About half-past nine Jacob left the house, his door slamming, other
doors slamming, buying his paper, mounting his omnibus, or, weather
permitting, walking his road as other people do. Head bent down, a desk,
a telephone, books bound in green leather, electric light.... "Fresh
coals, sir?" ... "Your tea, sir."... Talk about football, the Hotspurs,
the Harlequins; six-thirty Star brought in by the office boy; the rooks
of Gray's Inn passing overhead; branches in the fog thin and brittle;
and through the roar of traffic now and again a voice shouting:
"Verdict--verdict--winner--winner," while letters accumulate in a
basket, Jacob signs them, and each evening finds him, as he takes his
coat down, with some muscle of the brain new stretched.
Then, sometimes a game of chess; or pictures in Bond Street, or a long
way home to take the air with Bonamy on his arm, meditatively marching,
head thrown back, the world a spectacle, the early moon above the
steeples coming in for praise, the sea-gulls flying high, Nelson on his
column surveying the horizon, and the world our ship.
Meanwhile, poor Betty Flanders's letter, having caught the second post,
lay on the hall table--poor Betty Flanders writing her son's name, Jacob
Alan Flanders, Esq., as mothers do, and the ink pale, profuse,
suggesting how mothers down at Scarborough scribble over the fire with
their feet on the fender, when tea's cleared away, and can never, never
say, whatever it may be--probably this--Don't go with bad women, do be a
good boy; wear your thick shirts; and come back, come back, come back to
me.
But she said nothing of the kind. "Do you remember old Miss Wargrave,
who used to be so kind when you had the whooping-cough?" she wrote;
"she's dead at last, poor thing. They would like it if you wrote. Ellen
came over and we spent a nice day shopping. Old Mouse gets very stiff,
and we have to walk him up the smallest hill. Rebecca, at last, after I
don't know how long, went into Mr. Adamson's. Three teeth, he says, must
come out. Such mild weather for the time of year, the little buds
actually on the pear trees. And Mrs. Jarvis tells me--"Mrs. Flanders
liked Mrs. Jarvis, always said of her that she was too good for such a
quiet place, and, though she never listened to her discontent and told
her at the end of it (looking up, sucking her thread, or taking off her
spectacles) that a little peat wrapped round the iris roots keeps them
from the frost, and Parrot's great white sale is Tuesday next, "do
remember,"--Mrs. Flanders knew precisely how Mrs. Jarvis felt; and how
interesting her letters were, about Mrs. Jarvis, could one read them
year in, year out--the unpublished works of women, written by the
fireside in pale profusion, dried by the flame, for the blotting-paper's
worn to holes and the nib cleft and clotted. Then Captain Barfoot. Him
she called "the Captain," spoke of frankly, yet never without reserve.
The Captain was enquiring for her about Garfit's acre; advised chickens;
could promise profit; or had the sciatica; or Mrs. Barfoot had been
indoors for weeks; or the Captain says things look bad, politics that
is, for as Jacob knew, the Captain would sometimes talk, as the evening
waned, about Ireland or India; and then Mrs. Flanders would fall musing
about Morty, her brother, lost all these years--had the natives got him,
was his ship sunk--would the Admiralty tell her?--the Captain knocking
his pipe out, as Jacob knew, rising to go, stiffly stretching to pick up
Mrs. Flanders's wool which had rolled beneath the chair. Talk of the
chicken farm came back and back, the women, even at fifty, impulsive at
heart, sketching on the cloudy future flocks of Leghorns, Cochin Chinas,
Orpingtons; like Jacob in the blur of her outline; but powerful as he
was; fresh and vigorous, running about the house, scolding Rebecca.
The letter lay upon the hall table; Florinda coming in that night took
it up with her, put it on the table as she kissed Jacob, and Jacob
seeing the hand, left it there under the lamp, between the biscuit-tin
and the tobacco-box. They shut the bedroom door behind them.
The sitting-room neither knew nor cared. The door was shut; and to
suppose that wood, when it creaks, transmits anything save that rats are
busy and wood dry is childish. These old houses are only brick and wood,
soaked in human sweat, grained with human dirt. But if the pale blue
envelope lying by the biscuit-box had the feelings of a mother, the
heart was torn by the little creak, the sudden stir. Behind the door was
the obscene thing, the alarming presence, and terror would come over her
as at death, or the birth of a child. Better, perhaps, burst in and face
it than sit in the antechamber listening to the little creak, the sudden
stir, for her heart was swollen, and pain threaded it. My son, my
son--such would be her cry, uttered to hide her vision of him stretched
with Florinda, inexcusable, irrational, in a woman with three children
living at Scarborough. And the fault lay with Florinda. Indeed, when the
door opened and the couple came out, Mrs. Flanders would have flounced
upon her--only it was Jacob who came first, in his dressing-gown,
amiable, authoritative, beautifully healthy, like a baby after an
airing, with an eye clear as running water. Florinda followed, lazily
stretching; yawning a little; arranging her hair at the
looking-glass--while Jacob read his mother's letter.
Let us consider letters--how they come at breakfast, and at night, with
their yellow stamps and their green stamps, immortalized by the
postmark--for to see one's own envelope on another's table is to realize
how soon deeds sever and become alien. Then at last the power of the
mind to quit the body is manifest, and perhaps we fear or hate or wish
annihilated this phantom of ourselves, lying on the table. Still, there
are letters that merely say how dinner's at seven; others ordering coal;
making appointments. The hand in them is scarcely perceptible, let alone
the voice or the scowl. Ah, but when the post knocks and the letter
comes always the miracle seems repeated--speech attempted. Venerable are
letters, infinitely brave, forlorn, and lost.
Life would split asunder without them. "Come to tea, come to dinner,
what's the truth of the story? have you heard the news? life in the
capital is gay; the Russian dancers...." These are our stays and props.
These lace our days together and make of life a perfect globe. And yet,
and yet ... when we go to dinner, when pressing finger-tips we hope to
meet somewhere soon, a doubt insinuates itself; is this the way to spend
our days? the rare, the limited, so soon dealt out to us--drinking tea?
dining out? And the notes accumulate. And the telephones ring. And
everywhere we go wires and tubes surround us to carry the voices that
try to penetrate before the last card is dealt and the days are over.
"Try to penetrate," for as we lift the cup, shake the hand, express the
hope, something whispers, Is this all? Can I never know, share, be
certain? Am I doomed all my days to write letters, send voices, which
fall upon the tea-table, fade upon the passage, making appointments,
while life dwindles, to come and dine? Yet letters are venerable; and
the telephone valiant, for the journey is a lonely one, and if bound
together by notes and telephones we went in company, perhaps--who
knows?--we might talk by the way.
Well, people have tried. Byron wrote letters. So did Cowper. For
centuries the writing-desk has contained sheets fit precisely for the
communications of friends. Masters of language, poets of long ages, have
turned from the sheet that endures to the sheet that perishes, pushing
aside the tea-tray, drawing close to the fire (for letters are written
when the dark presses round a bright red cave), and addressed themselves
to the task of reaching, touching, penetrating the individual heart.
Were it possible! But words have been used too often; touched and
turned, and left exposed to the dust of the street. The words we seek
hang close to the tree. We come at dawn and find them sweet beneath the
leaf.
Mrs. Flanders wrote letters; Mrs. Jarvis wrote them; Mrs. Durrant too;
Mother Stuart actually scented her pages, thereby adding a flavour which
the English language fails to provide; Jacob had written in his day long
letters about art, morality, and politics to young men at college. Clara
Durrant's letters were those of a child. Florinda--the impediment
between Florinda and her pen was something impassable. Fancy a
butterfly, gnat, or other winged insect, attached to a twig which,
clogged with mud, it rolls across a page. Her spelling was abominable.
Her sentiments infantile. And for some reason when she wrote she
declared her belief in God. Then there were crosses--tear stains; and
the hand itself rambling and redeemed only by the fact--which always did
redeem Florinda--by the fact that she cared. Yes, whether it was for
chocolate creams, hot baths, the shape of her face in the looking-glass,
Florinda could no more pretend a feeling than swallow whisky.
Incontinent was her rejection. Great men are truthful, and these little
prostitutes, staring in the fire, taking out a powder-puff, decorating
lips at an inch of looking-glass, have (so Jacob thought) an inviolable
fidelity.
Then he saw her turning up Greek Street upon another man's arm.
The light from the arc lamp drenched him from head to toe. He stood for
a minute motionless beneath it. Shadows chequered the street. Other
figures, single and together, poured out, wavered across, and
obliterated Florinda and the man.
The light drenched Jacob from head to toe. You could see the pattern on
his trousers; the old thorns on his stick; his shoe laces; bare hands;
and face.
It was as if a stone were ground to dust; as if white sparks flew from a
livid whetstone, which was his spine; as if the switchback railway,
having swooped to the depths, fell, fell, fell. This was in his face.
Whether we know what was in his mind is another question. Granted ten
years' seniority and a difference of sex, fear of him comes first; this
is swallowed up by a desire to help--overwhelming sense, reason, and the
time of night; anger would follow close on that--with Florinda, with
destiny; and then up would bubble an irresponsible optimism. "Surely
there's enough light in the street at this moment to drown all our cares
in gold!" Ah, what's the use of saying it? Even while you speak and look
over your shoulder towards Shaftesbury Avenue, destiny is chipping a
dent in him. He has turned to go. As for following him back to his
rooms, no--that we won't do.
Yet that, of course, is precisely what one does. He let himself in and
shut the door, though it was only striking ten on one of the city
clocks. No one can go to bed at ten. Nobody was thinking of going to
bed. It was January and dismal, but Mrs. Wagg stood on her doorstep, as
if expecting something to happen. A barrel-organ played like an obscene
nightingale beneath wet leaves. Children ran across the road. Here and
there one could see brown panelling inside the hall door.... The march
that the mind keeps beneath the windows of others is queer enough. Now
distracted by brown panelling; now by a fern in a pot; here improvising
a few phrases to dance with the barrel-organ; again snatching a detached
gaiety from a drunken man; then altogether absorbed by words the poor
shout across the street at each other (so outright, so lusty)--yet all
the while having for centre, for magnet, a young man alone in his room.
"Life is wicked--life is detestable," cried Rose Shaw.
The strange thing about life is that though the nature of it must have
been apparent to every one for hundreds of years, no one has left any
adequate account of it. The streets of London have their map; but our
passions are uncharted. What are you going to meet if you turn this
corner?
"Holborn straight ahead of you," says the policeman. Ah, but where are
you going if instead of brushing past the old man with the white beard,
the silver medal, and the cheap violin, you let him go on with his
story, which ends in an invitation to step somewhere, to his room,
presumably, off Queen's Square, and there he shows you a collection of
birds' eggs and a letter from the Prince of Wales's secretary, and this
(skipping the intermediate stages) brings you one winter's day to the
Essex coast, where the little boat makes off to the ship, and the ship
sails and you behold on the skyline the Azores; and the flamingoes rise;
and there you sit on the verge of the marsh drinking rum-punch, an
outcast from civilization, for you have committed a crime, are infected
with yellow fever as likely as not, and--fill in the sketch as you like.
As frequent as street corners in Holborn are these chasms in the
continuity of our ways. Yet we keep straight on.
Rose Shaw, talking in rather an emotional manner to Mr. Bowley at Mrs.
Durrant's evening party a few nights back, said that life was wicked
because a man called Jimmy refused to marry a woman called (if memory
serves) Helen Aitken.
Both were beautiful. Both were inanimate. The oval tea-table invariably
separated them, and the plate of biscuits was all he ever gave her. He
bowed; she inclined her head. They danced. He danced divinely. They sat
in the alcove; never a word was said. Her pillow was wet with tears.
Kind Mr. Bowley and dear Rose Shaw marvelled and deplored. Bowley had
rooms in the Albany. Rose was re-born every evening precisely as the
clock struck eight. All four were civilization's triumphs, and if you
persist that a command of the English language is part of our
inheritance, one can only reply that beauty is almost always dumb. Male
beauty in association with female beauty breeds in the onlooker a sense
of fear. Often have I seen them--Helen and Jimmy--and likened them to
ships adrift, and feared for my own little craft. Or again, have you
ever watched fine collie dogs couchant at twenty yards' distance? As she
passed him his cup there was that quiver in her flanks. Bowley saw what
was up-asked Jimmy to breakfast. Helen must have confided in Rose. For
my own part, I find it exceedingly difficult to interpret songs without
words. And now Jimmy feeds crows in Flanders and Helen visits hospitals.
Oh, life is damnable, life is wicked, as Rose Shaw said.
The lamps of London uphold the dark as upon the points of burning
bayonets. The yellow canopy sinks and swells over the great four-poster.
Passengers in the mail-coaches running into London in the eighteenth
century looked through leafless branches and saw it flaring beneath
them. The light burns behind yellow blinds and pink blinds, and above
fanlights, and down in basement windows. The street market in Soho is
fierce with light. Raw meat, china mugs, and silk stockings blaze in it.
Raw voices wrap themselves round the flaring gas-jets. Arms akimbo, they
stand on the pavement bawling--Messrs. Kettle and Wilkinson; their wives
sit in the shop, furs wrapped round their necks, arms folded, eyes
contemptuous. Such faces as one sees. The little man fingering the meat
must have squatted before the fire in innumerable lodging-houses, and
heard and seen and known so much that it seems to utter itself even
volubly from dark eyes, loose lips, as he fingers the meat silently, his
face sad as a poet's, and never a song sung. Shawled women carry babies
with purple eyelids; boys stand at street corners; girls look across the
road--rude illustrations, pictures in a book whose pages we turn over
and over as if we should at last find what we look for. Every face,
every shop, bedroom window, public-house, and dark square is a picture
feverishly turned--in search of what? It is the same with books. What do
we seek through millions of pages? Still hopefully turning the
pages--oh, here is Jacob's room.
He sat at the table reading the Globe. The pinkish sheet was spread flat
before him. He propped his face in his hand, so that the skin of his
cheek was wrinkled in deep folds. Terribly severe he looked, set, and
defiant. (What people go through in half an hour! But nothing could save
him. These events are features of our landscape. A foreigner coming to
London could scarcely miss seeing St. Paul's.) He judged life. These
pinkish and greenish newspapers are thin sheets of gelatine pressed
nightly over the brain and heart of the world. They take the impression
of the whole. Jacob cast his eye over it. A strike, a murder, football,
bodies found; vociferation from all parts of England simultaneously. How
miserable it is that the Globe newspaper offers nothing better to Jacob
Flanders! When a child begins to read history one marvels, sorrowfully,
to hear him spell out in his new voice the ancient words.
The Prime Minister's speech was reported in something over five columns.
Feeling in his pocket, Jacob took out a pipe and proceeded to fill it.
Five minutes, ten minutes, fifteen minutes passed. Jacob took the paper
over to the fire. The Prime Minister proposed a measure for giving Home
Rule to Ireland. Jacob knocked out his pipe. He was certainly thinking
about Home Rule in Ireland--a very difficult matter. A very cold night.
The snow, which had been falling all night, lay at three o'clock in the
afternoon over the fields and the hill. Clumps of withered grass stood
out upon the hill-top; the furze bushes were black, and now and then a
black shiver crossed the snow as the wind drove flurries of frozen
particles before it. The sound was that of a broom sweeping--sweeping.
The stream crept along by the road unseen by any one. Sticks and leaves
caught in the frozen grass. The sky was sullen grey and the trees of
black iron. Uncompromising was the severity of the country. At four
o'clock the snow was again falling. The day had gone out.
A window tinged yellow about two feet across alone combated the white
fields and the black trees .... At six o'clock a man's figure carrying a
lantern crossed the field .... A raft of twig stayed upon a stone,
suddenly detached itself, and floated towards the culvert .... A load of
snow slipped and fell from a fir branch .... Later there was a mournful
cry .... A motor car came along the road shoving the dark before it ....
The dark shut down behind it....
Spaces of complete immobility separated each of these movements. The
land seemed to lie dead .... Then the old shepherd returned stiffly
across the field. Stiffly and painfully the frozen earth was trodden
under and gave beneath pressure like a treadmill. The worn voices of
clocks repeated the fact of the hour all night long.
Jacob, too, heard them, and raked out the fire. He rose. He stretched
himself. He went to bed.