TRAGEDY
§ 1
ON the first of May the weather was very sultry. Downsland Road,
running past the front of the Council School, was both blazingly hot
and distressingly conscious that it was Friday afternoon. The road was
bursting out in little gouts of soft tar: costermongers were arranging
their wares for the evening’s marketing, spitting contemplatively
on the apples and polishing them afterwards on their coat-sleeves.
Children with clanking iron hoops converged from all directions
upon the four entrance gates of the Downsland Road Council School,
respectively those of the boys’, girls’, infants’ and junior mixed
departments. There they either carried or dragged them surreptitiously
along, for the trundling of hoops was forbidden in the schoolyard.
At five minutes to two, threading his way past the groups of boys and
girls that littered the pavements and roadways, came the short, stumpy
form of Mr. Weston. He was shabbily dressed as usual, yet it might
have been said that he carried his umbrella somewhat more jauntily
than was his wont. In fact, people had lately been saying that he was
beginning to get over the loss of his wife.... At any rate he passed
the costermongers and their stalls in a slouch that was not quite so
much a slouch as usual, smiled pleasantly as he caught sight of the
announcement of a Conservative Club soirée, and had just reached the
edifice known as the Duke Street Methodist Chapel when his attention
was arrested by an awful spectacle.
The Duke Street Methodist Chapel, it may here be remarked, was a
structure of appalling ugliness situate in the very midst of some of
the worst slums in Bockley. Its architecture was that of a continental
railway station, and its offertories between a pound and thirty
shillings a Sunday. Inside the hideous building, with her back to
the blue-distempered wall of the choir, the late Mrs. Weston had for
many years yelled the hymns at the top of her voice.... And along the
brown matting of the left-hand aisle Mr. Weston, suave and supple,
collection-plate in hand, had in his time paced many miles.... Once,
when the church steward was ill, his voice had been heard aloft in the
reading of the notices. And at the left-hand door, while the organist
played the “War March of the Priests,” he had stood with outstretched
hand, saying:
“Good evening, Mrs. Lawson.... Good evening, Ethel.... ’Night, Miss
Picksley ... see you at the Band of Hope on Tuesday, I suppose? ...”
He did not do that sort of thing now. In the chapel he was little seen,
and the Temperance Society knew him not. Only the Guild and Mutual
Improvement Society still counted him as a member, and that was solely
because they had not worried him into resigning.... At the Guild and
Mutual Improvement Society Mr. Weston’s carefully read papers, once
a session, on “Milton,” “John Wycliff, Scholar and Saint,” “The Lake
Poets,” etc., had been a well-known, but unfortunately not always
well-attended feature.
For over a year the fixture-card had lacked the name of Mr. Weston.
And then, a fortnight ago--to be precise, on April 14th--Mr. Weston had
been stopped in the street by Miss Picksley, the secretary of the Guild
and Mutual Improvement Society. She had said:
“Oh, Mr. Weston, _do_ give us one of your literary evenings, will
you?”
Perhaps it was the subtle compliment contained in the phrase “literary
evenings” that caused Mr. Weston not to say “I am sorry, but, etc.,
etc....” as quickly as he had intended.
Miss Picksley exploited the delay brilliantly.
“Good!” she cried, whipping out a pencil and notebook, “I’ll get your
name down for May 1st.... What’ll be your subject?”
“But, er ... I don’t ... er----”
“Something about literature, eh? ... Oh, do, please!” purred Miss
Picksley, making eyes at him. (She was really anxious for him to
accept, because she had canvassed in vain seven other speakers.) “Tell
me your subject, then it can go down on the fixture-cards.”
Mr. Weston, to his astonishment, lost his head and struck blindly at
the first literary name that came into his disordered mind.
“Shakespeare,” he gasped.
Miss Picksley departed, calling blessing upon his head.
§ 2
Now, as Mr. Weston passed the scene of so many of his former labours,
he felt not altogether sorry that to-night, in the schoolroom adjoining
the chapel, he would address a small but certainly select gathering on
the subject of “Shakespeare.” ... He would have liked to have expanded
the title of his paper into “Shakespeare, Man or Superman?” after
the fashion of a certain Methodist preacher who occasionally visited
Bockley. However....
Mr. Weston, it may be remarked, was feeling in quite a tolerably good
humour. He was beaming genially at the world in general when a horrible
sight met his eyes. Then his brow darkened into a frown. The smile left
his face; his lips tightened ominously. He stopped, swung down his
umbrella from its jaunty attitude, and stared. His eyes flamed. The
slope of his nose became full of menace.
For there, before his eyes, chalked up in scrawly writing on the
foundation-stone of the Duke Street Methodist Chapel, was an
inscription that excited his horrified attention. “This stone was laid
... to the glory of God ... the Rev. Samuel Smalljohn ...” he read,
and “Let your light so shine....” And underneath that, in a space that
made it most conspicuous, the brutal legend: “Daddy Weston is a Soppy
Fool....”
Entering the Downsland Road Council School in a white heat of
indignation, Mr. Weston was just able to hear the sound of suppressed
laughter and scurrying feet as he entered the classroom. The conviction
forced itself upon him that somebody had been watching at the
keyhole....
§ 3
Mr. Weston was not normally a hot-tempered man. He was by nature
placid, servile, lymphatic. It was solely as a measure of
self-protection that he had trained himself to lose his temper on
appropriate occasions. It was part of his disciplinary outfit.
He stood glowering fiercely behind his desk.
“I want all boys who were concerned in the chalking up of those
offensive remarks outside the school to stand up.”
Pause. No result.
“I may say that I have already a very fair idea of who they are, and I
shall be most severe with those who do not acknowledge themselves.”
(A lie, but Mr. Weston’s disciplinary system condoned it.)
“I may also say that for every half-minute I am kept waiting I shall
keep the class in half an hour after school hours. I have already
decided to keep the class in till five for keeping me waiting so long.”
Here Mr. Weston pulled out his watch and placed it prominently on the
desk before him. (This was mere theatricalism, as the watch did not go.)
Pause. Then a warning shuffle and seven small boys raised themselves.
Mr. Weston dived into his desk and produced seven coloured dusters for
cleaning blackboards.
“Come here,” he said to the seven.
The seven came.
“You will each take one of these dusters and go out into the street and
obliterate every one of the marks you have made. Then you will return.”
It was Mr. Weston’s own invention, this disciplinary method.
§ 4
Slowly, ever so slowly, the afternoon crept by, and Mr. Weston was
just beginning to congratulate himself upon having proved equal to the
occasion, when an awkward but all-important fact occurred to him. If
you keep your class in you have to stay in with it. Mr. Weston, of all
people, ought to have learnt this lesson, yet somehow amidst the heat
and sultriness of the afternoon it had escaped him. For he was tired,
dead tired. And also hot. The sweat was rolling down his forehead. Oh,
how he wished he had said half-past four, and not five! Confound it,
why had he said five? Half-past four would really have done just as
well. Only, having said five, he was bound (by that disciplinary code
of his) to keep his word.
He took a sheaf of notes from his inside pockets and perused them
diffidently. “William Shakespeare.” It was to last about half an hour,
and as yet Mr. Weston had thought about William Shakespeare only
sufficiently for it to last twenty or twenty-five minutes. It would
have to be padded out. Something about the “immortal bard of Avon....”
On such a fine evening, thought Mr. Weston, the audience would be
small. Possibly about fifteen or twenty. There would be Miss Picksley,
the secretary, to receive subscriptions for the coming session. Mrs.
Hollockshaw would be there to play the hymn on the American harmonium,
and Mr. Sly would open with a word of prayer. The Gunter girls would
sit on the back row and flirt with the Merridge boys. Possibly old Mrs.
Cowburn would turn up. (Or was she dead by this time?) ... After he had
read his paper there would be a few minutes for discussion. That would
merely mean votes of thanks, because he would take care not to say
anything controversial. Nothing about the Shakespeare-Bacon business.
Then the benediction given out by Mr. Sly. With luck the whole business
would be over by nine, and there would be time for a stroll through the
Forest at dusk. Or perhaps, though, it would be quite dark. Heavens I
Only twenty-five to five. Old Clotters was locking up in his room....
A ray of tawdry sunlight penetrated the dust and murkiness of the
atmosphere, bringing into prominence the rather obvious fact that
Mr. Weston was combining reverie with the observation of his class
through the interstices of his fingers. (This was an integral part of
Mr. Weston’s disciplinary system.) Ever and anon his eyes would focus
themselves upon a particular boy in the hope that if he were watched
long enough he would do something amiss. This happy consummation
was not long in coming. There was that boy Jones! Jones was doing
something. Surely, surely! ... Well, well, perhaps he would do it
again. There, he had done it.... His jaws had moved perpendicularly
twice within ten seconds. There could be no further doubt about it.
Jones was eating!
“Jones.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you eating?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then I will report you to Mr. Clotters on Monday morning. I will not
have this sort of thing going on in my class. Your manners are those of
the lower animals. Come up here and put what you are eating into the
waste-paper basket!”
§ 5
Punctually at five Mr. Weston locked his desk and prepared to observe
the solemn ritual of dismissal. It was in three movements.
“Attention!” called Mr. Weston, and the class looked at him eagerly.
“Stand!” called Mr. Weston, and the class stood. But there must have
been some flaw in the standing, for Mr. Weston immediately said, “Sit
down again!” They sat down again.
“Now stand!” cried Mr. Weston, after a suitable pause, and this time
the manœuvre met with his approval.
“Three!” continued Mr. Weston, and at this mysterious direction the
class took a side-step into its respective gangways.
“First row--forward!”
“Second.”
“Third.”
When the last row had dissolved into the disintegrating chaos of the
corridor, Mr. Weston took up his hat and umbrella and walked through
the masters’ gateway into the frowsiness of Downsland Road....
§ 6
In the hot kitchen of No. 24, Kitchener Road, Mr. Weston made himself
some tea and cut some bread and butter. He had not much time to spare.
He must add a few pages to his paper. Then he must wash and shave and
make himself respectable. During his meal he thought once or twice of
those old days when Laura, his wife, had been there to get his tea
ready for him, to fuss round the books and papers he brought home, and
to say: “Going out to-night, are you? Because if not, there’s your
slippers. And let’s ’ave your dirty boots....” He thought, too, of
Catherine: a little child, asking him absurd questions, messing about
with his exercise books, begging him for half-used sheets to scribble
on. But there was nothing regretful in his thoughts of those past days.
On the contrary, he rather inclined to moralize: “I don’t know whether
I’m not actually better off than I was then. At any rate I’m free, and
I can do what I like. It’s not so bad, really.”
He wrote down a few sentences about Shakespeare.
“That’ll have to do,” he thought. “It doesn’t really matter it being a
bit short.”
He poured himself out a cupful of hot water for shaving. It was one of
the advantages of living alone that he could shave in the kitchen if he
liked.
Curiously enough he paused after pouring out the water.
“Shall I or shall I not?” he pondered. He examined his chin in the
mirror. “I suppose I’ll do,” he decided, “it won’t be noticed in the
gas-light.”
Then he saw the water he had poured out.
“Oh, well,” he thought, “perhaps I will, after all....”
He took out his razor, one of the old-fashioned kind, stropped it
carefully and lathered himself.
While he was shaving he thought: “I wish I hadn’t told that boy Jones
I’d send him to Clotters on Monday morning. Clotters won’t like it
much....”
Suddenly, and seemingly without any premeditation, he thrust the soapy
razor into his throat, just above the windpipe....
§ 7
At the Duke Street Methodist Schoolroom a select audience of eleven
waited until half-past eight for Mr. Weston to deliver his paper on
“Shakespeare.”
“Perhaps he’s ill,” suggested Miss Picksley.
“No, he’s not, because he was at school this afternoon. My brother’s in
his class,” said one of the Gunter girls.
“Where does he live?”
“Kitchener Road ... 24 or 25 ... I forget which.”
“Well, it’s not far away. Somebody might go round and see. He may have
forgotten all about it.”
“I’ll go,” said Mr. Sly, the treasurer.
“I’ll come too,” said Miss Picksley, who had designs on Mr. Sly.
“We’ll all come,” chorused the Gunter girls.
“No, don’t,” said Miss Picksley. “We don’t want a crowd. It doesn’t
look nice.”
Through the refuse of a Friday evening’s marketing Mr. Sly and Miss
Picksley walked to Kitchener Road. They did not mind the walk They did
not even go the quickest way.
At No. 26 old father Jopson was standing at the front gate with his
monstrous goitre hanging down.
“It must be 24,” said Mr. Sly, “because this is 26.”
“Yes,” agreed Miss Picksley. She walked up to the porch of No. 24 and
knocked.
“Does Mr. Weston live here?” enquired Mr. Sly.
Jopson nodded profoundly.
“He must be out,” said Miss Picksley.
“Do you know if he’s out?” enquired Mr. Sly.
Jopson raised his eyes sagaciously.
“’E’s in, ’cos I seed ’im come in couple ’v ars ago, an’ I bin ’ere or
in the fron’-rum ever since.”
“Perhaps he’s in the garden.”
“’E don’t go in the gawden nardays.”
“Lives by himself, doesn’t he?”
“Yus, lives by ’imself.”
“I’m sure he must be out,” said Miss Picksley. As unostentatiously as
possible she peeped through the letter-box. (She was not quite certain
whether this was really a ladylike proceeding.)
“’E ain’t aout, ’relse I should ’a seen ’im go aout.”
“His hat and coat are on the hall-stand, too.... Perhaps he’s ill.”
“Try again. Maybe he was in the garden and didn’t hear the first
knocks.”
They tried again, but to no purpose. Eventually they went away in the
direction of Cubitt Lane.
“Nine o’clock,” said Miss Picksley. “Surely nobody’ll be waiting in the
schoolroom. I don’t think it’s much good going back.”
“Nor do I,” said Mr. Sly. “In fact, we might go for a walk....”
Miss Picksley did not object, so they strolled past the King’s Arms
into the Forest and forgot all about Mr. Weston and his promised paper
on William Shakespeare....
§ 8
On Saturday morning at half-past nine the rent-man came to No. 24,
Kitchener Road to collect his weekly seven-and-sixpence. His customary
treble knock begat no reply. Simultaneously he noticed the milk-can on
the step. It was full, and the conclusion was that Mr. Weston was still
in bed.
Never as long as the rent-man could remember (and that was a very long
time) had the household at No. 24 been asleep at 9.30 on a Saturday
morning.
He went his rounds and returned to No. 24 on his way home about ten
past one. The milk-can was still there on the step. Its solitude was
now shared by a loaf of bread which the baker had left. Receiving no
answer to his knocks, the rent-man went to No. 26. There the garrulous
Mrs. Jopson recounted the visit of the two callers on the previous
evening.
“They knocked an’ knocked an’ _knocked_, but couldn’t git no anser ... an’
my ’usband swears ’e ’adn’t seen ’im go aout.”
Eventually it was decided that the rent-man should climb over the fence
in Jopson’s back garden and effect an entrance into No. 24 by the back
way. Jopson, morbidly curious, was to go with him.
You picture this strange couple standing in the tiny back scullery of
No. 24, Jopson with his huge face-monstrosity all mottled and pink and
shining with sweat, and the rent-man sleek and dapper, fountain-pen
behind his ear, receipt-book stuffed in his side pocket.
“Gow on strite through,” said Jopson thickly, “it leads inter the
kitchin.”
Slowly and almost apprehensively the rent-man turned the handle....