THE days passed away horribly long. Victoria was now an automaton; she
no longer felt much of sorrow or of joy. Her home life had been reduced
to a minimum, for she could no longer afford the luxury of 'chambers in
the West End' as Betty put it. She had moved to Finsbury; where she had
found a large attic for three shillings a week, in a house which had
fallen from the state of mansion for a City merchant to that of tenement
dwelling. For the first time since she returned to London she had
furnished her own room. She had bought out the former tenant for one
pound. For this sum she had entered into possession of an iron bedstead
with a straw mattress, a thick horse cloth, an iron washstand supplied
with a blue basin and a white mug, an old armchair and red curtains. She
had no sheets, which meant discomfort but saved washing. A chair had
cost her two shillings; she needed no cupboard as there was one in the
wall; in lieu of a chest of drawers she had her trunk; her few books
were stacked on a shelf made out of the side of a packing case and
erected by herself. She got water from the landing every morning except
when the taps were frozen. There was no fireplace in the attic, but in
the present state of Victoria's income this did not matter much.
Every morning she rose at seven, washed, dressed. As time went on she
ceased to dust and sweep every morning. First she postponed the work to
the evening, then to the week end. On Sundays she breakfasted off a
stale loaf bought among the roar of Farrington Street the previous
evening. A little later she introduced a spirit lamp for tea; it was a
revolution, even though she could never muster enough energy to bring in
milk.
After the first flush of possession, the horrible gloom of winter had
engulfed her. Sometimes she sat and froze in the attic, and, in despair,
went to bed after vainly trying to read Shakespeare by the light of a
candle: he did not interest her much. At other times the roaring
streets, the flares in the brown fog, the trams hurtling through the
air, their headlights blazing, had frightened her back to her home. On
Sundays, after luxuriating in bed until ten, she usually went to meet
Betty who lived in a club in Soho. Together they would walk in the
parks, or the squares, wherever grass grew. At one o'clock Betty would
introduce her as a guest at her club and feast her for eightpence on
roast beef and pudding, tea, and bread and butter. Then they would start
out once more towards the fields, sometimes towards Hampstead Heath, or
if it rained seek refuge in a museum or a picture gallery. When they
parted in the evening, Victoria kissed her affectionately. Betty would
then hold the elder woman in her arms, hungrily almost, and softly kiss
her again.
The only thing that parted these two at all was the mystery which Betty
guessed at. She knew that Victoria was not like the other girls; she
felt that there was behind her friend's present condition a past of
another kind, but when she tried to question Victoria, she found that
her friend froze up. And as she loved her this was a daily grief; she
looked at Victoria with a question in her eyes. But Victoria would not
yield to the temptation of confiding in her; she had adopted a new class
and was not going back on it.
Besides Betty there was no one in her life. None of the other girls
were able to meet her on congenial ground; Beauty had not got her
address; and, though she had his, she was too afraid of complicating her
life to write to him. She had sent her address to Edward as a matter of
form, but he had not written; apparently her desire for freedom had
convinced him that his sister was mad. None of the men at the P.R.R. had
made any decided advances to her. She could still catch every day a
glitter in the eye of some youth, but her maturity discouraged the boys,
and the older men were mostly too deeply sunk in their feeding and
smoking to attempt gallantry. Besides: Victoria was no longer the
cream-coloured flower of olden days; she was thinner; her hands too were
becoming coarse owing to her having to swab tables and floors; much
standing and the fetid air of the smoking-room were making her sallow.
Soon after Victoria entered into possession of her 'station' she knew
most of her customers, knew them, that is, as much as continual rushes
from table to counter, from floor to floor, permits. The casuals, mostly
young, left no impression; lacking money but craving variety these
youths would patronise every day a different P.R.R., for they hoped to
find in a novel arrangement of the counter, a new waitress, larger or
smaller quarters, the element of variety which the bill of fare
relentlessly denied them. The older men were more faithful if no more
grateful. One of them was a short thin man, looking about forty, who for
some hidden reason had aroused Victoria's faded interest. His appearance
was somewhat peculiar. His shortness, combined with his thinness and
breadth, was enough to attract attention. Standing hardly any more than
five foot five, he had disproportionately broad shoulders, and yet they
were so thin that the bones showed bowed at the back. Better fed, he
would have been a bulky man. His hair was dark, streaked with grey; and,
as it was getting very thin and beginning to recede, he gave the
impression of having a very high forehead. His eyes were grey, set
rather deep under thick eyebrows drawn close together into a permanent
frown. Under his rather coarse and irregular nose his mouth showed
closely compressed, almost lipless; a curious muscular distortion had
tortured into it a faint sneer. His hands were broad, a little coarse
and very hairy.
Victoria could not say why she was interested in this man. He had no
outward graces, dressed poorly and obviously brushed his coat but
seldom; his linen, too, was not often quite clean. Immediately on
sitting down at his usual table he would open a book, prop it up against
the sugar bowl, and begin to read. His books did not tell Victoria much;
in two months she noted a few books she did not know, _News from
Nowhere_, _Fabian Essays_, _The Odyssey_, and a book with a long title
the biggest printed word of which was _Niestze_ or _Niesche._ Victoria
could never remember this word, even though her customer read the book
every day for over a month. _The Odyssey_ she had heard of, but that did
not tell her anything.
She had found out his name accidentally. One day he had brought down
three books and had put two under his seat while he read the third. Soon
after he had left, reading still while he went up the stairs. Victoria
found the books under the chair. One was a _Life of William Morris_, the
other the _Vindication of the Rights of Women_. On the flyleaf of each
was written in bold letter. 'Thomas Farwell.'
Victoria could not resist glancing at the books during her half hour for
lunch. The _Life of William Morris_ she did not attempt, remembering her
experiences at school with 'Lives' of any kind: they were all dull.
Marie Wollstonecraft's book seemed more interesting, but she seemed to
have to wade through so much that she had never heard of and to have to
face a style so crabbed and congested that she hardly understood it.
Yet, something in the book interested her, and it was regretfully that
she handed the volumes back to Farwell when he called for them at
half-past six. He thanked her in half a dozen words and left.
Farwell continued regular in his attendance. He came in on the stroke of
one, left at half-past one exactly, lighting his pipe as he got up. He
never spoke to anyone; when Victoria stood before his table he looked at
her for a moment, gave his order and cast his eyes down to his book.
It was about three weeks after the incident of the books that he spoke
to Victoria. As he took up the bill of fare he said suddenly:
'Did you read the _Vindication_?'
'I did glance through it,' said Victoria, feeling, she did not know why,
acutely uncomfortable.
'Ah? interesting, isn't it? Pity it's so badly written. What do you
think of it?'
'Well, I hardly know,' said Victoria reflectively; 'I didn't have time
to read much; what I read seemed true.'
'You think that a recommendation, eh?' said Farwell, his lips parting
slightly. 'I'd have thought you saw enough truth about life here to like
lies.'
'No,' said Victoria, 'I don't care for lies. The nastier a thing is, the
better everybody should know it; then one day people will be ashamed.'
'Oh, an optimist!' sniggered Farwell. 'Bless you, my child. Give me
fillets of plaice, small white and cut.'
For several days after this Farwell took no notice of Victoria. He gave
his order and opened his book as before. Victoria made no advances. She
had talked him over with Betty, who had advised her to await events.
'You never know,' she had remarked, as a clinching argument.
A day or two later Victoria was startled by Farwell's arrival at
half-past six. This had never happened before. The smoking-room was
almost empty, as it was too late for teas and a little too early for
suppers. Farwell sat down at his usual table and ordered a small tea. As
Victoria returned with the cup he took out a book from under two others
and held it out.
'Look here,' he said a little nervously. 'I don't know whether you're
busy after hours, but perhaps you might like to read this.' The wrinkles
in his forehead expanded and dilated a little.
'Oh, thank you so much. I would like to read it,' said Victoria with the
ring of earnestness in her voice. She took the book; it was a battered
copy of _No. 5 John Street_.
'No. 5? What a queer title,' she said.
'Queer? not at all,' said Farwell. 'It only seems queer to you because
it is natural and you're not used to that. You're a number in the P.R.R.
aren't you? Just like the house you live in. And you're just number so
and so; so am I. When we die fate shoves up the next number and it all
begins over again.'
'That doesn't sound very cheerful, does it?' said Victoria.
'It isn't cheerful. It's merely a fact.'
'I suppose it is,' said Victoria. 'Nobody is ever missed.'
Farwell looked at her critically. The platitude worried him a little; it
was unexpected.
'Yes, exactly,' he stammered. 'Anyhow, you read it and let me know what
you think of it.' Thereupon he took up another book and began to read.
When he had gone Victoria showed her prize to Betty.
'You're getting on,' said Betty with a smile. 'You'll be Mrs Farwell one
of these days, I suppose.'
'Don't be ridiculous, Betty,' snapped Victoria, 'why, I'd have to wash
him.'
'You might as well wash a husband as a dish,' said Betty smoothly.
'Anyhow, the other girls are talking.'
'Let them talk,' said Victoria rather savagely, 'so long as they don't
talk to me.'
Betty took her hand gently.
'Sorry, Vic dear,' she said. 'You're not angry with me, are you?'
'No, of course not, you silly,' said Victoria laughing. 'There run away,
or that old gent at the end'll take a fit.'
Farwell did not engage her in conversation for a few days, nor did she
make any advances to him. She read through _No. 5 John Street_ within
three evenings; it held her with a horrible fascination. Her first
plunge into realistic literature left her shocked as by a cold bath. In
the early days, at Lympton, she had subsisted mainly on Charlotte Young
and Rhoda Broughton. In India, the mess having a subscription at
Mudie's, she had had good opportunities of reading; but, for no
particular reason, except perhaps that she was newly married and busy
with regimental nothings, she had ceased to read anything beyond the
_Sketch_ and the _Sporting and Dramatic_. Thus she had never heard of
the 'common people' except as persons born to minister to the needs of
the rich. She had never felt any interest in them, for they spoke a
language that was not hers. _No. 5 John Street_, coming to her a long
time after the old happy days, when she herself was struggling in the
mire, was a horrible revelation; it showed her herself, and herself not
as 'Tilda towering over fate but as Nancy withering in the indiarubber
works for the benefit of the Ridler system.
She read feverishly by the light of a candle. At times she was repelled
by the vulgarity of Low Covey, by the grossness which seemed to revel
in poverty and dirt. But when she cast her eyes round her own bare
walls, looked at her sheetless bed, a shiver ran over her.
'These are my people,' she said aloud. The candle, clamouring for the
snuffers, guttered, sank low, nearly went out.
Shivering again before the omen, she trimmed the wick. She returned the
book to Farwell by slipping it on the table next day. He took it without
a word but returned at half past six as before.
'Well?' he asked with a faint smile.
'Thank you so much,' said Victoria. 'It's wonderful.'
'Wonderful indeed? Most commonplace, don't you think?'
'Oh, no,' said Victoria. 'It's extraordinary, it's like . . . like
light.'
Farwell's eyes suddenly glittered.
'Ah,' he said dreamily, 'light! light in this, the outer darkness.'
Victoria looked at him, a question in her eyes.
'If only we could all see,' he went on. 'Then, as by a touch of a
magician's wand, flowers would crowd out the thistles, the thistles that
the asses eat and thank their God for. It is in our hands to make this
the Happy Valley and we make it the Valley of the Shadow of Death.'
He paused for a moment. Victoria felt her pulse quicken.
'Yes,' she said, 'I think I understand. It's because we don't understand
that we suffer. We're not cruel, are we? we're stupid.'
'Stupid?' A ferocious intonation had come into Farwell's voice. 'I
should say so! Forty million men, women and children sweat their lives
out day by day so that four million may live idly and become too heavy
even to think. I could forgive them if they thought, but the world
contains only two types: Lazarus with poor man's gout and Dives with
fatty degeneration of the brain.'
Victoria felt nervous. Passion shook the man's hands as he clutched the
marble top of the table.
'Mr Farwell,' she faltered, 'I don't want to be stupid. I want to
understand things. I want to know why we slave twelve hours a day when
others do nothing and, oh, can it be altered?'
Farwell had started at the mention of his name. His passion had suddenly
fallen.
'Altered? oh, yes,' he stammered, 'that's if the race lasts long enough.
'Sometimes I think, as I see men struggling to get on top of one
another, like crabs in a bucket . . . Like crabs in a bucket,' he
repeated dreamily, visualising the simile. 'But I cannot draw men from
stones,' he said smiling; 'it is not yet time for Deucalion. I'll bring
you another book to-morrow.'
Farwell rose abruptly and left Victoria singularly stirred. He was a
personality, she felt; something quite unusual. He was less a man than a
figment, for he seemed top heavy almost. He concentrated the hearer's
attention so much on his spoken thought that his body passed
unperceived, receded into the distance.
While Victoria was changing to go, the staff room somehow seemed darker
and dirtier than ever. It was seldom swept and never cleaned out. The
management had thoughtfully provided nothing but pegs and wooden
benches, so as to discourage lounging. Victoria was rather late, so that
she found herself alone with Lizzie, the cashier. Lizzie was red-haired,
very curly, plump, pink and white. A regular little spark. She was very
popular; her green eyes and full curved figure often caused a small
block at the desk.
'You look tired,' she said good-naturedly.
'I suppose I am,' said Victoria. 'Aren't you?'
'So so. Don't mind my job.'
'Mm, I suppose it isn't so bad sitting at the desk.'
'No,' said Lizzie, 'pays too.'
'Pays?'
Lizzie flushed and hesitated. Then the desire to boast burst its bonds.
She must tell, she must. It didn't matter after all. A craving for
admiration was on her.
'Tell you what,' she whispered. 'I get quite two and a kick a week out
of that job.'
Victoria's eyebrows went up.
'You know,' went on Lizzie, 'the boys look at me a bit.' She simpered
slightly. 'Well, once one of them gave me half a bar with a bob check.
He was looking at me in the eye, well! that mashed, I can tell you he
looked like a boiled fish. Sort of inspiration came over me.' She
stopped.
'Well?' asked Victoria, feeling a little nervous.
'Well . . . I . . . I gave him one half crown and three two bob pieces.
Smiled at him. He boned the money quick enough, wanted to touch my hand
you see. Never saw it.'
Victoria thought for a moment. 'Then you gave him eight and six instead
of nine shillings?'
'You've hit it. Bless you, _he_ never knew. Mashed, I can tell _you_.'
'Then you did him out of sixpence?'
'Right. Comes off once in three. Say "sorry" when I'm caught and smile
and it's all right. Never try it twice on the same man.'
'I call that stealing,' said Victoria coldly.
'You can call it what you like,' snarled Lizzie. 'Everything's stealing.
What's business? getting a quid for what costs you a tanner. I'm putting
a bit extra on my wages.'
Victoria shrugged her shoulders. She might have argued with Lizzie as
she had once argued with Gertie, but the vague truth that lurked in
Lizzie's economics had deprived her of argument. Could theft sometimes
be something else than theft? Were all things theft? And above all, did
the acceptance of a woman's hand as bait justify the hooking of a
sixpence?
As Victoria left for home that night she felt restless. She could not go
to bed so soon. She walked through the silent city lanes; meeting
nothing, save now and then a cat on the prowl, or a policeman trying
doors and flashing his bull's eye through the gratings of banks. The
crossing at Mansion House was still busy with the procession of
omnibuses converging at the feet of the Duke of Wellington. Drays, too
heavily loaded, rumbled slowly past towards Liverpool Street. She turned
northwards, walked quickly through the desert. At Liverpool Street
station she stopped in the blaze of light. A few doors away stood a
shouting butcher praying the passers-by to buy his pretty meat. Further:
a fishmonger's stall, an array of glistening black shapes on white
marble, a tobacconist, a jeweller--all aglow with coruscating light. And
over all, the blazing light of arc lamps, under which an unending stream
of motor cabs, lorries, omnibuses passed in kaleidoscopic colours. In
the full glare of a lamp post stood a woman, her feet in the gutter. She
was short, stunted, dirty and thin of face and body. Round her wretched
frame a filthy black coat was tightly buttoned; her muddy skirt seemed
almost falling from her shrunken hips. Crushed on her sallow face,
hiding all but a few wisps of hair, was a battered black straw hat. With
one arm she carried a child, thin of face too, and golden-haired. On its
upper lip a crusted sore gleamed red and brown. In her other hand she
held out a tin lid, in which were five boxes of matches.
Victoria looked at the silent watcher and passed on. A few minutes later
she remembered her and a fearful flood of insight rushed upon her. The
child? Then this, this creature had known love? A man had kissed those
shrivelled lips. Something like a thrill of disgust ran through her.
That such things as these could love and mate and bear children was
unspeakable; the very touch of them was loathsome, their love akin to
unnatural vice.
As she walked further into Shoreditch the impression of horror grew on
her. It was not that the lanes and little streets abutting into the High
Street were full of terrors when pitch dark, or more sinister still in
the pale yellow light of a single gas lamp; the High Street itself,
filled with men and women, most of them shabby, some loudly dressed in
crude colours, shouting, laughing, jostling one another off the footpath
was more terrible, for its joy of life was brutal as the joy of the
pugilist who feels his opponent's teeth crunch under his fist.
At a corner, near a public house blazing with lights, a small crowd
watched two women who were about to fight. They had not come to blows
yet; their duel was purely Homeric. Victoria listened with greedy horror
to the terrible recurrence of half a dozen words.
A child squirmed through the crowd, crying, and caught one of the
fighters by her skirt.
'Leave go . . . I'll rive the guts out 'o yer.'
With a swing of the body the woman sent the child flying into the
gutter. Victoria hurried from the spot. She made towards the West now,
between the gin shops, the barrows under their blazing naphtha lamps.
She was afraid, horribly afraid.
Sitting alone in her attic, her hands crossed before her, questions
intruded upon her. Why all this pain, this violence, by the side of
life's graces? Could it be that one went with the other, indissolubly?
And could it be altered before it was too late, before the earth was
flooded, overwhelmed with pain?
She slipped into bed and drew the horsecloth over her ears. The world
was best shut out.