The innocencie that is in me is a kinde of simple-plaine
innocencie without vigor or art.
THE next morning brought a letter from Professor Smallman:
"MY DEAR FOURMY,--My first impulse was to come down and implore you to
return, to think of your career, or, if you are incapable of doing
that, of us, to whom your career and, I may say, your happiness, are
things of some moment. Linda forbade me to do that. She is well, but
shows signs of strain. Frankly, I can understand neither of you.
Bitterness, grievances keep men and women apart, but neither of these
is in her. She alarms me. She seems to me to be grappling with an
emotional situation with her intellect. That seems to me to be
dangerous. She said of you: 'His intellect only comes into play when
he is emotionally sure,' and gave me that, which I do not pretend to
understand, as a reason for letting you go your way. I cannot do that
without protest. She says: 'Men and women have the right to adjust
their own difficulties and repair their own mistakes without reference
to outside opinion, or, indeed, outside affection.' I cannot agree. My
feeling is all against it. When a man and woman marry, they create a
social entity which they are not entitled to destroy without
consulting society. That is putting it at its very lowest, without
thinking for a moment of the spiritual entity which marriage creates.
You two seem to have agreed to disregard that----"
René read no more. The old exasperation that the well-meaning Smallman
had roused in him surged through him now, and he took pen and paper
and wrote:
"MY DEAR, GOOD, KINDLY IDIOT,--When no spiritual entity is created,
then no social entity is created; nothing is created but an amorphous
relationship which is hostile to society, and such relationships it is
the duty of decent people to avoid and to destroy. Nothing is created,
and if by good luck the calamity of having children is averted, then
there is nothing to destroy; then those who are apart in fact are
better also apart in appearance."
So, with a startling suddenness he was driven to a conclusion, and
knew that, come what might, he would abide by it. What Smallman had
said of Linda strengthened him, gave him a clearer idea of her than he
had ever had, an idea, moreover, in which with heart and mind he could
rejoice. There was fight in her, too.
He took up the Professor's letter once more. It was rather a good
letter, ably setting out everything to be considered, the various
interests that would be injured--relations, friends, the university,
the little community of cultured persons who would be delivered up to
coarse, commercial Thrigsby and its tongues. Clearly Smallman's dread
was lest all these interests should be drawn down in the wreck of the
young couple's marriage, and René could shudder and sympathize at the
suffering and distress he might be causing. His resolution weakened a
little until he thought of Linda, and then he said:
"But we are saving ourselves. The marriage goes to hell or we do. They
can't have both."
Smallman's letter ended with a sentence worth the whole of the rest.
It was as though he had written himself into something near
imaginative perception and true friendship:
"But, my dear fellow, if you are resolved to continue in this blind
and cruel folly, I can only pray and hope that the tragic trial it
must be may make a man of you. Though you may be lost to us, I will
pray, I believe in you enough to think, that you will not be
altogether lost."
René tore up his first indignant note, and wrote another, saying how
much he appreciated the friendship and affection, how it had become
impossible to turn back, and how it pleased him to know that between
himself and those who had been his friends there would be the
separation of circumstance, not that of enmity and bitterness.
This done, he posted his reply and wired to his bank in Thrigsby to
find out how much money he possessed.
He received the answer later when he was with Ann at tea: Fifty-five
pounds.
"Je-rusalem!" she cried.
"I spent very little," he explained, "and my wife had seven hundred a
year."
"Seven hundred!" She was scared. "Seven hundred! And you chucked that
to come and live in Mitcham Mews! Well, no wonder they say the world's
going balmy."
She was both relieved and awed by his vast wealth, and allowed him to
take her to a music-hall, where her pleasure brimmed over so that he
could share it.
The fifty-five pounds changed her attitude toward him somewhat, made
her more sure of him, relieved her, perhaps, of anxiety. She lost the
nervous discomfort that had shown itself in deference toward him, and
she could now consider him as a practical proposition and no longer as
the delightful but alarming perplexity he had been. She had time to
breathe, to let things go their own way, until it became necessary to
do something. She asked him questions about his old life to discover
any talent or capacity that might be turned to account.
"If the worst comes to the worst," she said, "I could teach you the
paper flowers. You could do a lot in the daytime, and I'm sure we
could sell most of them."
He was quite prepared to make paper flowers. He was so fascinated by
her capacity for the rough business of living and for extracting
enjoyment out of almost everything she touched, that he was her
admiring pupil, to be and do anything she might expect.
At the music-hall a comedian had made the audience scream with
laughter by his antic burlesque of a motorist. René was amused, but
never smiled. Ann turned to him in some distress and said:
"Don't you think it's funny?"
She had laughed till the tears were streaming down her cheeks.
"It's quite funny, but so old-fashioned. Cars don't break down like
that now. I have driven hundreds of miles and never been stopped on
the road."
"Oh, did you drive a car?"
"Yes. A little one."
"Then we'll go and see Mr. Martin."
And with this suggestion also he complied.
At the other end the mews were approached by a wide street flanked by
little houses which were let off in flats and rooms; two flats of four
rooms in each house. Mr. Martin lived in the last house, had always
lived there since the houses were built, because it was next to his
livery stables and convenient, for he had so much flesh to carry that
he carried it as little as possible. He rose early in the morning and
rolled into the glass office in his yard, where there were still two
horses, a victoria, and a closed carriage, which he kept, partly
because he could not bear to be without a horse, and partly because he
still had some small business with old ladies and gentlemen of his
former connection who disliked motors, or could not conceive of
ceremonious visiting except in a horse-drawn vehicle. Besides, he had
three taxicabs, and had drifted into a trade in accessories and
sundries with the chauffeurs in the mews, the nearest garage being
half a mile away and beyond their walking distance. He knew everyone
in the mews, and everyone liked him, and as he sat in his office all
day long he had a succession of visitors. A groom and a boy composed
his staff, and the boy was mostly away on errands for Mr. Martin's
housekeeping, because he would not admit any woman to his house. Such
cleaning as it got was done by the groom. Not that Martin disliked
women; he was fond of them, but he was afraid of them.
"Let 'em set foot in your house," he used to say, "and they'll stay.
Once let 'em start doing for you and they do for you altogether."
(He had been married to an extraordinarily capable woman and could not
endure a sloven.)
Ann he had known since she was a child, when he had caught her in
bravado stealing a horseshoe "for luck" out of his yard. And he had
carried her and her booty into his house to show his wife the little
girl who was braver than the boys who had egged her on to do it; for
the boys had scuttled away on his approach. Then his wife had tied the
horseshoe up with a pink ribbon and sent proud Ann away with it and a
halfpenny, and permission to visit the yard whenever she liked. And
when Mrs. Martin died and for a whole week the fat man sat in his
house and mourned, Ann was the first to visit him and bring him out of
the lethargy that had come upon him. Later, when the livery business
went into a galloping consumption, it was in talk with Ann that Mr.
Martin plucked up his energy to use his yard, of which he possessed
the freehold, for a taxicab business.
She had told him about René, who received a warm welcome when she took
him into the office one evening. The very geniality of his reception
made René shy, and the old fellow put him to such a shrewd scrutiny
that he felt he was being weighed up and measured in his worthiness of
friendship with Ann.
"Pleased to meet you, sir," wheezed Mr. Martin. "Any friend of hers is
a friend of mine." Then he came to business. He knew nothing of
motor-cars himself, but the cab business needed likely young fellers,
different kind of feller from 'orses; they needed 'ands and a heart to
understand, something special, an inborn gift. "Lookin' at you, I
should say you didn't 'ave it. But motors, well, that's a thing you
can learn. A motor can't take a dislike to you same as a 'orse, and,
likewise, a motor can't take a fancy to you and work 'is 'eart out for
you, same as a 'orse. I've 'ad 'orses, if you'll believe me, as it's
been a honor to drive, and I've never 'ad a 'orse as could abide Mrs.
Martin, God bless 'er! It was a great grief to me, that was."
René had been primed with the wonders of Mrs. Martin and Ann had told
him the story of the horseshoe, and he was able to sympathize and show
his sympathy. He set his case before Mr. Martin.
"'Tain't many men," said the livery-keeper, "as turns from books to
work. 'Tain't many as can. I seen many a good man go wrong through
books--discontented, uppish, faddy, nothin' good enough. But they was
mostly too old or middle-aged. When a man gets idees, there's nothin'
to be done with him. That's my experience, and I been sitting here
these forty years. But perhaps you're young enough."
"Young enough to try, anyhow," said René, and that brought the old man
back to the affair of the moment. He had a new car on order, and when
it arrived it would be given to Casey, and then René could have
Casey's machine, a Renault. In the meantime, it would be necessary for
him to study up the knowledge of London preparatory to taking out his
license. Casey would tell him all about that, and if he liked he could
come into the office and help with the books and the accessories and
earn fifteen shillings a week. He closed with that, and arranged to
begin the next day, coming very early in the morning so that he could
meet Casey.
"I do hope you'll like it," said Ann, as they walked away.
"I'm sure I shall," said he. "I like the old fellow, and I must do
something, and that's better than blacking my face and gardening."
She laughed.
"It does seem queer, after all your book-learning."
"When I look back on it, my dear Ann, I can only remember reading one
book with pleasure after I was a child and did everything with
pleasure."
"What book was that?"
"It was an anthology. Something like this was in it:
'And there shall be for thee all soft delight
That shadowy thought can win,
A bright torch, and a casement ope at night,
To let the warm love in.'"
"That's pretty," said Ann Pidduck. "There are pretty things in books,
though I never read them."
Said he:
"I never had the feeling of it until now. I think something went wrong
with me that I couldn't feel."
"But you must have, to suffer like you did and run away."
"I'm beginning to think that I ran away because I couldn't feel, but
only melt into a sort of exasperated heat."
"But that's like when you lie awake when you're very young and fancy
no one wants you, and simply long for someone to want you very much.
Oh, you do make me go on."
"I'm glad you do, Ann. I'm glad you do."
"I dunno----" she seemed to protest.
"You must let me say that because I never had such a friend as you."
"Oh! Oh! The world seems all upside down. I oughtn't to. I oughtn't to
be friends, because you _are_ different. You know you are. It isn't
the same. It isn't like having a bit o' fun, and since you came, I'm
off my bit o' fun."
He caught her hands, and in the confused emotion that had seized him,
tried to kiss her; but she broke away and ran up the mews, leaving him
standing under the lamp in the archway. He did not move. He was filled
with a sweet, healing tenderness that soothed his trouble and made him
feel curiously and happily sure of himself, and his mind flew back to
the book from which he had quoted, and to all the associations it had
brought in its train. And he had lost the uncomfortable sense of a
violent change in his life, and began to perceive the inevitability of
good and bad, hope and despond, driving him on to adventure and
through adventure to appreciation of the mere fact of living, so that
the things that happened were almost without significance. No longer
did he have any dread of his fate; up or down, it was no great matter;
a certain kind of agony it was impossible, it was vile and degrading
to bear; a certain kind of happiness it was worth any suffering, any
bewilderment to find. And yet happiness was hardly the word for it.
Happiness was associated in his mind with being content, settled down,
established, a part of surrounding circumstances, without reaction.
This that he was beginning to perceive necessitated effort and will,
fierce endeavor without ceasing. For an image of it he could find
nothing better than tearing about the country with Kurt. Only that was
aimless, containing nothing but the pleasure of the moment and the
risk of disaster. The conception germinating in his mind had all the
swiftness and the peril, but it had also immense purpose, irresistible
force, and he said aloud:
"Force! Huge force, gripping you, holding you, bearing you on to its
purpose which is also your own, so that always you are sure, always
stronger than yourself."
Out of the dark archway came a voice, saying:
"A philosopher in the slums."
René started, and groped back to the world of the senses. A tall thin
figure loomed up in front of him, and a pale, eager face with a
jutting nose and large eyes smiled at him.
"Kilner, my name," said the owner of it. "I've noticed you, walking
about in a hungry dream. Down on your luck? So am I. Best of luck in a
way. When the world doesn't want you, it gives you time to look at it
and think about it, and discover that it is really good. Otherwise you
have to take so much on hearsay, and then of course you are not
entitled to have an opinion about it, much less any feeling."
"I was just beginning to feel extraordinarily happy about it all,
though I have come to grief, and am a source of great anxiety to my
friends."
"Friends? They never want anything but one's external comfort. They
will dine with you, walk with you, talk with you, sleep with you, but
think with you, feel with you, they will not. It's not their fault.
They don't want to be anything but charming. We who want charm only
with truth find ourselves in trouble in no time at all. What did you
try to do?"
"I got married."
"Oh! Is that all? I thought you must be a painter or a writer or--I'm
a painter. But I can't sell a damn thing, so I work for a
furniture-dealer until I've saved enough to keep me going for a few
months. Come up and talk."
They went up to No. 16. Kilner produced cigarettes and continued:
"I'd have bet any amount you were an out-of-work writer, or a young
man slung out of a respectable house for reading poetry in church. You
don't look like the sort of fool who gets messed up by women, though
almost any man is that kind of fool."
René tried to protest against that, and to point out that he had been
married and therefore serious in his folly, if folly it were. Kilner
only grunted at him.
"H'm!" he said. "Looks as if you'd been in the habit of taking things
seriously simply because they happened to yourself. That's idiotic.
Most things that happen are dirty little jokes, opportunities fumbled
because one isn't fit to handle them, or situations forced out of
greed or conceit, or injured vanity, or mere pigheadedness. There are
divine things happen: doing a good bit of drawing is one of them,
finding a friend is another, falling in love is another. Those things
happen simply because you can't help doing them, because you'd die one
of many deaths if you didn't. Once you've done one of those things,
nothing else matters. You have something in you that you must keep
alive. Let the others make the world hideous and vulgar and untidy. It
is not your affair. If they won't or can't love what you love, then
they are not for you and you are not for them. Don't you think?"
René could find nothing to say. He found it so absorbing to watch
Kilner, to listen to his monologue delivered in a voice of wonderful
sweetness that seemed always to be trembling into laughter. The zest,
the humor of the man thrilled through him, and made him feel that all
his life was full of promise, rich and ripe with romance.
Kilner began to tell him about painting and painters, about Rembrandt
and Van Eyck and Cranach, happy Cranach who could paint women without
being either sensual or sentimental, and Dürer and Holbein and della
Francesca, and how he himself, the son of a mason in Buckinghamshire,
had always painted, at first without taste and without purpose, from
sheer delight in objects, their form and their color, and how little
by little he had learned to see the beauty shining through them and to
wish to have that beauty also shining through his pictures and
drawings. And how he had come to London to learn his art, financed by
rich people near his home; and how he had assumed that every man who
touched brush and paint had also desired to render the shining beauty
that used all things for its dwelling-place; and how incidentally he
had suffered from arrogance and blown vanity, though never losing
sight of his one object; and how he had been taught a certain kind of
drawing, to be accurate in imitation, and then again accurate and
again accurate; and how he had quarreled with those of his teachers
who had wished him not to use the power of accuracy they taught him,
but to regard it as in itself an end; quarreled with his
fellow-students, with his patrons, with his family, with exhibiting
societies, with--apparently--everybody, because he could not learn to
keep his opinions to himself or conceive that men who painted vilely
with constant sacrifice of beauty to their desire to please, did so
because that was how they saw things and how they liked things and
loved them so far as they could love at all. And he told René of many
love affairs he had had, some casual, some unhappy and desperate, some
light-hearted and gay, and one ecstatic though it had lasted only for
five weeks in spring. He described with a vivid power how he and she
lay in the grass in Richmond Park and the soft air above them was
alive with light, quivering up to the blue where the clouds swam and
slowly faded out of form and being and other clouds came; and near
them was an almond-tree in blossom, and above them shone the gummy
buds of the beeches; crisp to the touch was the grass, moist and cool
was the earth. And he touched her white arm and she trembled. He
trembled too. And she turned her face toward him with a sweet trouble
and wonder in her eyes and they kissed.
"That ended in tears, my tears and hers. I was too coarse for her, I
think; too violent. She was very delicate and beautiful."
After a long silence, René said:
"I have had nothing in my life but foolishness."
"There's no harm in that," said Kilner. "It's bitterness that kills.
When shall I see you again?"
"Do you want to?" René was startled into asking.
"Of course. I don't let a friend slip when I've found one."
And gladly René said:
"A friend. I begin work to-morrow at old Martin's."
"There's a man," answered Kilner. "I must paint his heavy, happy face.
It's the kind of face there won't be again. The world's changing. Man
wants but little here below? Never again. We want all there is."