term at Stoneleigh. I remember the moment vividly. It was after
our inter-house football match, in which Lydgate had played very
well--far above his average. Our Housemaster, who was a very popular
man, ran up and, slapping Johnny on the back, called out: “Bravo,
Lydgate! Bravo, bravo!” As he turned away I saw my school chum look
up at the sky and a queer expression came over his face, a kind of
drunken egoism, and I suddenly thought to myself:
“So _that_ is Johnny Lydgate, after all! And I thought I knew----”
For a time after leaving school we lost touch with each other. Boys
are very apt to make vows of eternal friendship, and then--well,
other things happen along. Writing is such a fag.
Johnny went to Paris to study art, whilst I walked the hospitals.
However, he had not been in Paris for a year--he only wrote to
me once!--when his father died. As may be imagined, a man who
specializes in homing pigeons and anthologies does not leave
a fortune. The Lydgate family found themselves in distressed
circumstances. Lydgate was recalled from Paris, and had to do
something immediately to earn money.
He took the position manfully, and with that cheery good humour
that was characteristic of him. He obtained a place as an assistant
to a firm of decorative designers, hoping that his meagre training
might be of some assistance. His remuneration was, naturally, quite
nominal, but the firm held out prospects of advancement. He stayed
with this firm for seven years and gave no evidence of special
ability. He jogged along stolidly, learning to make pleasant,
undistinguished designs for wallpapers, cretonnes, and furniture.
He was very popular in the studio where he worked, on account of
his unfailing good humour, unselfishness, and gift of fun. He
distinguished himself most by making caricatures of his colleagues,
and imitating their voices and mannerisms. He displayed no particular
ambitions, other than to jog along, and have as good a time as his
limited income would allow.
We saw each other occasionally, and when I at last got my degrees I
bought a practice in West Kensington, not far from where Lydgate had
his rooms. He was at that time earning three hundred a year.
The house I had taken was a tall, gaunt place in an inconspicuous
street. I was unmarried, and the place was obviously too large for
my requirements. So I had the inspiration to suggest to Lydgate that
he should occupy the upper part, and pay me whatever he was paying
for his diggings. He accepted my offer with alacrity. His mother and
sisters were still living in the country.
The arrangement was full of promise. We had great fun arranging,
furnishing, and decorating the rooms. Lydgate spent his evenings
and Sundays doing all his own painting and decorating, and he also
insisted on doing mine.
I was not convinced that the delicate scheme of grays which he
evolved for my consulting-room, with its frieze of stencilled
peacocks and yew trees, was quite in keeping with the dignity of my
bold brass plate on the front door, but then I knew nothing about
art, and Lydgate was so kind in the matter that I let it pass. I had
a boy to open the door, and an old woman kept the place reasonably
clean, and she used to cook us an evening meal, which we had together.
That was a very happy time for both of us, and it lasted some years.
My brass plate did not seem to impress the neighbourhood as I should
have liked. Sometimes when I opened the door to people they used to
ask for the doctor. I once attended Lydgate when he had a feverish
chill, and he said my bedside manners were appalling. But gradually
it got about that young Doctor Berners was not such a fool as
you might imagine. Some said that he was a fairly good, straight,
sensible doctor, who took trouble with his patients. At the end of
the first year the practice began to show signs of developing.
It was at this time that Lydgate had an affair with a married
ballad-singer. I could never quite get to the root of the matter.
Neither could I understand his infatuation. She was a fair, plump
person, with magnificent neck and shoulders, a brilliantly clear but
unsympathetic voice, and an almost unique gift of self-concentration.
She had this wonderful voice, but she knew nothing, not even about
music. She used to wear tiny paste diamonds early in the morning, and
a shiny vegetable silk jumper which made her person appear even more
capacious than it really was. Her name was Betty Brandt, and she had
a husband who travelled in automobile accessories.
As I say, I do not know the details of this regrettable affair. I
only know that it was very passionate, rather involved, and it went
on for nearly six months. At the end of that time something happened.
Whether they quarrelled, or whether the traveller in automobile
accessories intervened, I cannot say. But Johnny Lydgate was
desperately unhappy. He sulked and moped and would not go out, except
backward and forward to his work. And then, one day, he did not even
go to that. He told me surlily that he had left. He gave no reason.
He sat about at home, and apparently drowned his sorrow in charcoal
and water-colours. He sketched and drew all day, things which he
said he never got an opportunity of doing at “that confounded shop.”
I thought it as well to leave him alone. He paid his rent the first
week and then he asked me for credit, which I naturally acceded.
One Sunday morning I went up to his room, and found the walls covered
with drawings and sketches. In my poor opinion they seemed to be a
brilliant advance on anything he had done before. I said so, and he
seemed pleased, and announced that he was going to hawk his work
around to editors, and try to start up on his own. I wished him the
best of luck.
At the end of a fortnight his campaign had apparently met with a fair
measure of success. He told me he had some commissions and he hoped
soon to be able to let me have some money. The next morning he came
into the dining-room. His face was crinkled with suppressed laughter,
his eyes brilliant with exultant glee. He unfolded a drawing and held
it up on the wall. It was a caricature of Betty Brandt!
It was the most brilliant and, at the same time, the cruelest thing
I have ever seen. It was no portraiture, but you could not mistake
it. I had never liked Betty Brandt, and I was on the point of
protesting, and then the realization that this drawing, in any case,
meant the end of the Betty affair, gave me such a feeling of relief
that I laughed almost hysterically. Johnny and I stood side by side,
laughing till the tears rolled down our cheeks. Poor Betty!
He seemed freer after that, and worked assiduously at the orders he
had in hand. I am afraid they were not very remunerative. It was a
long time before he proffered any further contribution toward the
upkeep of our establishment, and when he did so, it was with many
groans and apologies for the smallness of the amount. I told him that
he was not to worry about it; my practice was beginning to pay fairly
well, and it made a great difference to me to have a companion.
For a year I observed Lydgate’s grim struggle with his artistic
conscience. The point was that for the work he wanted to do there was
no demand. But there was work which he could do for which there was
a demand. The latter gradually absorbed his energies. He refused to
sponge on me. In eighteen months’ time he had wiped out all debts and
was beginning to make headway. He appeared to have resigned himself
to a life of steady toil. I found him particularly companionable at
that time. I think the Betty Brandt affair had done him good. He was
calmer, quicker in his sympathies, more tolerant and reflective.
He still had his moments of gay fun; his capacity for fooling was
enlarged, his perceptions and discernments were more incisive.
When I was thirty and Lydgate twenty-nine we both seemed to have
settled down to a solid professional life. He was making five or six
hundred a year, and had even saved a little. I was making rather
more, and we had improved the conditions of our household. We now had
a “general,” as well as a charwoman and a page-boy. On occasions we
actually entertained, bought reserved seats for the theatre, and went
away for week-end jaunts.
And then, without any ostentatious forewarning, Viola appeared on
the scene. She glided into our lives with the inevitableness of a
portent in a Greek drama. She had occupied her place upon the stage
before we had realized the significance of her entrance. She was the
daughter of an old fellow-practitioner, a Doctor Brayscott, with
whom I had been on friendly terms, and who had been extremely kind
to me when I started my practice. His wife was dead, but he and his
daughter lived two streets away, and we indulged in those little
social amenities which busy professional people always seem to find
time for--occasional dinners, a game of bridge, a little music. Viola
sang divinely. I was, of course, the first to meet her, and I sang
her praises to such good purpose that Lydgate would not rest until he
met her. And then, of course, our little trouble began.
There was never a gentler, fairer, more adorable woman than
Viola Brayscott. She brought into a room a feeling of complete
tranquillity, warmed with the sun-kissed humours of virginal youth,
seeking for ever surprises and revelations, giving out love and
sympathy and drawing it to herself.
I cannot tell you of the agony and ecstasy of those months that
followed. She visited us sometimes with her father, sometimes
alone. We visited her, sometimes together, sometimes alone. It took
some weeks to realize that we both adored her. What was to happen?
Well, I think we played the game fairly. Each knew of the other’s
infatuation. It was a fair field and no favour. One does learn
something, after all, at an English public school. We bore each other
no animosity. We took no unfair advantages.
And what of Viola? For some time the pendulum appeared to swing
backward and forward. There was no gainsaying the fact that she was
really fond of both of us. But the pendulum of that tenderer passion
does not swing backward and forward. It has a bias, a rhythm of its
own. And we each knew that the day would come when the pendulum would
not swing back to one of us.
Heigho! I need hardly tell you the outcome of this contest--you will
have foreseen it already. In the social arena, when Lydgate chose
to shine, I was no match for him. He had all the advantages of good
looks, engaging manners, and that genius for always being at his best
in her presence. He shone and sparkled and glowed, whilst I sat dumb
and dour and angry with myself. I could not be surprised when the
pendulum swung his way and did not return to me.
They got married the following spring, and after a honeymoon in
Brittany, went to live in a flat at Barnes. We visited each other
occasionally, and the complete success of their union emphasized the
loneliness of my own dismal household. They were devoted to each
other and bewilderingly happy.
When the possessive sense is outraged, work is our only friend and
physician. I worked and worked and worked, and the practice grew.
But, oh, the emptiness of those waking hours!
The following year they had a child, a boy, with those lustre-blue
eyes of the father. Their happiness appeared complete. Lydgate was
still doing reasonably well at what he called his “solid commercial
stuff.” He seemed to have put all other ambitions behind him. As a
social problem I would have wagered that there would be nothing more
to solve concerning him--in short, that he was going to “settle down
and live happily ever afterward.”
But the face of the Sphinx is inscrutable.
It all occurred so surprisingly suddenly. I believe its first
inception came about through a caricature he did of Lord Balfour.
Balfour is an easy person to caricature, and this was not one of
Lydgate’s best; but the drawing was published in a weekly and
attracted the attention of a well-known Jewish gentleman, who called
himself Maurice Loffley, and who dealt in other people’s brains. He
asked to see some of Lydgate’s work, and he admired it extravagantly,
especially the caricature of Betty Brandt; but he said:
“My boy, it’s celebrities we want. Famous people. Do some, and I’ll
place them for you.”
The outcome was not immediately successful. Lydgate did do some, and
some of them were placed; but Mr. Loffley was not very satisfactory
over his business arrangements, and Lydgate ended up by doing a
caricature of Mr. Loffley himself, which was the best and cruelest
thing he had turned out since Betty. It was published in another
illustrated weekly, and caused joy to all of Mr. Loffley’s colleagues
and rivals.
The success of this rapidly led to others. Apart from his skill as a
draughtsman, Lydgate had a keen wit and an adroit gift of literary
exposition. He worked out some wonderful gibes at various famous
people. His drawings began to be talked about, and to be in demand by
editors and publishers. Their commercial value rose in direct ratio.
Barely six months after the incident of Mr. Loffley--could his name
possibly have been Moritz Loeffler?--Johnny Lydgate had a one-man
show at the Regent Galleries. The exhibition was a most remarkable
success. A publisher bought the copyright of the entire collection
right out, and nearly all the originals were sold at high prices. The
Press came out with headlines about the discovery of a new satirist.
Artists and society people flocked to see the exhibition.
On the Saturday afternoon following the opening I was in the
galleries, talking to Johnny and his wife and Mr. Burrows, the owner
of the galleries. They were all flushed and excited, and Viola was
looking proud and very pretty.
Suddenly Mr. Burrows dived across the room and returned with a tall,
striking-looking girl. I did not hear Mr. Burrows introduce her,
but, of course, I knew her well by sight. She was a very famous and
intellectual woman, the daughter of one of His Majesty’s ministers.
Her photograph was always gracing the illustrated papers. I saw
her shake Johnny’s hand, and then I heard her deep contralto voice
exclaim with feeling:
“Oh, Mr. Lydgate, I’m so pleased to make your acquaintance. I think
your drawings are simply gorgeous!”
I could not hear Johnny’s reply. They talked for several minutes, and
she passed on. And then I saw him stagger a few steps and look up at
the skylight.
My mind immediately reverted to a certain fateful moment at
Stoneleigh, on that spring day after the inter-house match, when
he was congratulated on his fine play, and I saw upon his face
the identical expression. He was like a man dazed and drunken
with the riches of his own ego. Instead of the open field and the
cheering boys, he was swaying under the narcotic of a more pervading
flattery--brilliant and clever people, the faint perfume of a richly
dressed woman, admiring and significant glances. “That is he! That’s
Lydgate--Lydgate himself!”
The beautiful and merciless lady had begun to put her spell on him.
What astonished me was the rapidity with which the poison worked.
Within a few months he became a celebrity. He was just thirty-three,
at the very fullness of his powers. His popularity was no doubt
greatly accelerated by the charm of his personality, his good looks,
genial manners, and quaint humour.
He was immediately “taken up” by a certain Lady Stradling, a wealthy
and adventurous American woman who adored lions. One invitation
led to another. He was always out at some dinner or reception. He
developed the club manner. He joined several Bohemian clubs, where
he became extremely popular. He would give an entertainment at a
drawing-board, making caricatures of people present and keeping up a
running fire of most amusing chatter. He began to live extravagantly,
but even then he was making more money than he could spend.
At first Viola entered with zest into these manifestations of social
advancement. She accompanied him to many dinners and functions, but
gradually they began to pall upon her, and she let him go by himself.
I remember meeting him one night the following winter at the Wombats
Club. I was enormously impressed by the change in him. I was there
when he arrived, and I saw him enter the room. He was still good
looking, but his face had become looser, and a little coarser. He
was greeted by cries of “Hallo, Johnny! Good old Johnny!” “Who is
that?” “Don’t you know? That’s Lydgate--Johnny Lydgate!” He tried to
appear impervious to these manifestations, but at the back of his
eye I could detect the slow greedy satisfaction of the man whose
cup of happiness is overflowing. He spoke to me pleasantly, but his
eyes wandered, seeking distinguished names and faces. He was not
particularly proud at being seen in conversation with a suburban
doctor.
“Who is that? Ah, excuse me, old chap; I want a word with Edwin Wray.
Hallo, Wray, old boy!”
Of course, Edwin Wray is familiar to you? You may see his picture on
all the hoardings--the famous comedian.
Later, Johnny did one of his inimitable sketches--a huge success, a
wonderful hit at Edwin Wray. Afterward he sat at a table near me,
drinking rum and water. He had developed a rather affected style of
dress, with a voluminous blue and white stock, and peg top trousers.
Occasionally he made a note in a sketch-book, or flung an epigram at
a neighbour.
The din of the club increased. It was difficult to see across the
room for smoke. And suddenly I thought of Viola. Was he neglecting
her? Was he cruel to her?
It was very late when I took my departure, and I was crazy to say
something to him. I did indeed manage to mumble something to him
about this kind of life being bad for one’s nervous energies. He took
another sip of rum and said:
“It’s a lovely life, old boy--a lovely life!” I left him there.
The memory of that evening disturbed me. I felt that my position
as an old friend justified me in indulging in some course of
interference. A few days later I called, and found Viola alone. I
thought she seemed a little abstracted and self-conscious with me. We
talked of different things, and then I blurted out:
“I think Johnny is having too many late nights. He didn’t look well
the other evening.”
She bit her lip and said nothing. Suddenly she rose, pressed my arm,
and turned away. She was crying. I went up to her.
“Tell me, Viola, is anything wrong?”
She dabbed her eyes.
“No, no--oh, no; it’s only that he--it’s just what you say. Too many
late nights, and sometimes he drinks too much, and has headaches and
is sullen; there’s nothing else, Tom. He loves me as much as ever, I
am certain. He hasn’t the strength, that’s all.”
Oh, the beautiful, merciless lady! She took nearly three years to
destroy my friend. You may say that drink was the cause of his
ultimate downfall. Drink certainly accelerated it, but it was not the
basic cause. He was drunk before he began to drink--drunk with the
rich wine of her charms.
Have you ever seen a man destroyed in that way? The spectacle is
not edifying. He went rapidly from bad to worse. The miracle is
how he retained his powers as a draughtsman almost to the end.
From a pleasant good-looking young man he developed into a puffy,
distinguished-looking Georgian roué. The world spoiled him, and he
hadn’t the strength to stand up against it. The standards of morality
and behaviour which these other men set up did not apply to Johnny
Lydgate. Oh, dear, no! He was above it all, a thing apart, a genius,
the observed of all observers. Sometimes he would be out all night.
Sometimes he would be lost for days together. Then he would turn up,
be very ill, and go to bed. Viola would minister to him, and give
him hot-water bottles. And he would cry and become maudlin. He would
swear not to do it again. He loved her--oh, how he loved her!
And she would stroke his temple and whisper:
“Strength, dear, strength. You must try. Oh, you must try, for my
sake!”
Of course he would try. How ill he felt! And the days passed, and
his physical strength returned to him. Came also the little whispers
of the outside world. An invitation to Lady Stradling’s; telephone
messages from anxious publishers; the sale of two water-colours at
a record price; the house dinner at the Wombats Club. Just this
once--oh, just this once, Viola!
Back he went, lost to the claims of common decency. His face became
lined and blotchy. He trembled in his movements; the veins in his
arms and his hands stood out like knotted cords.
To the very end she tended him, shielded him, mothered him, and
fought for him. The world will never know what that woman suffered
and endured. She says that he was never cruel to her, except by his
neglect and lack of consideration. In his behaviour toward her he
was always tender and passionate, contrite, disgusted with himself.
He knew quite well what he was doing. It was not that he loved Viola
any the less, but that he was clay in the hands of that more powerful
mistress--the glamour of publicity, to be talked about, to be pointed
at, to be praised in the Press.
Doctor Brayscott and I did what we could. We advised and argued and
cajoled, and even bullied. He had other real friends, too. Everybody
did what he could, but it was of no avail. When he sank into that
last illness from which he never recovered, I visited him one day,
and sat regarding the spectacle of “that unmatched form and feature
of blown youth, blasted with ecstasy.” He opened his eyes and looked
at me. He gave me a quick glance of apprehension. Suddenly he smiled
in his old way and whispered:
“It was worth while, old boy!”
Some men are made that way. They must crowd their life into a capsule
and swallow it. They know they are wooing destruction, and it is
“worth while.” Not for them the steady rhythm of an ordered life.
The beautiful, merciless lady pipes the tune and they must dance.
* * * * *
In spite of all, Johnny Lydgate remains a precious and endearing
memory to us--to Viola and me. When I married her, two years after
his death, we went abroad for a while, and on our return I acquired
a practice at Knayling, on the Sussex downs, and there we built
our home. The boy is a perfect joy to us. He has his father’s eyes
and vivacious manners, and something of his mother’s warmth and
tenderness. The study of his welfare and training is a constant
source of affectionate discussion. What will he become? What lies
before him? We are full of hope and tremulous surmises. Only at times
do the old doubts and fears assail us. He is twenty now, and next
term he leaves Cambridge. On this desk, as I write, there is a letter
from him, written to his mother:
MOTHER DEAR,--
What is all this about the Indian Civil Service? I should
simply hate it. Fancy seeing all one’s life in perspective!
Knowing exactly how much you will be earning when you’re
forty-five; knowing that you’ll get a pension when you’re
sixty or seventy, or whenever it is. Who cares what happens
when they are seventy! No, old thing. Tony Stephens is going
to Paris to study art. I think I should like to join him. You
know I can draw, don’t you? Smithers thinks my life studies
are pretty useful. I have a feeling that I might do well.
Anyway, we’ll talk it over when I come down. Crowds of love,
mother dear.--
Your loving
SON.
And I sit here, turning it over and biting my pen. He has his
father’s lustre-blue eyes. How would you answer this letter? Can one
advise the young?
THE ACCIDENT OF CRIME