III
Later, catching through the open door fragments of a conversation onthe stairs which indicated that his mother was at last coming down fortea, he sped like a threatened delinquent into the drawing-room. Hehad no wish to encounter his mother, though that woman usually saidlittle.
The drawing-room, after the bathroom, was Edward Henry's favouritedistrict in the home. Since he could not spend the whole of his timein the bathroom--and he could not!--he wisely gave a special care tothe drawing-room, and he loved it as one always loves that upon whichone has bestowed benefits. He was proud of the drawing-room, and hehad the right to be. The principal object in it, at night, was theelectric chandelier, which would have been adequate for a lighthouse.Edward Henry's eyes were not what they used to be; and the minoradvertisements in the _Signal_--which constituted his sole eveningperusals--often lacked legibility. Edward Henry sincerely believed inlight and heat; he was almost the only person in the Five Towns whodid. In the Five Towns people have fires in their grates--not to warmthe room, but to make the room bright. Seemingly they use their prideto keep themselves warm. At any rate, whenever Edward Henry talked tothem of radiators, they would sternly reply that a radiator didnot and could not brighten a room. Edward Henry had made the greatdiscovery that an efficient chandelier will brighten a room bettereven than a fire, and he had gilded his radiator. The notion ofgilding the radiator was not his own; he had seen a gilded radiatorin the newest hotel at Birmingham, and had rejoiced as some peculiarsouls rejoice when they meet a fine line in a new poem. (In concessionto popular prejudice Edward Henry had fire-grates in his house, andfires therein during exceptionally frosty weather; but this did notsave him from being regarded in the Five Towns as in some ways apeculiar soul.) The effulgent source of dark heat was scientificallysituated in front of the window, and on ordinarily cold eveningsEdward Henry and his wife and mother, and an acquaintance if onehappened to come in, would gather round the radiator and play bridgeor dummy whist.
The other phenomena of the drawing-room which particularly interestedEdward Henry were the Turkey carpet, the four vast easy-chairs, thesofa, the imposing cigar-cabinet and the mechanical piano-player.At one brief period he had hovered a good deal about the revolvingbookcase containing the _Encyclopaedia_ (to which his collectionof books was limited), but the frail passion for literature hadnot survived a struggle with the seductions of the mechanicalpiano-player.
The walls of the room never drew his notice. He had chosen, some yearsbefore, a patent washable kind of wall-paper (which could be wipedover with a damp cloth), and he had also chosen the pattern of thepaper, but it is a fact that he could spend hours in any room withouteven seeing the pattern of its paper. (In the same way his wife'scushions and little draperies and bows were invisible to him, thoughhe had searched for and duly obtained the perfect quality of swansdownwhich filled the cushions.)
The one ornament of the walls which attracted him was a large andsplendidly-framed oil-painting of a ruined castle, in the midst of asombre forest, through which cows were strolling. In the tower of thecastle was a clock, and this clock was a realistic timepiece, whosefingers moved and told the hour. Two of the oriel windows of thecastle were realistic holes in its masonry; through one of them youcould put a key to wind up the clock, and through the other you couldput a key to wind up the secret musical box, which played sixteendifferent tunes. He had bought this handsome relic of the Victorianera (not less artistic, despite your scorn, than many devices forsatisfying the higher instincts of the present day) at an auction salein the Strand, London. But it, too, had been supplanted in his esteemby the mechanical piano-player.
He now selected an example of the most expensive cigar in thecigar-cabinet and lighted it as only a connoisseur can light a cigar,lovingly; he blew out the match lingeringly, with regret, and droppedit and the cigar's red collar with care into a large copper bowl onthe centre table, instead of flinging it against the Japanese umbrellain the fireplace. (A grave disadvantage of radiators is that youcannot throw odds and ends into them.) He chose the most expensivecigar because he wanted comfort and peace. The ham was not digestingvery well.
Then he sat down and applied himself to the property advertisementsin the _Signal_, a form of sensational serial which usually enthralledhim--but not to-night. He allowed the paper to lapse on to the floor,and then rose impatiently, rearranged the thick dark blue curtainsbehind the radiator, and finally yielded to the silent call ofthe mechanical piano-player. He quite knew that to dally with thepiano-player while smoking a high-class cigar was to insult the cigar.But he did not care. He tilted the cigar upwards from an extremecorner of his mouth, and through the celestial smoke gazed at thetitles of the new music rolls which had been delivered that day, andwhich were ranged on the top of the piano itself.
And while he did so he was thinking:
"Why in thunder didn't the little thing come and tell me at once aboutthat kid and his dog-bite? I wonder why she didn't! She seemed onlyto mention it by accident. I wonder why she didn't bounce into thebathroom and tell me at once?"
But it was untrue that he sought vainly for an answer to this riddle.He was aware of the answer. He even kept saying over the answer tohimself:
"She's made up her mind I've been teasing her a bit too much latelyabout those kids and their precious illnesses. And she's doing thedignified. That's what she's doing! She's doing the dignified!"
Of course, instantly after his tea he ought to have gone upstairs toinspect the wounded victim of dogs. The victim was his own child, andits mother was his wife. He knew that he ought to have gone upstairslong since. He knew that he ought now to go, and the sooner thebetter! But somehow he could not go; he could not bring himself togo. In the minor and major crises of married life there are not twopartners, but four; each partner has a dual personality; each partneris indeed two different persons, and one of these fights against theother, with the common result of a fatal inaction.
The wickeder of the opposing persons in Edward Henry, getting theupper hand of the more virtuous, sniggered. "Dirty teeth, indeed!Blood-poisoning, indeed! Why not rabies, while she's about it? Iguarantee she's dreaming of coffins and mourning coaches already!"
Scanning nonchalantly the titles of the music rolls, he suddenly saw:"Funeral March. Chopin."
"She shall have it," he said, affixing the roll to the mechanism. Andadded: "Whatever it is!"
For he was not acquainted with the Funeral March from Chopin'sPianoforte Sonata. His musical education had, in truth, begun onlya year earlier--with the advertisements of the "Pianisto" mechanicalplayer. He was a judge of advertisements, and the "Pianisto"literature pleased him in a high degree. He justifiably reckoned thathe could distinguish between honest and dishonest advertising. He madea deep study of the question of mechanical players, and deliberatelycame to the conclusion that the Pianisto was the best. It was also themost costly. But one of the conveniences of having six thousand poundsa year is that you need not deny yourself the best mechanical playerbecause it happens to be the most costly. He bought a Pianisto, andincidentally he bought a superb grand piano and exiled the old cottagepiano to the nursery.
The Pianisto was the best, partly because, like the vacuum-cleaner,it could be operated by electricity, and partly because, by means ofcertain curved lines on the unrolling paper, and of certain gun-metallevers and clutches, it enabled the operator to put his secret ardentsoul into the music. Assuredly it had given Edward Henry a taste formusic. The whole world of musical compositions was his to conquer, andhe conquered it at the rate of about two great masters a month.From Handel to Richard Strauss, even from Palestrina to Debussy, theachievements of genius lay at his mercy. He criticized them with afreedom that was entirely unprejudiced by tradition. Beethoven was nomore to him than Arthur Sullivan--indeed, was rather less. The worksof his choice were the "Tannhaeuser" overture, a potpourri of Verdi's"Aida," Chopin's Study in Thirds (which ravished him), and a selectionfrom "The Merry Widow" (which also ravished him). So
that on the wholeit may be said that he had a very good natural taste.
He at once liked Chopin's Funeral March. He entered profoundlyinto the spirit of it. With the gun-metal levers he produced in amarvellous fashion the long tragic roll of the drums, and by themanipulation of a clutch he distilled into the chant at the gravesidea melancholy sweetness that rent the heart. The later crescendoes wereoverwhelming. And as he played there, with the bright blaze of thechandelier on his fair hair and beard, and the blue cigar smoke in hisnostrils, and the effluence of the gilded radiator behind him, andthe intimacy of the drawn window-curtains and the closed and curtaineddoor folding him in from the world, and the agony of the musicgrieving his artistic soul to the core--as he played there he grewgradually happier and happier, and the zest of existence seemed toreturn. It was not only that he felt the elemental, unfathomablesatisfaction of a male who is sheltered in solitude from a pack ofwomen that have got on his nerves. There was also the more piquantassurance that he was behaving in a very sprightly manner. How longwas it since he had accomplished anything worthy of his ancientreputation as a "card," as "the" card of the Five Towns? He could notsay. But now he knew that he was being a card again. The whole townwould smile and forgive and admire if it learnt that--
Nellie invaded the room. She had resumed the affray.
"Denry!" she reproached him, in an uncontrolled voice. "I'm ashamed ofyou! I really am!" She was no longer doing the dignified. The mask wasoff and the unmistakable lineaments of the outraged mother appeared.That she should address him as "Denry" proved the intensity of heragitation. Years ago, when he had been made an alderman, his wife andhis mother had decided that "Denry" was no longer a suitable name forhim, and had abandoned it in favour of "Edward Henry."
He ceased playing.
"Why?" he protested, with a ridiculous air of innocence. "I'm onlyplaying Chopin. Can't I play Chopin?"
He was rather surprised and impressed that she had recognizedthe piece for what it was. But of course she did, as a fact, knowsomething about music, he remembered, though she never touched thePianisto.
"I think it's a pity you can't choose some other evening for yourfuneral marches!" she exclaimed.
"If that's it," said Edward Henry like lightning, "why did you stickme out you weren't afraid of hydrophobia?"
"I'll thank you to come upstairs," she replied with warmth.
"Oh, all right, my dear! All right!" he cooed.
And they went upstairs in a rather solemn procession.
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