VIII

It is rather a matter of regret with me now that I never kept a diary.

Mine has been upon the whole a somewhat lonely life, and lonely men

often do keep diaries. But, in my case, I suppose writing was too much

the daily business of life to permit of leisure being given to the

same task.

However, the dates of certain volumes of short stories, which appeared

long ago with my name upon their covers, are for me evidence that,

after the first six months of my stay in Howard Street, my work began

to tend more and more towards fiction, and away from newspaper

articles. My dealings at this time brought me more closely into touch

with magazines than with newspapers. I became more concerned with

human emotions and character, but especially with emotions, than with

those more abstract or again more matter-of-fact themes which had

served me in the writing of newspaper articles.

This may have helped me in some ways, since it meant that my name was

fairly frequently seen in print now. But the point I have in mind is,

that I take this tendency in my work to have been an indication of the

particular phase of character development through which I was passing

at the time. It was at this period that I indulged myself in

occasional dreams of fame. I do not know that my conceit made me

offensive in any way. I hardly think it went so far. But, in my inmost

heart, I believe I judged myself to be a creative artist of note. I

certainly had a lively imagination, a good deal of fluency--too much,

indeed--as a writer, and a considerable amount of emotional capacity

and sympathy.

Later in life I often wondered, not without depression, why I no

longer seemed able to move people, to influence them in a given

direction, or to arouse their enthusiasm, with the same facility which

I had known in my twenties. I see now the reasons of this. My

emotional capacity spent itself rapidly in writing and living; and

with its exhaustion (and the development of my critical faculties)

came an attenuation, a drying up, so to say, of the quality of facile

emotional sympathy, which in earlier years had made it easy for me to

attract, prepossess, or influence people at will.

Given some practical organising qualities which I certainly did not

possess, I apprehend that at this period I might have engineered

myself into a considerable vogue of popularity as a writer of fiction.

A little later I might almost have slid into the same position, even

in the absence of the practical qualities aforesaid, but for the trend

of circumstances which then became highly antagonistic to that sort of

development.

But I note with some interest that the stories I took to writing at

this period were highly emotional in tone, and somewhat exotic in

their setting. The exotic settings may have been due in part to the

fact that I had travelled, and yet more I fancy to revulsion from the

material background of my early life in London. And the emotionalism

must be attributed, I apprehend, in part to my age and temperament,

and in part to my comparative solitude.

I find it extremely difficult justly to appraise or analyse my

relations with Fanny. In one mood I see merely youth, folly, vanity,

and romantic emotionalism, directing my conduct; and again I fancy I

discern some loftier motive, such as sincerely chivalrous generosity,

humanity, unselfish desire to help and uplift, etc. Doubtless, in this

as in most matters, a variety of motives and influences played their

part in shaping one's conduct. Single and entirely unmixed motives are

much more rare than most people believe, I fancy. Pride and vanity

have a way of dogging generosity's footsteps very closely; steadfast

endurance and selfish obstinacy are nearly related; and I dare say

real kindness of heart often has a place where we most of us see only

reckless self-indulgence.

I remember very well a cold, clear moonlight night in the Hampstead

Road, when reaction from solitary reflection made me unbosom myself a

good deal to Sidney Heron, in the form of seeking his advice. On

previous occasions I had told him something of Fanny and her dismal

position, and he had seen her once or twice at my lodging.

'H'm! Yes. Precisely. So I inferred.'

It was with such ejaculations, rather sardonic in tone, I thought,

that he listened to me as we walked.

'Well, what shall I do?' I said at length as we reached his gate.

'What will you do?' he echoed. 'Well, my friend, since you are an

inspired ass, and a confirmed sentimentalist, I imagine you----'

'What would you advise in the circumstances, I mean?' I interpolated

hurriedly.

'My advice. Oh, that's another matter altogether, and of absolutely no

value.'

'But, on the contrary, you are older than I.'

'I am indeed--centuries.'

'And your advice should be very helpful to me.'

'So it should. But it won't be, because you won't follow it.'

'How can you know that?'

'From my knowledge of human nature, sir; and, in particular, my

observation of your sub-species.'

'Try me, anyhow.'

'Very well. Change your lodging to-morrow, and never set foot in

Howard Street again. There's my advice, and it's the best you'll ever

get--and the last you'd ever think of following. Give me a cigarette

if you want to continue this perfectly useless conversation.'

'But, my dear Heron, I'm anxious to do the wisest thing----'

'Not you!'

'But consider the plight of that poor girl.'

'Oh, come! This opens new ground. I thought I was engaged to advise

you.'

'Certainly. But in relation to--to what we've been talking about.'

'H'm! In relation, you mean, to Fanny Pelly? Phoebus, what a name! I

wonder if you know what you mean, Freydon! Let's assume you mean

having equal regard to your own interests and those of your gin-drinking

landlady's daughter. Hey?'

'Well, yes. Always remembering, of course, that I am only a man, and

she----'

'Oh, Lord! Excuse me. Yes; you are only a man, as you so truly say;

and she is--your landlady's daughter. Well, well, upon the whole, and

giving her interests a fair show, I think my advice would be precisely

the same--clear out to-morrow.'

'And what about her future?'

'My dear man, am I a reasoning human being, or a novelette-reading

jelly-fish? Did I not say that having regard to the interests of both,

that is my advice? Kindly credit me with the modicum of intelligence

required for adequate consideration of both sides. It isn't an

international complication, you know; neither is it a situation

entirely without precedent in history. But, mind you, I'm perfectly

well aware that no advice, however good, is ever of any practical use;

least of all in circumstances of this order. It does, I believe,

occasionally impel its victim in the direction opposite to the one

indicated. Yes, and especially in such cases. Well, my friend, upon

reconsideration then, my advice is that first thing to-morrow morning

you proceed to Doctors' Commons, wherever and whatever that may be,

procure a special licence, and many the girl. Only--don't you dare to

ask me to have anything to do with it.'

The suggestion has a fantastic look, but I am more than half inclined

to think Heron's final piece of advice did have its bearing upon my

subsequent actions. For it started a train of thought in my mind

regarding marriage. It gave a practical shape to mere vague

imaginings. It set me looking into details. For example, I distinctly

remember murmuring to myself as I turned the corner of Heron's street:

'Yes, after all, I suppose getting married is quite a simple job,

really. There are registrar's offices, aren't there? I suppose it's

pretty well as simple, really, as getting a new coat.'

How Heron would have grinned if he had been able to follow this

soliloquy!

Fanny was on her knees before my hearth when I reached my room. The

lamp burned clear and soft beside my blotting-pad. The fire glowed

cheerily, and Fanny had just swept the hearth, so that no speck showed

upon it. And my slippers were in the fender. Less than a year earlier

my homecomings had been singularly different; a dark, cold room in a

malodorous house, with very possibly a drunken couple brawling on the

landing outside.

But there were tears in Fanny's eyes. The mother was in one of her

vicious tempers, it seemed, and had gone to bed in her basement room

with the keys of larder and kitchen, and a bottle of gin. The

daughter's last meal had been whatever she could get for midday

dinner. And it was now nine o'clock in the evening.

'Just you wait there. Don't stir from where you arc. I'll be back in

three minutes,' I told her.

There was a ham and beef shop at the junction of Howard and Albany

Street. Thither I hastened. Leaving this convenient repository of

ready-cooked comestibles, I bethought me of the question of something

to drink. I was bent on doing this thing well, according to my lights.

Presently I reached my room again, armed with pressed beef, cold

chicken, bread, butter, mustard, salt, plates, cutlery, a segment of

vividly yellow cake, and, crowning triumph, a half bottle of Macon.

The Dickensian tradition rather suggests that the ripe experience of a

middle-aged _bon vivant_ is desirable in the host at such occasions.

Well, in that master's time youth may have lasted longer in life than

it does with us. My own notion is that mine was the ideal age for such

a part. I think of that little supper--Fanny's tremulous sips of

Burgundy from my wash-stand tumbler, the warm flush in her pale

cheeks, and the sparkle in her brown eyes--as crystallising a good

deal of the phase in which I was living just then. I am quite sure I

did it well, very well.

In buying those viands I knew I should keenly enjoy our little supper.

I pictured very clearly how delightful it would all seem to poor

Fanny; her flushed enjoyment; just what a rare treat the whole episode

would be for her. I knew how pleasantly that spectacle would thrill

me. I thought too, in a way, what a devilish romantic chap I was,

rushing out at night to purchase supper--and Burgundy; that was

important; claret would not have served--for a forlorn and unhappy

girl, who, but for my resourcefulness, would have gone starving to

bed. How oddly mixed the motives! The Burgundy, now; I believed it a

more generous and feeding wine than any other. Also, for some reason,

it was for me a more romantic wine; more closely associated with, say,

the Three Musketeers and with Burgundian Denys, comrade of Reade's

Gerard.

I quite genuinely wanted to help Fanny, to do her good, to brighten

her dull life. The contemplation of her pleasure gave me what some

would call the most unselfish delight. Withal, as I say, how oddly

various are one's motive springs, especially in youth! And, in some

respects, what a blind young fool I was! That wine, now.... Who

knows? ... I took but a sip or two, for ceremony's sake, and insisted on

fragile Fanny finishing the half bottle. And I kissed her lips, not

her cheek, as I held the lamp high to light her on her way to the

garret where she slept.

* * * * *

I have not the smallest desire to make excuses for such foolishness as

I displayed, at this or any other period. But I think it just to

remind myself that there are worse things than foolishness, and that

my relations with Fanny might conceivably have formed a darker page

for me to look back upon than they actually did form. We both were

young, both lonely; neither of us had found much tenderness in life,

and I--I was passing through an extremely emotional phase of life, as

my work of that period clearly shows.

Within a month of that evening of the supper in my room, Fanny and I

were married in a registrar's office in St. Pancras, and set up

housekeeping in one tiny bedroom and a sitting-room in Camden Town. I

had convinced Fanny that this was the only way out of her troubles,

and goodness knows I believed it. Heron refused point blank to witness

the ceremony, such as it was; but he shared our table at his favourite

little French restaurant that evening, and even consented to prolong

the festive occasion by spending a further hour with us in our new

quarters.

I think Fanny was pretty much preoccupied in wondering what her mother

would make of the joint note we had left for her. (I had removed all

my belongings from No. 37 several days before.) But I thought she made

a pretty little figure as a bride--gentle, clinging, tender, and no

more than agreeably shy. And Heron, what a revelation to me his manner

was! Throughout the evening there appeared not one faintest hint of

his habitual acidulated brusqueness. Not one sharp word did he speak

that night, and his manner toward my wife was the perfection of gentle

and considerate courtesy. I was dumbfounded and deeply moved by his

really startling behaviour. He was so incredibly gentle. His parting

words, such words as I had never thought to hear upon his lips, were:

'Heaven bless you both!' And then, as I could have sworn, with

moisture in his eyes, he added: 'You are both good souls, and--after

all, some are happy!'

For so convinced and angry a cynic and pessimist, his behaviour had

been remarkable. When I returned to Fanny she was admiring her pretty,

new, dove-coloured frock in the fly-blown mirror of our sitting-room.

Poor child, her experience of new frocks had not been extensive.

'He's a real gentleman, is Mr. Heron,' she said with a little

welcoming smile to me. I liked the smile; but, almost for the first

time I think, on that day at all events, her words jarred on me a

little. But what jarred more perhaps was the fact that these words, so

apparently innocent and harmless, sent a vagrant thought through my

mind that filled me with harsh self-contempt. The thought will

doubtless appear even more paltry than it was if put into words, but

it was something to the effect that-- Of course, Heron was a

gentleman! Why else would he be a friend of mine?

Perhaps the thought was hardly so absurd as my solemn self-contempt

over it! ...