HILARY'S BROWN STUDY
“What do you really think, Uncle Hilary?”
Turning at his writing-table to look at the face of his young niece,
Hilary Dallison answered:
“My dear, we have had the same state of affairs since the beginning of
the world. There is no chemical process; so far as my knowledge goes,
that does not make waste products. What your grandfather calls our
'shadows' are the waste products of the social process. That there is a
submerged tenth is as certain as that there is an emerged fiftieth like
ourselves; exactly who they are and how they come, whether they can ever
be improved away, is, I think, as uncertain as anything can be.”
The figure of the girl seated in the big armchair did not stir. Her lips
pouted contemptuously, a frown wrinkled her forehead.
“Martin says that a thing is only impossible when we think it so.”
“Faith and the mountain, I'm afraid.”
Thyme's foot shot forth; it nearly came into contact with Miranda, the
little bulldog.
“Oh, duckie!”
But the little moonlight bulldog backed away.
“I hate these slums, uncle; they're so disgusting!”
Hilary leaned his face on his thin hand; it was his characteristic
attitude.
“They are hateful, disgusting, and heartrending. That does not make the
problem any the less difficult, does it?”
“I believe we simply make the difficulties ourselves by seeing them.”
Hilary smiled. “Does Martin say that too?”
“Of course he does.”
“Speaking broadly,” murmured Hilary, “I see only one difficulty--human
nature.”
Thyme rose. “I think it horrible to have a low opinion of human nature.”
“My dear,” said Hilary, “don't you think perhaps that people who have
what is called a low opinion of human nature are really more tolerant of
it, more in love with it, in fact, than those who, looking to what human
nature might be, are bound to hate what human nature is.”
The look which Thyme directed at her uncle's amiable, attractive face,
with its pointed beard, high forehead, and special little smile, seemed
to alarm Hilary.
“I don't want you to have an unnecessarily low opinion of me, my dear.
I'm not one of those people who tell you that everything's all right
because the rich have their troubles as well as the poor. A certain
modicum of decency and comfort is obviously necessary to man before
we can begin to do anything but pity him; but that doesn't make it any
easier to know how you're going to insure him that modicum of decency
and comfort, does it?”
“We've got to do it,” said Thyme; “it won't wait any longer.”
“My dear,” said Hilary, “think of Mr. Purcey! What proportion of the
upper classes do you imagine is even conscious of that necessity? We,
who have got what I call the social conscience, rise from the platform
of Mr. Purcey; we're just a gang of a few thousands to Mr. Purcey's tens
of thousands, and how many even of us are prepared, or, for the
matter of that, fitted, to act on our consciousness? In spite of your
grandfather's ideas, I'm afraid we're all too much divided into classes;
man acts, and always has acted, in classes.”
“Oh--classes!” answered Thyme--“that's the old superstition, uncle.”
“Is it? I thought one's class, perhaps, was only oneself
exaggerated--not to be shaken off. For instance, what are you and I,
with our particular prejudices, going to do?”
Thyme gave him the cruel look of youth, which seemed to say: 'You are my
very good uncle, and a dear; but you are more than twice my age. That, I
think, is conclusive!'
“Has something been settled about Mrs. Hughs?” she asked abruptly.
“What does your father say this morning?”
Thyme picked up her portfolio of drawings, and moved towards the door.
“Father's hopeless. He hasn't an idea beyond referring her to the
S.P.B.”
She was gone; and Hilary, with a sigh, took his pen up, but he wrote
nothing down ....
Hilary and Stephen Dallison were grandsons of that Canon Dallison, well
known as friend, and sometime adviser, of a certain Victorian novelist.
The Canon, who came of an old Oxfordshire family, which for three
hundred years at least had served the Church or State, was himself the
author of two volumes of “Socratic Dialogues.” He had bequeathed to his
son--a permanent official in the Foreign Office--if not his literary
talent, the tradition at all events of culture. This tradition had in
turn been handed on to Hilary and Stephen.
Educated at a public school and Cambridge, blessed with competent,
though not large, independent incomes, and brought up never to allude to
money if it could possibly be helped, the two young men had been turned
out of the mint with something of the same outward stamp on them. Both
were kindly, both fond of open-air pursuits, and neither of them lazy.
Both, too, were very civilised, with that bone-deep decency, that
dislike of violence, nowhere so prevalent as in the upper classes of a
country whose settled institutions are as old as its roads, or the walls
which insulate its parks. But as time went on, the one great quality
which heredity and education, environment and means, had bred in both of
them--self-consciousness--acted in these two brothers very differently.
To Stephen it was preservative, keeping him, as it were, in ice
throughout hot-weather seasons, enabling him to know exactly when he was
in danger of decomposition, so that he might nip the process in the
bud; it was with him a healthy, perhaps slightly chemical, ingredient,
binding his component parts, causing them to work together safely,
homogeneously. In Hilary the effect seemed to have been otherwise; like
some slow and subtle poison, this great quality, self-consciousness,
had soaked his system through and through; permeated every cranny of his
spirit, so that to think a definite thought, or do a definite deed, was
obviously becoming difficult to him. It took in the main the form of a
sort of gentle desiccating humour.
“It's a remarkable thing,” he had one day said to Stephen, “that by the
process of assimilating little bits of chopped-up cattle one should be
able to form the speculation of how remarkable a thing it is.”
Stephen had paused a second before answering--they were lunching off
roast beef in the Law Courts--he had then said:
“You're surely not going to eschew the higher mammals, like our
respected father-in-law?”
“On the contrary,” said Hilary, “to chew them; but it is remarkable, for
all that; you missed my point.”
It was clear that a man who could see anything remarkable in such a
thing was far gone, and Stephen had murmured:
“My dear old chap, you're getting too introspective.”
Hilary, having given his brother the special retiring smile, which
seemed not only to say; “Don't let me bore you,” but also, “Well,
perhaps you had better wait outside,” the conversation closed.
That smile of Hilary's, which jibbed away from things, though
disconcerting and apt to put an end to intercourse, was natural enough.
A sensitive man, who had passed his life amongst cultivated people in
the making of books, guarded from real wants by modest, not vulgar,
affluence, had not reached the age of forty-two without finding his
delicacy sharpened to the point of fastidiousness. Even his dog could
see the sort of man he was. She knew that he would take no liberties,
either with her ears or with her tail. She knew that he would never hold
her mouth ajar, and watch her teeth, as some men do; that when she was
lying on her back he would gently rub her chest without giving her the
feeling that she was doing wrong, as women will; and if she sat, as she
was sitting now, with her eyes fixed on his study fire, he would never,
she knew, even from afar, prevent her thinking of the nothing she loved
to think on.
In his study, which smelt of a particular mild tobacco warranted to
suit the nerves of any literary man, there was a bust of Socrates, which
always seemed to have a strange attraction for its owner. He had once
described to a fellow-writer the impression produced on him by that
plaster face, so capaciously ugly, as though comprehending the whole
of human life, sharing all man's gluttony and lust, his violence and
rapacity, but sharing also his strivings toward love and reason and
serenity.
“He's telling us,” said Hilary, “to drink deep, to dive down and live
with mermaids, to lie out on the hills under the sun, to sweat with
helots, to know all things and all men. No seat, he says, among the
Wise, unless we've been through it all before we climb! That's how he
strikes me--not too cheering for people of our sort!”
Under the shadow of this bust Hilary rested his forehead on his hand. In
front of him were three open books and a pile of manuscript, and
pushed to one side a little sheaf of pieces of green-white paper,
press-cuttings of his latest book.
The exact position occupied by his work in the life of such a man is not
too easy to define. He earned an income by it, but he was not dependent
on that income. As poet, critic, writer of essays, he had made himself
a certain name--not a great name, but enough to swear by. Whether his
fastidiousness could have stood the conditions of literary existence
without private means was now and then debated by his friends; it
could probably have done so better than was supposed, for he sometimes
startled those who set him down as a dilettante by a horny way of
retiring into his shell for the finish of a piece of work.
Try as he would that morning to keep his thoughts concentrated on his
literary labour, they wandered to his conversation with his niece and
to the discussion on Mrs. Hughs; the family seamstress, in his wife's
studio the day before. Stephen had lingered behind Cecilia and Thyme
when they went away after dinner, to deliver a last counsel to his
brother at the garden gate.
“Never meddle between man and wife--you know what the lower classes
are!”
And across the dark garden he had looked back towards the house. One
room on the ground-floor alone was lighted. Through its open window the
head and shoulders of Mr. Stone could be seen close to a small green
reading-lamp. Stephen shook his head, murmuring:
“But, I say, our old friend, eh? 'In those places--in those streets!'
It's worse than simple crankiness--the poor old chap is getting
almost---”
And, touching his forehead lightly with two fingers, he had hurried off
with the ever-springy step of one whose regularity habitually controls
his imagination.
Pausing a minute amongst the bushes, Hilary too had looked at the
lighted window which broke the dark front of his house, and his little
moonlight bulldog, peering round his legs, had gazed up also. Mr.
Stone was still standing, pen in hand, presumably deep in thought. His
silvered head and beard moved slightly to the efforts of his brain. He
came over to the window, and, evidently not seeing his son-in-law, faced
out into the night.
In that darkness were all the shapes and lights and shadows of a
London night in spring: the trees in dark bloom; the wan yellow of
the gas-lamps, pale emblems of the self-consciousness of towns; the
clustered shades of the tiny leaves, spilled, purple, on the surface of
the road, like bunches of black grapes squeezed down into the earth by
the feet of the passers-by. There, too, were shapes of men and women
hurrying home, and the great blocked shapes of the houses where they
lived. A halo hovered above the City--a high haze of yellow light,
dimming the stars. The black, slow figure of a policeman moved
noiselessly along the railings opposite.
From then till eleven o'clock, when he would make himself some cocoa on
a little spirit-lamp, the writer of the “Book of Universal Brotherhood”
would alternate between his bent posture above his manuscript and his
blank consideration of the night....
With a jerk, Hilary came back to his reflections beneath the bust of
Socrates.
“Each of us has a shadow in those places--in those streets!”
There certainly was a virus in that notion. One must either take it as a
jest, like Stephen; or, what must one do? How far was it one's business
to identify oneself with other people, especially the helpless--how far
to preserve oneself intact--'integer vita'? Hilary was no young person,
like his niece or Martin, to whom everything seemed simple; nor was
he an old person like their grandfather, for whom life had lost its
complications.
And, very conscious of his natural disabilities for a decision on a
like, or indeed on any, subject except, perhaps, a point of literary
technique, he got up from his writing-table, and, taking his little
bulldog, went out. His intention was to visit Mrs. Hughs in Hound
Street, and see with his own eyes the state of things. But he had
another reason, too, for wishing to go there ....