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ONE MAN'S VIEW
by
LEONARD MERRICK
With an Introduction by Granville Barker
Hodder & Stoughton
London--New York--Toronto
1922
INTRODUCTION
This story can be said to date, though quite in the sense that a
story legitimately may. It is historic, though that is not to say
old-fashioned. If one searches by internal evidence for the time of
its writing, 1889 might be a safe guess. It was about then that many
Londoners (besides the American girls in the story) were given their
first glimpse of Niagara at the Panorama near Victoria Street. The
building is a motor garage now; it lies beneath the cliffs of Queen
Anne's Mansions; aeroplanes may discover its queer round roof. And it
was in an ageing past too--for architectural ages veritably flash by in
New York--that Broadway could be said to spread into the "brightness
of Union Square." To-day there is but a chaos of dingy decay owning
to that name. Soon it will be smart skyscrapers, no doubt; when the
tide of business has covered it, as now the tide of fashion leaves
it derelict. Duluth, too, with its "storekeepers spitting on wooden
sidewalks"! Duluth foresees a Lake Front that will rival Chicago.
But in such honest "dating," and in the inferences we may draw from it,
lie perhaps some of the peculiar merits of Mr. Merrick's method--his
straight telling of a tale. And digging to the heart of the book, the
One Man's View of his faithless wife--more importantly too, the wife's
view of herself--is, in a sense, an "historic" view. Not, of course, in
its human essentials. Those must be true or false of this man and this
woman whenever, however they lived and suffered. Such sufferings are
dateless. And whether they are truly or falsely told, let the reader
judge. No preface-writer need pre-judge for him. For in such things,
the teller of the tale, from the heart of his subject, speaks straight
to the heart and conscience of his audience, and will succeed or fail
by no measurable virtue of style or wit, but by the truth that is in
him, by how much of it they are open to receive.
Look besides with ever so slightly an historical eye at the
circumstances in which the lives of these two were set to grow, and
to flourish or perish, as it was easier or harder to tend them. See
the girl with her simple passion for the theatre--so apt a channel
for her happy ambition as it appears--and that baulked, her very life
baulked. To-day, this war-day, and most surely for the immediate
enfranchised to-morrow breaking so close, the same girl will turn her
back light-heartedly on the glamour of that little tinselled world to
many another prospect of self-fulfilment.
And the lawyer, lost in his law. If a Solicitor-Generalship is his
aim, he will be worldly-wise enough, one hopes, to come home not too
tired to make at least a passably attractive figure at his wife's
well-chosen dinner-parties. Or is that phase of English government now
also to pass? No; for probably a country will always be governed from
its dinner-tables, while its well-being is finally determined by their
quality! Mamie to-day, though, would be doing more than give dinners.
It is a question if the Mamie of to-morrow will have time to.
And the literary flâneur--the half-hearted seducer of passionless
ladies--is he out of date? Mr. Merrick implies the quite wholesome
truth that he always was. Through books and bookish dreams--beautiful,
wise dreams--lies the passage to life of many boys and girls. But the
healthiest instincts in them are seeking still a real world in which
it will be both sane and fine to live. Their dreams are mostly a hard
test of it when it is found; and, oh, the pity if the finding it quite
breaks their dream!
In sum, then, it was Mamie's tragedy to seek her realities during a
phase of art and letters which, in their utter unreality, seemed to
deny the very existence of any real world at all. Neither true art nor
true letters then; they were so turning from reality with fear.
Are they still denying it to-day? If so this story does not date at
all, and Mamie's tragedy is a tragedy of our time. For tragedy it is,
even though in _One Man's View_ she finds at last reposeful salvation
of a sort. But our hope is better. And half our pleasure in the story
and in its historical truth is the thought that, true author as he
is, were he writing it to-day, and of to-day, Mr. Merrick would have
written it just so much differently.
Granville Barker.
CHAPTER I
The idea was so foreign to his temperament that Heriot was reluctant
to believe that he had entertained it even during a few seconds. He
continued his way past the big pink house and the girl on the balcony,
surprised at the interest roused in him by this chance discovery of
her address. Of what consequence was it where she was staying? He had
noticed her on the terrace, by the band-stand one morning, and admired
her. In other words, he had unconsciously attributed to the possessor
of a delicious complexion, and a pair of grey eyes, darkly fringed,
vague characteristics to which she was probably a stranger. He had seen
her the next day also, and the next--even hoped to see her; speculated
quite idly what her social position might be, and how she came beside
the impossible woman who accompanied her. All that was nothing; his
purpose in coming to Eastbourne was to be trivial. But why the sense of
gratification with which he had learnt where she lived?
As to the idea which had crossed his brain, that was preposterous!
Of course, since the pink house was a boarding establishment, he
might, if he would, make her acquaintance by the simple expedient
of removing there, but he did not know how he could have meditated
such a step. It was the sort of semi-disreputable folly that a man a
decade or so younger might commit and describe as a "lark." No doubt
many men a decade or so younger would commit it. He could conceive
that a freshly-painted balcony, displaying a pretty girl for an hour
or two every afternoon, might serve to extend the clientèle of a
boarding-house enormously, and wondered that more attention had not
been paid to such a form of advertisement. For himself, however---- His
hair was already thinning at the temples; solicitors were deferential
to him, and his clerk was taking a villa in Brixton; for himself, it
would not do!
Eastbourne was depressing, he reflected, as he strolled towards the
dumpy Wish Tower. He was almost sorry that he hadn't gone to Sandhills
and quartered himself on his brother for a week or two instead. Francis
was always pleased to meet him of recent years, and no longer remarked
early in the conversation that he was "overdrawn at Cox's." On the
whole, Francis was not a bad fellow, and Sandhills and pheasants would
have been livelier.
He stifled a yawn, and observed with relief that it was near the
dinner-hour. In the evening he turned over the papers in the
smoking-room. He perceived, as he often did perceive in the vacations,
that he was lonely. Vacations were a mistake: early in one's career
one could not afford them, and by the time one was able to afford
them, the taste for holidays was gone. This hotel was dreary, too. The
visitors were dull, and the cooking was indifferent. What could be more
tedious than the meal from which he had just risen?--the feeble soup,
the flaccid fish, the uninterrupted view of the stout lady with the
aquiline nose, and a red shawl across her shoulders. Now he was lolling
on a morocco couch, fingering the _The Field_; two or three other men
lay about, napping, or looking at the _The Graphic_. There was a great
deal of tobacco-smoke, and a little whisky; he might as well have
stopped in town and gone to the Club. He wondered what they did in
Belle Vue Mansion after dinner. Perhaps there was music, and the girl
sang? he could fancy that she sang well. Or they might have impromptu
dances? Personally he did not care for dancing, but even to see others
enjoying themselves would be comparatively gay. After all, why should
he not remove to Belle Vue Mansion if he wished? He had attached a
significance to the step that it did not possess, making it appear
absurd by the very absurdity of the consideration that he accorded it.
He remembered the time when he would not have hesitated--those were
the days when Francis was always "overdrawn at Cox's." Well, he had
worked hard since then, and anything that Francis might have lent him
had been repaid, and he had gradually acquired soberer views of life.
Perhaps he might be said to have gone to an extreme, indeed, and taken
the pledge! He sometimes felt old, and he was still in the thirties.
Francis was the younger of the two of late, although he had a boy in
the Brigade; but elder sons often kept young very long--it was easy for
them, like the way of righteousness to a bishop.... A waiter cast an
inquiring glance round the room, and, crossing to the sofa, handed him
a card. Heriot read the name with astonishment; he had not seen the man
for sixteen years, and even their irregular correspondence had died a
natural death.
"My dear fellow!" he exclaimed in the hall. "Come inside."
In the past, of which he had just been thinking, he and Dick Cheriton
had been staunch friends, none the less staunch because Cheriton was
some years his senior. Dick had a studio in Howland Street then, and
was going to set the Academy on fire. In the meanwhile he wore a yellow
necktie, and married madly, and smoked a clay pipe; he could not
guarantee that he would be an R.A., but at least he was resolved that
he would be a bohemian. He had some of the qualifications for artistic
success, but little talent. When he discovered the fact beyond the
possibility of mistake, he accepted a relative's offer of a commercial
berth in the United States, and had his hair cut. The valedictory
supper in the studio, at which he had renounced ambition, and solemnly
burned all his canvases that the dealers would not buy, had been a very
affecting spectacle.
"My dear fellow!" cried Heriot. "Come inside. This is a tremendous
pleasure. When did you arrive?"
"Came over in the _Germanic_, ten days ago. It _is_ you, then; I saw
'George Heriot' in the Visitors' List, and strolled round on the
chance. I scarcely hoped---- How are you, old man? I'm mighty glad to
see you--fact!"
"You've been here ten days?"
"Not here, no; I've only been in Eastbourne a few hours."
"You should have looked me up in town."
"I tried. Your chambers were shut."
"The hall-porter at the Club----"
"What club? You forget what an exile I am!"
"Have a drink? Well, upon my word, this is very jolly! Sit down; try
one of these."
"Would you have recognised me?" asked Cheriton, stretching his legs,
and lighting the cigar.
"You've changed," admitted Heriot; "it's a long time. I've changed too."
They regarded each other with a gaze of friendly criticism. Heriot
noted with some surprise that the other's appearance savoured little
of the American man of business, or of the man of business outside
America. His hair, though less disordered than it had been in the
Howland Street period, was still rather longer than is customary in the
City. It was now grey, and became him admirably. He wore a black velvet
jacket, and showed a glimpse of a deep crimson tie. He no longer looked
a bohemian, but he had acquired the air of a celebrity.
"Have you come home for good, Cheriton?"
Cheriton shook his head.
"I guess America has got me for life," he answered; "I'm only making a
trip. And you? You're still at the Bar, eh?"
"Oh, yes," said Heriot drily; "I'm still at the Bar." It is not
agreeable, when you have succeeded in a profession, to be asked if you
are in it still. "I've travelled along the lines on which you left
me--it doesn't make an exciting narrative. Chambers, court, and bed. A
laundress or two has died in the interval. The thing pays better than
it used to do, naturally; that's all."
"You're doing well?"
"I should have called it 'doing well' once; but we are all Olivers in
our hearts. To-day----"
"Mistake!" said the elder man. "You wanted the Bar--you've got the Bar;
you ought to be satisfied. Now _I_----"
"Yes?" said Heriot, as he paused. "How's the world used you, Cheriton?
By the way, you never answered my last letter, I think."
"It was _you_ who didn't answer _me_."
"I fancy not. You were going to Chicago, and I wrote----"
"I wrote after I arrived in Chicago."
"Well, it must be five years ago; we won't argue. What did you do in
Chicago, Cheriton?"
"No good, sir. I went there with a patent horse-collar. Capital
invention--not my own, I never invented anything!--but it didn't catch
on. They seemed to take no interest in horse-collars; no money in it,
not a cent! After the horse-collar I started in the dry-goods trade;
but I was burned out. From Chicago I went to Duluth; I've an hotel
there to-day."
"An hotel?"
"That's so. It isn't a distinguished career, running a little hotel,
but it's fairly easy. Compared with hustling with horse-collars it's
luxurious. Duluth is not ideal, but what would you have! I make my way,
and that's all I ask now. If I had my life over again----" He sighed.
"If we could have our lives over again, eh, Heriot?"
"Humph!" said Heriot doubtfully; he was wondering if he could make any
better use of his own--if he would be any livelier the next time he was
eight-and-thirty. "I suppose we all blunder, of course."
"_You_ are a young man yet; it's different for you; and you're in the
profession of your choice: it's entirely different. We don't look at
the thing from the same standpoint, Heriot."
"You don't mean that you regret giving up Art?"
"Sir," said Cheriton mournfully, "it was the error I shall always
regret. I wouldn't say as much to anybody else; I keep it here"--he
tapped his velvet jacket--"but I had a gift, and I neglected it; I
had power, and--and I run an hotel. When I reflect, man, there are
hours--well, it's no use crying over spilt milk; but to think of the
position I should have made, and to contrast it with what I am, is
bitter!" He swept back his wavy hair impatiently, and in the momentary
pose looked more like a celebrity still.
Heriot could see that the cherished delusion gave him a melancholy
pleasure, and was at a loss how to reply. "It was uphill work," he said
at last. "Who can tell? Luck----"
"I was a lad, an impetuous lad; and I was handicapped--I married." The
man with a failure to explain is always grateful to have married. "But
I had the stuff in me, I had the temperament. 'Had' it? I have it now!
I may keep an hotel, but I shall never be an hotel-keeper. God gave
me my soul, sir; circumstances gave me an hotel. I mayn't paint any
more, but an artist by nature I shall always be. I don't say it in any
bragging spirit, Heriot; I should be happier if I didn't feel it. The
commonplace man may be contented in the commonplace calling: he fills
the rôle he was meant for. It's the poor devil like myself, who knows
what he _might_ have been, who suffers."
Heriot didn't pursue the subject; he puffed his cigar meditatively.
After the effervescence subsides, such meetings must always have a
little sadness; he looked at the wrinkles that had gathered on his
friend's face, and realised the crow's-feet on his own.
"You lost your wife, you wrote me?" he remarked, breaking a rather
lengthy silence.
"In New York, yes--pneumonia. _You_ never married, eh?"
"No. Do you stay over here long?"
"A month or two; I can't manage more. But I shall leave my girl in
London. I've brought her with me, and she'll remain."
"Of course," said Heriot, "you have a child--of course you have! I
remember a little thing tumbling about in Howland Street. She must be a
woman, Cheriton?"
"Mamie is twenty-one. I want to see if I can do anything for her before
I go back. She loathes Duluth; and she has talent. She'll live with my
sister. I don't think you ever saw my sister, did you? She's a widow,
and stagnates in Wandsworth--Mamie will be company for her."
"Your daughter paints?"
"No, not paints; she wants to be an actress. I wasn't very keen on it;
but she's got the material in her, and I concluded I'd no right to say
'no.' Still, she's not very strong--takes after her mother, I'm afraid,
a little; I'd rather she'd had a gift for something else."
"Was it necessary for her to have a gift at all?" asked Heriot, a shade
sarcastically. "Couldn't she stop at home?"
"Well," said Cheriton, "she tried it, but it's a hard thing for a girl
like Mamie to content herself with the life in Duluth. There isn't
much art in that, Heriot; there isn't much anything. There's the lake,
and Superior Street, and the storekeepers lounging in the doorways
and spitting on the wooden sidewalks. And there's a theatre of a
sort--which made her worse. For a girl panting to be famous, Duluth is
a hell. She's been breaking her heart in it ever since she was sixteen;
and after all, it's in the blood. It would have been odd if my daughter
_hadn't_ had the artistic temperament, I suppose!"
"I suppose it would," said Heriot. "Well, why doesn't she go on the
stage in America? I shouldn't think she'd find it easy here."
"She wouldn't find it easy there. There's no stock company in Duluth;
only the travelling companies come sometimes for a few nights. There's
no bigger opportunity for her on the other side than on this. Besides,
she wants the English stage. I wonder if you know anybody who could
give her any introductions?"
"I? Not a soul!"
"I'm sorry to hear you say that," said Cheriton blankly; "I was
counting on you some."
Heriot looked at him.
"You counted on _me_? For Heaven's sake, why?"
"Well, I don't know many people over here to-day, you see; the fellows
I used to knock against have died, gone to the Colonies--fizzled out.
You were solid; and you were a swell, with connections and all that. I
understand the stage has become very fashionable in London--I thought
you might meet actor-managers at dinners and things. That was the idea;
I daresay it was very stupid, but I had it. I mentioned your name to
Mamie as soon as it was settled we should come. However, we'll fix the
matter somehow."
"I'm sorry to prove a disappointment," said Heriot. "Tell your daughter
so for me. I'd do what you want with pleasure, if I were able. You know
that, I'm sure?"
"Oh, I know that," said Cheriton; "it can't be helped. Yes, I'll
tell her. She _will_ be disappointed, of course; she understands how
difficult the thing is without influence, and I've talked about you a
lot."
"Do you think you were wise to--to----"
"Oh, it was a mistake as it turns out!"
"I don't mean that only. I mean, do you think you were wise to
encourage her hopes in such a direction at all? Frankly, if _I_ had a
daughter---- Forgive me for speaking plainly."
"My dear fellow! your daughter and mine!--their paths would be as wide
apart as the poles. And you don't know Mamie!"
"At all events I know that the stage is more overcrowded every year.
Most girls are stage-struck at some time or other; and there are
hundreds of actresses who can't earn bread-and-cheese. A man I know
has his type-writing done by a woman who used to be on the stage. She
played the best parts in the country, I believe, and, I daresay, nursed
the expectation of becoming a Bernhardt. She gets a pound a week in his
office, he tells me, and was thankful to obtain the post."
"Mamie is bound to come to the front. She's got it--she's an artist
born. I tell you, I should be brutal to stand in the way of her career;
the girl is pining, really pining, for distinction! When you've talked
to her you'll change your views."
"Perhaps," said Heriot, as the shortest way of ending the discussion;
"very likely I'm wrong." The budding genius bored him. "Mind you
explain to the young lady that my inability, and not my will, refuses,
at any rate."
"That's all right," declared Cheriton, getting up. "I told her I was
coming round to see if it was you." He laughed. "I bet she's picturing
me coming back with a bushel of letters of introduction from you by
now! Well, I must be going; it's getting late."
"You brought her down to Eastbourne to-day?"
"Oh, I've been dangling about town a little by myself; Mamie and
my sister have been here a week. Good-night, old chap; shall I see
you to-morrow? You might give us a look in if you will--say in the
afternoon. Belle Vue Mansion; don't forget!"
"Where?" exclaimed Heriot, startled into interest.
"Belle Vue Mansion," repeated Cheriton, gripping his hand. "You can't
miss it: a big pink house on the Esplanade."