It was about five years after this that I decided to live in Paris for
a while. I was growing stale in London. I was tired of doing much the
same thing every day. My friends pursued their course with
uneventfulness; they had no longer any surprises for me, and when I met
them I knew pretty well what they would say; even their love-affairs
had a tedious banality. We were like tram-cars running on their lines
from terminus to terminus, and it was possible to calculate within
small limits the number of passengers they would carry. Life was
ordered too pleasantly. I was seized with panic. I gave up my small
apartment, sold my few belongings, and resolved to start afresh.
I called on Mrs. Strickland before I left. I had not seen her for some
time, and I noticed changes in her; it was not only that she was older,
thinner, and more lined; I think her character had altered. She had
made a success of her business, and now had an office in Chancery Lane;
she did little typing herself, but spent her time correcting the work
of the four girls she employed. She had had the idea of giving it a
certain daintiness, and she made much use of blue and red inks; she
bound the copy in coarse paper, that looked vaguely like watered silk,
in various pale colours; and she had acquired a reputation for neatness
and accuracy. She was making money. But she could not get over the idea
that to earn her living was somewhat undignified, and she was inclined
to remind you that she was a lady by birth. She could not help bringing
into her conversation the names of people she knew which would satisfy
you that she had not sunk in the social scale. She was a little ashamed
of her courage and business capacity, but delighted that she was going
to dine the next night with a K.C. who lived in South Kensington. She
was pleased to be able to tell you that her son was at Cambridge, and
it was with a little laugh that she spoke of the rush of dances to
which her daughter, just out, was invited. I suppose I said a very
stupid thing.
“Is she going into your business?” I asked.
“Oh no; I wouldn’t let her do that,” Mrs. Strickland answered. “She’s
so pretty. I’m sure she’ll marry well.”
“I should have thought it would be a help to you.”
“Several people have suggested that she should go on the stage, but of
course I couldn’t consent to that, I know all the chief dramatists, and
I could get her a part to-morrow, but I shouldn’t like her to mix with
all sorts of people.”
I was a little chilled by Mrs. Strickland’s exclusiveness.
“Do you ever hear of your husband?”
“No; I haven’t heard a word. He may be dead for all I know.”
“I may run across him in Paris. Would you like me to let you know about
him?”
She hesitated a minute.
“If he’s in any real want I’m prepared to help him a little. I’d send
you a certain sum of money, and you could give it him gradually, as he
needed it.”
“That’s very good of you,” I said.
But I knew it was not kindness that prompted the offer. It is not true
that suffering ennobles the character; happiness does that sometimes,
but suffering, for the most part, makes men petty and vindictive.