II._Two Sides of the Face: Midwinter Tales

I chose Ambleteuse because it was there that I had written the greater

part of _Larks in Aspic_. I went again to my old quarters at Madame

Peyron's. As before, I eschewed company, excursions, all forms of violent

exercise. I bathed, ate, drank, slept, rambled along the sands, or lay on

my back and stared at the sky, smoking and inviting my soul. In short, I

reproduced all the old conditions. But in vain! At Ambleteuse, no less

than in London, the Muse either retreated before my advances, or, when I

sat still and waited, kept her distance, declining to be coaxed.

Matters were really growing serious. Three weeks had drifted by with not

a line and scarcely an idea to show for them; and the morning's post had

brought me a letter from Cozens, of the Duke of Cornwall's, begging for

(at least) a scenario of the new piece. My play (he said) would easily

last this season out; but he must reopen in the autumn with a new one,

and--in short, weren't we beginning to run some risk?

I groaned, crushed the letter into my pocket, and by an effort of will put

the tormenting question from me until after my morning bath. But now the

time was come to face it. I began weakly by asking myself why the

dickens I--with enough for my needs--had bound myself to write this

thing within a given time, at the risk of turning out inferior work.

For that matter, why should I write a comedy at all if I didn't want to?

These were reasonable questions, and yet they missed the point.

The point was that I had given my promise to Cozens, and that Cozens

depended on it. Useless to ask now why I had given it! At the time I

could have promised cheerfully to write him three plays within as many

months.

So full my head was then, and so empty now! A grotesque and dreadful

suspicion took me. While Trewlove tortured himself to my model,

was I, by painful degrees, exchanging brains with him? I laughed; but I

was unhinged. I had been smoking too many cigarettes during these three

weeks, and the vampire thought continued to flit obscenely between me and

the pure seascape. I saw myself the inheritor of Trewlove's cast-off

personality, his inelegancies of movement, his religious opinions, his

bagginess at the knees, his mournful, pensile whiskers--

This would never do! I must concentrate my mind on the play.

Let me see--The title can wait. Two married couples have just been

examined at Dunmow, and awarded the 'historic' flitch for conjugal

happiness. Call them A and Mrs. A, B and Mrs. B. On returning to the

hotel with their trophies, it is discovered that B and Mrs. A are old

flames, while each finds a mistaken reason to suspect that A and Mrs. B

have also met years before, and at least dallied with courtship. Thus

while their spouses alternately rage with suspicion and invent devices to

conceal their own defaults, A and Mrs. B sit innocently nursing their

illusions and their symbolical flitches. The situation holds plenty of

comedy, and the main motive begins to explain itself. Now then for

anagnorisis, comic peripeteia, division into acts, and the rest of the

wallet!

I smoked another two cigarettes and flung away a third in despair.

Useless! The plaguey thing refused to take shape. I sprang up and paced

the sands, dogged by an invisible Cozens piping thin reproaches above the

hum of the breakers.

Suddenly I came to a halt. Why _this_ play? Why expend vain efforts on

this particular complication when in a drawer at home lay two acts of a

comedy ready written, and the third and final act sketched out? The

burden of months broke its straps and fell from me as I pondered. _My

Tenant_ was the name of the thing, and I had thrust it aside only when the

idea of _Larks in Aspic_ occurred to me--not in any disgust. And really,

now, what I remembered of it seemed to me astonishingly good!

I pulled out my watch, and as I did so there flashed on me--in that sudden

freakish way which the best ideas affect--a new and brilliant idea for the

plot of _My Tenant_. The whole of the third and concluding act spread

itself instantaneously before me. I knew then and there why the play had

been laid aside. It had waited for this, and it wanted only this. I held

the thing now, compact and tight, within my five fingers: as tight and

compact as the mechanism of the watch in my hand.

But why had I pulled out the watch? Because the manuscript of

_My Tenant_ lay in the drawer of my writing-table in the Cromwell Road,

and I was calculating how quickly a telegram would reach Trewlove with

instructions to find and forward it. Then I bethought me that the lock

was a patent one, and that I carried the key with me on my private

key-chain. Why should I not cross from Calais by the next boat and

recover my treasure? It would be the sooner in my possession. I might be

reading it again that very night in my own home and testing my discovery.

I might return with it on the morrow--that is, if I desired to return.

After all, Ambleteuse had failed me. In London, I could shut myself up

and work at white heat. In London, I should be near Cozens: a telegram

would fetch him out to South Kensington within the hour, to listen and

approve. (I had no doubt of his approval.) In London, I should renew

relations with the real Trewlove--the familiar, the absurd. I will not

swear that for the moment I thought of Trewlove at all: but he remained at

the back of my mind, and at Calais I began the process of precipitating

him (so to speak) by a telegram advertising him of my return, and

requesting that my room might be prepared.

I had missed the midday boat, and reached Dover by the later and slower

one as the June night began to descend. From Victoria I drove straight to

my club, and snatched a supper of cold meats in its half-lit dining-room.

Twenty minutes later I was in my hansom again and swiftly bowling

westward--I say 'bowling' because it is the usual word, and I was in far

too fierce a hurry to think of a better.

I had dropped back upon London in the fastest whirl of the season, and at

the hour when all the world rolls homeward from the theatres. Two hansoms

raced with mine, and red lights by the score dotted the noble slope of

Piccadilly. To the left the street-lamps flung splashes of theatrical

green on the sombre boughs of the Green Park. In one of the porticos to

the right half a dozen guests lingered for a moment and laughed together

before taking their leave. One of them stood on the topmost steps,

lighting a cigarette: he carried his silk-lined Inverness over his arm--so

sultry the night was--and the ladies wore but the slightest of wraps over

their bright frocks and jewels. One of them as we passed stepped forward,

and I saw her dismissing her brougham. A night for walking, thought the

party: and a fine night for sleeping out of doors, thought the

road-watchman close by, watching them and meditatively smoking behind his

barricade hung with danger-lanterns. Overhead rode the round moon.

It is the fashion to cry down London, and I have taken my part in the

chorus; but always--be the absence never so short--I come back to her with

the same lift of the heart. Why did I ever leave her? What had I gone

a-seeking in Ambleteuse?--a place where a man leaves his room only to

carry his writing-desk with him and plant it by the sea. London offered

the only true recreation. In London a man might turn the key on himself

and work for so long as it pleased him. But let him emerge, and--pf!--the

jostle of the streets shook his head clear of the whole stuffy business.

No; decidedly I would not return to Madame Peyron's. London for me, until

my comedy should be written, down to the last word on the last page!

We were half way down the Cromwell Road when I took this resolution, and

at once I was aware of a gathering of carriages drawn up in line ahead and

close beside the pavement. At intervals the carriages moved forward a few

paces and the line closed up; but it stretched so far that I soon began to

wonder which of my neighbours could be entertaining on a scale so

magnificent.

"What number did you say, sir?" the cabman asked through his trap.

"Number 402," I called up.

"Blest if I can get alongside the pavement then," he grumbled.

He was a surly man.

"Never mind that. Pull up opposite Number 402 and I'll slip between.

I've only my bag to carry."

"Didn't know folks was so gay in these outlyin' parts," he

commented sourly, and closed the trap, but presently opened it again.

His horse had dropped to a walk. "Did you say four-nought-two?" he asked.

"Oh, confound it--yes!" I was growing impatient.

He pulled up and began to turn the horse's head.

"Hi! What are you doing?"

"Goin' back to the end of the line--back to take our bloomin' turn," he

answered wearily. "Four-nought-two, you said, didn't you?"

"Yes, yes; are you deaf? What have I to do with this crowd?"

"I hain't deaf, but I got eyes. Four-nought-two's where the horning's up,

that's all."

"The horning? What's that?"

"Oh, I'm tired of egsplanations. A horning's a horning, what they put up

when they gives a party; leastways," he added reflectively, "_Hi_ don't."

"But there's no party at Number 402," I insisted. "The thing's

impossible."

"Very well, then; I'm a liar, and that ends it." He wheeled again and

began to walk his horse sullenly forward. "'Oo's blind this time?" he

demanded, coming to a standstill in front of the house.

An awning stretched down from the front door and across the pavement,

where two policemen guarded the alighting guests from pressure by a small

but highly curious crowd. Overhead, the first-floor windows had been

flung wide; the rooms within were aflame with light; and, as I grasped the

rail of the splashboard, and, straightening myself up, gazed over the

cab-roof with a wild surmise into the driver's face, a powerful but

invisible string band struck up the 'Country Girl' Lancers!

"'Oo's a liar now?" He jerked his whip towards the number "402" staring

down at me from the illuminated pane above the awning.

"But it 'is my own house!" I gasped.

"Hoh?" said he. "Well, it _may_ be. _I_ don't conteraddict."

"Here, give me my bag!" I fumbled in my pocket for his fare.

"Cook giving a party? Well, you're handy for the Wild West out here--good

old Earl's Court!" He jerked his whip again towards the awning as a North

American Indian in full war-paint passed up the steps and into the house,

followed by the applause of the crowd.

I must have overpaid the man extravagantly, for his tone changed suddenly

as he examined the coins in his hand. "Look here, guvnor, if you want any

little 'elp, I was barman one time at the 'Elephant'--"

But I caught up my bag, swung off the step, and, squeezing between a

horse's wet nose and the back of a brougham, gained the pavement, where a

red-baize carpet divided the ranks of the crowd.

"Hullo!" One of the policemen put out a hand to detain me.

"It's all right," I assured him; "I belong to the house." It seemed a

safer explanation than that the house belonged to me.

"Is it the ices?" he asked.

But I ran up the porchway, eager to get to grips with Trewlove.

On the threshold a young and extremely elegant footman confronted me.

"Where is Trewlove?" I demanded.

The footman was glorious in a tasselled coat and knee-breeches, both of

bright blue. He wore his hair in powder, and eyed me with suspicion if

not with absolute disfavour.

"Where is Trewlove?" I repeated, dwelling fiercely on each syllable.

The ass became lightly satirical. "Well we may wonder," said he; "search

the wide world over! But reely and truly you've come to the wrong 'ouse

this time. Here, stand to one side!" he commanded, as a lady in the

costume of La Pompadour, followed by an Old English Gentleman with an

anachronistic Hebrew nose, swept past me into the hall. He bowed

deferentially while he mastered their names, "Mr. and Mrs. Levi-Levy!" he

cried, and a second footman came forward to escort them up the stairs. To

convince myself that this was my own house I stared hard at a bust of

Havelock--my late uncle's chief, and for religious as well as military

reasons his _beau ideal_ of a British warrior.

The young footman resumed. "When you've had a good look round and seen

all you want to see--"

"I am Mr. Richardson," I interrupted; "and up to a few minutes ago I

supposed myself to be the owner of this house. Here--if you wish to

assure yourself--is my card."

His face fell instantly, fell so completely and woefully that I could not

help feeling sorry for him. "I beg pardon, sir--most 'umbly, I do indeed.

You will do me the justice, sir--I had no idea, as _per_ description, sir,

being led to expect a different kind of gentleman altogether.

"You had my telegram, then?"

"Telegram, sir?" He hesitated, searching his memory.

"Certainly--a telegram sent by me at one o'clock this afternoon, or

thereabouts--"

Here, with an apology, he left me to attend to a new arrival--a Yellow

Dwarf with a decidedly music-hall manner, who nudged him in the stomach

and fell upon his neck exclaiming, "My long-lost brother!"

"Cert'nly, sir. You will find the _company_ upstairs, sir."

The young man disengaged himself with admirable dignity and turned again

to me. "A telegram did you say--"

"Addressed to 'Trewlove, 402, Cromwell Road.'"

"William!" He summoned another footman forward. "This gentleman is

inquiring for a telegram sent here this afternoon, addressed 'Trewlove'."

"There was such a telegram," said William. "I heard Mr. Horrex

a-discussing of it in the pantry. The mistress took the name for a

telegraphic address, and sent it back to the office, saying there must be

some mistake."

"But I sent it myself!"

"Indeed, sir?"

"It contained an order to get my room ready."

"This gentleman is Mr. Richardson," explained the younger footman.

"Indeed, sir?" William's face brightened. "In that case there's no 'arm

done, for your room is ready, and I laid out your dress myself.

Mr. 'Erbert gave particular instructions before going out."

"Mr. Herbert?" I gazed around me blankly. Who in the name of wonder was

Mr. Herbert?

"If you will allow me, sir," suggested William, taking my bag, while the