I
They went on, God knows how, for two years. Always in debt, always
harassed, gradually going down and down, their style of living always
deteriorating, themselves becoming more indifferent, more slovenly.
They ate their meals in the kitchen, horrible meals of fried chopped
meat and eternal potatoes. The little child was pallid and
under-nourished, they bought milk for her dutifully, but Minnie had
perverted her appetite with sweets and all sorts of rubbish, and she
refused to drink it, unless it were made ‘tasty’ with coffee or tea.
Minnie even did the family washing, with incredible labour and pitiful
results: Lionel went about dressed in greyish shirts and streaked soft
collars. At first he suffered, but very soon he forgot to notice.
Horace helped them generously, without question. But under Minnie’s
influence, Lionel learned to feel no gratitude, even to feel resentful.
For some reason the childless Horace was held morally responsible for
their child. He didn’t do enough, in fact, he _couldn’t_ have done
enough; the most fantastic sacrifice would not have sufficed. Lionel
rarely went to see him, and when he did, was constrained and formal. He
communicated with him by means of letters very unpleasant to receive. He
was no longer a friend or a brother, he was--metaphors fail for his
sex--he was the male equivalent of a milch cow, of the goose that laid
the golden egg. No one realised how the poor fellow suffered from this
exploitation.
Lionel was a ruined man, his health impaired by Minnie’s loving cooking,
his soul debauched by her dogma. He had never been resolute or original;
his strength had lain in his conventionality, his acceptance of the
principles taught him by others. And this faith in his tradition Minnie
had stifled, to fell him with her own horrible doctrine of expediency.
He tried to work. Horace offered to keep him on in his office, but it
didn’t do. They quarrelled; Lionel, instigated by Minnie, said he wasn’t
being paid enough, and didn’t have a position of sufficient importance.
Horace was very much a business man; he was willing to give, even to be
bled, but business was sacred; he couldn’t put Lionel in a responsible
place.
He got him another job, but Lionel couldn’t keep it. He was very slow to
learn, and very poor at figures. He wasn’t exactly stupid, but when he
tried to hurry, he grew dazed and helpless. He was untrained and
idiotically educated. He couldn’t compete with the men--even the
girls--about him, with their wits sharpened by struggle and poverty,
their shallow minds trained to run smoothly and rapidly in one groove.
Next he tried to sell automobiles. He saw a splendid future in this, and
so did Minnie. But after he had called on one or two “prospects,” his
enthusiasm vanished. The average American was exasperated by his
slowness, his quite unconscious air of superiority, by his English
accent. He was treated very rudely and he couldn’t stand that.
Then, on the strength of his distinguished appearance, and the English
accent, he got a place as clerk in a very select book shop of Fifth
Avenue. He liked that, and the customers liked him. They were “society
people”; they appreciated his air, and he was well-disposed toward them.
He was a cheerful, sweet-tempered fellow, willing to take any amount of
trouble. But he knew nothing at all of books, and he _could_ not learn
the stock, couldn’t remember which books to push, or the names of former
books by popular authors. And when he was asked, as he very frequently
was, if he couldn’t recommend something “really good,” he had always to
hurry and ask one of the clerks who could remember. After several months
he was discharged.
If it hadn’t been for Horace, he would have been entirely discouraged.
But so long as there was Horace to find him jobs and to support him
during the intervals, he kept up his courage. There was the possibility
of something delightful just round the corner. He rather enjoyed
working, and trying new things. And it didn’t matter so very much if he
_did_ fail. There was always another chance to be had.