WARCHESTER,
St. Andrew's Parish House,
Sept. 12th.
You're right. It's idiotic to leap on people like that. I knew I was
all wrong the moment after the letter went. And when nothing came from
you--it wasn't pleasant. I nearly wrote--I more nearly telegraphed
your Robert Halarkenden. Do you mind if I say that for two days, just
lately--in fact, they were yesterday and the day before--I was on the
edge of asking for leave of absence to go west? You see, if you had
done it, it was so plainly my fault. And I had to know. Then I
argued--it's ghastly, but I argued that it would be in the papers. And
it wasn't. Of course, it might possibly have been kept out. But
generally it isn't. My knowledge of happenings in Chicago and
thereabouts, since my last letter, would probably surprise you a
little. Yes, I "noticed" that you didn't write--more than I noticed
the heat, which, now I think, has been bad. But when you're pretty
sure you've blundered in a matter of life and death, you don't pray for
rain.
You've turned a corner. _A_ corner. _The_ corner--the big one, is
further along, and then there's the hill and the hot sun on the dusty
road. You'll need your sporting instincts. But you've got them. So
had St. Paul and those others who furnished the groundwork for that
oft-mentioned Roman holiday. That's religion, as I see it. That's
what _they_ did; pushed on--faced things down--went out
smiling--"gentlemen unafraid." It's like swimming--you can't go under
if you make the least effort. That's the law--of physics and,
therefore, of God. The experience you tell of is exactly what you have
the right to expect. The prayer you said; that's the only way to come
at it, yourself--talking--with that Other. There's a poem--you
know--the man who "caught at God's skirts and prayed."
But you said not to write about you. All right then, I've been to the
theatre, the one at the end of our block. That may strike you as tame.
But you don't know Mrs. Jameson. She's the relict of the late senior
warden. A disapproving party, trimmed with jet beads and a lorgnette.
A few days after the rector left me in charge she triumphed into the
office, rattled the beads and got behind the lorgnette. She presumed I
was the new curate. No loop-hole out of that. I had been seen at the
theatre--not once nor twice. I could well believe it. The late
Colonel Jameson, it appeared, had not approved of clergymen attending
playhouses. She did not approve of it herself. She presumed I
realized the standing of this parish in the diocese? She dwelt on the
force of example to the young. Of course, the opera--but that was
widely different. She would suggest--she did suggest--not in the least
vaguely. Sometime, perhaps, I would come to luncheon? She had really
rather interested herself in the sermon yesterday--a little abrupt,
possibly, at the close--still, of course, a young man, and not very
experienced--besides, the Doctor had spoiled them for almost anybody
else. Naturally.
The room widened after she had gone. You know these ladies with the
thick atmosphere.
That night I went to the theatre. There's a stock company there for
the summer and I have come to know one of the actors. He belongs to
us--was married in the church last summer. The place was
packed--always is--it's a good company. And Everett--he's the
one--kept the house shouting. He's the regular funny man. The play
that week was very funny anyhow--one of those things the billboards
call a "scream." It was just that. Everett was the play. He stormed
and galloped through his scenes until everybody was helpless. People
like him; it's his third summer here. Well, at the end, nobody went.
A lot of lads in the gallery began calling for Everett. We're common
here; and not many of the quality patronize stock. Soon he pushed out
from behind the curtain and made one of those fool speeches which
generally fall flat. Only this one didn't.
Then I went "behind." The dressing rooms at the Alhambra are not
home-like. Bare walls with a row of pegs along one side--a couple of
chairs--a table piled with make-up stuff and over it a mirror flanked
by electric lights with wire netting around them. Not gay. And grease
paint, at close range, is not attractive. A man shouldn't cry after
he's made up--that's a theatrical commandment, or ought to be.
Probably a man shouldn't anyhow. But some do. I imagined Everett had,
and that he'd done it with his head in his arms and his arms in the
litter of the big table. I think I shook hands with him--one does
inane things sometimes--but I don't know what I said. I had something
like your experience--I just wasn't there for a minute or two.
Afterward, I went home with him--a long half-hour on the trolley, then
up three flights into "light housekeeping" rooms in the back. There
was cold meat on the table, and bread. The janitor's wife, good soul,
had made a pot of coffee. "Light housekeeping" is a literal
expression, let me tell you, and doctor's bills make it lighter. I
followed him into the last room of the three. It looked different from
the way I remembered it the afternoon before. When he turned the gas
higher I saw why--the bed was gone--one of those stretcher things takes
less room. Besides, they say it's better. So there she was--all that
he had left of all that he had had--the girl he'd been mad about and
married in our church a year ago. He wasn't even with her when she
died; there was the Sunday afternoon rehearsal to attend. She wouldn't
let him miss that. "Go on," she told him. "I'll wait for you." She
didn't wait.
And he faced it down, he jammed it through, that young chap did--and
was funny, oh, as funny as you can think, for hours, in front of
hundreds of people. He never missed a cue, never bungled a line, and
all the time seeing, up there in the light-housekeeping rooms, in the
last room of them all, how she lay, in the utter silence.
Perhaps I shall come across a braver thing than that before I die, but
I doubt it. I tried, of course, to get him not to do it. But it was
very simple to him. It was his job. Nobody else knew the part; it was
too late to substitute. The rest would lose their salaries if they
closed down for the week, and God knew they needed them. So he said
nothing--and was funny.
I don't know what you'd call it, but I think you know why I've told it
to you. There's a splendor about it and a glory. To do one's
job--isn't that the big thing, after all?
Meantime, mine's waiting for me on the other side of this desk. He has
laid hands on every article in the room at least three times, and for
the last few minutes has been groaning very loud. I think you'd like
him--he's so alive.
Your letter saves me the cost of the western papers, and now that I
know you'll--but you said not to write about you.
The Job has stopped groaning, and wants to know if I'm "writing all
night just because, or, for the reason that."
It's night now--big night, and so still down-town here. Sometimes I
stay up late to realize that I'm alive. The days are so crammed with
happenings. And late at night seems so wide and everlasting. You've
got the idea that I do things. Well, I don't. There are whole rows of
days when it seems just a muddle of half-started attempts--a manner of
hopeless confusion. There's a good deal of futility in it, first and
last. That boy tonight for instance. And, sometimes, I get to
wondering if, after all, one has the right to meddle in other people's
lives. It's curious, but with you I've been quite sure. Always it has
been as clear as light to me that you must come through this--that it
will be right. I don't know how. Even that day you came, I was sure.
As soon as _you_ are sure, the thing is done. That man isn't to be
worried about--or the doctors. Easy for me to say, isn't it?
Are you interested to know that I'm to have my building on the West
Side? There was a meeting today. It's the best thing that's happened
yet, that is, parochially. Maybe she's human after all. I mean Mrs.
Jameson. She's going to pay for it.
I think that's all. You can't say I've tried to thunder at you this
time. I really didn't last time. I've known all along that you
wouldn't be impressed by thunder. The answer to that young devil's
question seems to be: I'm writing "for the reason that," and not, "just
because." Every time I think of that boy's name I have to laugh.
GEOFFREY McBIRNEY.
September 17th.