A LION IN HIS LAIR
The respectable portion of the male sex in England may be divided into
two classes, according to its method and manner of complete immersion in
water. One class, the more clashing, dashes into a cold tub every
morning. Another, the more cleanly, sedately takes a warm bath every
Saturday night. There can be no doubt that the former class lends tone
and distinction to the country, but the latter is the nation's backbone.
Henry belonged to the Saturday-nighters, to the section which calls a
bath a bath, not a tub, and which contrives to approach godliness
without having to boast of it on frosty mornings.
Henry performed the weekly rite in a zinc receptacle exactly circular,
in his bedroom, because the house in Dawes Road had been built just
before the craze for dashing had spread to such an extent among the
lower middle-classes that no builder dared build a tenement without
providing for it specially; in brutal terms, the house in Dawes Road had
no bathroom. The preparations for Henry's immersion were always complex
and thorough. Early in the evening Sarah began by putting two kettles
and the largest saucepan to boil on the range. Then she took an old
blanket and spread it out upon the master's bedroom floor, and drew the
bathing-machine from beneath the bed and coaxed it, with considerable
clangour, to the mathematical centre of the blanket. Then she filled
ewers with cold water and arranged them round the machine. Then Aunt
Annie went upstairs to see that the old blanket was well and truly laid,
not too near the bed and not too near the mirror of the wardrobe, and
that the machine did indeed rest in the mathematical centre of the
blanket. (As a fact, Aunt Annie's mathematics never agreed with
Sarah's.) Then Mrs. Knight went upstairs to bear witness that the window
was shut, and to decide the question of towels. Then Sarah went
upstairs, panting, with the kettles and the large saucepan, two journeys
being necessary; and Aunt Annie followed her in order to indicate to
Sarah every step upon which Sarah had spilled boiling-water. Then Mrs.
Knight moved the key of Henry's door from the inside to the outside; she
was always afraid lest he might lock himself in and be seized with a
sudden and fatal illness. Then the women dispersed, and Aunt Annie came
down to the dining-room, and in accents studiously calm (as though the
preparation of Henry's bath was the merest nothing) announced:
'Henry dear, your bath is waiting.'
And Henry would disappear at once and begin by mixing his bath, out of
the ewers, the kettles, and the saucepan, according to a recipe of which
he alone had the secret. The hour would be about nine o'clock, or a
little after. It was not his custom to appear again. He would put one
kettle out on an old newspaper, specially placed to that end on the
doormat in the passage, for the purposes of Sunday's breakfast; the rest
of the various paraphernalia remained in his room till the following
morning. He then slept the sleep of one who is aware of being the
nation's backbone.
Now, he was just putting a toe or so into the zinc receptacle, in order
to test the accuracy of his dispensing of the recipe, when he heard a
sharp tap at the bedroom door.
'What is it?' he cried, withdrawing the toe.
'Henry!'
'Well?'
'Can I open the door an inch?' It was Aunt Annie's voice.
'Yes. What's the matter?'
'There's come a copy of _Home and Beauty_ by the last post, and on the
wrapper it says, "See page 16."'
'I suppose it contains that--thing?'
'That interview, you mean?'
'Yes, I suppose so.'
'Shall I open it?'
'If you like,' said Henry. 'Certainly, with pleasure.'
He stepped quietly and unconcernedly into the bath. He could hear the
sharp ripping of paper.
'Oh yes!' came Aunt Annie's voice through the chink. 'And there's the
portrait! Oh! and what a smudge across the nose! Henry, it doesn't make
you look at all nice. You're too black. Oh, Henry! what _do_ you think
it's called? "Lions in their Lairs. No. 19. Interview with the
brilliant author of _Love in Babylon_." And you told us her name was
Foster.'
'Whose name?' Henry demanded, reddening in the hot water.
'You know--that lady's name, the one that called.'
'So it is.'
'No, it isn't, dear. It's Flossie Brighteye. Oh, I beg pardon, Henry!
I'm sure I beg pardon!'
Aunt Annie, in the excitement of discovering Miss Foster's real name,
and ground withal for her original suspicion that the self-styled Miss
Foster was no better than she ought to be, had leaned too heavily
against the door, and thrust it wide open. She averted her eyes and drew
it to in silence.
'Shall I show the paper to your mother at once?' she asked, after a fit
pause.
'Yes, do,' said Henry.
'And then bring it up to you again for you to read in bed?'
'Oh,' replied Henry in the grand manner, 'I can read it to-morrow
morning.
He said to himself that he was not going to get excited about a mere
interview, though it was his first interview. During the past few days
the world had apparently wakened up to his existence. Even the men at
the office had got wind of his achievement, and Sir George had been
obliged to notice it. At Powells everyone pretended that this was the
same old Henry Knight who arrived so punctually each day, and yet
everyone knew secretly that it was not the same old Henry Knight.
Everyone, including Henry, felt--and could not dismiss the feeling--that
Henry was conferring a favour on the office by working as usual. There
seemed to be something provisional, something unreal, something uncanny,
in the continuance of his position there. And Sir George, when he
demanded his services to take down letters in shorthand, had the air of
saying apologetically: 'Of course, I know you're only here for fun; but,
since you are here, we may as well carry out the joke in a practical
manner.' Similar phenomena occurred at Dawes Road. Sarah's awe of Henry,
always great, was enormously increased. His mother went about in a state
of not being quite sure whether she had the right to be his mother,
whether she was not taking a mean advantage of him in remaining his
mother. Aunt Annie did not give herself away, but on her face might be
read a continuous, proud, gentle surprise that Henry should eat as
usual, drink as usual, talk simply as usual, and generally behave as
though he was not one of the finest geniuses in England.
Further, Mr. Onions Winter had written to ask whether Henry was
proceeding with a new book, and how pleased he was at the prospective
privilege of publishing it. Nine other publishers had written to inform
him that they would esteem it a favour if he would give them the refusal
of his next work. Messrs. Antonio, the eminent photographers of Regent
Street, had written offering to take his portrait gratis, and asking him
to deign to fix an appointment for a seance. The editor of _Which is
Which_, a biographical annual of inconceivable utility, had written for
intimate details of his age, weight, pastimes, works, ideals, and diet.
The proprietary committee of the Park Club in St. James's Square had
written to suggest that he might join the club without the formality of
paying an entrance fee. The editor of a popular magazine had asked him
to contribute his views to a 'symposium' about the proper method of
spending quarter-day. Twenty-five charitable institutions had invited
subscriptions from him. Three press-cutting agencies had sent him
cuttings of reviews of _Love in Babylon_, and the reviews grew kinder
and more laudatory every day. Lastly, Mr. Onions Winter was advertising
the thirty-first thousand of that work.
It was not to be expected that the recipient of all these overtures, the
courted and sought-for author of _Love in Babylon_, should disarrange
the tenor of his existence in order to read an interview with himself in
a ladies' penny paper. And Henry repeated, as he sat in the midst of the
zinc circle, that he would peruse Flossie Brighteye's article on Sunday
morning at breakfast. Then he began thinking about Flossie's
tight-fitting bodice, and wondered what she had written. Then he
murmured: 'Oh, nonsense! I'll read it to-morrow. Plenty soon enough.'
Then he stopped suddenly and causelessly while applying the towel to the
small of his back, and stood for several moments in a state of fixity,
staring at a particular spot on the wall-paper. And soon he dearly
perceived that he had been too hasty in refusing Aunt Annie's
suggestion. However, he had made his bed, and so he must lie on it,
both figuratively and factually....
The next thing was that he found himself, instead of putting on his
pyjamas, putting on his day-clothes. He seemed to be doing this while
wishing not to do it. He did not possess a
dressing-gown--Saturday-nighters and backbones seldom do. Hence he was
compelled to dress himself completely, save that he assumed a silk
muffler instead of a collar and necktie, and omitted the usual stockings
between his slippers and his feet. In another minute he unostentatiously
entered the dining-room.
'Nay,' his mother was saying, 'I can't read it.' Tears of joyous pride
had rendered her spectacles worse than useless. 'Here, Annie, read it
aloud.'
Henry smiled, and he tried to make his smile carry so much meaning, of
pleasant indifference, careless amusement, and benevolent joy in the joy
of others, that it ended by being merely foolish.
And Aunt Annie began:
'"It is not too much to say that Mr. Henry Knight, the author of _Love
in Babylon_, the initial volume of the already world-famous Satin
Library, is the most-talked-of writer in London at the present moment.
I shall therefore make no apology for offering to my readers an account
of an interview which the young and gifted novelist was kind enough to
give to me the other evening. Mr. Knight is a legal luminary well known
in Lincoln's Inn Fields, the right-hand man of Sir George Powell, the
celebrated lawyer. I found him in his formidable room seated at a----"'
'What does she mean by "formidable," Henry? 'I don't think that's quite
nice,' said Mrs. Knight.
'No, it isn't,' said Aunt Annie. 'But perhaps she means it frightened
her.'
'That's it,' said Henry. 'It was Sir George's room, you know.'
'She doesn't _look_ as if she would be easily frightened,' said Aunt
Annie. 'However--"seated at a large table littered with legal documents.
He was evidently immersed in business, but he was so good as to place
himself at my disposal for a few minutes. Mr. Knight is twenty-three
years of age. His father was a silk-mercer in Oxford Street, and laid
the foundation of the fortunes of the house now known as Duck and
Peabody Limited."'
'That's very well put,' said Mrs. Knight.
'Yes, isn't it?' said Aunt Annie, and continued in her precise, even
tones:
'"'What first gave you the idea of writing, Mr. Knight?' I inquired,
plunging at once _in medias res_. Mr. Knight hesitated a few seconds,
and then answered: 'I scarcely know. I owe a great deal to my late
father. My father, although first and foremost a business man, was
devoted to literature. He held that Shakspere, besides being our
greatest poet, was the greatest moral teacher that England has ever
produced. I was brought up on Shakspere,' said Mr. Knight, smiling. 'My
father often sent communications to the leading London papers on
subjects of topical interest, and one of my most precious possessions is
a collection of these which he himself put into an album.'"'
Mrs. Knight removed her spectacles and wiped her eyes.
'"'With regard to _Love in Babylon_, the idea came to me--I cannot
explain how. And I wrote it while I was recovering from a severe
illness----'"'
'I didn't say "severe,"' Henry interjected. 'She's got that wrong.'
'But it _was_ severe, dear,' said Aunt Annie, and once more continued:
'"'I should never have written it had it not been for the sympathy and
encouragement of my dear mother----'"'
At this point Mrs. Knight sobbed aloud, and waved her hand
deprecatingly.
'Nay, nay!' she managed to stammer at length. 'Read no more. I can't
stand it. I'll try to read it myself to-morrow morning while you're at
chapel and all's quiet.'
And she cried freely into her handkerchief.
Henry and Aunt Annie exchanged glances, and Henry retired to bed with
_Home and Beauty_ under his arm. And he read through the entire
interview twice, and knew by heart what he had said about his plans for
the future, and the state of modern fiction, and the tendency of authors
towards dyspepsia, and the question of realism in literature, and the
Stream of Trashy Novels Constantly Poured Forth by the Press. The whole
thing seemed to him at first rather dignified and effective. He
understood that Miss Foster was no common Fleet Street hack.
But what most impressed him, and coloured his dreams, was the final
sentence: 'As I left Mr. Knight, I could not dismiss the sensation that
I had been in the presence of a man who is morally certain, at no
distant date, to loom large in the history of English fiction.--FLOSSIE
BRIGHTEYE.'
A passing remark about his 'pretty suburban home' was the sauce to this
dish.