THE NONSENSE-MAKER
John took a box at the opera. There is some sense in taking a box at
the opera when you owe two quarters of your rent of thirty pounds a
year. To have a box all the year round with your visiting-card pinned
to the door, that is needless, unforgiveable extravagance, for it does
not then belong to you, but to your friends.
When John took the stage-box on the third tier, it was bread and butter,
dinners and teas, that he laid down in payment for the little slip of
paper. They did not know that. The clerk at the office thought it was
three guineas. He brushed off the money carelessly into the palm of his
hand without thinking that it could be anything but coin of the realm.
Who ever would go to the box-office of Covent Garden, and, tendering
ingenuously bread and butter, expect to get a ticket for the stage-box
on the third tier in return? But they are not observant, these
box-office clerks, for heaps of people do it.
There was an old lady just behind John, who handed in all her warm
spring under-clothing and a nice little embroidered lace cap that would
have looked delightful on her white head in the evenings of the summer
that was to come.
"I want a stall," said she, "for Tuesday night."
And in just the same inconsequent and unobservant way, the clerk,
without the slightest embarrassment, swept all the warm spring
under-clothing and the little lace cap into his hand and gave it her
without a word, but heavens! how insulted he would have been if you had
told him that he was simply a dealer in second-hand under-linen! It
would not have appeased him a bit, to tell him that the under-linen had
never been worn, that, in fact, it had never even been bought.
Just in this way, he took John's bread and butter, and gave him the
stage-box on the third tier. It was for the night of _La Boheme_.
On that same night, Jill was going to a dance, chaperoned by an older
school-friend of hers--one who had married--a Mrs. Crossthwaite. And
Mrs. Crossthwaite knew everything; not because she had been told it.
That is not the way amongst women. They tell each other what they are
pretending to believe, and both of them know all about it all the time.
There was the invitation to the dance--one known as a subscription.
Mrs. Dealtry could not go. She had a dinner party. Jill nominated Mrs.
Crossthwaite as her chaperon, and went to tea with her that day, having
seen John in the morning.
First, she spoke of the dance. Mrs. Crossthwaite was delighted. She
had been stepping it in the heart of her ever since she was married; but
only in the heart of her, and the heart of a woman is an impossible
floor to dance upon. It makes the heart, not the feet, tired.
Having won her consent--an easy matter, not lasting more than five
minutes--Jill began gently, unobtrusively, to speak of the work of an
author called John Grey. Mrs. Crossthwaite had read one of the books,
thought it distinctly above the average, but very sad. She did not like
sad books. There was quite enough sadness in real life, and so on. All
of which is very, very true, if people would only realise it, as well as
say it.
From there, with that adroitness which only women have the fine fingers
for, Jill led on the conversation to her acquaintance with John. Oh, it
was all very difficult to do, for a school-friend, once she has married,
may have become a very different sort of person from the girl who was
ready to swarm down the drain-pipe to meet the boy with the fair hair
and the cap far on the back of his head, who passed her a note concealed
between the pages of the Burial Service in the Prayer-book. Marriage is
apt to rob your school-friend of this courage; for, though she never did
climb down the drain-pipe, she made you think she was going to. She had
one leg on the window-sill and would soon have been outside, only that
she heard the voice of the mistress in the corridor just in time. And
she sometimes loses this courage when she marries. Jill, therefore, had
to proceed with caution.
They merely talked about his work. He was very interesting. His ideas
were strange. Of course, it was a terrible pity that he would not say
where he lived, but Mrs. Crossthwaite did not seem to consider that.
For a moment, she had expressed surprise and approval of Mrs. Dealtry's
action; but he was a member of the Martyrs' Club, and Mr. Crossthwaite's
greatest friend was a member there as well, and Mr. Crossthwaite's
greatest friend was naturally nearly as wonderful a person as Mr.
Crossthwaite himself. So what did it really matter where he lived? The
position of man was his club. She even had no curiosity about his
residence.
Again, Jill had never seen _Boheme_. Her people were not musical. They
hated it. She loved it. This was the opportunity of her life. He would
bring her back to the dance, of course, and no one need ever know that
she had not been there all the time. And in the intervals of the opera
they would talk about his work. That was all they ever did talk about.
She knew all his ambitions, all his hopes. Once or twice he had
accepted her suggestions, when really she knew nothing about it. It was
only what she felt; but he had felt it too, and the alteration had been
made. He said she helped him, and that was all that was between them.
The main fact of importance was that she had never seen _La Boheme_, and
might never see it, if she refused this opportunity.
All these specious arguments she put forward in a gentle, enticing,
winning way--full of simplicity--full of honesty; but the principal
reason that Mrs. Crossthwaite consented to become a party to this
collusion was that she did not believe a single word of it.
Romance! it is a word in itself, a thing in itself--a piece of
fine-worked lace that must catch the eye of every woman, and which every
woman would stitch to the Garment of maternity if she could.
So it was arranged. In the vestibule of the rooms where the dance was
held, John was formally introduced to the chaperon before he bore her
charge away. Then they stepped into a hansom.
"The Opera," said John, through the trap-door, carelessly, as though he
went there most evenings of his life; for when you give your bread and
butter to get a box at Covent Garden, hunger makes you talk like that.
This is all part of the delight which you miss in having a box all the
year round.
And when they had got far away into the traffic--that passing to and fro
of people, which is all a thumb-nail illustration of the stream of
life--and when her heart had begun to beat a little less like a lark's
wings in a six-inch cage, Jill broke the silence.
"What did Mrs. Crossthwaite say to you while I went to get my cloak?"
she asked.
"She was good enough to hope that I would call on her."
"Oh! I'm so glad she's asked you. Did she say anything else?"
"She asked me if I lived in London all the year round. I said I
did--except for a month in the year, when I went to Venice. Then she
asked me what part of London I lived in."
"She asked you that?"
"Yes."
Jill was silent for a few moments. It is always an interesting moment
in a woman's life when she learns something about her sex.
"And what did you say?" she asked.
John laughed. He thought he had said it rather neatly.
"Oh, I've got rooms," he had said, "just between St. Paul's and the
Strand." Which might be the Inner Temple, if you had a nice mind with
which to look at it. He told Jill this answer. She smiled.
"And is it between St. Paul's and the Strand?" she asked.
"Roughly speaking--yes--but very roughly speaking."
Again she was silent. Could it be that he was poor--at least, not well
enough off to live at a good-sounding address? Could that have been why
he was praying to St. Joseph on the eighteenth of March? Yet he was a
member of the Martyrs' Club, and here he was taking her to a box at
Covent Garden. She looked up quickly into his face. This was more
mystery than her desire for knowledge could afford.
"Do you remember what you said to me once," she began, "about the woman
with the gift of understanding?"
"Yes--the first day that we met in Kensington Gardens."
"Well--do you think I am absolutely ungifted that way?"
John closely searched her eyes. Did she remember all he had said about
the woman with God's good gift of understanding? Did she realise the
confession it would entail if he admitted--as he believed--that she was?
She was young, perhaps--a girl, a child, a baby--just twenty-one. But
the understanding which is the gift of God, comes independently of
experience. Like genius, it is a gift and of just such a nature.
Absolute simplicity is the source of it, and with it, it brings the
reward of youth, keeping the heart young no matter the years. Experience
will show you that the world is full of evil--evil motives and evil
deeds; it will teach you that evil is said of everyone, even the best.
But with God's good gift of understanding, you have the heart of a
child, knowing nothing yet finding the good in everything.
To such a one, no secrets are possible, no deeds can lie hid; for no man
does evil because he would, but because it rises stronger against the
innermost will of him. And so few are there with the gift to understand
this, that confession is seldom made.
And for John to tell her that she had this gift, was to make admission
of all he had learnt that Easter Sunday. Could it be that she asked for
that reason? Did she wish to know? In his own way, he had meant to
tell her; but not like this. And so he searched her eyes; but searched
in vain.
"Why do you ask?" he said at length.
"Because--if you think I have any understanding at all, don't you think
I should understand, even if you told me you lived at----" She could
not think of a poor enough neighbourhood where people might live. She
scarcely knew any.
"Shepherd's Bush?" he suggested.
"Well--yes--Shepherd's Bush."
"And so you want to know where I do live?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
She looked up at him quite honestly.
"Well--pride, I suppose. We're good friends. I hope we are. I've
never had a friend before. I think I should tell you everything, and I
expect I feel hurt because you don't tell me. I'm sure you have a good
reason for not letting my people know, but that hasn't prevented me from
keeping you as my friend against all their wishes. They don't
understand, I admit. But I believe I should. I'm sure I should."
Her hand in its white glove was resting on the door of the hansom in
front of her. For a moment he looked at it, and then, with heart
beating, in fear, joy, apprehension--a thousand emotions all flowing
into one--he took it in his and pressed it reverently, then let it go.
"I know you would," he replied in his breath. And then he told her.
Did she remember Wrigglesworth's? Would she ever forget it? Those
high-backed seats, the sawdust on the floor, the poll-parrot in its cage
in the middle of the room! And, then, who could forget the name of
Wrigglesworth?
Did she remember the little greengrocer's shop he had pointed out to
her, and how she had said she would love one of the rosy-cheeked apples
that were piled up in their little partitions--and his reply, rather
reluctant, evidently none too eager that one of the rosy-cheeked apples
should be hers? Yes, she remembered. She remembered, too, that nothing
more had been said about the apples, and that he had not reminded her of
them again when they came away from lunch.
Exactly--because over that very little greengrocer's shop in Fetter
Lane--the two windows above the shop itself--was where he lived.
For a moment she gazed at him in astonishment; then she stared out into
the traffic before her. Back through her mind raced the sensations she
had experienced that day when she had lunched with him. The secrecy, the
novelty, the stuffy little eating-house, it had all seemed very romantic
then. The tablecloth was not as clean as it might be, but the
high-backed seats had been there for nearly two hundred years. One
thing weighed with another. The waiter was familiar; but, as John had
explained to her, the waiters knew everybody, and you might feel as much
annoyed at their familiarity as you had reason to at the age of the
poll-parrot and the remarks that he made about the cooking. They all
combined to make Wrigglesworth's--Wrigglesworth's; and she had taken it
for granted in the halo of romance. But to live there! To sleep at
night within sight and sound of all the things which her unaccustomed
eyes and cars had seen and heard! She suddenly remembered the type of
people she had seen coming in and out of the doorways; then she looked
back at John.
"Then you're very poor?" she said gently.
"If you mean I haven't a lot of money," he said.
"Yes."
"Then poor is the word."
He sat and watched her in silence. She was thinking very fast. He
could see the thoughts, as you see cloud shadows creeping across
water--passing through her eyes. Even now, he knew that she would
understand in the face of all upbringing, all hereditary ideas. But he
waited for her to speak again. The moment was hers. He trusted her to
make the best of it.
"Why didn't you ask me to come and see your rooms after we'd had lunch
at Wrigglesworth's?" she said presently and, expecting simplicity,
counting upon understanding, even he was surprised.
"Ask you there? To those rooms? Over the little greengrocer's shop?
Up those uncarpeted wooden stairs?"
And then they found themselves under the portico of the Opera House; in
another moment in the crush of people in the vestibule; then making
their way round the cheaply-papered boxes along the ugly little passages
to the stage-box on the third tier.
The attendant threw open the door. Like children, who have been allowed
down to the drawing-room after dinner, they walked in. And it was all
very wonderful, the sky of brilliant lights and the sea of human beings
below them. It was real romance to be perched away up in a little box
in the great wall--a little box which shut them in so safely and so far
away from all those people to whom they were so near. Her heart was
beating with the sense of anticipation and fear for the fruit which
their hands had stolen. For the first ten minutes, she would scarcely
have been surprised had the door of the box opened behind them and her
mother appeared in a vision of wrath and justice. Some things seem too
good to be true, too wonderful to last, too much to have hoped for. And
Romance is just that quality of real life which happens to be full of
them.
From the moment that the curtain rose upon the life of these four
happy-go-lucky Bohemians, to the moment when it fell as Rudolfo and Mimi
set off to the _cafe_, these two sat in their third-tier box like mice
in a cage, never moving a finger, never stirring an eye. Only John's
nostrils quivered and once or twice there passed a ripple down Jill's
throat.
At last fell the curtain, one moment of stillness to follow and,
shattering that stillness then into a thousand little pieces, the storm
of the clapping of hands.
Music is a drug, a subtle potion of sound made liquid, which one drinks
without knowing what strange effect it may or may not have upon the
blood. To some it is harmless, ineffectual, passing as quietly through
the veins as a draught of cool spring water; to others it is wine,
nocuous and sweet, bringing visions to the senses and pulses to the
heart, burning the lips of men to love and the eyes of women to
submission. To others again, it is a narcotic, a draught bringing the
sleep that is drugged with the wildest and most impossible of dreams.
But some there are, who by this philtre are imbued with all the
knowledge of the good, are stirred to the desire to reach forward just
that hand's stretch which in such a moment but separates the divine in
the human from the things which are infinite.
This was the power that music had upon John.
While the applause was still vibrating through the house, while the
curtain was still rising and falling to the repeated appearances of the
players, he slipped his hand into his pocket, took something quickly
out, and when she turned after the final curtain fall, Jill beheld,
standing upon the velvet railing of the box, a little man all in brass,
with one hand resting aristocratically upon his hip and the other
stretched out as though to take her own.
Surprise and question filled her eyes. She looked up at John. She
looked back at the little brass man, and the little brass man looked
back at her. It may not have been that he raised his hat; but he had
all the appearance of having just done so.
"Did you put that there?" she asked.
John nodded. She picked him up, and once her fingers had touched him,
the spell of his dignity was cast.
"What is he? Where did you get him? What does he mean?" One question
fell fast upon another.
"He's my little brass man," said John. "He's an old seal, over a
hundred years old----" And he told her the whole story.
When he had finished, the curtain rose once more--outside the _Cafe_
Momus with the babel of children and the hum and laughter of a crowd
that only a city southeast of the Thames can know or understand.
Through all the act, Jill sat with the little brass man standing boldly
beside her. When it was over, she turned to him again.
"Aren't you very miserable when you have to--to part with him?" she
asked.
"Very.--He comes back as soon as possible. But I've made a resolve."
"What's that?"
"I'm going to put him out of reach of the indignity. He's never going
to the chapel of unredemption any more."
"What are you going to do?"
"Give him to you. You are the only person I know of, who has the gift
of understanding poverty."
"To me?" Instinctively her fingers tightened round him. "To me?" she
repeated.
He smiled and bent his head. "He seals our friendship," said he.
This was his way of telling her that he knew she understood. The
perfect nonsense of the gift--a figure in brass that cost seven'
shillings and had been pledged and redeemed for six, times out of
number--this had little or nothing to do with it. Everything in this
world is nonsense; the whole of life is a plethora of ludicrous
absurdities, one more fanciful than another. The setting upon the head
of a man a fantastic piece of metal and calling in a loud voice that he
is king--the holding aloft of another piece of metal, crossed in shape,
studded with precious stones, and exhorting those who behold it to fall
upon their knees--the placing on the finger of a little circular
band--of metal too--and thereby binding irrevocably the lives and
freedom of two living beings in an indissoluble bondage, all these
things are nonsense, childish, inconsequent nonsense, but for their
symbolism and the inner meaning that they hold.
The crown is nothing, the cross is nothing, the ring is nothing, too. A
goldsmith, a silversmith, a worker in brass, these men can turn them out
under the hammer or upon the lathe; they can scatter the earth with them
and have done so. From the crown in finest gold and rarest jewels to
the crown in paper gilt, the difference can only be in value, not in
truth. From the great cross in Westminster Cathedral to the little
nickel toy that hangs from the cheapest of rosary beads, the difference
is only the same. From the massive ring that the Pope must wear to the
tinsel thing that the cracker hides in its gaudy wrappings at
Christmas-time, the difference is just the same. Each would serve the
other's purpose. Each would mean nothing but nonsense and empty
foolishness except to the eyes which behold the symbolism that they
bear.
Yet they, because of their meanings, dominate the world. Little pieces
of metal of the earth's reluctant yield--for the highest symbolism
always takes form in metal--they govern and command with a despotism
that is all part of the chaos of nonsense in which we live.
Only one form of metal there is, which is a meaning in itself; before
which, without nonsense and without symbolism, a man must bow his
head--the sword. The only thing in this world of ours in which nonsense
plays no part; the only thing in this world of ours which needs no
symbolism to give it power. Yet in times of peace, it lies idly in the
scabbard and there are few to bring it reverence.
For the present, nonsense must content us then. The greatest intellects
must admit that it is still in the nature of them to sprawl upon the
floor of the nursery, making belief with crowns, with crosses and with
rings--making belief that in these fanciful toys lies all the vast
business of life.
Until we learn the whole riddle of it all, the highest profession will
be that of the nonsense-maker. The man who can beat out of metal some
symbolical form, earns the thankfulness of a complete world of children.
For with baubles such as these, it is in the everlasting nature of us to
play, until the hours slip by and the summons comes for sleep.
So played the two--children in a world of children--in their stage-box
on the third tier. She knew well what the gift of the little brass man
must mean--the _Chevalier d'honneur_. John might have sworn a thousand
times that he knew the great power of her understanding; yet such is the
nature of the child, that in this little symbol of brass--as much a
nonsense thing as any symbol of its kind--she understood far clearer the
inner meaning of that word friendship.
"Will you accept him?" said John gently.
She looked back in his eyes.
"On one condition."
"What is that?"
"That if ever we cease to be friends, he must be returned to you."