Iris was in a flutter. At least no other word can describe the quick
gaiety of her entrance, the hidden smile in her eyes, and then, as
she sat down, her sudden air of disinterested thought--for all the
world as though I hadn't seen her for three days, as though she hadn't
really, anything at all to tell me! As sometimes unavoidably happened
when some press of work kept me dallying more busily than usual about
editors, publishers, or managers--which sounds so much more important
than ever the results were--we had not been able to meet since the
night of the party; and I had had to restrain my curiosity about both
her "relations-by-marriage" until this fourth afternoon: when, as I've
said, she as nearly fluttered in as she could, and brought into my
room a sudden breath of memorable moments, how long ago! when I had so
often seen her with the light of a new idea, a new theory, an old book,
or a new friend, in her eyes--a gay, lovely Iris, whose sanity and
illusions were marvellously mixed in a wild and tender profusion, like
sedate tulips and wanton poppies in a tawny sunlight. But the past two
years had a little pruned her carelessness, and had made her mischief
less sudden and more shapely, for she had come by a certain depth of
mockery....
But at this very moment she was as she had once been, pointing out that
I was one of the reasons why "girls go wrong in London. For if I had
taken any notice of your pompous warnings to let Roger and Antony be
as they were, I would have gone through life with a fixed idea of how
horrible men are to each other. Whereas, you know, they aren't that
at all--for instance, those two are quite divine together, and very
pleased to have made up their absurd quarrel. And as I look at them
it's very difficult to believe that all your talk about them wasn't a
nightmare, or a bad short story badly translated from the Russian."
In fact it was quite remarkable, she told me, how good they seemed
to be for each other; fancifully, as though each one had taken on
something of the other's quality--Antony seeming to have become more
intelligent and balanced, and Roger more genial, more--well--human.
Which, of course, made everything much more pleasant for her....
But I had to protest when she said that Antony seemed so interested in
talking and listening to his brother that he noticed her very little;
that, in fact, she had been rather shocked to see that he wasn't now
wasting any time over any remnants of good looks that might still be
left to her since he had left England.
"He doesn't ignore me, of course. He is quite charming and courteous,
and tries his best to lower his voice when speaking to one, in the old
way, but--well, he's only just aware when I am in or out of the room,"
she added helpfully.
That aroused in me a perverse candour about something so far untouched
between us, and I said: "But you know as well as I do, Iris, that you
were one of the main reasons, or the main reason, why Antony wanted to
make friends with Roger."
She stared at me thoughtfully, as though examining a certain mental
aspect of me; but I seemed to have been wrong about the infernal man so
often as far as she was concerned that I was now quite reckless about
making just one more _faux pas_. "And," I added grimly, "wanted to see
if you liked Roger as much or more than you--"
"All right, all right," she impatiently stopped me. "Ronnie, you've
developed a great talent for seeming to give knowledge when you're
only roasting chestnuts. Of course, I had gathered all that--not too
seriously, of course. There is always an indecent part of one that
flatters oneself that one just might be worth fighting about--and so
it wasn't difficult to work up a dim but thrilling idea that Antony
might still be trying out his luck after two years; and, after you had
been so beastly about him, that he might be wanting to spite Roger
because of me--being a man, you know, and as common-minded as most men
about such things as rivalries and revenges about women. But it's very
obvious now that all that was just the froth of our diseased minds, and
that poor Antony quite sincerely wanted Roger to like him--and for his
own, not for my sake."
But as I still looked what she considered "unintelligent" about it she
rather brusquely suggested that I had better "come to dinner to-night
and see for yourself."
"You may have known the pair of them together well enough years ago,"
she said later, "but that _was_ years ago. And now with so much
experience, lives full of 'colour' and all that, to bridge their
memories of each other, each one has discovered the other one again.
Don't you think that's it? And that they've both quite naturally
improved in the discovering?... Silly men, of course, not to have been
decent about it long before, and saved you from nightmares and Antony
from going against the world. For I'm sure he wouldn't have made such
a fool of himself if Roger had been his friend. And as for Roger--why,
he has actually confessed to me that he hasn't one real friend whom
he likes! while all the time there was Antony under his very nose,
perhaps the only man who could touch anything in him. And you'll admit
that it's odd how the life Antony has led never seems to have made him
a great friend, for one always thought that men who lived his kind of
life in bars and places made many easy friends, even if they were only
down-at-heelers. But there seems to have been something that always
kept him apart, I don't know what, but something that has always given
one the idea of him as a quite special and solitary outsider: a good
drinking companion but a man who never really liked any one--and so
people never really liked him, I suppose. And all the while he never
had the sense to go to Roger and tell him not to be a fool so that
he needn't be one--for you have only to be with them for a moment to
realise the sympathy between them, and the similarity, too--"
"Oh, you've noticed that, have you?"
"Yes, you were right about that," she gallantly admitted. "It's a kind
of similarity that comes to you as a shock, it's so improbable on the
face of it--but, funnily enough, one seems somehow to have known of it
always. But I haven't got a psycho-analytical eye, and shall have to
see much more of them together before I shall understand anything more
about it than that Roger is the thin edge of the same wedge--though if
a wedge could have two thin ends and still be a wedge then Antony would
be the other one--oh, dear, you know what I mean...."
Oh, yes, I knew what she meant. And though, as Iris said, many things
must have been changed between them since I had known them together,
yet it seemed that this indefinable sense of their likeness had not
changed. It had been unlooked for and quite remarkable even to a not
very observant schoolboy as I was, this similarity between such very
different brothers as Poole I and Poole II. Roger, quiet, feverish, the
best classical scholar in the school, a head-prefect whose authority
was severely respected by every one (except Antony, who, however,
never seemed to come directly into contact with it), and the first
string of our racquets pair at Queens for four years; and Antony, as
I've explained, the very opposite, a slacker at work but our best fast
bowler and three-quarter--games, said Roger, which it made him sweat
to think about. And so, as each went his so very different way, it
had puzzled my schoolboy mind to discover in what lay this similarity
between their natures, one whose existence had grown upon me as I
had become more intimate with them: some deep down, inarticulate
sameness, that was at first obscured by the great variance of their
personalities, but so strong a sameness that it must show itself as
one came to know them--so, anyway, I had incoherently thought at that
time. And later, after we had left school, had so seldom seen them
even in the same company, that I quite forgot my curiosity about the
subtlety--so that when Iris now brought it again to my mind I was where
I had been at school; and not likely, I thought, to get very much
further.
But I had been really surprised to hear of the obvious pleasure they
took in each other's company, of their mutual sympathy and interest.
In that, indeed, the years between had made a change! For if their
likeness had been ever so dimly apparent to me at school, not so any
interest the one might have in the other. They neither showed any
nor pretended to any, they went their own ways with a quite unforced
indifference; and it would have been better if, when they met, they
had met as indifferently--but Antony seemed unable to resist an
unpleasantry, to which Roger's generally silent contempt seemed a more
than sufficient answer. In fact I rather sympathised with the jeers
that Antony now and then flung at him as he passed, for Roger's kind
of contempt seemed to have behind it enough conviction to provoke
even a reasonable man to a show of temper--and Antony reasonable! But
somehow or other Roger cleverly managed not to provoke him beyond
the limit until a few days before the end of his last term. I can
swear that he purposely brought on that burst, kept Antony's temper
dangerously dangling--until after supper that night when he, somehow,
finally goaded him into making a perfect ass of himself before the
whole house. Poor Antony, so unfairly matched against that grim
quietness!
But now, as I saw when I went to Regent's Park that night, it was as
Iris had said, the years had made a great difference in their relation
to each other. But in spite of the pleasing air of easy friendship
about them--with a touch less reticent than usual about Roger and one
more "lowered" about Antony--I managed to develop, as dinner went on,
another very real grievance; so real indeed that, with some nursing, it
lasted from that time on. It came about by my suddenly realizing that
I had very little indeed to say to these brothers--an uncomfortable
enough feeling about people whom one has known long enough never to
worry about having much or little to say to them. But my surprise at
being made aware of that constraint was heightened by another: that I
had nothing to say to Roger and Antony simply because, for all their
geniality, they had nothing to say to me! that they were, in fact,
rather resenting my being there at all....
I candidly vented my grievance on Iris, who seemed somehow implicated,
the next time I saw her, but she said that I was always apt to be
psychic about the wrong things.
"And even if you were in the least bit right you might be a little
understanding about it," she complained. "For after all, it's not very
unnatural that they should be a bit put out by you--because you, see,
you've known all about their little bitternesses for so many years. You
are somehow the sleuth that has never been shaken off! not, of course,
that you ever wanted to be a sleuth, that was just circumstance, nor
that either of them has ever wanted to shake you off--very much the
reverse with Antony, in fact, poor Ronnie! But if there's any strain at
all it must come from that, don't you think?..."
I didn't. In fact I thought it a very poor explanation--and, anyway, I
had lately been growing so impatient about the damnable vagaries of
those brothers, especially Antony's, that I clutched at this as a last
straw; and vowed that several moons must pass before I would again dine
with Roger and Antony. And several moons did pass....
Since Antony's return I had discovered in myself a lack of sympathy
with him that I had never before felt to such a degree, even on his
most unsympathetic days. And now, as the weeks passed and he never so
much as came near me, I thought of him as really beyond the limit.
After all, I had done a good deal for the man, one way and another. And
now, simply because he had no use for me.... There was a shamelessness
about the thing that gave me a positive distaste for him, and I really
desired to see him as little as possible. But it would have surprised
me very much if I had known that, as a fact, I was to see him only once
more, on that night a few months later.
I might have known more than I did of what was happening at this
time if I hadn't been so full of that stubborn impatience about the
brothers; so unreciprocative about them, that, Iris accused me later,
even if she had been minded to tell me anything of her feelings and of
what was happening (which would only have furiously muddled me without
helping her in the least) my attitude of, as it were, "disowning" them
would have prevented any such confidence.
I saw very little of Roger throughout that time, and then only casually
at the Club; for I never once went to Regent's Park--as much because I
didn't want to as because he didn't ask me. But, Iris told me, neither
did he ask any one else, except to cards--there were no more parties of
the old kind. And the reason for that, as she told it to me one day,
came almost as a shock; for when she had asked him why there were no
more parties he had simply answered, because he couldn't afford them.
It was difficult to think of Roger as not being able to afford things.
For years one had thought of him as so rich a man without enquiring
how rich, as so magnificent a spender without thinking of how much he
spent--he seemed capable of spending so much! There are men in relation
to whom one doesn't think of money, it seems natural to them to have so
much. But now, it had happened that he couldn't afford things!...
"And what's more," Iris said, as we were childishly wondering about
this (for we were both rather stupid about large sums of money, I
suppose because she was so used to them and because I had never had
any), "he's been having a real streak of bad luck at cards lately.
Of course, he's lost before, but he has always managed to get it back
in the end and much besides--but lately, you know, as I've watched
them playing, it seems to me that he was losing very heavily. But it's
difficult to believe that he has ever lost much, he always seems so
very unaffected by it--so unbelievably a good loser that one simply
can't believe he's lost very much." And thus Roger's philosophy of
surface values had at last won its share of Iris's grudging admiration,
or so it seemed to me from her wistful silence. And, I remember, I
wondered what kind of a man he could be who could, despite so much, so
firmly retain a woman's imagination about his personality.