"I rather think," said Jacob, taking his pipe from his mouth, "it's in
Virgil," and pushing back his chair, he went to the window.
The rashest drivers in the world are, certainly, the drivers of
post-office vans. Swinging down Lamb's Conduit Street, the scarlet van
rounded the corner by the pillar box in such a way as to graze the kerb
and make the little girl who was standing on tiptoe to post a letter
look up, half frightened, half curious. She paused with her hand in the
mouth of the box; then dropped her letter and ran away. It is seldom
only that we see a child on tiptoe with pity--more often a dim
discomfort, a grain of sand in the shoe which it's scarcely worth while
to remove--that's our feeling, and so--Jacob turned to the bookcase.
Long ago great people lived here, and coming back from Court past
midnight stood, huddling their satin skirts, under the carved door-posts
while the footman roused himself from his mattress on the floor,
hurriedly fastened the lower buttons of his waistcoat, and let them in.
The bitter eighteenth-century rain rushed down the kennel. Southampton
Row, however, is chiefly remarkable nowadays for the fact that you will
always find a man there trying to sell a tortoise to a tailor. "Showing
off the tweed, sir; what the gentry wants is something singular to catch
the eye, sir--and clean in their habits, sir!" So they display their
tortoises.
At Mudie's corner in Oxford Street all the red and blue beads had run
together on the string. The motor omnibuses were locked. Mr. Spalding
going to the city looked at Mr. Charles Budgeon bound for Shepherd's
Bush. The proximity of the omnibuses gave the outside passengers an
opportunity to stare into each other's faces. Yet few took advantage of
it. Each had his own business to think of. Each had his past shut in him
like the leaves of a book known to him by heart; and his friends could
only read the title, James Spalding, or Charles Budgeon, and the
passengers going the opposite way could read nothing at all--save "a man
with a red moustache," "a young man in grey smoking a pipe." The October
sunlight rested upon all these men and women sitting immobile; and
little Johnnie Sturgeon took the chance to swing down the staircase,
carrying his large mysterious parcel, and so dodging a zigzag course
between the wheels he reached the pavement, started to whistle a tune
and was soon out of sight--for ever. The omnibuses jerked on, and every
single person felt relief at being a little nearer to his journey's end,
though some cajoled themselves past the immediate engagement by promise
of indulgence beyond--steak and kidney pudding, drink or a game of
dominoes in the smoky corner of a city restaurant. Oh yes, human life is
very tolerable on the top of an omnibus in Holborn, when the policeman
holds up his arm and the sun beats on your back, and if there is such a
thing as a shell secreted by man to fit man himself here we find it, on
the banks of the Thames, where the great streets join and St. Paul's
Cathedral, like the volute on the top of the snail shell, finishes it
off. Jacob, getting off his omnibus, loitered up the steps, consulted
his watch, and finally made up his mind to go in.... Does it need an
effort? Yes. These changes of mood wear us out.
Dim it is, haunted by ghosts of white marble, to whom the organ for ever
chaunts. If a boot creaks, it's awful; then the order; the discipline.
The verger with his rod has life ironed out beneath him. Sweet and holy
are the angelic choristers. And for ever round the marble shoulders, in
and out of the folded fingers, go the thin high sounds of voice and
organ. For ever requiem--repose. Tired with scrubbing the steps of the
Prudential Society's office, which she did year in year out, Mrs.
Lidgett took her seat beneath the great Duke's tomb, folded her hands,
and half closed her eyes. A magnificent place for an old woman to rest
in, by the very side of the great Duke's bones, whose victories mean
nothing to her, whose name she knows not, though she never fails to
greet the little angels opposite, as she passes out, wishing the like on
her own tomb, for the leathern curtain of the heart has flapped wide,
and out steal on tiptoe thoughts of rest, sweet melodies.... Old Spicer,
jute merchant, thought nothing of the kind though. Strangely enough he'd
never been in St. Paul's these fifty years, though his office windows
looked on the churchyard. "So that's all? Well, a gloomy old place....
Where's Nelson's tomb? No time now--come again--a coin to leave in the
box.... Rain or fine is it? Well, if it would only make up its mind!"
Idly the children stray in--the verger dissuades them--and another and
another ... man, woman, man, woman, boy ... casting their eyes up,
pursing their lips, the same shadow brushing the same faces; the
leathern curtain of the heart flaps wide.
Nothing could appear more certain from the steps of St. Paul's than that
each person is miraculously provided with coat, skirt, and boots; an
income; an object. Only Jacob, carrying in his hand Finlay's Byzantine
Empire, which he had bought in Ludgate Hill, looked a little different;
for in his hand he carried a book, which book he would at nine-thirty
precisely, by his own fireside, open and study, as no one else of all
these multitudes would do. They have no houses. The streets belong to
them; the shops; the churches; theirs the innumerable desks; the
stretched office lights; the vans are theirs, and the railway slung high
above the street. If you look closer you will see that three elderly men
at a little distance from each other run spiders along the pavement as
if the street were their parlour, and here, against the wall, a woman
stares at nothing, boot-laces extended, which she does not ask you to
buy. The posters are theirs too; and the news on them. A town destroyed;
a race won. A homeless people, circling beneath the sky whose blue or
white is held off by a ceiling cloth of steel filings and horse dung
shredded to dust.
There, under the green shade, with his head bent over white paper, Mr.
Sibley transferred figures to folios, and upon each desk you observe,
like provender, a bunch of papers, the day's nutriment, slowly consumed
by the industrious pen. Innumerable overcoats of the quality prescribed
hung empty all day in the corridors, but as the clock struck six each
was exactly filled, and the little figures, split apart into trousers or
moulded into a single thickness, jerked rapidly with angular forward
motion along the pavement; then dropped into darkness. Beneath the
pavement, sunk in the earth, hollow drains lined with yellow light for
ever conveyed them this way and that, and large letters upon enamel
plates represented in the underworld the parks, squares, and circuses of
the upper. "Marble Arch--Shepherd's Bush"--to the majority the Arch and
the Bush are eternally white letters upon a blue ground. Only at one
point--it may be Acton, Holloway, Kensal Rise, Caledonian Road--does the
name mean shops where you buy things, and houses, in one of which, down
to the right, where the pollard trees grow out of the paving stones,
there is a square curtained window, and a bedroom.
Long past sunset an old blind woman sat on a camp-stool with her back to
the stone wall of the Union of London and Smith's Bank, clasping a brown
mongrel tight in her arms and singing out loud, not for coppers, no,
from the depths of her gay wild heart--her sinful, tanned heart--for the
child who fetches her is the fruit of sin, and should have been in bed,
curtained, asleep, instead of hearing in the lamplight her mother's wild
song, where she sits against the Bank, singing not for coppers, with her
dog against her breast.
Home they went. The grey church spires received them; the hoary city,
old, sinful, and majestic. One behind another, round or pointed,
piercing the sky or massing themselves, like sailing ships, like granite
cliffs, spires and offices, wharves and factories crowd the bank;
eternally the pilgrims trudge; barges rest in mid stream heavy laden; as
some believe, the city loves her prostitutes.
But few, it seems, are admitted to that degree. Of all the carriages
that leave the arch of the Opera House, not one turns eastward, and when
the little thief is caught in the empty market-place no one in
black-and-white or rose-coloured evening dress blocks the way by pausing
with a hand upon the carriage door to help or condemn--though Lady
Charles, to do her justice, sighs sadly as she ascends her staircase,
takes down Thomas a Kempis, and does not sleep till her mind has lost
itself tunnelling into the complexity of things. "Why? Why? Why?" she
sighs. On the whole it's best to walk back from the Opera House. Fatigue
is the safest sleeping draught.
The autumn season was in full swing. Tristan was twitching his rug up
under his armpits twice a week; Isolde waved her scarf in miraculous
sympathy with the conductor's baton. In all parts of the house were to
be found pink faces and glittering breasts. When a Royal hand attached
to an invisible body slipped out and withdrew the red and white bouquet
reposing on the scarlet ledge, the Queen of England seemed a name worth
dying for. Beauty, in its hothouse variety (which is none of the worst),
flowered in box after box; and though nothing was said of profound
importance, and though it is generally agreed that wit deserted
beautiful lips about the time that Walpole died--at any rate when
Victoria in her nightgown descended to meet her ministers, the lips
(through an opera glass) remained red, adorable. Bald distinguished men
with gold-headed canes strolled down the crimson avenues between the
stalls, and only broke from intercourse with the boxes when the lights
went down, and the conductor, first bowing to the Queen, next to the
bald-headed men, swept round on his feet and raised his wand.
Then two thousand hearts in the semi-darkness remembered, anticipated,
travelled dark labyrinths; and Clara Durrant said farewell to Jacob
Flanders, and tasted the sweetness of death in effigy; and Mrs. Durrant,
sitting behind her in the dark of the box, sighed her sharp sigh; and
Mr. Wortley, shifting his position behind the Italian Ambassador's wife,
thought that Brangaena was a trifle hoarse; and suspended in the gallery
many feet above their heads, Edward Whittaker surreptitiously held a
torch to his miniature score; and ... and ...
In short, the observer is choked with observations. Only to prevent us
from being submerged by chaos, nature and society between them have
arranged a system of classification which is simplicity itself; stalls,
boxes, amphitheatre, gallery. The moulds are filled nightly. There is no
need to distinguish details. But the difficulty remains--one has to
choose. For though I have no wish to be Queen of England or only for a
moment--I would willingly sit beside her; I would hear the Prime
Minister's gossip; the countess whisper, and share her memories of halls
and gardens; the massive fronts of the respectable conceal after all
their secret code; or why so impermeable? And then, doffing one's own
headpiece, how strange to assume for a moment some one's--any one's--to
be a man of valour who has ruled the Empire; to refer while Brangaena
sings to the fragments of Sophocles, or see in a flash, as the shepherd
pipes his tune, bridges and aqueducts. But no--we must choose. Never was
there a harsher necessity! or one which entails greater pain, more
certain disaster; for wherever I seat myself, I die in exile: Whittaker
in his lodging-house; Lady Charles at the Manor.
A young man with a Wellington nose, who had occupied a
seven-and-sixpenny seat, made his way down the stone stairs when the
opera ended, as if he were still set a little apart from his fellows by
the influence of the music.
At midnight Jacob Flanders heard a rap on his door.
"By Jove!" he exclaimed. "You're the very man I want!" and without more
ado they discovered the lines which he had been seeking all day; only
they come not in Virgil, but in Lucretius.
"Yes; that should make him sit up," said Bonamy, as Jacob stopped
reading. Jacob was excited. It was the first time he had read his essay
aloud.
"Damned swine!" he said, rather too extravagantly; but the praise had
gone to his head. Professor Bulteel, of Leeds, had issued an edition of
Wycherley without stating that he had left out, disembowelled, or
indicated only by asterisks, several indecent words and some indecent
phrases. An outrage, Jacob said; a breach of faith; sheer prudery; token
of a lewd mind and a disgusting nature. Aristophanes and Shakespeare
were cited. Modern life was repudiated. Great play was made with the
professional title, and Leeds as a seat of learning was laughed to
scorn. And the extraordinary thing was that these young men were
perfectly right--extraordinary, because, even as Jacob copied his pages,
he knew that no one would ever print them; and sure enough back they
came from the Fortnightly, the Contemporary, the Nineteenth
Century--when Jacob threw them into the black wooden box where he kept
his mother's letters, his old flannel trousers, and a note or two with
the Cornish postmark. The lid shut upon the truth.
This black wooden box, upon which his name was still legible in white
paint, stood between the long windows of the sitting-room. The street
ran beneath. No doubt the bedroom was behind. The furniture--three
wicker chairs and a gate-legged table--came from Cambridge. These houses
(Mrs. Garfit's daughter, Mrs. Whitehorn, was the landlady of this one)
were built, say, a hundred and fifty years ago. The rooms are shapely,
the ceilings high; over the doorway a rose, or a ram's skull, is carved
in the wood. The eighteenth century has its distinction. Even the
panels, painted in raspberry-coloured paint, have their distinction....
"Distinction"--Mrs. Durrant said that Jacob Flanders was
"distinguished-looking." "Extremely awkward," she said, "but so
distinguished-looking." Seeing him for the first time that no doubt is
the word for him. Lying back in his chair, taking his pipe from his
lips, and saying to Bonamy: "About this opera now" (for they had done
with indecency). "This fellow Wagner" ... distinction was one of the
words to use naturally, though, from looking at him, one would have
found it difficult to say which seat in the opera house was his, stalls,
gallery, or dress circle. A writer? He lacked self-consciousness. A
painter? There was something in the shape of his hands (he was descended
on his mother's side from a family of the greatest antiquity and deepest
obscurity) which indicated taste. Then his mouth--but surely, of all
futile occupations this of cataloguing features is the worst. One word
is sufficient. But if one cannot find it?
"I like Jacob Flanders," wrote Clara Durrant in her diary. "He is so
unworldly. He gives himself no airs, and one can say what one likes to
him, though he's frightening because ..." But Mr. Letts allows little
space in his shilling diaries. Clara was not the one to encroach upon
Wednesday. Humblest, most candid of women! "No, no, no," she sighed,
standing at the greenhouse door, "don't break--don't spoil"--what?
Something infinitely wonderful.
But then, this is only a young woman's language, one, too, who loves, or
refrains from loving. She wished the moment to continue for ever
precisely as it was that July morning. And moments don't. Now, for
instance, Jacob was telling a story about some walking tour he'd taken,
and the inn was called "The Foaming Pot," which, considering the
landlady's name ... They shouted with laughter. The joke was indecent.
Then Julia Eliot said "the silent young man," and as she dined with
Prime Ministers, no doubt she meant: "If he is going to get on in the
world, he will have to find his tongue."
Timothy Durrant never made any comment at all.
The housemaid found herself very liberally rewarded.
Mr. Sopwith's opinion was as sentimental as Clara's, though far more
skilfully expressed.
Betty Flanders was romantic about Archer and tender about John; she was
unreasonably irritated by Jacob's clumsiness in the house.
Captain Barfoot liked him best of the boys; but as for saying why ...
It seems then that men and women are equally at fault. It seems that a
profound, impartial, and absolutely just opinion of our fellow-creatures
is utterly unknown. Either we are men, or we are women. Either we are
cold, or we are sentimental. Either we are young, or growing old. In any
case life is but a procession of shadows, and God knows why it is that
we embrace them so eagerly, and see them depart with such anguish, being
shadows. And why, if this--and much more than this is true, why are we
yet surprised in the window corner by a sudden vision that the young man
in the chair is of all things in the world the most real, the most
solid, the best known to us--why indeed? For the moment after we know
nothing about him.
Such is the manner of our seeing. Such the conditions of our love.
("I'm twenty-two. It's nearly the end of October. Life is thoroughly
pleasant, although unfortunately there are a great number of fools
about. One must apply oneself to something or other--God knows what.
Everything is really very jolly--except getting up in the morning and
wearing a tail coat.")
"I say, Bonamy, what about Beethoven?"
("Bonamy is an amazing fellow. He knows practically everything--not more
about English literature than I do--but then he's read all those
Frenchmen.")
"I rather suspect you're talking rot, Bonamy. In spite of what you say,
poor old Tennyson...."
("The truth is one ought to have been taught French. Now, I suppose, old
Barfoot is talking to my mother. That's an odd affair to be sure. But I
can't see Bonamy down there. Damn London!") for the market carts were
lumbering down the street.
"What about a walk on Saturday?"
("What's happening on Saturday?")
Then, taking out his pocket-book, he assured himself that the night of
the Durrants' party came next week.
But though all this may very well be true--so Jacob thought and
spoke--so he crossed his legs--filled his pipe--sipped his whisky, and
once looked at his pocket-book, rumpling his hair as he did so, there
remains over something which can never be conveyed to a second person
save by Jacob himself. Moreover, part of this is not Jacob but Richard
Bonamy--the room; the market carts; the hour; the very moment of
history. Then consider the effect of sex--how between man and woman it
hangs wavy, tremulous, so that here's a valley, there's a peak, when in
truth, perhaps, all's as flat as my hand. Even the exact words get the
wrong accent on them. But something is always impelling one to hum
vibrating, like the hawk moth, at the mouth of the cavern of mystery,
endowing Jacob Flanders with all sorts of qualities he had not at
all--for though, certainly, he sat talking to Bonamy, half of what he
said was too dull to repeat; much unintelligible (about unknown people
and Parliament); what remains is mostly a matter of guess work. Yet over
him we hang vibrating.
"Yes," said Captain Barfoot, knocking out his pipe on Betty Flanders's
hob, and buttoning his coat. "It doubles the work, but I don't mind
that."
He was now town councillor. They looked at the night, which was the same
as the London night, only a good deal more transparent. Church bells
down in the town were striking eleven o'clock. The wind was off the sea.
And all the bedroom windows were dark--the Pages were asleep; the
Garfits were asleep; the Cranches were asleep--whereas in London at this
hour they were burning Guy Fawkes on Parliament Hill.