by Hugh Walpole
It was because of Bacon that Absalom gave up Merritt. He did not dare to have him when Bacon knew his poverty.
“I’m going to shave myself in the future, Merritt,” he said; “it’s only laziness having you.” Merritt was politely sorry, but he was not very deeply grieved. Why should he be when he had the King’s valet and Sir Edward Hawksbury, the famous K.C., and Borden Hunt, the dramatist, to shave every morning?
But Absalom missed him terribly. He was now indeed alone. No more gossip, no more laughter over other people’s weaknesses, no more hearty agreement over the wicked selfishness of the lower orders.
Absalom gave up the Times because he could not bear to see the lower orders encouraged. All this talk about their not having enough to live on — wicked nonsense! It was people like Absalom who had not enough to live on. He wrote again to the Times and said so, and again they did not publish his letter.
Then he woke from sleep one night, heard the clock strike three, and was desperately frightened. He had had a dream. What dream? He could not remember. He only knew that in the course of it he had become very, very old; he had been in a room without fire and without light; he had been in prison — faces had glared at him, cruel faces, young, sneering, menacing faces.... He was going to die.... He awoke with a scream.
Next day he read himself a very serious lecture. He was becoming morbid; he was giving in; he was allowing himself to be afraid of things. He must pull himself up. He was quite severe to Bacon, and reprimanded him for bringing his breakfast at a quarter to nine instead of half-past eight. He made out then a list of houses that he would visit. They had forgotten him — he must admit that. But how natural it was! After all this time. Everyone had forgotten everybody. Why, he had forgotten all sorts of people! Could not remember their names!
For months now he had been saying, “After the war,” and now here “after the war” was. It was May, and already Society was looking something like itself. Covent Garden was open again. Soon there would be Ascot and Henley and Goodwood; and the Peace Celebrations, perhaps, if only those idiots at Versailles moved a little more quickly! He felt the old familiar stir in his blood as he saw the red letters and the green pillars repainted, saw the early summer sun shine upon clothes were beginning to look shabby. Bacon, the valet, informed him of this. He did not like Bacon; he found himself, indeed, sighing for the departed Rose. Bacon was austere and inhuman. He spoke as seldom as possible. He had no faults, he pressed clothes perfectly, kept drawers in absolute order, did not drink Absalom’s claret nor smoke Absalom’s cigarettes. No faults — but what an impossible man! Absalom was afraid of him. He drew his little body together under the bedclothes when Bacon called him in the morning because of Bacon’s ironical eyes. Bacon gave him his Times as though he said: “How dare you take in the Times — spend threepence a day when you are as poor as you are?”
It was because of Bacon that Absalom gave up Merritt. He did not dare to have him when Bacon knew his poverty.
“I’m going to shave myself in the future, Merritt,” he said; “it’s only laziness having you.” Merritt was politely sorry, but he was not very deeply grieved. Why should he be when he had the King’s valet and Sir Edward Hawksbury, the famous K.C., and Borden Hunt, the dramatist, to shave every morning?
But Absalom missed him terribly. He was now indeed alone. No more gossip, no more laughter over other people’s weaknesses, no more hearty agreement over the wicked selfishness of the lower orders.
Absalom gave up the Times because he could not bear to see the lower orders encouraged. All this talk about their not having enough to live on — wicked nonsense! It was people like Absalom who had not enough to live on. He wrote again to the Times and said so, and again they did not publish his letter.
Then he woke from sleep one night, heard the clock strike three, and was desperately frightened. He had had a dream. What dream? He could not remember. He only knew that in the course of it he had become very, very old; he had been in a room without fire and without light; he had been in prison — faces had glared at him, cruel faces, young, sneering, menacing faces.... He was going to die.... He awoke with a scream.
Next day he read himself a very serious lecture. He was becoming morbid; he was giving in; he was allowing himself to be afraid of things. He must pull himself up. He was quite severe to Bacon, and reprimanded him for bringing his breakfast at a quarter to nine instead of half-past eight. He made out then a list of houses that he would visit. They had forgotten him — he must admit that. But how natural it was! After all this time. Everyone had forgotten everybody. Why, he had forgotten all sorts of people! Could not remember their names!
For months now he had been saying, “After the war,” and now here “after the war” was. It was May, and already Society was looking something like itself. Covent Garden was open again. Soon there would be Ascot and Henley and Goodwood; and the Peace Celebrations, perhaps, if only those idiots at Versailles moved a little more quickly! He felt the old familiar stir in his blood as he saw the red letters and the green pillars repainted, saw the early summer sun shine upon the glittering windows of Piccadilly, saw the green shadows of Hyde Park shift and tremble against the pale blue of the evening sky, saw, once again, the private cars quiver and tremble behind the policeman’s hand in the Circus; saw Delysia’s name over the Pavilion, and the posters of the evening papers, and the fountains splashing in Trafalgar Square.
He put on his best clothes and went out.
He called upon Mary, Countess of Gosport, the Duchess of Aisles, Lady Glenrobert, Mrs. Leo Torsch, and dear Rachel Seddon. At the Countess of Gosport’s he found a clergyman, a companion, and a Chow; at the Duchess of Aisles’ four young Guardsmen, two girls, and Isaac Monteluke, who had the insolence to patronise him; at Lady Glenrobert’s a vast crowd of men and women rehearsing for a Peace pageant shortly to be given at the Albert Hall; at Mrs. Leo Torsch’s an incredible company of artists, writers, and actors, people unwashed and unbrushed, at sight of whom Absalom’s very soul trembled; at dear Rachel’s charming young people, all of whom looked right through him as though he were an easy and undisturbing ghost.
He came back from these visits a weary, miserable, and tired little man. Even Rachel had seemed to have no time to give him.... An incredible lassitude spread through all his bones. As he entered the portals of No. 2 a boy passed him with a Pall Mall poster. “Railwaymen issue Ultimatum.” In his room he read a Times leader, in which it said that the lower classes were starving and had nowhere to sleep. And they called the Times a reactionary paper! The lower classes starving! What about the upper classes? With his door closed, in his own deep privacy, surrounded by his little gods, his mirror, his silver frames, and his boot-trees, he wept — bitterly, helplessly, like a child.
From that moment he had no courage. Enemies seemed to be on every side. Everywhere he was insulted. If he went out boys pushed against him, taxi-men swore at him, in the shops they were rude to him! There was never room in the omnibuses, the taxis were too expensive, and the Tubes! After an attempt to reach Russell Square by Tube he vowed he would never enter a Tube door again. He was pushed, hustled, struck in the stomach, sworn at both by attend ants and passengers, jammed between stout women, hurled off his feet, spoken to by a young soldier because he did not give up his seat to a lady who haughtily refused it when he offered.... Tubes!... never again — never, oh, never again!
What then to do? Walking tired him desperately. Everywhere seemed now so far away!
So he remained in his flat; but now Hortons itself was different. How that he was confined to it it was very small, and he was always tumbling over things. A pipe burst one morning, and his bathroom was flooded. The bathroom wall paper began to go the strangest and most terrible colours — it was purple and pink and green, and there were splotches of white mildew that seemed to move before your eyes as you lay in your bath and watched them. Absalom went to Mr. Nix, and Mr. Nix said that it should be seen to at once, but day after day went by
and nothing was done. When Mr. Nix was appealed to he said rather restively that he was very sorry but he was doing his best — labour was so difficult to get now— “You could not rely on the men.”
“But they’ve got to come!” screamed Absalom.
Mr. Nix shrugged his shoulders; from his lips fell those fatal and now so monotonous words:
“We’re living in changed times, Mr. Jay.”
Changed times! Absalom should think we were. Everyone was ruder and ruder and ruder. Bills were beginning to worry him terribly — such little bills, but men would come and wait downstairs in the hall for them.
The loneliness increased and wrapped him closer and closer. His temper was becoming atrocious as he well knew. Bacon now paid no attention to his wishes, his meals were brought up at any time, his rooms were not cleaned, his silver was tarnished. All he had to do was to complain to Mr. Nix, who ruled Hortons with a rod of iron, and allowed no incivilities or slackness. But he was afraid to do that; he was afraid of the way that Bacon would treat him afterwards. Always, everywhere now he saw this increasing attention that was paid to the lower classes. Railwaymen, miners, hairdressers, dockers, bakers, waiters, they struck, got what they wanted and then struck for more.
He hated the lower classes — hated them, hated them! The very sight of a working man threw him into a frenzy. What about the upper classes and the middle classes! Did you ever see a word in the paper about them? Never!
He was not well, his heart troubled him very much. Sometimes he lay on his sofa battling for breath. But he did not dare to go to a doctor. He could not afford a doctor.
But God is merciful. He put a period to poor Absalom’s unhappiness. When it was plain that this world was no longer a place for Absalom’s kind He gathered Absalom to His bosom.
And it was in this way. There arrived suddenly one day a card: “The Duchess of Aisles... Dancing.” His heart beat high at the sight of it. He had to lie down on his sofa to recover himself. He stuck his card into the mirror and was compelled to say something to Bacon about it Bacon did not seem to be greatly impressed at the sight.
He dressed on the great evening with the utmost care. The sight of his bathroom affected him; it seemed to cover him with pink spots and mildew, but he shook that off from him and boldly ventured forth to Knightsbridge. He found an immense party gathered there. Many, many people.... He didn’t seem to recognise any of them. The Duchess herself had apparently forgotten him. He reminded her. He crept about; he felt strangely as though at any moment someone might shoot him in the back. Then he found Mrs. Charles Clinton, one of his hostesses of the old days. She was kind but preoccupied. Then he discovered Tom Wardour — old Tom Wardour, the stupidest man in London and the greediest Nevertheless he was glad to see him.
“By Jove, old man, you do look seedy,” Tom said; “what have you been doing to yourself?”
Tactless of Tom, that! He felt more than ever that someone was going to shoot him in the back. He crept away and hid himself in a corner. He dozed a little, then woke to hear his own name. A woman was speaking of him. He recognized Mrs. Clinton’s voice.
“Whom do you think I saw just now?... Yes, old Absalom Jay. Like a visit from the dead. Yes, and so old. You know how smart he used to be. He looked quite shabby, poor old thing. Oh no, of course, he was always stupid. But now — oh, dreadful!... I assure you he gave me the creeps. Yes, of course, he belonged to that old world before the war. Doesn’t it seem a long time ago? Centuries. What I say is that one can’t believe one was alive then at all....”
Gave her the creeps! Gave Mrs. Clinton the creeps! He felt as though his premonition had been true, and someone had shot him in the back. He crept away, out of the house, right away.
He crept into a Tube. The trains were crowded. He had to hang on to a strap. At Hyde Park Corner two workmen got in; they had been drinking together. Very big men they were. They stood one on each side of Absalom and lurched about. Absalom was pushed hither and thither.
“Where the ‘ell are you comin’ to?” one said.
The other knocked. Absalom’s hat off as though by an accident Then the former elaborately picked it up and offered it with a low bow, digging Absalom in the stomach as he did so.
“’Ere y’are, my lord,” he said. They roared with laughter. The whole carriage laughed. At Dover Street Absalom got out. He hurried through the streets, and the tears were pouring down his cheeks. He could not stop them; he seemed to have no control over them. They were not his tears.... He entered Hortons, and in the lift hid his face so that Fannie should not see that he was crying.
He closed his door behind him, did not turn on the lights, found the sofa, and cowered down there as though he were hiding from someone.
The tears continued to race down his cheeks. Then suddenly it seemed as though the walls of the bathroom, all blotched and purple, all stained with creeping mildew, closed in the dark about him.
He heard a voice cry — a working-man’s voice — he did not hear the words, but the walls towered above him and the white mildew expanded into jeering, hideous, triumphant faces.
His heart leapt and he knew no more.
* * * * * *
Bacon and the maid found him huddled thus on the floor dead next morning.
“Well now,” said Bacon, “that’s a lucky thing. Young Somerset next door’s been wanting this flat. Make a nice suite if he knocks a door through — gives him seven rooms. He’ll be properly pleased.”
FANNY CLOSE
SINCE the second year of the war Fanny Close had been portress at Hortons. It had demanded very much resolution on the part of Mr. Nix to search for a portress. Since time immemorial the halls of Hortons had known only porters. George, the present fine specimen, had been magnificently in service there for the last ten years. However, Mr. Nix was a patriot; he sent his son aged nineteen to the war (his son was only too delighted to go), himself joined the London Air Defences, and then packed off every man and boy in the place.
The magnificent James was the last to go. He had, he said, an ancient mother dependent upon him. Mr. Nix was disappointed in him. He did not live up to his chest measurement. “You’re very nearly a shirker,” he said to him indignantly. Nevertheless he promised to keep his place open for him....
He had to go out into the highways and by-ways and find women. The right ones were not easily found, and often enough they were disappointing. Mr. Nix was a tremendous disciplinarian, that was why Hortons were the best service flats in the whole of the West End. But he discovered, as many a man had discovered before him, that the discipline that does for a man will not do nine times out of ten for a woman. Woman has a way of wriggling out of the net of discipline with subtleties unknown to man.
So Mr. Nix discovered.... Only with Fanny Close Mr. Nix had no trouble at all. She became at the end of the first week a “jewel,” and a jewel to the end of her time she remained.
I don’t wish, in these days of stem and unrelenting realism, to draw Dickensian pictures of youth and purity, but the plain truth is that Fanny Close was as good a girl as ever was made. She was good for two reasons, one because she was plain, the other because she had a tiresome sister. The first of these reasons made her humble, the other made her enjoy everything from which her sister was absent twice as much as anyone else would have enjoyed it.
She was twenty-five years of age; the mother had died of pleurisy when the children were babies, and the father, who was something very unimportant in a post office, had struggled for twenty years to keep them all alive, and then caught a cold and died. The only brother had married, and Aggie and Fanny had remained to keep house together. Aggie had always been the beauty of the family, but it had been a beauty without “charm,” so that many young men had advanced with beating hearts, gazed with eager eyes, and then walked away, relieved that for some reason or another they had been saved from “putting the question.” She had had proposals, of course, but they had never been good enough. At twenty-six she was a disap
pointed virgin.
Fanny had always been so ready to consider herself the plainer and stupider of the two that it had not been altogether Aggie’s fault that she, Aggie, should take, so naturally, the first place. Many a relation had told Fanny that she was too “submissive” and didn’t stand up for herself enough, but Fanny shook her head and said that she couldn’t be other than she was. The true fact was that deep down in her heart she not only admired her sister, she also hated her. How astonished Aggie would have been had she known this — and how astonished, to be truly platitudinous for a moment, we should all be if we really knew what our nearest and dearest relatives thought of us!
Fanny hated Aggie, but had quite made up her mind that she would never be free of her. How could she be? She herself was far too plain for anyone to want to marry her, and Aggie was apparently settling down inevitably into a bitter old-maidenhood. Then came the war. Fanny was most unexpectedly liberated. Aggie did, of course, try to prevent her escape, but on this occasion Fanny was resolved. She would do what she could to help — the country needed every single woman. At first she washed plates in a canteen, then she ran a lift outside some Insurance office, finally she fell into Mr. Nix’s arms, and there she stayed for three years.
She knew from the very first that she would like it. She liked Mr. Nix, she liked the blue uniform provided for her, most of all she liked the “atmosphere” of Hortons, the coloured repose of St. James’s, the hall of white and green, the broad staircase, the palms in the staircase windows, the grandfather’s clock near Mr. Nix’s office; she even liked her own little rabbit-hutch where were the little boxes for the letters, the cupboard for her own private possessions, the telephone, and a chair for her to sit upon. In a marvellously short time she was the mistress of the whole situation. Mr. Nix could not have believed that he would have missed the marvellous James so little. “Really,” he said to Mrs. Nix, “a great discovery, a remarkable find.”