I am not good at it. To do it well seems to me one of the most
difficult things in the world, and probably seems so to you, too.
To see a friend off from Waterloo to Vauxhall were easy enough. But we
are never called on to perform that small feat. It is only when a
friend is going on a longish journey, and will be absent for a longish
time, that we turn up at the railway station. The dearer the friend,
and the longer the journey, and the longer the likely absence, the
earlier do we turn up, and the more lamentably do we fail. Our failure
is in exact ratio to the seriousness of the occasion, and to the depth
of our feeling.
In a room, or even on a door-step, we can make the farewell quite
worthily. We can express in our faces the genuine sorrow we feel. Nor
do words fail us. There is no awkwardness, no restraint, on either
side. The thread of our intimacy has not been snapped. The leave-taking
is an ideal one. Why not, then, leave the leave-taking at that? Always,
departing friends implore us not to bother to come to the railway
station next morning. Always, we are deaf to these entreaties, knowing
them to be not quite sincere. The departing friends would think it very
odd of us if we took them at their word. Besides, they really do want
to see us again. And that wish is heartily reciprocated. We duly turn
up. And then, oh then, what a gulf yawns! We stretch our arms vainly
across it. We have utterly lost touch. We have nothing at all to say.
We gaze at each other as dumb animals gaze at human beings. We 'make
conversation'--and such conversation! We know that these are the
friends from whom we parted overnight. They know that we have not
altered. Yet, on the surface, everything is different; and the tension
is such that we only long for the guard to blow his whistle and put an
end to the farce.
On a cold grey morning of last week I duly turned up at Euston, to see
off an old friend who was starting for America.
Overnight, we had given him a farewell dinner, in which sadness was
well mingled with festivity. Years probably would elapse before his
return. Some of us might never see him again. Not ignoring the shadow
of the future, we gaily celebrated the past. We were as thankful to
have known our guest as we were grieved to lose him; and both these
emotions were made evident. It was a perfect farewell.
And now, here we were, stiff and self-conscious on the platform; and,
framed in the window of the railway-carriage, was the face of our
friend; but it was as the face of a stranger--a stranger anxious to
please, an appealing stranger, an awkward stranger. 'Have you got
everything?' asked one of us, breaking a silence. 'Yes, everything,'
said our friend, with a pleasant nod. 'Everything,' he repeated, with
the emphasis of an empty brain. 'You'll be able to lunch on the train,'
said I, though this prophecy had already been made more than once. 'Oh
yes,' he said with conviction. He added that the train went straight
through to Liverpool. This fact seemed to strike us as rather odd. We
exchanged glances. 'Doesn't it stop at Crewe?' asked one of us. 'No,'
said our friend, briefly. He seemed almost disagreeable. There was a
long pause. One of us, with a nod and a forced smile at the traveller,
said 'Well!' The nod, the smile, and the unmeaning monosyllable, were
returned conscientiously. Another pause was broken by one of us with a
fit of coughing. It was an obviously assumed fit, but it served to pass
the time. The bustle of the platform was unabated. There was no sign of
the train's departure. Release--ours, and our friend's--was not yet.
My wandering eye alighted on a rather portly middle-aged man who was
talking earnestly from the platform to a young lady at the next window
but one to ours. His fine profile was vaguely familiar to me. The young
lady was evidently American, and he was evidently English; otherwise I
should have guessed from his impressive air that he was her father. I
wished I could hear what he was saying. I was sure he was giving the
very best advice; and the strong tenderness of his gaze was really
beautiful. He seemed magnetic, as he poured out his final injunctions.
I could feel something of his magnetism even where I stood. And the
magnetism, like the profile, was vaguely familiar to me. Where had I
experienced it?
In a flash I remembered. The man was Hubert le Ros. But how changed
since last I saw him! That was seven or eight years ago, in the Strand.
He was then (as usual) out of an engagement, and borrowed half-a-crown.
It seemed a privilege to lend anything to him. He was always magnetic.
And why his magnetism had never made him successful on the London stage
was always a mystery to me. He was an excellent actor, and a man of
sober habit. But, like many others of his kind, Hubert le Ros (I do
not, of course, give the actual name by which he was known) drifted
seedily away into the provinces; and I, like every one else, ceased to
remember him.
It was strange to see him, after all these years, here on the platform
of Euston, looking so prosperous and solid. It was not only the flesh
that he had put on, but also the clothes, that made him hard to
recognise. In the old days, an imitation fur coat had seemed to be as
integral a part of him as were his ill-shorn lantern jaws. But now his
costume was a model of rich and sombre moderation, drawing, not
calling, attention to itself. He looked like a banker. Any one would
have been proud to be seen off by him.
'Stand back, please.' The train was about to start, and I waved
farewell to my friend. Le Ros did not stand back. He stood clasping in
both hands the hands of the young American. 'Stand back, sir, please!'
He obeyed, but quickly darted forward again to whisper some final word.
I think there were tears in her eyes. There certainly were tears in his
when, at length, having watched the train out of sight, he turned
round. He seemed, nevertheless, delighted to see me. He asked me where
I had been hiding all these years; and simultaneously repaid me the
half-crown as though it had been borrowed yesterday. He linked his arm
in mine, and walked me slowly along the platform, saying with what
pleasure he read my dramatic criticisms every Saturday.
I told him, in return, how much he was missed on the stage. 'Ah, yes,'
he said, 'I never act on the stage nowadays.' He laid some emphasis on
the word 'stage,' and I asked him where, then, he did act. 'On the
platform,' he answered. 'You mean,' said I, 'that you recite at
concerts?' He smiled. 'This,' he whispered, striking his stick on the
ground, 'is the platform I mean.' Had his mysterious prosperity
unhinged him? He looked quite sane. I begged him to be more explicit.
'I suppose,' he said presently, giving me a light for the cigar which
he had offered me, 'you have been seeing a friend off?' I assented. He
asked me what I supposed he had been doing. I said that I had watched
him doing the same thing. 'No,' he said gravely. 'That lady was not a
friend of mine. I met her for the first time this morning, less than
half an hour ago, here,' and again he struck the platform with his
stick.
I confessed that I was bewildered. He smiled. 'You may,' he said, 'have
heard of the Anglo-American Social Bureau?' I had not. He explained to
me that of the thousands of Americans who annually pass through England
there are many hundreds who have no English friends. In the old days
they used to bring letters of introduction. But the English are so
inhospitable that these letters are hardly worth the paper they are
written on. 'Thus,' said Le Ros, 'the A.A.S.B. supplies a long-felt
want. Americans are a sociable people, and most of them have plenty of
money to spend. The A.A.S.B. supplies them with English friends. Fifty
per cent. of the fees is paid over to the friends. The other fifty is
retained by the A.A.S.B. I am not, alas, a director. If I were, I
should be a very rich man indeed. I am only an employe'. But even so I
do very well. I am one of the seers-off.'
Again I asked for enlightenment. 'Many Americans,' he said, 'cannot
afford to keep friends in England. But they can all afford to be seen
off. The fee is only five pounds (twenty-five dollars) for a single
traveller; and eight pounds (forty dollars) for a party of two or more.
They send that in to the Bureau, giving the date of their departure,
and a description by which the seer-off can identify them on the
platform. And then--well, then they are seen off.'
'But is it worth it?' I exclaimed. 'Of course it is worth it,' said Le
Ros. 'It prevents them from feeling "out of it." It earns them the
respect of the guard. It saves them from being despised by their
fellow-passengers--the people who are going to be on the boat. It gives
them a footing for the whole voyage. Besides, it is a great pleasure in
itself. You saw me seeing that young lady off. Didn't you think I did
it beautifully?' 'Beautifully,' I admitted. 'I envied you. There was
I--' 'Yes, I can imagine. There were you, shuffling from foot to foot,
staring blankly at your friend, trying to make conversation. I know.
That's how I used to be myself, before I studied, and went into the
thing professionally. I don't say I'm perfect yet. I'm still a martyr
to platform fright. A railway station is the most difficult of all
places to act in, as you have discovered for yourself.' 'But,' I said
with resentment, 'I wasn't trying to act. I really felt.' 'So did I, my
boy,' said Le Ros. 'You can't act without feeling. What's his name, the
Frenchman--Diderot, yes--said you could; but what did he know about it?
Didn't you see those tears in my eyes when the train started? I hadn't
forced them. I tell you I was moved. So were you, I dare say. But you
couldn't have pumped up a tear to prove it. You can't express your
feelings. In other words, you can't act. At any rate,' he added kindly,
'not in a railway station.' 'Teach me!' I cried. He looked thoughtfully
at me. 'Well,' he said at length, 'the seeing-off season is practically
over. Yes, I'll give you a course. I have a good many pupils on hand
already; but yes,' he said, consulting an ornate note-book, 'I could
give you an hour on Tuesdays and Fridays.'
His terms, I confess, are rather high. But I don't grudge the
investment.