I
The Whittakers were At Home every Wednesday. No one else in Hammerton
Chase was officially At Home at any time. So every one went to the
Whittakers' on Wednesdays.
There are still a few intimate corners in London where people, other
than the poor, are positively acquainted with their neighbours. And
Hammerton Chase is one of these. In heartless Kensington we know no more
of our neighbour than we may gather from furtive references to the Red
Book and _Who's Who_, or stealthy reconnaissances from behind the
dining-room curtains as he goes forth in the morning to his work and to
his labour. Our communication with him is limited to the throwing back
over the garden-wall of his children's balls, aeroplanes, and spears,
or--in the lowest parts of Kensington--to testy hammerings with the
fire-irons towards the close of his musical evenings. Overt, deliberate,
avoidable, social intercourse with any person living in the same street
or the same block of mansions is a thing unknown. What true Londoner
remembers going to an At Home, a dance, a musical evening, or other
entertainment in his own street? Who is there who regards with
friendship the occupant of the opposite flat?
Hammerton Chase could scarcely be regarded as a street. A short
half-mile of old and dignified houses, clustered irregularly in all
shapes and sizes along the sunny side of the Thames, with large trees
and little gardens fringing the bank across the road, and, lying
opposite, the Island, a long triangle of young willows, the haunt of
wild duck and heron and swan--it had a unique, incomparable character of
its own. It was like neither street, nor road, nor avenue, nor garden,
nor any other urban unit of place in London, or indeed, it was locally
supposed, in the world. It had something, perhaps, of an old village and
something of a Cathedral Close, something of Venice and something of the
sea. But it was _sui generis_. It was The Chase, W. 6. And the W. 6 was
generally considered to be superfluous.
But, whatever it was, it prided itself on the intimate and sociable
relations of its members. They were all on friendly terms with each
other, and knew exactly the circumstances and employment, the ambitions,
plans, and domestic crises of each other at any given moment. They
"dropped in" at each other's houses for conversation and informal
entertainment; they borrowed wine-glasses for their dinner-parties and
tools for their gardens and anchors for their boats. They were a
community, a self-sufficient community, isolated geographically from
their natural homes in Chelsea and Kensington, W., by the dreary
wilderness of West Kensington and the barbarous expanse of Hammersmith,
and clinging almost pathetically together in their little oasis of
civilization.
And yet they were not suburban. They were in physical fact on the actual
borders of London County; they were six miles from Charing Cross. But
Ealing and the suburbs are farther still. And the soul of Ealing was
many leagues removed from the soul of The Chase, which, like The Chase,
was something not elsewhere to be discovered.
So that on Wednesdays the Whittakers were At Home in the evening, and
every one went. Andrew Whittaker was an artist and art-critic; though
for various reasons he devoted more time to criticism than to execution.
Mrs. Whittaker wrote novels in the intervals of engaging a new servant
or dismissing an old one, and grappling undaunted with the domestic
crisis which either operation produced. They were both exceedingly
pleasant, cultivated, and feckless people, and they well represented the
soul of The Chase. Indeed, no one else was so well fitted to collect the
bodies of The Chase together on Wednesdays.
On this Wednesday there were fewer bodies than usual in the grey
drawing-room. It was a moist and thunderous evening, very heavy and
still, and many of The Chase were gasping quietly in their own little
gardens, reluctant to enter a house of any kind. And there were one or
two households vaguely "away in the country." It was rather the habit of
true members of The Chase to "go away" in May, or in June, or in any
month but August, not simply because it was a wise and sensible thing to
do, August being an overrated and tumultuous month in the country, not
only because if you lived in the airy Chase the common craving of
Londoners to escape from London in August did not affect you, but
chiefly because if you lived in The Chase that was the kind of thing you
did.
Mrs. Whittaker was a little distressed by the meagre attendance. Six or
seven ladies of The Chase, Mr. Dimple, the barrister, Mr. Mard, the
architect, and his wife were there; but these were all elderly and
unexciting, and without some powerful stimulus from the outer world it
was impossible to prevent them from discussing food and domestic
servants. Domestic worries dominated their lives. Life in The Chase was
one long domestic worry. And the great problem of Mrs. Whittaker's At
Homes was to prevent people from talking about servants, food, and
domestic worries. Her method was to invite large numbers of artistic,
literary, and otherwise interesting people from distant London, who were
apparently immune from domestic worries or were at any rate capable of
excluding them from their conversation. The artistic element was thinly
represented this evening by a psychologist from Oxford and a dramatic
critic. But, nobly though they strove to discuss the drama and the mind,
they were hopelessly swamped by a loud discussion on domestic servants
and food among the ladies of The Chase, vigorously led by Mrs. Vincent
and Mrs. Church. Mrs. Ralph Vincent was a carroty-haired lady of
extraordinary aggressiveness and defiant juvenility in the face of her
forty-five summers and seven children. Mrs. Church was the
widow-daughter of old Mrs. Ambrose, who was ninety and extremely deaf.
Mrs. Church herself had an unfortunate stutter. Yet these two ladies,
living together at Island View, practically constituted the Intelligence
Staff of The Chase. They knew everything. They never went out, except on
Wednesdays to the Whittakers', when the indomitable Mrs. Ambrose strode
unaided under the splendid elms to Willow House and laboured by stages
up the narrow stairs. But their agents came to them daily for teas and
"little talks," and handed over, willingly or no, the secrets of The
Chase. Nor could it be said that either of them knew more or less than
the other. Old Mrs. Ambrose prided herself on her lip-reading, and no
doubt Mrs. Church's unfortunate impediment made it easier for the old
lady to practise this art to advantage. Some said, indeed, that Mrs.
Church's stutter had been assumed in filial piety for this very purpose.
Mrs. Ambrose was busily endeavouring to read the lips of the
psychologist and the dramatic critic, whom she suspected of being
engaged in a discussion of unusual interest, if not actual indelicacy.
People who knew of her supposed gift felt sometimes very uncomfortable
about conversation in her presence, especially if they were speaking to
some reckless person who did not know of it.
The voice of the psychologist was heard protesting to his host the
sincerity and thoroughness of the Oxford method. Whittaker stood
patiently in front of him with a trayful of home-made cocktails. "We
_make_ them concentrate ... _a priori_ ... processes of thought ...
lectures ... philosophy ... system...."
Then domesticity broke out again, and Mrs. Whittaker, listening with one
ear to each party, raged furiously within. "Mary takes the children in
the morning ... the gas-oven ... margarine ... the geyser ... the front
doorstep ... pull out the damper ... simply walked out of the house ...
margarine ... Mrs. Walker's Bureau ... butter ... very good
references ... margarine ... the principles of reasoning ... what about
Susan?... margarine ... a month's wages ... margarine ...
thought-circles ... washing-up ... a lady-help ... margarine...."
Mrs. Whittaker despaired. Were none of her artistic circle coming? She
went over to her husband and whispered fiercely, "Are the Byrnes coming?
Go out and ring them up. Tell them they simply _must_."
Whittaker deposited his tray in the arms of the psychologist and went
out; the psychologist assumed the air of one who is equal to any
emergency, and sat solemnly embracing the tray.
When Whittaker came back there was a wide grin on his pleasant face. He
announced:
"The Byrnes are coming in a minute--and he's bringing the Choir."
"Oh, _good_," said Mrs. Whittaker, and echoing approvals came from
several of the company.
The psychologist said, "Is that _Stephen_ Byrne?" in an awed voice, and
tried not to look as impressed and gratified as he felt when Whittaker
assured him that it was. The elderly ladies looked more cheerful, and
abandoned the barren topic of domestic worries to discuss poetry and Mr.
Byrne. Mrs. Ambrose said, "I _like_ Mr. Byrne"; Mrs. Church said, "A
_nice_ man, Mr. Byrne"; Mrs. Vincent said, "Such a _nice_ couple, the
Byrnes."
There were many accomplished people living in The Chase, but Stephen
Byrne was the lion of them all; there were many delightful people living
in The Chase, but Stephen Byrne was the darling of them all. He was the
gem, the treasure of The Chase. Indeed, he was the treasure of England.
He was a real poet. Men had heard of him before the war; but it was in
the years of war that he had come to greatness. He was one of a few men
who had been able in a few fine poems to set free for the nation a
little of the imprisoned grandeur, the mute emotion of that time. But
none of all those young men, who found their voices suddenly in the war
and spoke with astonishment the splendid feelings of the people, had so
touched the imagination, had so nearly expressed the tenderness of
England, as Stephen Byrne. At twenty-seven he was a great man--a
national idol.
No wonder, therefore, that The Chase delighted in him. But there was
more. He was personally delightful. So many successful men are unusually
ugly, or unusually bad-tempered, or soured, or boorish, or intolerably
rude; and the people of The Chase, being essentially a critical people
and far too noble to be capable of intellectual snobbery, would not have
given their hearts to a successful poet if he had been ugly or boorish
or intolerably rude. Stephen Byrne was none of these things--but
handsome and affable and beautifully mannered. And so they loved him.
While they were waiting for him it grew dark and a little cooler, and
more of The Chase came in. Mr. Dunk, the American, came in, and Petway,
of the Needlework Guild, and Morrison, the publisher. After them came
Mr. and Mrs. Stimpson. Stimpson was a Civil Servant, but his life-work
was cabinet-making. Mrs. Stimpson was an execrable housekeeper and
mother, but knitted with extraordinary finish. Knitting was her craft;
cabinet-making was her husband's craft. Everybody had a craft of some
kind in The Chase. They all made things or did things, which nobody made
or did in Kensington.
Sometimes this making or doing was their profession; sometimes it was a
_parergon_ carried on deliciously in leisure hours. In either case it
was the most important part of their lives. Mr. Dunk kept rabbits; Mr.
Farraday kept boats, and sailed interminably in his cutter or rowed
about in an almost invisible dinghy. However innocent and respectable
they looked, each of them, one felt, was capable of secret pottery, or
privately addicted to modelling or engraving. There was nothing The
Chase could not do.
When these people came in the At Home brightened appreciably; there was
a loud noise of really intelligent conversation, and Mrs. Whittaker was
satisfied. Whittaker laboured assiduously at his home-made cocktails,
and was suitably rewarded by their rapid consumption. Whittaker's
cocktails had the advantages and the defects of an impromptu
composition, which is precisely what they were. He was bound by no
cast-iron rules as to ingredients in manufacture. But they were always
powerful and generally popular; and most of the ladies attempted them if
only because they were such a glorious gamble. Only Mrs. Ambrose
resolutely declined. And as they drank them they were all pleasurably
excited by the imminent advent of Stephen Byrne.
The door opened violently, striking the psychologist in the middle of
the back, and a wave of people surged into the room, with much
chattering and loud laughter. Towering in the centre of the mob was a
huge clergyman, with large, round spectacles and a brick-red face, who
reminded one instantly of Og, Gog, and Magog, however vague one's
previous impressions of those personages had been. He had a voice like a
Tube train, rumbling far off in a tunnel, and his laugh was like the
bursting of shells. He was six foot eight, and magnificently
proportioned. With him was a man about twenty-seven, a Civil Servant and
resident of The Chase, by name John Egerton. In front of these two,
hopelessly dwarfed by the Rev. Peter, were two young ladies--and Stephen
Byrne, a tall figure in a black velvet smoking-jacket.
It said much for the personality, and indeed the person, of the young
poet that in the arresting presence of the Rev. Peter most of the
company looked immediately at Stephen Byrne. Many of them, indeed,
thought it more seemly for some reason to conceal their interest, and
went on talking or listening to their neighbours; they swivelled their
eyes painfully towards the door without moving their heads, and suddenly
said "Quite" or "Really" with a vain affectation of intelligence and
usually in an inappropriate context.
These were mostly men, who could not be expected openly to admit that
there was present a more important male than themselves. But most of the
women, and especially the older ones, regarded with evident admiration
the black-haired, bonny celebrity of Hammerton Chase. It was very black,
that hair, unbelievably black, and of a curious, attractive texture. One
wanted to touch it. And, although he was a poet, it was not too long.
Smiling happily under the light, Stephen Byrne was very good to look at.
A high brow gave him a perhaps spurious suggestion of nobility, for the
rest of the face was not so noble. The modern habit is to affix a label
to every man, and be affronted if he forgets or ignores his label. But
the most inveterate labeller would have been puzzled by the face of
Stephen Byrne. In repose it was a handsome, impressive face, full of
what is vaguely described as "breeding," the nose straight and thin, the
mouth firm and unobtrusive. One felt confidence, sympathy, attraction.
But when he spoke or smiled, one thought again. There was attraction
still, and for most people an immediate irresistible charm, but less
confidence. There was a certain weakness in the mobile mouth, a certain
fleshliness. You could imagine this young man being noble or mean, cruel
or kind, good-humoured or petulant, selfish or magnanimous or simply
damnable. Which is merely to say that he was a complicated affair. But
if indeed he had a darker side, it had never been revealed to the people
of The Chase; and they loved him.
The two ladies were Margery Byrne, his wife, and Muriel Tarrant, a
favourite niece of the Reverend Peter. They were both very fair, both
very delightful without being exactly beautiful. Miss Muriel Tarrant was
the sole unmarried and still marriageable maiden in The Chase. It was a
curious thing; the female population of The Chase consisted almost
entirely of married ladies, young or old, elderly ladies who were past
that sort of thing, and small children. Muriel Tarrant swam like a
solitary comet in this galaxy of fixed or immature stars. None could
imagine why she remained single for a moment, so young and fresh and
admirable she was. People indeed said that John Egerton ... but no one
knew.
Muriel's young brother, George Edwin, a tall youth with the precise
features of Greek sculpture and the immaculate locks of a barber's
assistant, brought up the rear, looking a little dazed.
There was a third young lady, disconcertingly tall and slightly abashed,
and an obviously artistic youth in a blue collar, clinging timidly to
the skirts of the party--both strangers to The Chase.
Stephen Byrne introduced them.
"All these people," he explained, with a comprehensive gesture, "do
pottery and engraving. They are The Chase. Give me one of your
cocktails, Whittaker. No--give me two."
With two thin glasses of Whittaker's latest concoction he walked over to
old Mrs. Ambrose, watching him from her distant corner and wishing she
was less old and less deaf, so that she could command the attentions of
pleasant and distinguished young men. When he came to her she glowed
with contentment like the harvest moon emerging from a mist, and to her
own intense astonishment and the horror of her daughter was prevailed
upon by Stephen to accept and actually consume the cocktail he had
brought her. So excited was she, and so excited was Mrs. Church, her
daughter, that Mrs. Church's stutter became altogether unconquerable,
and the old lady's lip-reading became more than ever an adventure in
guess-work. This meant a complete breakdown in their system of
communications, which made conversation difficult. But Stephen chattered
and sparkled undeterred, and the old ladies chuckled and crooned with
satisfaction. Mrs. Ambrose thought he was talking about domestic
servants, because she had lip-read the word "cook." In fact, he was
talking nonsense about the origin of the word _cock_-tail, as Mrs.
Church kept trying to explain. But she never got further than, "He
d--d--didn't say c--c--_cook_, Mother--he said c--c--c--" because the
old lady always interrupted with "Housemaids, ah--yes," and wagged her
white head with profound meaning.
The rumour travelled round the noisy room that Mr. Byrne had made Mrs.
Ambrose have a cocktail, and they all said, "How _like_ him! the naughty
old thing! No one else would have done _that_." Margery Byrne was trying
to make the dramatic critic talk about the drama, but he had come to the
conclusion that no one in Hammerton liked to talk about anything but
domestic worries. As he lived in a service flat and did not have any, it
was far from easy for him, but he was doing his best, and had
ascertained from Mrs. Byrne that she had just engaged a new maid, named
Emily, who seemed likely to be satisfactory. When Mrs. Byrne heard of
her husband's feat, she looked across at him fondly, but almost
reproachfully. "That means he's had three himself," she said, with a gay
laugh. The dramatic critic, who flattered himself that he had probed the
depths of human nature, thought, "What a nice, easygoing wife!" But Mrs.
Byrne was really thinking, "I _wish_ he wouldn't drink so many--horrid,
strong stuff."
And she saw that, though her husband was being so pleasant and kind to
the two old ladies, he was looking most of the time at Muriel Tarrant,
the pretty girl in the corner beyond him, who was talking to John
Egerton, and blushing prettily about something.
Margery Byrne said to herself, "I am not jealous," and looked away.
An enormous chatter filled the room. The psychologist sat silent,
noticing things. Mr. Whittaker fussed about with coffee and thin
glasses. Odd corners of tables and mantelpieces and bookshelves became
crowded with discarded coffee-cups and dissipated glasses, perilously
poised. Mrs. Whittaker, talking busily to the Reverend Peter, listened
anxiously, with both ears at the public pulse, as it were, and could
detect no single murmur of domestic worries. Every one, it seemed, was
being interesting and intelligent.
Then the carroty-haired Mrs. Vincent bustled up to her. "_Won't_ you
make them sing to us, Mrs. Whittaker?--Mr. Byrne's Choir, I mean. I've
never heard them, you know."
The Reverend Peter roared across the room, "A song, Stephen--a song!
Forward, the Choir!"
The Hammerton Choir was the unduly dignified title of the faintly
flippant, faintly musical company of pleasant people which the Byrnes
gathered periodically at their house along The Chase. They sang, indeed,
informally and wholly impromptu, a wide range of quartettes and choruses
and glees. But volume of sound rather than delicacy of execution was
their strong point, and the prevailing tone was frivolous. Indeed, it
was scarcely in keeping with the sonorous title they had assumed; and
Mrs. Vincent and others of Mrs. Whittaker's guests, who had heard of the
Hammerton Choir, but had not actually heard it, might be pardoned if
they had formed too flattering an impression of its powers.
Some of the Choir showed a certain bashfulness at the proposal that they
should sing so publicly. John Egerton at first definitely refused,
partly perhaps because he was happily occupied with Miss Muriel Tarrant
in an almost impregnable corner. She, however, not wishing the company
to suppose that she had any such thought, urged him into the arena; and
Stephen Byrne prevailed upon the rest of his following. He himself
showed no signs of bashfulness.
Miss Tarrant was the Choir's principal treble, and Stephen, bowing
gallantly, escorted her with Miss Tiffany to the piano, a decayed and
tinny instrument, with many photographs of children obliquely regarding
each other on the top. Stephen sat at the piano, and the Reverend Peter
stood stooping like a tired steeple beyond. He was, of course, the bass.
The young man with the blue collar provided with John Egerton a throaty
and wavering tenor. Egerton tried to stand next to Miss Tarrant, but was
thwarted without intention by his companion tenor. Miss Tiffany grew
slowly pinker and pinker. A solemn hush descended. The company held
their breath.
At the beginning of the Great War Mr. Asquith made a speech. In it he
formulated the principles for which this nation was fighting. The
formula was perfect and worthy of a great master of formulæ, sonorous
and dignified, yet not verbose. It said everything without saying a word
too much. And Mr. Asquith was, justifiably, so pleased with it that for
many years he lost no opportunity of publicly repeating it, or if he
did not repeat it, of reminding people about it in speeches and
pronouncements and letters to the Press. It began, "We shall not sheathe
the sword," and for a long time it was blazoned on every hoarding. Few
men can have had so striking a literary success with four sentences.
But over and above its conciseness and majesty and lucidity the formula
had other qualities which may or may not have been consciously imparted
to it by Mr. Asquith. Its component sentences had the literary form of
Hebraic poetry, the structure and rhythm of the Psalms. They might,
indeed, have come out of the Psalms.
But this was not all. One would understand the Prime Minister of England
modelling some important literary composition on the style of the
Psalms, which is a noble style. And that being so, one could understand
the result being more or less easily adjustable to some one or other of
those Church of England chants, which have done so much to popularize
the Psalms of David. But the extraordinary thing about Mr. Asquith's
formula was that it fitted exactly the Quadruple Chant, the unique and
famous Quadruple Chant, designed by a benignant Church to make the
longest Psalm that David composed less inexpressibly fatiguing than it
would be to the music of a miserable single or double chant. There were
four sentences in Mr. Asquith's formula. There were four musical
sentences in the Quadruple Chant, each divided in twain. And they fitted
each other like a glove, or, rather, like a well-fitting glove. It was
marvellous. The only reasonable conclusion was that Mr. Asquith, in a
moment of pious exaltation, had deliberately set his formula to the
Quadruple Chant.
Alone of the English-speaking race Stephen Byrne had discovered these
astounding truths. Having formed the conclusion that Mr. Asquith had
written the words to that chant, he held that one ought to sing the
words to that chant. This would be the highest compliment to the man and
the best means of perpetuating his work. And so, with many others, he
did. But there is a season for all things; and it cannot be pretended
that Mrs. Whittaker's select and crowded At Home was the season for this
particular thing.
Stephen struck a chord. The company wondered what masterpiece was to be
given them--perhaps some Schubert, perhaps something from Gilbert and
Sullivan.
Then the great anthem rolled out. The voices of the Hammerton Choir were
not individually of high quality, but they blended well, and their
volume was surprising. They sang in excellent time, all stopping at the
asterisks absolutely together, all accomplishing with perfect unanimity
those long polysyllabic passages on one note which make psalm-singing
in our churches so fruitful a source of precipitancy and schism.
"We shall not sheathe the sword" (pause for breath), "which we hàve
not/lightly/drawn,//until Belgium has recovered all* and MÒRE than/all
that/she has/sacrificed.
"Until France is adequàte/ly sec/urèd//against the/menace/of
ag/gression."
(The accentuation of _ate_ in "adequately" was the one blot on the
pointing; it was unworthy of Mr. Asquith.)
"Until the rights of the smaller nationàlit/-ies of/Europe//are placed
upon an ùnass/aila/ble found/ation/."
(That was a grand stanza; the Hammerton singers gave a delicious
burlesque of the country choir gabbling with ever-growing speed through
the first words, and falling with a luxurious snarl on their objective,
the unfortunate accented syllable _al_.)
"And until the military dòmin/ation of/ Prussia//is whòlly and/final/ly
dest/royèd."
(_Prussia_ was given with a splendid crescendo of hate, worthy of the
best Prussian traditions, and "destroy-èd" came with an effective
rallentando.) The Reverend Peter Tarrant, rumbling in a profound bass
the final "destroy-èd," was so life-like an imitation of a real
clergyman leading a real village choir that those of the audience who
had been slightly shocked by the whole performance became suddenly
amused, and those who had not been shocked at all, which was a large
majority, were reduced to the final stages of hysterical approval. The
"turn" was a huge success. A roar of laughter and clapping and
questioning followed the solemn ending. The Choir were urged to "do it
again." The two ladies, flushed and almost overcome by the applause, a
circumstance quite new in the history of the Choir, begged to be
excused; but Stephen once more constrained them. This time, closely
following the best contemporary models on the variety stage, he urged
the audience to assist, and produced from some mysterious source a
number of copies of the words, neatly typed and pointed. And then,
indeed, a wondrous thing was heard. For all that mixed but mainly
respectable company rose up, and, opening timidly, rendered with an
ever-increasing confidence and volume that profane and ridiculous hymn.
Stephen Byrne stood superbly on a footstool and conducted with a poker,
his black eyes flashing, his whole figure vital with excitement and
mirth. And all those people were under his spell. Even the psychologist
forbore for a moment to analyse the workings either of his own or any
man's mind, and concentrated genuinely on the correct pointing of his
words, chuckling insanely at each half-verse. All of them chuckled and
gurgled as they sang.
But such is the hypnotic effect of any music with religious
associations, and so powerful is the simple act of singing vigorously in
unison as a generator of sentiment and solemnity in those who sing, that
by the end of the third stanza they had forgotten that they were being
funny, that the whole thing was a ridiculous joke, and discovered
themselves, to Stephen's intense dismay, chanting with long faces and
tones of inexpressible fervour the pious resolution that the military
domination of Prussia must be wholly and finally "destroy-èd." They
finished, almost with lumps in their throats, so moving was it all, and
stood for a moment in a sheepish hush, half feeling that some one should
say, "Let us pray," or give out a text before they might sit down. Then
some one cackled in the background, and the spell was broken with peals
of insane laughter.
While the hoarse company were having their glasses justifiably refilled,
Margery Byrne came quickly up to her husband, and gave him the look
which means to a husband, "I want to go home now." She was tired and she
looked tired; and she was going to have a baby. Stephen said, "Right you
are, my dear--just a minute." He was talking now to the Reverend Peter
and Muriel Tarrant, who was prettily flushed and a little excited. He
was arguing with the Reverend Peter about the poetry of John Donne. He,
too, was excited and pleased and reluctant to go home. But he knew that
Margery ought to go home. And of such stuff are the real temptations of
man.
He looked an apology and an appeal at his wife and said, "One minute, my
dear.... Would you mind?" knowing well that she minded. Mrs. Byrne said
that of course she did not mind, and went back to her seat by the
dramatic critic, yawning furtively.
So Stephen stood against the piano and defended John Donne, that strange
Elizabethan mixture of piety and paganism and poetry and nastiness. He
had forgotten Mr. Asquith now; he had forgotten the Choir and Muriel
Tarrant, and he was absorbed in the serious pronouncement of an artistic
belief. The Reverend Peter said that he was no prig, but some of John
Donne was too much for him. He could not believe in the essential
greatness of a grown man who could write such stuff. Stephen began to
quote a line or two from memory; then he reached up for an old brown
volume on one of Whittaker's shelves and read from it in a low voice
that only the clergyman could hear. "This is what I make of him," he
said. And he began to talk. He talked with the real eloquence of a
master of words profoundly moved, with growing earnestness and vigour.
He spoke of the eternal contradictions of human personality, of the
amazing mixtures which make up men; how true was the saying of Samuel
Butler that everything a man does is in a measure a picture of himself,
yet how true it was that one could not confidently judge what a man was
like from what he wrote. He told the Reverend Peter that he was narrow
in his estimate--unjust. One must strike a balance. Many of the company
had gathered about him now, and were listening; Stephen saw this at
last, and finished. Then the Reverend Peter laid a large hand
affectionately on his shoulder and said, "You're a wonderful man,
Stephen. I surrender. I dare say I've wronged the fellow.... I'll read
him again.... You poets are certainly an odd mixture." And that was the
thought of all those who had heard the singing and listened to the talk.
Stephen turned from him with a curious smile and saw suddenly the
reproachful figure of his wife.