Happy years. A typical day. Simeon Whey is at last ordained. His first
sermon at St. Sepulchre’s, Balham. Intensive campaign of the
_A.D.S.U._ I meet Miss Moonbeam and call her Mary. Affecting appeal
not to leave her in darkness. I promise not to do so. A face to lean
on. Will I come again? Adventure on the stage of the Empresses
Theatre.
I HAVE said that this incident ended satisfactorily, but, as I shall
very shortly have to demonstrate, it was subsequently to become
associated with what I have always regarded as the most tragic event of
my career—an event so annihilating in its ultimate consequences, and so
misunderstood in its immediate details, that few less proven and
resilient characters could have emerged from it unimpaired. Nor could my
physique, I think, have stood the strain but for the four or five years
that now intervened, during which I was enabled, in a life of
comparative calm, to add very considerably to my bodily weight. Indeed
in many respects, uneventful as they were, these were amongst the
happiest years of my earlier manhood, and I cannot do better, perhaps,
than describe for the benefit of my readers a typical day of this period
of my life.
Required, like my father, who was still fortunately able to pursue his
secular avocations, to be present at my place of employment by nine
o’clock in the morning, my mother would call me at a quarter past seven,
bringing a cup of tea to my bedside. This I would permit to cool for
three or four minutes while I ate one of the biscuits with which it was
accompanied; and then, sitting up in bed with my dressing-gown over my
shoulders, I would drink the upper half of it before again eating. I
would then eat the second of my two biscuits, and having drunk the
remainder of the tea, would ring for my mother, who would then bring my
hot water prior to the removal of the tea-things.
I was now ready to dress, and pushing down the bedclothes, would begin
by leaning forward and reaching the trousers which, the night before, I
had hung over the end of the bed, with this very purpose in view.
Containing my pants, to the lower extremities of which my socks would be
still adherent, I was thus enabled, without removing my nightgown, to
clothe my lower limbs before actually rising; and it was only then that
I would finally leave the bed and cross the room towards the wash-hand
stand. I would then fill the basin, leaving sufficient hot water for the
purposes of subsequent shaving, and having locked the door and drawn the
blinds would remove my nightgown preparatory to washing.
It would now be half-past seven, and if it were at all cold, I would don
my vest before bending over the basin, never failing, however, in even
the severest weather, to roll up my sleeves as far as my elbows. Then
having dried and put on my shirt, I would shave before putting on my
shirt-front, always brushing my hair before I put on my coat, but not
before putting on my waistcoat. I would then select a clean handkerchief
from my top right-hand drawer, and having pulled up my trousers a little
to prevent them from becoming baggy, would kneel by my bedside at seven
forty-five, assuming an erect position again at five minutes to eight. I
would then pull up the blinds, open the windows, fold up my nightgown
and put it in my nightgown bag, and by eight o’clock would be sitting at
the harmonium in readiness to burst into the morning hymn.
Thus begun, and breakfast having been concluded, the day would next
behold me inside an omnibus, unless the weather were warm enough to
permit of my sitting upon the top for the purpose of rebuking adjacent
smokers; and punctually at nine o’clock, I would enter the show-room and
divest myself of my hat, scarf and overcoat. I would then exchange a
courteous word or two with Miss Botterill and the youth who had
succeeded me as show-room assistant, and immediately apply myself to the
various duties that as show-room manager devolved upon my shoulders.
Comprising the arrangement of books upon the shelves and counters, as
well as of an attractive display in the street window, these would
include, of course, my personal attendance upon the more important of
our retail customers, the booking of orders, the checking of the
show-room takings, and the maintenance of discipline amongst my two
subordinates. And I had long ago proved the necessity, in view of such
diverse demands, of paying the utmost attention to my physical upkeep.
At eleven o’clock, therefore, I would despatch Miss Botterill to a
neighbouring branch of the Aerated Bread Company for a glass of hot milk
and a substantial slice of a cake appropriately known as lunch cake. I
would then, at twelve-thirty, repair in person to the same branch of
this valuable company, where I would generally order from one of the
quieter waitresses a double portion of sausages and mashed potatoes,
accompanied by a cup of coffee, and followed by an apple dumpling or a
segment of baked jam roll. This was the more necessary because the hour
from one to two was usually the busiest of the working day, while from
two to three, when my subordinates lunched in turn, I had of course only
one of them to assist me.
By three o’clock, however, they had both returned, and I would take the
opportunity, five minutes later, of again sending Miss Botterill to the
Aerated Bread Company for my mid-afternoon cup of tea. This I would
drink, unthickened by food, but at half-past four I would send her out
for another cup, and with this I would eat a roll and butter, a small
dish of honey, and perhaps a single doughnut. Thus fortified I would
then continue at work until six o’clock, when the show-room closed, and
at half-past six I was sitting down at home to the chief meal of the
evening. Taken somewhat earlier than had been my father’s custom in the
days of my boyhood and adolescence, I had found myself obliged to insist
on the alteration in view of the many demands upon my evening hours.
Most of my active work, for example, at the doors of public houses,
required an attendance from seven to nine, while few of the local
prayer-meetings began at a later hour than half-past seven or eight.
Early as was this meal, however, it was none the less welcome,
consisting as it usually did of a joint and two vegetables followed by a
wholesome pudding, tea, bread and jam, and perhaps a slice or two of
home-made cake. Then after evening prayers, I would embrace my father,
who was now always in bed by a quarter to nine, and leave the house upon
some such holy errand as I have described in the previous paragraph. I
did not fail, however, on returning home, to drink a bowl of arrowroot
and eat some digestive biscuits, and whenever possible, in the interests
of my health, I would retire to my bedroom at ten-fifteen.
Here I would find my windows closed for the night, the blinds drawn for
the sake of decency, a jug of hot water standing in my basin, while a
hot-water bottle would be within the bed. All would be in readiness,
therefore, for my quick disrobing, a process that I would begin as soon
as I had locked the door; and within five minutes, I would be bending
over the basin clad as I have described myself some fifteen hours
earlier. I would then brush my teeth, using some mild disinfectant, open
my nightgown bag and extract my nightgown, and having taken off my vest,
would slip on my nightgown prior to the removal of my lower garments.
These I would then detach from myself with a single downward movement,
subsequently hanging them over the end of the bed, after which I would
put on my dressing-gown and bedroom slippers and utter a brief but
fervent supplication. I would then pull up the blinds so that the stars
could shine upon my bed, swallow a tablespoonful of the Adult Gripe
Water, unlock the door, extinguish the light, and by ten thirty-five be
composed for slumber.
Such was a typical day of this period of my life, during which, as I
have said, I increased in weight, and in which, as I am glad to believe,
my moral stature also expanded and became consolidated. This was at any
rate the conviction of my friend Simeon Whey, who took the opportunity
of my twenty-sixth birthday to describe me in his diary as ‘now in the
full flower of his southern metropolitan Xtian manhood.’ Indeed the
whole passage is well worth transcribing, written as it was on the eve
of his ordination, and following a happy hour together discussing the
price lists of various clerical tailors.
‘By a moving coincidence,’ he wrote, ‘the eve of my ordination has
coincided with the twenty-sixth birthday of my old and dear friend
Augustus Carp of Angela Gardens. And yet perhaps old is scarcely the
right word, for mature as he is, he is now in the full flower of his
southern metropolitan Xtian manhood. Nor have I ever seen him looking so
large as when he came to see me at 2.35 to receive the hand-painted
tooth-brush, with which I had promised to present him, and to give me
his benediction for the morrow. Fully a stone heavier than this time
last year, his moustache has become noticeably more abundant, and his
every movement possesses the weight and gravity of a man twenty years
his senior. Admirable as was his diction, too, even as a boy, it has now
attained a level of sonorous grandeur, from which it never lapses in
even the most trivial pronouncements imposed upon him by necessary human
intercourse. Is it surprising, therefore, that I daily thank P,[12] for
so noble and inspiring an example?’
Footnote 12:
Providence.
[Illustration:
_The Rev Simeon Whey from a photograph in my possession_
]
Dear Simeon, loyal and appreciative, for many a long year hadst thou
been trying to get ordained, but now thou hadst succeeded, and well do I
remember thy first sermon at St. Sepulchre’s, Balham. Cast thy bread,
thou preachedst, upon the waters, for thou shalt find it after many
days—and mark, thou didst say, it is not demanded of us to cast our
jewels or financial securities. No, no, thou saidst, it was well
recognized that the former would sink and the latter become
unintelligible, whereas bread was nutriment for the fishes of the deep,
and in due course would return to our tables. Moreover bread was cheap,
thou didst say, and even the poorest of us was sometimes tempted to
waste his bread, and for him there was a message—kck—in these beautiful
words to place his bread, as it were, out at interest. Let us all then
take heed, thou saidst, never to waste our bread but to collect it
earnestly with both hands, and whenever we saw any water, yea no matter
how little, to cast it upon it in faith fearing not. And then it would
return to us, if not in the form of fish, then in some other form which
we wotted not of. For what was bred in the bone could never be cast
down, nay, not until seventy times seven.
Good Simeon, such was thy first sermon, and I doubt if thou hast ever
preached a better.
Little as we dreamt it, however, Providence was now hurrying towards me
with the heaviest cross of my adult life, a cross so heavy that even now
I cannot help shuddering at its weight, and one that compelled me not
only to retire from business but to remove from Camberwell to Stoke
Newington. Nor was it less bitter in that the instrument of deposit was
a young and exceptionally attractive female, with whom I had been
brought into contact in the course of my work for the Anti-Dramatic and
Saltatory Union.
This was about a year after Simeon’s ordination and soon after I had
inaugurated, in my capacity as Vice-President, an intensive campaign of
personal exhortation at all the most notorious West End theatres. Thus I
had arranged that there should be posted at the stage entrances of all
these more popular haunts of vice earnest young workers of the male sex
plentifully provided with the Union’s literature. These would then
approach the in-coming actors and actresses with a few well-chosen words
of warning, pointing out to them the iniquity of their occupation and
inviting them to embrace some other profession. Having had our evening
meals, Ezekiel and myself would each then visit a group of theatres to
encourage our representatives and lend them the personal aid of our
riper experience and more gifted oratory.
This then was the occasion of my being present at about half-past seven
on a January evening at the stage door of the Empresses Theatre, where a
play called _The Peach Girl_ was about to be performed. This was a
drama, accompanied by music, and frequently interrupted, I believe, by
amatory dances, which had already been presented nearly three hundred
times and was still attracting enormous audiences. I had not myself seen
it, but Ezekiel, who had witnessed a considerable portion of it before
making his protest at its first performance, had particularly deplored
the abbreviated costumes of most of the female dancers. He had made an
exception, however, in favour of the principal actress, by whose
singular beauty he had been greatly impressed, and in whom he had
discerned, he thought, in spite of her surroundings, an appreciable
degree of natural goodness. By name Mary Moonbeam, she had been assigned
the part, it appeared, of a quite simple seller of fruit, to whom a
naval officer, accompanied upon the stage by a large number of female
midshipmen, had immediately begun, in a voluptuous baritone, to address
words of affection.
What had happened subsequently Ezekiel did not of course know, since he
had then made his protest and been compelled to leave. But he had felt
assured, from the sweetness of her expression, that she had been more
sinned against than sinning, and that in other surroundings she might
easily have developed into an almost ideal district visitor. On the
other hand, it was quite clear, from the letter-press outside the
theatre, that she was the chief attraction of the play, and she had
twice refused to discuss her future with our young representative at the
stage door.
It was with as open a mind, therefore, as it was at all possible for me
to possess in respect of an actress, that I perceived her alighting from
an expensive-looking vehicle soon after I had reached the stage door.
Nor was I at first able, owing to the speed of her movements—she was ten
minutes later, it appeared, than usual—and the voluminous furs, in which
she had ensconced herself, to obtain a clear view of her face. In fact,
when I first touched her, she brushed me aside, and it was only after
she had glanced at me a second time that she stopped for a moment and
began to stare at me with her exceptionally limpid, hazel eyes.
“Hullo,” she said, “you’re not the same man.”
“I am the Vice-President,” I said, “of the Anti-Dramatic Union.”
“And Saltatory,” she said. “Don’t forget the Saltatory part.”
“Would that it were possible,” I replied. “But it isn’t.”
She gave a little sigh.
“No, I suppose not,” she said, “not with all us girls earning our living
by it.”
“And hurling others,” I said, “to their deaths.”
“Oh, no,” she said, “not really?”
“Every night,” I replied, “in thousands and thousands.”
“Oh, good gracious,” she said, “not every night?”
I nodded gravely.
“Every night,” I said, “in thousands and thousands and thousands and
thousands.”
“But goodness me,” she cried, “that’s more than ever.”
“It’s more and more,” I said, “every night.”
“Well, I never,” she said. “What a fearful mortality.”
“Fearful indeed,” I replied, “and you are responsible.”
“Oh, my aunt,” she said, “how perfectly horrible. Can’t you come and
talk to me after the first act?”
“I should be only too glad,” I said, “if you would tell me where to
come.”
“Oh, anybody’ll tell you,” she said. “Nine-fifteen.”
Then she disappeared, and at a quarter past nine, when I returned to the
theatre after consulting Ezekiel, I was eventually shown into a small
room, where she appeared to be undressing herself to a marked extent.
She waved her hand, however, and bade me take a chair, assuring me that
the worst was already over, and introducing me to a woman, whom she
described as her dresser, and whose name was Mrs. Montgomery.
“This is Mr. Carp,” she said, “the Vice-President of the Anti-Dramatic
and Saltatory Union.”
Mrs. Montgomery wiped her hands on her apron prior to greeting me with
great cordiality.
“Happy to meet you,” she said. “I’ve read a lot of your tracts, and mark
my words, there’s a lot of truth in ’em.”
“Yes,” said Miss Moonbeam, “and isn’t it awful, Bags?[13] He says we
kill thousands of people every night.”
Footnote 13:
Presumably an abbreviation of Montgomery.
“Well, I shouldn’t wonder,” said Mrs. Montgomery, “not for a moment, I
shouldn’t. What with this modern dancing and all. Hold your chin up,
dearie.”
She was applying some powder to Miss Moonbeam’s neck, and presently
stood back a little, eyeing her critically.
“Yes,” said Miss Moonbeam. “But oughtn’t we to do something? It doesn’t
seem right just to let it go on.”
“Oh, no,” I cried. “Nor it is. Nor it is, Miss Moonbeam. Believe me.”
“I do,” she said. “I do believe you. Get out of the light, Bags. I want
to look at him.”
For a moment I sat in silence, permitting her to feast her eyes. Then
she bent forward a little, holding out her hands.
“Oh, Mr. Carp,” she said, “I’m only a poor actress. Help me to be
better. Help me to be like you.”
Withdrawing my gloves and putting them in my left-hand pocket, I
advanced towards her and took hold of her hands.
“My dear Miss Moonbeam,” I said.
But she looked at me rather pathetically.
“Oh, Mr. Carp,” she said, “won’t you call me Mary?”
I considered for a moment. It was a difficult position. For though I
could not help feeling that she was a little presumptuous, I had to
remember that this was probably the first occasion on which she had met
a really good man. I therefore decided to grant her petition.
“My dear Mary,” I said, “I shall be only too happy.”
She breathed a sigh and removed her hands.
“Oh, how lovely of you,” she said. “Now I must go on dressing.”
“But, my dear Mary,” I said, “is that necessary?”
“Oh, I think so,” she said. “You see, if I didn’t——”
I waved my hand.
“I’m afraid you’ve misunderstood me,” I said.
“Very likely,” she said. “I’m so stupid. But you’re going to help me,
Mr. Carp, aren’t you?”
I bowed sympathetically.
“Nothing could please me more,” I said, “than to lead you out of
darkness into the membership of our Union. But would it not be better to
rise up at once—to rise up at once, I say, and come away?”
But she shook her head.
“You see, I’m bound by a contract,” she said, “and I have to support
rather a large family.”
Involuntarily I staggered a little.
“But, Mary,” I cried.
“Brothers and sisters,” she explained. “I’m paying for their education.”
Profoundly relieved, and not a little touched, I regained my equilibrium
and invited her to confide in me. Her mother was dead, it appeared, and
her father had been unfortunate and was now unable to provide for his
children.
“And so they batten,” I said, “on your ill-gotten earnings.”
She turned and looked at me for a moment in silence. Then she smiled
again as she put on her slippers.
“You seem to understand things,” she said, “so quickly.”
Then a small boy looked round the door.
“Curtain’s up, miss,” he said and disappeared again.
“Oh dear, oh dear,” she cried, “how the time flies. Can’t you come and
talk to me after the show?”
I smiled at her not unkindly.
“By ten-fifteen,” I said, “I shall be in my bedroom.”
“But what am I to do?” she said. “I’ve begun to lean on you. You aren’t
going to leave me here wallowing?”
I stared at her.
“Wallowing in what?” I asked.
“Why, in the darkness,” she said, “killing all those people.”
I took her hands again.
“My dear Mary,” I said, “it is in order to remove you that I am here.”
She gave a little sigh.
“Oh, I was sure I could trust you,” she said. “I knew I could trust you,
the moment I saw you.”
“Yes, it’s his face,” said Mrs. Montgomery. “Isn’t it, dearie? It’s one
of those faces one wants to lean on.”
“Oh yes, yes,” she cried, “with all one’s weight. Couldn’t you bring it
round to-morrow after the matinée? And then very likely you’ll meet some
of my friends, and perhaps you’ll be able to remove us all.”
“But not before six,” I said, “or a quarter past.”
“That’ll do nicely,” she said. “There’s my call.”
Then she ran from the room, just as an electric bell began to sound in
the corner, and Mrs. Montgomery was kind enough to tell me the quickest
way to leave the theatre.
Unfortunately, however, she was either inaccurate, or by some odd chance
I failed to understand her, for a moment later I found myself on the
stage, just as the naval officer was about to embrace Miss Moonbeam. By
a curious coincidence, too, my appearance synchronized with the dramatic
utterance by Miss Moonbeam of the words, ‘Hush, Reginald, he comes,’
which added for the moment to my perplexity. For while it was possible
(and this proved to be the case) that the words bore reference to some
fellow-actor, it was also possible, I thought, that she might have been
informing him of my own presence in the theatre. Nor could I be certain
from the attitude of the audience, as it unanimously rose with roars of
applause, that my recent efforts to rescue their favourite might not
have become known to it and touched its heart. I conceived it my duty,
therefore, without prejudicing my position, to make a courteous bow or
two before retiring, and I took the opportunity of handing the naval
officer an illustrated copy of _Did Wycliffe Waltz?_
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