What, do we nod? Sound music, and let us startle our spirits...
Ay, this has waked us. _The Poetaster_.
The act of sitting to table changed John's mood. The lightness and
gaiety passed from him. It seemed to Roger that he grew visibly very
old and haggard, as the merry mood, stimulated by the excitement of the
theatre, faded away. At times, during supper, John gave his friend the
impression that the spiritual John was on a journey, or withdrawn into
another world. He spoke little, chiefly in monosyllables, making no
allusion to the play. He was become a shell, almost an unreal person.
He gave no sign of possessing that intellectual energy which made his
talk so attractive to young men interested in the arts. Roger's fancy
suggested that John was a kind of John the Baptist, a torch-bearer,
sent to set other people on fire, but without real fire of his own. He
felt that John had lighted an entire city, by some obscure heap of
shavings in a suburb, and had now dashed out his torch, so that the
night hid him. He realised how little he knew this man, intimate as
they had been.
Nobody knew him. Nobody knew what he was. There were some who held
that John was the Wandering Jew, others that he was a Nihilist, a
Carlist, a Balmacedist, a Jacobite, the heir to France, King Arthur,
anti-Christ, or Parnell. All had felt the mystery, but none had solved
it. Here was this strange, enigmatic, brilliant man, an influence in
art, in many arts, though he practised none with supreme devotion. He
had wandered over most of the world; he spoke many tongues; he had
friends in strange Asian cities, in Western mining towns, in rubber
camps, in ships, in senates. No one had ever received a letter from
him. But his rooms were always thronged with outlandish guests from
all parts of the world. Looking at him across the table, Roger felt
small suddenly, as though John really were a spirit now suddenly
lapsing back into the night, after a spectral moment of glowing. He
felt the man's extraordinary personality, and his own terrible
pettiness in apprehending so little of it. Something was wrong with
him, something was the matter with the night. Or had the whole unreal
evening been a dream? Or were they all dead, and was this heaven or
hell? for life seemed charged with all manner of new realities. He had
never felt like this before. Something was changing in his brain. He
was realising his own spiritual advances, in one of those rare moments
in which one apprehends truth. It occurred to him, with a sudden
impulse to violent laughter, that John, sitting back in his chair,
mesmerised by the fantasy of the smoke from his cigarette, was also in
a mood of spiritual crisis, attaining long-desired peace.
John watched his cigarette till the ash fell, when the truth seemed
fully attained, the soul's step upward made good. He glanced up at
Roger like a man just waking from a dream, like a man, long puzzled, at
last made certain.
"What are your plans?" he asked suddenly. "You'll go on writing?"
"Yes. I shall go on writing," Roger answered. He was puzzled by the
abruptness and detachment of John's manner. "I've got that Louis
Quatorze play finished. I shall start on another in a day or two.
I've a novel half finished; I told you the fable, I think. I've not
done much since the rehearsals began."
"You'll have a great success some day," said John, half to himself.
"You'll be all that Wentworth might have been had he lived. You know
Wentworth's work?"
"Yes," Roger said. The question surprised him. John was speaking to
him as though he were a stranger. They had discussed Wentworth's work
a score of times. "What sort of man was he?" he added.
"A great genius in himself. In his work I don't think he was that,
though of course he did wonderful things. You told me once that you
were in love. How does that go on?"
"I see her sometimes. I can't ask her to marry me. My
prospects--well--I live by writing."
"She is rich, I think you said? She lives in Ireland?"
"Yes."
"Love is the devil!" said John abruptly. "I'm going abroad to-morrow,
on account of my lungs. I was wondering if I should see you settled
before I left."
"Good Lord! You never told me."
"Wentworth used to say that, socially, the body does not exist. I
thought of telling you. But there, there were other reasons. Things
which I can't tell you about."
"But where are you going?"
"To a place in South Spain. I can't tell you more. Listen. I believe
that I am on the verge of discovering a great secret. It is an amazing
thing; I've been working at it with Centeno, that young Spaniard who
comes to my rooms. I am going to Spain so that I may work with him in
a warm climate."
He rose from his seat excited by the thought of the discovery. He
gulped the last of his wine, as though in a sudden fever to be at work.
He flung on hat and coat in the same feverish preoccupation.
Roger, who had seen him thus before, knew that he was forgotten. His
friend was already in those secret rooms at the top of a house in Queen
Square. His spirit was there, bowed over the work with the Spanish
scholar; the earthly part of him was a parcel left behind in a
restaurant to follow as it might. Words from nowhere floated into
Roger's mind. It was as though some of John's attendant spirits had
whispered to him: "Your friend is busy with some strange doctrine of
the soul," said the whisperer. "This world does not exist for him.
You are nothing to him; you are only a little part of the eternal,
dragging a caddis-worm's house of greeds. He is set free."
He looked up quickly to see John deep in thought, with a waiter,
standing beside him, offering an unnoticed bill. Roger paid the bill.
In another minute they were standing in the glare of the Circus, amid
tumult and harsh light. Something in the unrhythmical riot broke the
dreamer's mood. He looked at Roger absently, as though remembering an
event in a past life. A fit of coughing shook him, and left him
trembling.
"Your play is a fine thing," he said weakly, as he hailed a hansom.
"You are all right. I can't ask you to come round to my rooms; for I
am working there with Centeno. I work there far into the night, and I
am in rather a mess with packing to-night."
He seemed to pass into his reverie again; for he did not notice Roger's
hand. He was muttering to himself, "This is an unreal world; this is
an unreal world," between gulps of cigarette smoke. A sudden burst of
energy made him enter the cab. Roger gave the cab-man the address, and
closed the cab's aprons. His friend lifted a hand languidly and sank
back into the gloom. The last that Roger saw of him was a white,
immobile mask of a face, rising up from the black pointed beard, which
looked so like the beard of an Assyrian king. The cab was hidden from
sight among a medley of vehicles before Roger realised that his friend
was gone.
It struck Roger then that the evening had brought him very near to
romance. He had seen his soul's work shouted down, by the minotaur.
Now the man whom he had worshipped was going away to die. More than
the pain of losing the friend was the sharpness of jealousy; for why
could not he, instead of Centeno, help that spirit in the last
transmutation, in the last glory, when the cracking brain cell let in
heaven? He felt himself judged, and set aside. For an instant an
impulse moved him to creep in upon the secret, up the stairs, through
the corridor piled with books, to the dark room, hung with green, where
the work went forward. He longed to surprise those conspirators over
their secret of the soul, and to be initiated into the mystery, even at
the sword's point. He put this thought from him; but the shock of
John's parting brought it back again. His spirit seemed to flounder in
him. He felt stunned and staggered.
He crossed Shaftesbury Avenue wondering how life was to go on with no
O'Neill. He had no thought for his play's failure; this sorrow filled
his nature. He paused for an instant on the western sidewalk of the
avenue so that he might light a cigarette. As he bent over the flame,
some one struck him violently between the shoulders. He turned
swiftly, full of anger, to confront a half-drunken man whose face had
the peculiar bloated shapelessness of the London sot. The man unjustly
claimed, with many filthy words, that Roger had jostled against him,
and that he was going to--well, show him different. A little crowd
gathered, expecting a fight. When the man's language was at its
filthiest, a policeman interfered, bidding the drunkard go home
quietly. The man asked how any one could go home quietly with ----
toffs running into him. The policeman turned to Roger.
Roger was sickened and disgusted. Charging the man, and causing him to
be imprisoned or fined, was not to be thought of. The man was not
sober; he had passed into a momentary fury of passion, and had butted
blindly like an enraged bull. The mistake, and the foul talk, and the
sudden attentions of the crowd at such a moment when he hoped to be
alone, gave Roger a feeling of helpless hatred of himself and of modern
life. He turned abruptly. His enemy dogged him for a few steps,
dropping filthy names, one by one, while some of the crowd followed,
hoping that there would be an assault. The pursuit ended with a snarl.
The drunkard turned diagonally across the street, so nearly under two
motor-cabs that the crowd lost interest in Roger from that instant.
Roger remembered that a few yards away there was a German restaurant,
where some of his friends used to play dominoes over steins of lager.
He entered the restaurant, hoping to meet some one; hoping, too, that
the kindly foreign feeling which made the place restful and delightful
might help him to forget his sorrow and distaste for life. He ordered
coffee and cognac, and sat there, sorrowfully smoking, scanning those
who entered, but seeing no friend among them.
As he smoked the memories of the evening assailed him. He saw his work
hooted from the stage, and John passing from his life, and the sot's
bloated mouth babbling filth at him. His nerves were all shaken to
pieces by the emotional strain of the past fortnight. He was in a
child's mood; the mood of the homesick boy at school. He was as
dangerously near hysteria as the drunkard. He longed to be over in
Ireland, in the house of that beautiful woman whom he loved, to be in
the presence of calm and tenderness and noble thought, away from all
these horrors and desolations. The thought of Ottalie Fawcett calmed
him; for he could not think of that beautiful woman and of himself at
the same time. Memories of her gave his mind a sweet, melancholy food.
One memory especially, of the beautiful lady, in her beautiful, early
Victorian dress, with great hat, grey gauntlets, and old pearl
earrings, bending over a mass of white roses in the garden, recurred
again and again. To think of her intently, and to see her very clearly
in a mind acutely excited, was like communion with her. Her image was
so sharply outlined in his heart that he felt an exultation, as though
their hearts were flowing into each other. One tingling thought of her
was like her heart against his. It made him sure that she was thinking
of him at that instant, perhaps with tenderness. He tried to imagine
her thoughts of him. He tried to imagine himself her, looking out
under that great hat, through those lively eyes, a beautiful, charming
woman, exquisite, guarded, and infinitely swift of tact. It ended with
a passionate longing to get away to Ireland to see her, cost what it
might. His heart turned to her; he would go to her. He could not live
without love.
The play had ended before ten o'clock. It was now half-past eleven.
Roger paid his bill, and turned into Shaftesbury Avenue, thinking that
within thirty-six hours he would be set free. This dusty tumult would
be roaring to other ears. He would be by the waters of Moyle, among
magical glens, knocking at his love's door, walking with her, hearing
her voice, sitting with her over the turf fire, in that old house on
the hills, looking over towards Ailsa. That would be life enough. It
would give him strength to begin again after his failure and the loss
of his friend. His mind was full of her. He turned, as he had so
often turned, late at night, to look at the windows of the little upper
flat which his love shared with her friend Agatha Carew-Ker. They were
seldom in town to use the flat. They came there for flying visits
generally in the spring and winter, when passing through London to the
Continent. It was a tiny flat of four living-rooms, high up, on the
south side of Shaftesbury Avenue; a strange place for two ladies to
have chosen, but it was near the theatres and shops. As Roger walked
towards it he recalled the last time he had been there, seven months
before. He had had tea alone with Ottalie, one misty October evening.
For nearly half an hour they were alone in the flat, sitting together
by the fire in the dusk, talking intimately, even tenderly; for there
was something magical in the twilight, and the companionship was too
close, during that rare half-hour, for either to light the lamp. He
had known Ottalie since childhood; but never before like this. Her
tenderness and charm and grave beauty had never been so near to him.
Two minutes more in that dusk would have brought him to her side. He
would have taken her hands in his. He would have asked her if life
could go back again, after such communion, to the old frank
comradeship. Then Agatha came in, with her hardness and bustle and
suspicion. The spell had been broken. Agatha rated them for sitting
in the dark. When he lighted the lamp, he was conscious of Agatha's
sharp critical eye upon him, and of a certain reproachful jealousy in
her tone towards Ottalie. There were little hard glances from one face
to the other; and then some ill-concealed feminine manoeuvring to make
it impossible for him to stay longer. He stayed until Agatha became
pointed. That was the last time he had seen Ottalie. He had heard
from her from time to time. He had sent her his last novel and his
book of tales. She had sent him a silver match-box as a Christmas
present. Agatha, in a postscript, had conveyed her "love" to him.
He paused on the north side of the avenue to look at the flat windows
high up on the opposite side. He was startled to see a light in
Ottalie's bedroom, a long gleam of light where the curtains parted, a
gleam dimmed momentarily by some one passing. For five seconds he saw
the light, then it was blown out. Some one was in the flat, possibly
Ottalie herself. He might, perhaps, see her early the next morning.
She might be there, just across the road. She might have been within
three hundred yards of him for this last miserable hour; but it was
strange that she had not written to tell him that she was coming to
town. It could hardly be Ottalie. It might be Agatha, or some friend
to whom they had lent the flat for the season. He was eager now for
the next day to dawn, so that he might find out. He was utterly weary.
He hailed a cab and drove to his rooms in Westminster. The cabman,
thinking him an easy subject, demanded more than the excess fare given
to him. Roger told him that he would get no more, and entered the
house. The cabman, becoming abusive, climbed down and battered at the
knocker, till the approach of a policeman warned him that any further
attempts might lead to a summons. He drove away growling.
Roger lived in chambers in one of the old houses of Westminster. He
rented a little panelled sitting-room, a bedroom, also panelled, rather
larger, and a third room so tiny that a clothes-press and a bath almost
filled it. He lit his lamp to see what letters had come for him.
There were five or six, none of them from Ottalie. A telegram lay on
the table. It was from an evening paper asking for the favour of an
interview early the next morning. The row at the theatre was bearing
fruit. He opened his letters; but, seeing that they were not amusing,
he did not read them. He went into his bedroom to undress. On the
mantelpiece was a rehearsal call card, which had given him a thrill of
pleasure a fortnight before. Now it seemed to grin at him with a
devilish inanimate malice. An etched portrait of O'Neill looked down
mournfully from the wall. A photograph of Ottalie on the
dressing-table was the last thing noticed by him as he blew out the
lamp.
In the next house a member of Parliament lived. His wife was musical,
in a hard, accomplished way. She sang cleverly, though her voice was
not good. She sang as her excellent masters had taught her to sing.
She had profited by their teaching to the limits of her nature. In
moments of emotion, when she recognised her shortcomings, she quoted to
herself a line from Abt Vogler, "On the earth a broken arc, in the
heaven a perfect round." She was an irregular, eccentric lady, fond of
late hours. This night some wandering devil caused her to begin to
play at midnight, when Roger, utterly exhausted by the strain of the
evening, was falling to a merciful sleep. A few bars was enough to
waken Roger. The wall between them was not thick enough to dull the
noise. The few melancholy bars gathered volume. She began to sing
with hard, metallic, callousness, with disillusion in each note. Poor
lady, the moment was beautiful to her. She could not know that she, in
her moment of delight, was an instrument of the malevolent stars next
door. Roger sat up in bed with a few impatient words. He knew the
lady's song; he had heard Ottalie sing it. Hearing this other lady
sing it was instructive. It confirmed him in a theory held by him,
that refinement was a quality of the entire personality; that delicacy
of feeling, beauty of nature, niceness of tact, were shown in the least
movement, in the raising of a hand, in the head's carriage, in the
least sound of the voice. Ottalie sang with all the beauty of her
character, giving to each note an indescribable rightness of value,
verbal as well as musical, conveying to her hearers a sense of her
distinction of soul, a sense of the noble living of dead generations of
Fawcetts; a sense of style and race and personal exquisiteness. This
lady sang as though she were out in a hockey field, charging the ball
healthily, in short skirts, among many gay young sprigs from the
barracks. She sang like the daughter of a _nouveau riche_. Her song
was a brief liaison between Leipzig and a vulgar constitution.
Two minutes of her song put all thought of sleep from Roger's mind. He
lit his lamp and searched for some cigarettes. Something prompted him
to take down Wentworth's _Tragedy of Poppaea_. He would read it over
until the lady's muscles tired. He lit a cigarette. Propping himself
up with pillows he began to read, admiring the precise firmness of the
rhythms, and that quality in the style which was all fragrance and
glimmer, a fine bloom of beauty, never too much, which marked the
artist. The choruses moved him by their inherent music. They were
musical because the man's mind, though sternly muscular and manly, was
full of melody. They were unlike most modern verse, which is reckoned
musical when it shows some mechanical compliance with a pattern of
music already in the popular ear. Roger, as a writer not yet formed,
was curious in all things which showed personal distinction and
striving. This exquisite verse, this power of fine, precise
intellectual conception, was reward enough, he thought, for the misery
which this poet had suffered from his fellows. Roger wondered how many
ladies like the singer on the other side of the wall had asked poor
Wentworth to their "At Homes" for any but a vulgar reason. He
remembered how Wentworth, a strict moralist soured by a life of
suffering, had spoken to one lady. "You will buy my books and lay them
on your tables. You will ask me to dinner to amuse yourself with my
talk. You have won a reputation for wit by repeating my epigrams. And
for which of my ideas do you care two straws, for which would you
sacrifice one least vanity, for which would you outrage one convention?
I will come to your 'At Home.'"
The cigarette was smoked out. The lady, having finished some four
songs, now toyed with a little Grieg, a little Bach, a little Schumann,
like a delicate butterfly flying by the finest clockwork. Roger, who
was now in no mood for sleep, found the music of some value as an
accompaniment to _Poppaea_. It was like the light and excitement of a
theatre, added to the emotion of the poetry. He read through to the
end of the second act, when his eyes began to trouble him. Then he
rose, hurriedly dressed, wrapped himself in a Chinese robe, embroidered
with green silk dragons, and passed through his sitting-room window on
to the balcony above the street. It was a narrow, old-fashioned
balcony, big enough for three people, if the people were fond of each
other. Structurally it was a part of the balcony of the member's
house, but an old straw trellis-work divided the two tenancies at the
party wall. Roger placed a deck-chair with its back against the
trellis, which shut off the member's balcony from his. He was
sheltered from above by a green verandah canopy, and from the street by
another trellis about five feet high. He would not sleep now, until
four; he knew his symptoms of old. He could not read. It was useless
to lie tossing in bed. He sat in the deck-chair mournfully munching
salted almonds. He was in a state of unnatural nervous excitement.
The music came through the house delicately to him, softened by two
walls, one of them honestly built in the late seventeenth century. He
thought that John O'Neill would be distant music to him henceforth.
Perhaps the dead look on the living souls as notes in a music, and play
upon them, making harmony or discord, according to the power of their
wills and the quality of their nature. He could imagine John, who had
stricken so many living souls to music, playing on in death, not
hampered by the indifference of any one note, but playing upon it
masterly, rousing it to music, by striking some kindred note, reaching
it through another, as perhaps our dead friends can. But life would be
terrible without John. He remembered how Lamb walked about muttering
"Coleridge is dead." A great spirit never expresses herself perfectly.
She needs many lesser spirits to catch those glittering crumbs and
fiery-flung manna seeds. When the bread passes, the disciples serve
scraps and preach bakery.
He finished his salted almonds regretfully, remembering that he was out
of olives. He lighted another cigarette, and lay there smoking, trying
to get calm. It was very still but for the music; for Davenant Street
was as quiet as Dean's Yard. The windows were all blank and dark;
people were sleeping. Big Ben's noble tone told the quarters. A
policeman went past softly, feeling at the doors. Something went wrong
in the street lamp a few yards from Roger's perch. It fluttered as
though some great moth were struggling in the flame. It died down to a
few flagging points of light, leaving the dark street even darker. Big
Ben, lifting a solemn sweet voice, tolled two, with noble melancholy,
resigned to death, but hungry for the beauty of life, like the spirit
of Raleigh speaking. Ottalie was asleep now, the grey eyes shut, the
sweet face lying trustful. John was with the pale young Spaniard,
doing what? in the room high aloft there, over Queen Square. London
was about to take its hour of quiet. Only the poets, the scholars, and
the idlers were awake now. In a little while the May dawn would begin.
Even now it was tingeing the cherry blossom in Aleppo. The roses of
Sarvistan were spilling in the heat. The blades of green corn by Troy
gleamed above the river as the wind shook them. Tenedos rose up black,
watching the channel, now showing steel.
Roger lighted another cigarette from the embers of the last. It was
too quiet to strike a match. The stillness gave him an emotional
pleasure. It gave him a sense of power, as though he were the only
living spirit in the midst of all this death. He was sorry when the
music stopped, for it had made the stillness more impressive. If his
thoughts had not been calmed by it, they had at least been made more
beautiful, chaotic as they were. The bitterness of the night worked
less bitingly. He was conscious of an exaltation of the mind. Up
there in the quiet, his devotion to John, his passion for Ottalie, and
his love of all high and noble art, seemed co-ordinated in a grand
scheme in which he was both god and man. Standing up, he looked over
the trellis into the street, deeply moved. He was here to perfect that
magnificent work of art,--himself. John, who had pointed the way, was
gone now. Ottalie, who had inspired him, was waiting with her crown;
or perhaps only showing it to lure him, for Nature, prodigal of dust
and weed, gives true beauty sparingly. It was for him to follow that
lure and to gather strength to seize it. The world was a little dust
under his feet. In his soul was a little green seed bursting. It
would grow up out of all the grime and muck of modern life, among all
the flying grit of the air, into a stately tree, which would shelter
the world with beauty and peace. He would be a supreme soul. He would
dominate this rabble which hooted him.
He lit another cigarette. John was like a man sent from God. John was
unreal. John had marched before him with a torch. Now that ghostly
master of his had thrust the torch into the road, pointing him forward
with a gesture. The way to perfection lay further on, along a path too
narrow for two. Far up the path he could see Ottalie, a glimmer of
fragrant beauty, half hidden in a whirling dust-storm which almost
swept him off the ledge. The dust should not keep him from her. He
would climb to her. They would go on together.
At this instant, as the melancholy intensity of the bells tolled the
quarter-hour, the window-door opened on the other side of the straw
trellis. A lady came out on to the balcony. She hummed one of Heine's
songs in a little low voice, which left the music full of gaps. Roger
recognised the singer's voice. He wondered if her husband were with
her. He supposed that he must be at the House, and that she was
waiting for him. Her skirts rustled as she moved. A faint scent of
violet attracted Roger to her. It was faint, exotic, and suggestive.
There is an intoxication in perfumes. She stood there for a full ten
seconds before she divined his presence beyond the screen. Her song
stopped instantly. Two seconds more convinced her that the person was
male and alone. A third suggested that he was a burglar.
"Who is there?" she said quietly. Her voice was anxious rather than
fearful.
"I'm so sorry," said Roger. He did not know what else to say. "I live
here." He thought that it would be polite to go indoors. He turned to
go. To his surprise she spoke again.
"Can you give me a cigarette?" she said. She still spoke quietly. She
spoke as if a maidservant were in the room behind her. Roger was
flustered. He was a man of quick blood in a condition of excited
nerves.
"Yes," he said. "Will you have Russian, or American, or Turkish?"
She appeared to debate for an instant.
"Give me a Russian," she said. "Give it to me through this hole in the
matting. Thanks."
"Have you a match?" Roger asked.
"No," she answered. "Give me a light from yours, please. Don't set
the mat on fire, though."
He thrust his burning cigarette through the hole in the matting. He
felt the pressure of her cigarette upon it. He heard her quickened
breathing. He saw the glow brightening through the mat as the tobacco
kindled.
"Thanks," she said softly, with a little half-laugh. "How did the play
go?"
"The play?" Roger stammered. "It was---- Do you mean---- Which play
do you mean?"
"Your play; _The Roman Matron_. You are Mr. Naldrett, aren't you? I
met you once for a moment at a house in Chelsea. At Mrs. Melyard's,
three years ago. I was just going."
He remembered that hectic beauty Mrs. Melyard. She was like a green
snake. She used to receive her intimates (she had no friends) in a
room hung with viridian. There were green couches, green-shaded
lights, a gum burning greenly in a brazier with green glass sides. She
herself was dressed in green, glittering, metallic scales, which made a
noise like serpent's hissing as she glided. "Nothing is really
interesting except vice," was the only phrase which he could remember
of Mrs. Melyard's conversation. She was a feverish character,
explained by inherited phthisical taint. Melyard collected tsuba, and
fenced archæologically at the Foil Club. He was the best rapier and
dagger man in England.
"You are Mrs. Templeton?" he asked. "I remember a lady at Mrs.
Melyard's."
"I wasn't married then," she said quickly. "How did the play go?"
"It was booed off."
"I'm sorry," she said. She meant "I am sorry that I asked."
Roger wondered how he could get away. It depended on the lady.
"Can't you sleep?" she asked suddenly.
"No."
"I can't. Will it bore you to come in to talk to us?"
He was used to unconventional people. He saw nothing strange in the
woman's invitation. Most of the women known to him would have acted as
simply and as frankly in the same circumstances. He knew that
Templeton seldom went to bed before two. He took it for granted that
Templeton was in the sitting-room; possibly within earshot.
"I'm not very presentable," he said. "Let me change this robe."
"We shan't mind," she said, reassuring him. "Come on."
"Will you let me in?"
"We'll pull down this screen."
They pulled down the old matting with two vigorous jerks. Roger
stepped across the partition into the further balcony.
"Come in," she said, passing through the window. "It's dark inside
here. Take care of the chair there." She put out a hand to pull the
chair away. She did it roughly, making a good deal of noise.
"You sit here," she said. "That chair's comfy. I'll sit here,
opposite; here's an ash-tray."
"Could I light a lamp or candle?" Roger asked, taking out his match-box.
"No, thanks," she said. "Don't light up just yet; I'm sick of light.
I wish we could live in the dark, like wild beasts."
"London is on your nerves," said Roger. "The noise and worry are
upsetting you. You are tired of London, not of light."
He was disappointed by being asked to sit in darkness. He began to
lose interest in the lady. She was only a modern dramatic heroine,
i.e. a common woman overstrained. He had heard similar affected
silliness from a dozen empty women, some of them pretty. He had heard
that Mrs. Templeton was pretty. As she refused light, he decided that
fame had lied. "She must be a blonde," he thought, "and this room is
lit by electricity." He wished that Templeton would come. Templeton
would make the situation easier, and his wife's talk more sensible.
The lady was silently trying to sum him up.
"No; I'm not tired of London," she was saying. "Only one cannot _live_
in London."
"London is on your nerves," Roger repeated. "London is a feverish
great spider. It sucks out vitality, and leaves its own poison
instead. Look at the arts. A young artist comes up here full of
vitality. Unless he is a truly great man, London will suck it all out
of him, and make him as poisonous and as feverish as herself."
"Yes, that is quite true," she answered. "I wish we could all be
simple and natural, and have time to live. Life is so interestin'.
The only really interestin' thing."
"What kind of life do you wish to live?"
"I wish to live my own life. I want to know my own soul. To live. In
London one is always livin' other people's lives, goin' dinin', doin'
things because other people do them. But where else can you meet
interestin' people?"
"People are not essential to true life," said Roger. "I believe that
all perfect life is communion with God, conversation, that is, with
ideas; 'godly conversation.' People are to some extent like thoughts,
like living ideas; for the inner and the outer lives correspond."
"You mean that life is a kind of curve?" the lady interrupted. The
question was a moral boomerang. She often used it defensively; she had
once felled a scientist with it.
"Life is whatever you like to make it."
"I'm thinkin' of goin' to live in Ireland," said the lady. "The people
must be so exquisitely charmin'. Such a beautiful life, sittin' round
the fire, singin' the old songs. And then their imagination!"
"Their charm is superficial," said Roger. "Taking the times together,
I've lived in Ireland for seven years. I have a cottage there. I do
not think that you will sit round many fires, to sing old songs, after
the first fine careless rapture, which lasts a month. I'm an
Englishman, of course. When in Ireland I'm only one of the English
garrison. I may be wanting in sympathy; but I maintain that the Irish
have no imagination. Imagination is a moral quality."
"I don't think an Englishman can understand the Irish," said the lady.
"When an Irishman is great enough to escape from the littleness of his
race, he becomes a very splendid person," Roger answered. "But until
that happens he seems to me to be wanting in any really fundamental
quality."
"Oh," said the lady, "you are talking so very like an Englishman. You
aren't interested in life, I see. You are only interested in morals.
But you cannot say that the Irish have no imagination. They have
wonderful imagination. Look at the way they talk. And their writers:
Swift, Goldsmith, Sheridan. And their own exquisite Irish poets."
"I'd give the whole company for one act of Addison's _Cato_," said
Roger. "Swift had a limited vision and a diseased mind. He diagnosed
his own diseases. Goldsmith wrote some pretty verses. But I do not
think that you have read them. Have you? Sheridan wrote a comedy at
the age of twenty-four to prove that a sot is nobler than a scholar.
Later, he tried to prove it in his own person. I do not read Irish. I
have read translations from it. Its distinctive quality seemed to me
to be just that kind of windy impersonality which one hears in their
talk."
"That is so English of you," said the lady, laughing. "I think that I
ought to be very thankful for my Celtic blood."
"Are you a Celt?"
"Yes; from Cornwall. I think it gives me an instinctive love of the
beautiful."
"Those who love beauty make it. I, too, have been a Celt. I was a
Celt from my twenty-second till my twenty-fifth year. Then I
discovered a very curious fact--two facts."
"What were they?"
"First, that the Celt's love of the beautiful is all bunkum. Second,
that the people of these islands are mongrels, bred from the scum of
Europe. You can call yourself an Anglo-Saxon, or a Celt, or an Aryan,
or a Norman, or a Long-Barrow Palæolith; but if you came from these
islands, you are a mongrel, a mongrel of a most chequered kind."
At this instant the door opened suddenly, and the electric light was
turned on. In the doorway stood Templeton--a tall, bald, thin-faced
man, with foxy moustache and weak eyes. His face showed amazed anger.
"What is this?" he said.
"Let me introduce you," said the lady. "My husband, Mr. Naldrett."
Roger, standing up under the angry gaze of Templeton, was conscious of
looking like a fool, in his robe of green silk dragons.
"I don't understand," said Templeton.
"I asked Mr. Naldrett here to talk to me," said the lady.
"So I presume," said Templeton.
"Have you had an interesting sitting?" Roger asked.
Templeton did not answer. He was glaring at his wife. His opera hat
was tilted back; his overcoat was unbuttoned; an unlighted cigarette
drooped from his mouth.
"Archie," said the lady suavely, "Mr. Naldrett is my friend. I asked
him here to talk to me."
"So I see," said Templeton.
"To talk to me," the woman repeated, flaring up, "while you were with
Mrs. Liancourt at her flat in St. Anne's Mansions. I know when the
House rose, and where you went afterwards. If you're goin' to have
your friends, I'm goin' to have mine."
Templeton seemed to gulp. He turned to Roger.
"Perhaps you will go," he said.
"Yes, I think I had better," said Roger. "I am sorry that I came."
He rose to go. Mrs. Templeton turned to him.
"A quarter to three," she said sweetly. "You will remember that?"
Roger looked hard at Mrs. Templeton. Never again would he speak
civilly to a woman with high cheek-bones, steel eyes, and loose mouth.
He bowed to her.
"I didn't deserve it," he said quietly. He walked to the window-door,
feeling like some discovered lover in a play. As he entered the
balcony, Templeton slammed to the door behind him with a snarl of
"Now," as he opened fire on his wife. Templeton's flanks were turned.
He was blowing up his ammunition wagons before surrendering.
For a moment Roger felt furious with Templeton. Then he blamed the
lady. She had played him a scurvy trick. Lastly, as he began to
understand her position, he forgave her. He blamed himself. He felt
that he had mixed himself with something indescribably squalid.
As he undressed for bed he blamed the world for its vulgarity, and
dreariness, and savagery. The world was too much with him. It was
thwarting, and blighting, and destroying him. He longed to get away
from the world. Anywhere. To those Irish hills above the sea, to his
beautiful friend, to some peaceful, gentle life, where the squalor of
his night's adventures would be unknown and unremembered. He felt
contaminated. He longed to purify himself in the sea below his love's
home. He thought of that water. He saw it lit by the sun, with
tremulous brown sea-leaves folding. Sand at the bottom, six feet down,
made a wrinkled blur of paleness, across which a lobster crawled. He
would go there. In fifteen hours he would be tearing towards it
through the night, past the great glaring towns, on into the hills, to
the sea.
A thought of the shaking of the train, and of the uneasy sleep of the
people in the carriage, merged gradually into the blur which precedes
unconsciousness. Before Big Ben tolled four he was asleep, in that
kind of restless nightmare which chains the will without chaining the
intelligence. In that kind of sleep which is not sleep he dreamed a
dream of Ottalie, which awakened him, in sudden terror, at seven.