October 27th
I do not like living. It is thoroughly disagreeable. Today Judith
taunted me with never having lived, and I admitted the justice of
the taunt and regretted in poignant misery the change from my old
conditions. If to live is to have one’s reason cast down and trampled
under foot, one’s heart aflame with a besotted passion and one’s soul
racked with remorse, then am I living in good sooth--and I would
far rather be dead and suffering the milder pains of Purgatory. Men
differently constituted get used to it, as the eels to skinning. They
say _“mea culpa,”_ “damn,” or _“Kismet,”_ according to their various
traditions, and go forth comforted to their workaday pursuits. I envy
them. I enter this exquisite Torture Chamber, and I shriek at the first
twinge of the thumbscrew and faint at the preliminary embraces of the
scavenger’s daughter.
I envy a fellow like Caesar Borgia. He could murder a friend, seduce
his widow, and rob the orphans all on a summer’s day, and go home
contentedly to supper; and after a little music he could sleep like a
man who has thoroughly earned his repose. What manner of creatures are
other men? They area blank mystery to me; and I am writing--or have been
writing--a sociological study of the most subtle generation of them that
has ever existed! I am an empty fool. I know absolutely nothing. I can
no more account for the peaceful slumbers of that marvellous young man
of five-and-twenty than I can predicate the priority of the first hen or
the first egg. I, with never a murder or a seduction or a robbery on my
conscience, could not sleep last night. I doubt whether I shall sleep
to-night. I feel as if I shall remain awake through the centuries with a
rat gnawing my vitals.
So unhappy looking a woman as Judith, when I called on her early this
forenoon, I have never beheld. Gone was the elaborate coquetry of
yesterday; gone the quiet roguishness of yesteryear; gone was all the
Judith that I knew, and in her place stood a hollow-eyed woman shaking
at gates eternally barred.
“I--thought you would come this morning. I had that lingering faith in
you.”
“Your face haunted me all night,” I said. “I was bound to come.”
“So, this is the end of it all,” she remarked, stonily.
“No,” said I. “It only marks the transition from a very ill-defined
relationship to as loyal a friendship as ever man could offer woman.”
She gave a quivering little shrug of disgust and turned away.
“Oh, don’t talk like that ‘I can’t offer you bread, but I’ll give you a
nice round polished stone.’ Friendship! What has a woman like me got to
do with friendship?”
“Have I ever given you much more?”
“God knows what you have given me,” she cried, bitterly. She stared out
of the window at the sodden street and murky air. I went to her side and
touched her wrist.
“For heaven’s sake, Judith, tell me what I can do.”
“What’s done is done,” she said, between her teeth. “When did you marry
her?”
I explained briefly the condition of affairs. She looked at me hard
and long; then stared out of the window again, and scarce heeded what I
said.
“It was to set myself right with you on this point,” I added, “that I
have visited you at such an hour.”
She remained silent. I took a few turns about the familiar room that was
filled with the associations of many years. The piano we chose together.
The copy of the Botticelli Tondo--the crowned Madonna of the Uffizi--I
gave her in Florence. We had ransacked London together to find the
Chippendale bookcase; and on its shelves stood books that had formed
a bond between us, and copies of old reviews containing my fugitive
contributions. A spurious Japanese dragon in faence, an inartistic
monstrosity dear to her heart, at which I had often railed, grinned
forgivingly at me from the mantel-piece. I have never realised how
closely bound up with my habits was this drawing-room of Judith’s. I
stopped once more by her side.
“I can’t leave you altogether, dear,” I said, gently. “A bit of myself
is in this room.”
Her bosom shook with unhappy laughter.
“A bit?” Then she turned suddenly on me. “Are you simply dull or sheerly
cruel?”
“I am dull,” said I. “Why do you refuse my friendship? Our relation has
been scarcely more. It has not touched the deep things in us. We agreed
at the start that it should not. The words ‘I love you’ have never
passed between us. We have been loyal to our compact. Now that love
has come into my life--and Heaven knows I have striven against it--what
would you have me do?”
“And what would you have me do?” said Judith, tonelessly.
“Forgive me for breaking off the old, and trust me to make the new
pleasant to you.”
She made no answer, but stood still staring out of the window like a
woman of stone. Presently she shivered and crossed to the fire, before
which she crouched on a low chair. I remained by the window, anxious,
puzzled, oppressed.
“Marcus,” she said at last, in a low voice. I obeyed her summons. She
motioned me to a chair, and without looking at me began to speak.
“You said there was a bit of you in this room. There is everything of
you. Your whole being is for me in this room. You are with me wherever
I go. You are the beginning and end of life to me. I love you with a
passion that is killing me. I am an emotional woman. I made shipwreck
of myself because I thought I loved a man. But, as God hears me, you are
the only man I have loved. You came to me like a breath of Heaven while
I was in Purgatory--and you have been Heaven to me ever since. It has
been play to you--but to me--”
I fell on my knees beside her. Each of the low half-whispered words was
a red hot iron. I had received last night the message of her white face
with incredulity. I had reviewed our past life together and had found
little warrant in it for that message. It could not come from the
depths. It was staggeringly impossible. And now the impossible was the
flaming fact.
I fell on my knees beside her.
“Not play, Judith--”
She put out her hand to check me, and the words died on my lips. What
could I say?
“For you it was a detached pleasant sentiment, if you like; for me the
deadliest earnest. I was a fool too. You never said you loved me, but I
thought you did. You were not as other men, you knew nothing of the
ways of the world or of women or of passion--you were reserved,
intellectual--you viewed things in a queer light of your own. I
felt that the touch of a chain would fret you. I gave you absolute
freedom--often when I craved for you. I made no demands. I assented to
your philosophic analysis of the situation--it is your way to moralise
whimsically on everything, as if you were a disconnected intelligence
outside the universe--and I paid no attention to it. I used to laugh at
you--oh, not unkindly, but lovingly, happily, victoriously. Oh, yes,
I was a fool--what woman in love isn’t? I thought I gave you all you
needed. I was content, secure. I magnified every little demonstration.
When you touched my ear it was more to me than the embrace of another
man might have been. I have lived on one kiss of yours for a week. To
you the kiss was of no more value than a cigarette. I wish,” she added
in a whisper, “I wish I were dead!”
She had spoken in a low, monotonous voice, staring haggardly at the
fire, while I knelt by her side. I murmured some banal apologia,
miserably aware that one set of words is as futile as another when one
has broken a woman’s heart.
“You never knew I loved you?” she went on in the same bitter undertone.
“What kind of woman did you take me for? I have accepted help from you
to enable me to live in this flat--do you imagine I could have done such
a thing without loving you? I should have thought it was obvious in a
thousand ways.”
The fire getting low, she took up the scoop for coals. Mechanically I
relieved her of the thing and fulfilled the familiar task. Neither spoke
for a long time. She remained there and I went to the window. It had
begun to rain. A barrel-organ below was playing some horrible music-hall
air, and every vibrant note was like a hammer on one’s nerves. The
grinder’s bedraggled Italian wife perceiving me at the window grinned up
at me with the national curve of the palm. She had a black eye which the
cacophonous fiend had probably given her, and she grinned like a happy
child of nature. Men in my position do not blacken women’s eyes; but
it is only a question of manners. Was I, for that, less of a brute male
than the scowling beast at the organ?
The sudden sound of a sob made me turn to Judith, who had broken down
and was crying bitterly, her face hidden in her hands. I bent and
touched her shoulder.
“Judith--”
She flung her arms around my neck.
“I can’t give you up, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t,” she cried, wildly.
For the first time in my life I heard a woman give abandoned, incoherent
utterance to an agony of passion; and it sounded horrible, like the cry
of an animal wounded to death.
A guilt-stricken creature, scarce daring to meet her eyes, I bade her
farewell. She had recovered her composure.
“Make me one little promise, Marcus, do me one little favour,” she said,
with quivering lip, and letting her cold hand remain in mine. “Stay
away from her to-day. I couldn’t bear to think of you and her together,
happy, love-making, after what I’ve said this morning. I should writhe
with the shame and the torture of it. Give me your thoughts to-day. Wear
a little mourning for the dead. It is all I ask of you.”
“I should have done what you ask without the asking,” I replied.
I kissed her hand, and went out into the street.
I had walked but a few blind steps when I became aware of the presence
and voice of Pasquale.
“Coming from Mrs. Mainwaring’s? I am just on my way there to restore
her opera-glasses which I ran away with last night. What’s her number? I
forget. I dropped in at Lingfield Terrace to inquire, but found you had
already started.”
“Seventeen,” I answered, mechanically.
“You are not looking well, my good friend,” said he. “I hope last night
has not upset you. It’s all bluff, you know, on the part of the precious
Hamdi.”
“I dare say it was,” I assented.
“And bluff on your part, too. I have never given your imaginative
faculties sufficient credit. It bowled Hamdi out clean.”
“Yes,” said I. “It bowled him out clean.”
“Serve him right,” said Pasquale. “He’s the wickedest old thief unhung.”
“Quite so,” said I, “the wickedest old thief unhung.”
Pasquale shook me by the arm.
“Are you a man or a phonograph? What on earth has happened to you?”
I think I envied the laughter in his handsome, dark face, and the
careless grace of the fellow as he stood beneath the dripping umbrella
debonair as a young prince, in perfectly fitting blue serge-he wore no
overcoat; mine was buttoned up to the chin, and immaculate suede gloves.
“What is it?” he repeated, gaily.
“I didn’t sleep last night,” said I, “my breakfast disagreed with me,
and it’s raining in the most unpleasant manner.”
Even while I was speaking he left my side and darted across the road.
In some astonishment I watched him for a moment from the kerb, and then
made my way slowly to the other side. I found him in conversation with
an emaciated, bedraggled woman standing by an enormous bundle, about
three times her own cubic bulk, which she had rested on the slimy
pavement. One hand pressed a panting bosom.
“You are going to carry that in your arms all the way to South
Kensington?” I heard him cry as I approached.
“Yes, sir,” said the woman.
“Then you shan’t. I’m not going to allow it. Catch hold of this.”
The umbrella which he thrust out at her she clutched automatically,
to prevent it falling about her ears. The veto she received with a
wonderment which deepened into stupefaction when she saw him lift the
huge bundle in his arms and stalk away with it down the street. She
turned a scared face at me.
“It’s washing,” she said.
Pasquale paused, looked round and motioned her onward. She followed
without a word, holding the trim silver mounted umbrella, and I
mechanically brought up the rear. It had all happened so quickly that I
too was confused. The scanty populace in the rain-filled street stared
and gaped. A shambling fellow in corduroys bawled an obscene jest.
Pasquale put down his bundle.
“Do you want to be sent to hell by lightning?” he asked, with the evil
snarl of the lips.
“No,” said the man, sheering off.
“I’m glad,” remarked Pasquale, picking up the bundle. And we resumed our
progress.
Luckily a four-wheeled cab overtook us. Pasquale stopped it, squeezed
the bundle inside, and held the door open for the faltering and
bewildered woman, as if she had been the authentic duchessa at Ealing.
“You were saying, Ordeyne,” he observed, as the cabman drove off with
three shillings and his incoherent fare, “you were saying that your
breakfast disagreed with you.”
In spite of my heaviness of heart, I laughed and loved the man. There
was something fantastically chivalrous in the action; something superb
in the contempt of convention; something whimsical, adventurous,
unexpected; and something divine in the wrathful pity; and something
irresistible in his impudent apostrophe to myself. It has been the one
flash of comfort during this long and desolate day.
I have kept my promise to Judith. I have lunched and dined at the club,
and in the library of the club I have tried to while away the hours.
I intended this morning to make the necessary arrangements for the
marriage. After my interview with Judith I had not the heart. I put it
off till to-morrow. I have observed the day as a day of mourning. I have
worn sackcloth and ashes. I have done such penance as I could for the
grievous fault I have committed. Carlotta is in bed and asleep. She went
early, says Antoinette, having a bad headache. No wonder, poor child.
A few moments ago I was tempted to peep into her room and satisfy myself
that she was not ailing. A headache is the common precursor to many
maladies. But I remembered my promise and refrained. The cooing notes of
the voice would have called me to her side, and her arms would have been
around my neck and I should have forgotten Judith.