now? I hope you’re going to——” How could he put it? ‘Turn over a new leaf?’ ‘Make good?’ ‘Get going?’ He could not put it; and instead took the cigarette which Late—299 was offering him. The man was speaking too; his words seemed to come slowly through the smoke, as if not yet used to a tongue.
“These last two years have been priceless.”
“Ah!” said the chaplain hopefully.
“I feel right on top.”
The chaplain’s spirit drooped.
“Do you mean,” he said, “that you don’t regret—that you aren’t—er——?”
“Priceless!”
The man’s face had a lamentable look—steely, strangely smiling. No humility in it at all. He would find Society did not tolerate such an attitude. No, indeed! He would soon discover his place.
“I’m afraid,” he said kindly, “that you’ll find Society very unforgiving. Have you a family?”
“Wife, son, and daughter.”
“How will they receive you?”
“Don’t know, I’m sure.”
“And your friends? I only want to prepare you a little.”
“Fortunately I have private means.”
The chaplain stared. What a piece of luck, or was it—a misfortune?
“If I’d been breakable, your prison would have broken me all right. Have another cigarette?”
“No, thank you.”
The chaplain felt too sad. He had always said nothing could be done with them so long as their will-power was unbroken. Distressing to see a man who had received this great lesson still so stiff-necked; so far from profiting by it. And, lifting his journal, he tried to read. But those eyes seemed boring through the print. It was most uncomfortable. Most!...
In the withdrawing-room of a small house near Kew Gardens, Mrs. Philip Raider was gazing at a piece of pinkish paper in her hand, as if it had been one of those spiders of which she had so constitutional a horror. Opposite her chair her son had risen; and against the wall her daughter had ceased suddenly to play Brahms’ Variations on a theme by Haydn.
“He says to-night!”
The girl dropped her hands from the keys. “To-night? I thought it was next month. Just like father—without a word of warning!”
The son mechanically took out his pipe, and began polishing its bowl. He was fresh-faced, fair, with a small head.
“Why didn’t he tell us to meet him in London? He must know we’ve got to come to an arrangement.”
The daughter, too, got up, leaning against the piano—a slight figure, with bushy, dark, short hair.
“What are we to do, Mother?”
“Jack must go round, and put Mabel and Roderick off for this evening.”
“Yes, and what then, if he’s going to stay here? Does he know that I’m engaged, and Beryl too?”
“I think I told him in my last letter.”
“What areyougoing to do, Mother?”
“It’s come so suddenly—I don’t know.”
“It’s indecent!” said the boy violently.
His sister picked up the dropped telegram. “‘Earl’s Court, five four.’ He may be here any minute. Jack, do hurry up! Doesn’t herealisethat nobody knows, down here?”
Mrs. Raider turned to the fire.
“Your father will only have realised his own feelings.”
“Well, he’s got to begin with others. I’ll have to make him——!”
“Dr. Raider, ma’am.”
Late—299 stood, smiling, in front of the door which the maid had closed behind him.
“Well, Bertha! Ah, Beryl! Well, Jack!”
His daughter alone replied.
“Well, Father, you might have let us know beforehand!”
Late—299 looked from one face to the other.
“Never tell children they’re going to have a powder. How are you all?”
“Perfectly well, thank you. How are you?”
“Never better. Healthy life—prison!”
As if walking in her sleep Mrs. Raider came across the room. She put out her hand with a groping gesture. Late—299 did not take it.
“Rather nice here,” he said. “Can I have a wash?”
“Jack, show your father the lavatory.”
“The bathroom, please.”
The son crossed from the window, glanced at his father’s smiling face, and led the way.
Mrs. Raider, thin, pale, dark, spoke first. “Poor Philip!”
“Oh, Mother! It’s impossible to pity father; it always was. Except for his moustache being gone, I don’t see much change anyway. It’s you I pity. He simply can’t stay here. Why, everybody thinks you’re a widow.”
“People generally know more than they seem to, Beryl.”
“Nobody’s ever given us a hint. Why couldn’t he have consulted us?”
“We must think ofhim.”
“He didn’t think of us when he did that horrible thing. And it was so gratuitous, unless——! Mother, sometimes I’ve thought he had to do it; that he was her—her lover as well as her doctor!”
Mrs. Raider shook her head.
“If it had been that, he’d have told me. Your father is always justified in his own eyes.”
“What am I to do about Roddy?”
“We must just wait.”
“Here’s Jack! Well?”
“He’s having a bath as hot as he can bear it. All he said was: ‘This is the first thing you do when you go in, and the first thing you do when you come out—symmetrical, isn’t it?’ I’ve got to take him a cup of coffee. It’s really too thick! The servants can’t help knowing that a Dr. Raider who gets into the bath the moment he comes to call must be our father.”
“It’s comic.”
“Is it? He doesn’t show a sign of shame. He’ll call it from the house-tops. I thought, of course, he’d go abroad.”
“We all thought that.”
“If he were down in the mouth, one could feel sorry for him. But he looks as pleased as Punch with himself. And it’s such a beastly sort of crime—how am I to put it to Mabel? If I just say he’s been in prison, she’ll think it’s something even worse. Mother, do insist on his going at once. We can tell the servants he’s an uncle—who’s been in contact with smallpox.”
“Youtake him the coffee, Mother—oh, you can’t, if he’s to be an uncle! Jack, tell him nobody here knows, and mother can’t stand it; and hurry up! It’s half-past six now.”
The son passed his fingers through his brushed-back hair; his face looked youthful, desperate.
“Shall I?”
Mrs. Raider nodded.
“Tell him, Jack, that I’ll come out to him, wherever he likes to go; that I always expected him to arrange that; that this is—too difficult——” She covered her lips with her hand.
“All right, Mother! I’ll jolly well make him understand. But don’t launch out about it to the servants yet. Suppose it’s we who have to go? It’s his house!”
“Is it, Mother?”
“Yes; I bought it with his money under the power of attorney he left.”
“Oh, isn’t that dreadful?”
“It’salldreadful, but we must considerhim.”
The girl shook back her fuzzy hair.
“It does seem rather a case of ‘coldly received.’ But father’s always been shut up in himself. He can’t expect us suddenly to slobber over him. If he’s had a horrible time, so have we.”
“Well, shall I go?”
“Yes, take him the coffee. Be quick, my dear boy; and be nice to him!”
The son said with youthful grimness: “Oh, I’ll be nice!” and went.
“Mother, don’t look like that!”
“How should I look? Smiling?”
“No, don’t smile—it’s likehim. Cry it off your chest.”
Late—299 was sitting in the bath, smiling through steam and the smoke of his cigarette at his big toe. Raised just above the level of the water, it had a nail blackened by some weight that had dropped on it. He took the coffee-cup from his son’s hand.
“For two years and nine months I’ve been looking forward to this—but it beats the band, Jack.”
“Father—I—ought——”
“Good coffee, tobacco, hot water—greatest blessings earth affords. Half an hour in here, and—spotless, body and soul!”
“Father——!”
“Yes; is there anything you want to add?”
“We’ve—we’ve been here two years.”
“Not so long as I was there. Do you like it?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t. Are you studying medicine?”
“No. Botany.”
“Good. You won’t have to do with human beings.”
“I’ve got the promise of a job in the Gardens here at the beginning of next year. And I’m—I’m engaged.”
“Excellent. I believe in marrying young.”
“Beryl’s engaged too.”
“Your mother isn’t, by any chance?”
“Father!”
“My dear fellow, one expects to have been dropped. Why suppose one’s family superior to other people’s?Pas si bête!”
Gazing at that smiling face where prison pallor was yielding to the heat, above the neck whose sinews seemed unnaturally sharp and visible, the boy felt a spasm of remorse.
“We’ve never had a proper chance to tell you how frightfully sorry we’ve been for you. Only, we don’t understand even now why you did such a thing.”
“Should I have done it if I’d thought it would have been spotted? A woman going to the devil; a small risk to oneself—and there we were! Never save anyone, at risk to yourself, Jack. I’m sure you agree.”
The boy’s face went very red. How could he ever get out what he had come to say?
“I have no intention of putting my tail between my legs. D’you mind taking this cup?”
“Will you have another, Father?”
“No, thanks. What time do you dine?”
“Half-past seven.”
“You might lend me a razor. I was shaved this morning with a sort of billhook.”
“I’ll get you one.”
Away from that smiling stranger in the bath, the boy shook himself. He must and would speak out!
When he came back with the shaving gear, his father was lying flat, deeply immersed, with closed eyes. And setting his back against the door, he blurted out: “Nobody knows down here. They think mother’s a widow.”
The eyes opened, the smile resumed control.
“Do you really believe that?”
“I do; I know that Mabel—the girl I’m engaged to—has no suspicion. She’s coming to dinner; so is Roddy Blades—Beryl’sfiancé.”
“Mabel, and Roddy Blades—glad to know their names. Give me that big towel, there’s a good fellow. I’m going to wash my head.”
Handing him the towel, the boy turned. But at the door he stopped. “Father——!”
“Quite. These natural relationships are fixed, beyond redemption.”
The boy turned and fled.
His mother and sister stood waiting at the foot of the stairs.
“Well?”
“It’s no good. I simply can’t tell him we want him to go.”
“No, my dear. I understand.”
“Oh! but, Mother——! Jack, you must.”
“I can’t; I’m going to put them off.” Seizing his hat, he ran. He ran among small houses in the evening mist, trying to invent. At the corner of the long row of little villas he rang a bell.
“Can I see Miss Mabel?”
“She’s dressing, sir. Will you come in?”
“No. I’ll wait here.”
In the small dark porch he tried to rehearse himself. ‘Awfully sorry! Somebody had come—unexpectedly—on business!’ Yes! On what business?
“Hallo, Jack!”
A vision in the doorway—a fair head, a rosy, round, blue-eyed face above a swansdown collar.
“Look here, darling—shut the door.”
“Why? What is it? Anything up?”
“Yes; something pretty badly up. You can’t come to-night, Mabel.”
“Don’t squeeze so hard! Why not?”
“Oh! well—there—there’s a reason.”
“I know. Your father’s come out!”
“What? How——?”
“But of course. We all know about him. We must be awfully nice to him.”
“D’you mean to say that Roddy and everybody—— We thought nobody knew.”
“Bless you, yes! Some people feel one way and some the other. I feel the other.”
“Do you know what he did?”
“Yes; I got hold of the paper. I read the whole trial.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Why didn’tyou?”
“It was too beastly. Well?”
“I think it was a shame.”
“But you can’t have that sort of thing allowed.”
“Why not?”
“Where would the population be?”
“Well, we’re over-populated. Everybody says so.”
“That’s quite another thing. This is the Law.”
“Look here! If you want to argue, come in. It’s jolly cold.”
“I don’t want to argue; I must go and tell Roddy. It’s an awful relief about you, darling. Only—you don’t know my father.”
“Then I can’t come?”
“Not to-night. Mother——”
“Yes; I expect she’s frightfully glad.”
“Oh! yes—yes! She—yes!”
“Well, good-night. And look here—you go back.I’lltell Roddy. No! Don’t rumple me!”
Running back between small houses, the boy thought: ‘Good God! How queer! How upside-down! She—she——! It’s awfully modern!’
Late—299 sat in the firelight, a glass beside him, a cigarette between his smiling lips. The cinders clicked, a clock struck. Eleven! He pitched the stump of his cigarette into the ashes, stretched himself, and rose. He went upstairs and opened the first door. The room was dark. A faint voice said:
“Philip?”
“Yes.”
The light sprang out under his thumb. His wife was sitting up in bed, her face pale, her lips moving:
“To-night—must you?”
Late—299 moved to the foot of the bed; his lips still smiled, his eyes gazed hungrily.
“Not at all. We learn to contain ourselves in prison. No vile contacts? Quite so. Good-night!”
The voice from the bed said faintly:
“Philip, I’m so sorry; it’s the suddenness—I’m——”
“Don’t mention it.” The light failed under his thumb. The door fell to....
Three people lay awake, one sleeping. The three who lay awake were thinking: ‘If only he made one feel sorry for him! If only one could love him! His self-control is forbidding—it’s not human! He ought to want our sympathy. He ought to sympathise with us. He doesn’t seem to feel—for himself, for us, for anything. And to-morrow—what will happen? Is life possible here, now? Can we stand him in the house, about the place? He’s frightening!’
The sleeper, in his first bed of one thousand and one nights, lay, his eyes pinched up between brows and bony cheeks of a face as if carved from ivory, and his lips still smiling at the softness under him.
Past dawn the wakeful slept, the sleeper awoke. His eyes sought the familiar little pyramid of gear on the shelf in the corner, the bright tins below, the round porthole, the line of distemper running along the walls, the closed and solid smallness of acell. And the blood left his heart. They weren’t there! His whole being struggled with such unreality. He was in a room staring at light coming through chintz curtains. His arms were not naked. This was a sheet! For a moment he shivered, uncertain of everything; then lay back, smiling at a papered ceiling.