The late September sun shone sweetly down upon Charing Cross Road, and
its beams stole into the bookshop where the bookseller, in his shirt
sleeves, sat wrestling with the accounts which he struggled to keep
accurately. He hated them. Of all books the most detestable are
account books. What has a man who trades in mind to do with money?
Far better is it to have good books stolen than to keep them lying
dusty on the shelf.
The bookseller chuckled to himself. The newspapers were full of
praises of his 'young leddy,' though she could never be so wonderful
and like a good fairy in the play-acting as she was when she walked
into his shop bringing sweetness and light.... She had not been in for
some time, and he had been a little worried about her. He was glad to
know that it was only work that had kept her away. He had been half
afraid that there might be 'something up' between her and that damned,
silent Rodd, who had nothing in the world but a few bees in his bonnet.
The bookseller, being a simple soul, wanted her to marry the Lord, to
end the tale as all good heroines should, and he had even gone so far
as to address imaginary parcels of books to her Ladyship.
Charing Cross Road was at its oddest and friendliest on this day when
all London rang with Clara's fame, and the only place in which it found
no echo was her own heart.
She had decided in her dressing-room half-way through the performance
that she could never go near the Imperium again. That was finished.
She had done what she had set out to do in the first instance. In her
subsequent greater purpose she had failed, and she knew now why she had
failed, because she was a woman and in love, and being a woman, she
must work through a man's imagination before she could become a person
fit to dwell on the earth with her fellows.... Without a pang she
surrendered her ambitions, bowed to the inevitable, and for the first
time for many a long week slept the easy, sweet sleep of youth. Her
meeting with Rodd in the supper-room had relieved her of all her
crushing responsibilities. She passed them on to him and from her he
had won the strength to carry all things.
She was punctual to the minute, but he was late.
'They're falling over themselves about you in the papers, young leddy,'
said the bookseller.
'Are they?'
'Haven't you seen them?'
He had cut out all the notices, and to please him she made a pretence
of reading them, but they gave her a kind of nausea. The critics wrote
like lackeys fawning upon Sir Henry's success.... In Paris with her
grandfather she had once seen the _Mariage de Figaro_ acted. Sir Henry
reminded her of the Duc d'Almaviva, and she thought wittily that the
type had taken refuge in the theatre, there perhaps to die. Sir Henry
surely was the last of this line. Not even with the support of the
newspapers would the world, bamboozled and cheated as always, consent
any longer to support them.
It was a good transition this from the Imperium to the book-shop.
Books were on the whole dependable. If they deceived you it was your
own fault. There was not with them the pressure of the crowd to aid
deception.
This wholesome little man living among books, upon them, and for them,
was exactly the right person for her to see first upon this day when
she was to discard her mimic for her real triumph. This day was like a
flower that had grown up out of all her days. In its honey was
distilled all the love she had inspired in others, and all the love
that others had inspired in her.
This was the real London, here in Charing Cross Road, shabby, careless,
unambitious, unmethodical. It was here in the real London that she
wished to begin her real life. From the time of her first meeting with
him in the book-shop, her deepest imagination had never left Rodd, and
she knew all that he had been through. She had most profoundly been
aware of his struggle to break free from his captivity, exactly as she
had slowly and obstinately found her own way out. All that had been
had vanished. Only the good was left. Evil had been burned away and
for her now there was no stain upon the earth, no mist to obscure the
sun. Her soul was as clear as this September day, and she knew that
Rodd was as clear.... Of all that she had left she did not even think,
so worthless was it. A career, money, power, influence? With love,
the smile of a happy child, a sunbeam dancing into a dark room, a bunch
of hedge-row flowers are treasures of more worth than all these, joys
that give moments of perfection wherein all is revealed and nothing
remains hidden.
Was there ever a more perfect moment than when Clara and Rodd met in
the bookshop, each for the other having renounced all that had seemed
of worth. Death might have come at that moment and both would have
been satisfied, for richer, deeper, and simpler music there could not
be.... She was amazed at the new mastery in him. The pained
sensitiveness that had cramped him was all gone. He came direct to
her, took possession of her without waiting for an impulse from her
will. They met now in complete freedom and were frankly lovers.
The little bookseller in dismay looked from one to the other, but held
his peace. Clara reminded him that he had once remarked how life
consisted in men and women pulling each other through.
'That's so,' he said. 'Most of 'em trample on the rest.'
'Well,' said Clara. 'We've done it. We have pulled each other
through.'
'Out of the burning,' said Rodd, with a laugh.
'Indeed! Are you going to join her in the play-acting?'
'Not at all,' said Clara. 'I'm going to join him in the play-writing.
I have been a star for one night only.... If we starve, I shall make
you take me on as your assistant. You could pay me a salary now.'
'I cannot see a man wi' a jowl like that letting his young leddy
starve,' chuckled the bookseller.
They bought each other as presents the following books: _The Dramatic
Works of J. M. Synge, The Love Letters of Abelard and Heloise, The
Marriage of Figaro, Tom Jones_, and six volumes of _The Works of Henrik
Ibsen_, which were going cheap. These they ordered to be sent to her
rooms, and with the bookseller's blessing--so hearty that it was well
worth having--on their happiness they set out to reproduce in every
detail the day of their first excursion.
They went by Tube to Highgate, and walked to Hampstead across the
Heath, but when they came to the inn with the swing-boats and
roundabouts they found them deserted, and were annoyed. They wanted
the story told over and over again in exact replica, not varying by a
simple detail. As that was impossible they had tea at the inn, and he
told her the full and true story how he met her in the bookshop in the
Charing Cross Road. She listened like a happy child, and she asked,--
'Did he love her?'
'As the earth the sun.'
But as they left the inn, history did repeat itself, for a girl turned
and watched Clara enviously and said to her friend,--
'My! I wisht I had legs like that _and_ silk stockings.'
So the day sped by, and in the evening they went down to the Imperium
where it reared its brilliantly lit magnificence. The performance had
begun. They read the placards outside the doors. Already there was a
new poster with a flashy drawing of Ariel, in its vulgar way not unlike
Clara. There were also posters reproducing the notices of the Ariel
and the Prospero.
'And Ariel is gone,' said Rodd.
'I left a note for him last night,' said Clara. 'He'll probably sue me
for breach of contract. He won't miss a chance of an advertisement.'
Rodd took her home, and they arranged that they would be married at
once. Neither was quite sure whether the absurd marriage with Charles
would make theirs illegal, but they decided to risk it.