The twilight was fading as she left the office. She turned northward,
choosing a broad, ill-lighted road. It did not matter which way she
took. She wanted to think; or, rather, to dream.
It would all fall out as she had intended. She would commence by
becoming a power in journalism. She was reconciled now to the photograph
idea--was even keen on it herself. She would be taken full face so that
she would be looking straight into the eyes of her readers as she talked
to them. It would compel her to be herself; just a hopeful, loving
woman: a little better educated than the majority, having had greater
opportunity: a little further seeing, maybe, having had more leisure for
thought: but otherwise, no whit superior to any other young, eager woman
of the people. This absurd journalistic pose of omniscience, of
infallibility--this non-existent garment of supreme wisdom that, like the
King's clothes in the fairy story, was donned to hide his nakedness by
every strutting nonentity of Fleet Street! She would have no use for it.
It should be a friend, a comrade, a fellow-servant of the great Master,
taking counsel with them, asking their help. Government by the people
for the people! It must be made real. These silent, thoughtful-looking
workers, hurrying homewards through the darkening streets; these patient,
shrewd-planning housewives casting their shadows on the drawn-down
blinds: it was they who should be shaping the world, not the journalists
to whom all life was but so much "copy." This monstrous conspiracy, once
of the Sword, of the Church, now of the Press, that put all Government
into the hands of a few stuffy old gentlemen, politicians, leader
writers, without sympathy or understanding: it was time that it was swept
away. She would raise a new standard. It should be, not "Listen to me,
oh ye dumb," but, "Speak to me. Tell me your hidden hopes, your fears,
your dreams. Tell me your experience, your thoughts born of knowledge,
of suffering."
She would get into correspondence with them, go among them, talk to them.
The difficulty, at first, would be in getting them to write to her, to
open their minds to her. These voiceless masses that never spoke, but
were always being spoken for by self-appointed "leaders,"
"representatives," who immediately they had climbed into prominence took
their place among the rulers, and then from press and platform shouted to
them what they were to think and feel. It was as if the Drill-Sergeant
were to claim to be the "leader," the "representative" of his squad; or
the sheep-dog to pose as the "delegate" of the sheep. Dealt with always
as if they were mere herds, mere flocks, they had almost lost the power
of individual utterance. One would have to teach them, encourage them.
She remembered a Sunday class she had once conducted; and how for a long
time she had tried in vain to get the children to "come in," to take a
hand. That she might get in touch with them, understand their small
problems, she had urged them to ask questions. And there had fallen such
long silences. Until, at last, one cheeky ragamuffin had piped out:
"Please, Miss, have you got red hair all over you? Or only on your
head?"
For answer she had rolled up her sleeve, and let them examine her arm.
And then, in her turn, had insisted on rolling up his sleeve, revealing
the fact that his arms above the wrists had evidently not too recently
been washed; and the episode had ended in laughter and a babel of shrill
voices. And, at once, they were a party of chums, discussing matters
together.
They were but children, these tired men and women, just released from
their day's toil, hastening homeward to their play, or to their evening
tasks. A little humour, a little understanding, a recognition of the
wonderful likeness of us all to one another underneath our outward
coverings was all that was needed to break down the barrier, establish
comradeship. She stood aside a moment to watch them streaming by. Keen,
strong faces were among them, high, thoughtful brows, kind eyes; they
must learn to think, to speak for themselves.
She would build again the Forum. The people's business should no longer
be settled for them behind lackey-guarded doors. The good of the farm
labourer should be determined not exclusively by the squire and his
relations. The man with the hoe, the man with the bent back and the
patient ox-like eyes: he, too, should be invited to the Council board.
Middle-class domestic problems should be solved not solely by fine
gentlemen from Oxford; the wife of the little clerk should be allowed her
say. War or peace, it should no longer be regarded as a question
concerning only the aged rich. The common people--the cannon fodder, the
men who would die, and the women who would weep: they should be given
something more than the privilege of either cheering platform patriots or
being summoned for interrupting public meetings.
From a dismal side street there darted past her a small, shapeless figure
in crumpled cap and apron: evidently a member of that lazy, over-indulged
class, the domestic servant. Judging from the talk of the drawing-rooms,
the correspondence in the papers, a singularly unsatisfactory body. They
toiled not, lived in luxury and demanded grand pianos. Someone had
proposed doing something for them. They themselves--it seemed that even
they had a sort of conscience--were up in arms against it. Too much
kindness even they themselves perceived was bad for them. They were
holding a meeting that night to explain how contented they were. Six
peeresses had consented to attend, and speak for them.
Likely enough that there were good-for-nothing, cockered menials imposing
upon incompetent mistresses. There were pampered slaves in Rome. But
these others. These poor little helpless sluts. There were thousands
such in every city, over-worked and under-fed, living lonely,
pleasureless lives. They must be taught to speak in other voices than
the dulcet tones of peeresses. By the light of the guttering candles,
from their chill attics, they should write to her their ill-spelt
visions.
She had reached a quiet, tree-bordered road, surrounding a great park.
Lovers, furtively holding hands, passed her by, whispering.
She would write books. She would choose for her heroine a woman of the
people. How full of drama, of tragedy must be their stories: their
problems the grim realities of life, not only its mere sentimental
embroideries. The daily struggle for bare existence, the ever-shadowing
menace of unemployment, of illness, leaving them helpless amid the
grinding forces crushing them down on every side. The ceaseless need for
courage, for cunning. For in the kingdom of the poor the tyrant and the
oppressor still sit in the high places, the robber still rides fearless.
In a noisy, flaring street, a thin-clad woman passed her, carrying a
netted bag showing two loaves. In a flash, it came to her what it must
mean to the poor; this daily bread that in comfortable homes had come to
be regarded as a thing like water; not to be considered, to be used
without stint, wasted, thrown about. Borne by those feeble, knotted
hands, Joan saw it revealed as something holy: hallowed by labour;
sanctified by suffering, by sacrifice; worshipped with fear and prayer.
In quiet streets of stately houses, she caught glimpses through
uncurtained windows of richly-laid dinner-tables about which servants
moved noiselessly, arranging flowers and silver. She wondered idly if
she would every marry. A gracious hostess, gathering around her
brilliant men and women, statesmen, writers, artists, captains of
industry: counselling them, even learning from them: encouraging shy
genius. Perhaps, in a perfectly harmless way, allowing it the
inspiration derivable from a well-regulated devotion to herself. A salon
that should be the nucleus of all those forces that influence influences,
over which she would rule with sweet and wise authority. The idea
appealed to her.
Into the picture, slightly to the background, she unconsciously placed
Greyson. His tall, thin figure with its air of distinction seemed to fit
in; Greyson would be very restful. She could see his handsome, ascetic
face flush with pleasure as, after the guests were gone, she would lean
over the back of his chair and caress for a moment his dark, soft hair
tinged here and there with grey. He would always adore her, in that
distant, undemonstrative way of his that would never be tiresome or
exacting. They would have children. But not too many. That would make
the house noisy and distract her from her work. They would be beautiful
and clever; unless all the laws of heredity were to be set aside for her
especial injury. She would train them, shape them to be the heirs of her
labour, bearing her message to the generations that should follow.
At a corner where the trams and buses stopped she lingered for a while,
watching the fierce struggle; the weak and aged being pushed back time
after time, hardly seeming to even resent it, regarding it as in the
natural order of things. It was so absurd, apart from the injustice, the
brutality of it! The poor, fighting among themselves! She felt as once
when watching a crowd of birds to whom she had thrown a handful of crumbs
in winter time. As if they had not enemies enough: cats, weasels, rats,
hawks, owls, the hunger and the cold. And added to all, they must needs
make the struggle yet harder for one another: pecking at each other's
eyes, joining with one another to attack the fallen. These tired men,
these weary women, pale-faced lads and girls, why did they not organize
among themselves some system that would do away with this daily warfare
of each against all. If only they could be got to grasp the fact that
they were one family, bound together by suffering. Then, and not till
then, would they be able to make their power felt? That would have to
come first: the _Esprit de Corps_ of the Poor.
In the end she would go into Parliament. It would be bound to come soon,
the woman's vote. And after that the opening of all doors would follow.
She would wear her college robes. It would be far more fitting than a
succession of flimsy frocks that would have no meaning in them. What
pity it was that the art of dressing--its relation to life--was not
better understood. What beauty-hating devil had prompted the workers to
discard their characteristic costumes that had been both beautiful and
serviceable for these hateful slop-shop clothes that made them look like
walking scarecrows. Why had the coming of Democracy coincided seemingly
with the spread of ugliness: dull towns, mean streets, paper-strewn
parks, corrugated iron roofs, Christian chapels that would be an insult
to a heathen idol; hideous factories (Why need they be hideous!); chimney-
pot hats, baggy trousers, vulgar advertisements, stupid fashions for
women that spoilt every line of their figure: dinginess, drabness,
monotony everywhere. It was ugliness that was strangling the soul of the
people; stealing from them all dignity, all self-respect, all honour for
one another; robbing them of hope, of reverence, of joy in life.
Beauty. That was the key to the riddle. All Nature: its golden sunsets
and its silvery dawns; the glory of piled-up clouds, the mystery of
moonlit glades; its rivers winding through the meadows; the calling of
its restless seas; the tender witchery of Spring; the blazonry of autumn
woods; its purple moors and the wonder of its silent mountains; its
cobwebs glittering with a thousand jewels; the pageantry of starry
nights. Form, colour, music! The feathered choristers of bush and brake
raising their matin and their evensong, the whispering of the leaves, the
singing of the waters, the voices of the winds. Beauty and grace in
every living thing, but man. The leaping of the hares, the grouping of
cattle, the flight of swallows, the dainty loveliness of insects' wings,
the glossy skin of horses rising and falling to the play of mighty
muscles. Was it not seeking to make plain to us that God's language was
beauty. Man must learn beauty that he may understand God.
She saw the London of the future. Not the vision popular just then: a
soaring whirl of machinery in motion, of moving pavements and flying
omnibuses; of screaming gramophones and standardized "homes": a city
where Electricity was King and man its soulless slave. But a city of
peace, of restful spaces, of leisured men and women; a city of fine
streets and pleasant houses, where each could live his own life, learning
freedom, individuality; a city of noble schools; of workshops that should
be worthy of labour, filled with light and air; smoke and filth driven
from the land: science, no longer bound to commercialism, having
discovered cleaner forces; a city of gay playgrounds where children
should learn laughter; of leafy walks where the creatures of the wood and
field should be as welcome guests helping to teach sympathy and
kindliness: a city of music, of colour, of gladness. Beauty worshipped
as religion; ugliness banished as a sin: no ugly slums, no ugly cruelty,
no slatternly women and brutalized men, no ugly, sobbing children; no
ugly vice flaunting in every highway its insult to humanity: a city clad
in beauty as with a living garment where God should walk with man.
She had reached a neighbourhood of narrow, crowded streets. The women
were mostly without hats; and swarthy men, rolling cigarettes, lounged
against doorways. The place had a quaint foreign flavour. Tiny cafes,
filled with smoke and noise, and clean, inviting restaurants abounded.
She was feeling hungry, and, choosing one the door of which stood open,
revealing white tablecloths and a pleasant air of cheerfulness, she
entered. It was late and the tables were crowded. Only at one, in a far
corner, could she detect a vacant place, opposite to a slight, pretty-
looking girl very quietly dressed. She made her way across and the girl,
anticipating her request, welcomed her with a smile. They ate for a
while in silence, divided only by the narrow table, their heads, when
they leant forward, almost touching. Joan noticed the short, white
hands, the fragrance of some delicate scent. There was something odd
about her. She seemed to be unnecessarily conscious of being alone.
Suddenly she spoke.
"Nice little restaurant, this," she said. "One of the few places where
you can depend upon not being annoyed."
Joan did not understand. "In what way?" she asked.
"Oh, you know, men," answered the girl. "They come and sit down opposite
to you, and won't leave you alone. At most of the places, you've got to
put up with it or go outside. Here, old Gustav never permits it."
Joan was troubled. She was rather looking forward to occasional
restaurant dinners, where she would be able to study London's Bohemia.
"You mean," she asked, "that they force themselves upon you, even if you
make it plain--"
"Oh, the plainer you make it that you don't want them, the more sport
they think it," interrupted the girl with a laugh.
Joan hoped she was exaggerating. "I must try and select a table where
there is some good-natured girl to keep me in countenance," she said with
a smile.
"Yes, I was glad to see you," answered the girl. "It's hateful, dining
by oneself. Are you living alone?"
"Yes," answered Joan. "I'm a journalist."
"I thought you were something," answered the girl. "I'm an artist. Or,
rather, was," she added after a pause.
"Why did you give it up?" asked Joan.
"Oh, I haven't given it up, not entirely," the girl answered. "I can
always get a couple of sovereigns for a sketch, if I want it, from one or
another of the frame-makers. And they can generally sell them for a
fiver. I've seen them marked up. Have you been long in London?"
"No," answered Joan. "I'm a Lancashire lass."
"Curious," said the girl, "so am I. My father's a mill manager near
Bolton. You weren't educated there?"
"No," Joan admitted. "I went to Rodean at Brighton when I was ten years
old, and so escaped it. Nor were you," she added with a smile, "judging
from your accent."
"No," answered the other, "I was at Hastings--Miss Gwyn's. Funny how we
seem to have always been near to one another. Dad wanted me to be a
doctor. But I'd always been mad about art."
Joan had taken a liking to the girl. It was a spiritual, vivacious face
with frank eyes and a firm mouth; and the voice was low and strong.
"Tell me," she said, "what interfered with it?" Unconsciously she was
leaning forward, her chin supported by her hands. Their faces were very
near to one another.
The girl looked up. She did not answer for a moment. There came a
hardening of the mouth before she spoke.
"A baby," she said. "Oh, it was my own fault," she continued. "I wanted
it. It was all the talk at the time. You don't remember. Our right to
children. No woman complete without one. Maternity, woman's kingdom.
All that sort of thing. As if the storks brought them. Don't suppose it
made any real difference; but it just helped me to pretend that it was
something pretty and high-class. 'Overmastering passion' used to be the
explanation, before that. I guess it's all much of a muchness: just
natural instinct."
The restaurant had been steadily emptying. Monsieur Gustav and his ample-
bosomed wife were seated at a distant table, eating their own dinner.
"Why couldn't you have married?" asked Joan.
The girl shrugged her shoulders. "Who was there for me to marry?" she
answered. "The men who wanted me: clerks, young tradesmen, down at
home--I wasn't taking any of that lot. And the men I might have fancied
were all of them too poor. There was one student. He's got on since.
Easy enough for him to talk about waiting. Meanwhile. Well, it's like
somebody suggesting dinner to you the day after to-morrow. All right
enough, if you're not troubled with an appetite."
The waiter came to clear the table. They were almost the last customers
left. The man's tone and manner jarred upon Joan. She had not noticed
it before. Joan ordered coffee and the girl, exchanging a joke with the
waiter, added a liqueur.
"But why should you give up your art?" persisted Joan. It was that was
sticking in her mind. "I should have thought that, if only for the sake
of the child, you would have gone on with it."
"Oh, I told myself all that," answered the girl. "Was going to devote my
life to it. Did for nearly two years. Till I got sick of living like a
nun: never getting a bit of excitement. You see, I've got the poison in
me. Or, maybe, it had always been there."
"What's become of it?" asked Joan. "The child?"
"Mother's got it," answered the girl. "Seemed best for the poor little
beggar. I'm supposed to be dead, and my husband gone abroad." She gave
a short, dry laugh. "Mother brings him up to see me once a year. They've
got quite fond of him."
"What are you doing now?" asked Joan, in a low tone.
"Oh, you needn't look so scared," laughed the girl, "I haven't come down
to that." Her voice had changed. It had a note of shrillness. In some
indescribable way she had grown coarse. "I'm a kept woman," she
explained. "What else is any woman?"
She reached for her jacket; and the waiter sprang forward and helped her
on with it, prolonging the business needlessly. She wished him "Good
evening" in a tone of distant hauteur, and led the way to the door.
Outside the street was dim and silent. Joan held out her hand.
"No hope of happy endings," she said with a forced laugh. "Couldn't
marry him I suppose?"
"He has asked me," answered the girl with a swagger. "Not sure that it
would suit me now. They're not so nice to you when they've got you fixed
up. So long."
She turned abruptly and walked rapidly away. Joan moved instinctively in
the opposite direction, and after a few minutes found herself in a broad
well-lighted thoroughfare. A newsboy was shouting his wares.
"'Orrible murder of a woman. Shockin' details. Speshul," repeating it
over and over again in a hoarse, expressionless monotone.
He was selling the papers like hot cakes; the purchasers too eager to
even wait for their change. She wondered, with a little lump in her
throat, how many would have stopped to buy had he been calling instead:
"Discovery of new sonnet by Shakespeare. Extra special."
Through swinging doors, she caught glimpses of foul interiors, crowded
with men and women released from their toil, taking their evening
pleasure. From coloured posters outside the great theatres and music
halls, vulgarity and lewdness leered at her, side by side with
announcements that the house was full. From every roaring corner,
scintillating lights flared forth the merits of this public benefactor's
whisky, of this other celebrity's beer: it seemed the only message the
people cared to hear. Even among the sirens of the pavement, she noticed
that the quiet and merely pretty were hardly heeded. It was everywhere
the painted and the overdressed that drew the roving eyes.
She remembered a pet dog that someone had given her when she was a girl,
and how one afternoon she had walked with the tears streaming down her
face because, in spite of her scoldings and her pleadings, it would keep
stopping to lick up filth from the roadway. A kindly passer-by had
laughed and told her not to mind.
"Why, that's a sign of breeding, that is, Missie," the man had explained.
"It's the classy ones that are always the worst."
It had come to her afterwards craving with its soft brown, troubled eyes
for forgiveness. But she had never been able to break it of the habit.
Must man for ever be chained by his appetites to the unclean: ever be
driven back, dragged down again into the dirt by his own instincts: ever
be rendered useless for all finer purposes by the baseness of his own
desires?
The City of her Dreams! The mingled voices of the crowd shaped itself
into a mocking laugh.
It seemed to her that it was she that they were laughing at, pointing her
out to one another, jeering at her, reviling her, threatening her.
She hurried onward with bent head, trying to escape them. She felt so
small, so helpless. Almost she cried out in her despair.
She must have walked mechanically. Looking up she found herself in her
own street. And as she reached her doorway the tears came suddenly.
She heard a quick step behind her, and turning, she saw a man with a
latch key in his hand. He passed her and opened the door; and then,
facing round, stood aside for her to enter. He was a sturdy, thick-set
man with a strong, massive face. It would have been ugly but for the
deep, flashing eyes. There was tenderness and humour in them.
"We are next floor neighbours," he said. "My name's Phillips."
Joan thanked him. As he held the door open for her their hands
accidentally touched. Joan wished him good-night and went up the stairs.
There was no light in her room: only the faint reflection of the street
lamp outside.
She could still see him: the boyish smile. And his voice that had sent
her tears back again as if at the word of command.
She hoped he had not seen them. What a little fool she was.
A little laugh escaped her.