A certain hesitancy checks me upon the appearance of Wilfrid Strauss in
this narration; even though I am aware how easy and profitable it is to
philosophize upon the _deus ex machina_; how it is entertaining to
demonstrate that from the flimsiest accidentals the most stalwart
essentials depend. Yet the Wilfrid Strauss phase in Philip's
development is not so much to be considered a stalwart essential as an
exact statement of accounts, a period, a signpost whose backward arm
pointed to obscure chaos, whose forward arm pointed at least to clearer
issues, more breadth, more light. It is probable that one Strauss and
another had from time to time come into some sort of contact with
Philip, for in such communities as Whitechapel, Brownlow Hill and
Doomington, from the turbid mass of Jewish tailordom a type perpetually
emerges which is volatile, swift, scornful of the mere labour of hands,
ostentatious of the agile intellectual qualities which make the type
invaluable for undertakings rarely entirely scrupulous. If previously,
then, Philip had encountered a Strauss in embryo or in maturity, there
was no point at which their respective strengths and weaknesses had
met. Yet, in point of fact, it is Eulalie et Cie., Paris, of undefined
occupations, who have kept this particular and actual Mr. Wilfrid
Strauss too busily engaged, on the Rue de Rivoli and in Leicester
Square, for his appearance before this date in the lesser thoroughfares
of Doomington. And it is not possible to declare that Strauss, as he
swaggered gently down Transfer Street from the Inland Station, would
have met Philip Massel on any other afternoon than the May afternoon in
the year of Philip's history I have now attained.
Philip had hoped, earnestly enough, as his old associations faded more
and more completely out of his life, to pass beyond the fog of
strangeness which shrouded from him the heart and meaning of Doomington
School. But he was forced to realize that volition was by no means
adequate to achieve this purpose; for the paradoxical truth was borne
in upon him, that, as he stood, he was somehow absurdly too young and
inconceivably too old to take his place simply among the rest. The
problem was to be resolved only by deliberate action, and action was
wholly beyond his reach. He could drift sombrely with the tide of his
own ineffectual melancholy, but the lassitude that softened his limbs
prevented him from striking out against the current.
He fell into the habit, therefore, of following for long hours the
similar roads of Doomington, the amorphous monster which had always
stretched so vaguely, so inscrutably, beyond his own steely horizons.
In one direction you reached the museum where the mummies were embalmed
in such fatuous splendour; southward lay the University galleries where
the skeleton of some immense, extinct beast swung terrifyingly from the
roof. Northward the road led far and far away to a place where
suddenly three chimneys sprang like giants against the throat of the
sky. Or in the centre of the city, at the extremes of the bibliophilic
world, were the handcarts whose books concerned themselves mainly with
the salvation of your soul, and the plate-glass-windowed shops of
Messrs. Dobrett and Lees and Messrs. Hornel, whose books were
recommended as admirable companions for your motor tours under the
Pyrenees and your yachting cruises in the Mediterranean.
It was a lifeless youth, sick at heart, prematurely flotsam, he
mourned, on the indifferent waters of life, who passed one afternoon
under the shadow of the Stock Exchange, along Transfer Street and in
the direction of Consort Square, where his defunct Highness stood
isolated and unhappy among the conflicting currents of tramcars. But
Philip saw nothing, heard nothing clearly, and paused not even a moment
before the innumerable display of the latest Rhodesian novel behind the
windows of Messrs. Dobrett and Lees' shop. A book swung vacantly
between finger and thumb as he walked vacantly along. And he was so
startled when a distinguished young stranger stopped him to ask a
question that the book slipped to the ground. Not so much the sudden
vision of what Philip conceived to be the most immaculate of grey
tweeds as the easy refinement of the young gentleman's voice took him
aback. Philip flushed and bent down towards the book.
"Oh, allow me, allow me!" said the stranger. "It was entirely my
fault!" He stooped gallantly, lifted the book, and with a mauve silk
handkerchief flicked, off the Doomington dust.
"Thank you!" said Philip. "No, really, it was my fault! I forgot I
was holding it!"
The other made a courtly gesture of remonstrance. "This is the way,
isn't it," he repeated, "to Blenheim Road?"
Philip considered a moment. "It's rather complicated if you've not
been there before. You see, you've first got to turn to the left. And
then, let me see ... Or you might take the car ... But look here, I'm
not doing anything special just now. If you'd like, I could..."
There was something attractively full-blooded about the stranger,
though it was true that the gloss--there seemed hardly another
word--the almost boot-polish perfection of his appearance, was a little
overwhelming. It would be easy enough to put him on the Brownel Gap
car which would lead him to the top end of Blenheim Road. Yet Philip
felt somehow reluctant to disattach himself so promptly from the
stranger, to allow him merely to merge into the tumult and mist.
"If I dared to encroach..." hesitated the polite young man. It was, of
course, an unworthy sentiment, particularly in a Communistic bosom ...
and yet one could not help feeling that to be seen talking to a
stranger of this calibre was rather a distinction. All the people he
had rubbed shoulders with to-day, what dull faces they had, threadbare
suits, dry lips mouthing "Cotton, cotton, cotton!" even to themselves!
This young man was wearing the most smartly tailored of grey tweed
suits, shoes of metropolitan brilliance, a velours hat whose ample
brims shadowed, expensively, quick green eyes, a slightly squat nose,
and lips attuned, as one might judge from a slight thickness and their
broad curves, to Bacchic riot and to kissing, even, it might well be,
to the more recondite pleasures of the flesh. The last thought checked
Philip. Yes, there was something full-blooded to the verge of
coarseness in that mouth! Wasn't all this talk about taxis and one's
own little two-seater, a hell of a scooter, you know, just a little too
ostentatious? After all, a gentleman in the complete sense of the word
could deduce from one's clothes, for instance...
The stranger interrupted himself suddenly, then stared at Philip with
some intentness. Then he lifted his forefinger to his nose and asked
"_Zog mir, bist a Yid_? Tell me, thou art a Jew?"
Not merely the intonation of the voice had changed, so that the cadence
of Leicester Square had subtly become the chant of the _Yeshiveh_, but
its very timbre was different, thicker, more ingenuous, infinitely more
homely.
"_Ich bin!_" replied Philip, perhaps a little stiffly.
"So you're one of us then, eh? well, all's well! I want you to help
me, kid!"
A note of _bonhommie_ had entered the voice. "You say you can come
along this way, can you? Good! Do you mind? I'm going to take you
into my confidence, if you'll let me!"
Philip blinked. He felt a momentary difficulty in his breathing, as if
he had been running. A little sudden, one might think....
"What do you say to just getting in here for a moment till we see where
we are?" They withdrew into the doorway of a block of offices. "The
fact is, I've got a job which is going to keep me in and about
Doomington for a few months and I don't know a soul in the place. To
tell the truth, I've managed to avoid Doomington till now.... Now
isn't that a tactful thing to say to a native! I suppose you _do_
belong to the place, don't you? But look here, you don't mind me
buttonholing you like this, do you now? Perfect stranger and that sort
of thing!"
There was no doubt he was a thoroughly engaging young fellow. And at
this moment Allen of the Sixth passed by, a celebrated swell so far as
school swells went. Allen looked merely dowdy now, with his somewhat
down-at-heel brown brogues and the silver braid round his prefectorial
cap coming loose at the peak. Philip was sure that Allen had glanced a
little enviously towards himself and with real respect at the stranger.
But who could resist the dapper waist cunningly conferred upon the
young man by some prince of tailors?
"It's very decent of you indeed!" Philip muttered. "I appreciate it.
You know if I can be of any help at all, I'll be only too pleased!"
A grin extended the corners of the stranger's mouth. He almost ogled
Philip as he replaced finger to ever-so-slightly-aquiline nose.
"A charming little speech, charming! I'm developing my theories about
you, so help me! A lady's man, that's what you are, a regular lady's
man! One has met your type, you know, up and down the place!"
Philip was not over pleased by this invariable insistence on the part
of strangers that he was a "lady's man," that he had a "way with him,"
that they had "met your type, you know, up and down the place!" He
coughed a little awkwardly. "I hate women!" he declared with vivid
retrospect and pained conviction.
The other laughed a little too loudly. "And a jolly good joke, ha, ha!
Hate women--gee, what an idea! But more of the ladies anon! Let's
just settle the matter in hand!" He made a motion towards the suit
case at his feet.
"Let me take your bag!" demanded Philip, with tardy politeness.
"Not for a moment! It's quite light, anyhow. My real luggage is at
the station and it's as much as I'm worth with Eulalie et Cie.--my
employers, you know, Paris,"--he paused to give the information its
exact importance,--"as much as I'm worth to let this little Johnny out
of my hand, God bless it! But listen, I've got something to ask you.
Would you first tell me your name? Pardon? Massel! Oh, yes; good
name, solid! Here's mine!"
He tenderly replaced his bag between his feet and withdrew a card from
an expensive leather case. "Wilfrid Strauss, _né_ Wolfie, but don't
tell any one! You can't sell ladies' vanities and
gentlemen's--er--gentlemen's comforts, don't you know, with a name like
Wolfie, can you now?"
Philip slightly demurred.
Strauss lifted eyebrows of fleeting disapproval. "_Wolfie_, impossible
patronymic! Tell me now, I want to get into a Jewish boarding house.
You see the Doomington trade is absolutely in Jewish hands and they're
threatening to undercut ... but don't let me talk shop! How about it?
Blenheim Road is the sort of district, I understand? I don't generally
associate myself with the Only Race, as you can perhaps appreciate, so
to speak, but you're beginning to see the line of attack, eh?"
Philip pressed his shoulder blades against the wall to re-establish his
sense of reality. "Quite so, quite so!" he replied weakly.
"You can be of help to me, old man, if you would? I mean, you know the
local ropes and that's half the game!"
At least here was Strauss adumbrating interests definite, if not
exalted, some sort of _terminus ad quem_. How nauseatingly void and
vain had life in Doomington become!
Strauss proceeded. "Another thing! I've developed a sudden consuming
passion for, what d'you call 'em, _creplach_, absolutely soaked in
_shmaltz_, you know the sort ... and potato _blintsies_ ... and let me
see, there's _mameliggy_, um, yes, _mameliggy_!"
Memories of the curiously-flavoured Roumanian dish as served on special
occasions by Mrs. Sewelson vividly presented themselves.
"Oh, so you're a Roumanian, Mr. ... I mean, Strauss?" Philip juxtaposed.
"No, no, don't misunderstand! One of my great pals in the old Mincing
Lane days, Rupert Kahn--poor devil, he's doing twelve months now,
somebody told me--was engaged to a _Roumanische nekaveh_ for a time,
till he made off with the engagement rings and her silver combs, and
you couldn't blame him either--calves like the hind legs of an
elephant.--Oh, appalling! ... But I say, don't you think we'd better
be moving on?" Strauss interrupted himself. They emerged from the
doorway and Strauss slipped his arm through Philip's as though the dawn
of their acquaintance was already ancient history.
"Where the hell am I wandering off to, Massel, old dear?" Strauss
speculated. "I'm afraid I'm a trifle light-headed. It must be that
champagne the Inland Company so beneficently provide, eh? Half a
bottle of fizz always cuts more of a dash than a whole of Sauterne,
although it's not strictly the thing for lunch, would you say? Still,
it's worth the difference, every time! What's your preference?"
"I'm afraid I'm not much of a connoisseur myself! Palestine's wine's
about as far as I've gone, with occasional whiskey and
_lekkach_"--Strauss looked puzzled--"you know, those curly little
cakes! It's not been quite my line, somehow!"
"Poor old thing!" mused Strauss. "You've not moved very far and that's
a fact! At about your age--I think my calculations are right--I'd
spent three or four week-ends with Marjorie in Brighton ... Oh, curse
the man! Him and his dirty Doomington manners!" The youth scowled
uglily. Somebody, evidently displeased by the expansive manner Strauss
had adopted for his procession down Transfer Street, had thrust a
vicious elbow into the grey tweed waist. For one horrible moment it
seemed that Strauss was mobilizing his resources for a punitive
expectoration, but the West End reassumed control in time and Strauss
continued:--
"Oh, yes, Brighton, Marjorie, as I was saying! That girl was a sponge,
nothing more or less! She'd just open her mouth and pour the stuff
down like rainwater pouring down a spout. Gee, that's a while ago now!
Still, I don't think--damn those motors!--a show like Transfer Street
is the place for one's confessions, what do you say? One oughtn't to
let oneself rip like this, but you've got the sort of face one can
trust, Massel, if I may say so. Somehow I generally manage to land on
my feet when I arrive in a strange town, though I take no credit to
myself for it, mark you! I remember once, first time I landed in
Bordeaux ... But for God's sake let's go somewhere and have some tea.
Then we can discuss the boarding-house business and the way the wind
blows in Doomington. How do you feel about it?"
They had arrived some time ago at the point where Transfer Street
crosses the pride of the city, the thoroughfare called Labour Street.
A stream of vehicles passing transversely had held them up, but when at
last the policeman raised a hand in potent arrest, the two youths
crossed and found themselves facing the Crystal Café.
"This looks rather the kind of place!" exclaimed Strauss. "What's it
like?"
The inside of the gilded eating-houses that threw the glare of their
lamps and the smells of their cooking into Labour Street had hitherto
occupied Philip's attention for a curious moment at most. His
ignorance seemed now to be a grave lacuna in his education. "Sorry,
not the vaguest idea!" he protested ruefully.
"Hold, I hear music! Say, boy, I guess we'll try the dandy li'l place
right now!" declared Strauss, with an artful introduction of the
appropriate accent. They entered, and the host ordered a delicate meal
with some grandeur. Philip found the marble-faced walls a little ugly,
but distinctly rich and impressive. The gentlemen in the orchestra he
found also ugly, also distinctly rich and impressive; particularly the
florid gentleman at the piano, whose moustache wandered so persistently
into his mouth that he gave up the attempt to blow it away and
endeavoured to reconcile himself to the taste. He was so very
inflated, would the sudden puncture of a pin dismiss him into thin air?
Anyhow the marble seemed solid enough. Philip surreptitiously passed
his hand along the marble behind him to assure himself. His head was
in a whirl. His friendship with the garrulous, glittering youth
(Strauss made dainty play with his fingers to display two quite
admirable rings, and there was a gleam of gold cuff-links from
shirt-sleeves which he seemed deliberately to have pulled down an
excessive inch), his friendship with Strauss had developed at so
kinematic a speed that he was half afraid he could hear himself panting
over the chocolate éclairs.
At least he had breath enough to tender such information as he
possessed concerning Jewish boarding-houses, the people who might be
considered the "swells" of the community, which synagogues would
provide the happiest hunting-grounds for chase not strictly specified,
and a number of kindred affairs. He discovered that he was usefuller
than he had anticipated. He said to himself humorously that he was
blossoming into a man of the world. Much fascinating conversation, or
more strictly, monologue, followed, on matters less professional. It
was laid down as axiomatic that every young fellow under eighteen,
worth the least grain of his salt, knew what's what--a phrase Philip
had already encountered, but here, obviously, endowed with a more
intimate meaning than hitherto. When Strauss requested him to choose
between the Turkish and Russian compartments of his cigarette case, he
felt it behoved him to patronize the Turkish, for a recondite technical
reason which at once did high credit to his own imagination and
satisfactorily impressed his friend. A number of entertaining
adventures were narrated by Strauss, illustrative of the nature of
what's what. There was Flo in the punt at Richmond. Oh, of course, a
married woman, she was! But then her own husband had introduced her
with a wink which meant merely, "Go ahead, Wilfrid, old duck, go
ahead!" And there was silly old Bobby--insisted on wearing a wedding
ring at Bournemouth, and Jimmy Gluckstein had spread the news that he'd
settled down in decent matrimony. Did a chap no end of harm, that sort
of thing! And, 'struth, yes, ha, ha, ha! that ducky little French bit,
Flory! Her mother, moaning with toothache, had interrupted them at
about two in the morning. There'd only just been time to slip under
the bed. And it was March, too, March in Paris! From two till seven
in the morning, mark you! Grr-grr! ... From Strauss's enjoyment of the
tale one could not help deducing that he felt, at least after this
lapse of time; that his part in the episode was indisputably the most
enjoyable, even the most dignified.... And oh, yes, talking about
four-posters ... there was Fanny ... you should have heard ... another
cigarette? ... and when her real boy came ... camisole ... about time
we went ... Oh no, no, don't mention it!..."
Yes, of course, Philip would be delighted to accompany Strauss to Mrs.
Levinsky's, in Blenheim Road. But wait a moment, why not try Mrs.
Lipson's, in Brownel Gap, next door to Halick, the dentist? It was
quite near to both the Reformed and the Portuguese Synagogues, a useful
base for operations.... And it was at Mrs. Lipson's that Philip saw
Strauss duly installed--after a dalliance in a bar parlour where
Strauss drank a cocktail to fortify himself against the shock of his
resumption into his tribe's bosom, and where Philip, school cap stuffed
mournfully into trousers pocket, could not but accept a port and lemon
for "old time's sake."
"You'll be certain, Philip, to call round for me to-morrow about
twelve!" exhorted Strauss, as Philip at last left him that evening.
"What's that, school? Oh, bother it, I forgot! Good old Philip,
sitting at a nice desk doing multiplication sums and putting his hand
up with the answer!"
"Look here!" Philip objected rawly. Yet it was difficult to shake off
the temptation to believe that from more than one point of view, this,
after all, was a fair epitome of scholastic labour. "School's all
right! There's a good deal in it beyond books and things!" he
reflected with some wistfulness. But the basement
playground-restaurant compared rather dingily, he was uncomfortably
conscious, with the blare and marble of the Crystal Café.
"Well, you're outgrowing it pretty quickly, I can say that for you!
What do you say to coming round to-morrow evening? You could take me
the round of the district ... and what about a music hall to wind up
with?"
"I can't let you do all this for me! It wouldn't be playing the game!
I mean we've only met to-day and I don't know anything about the
business side of things, and you see I don't get much money myself. I
just give lessons to a master-tailor...."
"Don't be absurd, old boy! I'll expect you to do the same for me, with
interest, when I'm down on my luck! Not a word more! Five o'clock,
you think? Good! Well, so long, old dear! Take a Turkish to smoke on
the way home!"
"Er--thanks! So long! Till to-morrow!"
At the appointed time next day, at the very door of Mrs. Lipson's
boarding-house, Philip was seized with a sudden vehement impulse to
turn his back upon his new friend, simmering enthusiastically somewhere
beyond those _kosher_ portals. Where after all was it leading to? The
most insensitive nostril could not fail to register the faint odour of
corruption which hung about Wilfrid Strauss. Somehow that impeccable
grey tweed suit was more shoddy than the corduroys of that poor old
devil trundling a wheelbarrow beside the gutter. Yet whither did all
the other roads lead? Whatever the landscape on the journey, whatever
pitiful doctrine guided you, where else but to a Wheatley cemetery,
damp clay, a towsled dog barking emptily? And how was Strauss less
valiant a companion thither than Harry and Alec and the rest? If he
preferred to chase, not the shadow, but the glittering substance, who
could blame him? A fine specimen he himself had become! Hardly a
person in Doomington to talk to; at home the unresponsive books--Swift
and Lamb beginning to gesticulate as little intelligibly as his faded
poets; at school, still the unsealed barriers! Nothing left but to
moon about the streets, remembering, regretting--hoping never. What,
indeed, was there to hope for? The old loyalties were annulled, the
old dreams crumbled! Heigh-ho, thank God for Wilfrid Strauss and for
noise, Life! It was a chap's duty to himself to know what Life meant
before Life had done with him, thrown him aside into that long, narrow
dustbin....
He knocked. The sound came sharp and clear like a challenge against
the tedium which had been stupefying him for so weary a time.
Strauss was delighted, charmed. He had been troubled by spasmodic
doubts as the afternoon wore on. Would Massel turn up after all?
There was something in the lad he couldn't quite fathom, something
which might turn Philip away from him in the mysterious manner so many
people he had particularly wished to please had, from time to time,
turned away. He hoped he'd turn up if only to save him the strenuous
necessity of discovering somebody else likely to show him the ropes
economically. Besides, there was something distinctly pleasing about
the youth. If only he'd dress a little better.... Anyhow, he was
going to be useful if merely as a guide--though one couldn't call him
exactly a business man. He'd more than repay the price of a tea and a
theatre now and again. And if he'd only allow himself to be initiated
into the business, what confidence he would arouse in the most chary
breast!
There was a value in Philip's friendship Strauss did not recognize so
consciously. It gave him a peculiar satisfaction to observe the
deference that Philip naively paid to his exhibition of nis vanities; a
satisfaction increased by the knowledge that Philip was a "college
lad." It was amusing to gibe at "college lads," to be sure, and one
didn't actually desire to be a "college lad," yet one could not help
vulgarly and secretly envying them.... In any case, it's easy enough
to get rid of a chap when he's outlived his use. Hadn't he already
made that discovery often enough? Time enough for that ... "Come in,
old man, come in! Risk a whiskey and soda?"
The tawdry gaieties Strauss had in his command followed in bewildering
succession. Books seemed to become less and less important as the
furtive weeks passed by. If a memory of his mother came palely before
him, he would the more speedily betake himself to the company of
Wilfrid Strauss. It was difficult to retain those old musics of
Shelley when the brass bellowed windily across the Regent
Roller-Skating Rink, and the girls cackled in your ear. No long time
elapsed before Strauss had made the rounds of the less reputable cafés,
the more shady music halls, and, finally, the Doomington Zoological
Gardens, with their alfresco dancing at the borders of the lake. The
delights of the gardens were only vitiated for Philip by the inexorable
custom which demanded that each male should at rigid intervals kiss his
paramour--"strag" was the recognized term--in the ludicrously
inadequate shelter of a laurel shrub.
There followed more than these. There followed Kate and her lazy eyes
and the yelp of her animal laughter.
"Deeper, deeper, deeper!" became the insistent burden in Philip's
brain. Closer round his feet the mud was gathering. Yet against this
one thing he long managed to stand out, though Strauss would return to
him, rubbing his eyes sleepily, or smacking his lips with luxurious
appreciation. Delicately Strauss would suggest how illogical his
position was, how, seeing it was necessary to take the plunge sooner or
later, why not now, old sport?
Why not? More and more cynical his solitary mind was becoming, ever
the more solitary as Strauss and he were more closely entangled in the
cult of their pleasures. What else did women mean? They would die, he
would die, securely enough all of them, whatsoever happened in the
interspace. Alec's old philosophy was gaining new confirmation. What
inhibitions did Life hold by which a youth should not probe for the
honey of experience, each flower, chaste or poisonous, that opened to
the sun or moon?
"Feivele!" ventured Reb Monash to him one _shabbos_ morning, "Tell me,
what is this lord's son that takes thee about? I saw thee with him in
Brownel Gap on Tuesday when I was going to Rabbi Shimmon. Thou didst
not see me, no? Or maybe it suits thee not--when thou art with thy
lord's son? The town talks! Tell me then, what wills he with thee?
It likes me him not!"
"Oh, for God's sake, _tatte_...!"
For one moment the flame of the extinguished conflict seemed to glower
and spit from Philip's eyes. Then he recovered himself. He stared
into the pallor of his father's cheeks, avoiding the eyes, avoiding the
deep lines of fatigue about the corners of his mouth. "Nothing,
_tatte_, a friend! What will you?" Reb Monash was about to express
his unease with another question when he too checked himself and the
shadow of this new friendship lay between them, heavy, unexplained.
But when next Strauss seductively introduced the name of Kate into the
conversation, Philip shouted suddenly, at the top of his voice--and in
Cambridge Street, "Go to the devil, you're a swine!" He turned
savagely on his heel and attempted for four evenings to attain
emancipation in the Doomington Reference Library. He had not power
enough, however, after the dull prostration of these months, to resist
the suave note of apology and invitation which arrived for him on the
fifth morning. A little public house near the skating rink the same
evening found them closer friends than before.
Channah was not so easily subdued as Reb Monash. She had heard ugly
reports--the girls at the hat factory were very eloquent on the
subject--concerning Mr. Strauss and his "goings on." "Oh, Philip,
Philip, there's a dear! Won't you now ... come, Feivele! Oh, do give
him up! I hate him, I hate him! Give him up for my sake!" ... She
returned frequently to the attack and knew devastatingly where his
defences were weakest. "Not for me, give him up for mother's sake!"
Philip temporized. He'd think about it. What was all the worry about;
couldn't he take care of himself? Channah, really, old girl, what on
earth was there to sing about?
"But think! What would she have said? She'd have..."
"She'd have loved him! Just those little ways that any woman..."
"Any woman! That's just what I said!"
"Oh, shut up, Channah, for Heaven's sake, shut up!"
The collapse came suddenly. It was a shoddy enough affair. When
Strauss left him with Kate in Kate's house in Carnford Avenue in order
to repair next door with her friend, Patsy of the broad bosom and the
yellow hair, what was there for the youth to do, when Kate with
half-closed eyes, through soft lips purred, "Coming, honey?" what was
there but thickly to reply, "I'm following, Kate!" while the temples
beat like hammers and the banisters seemed clammy with desire and shame.
Somewhat intently Dorah examined him when he returned to Longton next
morning. She dropped into the Yiddish suitable for the expression of
deep feeling. "_Nu_, and where hast thou been all night? Not enough
for thee to come in at twelve, at one, but thou must spend the night
too! What was? Thy socialistic friends or thy wonderful Lord
Backstreet? _Blegatchies_, knockabouts, thy whole brotherhood!"
Philip winced. "Astronomy!" he declared sickly. "We've been examining
a new ... a new comet!"
"It is no good for thee, thy Astronomy!" she declared categorically.
"Thou art a tablecloth! An evening indoors with a book would do thee
no harm. Or thou hast forgotten how to read, say?"
All that day he spent sitting in his own bedroom, a closed book before
him, staring into the wall-paper beyond. Neither thoughts nor emotions
stirred within him; only somewhere far down, there was a sensation as
of a finger plucking at the strings of an instrument.
He had arranged to see Kate once more, about a week later. There was
no conflict now. Heavily he saw the clock fingers creeping towards the
hour of his appointment, and listlessly he closed the door behind him.
A cool, clear evening was about them as Strauss and Philip repaired
towards Carnford Avenue, with a wind in their faces which, in higher
levels, was chasing clouds like yachts along the channels of the sky.
As Kate's door closed behind them, the passing wind seemed to Philip a
hand which had endeavoured to seize his coat, but, failing, moaned and
subsided in the dark threshold of the house.
The sensation of something calling and something forsworn did not
desert him. Now it was once more a wind attempting to circumvent the
crooked chimney and sobbing away at length with a rattle in its throat.
Now it was a finger of flame leaping from the fire in sudden appeal, or
the sight of his own face in a looking-glass, curiously impressing upon
him the fact that he had not only brought one self to this place, but
many selves, some of whom had once played a seemlier part in the comedy
of his days than he who now produced a distracted image in Kate's
looking-glass.
Conversation flowed in the room like beer from a public house tap,
surfaced with froth and smelling stalely. He was talking with the
others, but the lips seemed to be as much another's as his own, the
lips of one over whom he had triumphed once and again, but who was
triumphing now. Wilfrid Strauss seemed a mannikin manufactured from a
pliant glass, though he showed his rings and crossed his legs as if his
limbs were flesh and bone; transparent almost he seemed, so that the
ugly design of the wall-paper was not intercepted by his contour;
almost brittle, as if, were someone to handle him roughly, he would
fall to the ground in fragments tinkling sharply. And when finally he
withdrew with Patsy, the peculiar illusion remained with Philip that he
had never in his life encountered a person whose farcical name was
Wilfrid Strauss.
Yet when the woman whispered "Come!" the friend of Wilfrid Strauss did
not disobey. The wind was still clawing at the window-pane as they
entered her room. It was only when his eyes were closing in sleep that
he saw moonlight invade the room and heard the wind wailing in the last
horizon.
When he awoke the room was aflood with moonlight. It flowed over the
bed making the sheets and counterpane cloth of silver. The walls
dropped from the ceiling in straight falls of frozen mist, the floor
shone like a beaten metal. It seemed to him that a voice came upon the
path of the moonrays, a voice not of sound but light, saying: Go! If
it was the mother who had seemed to be dead or perhaps--could it
be?--that woman he had met once in the central gloom of Doomington and
whom he could so clearly envision now, he could not decide--that woman
who had long ago taken him to her bed on the night when he had fled
from his early terrors. Or perhaps it was none other than his own
voice--for he was about to break free at last--insistently saying, Go,
do not delay!
It was with no sense of shame that he rose from the bed and dressed
quietly in that wizard room. In this world of cool clear beauty, at
this time of vision, shame had no place. Had he departed from beauty,
from vision? He would return thither again.
Kate's hair lay over her face as she slept. He bent and smoothed her
hair aside and moved away quietly.
He opened the front door of the house and walked along the deserted
pavement of Carnford Avenue. Walking was not swift enough, it was too
deliberate. He ran, his limbs loosely swinging over the dark streets.
He ran effortlessly like a deer glimpsed through woods. He had no
consciousness of direction and though he ran far he was not fatigued.
No thought kept pace beside him beyond the knowledge of his running.
A policeman appeared suddenly from the gloom of a shop entrance. He
brought down his hand menacingly on Philip's shoulder. Philip stopped
dead.
"Just a tick, my fine young feller!" the policeman exclaimed. "Where
are you coming from?"
"From Babylon!" Philip shouted. "Let me go! Get out of my way!"
"B--b--babel--what?" the policeman stammered. His upraised arm fell to
his side. The lad was fifty yards away, once more running swiftly and
evenly. Yet no! He wasn't a burglar! It wasn't that! He wasn't
carrying anything, and he certainly wasn't frightened! Drunk? Oh no,
not drunk! Well then, what the 'ell? If it came to anybody being
frightened...! He lifted his helmet, passed his hand over his hair and
withdrew again into the shop entrance.
Baxter's Hill! No sense of recognition or surprise arrested Philip
when he found himself skirting the foot of the hill and, before long,
running over the grassy path by the Mitchen River. Here he had found
escape before to-night, here wall after wall that girdled the city of
his slaveries had come crashing down! But as he left the bridge behind
him and followed two or three broad curves of the river, out toward the
cleaner spaces of water, he was conscious only that his strength was
almost spent and his feet were dragging. Suddenly he collapsed. His
legs gave way at the knees and his forehead fell into thick grass. The
strange elation which had impelled him into the night, in a single
moment deserted him. His body was racked with misery, his face
twitched. With a last effort he turned his body round, stretched out
his arms, and lay staring into passionless night. Stark misery held
him clamped to the ground.
Vain and vain, he felt, his life had been, his life consummated now by
this last treachery! Each of his little philosophies had but pandered
to his conceit, to his sentimental stupidities, immured him the more
closely in the stinking castle of Self. Sex had led him away and he
had wallowed in its sty--he who had been granted, by his living mother
and his dead, the surest path into open spaces and a wind from the
sea....
So for some time in this black despair he reproached himself with
having at no time accepted the clean way; as having been always odious,
an insect in rotten wood. The mood passed. Another came, not armed
with talons, but cold, profound, like a fog. How long this mood lasted
there can be no telling. Yet it was at the very heart of this
desolation that he became aware of a warmth and a benediction which had
descended upon him. His face was being soothed with the contact of
kindly flesh! He heard the breathing of an animal. At last he knew
that a horse was moving its soft mouth up and down his face, assuring
him that now he might throw aside his sorrow, enter once more into the
company of innocent things. A few yards away he perceived another
horse grazing, a misty sweetness against the background of night. The
beauty of the arched line of its neck seemed almost to arrest his
heart. The horse over him, as having achieved its intent, brought its
head away. He could hear the champing of its jaws, the tearing of
grass.
The lad looked steadily towards the waned stars and the clear moon.
Much lay behind him, he knew. More lay in front of him. Beyond the
bridge along the road, deep in his city, lay a little thing and a
great, the first republic, School, whose citizenship he must yet earn.
He had moved there hitherto with averted eyes, a stranger. Thence
great affairs and greater expanded circle-wise, beyond race, beyond
country, beyond even the gigantic world, out beyond the moon, the sun;
even--he laughed aloud--even into the hazard of the very stars.
He rose from the grass and walked over to the water's edge. The air
was warm with the new summer. The two horses moved about near him,
like friends. He was young, young! Come, it would be morning soon!
Was a sleepy bird already singing a first song?
He slipped off his clothes swiftly and dived into the water. When he
rose again, the water-drops flung from his hair gleamed like gems. It
was cold, harshly, superbly cold; but he shouted for joy as he struck
for the bank in the first breath of the morning. The horses rubbed
their noses together and communed.
GLOSSARY
(_The following Yiddish words--mainly, of course, of Hebrew or German
extraction--are spelt in such a fashion as rather to recall their
actual pronunciation than to indicate what is often a dubious or mixed
origin._)
_Becher_. Beaker.
_Blintsie_. A thin cake, usually of mashed potatoes, and fried in oil.
_Bobbie_. Grandmother.
_Chayder_. A Hebrew school.
_Chazan_. A professional cantor at services.
_Davenning_. The reciting of prayers, which must not be interrupted by
extraneous matter.
_Folg mir_. Obey me.
_Gollus_. The dispersion; the exile.
_Goyishke_. Gentile (adj.).
_Ligner_. Liar.
_Machzer_. Festival prayer-book.
_Maggid_. Professional orator.
_Minchah_. Afternoon service.
_Minyon_. The quorum of ten worshippers for prayer.
_Mishkosheh_. Be content; that will do.
_Mitzvah_. Lit. a command; hence, a pious act.
_Nekaveh_. A female.
_Perinny_. An exaggerated eiderdown.
_Shabbos_. The Sabbath Day, Saturday, on which, among many
prohibitions, it is forbidden to ride.
_Shiksah_. A Gentile girl.
_Shmaltz_. Fat, usually of fowls.
_Shmeis_. To give a whipping.
_Shool_. Synagogue.
_Takke_. Indeed.
_Tallus and Tephilim_. Praying-shawl and phylacteries.
_Yamelke_. Skull-cap.
_Yeshiveh_. A highly advanced _chayder_.
_Yom tov_. Lit. a good day; hence, festival.
_Zadie_. Grandfather.
_The Mayflower Press, Plymouth, England_. William Brendon & Son, Ltd.