by Hugh Walpole
As to the third of Mr. Nix’s “elements,” his private life, that had dwindled until it was scarcely visible. He had no private life. He did not want to have one now that his son, who had been so deeply connected with it, was gone. Everything that he had done he had done for his son: that was his future. He did not look to the future now, but worked for the day, and rather to his own surprise, for Hortons, which had become a concrete figure, gay, debonair, autocratic....
His personal life dropped. He saw little of his friends, never passed the doors of his club, sat at home in the evenings, reading first the Times, then the Morning Post, then the Daily News. He liked to have an all-round view of the situation.
It was his sense of Fair Play.
In this way the third wheel of his life infringed upon and influenced the fourth, his wife.
Mrs. Nix, whose maiden name had been Nancy Rolls, was “about” forty years of age. Even Mr. Nix was not quite sure how old she was: it was her way to exclaim, with her hearty, cheerful laugh: “We’re all getting on, you know. There was a time when to be thirty seemed to be as good as dead.... Now that I’m over thirty....” She was round, plump, red-faced, brown-haired, with beseeching eyes, and a little brown mole on the middle of her left cheek. She dressed just a little too smartly, with a little too much colour. Mr. Nix, himself attached to colour, did not notice this. He liked to see her gay. “Nancy’s a real sport,” was his favourite exclamation about her. He had married her when she was a “baby” seventeen years of age. They had been great “pals” ever since. Sentiment had perhaps gone a little out of their relationship. They were both deeply sentimental people, but for some reason sentiment was the last thing that they evoked from one another. The death of their boy Lancelot should have brought them together emotionally, but their attitude had been, for so long, that of an almost masculine good cheer and good humour, that they bore their great sorrow individually. They had forgotten the language of emotion.
Mr. Nix, in the deep recesses of his soul, pondered over this. He wanted now to get closer to Nancy. He was sure that she felt “our Lance’s” death quite desperately, but after the shock of the first month she put on her bright clothes again, and went about to the theatre and entertained her friends. “There’s enough misery in the world without my trying to add to it,” she would say. “I know some people think it’s bad of me to wear these clothes, but it is what Lance would have liked.”
As they sat in their cosy little flat, perched high on the top floor of Hortons, evening after evening, Mr. Nix with the paper, Mrs. Nix with a novel, they were both perhaps conscious that the boy’s death had made a barrier, and as they lay side by side in their bed at night they were still more conscious of this. The darkness seemed to strip from them that lively exterior life that they had developed. Mr. Nix would lie there and think about Nancy for hours....
In the daytime indeed, his hands were full. The servants alone were problem enough for anybody. First, the men all went away to the war, and he had to have women — women for everything, women for the kitchen, women for the hall, women valets. And then, just as he was getting used to them, the men began to come back — or rather, he had to get new men, men who must be taught their jobs, and learn his rules, and fall in with his ways.
Fortunately he was blessed with a wonderful portress, Fanny. Fanny, on whom, after a time, the whole great establishment seemed to hang. But what did Fanny do but become restless after the Armistice, fall a victim to a conscience which persuaded her that she was, by remaining, keeping a man out of his proper job, and, when he had persuaded her over that difficulty, what should she do then but become engaged to one of the valets, whom she presently married. Then the tenants of the flats were disturbed and agitated by the general unrest. Poor old Mr. Jay was so deeply agitated by the new world that he died of the shock of it, and as though that were not enough, old Miss Morganhurst went out of her mind, and died in a fit.
It became more and more difficult to secure the right kind of tenants. Hortons had always been a very expensive place, and only wealthy people could afford to live there. But how strange now the people who had money! A young man like the Hon. Clive Torby, representative of one of the finest families in England, found suddenly that he had not a penny in the world, and gaily took to house-painting, while on the other side of the shield there were people like the Boddingtons, who simply did not know how to behave, who, wealthy though they were, should never have been in Hortons at all.
Then again, Mr. Nix was most seriously disturbed by the strange new interchanging of the sexes that seemed to have sprung up in this post-war England. “Positively,” he said to his wife one evening, “all the men seem to be turning into women, and all the women into men.” He read an article in some paper that lamented the rapidity with which women were abandoning all the mysteries that had made them once so charming. How thoroughly Mr. Nix agreed with the writer of the article! He read it all through to Mrs. Nix, who was entirely in accord with every word of it.
“The girls are nothing better than baggages,” she declared; “that’s my belief.”
Hortons, its dignity, its traditions, its morality, was in danger. “I’ll save it if I have to die for it,” Nix declared.
As the weeks advanced his troubles extended. One strike followed another — coal, food, labour, clothes, all faltered, died, were revived again. Mr. Robsart, the famous novelist, his most eminent tenant, awoke early one morning to find a pipe leaking. His dining-room wall paper — a very beautiful and exclusive one — developed bright pink and purple spots. It was weeks before anything could be done. Mr. Robsart, who had been led by an excited female public to believe his personality to be one upon which the sun never set, said what he thought about this. The balls faltered in the air, their glittering surfaces menacing and threatening.
The tight-rope trembled; the crowd roared like angry beasts.... This dream was ruining Mr. Nix.
And through it all, like a refrain that set rhythm and measure to the rest, was the sense that he ought to do “something” for Mrs. Nix, that she was unhappy, but would not tell him about her unhappiness, that he should come closer to her, and did not know how.
Into this new troubled confusion of Mr. Nix’s life came a figure. One day a young man who had known Lancelot in France came to see them. His name was Harry Harper. He was little more than a boy, was in the London Joint City and Midland Bank, and was as fresh and charming a lad as you would be likely to find anywhere. Mr. Nix liked him at once. In the first place, he had many new things to tell about Lance, and he told them in just the right way, with sentiment, but not too much, with humour a little, and with real appreciation of Lance’s bravery, and his popularity with his men, and his charm with everyone.
Mrs. Nix sat there, on her bright red sofa, whilst young Harper told his tale, and her face was as red as the furniture. The tears glittered in her eyes, but they did not fall. Her plump hands were locked lightly on her lap. She stared before her as though she were seeing straight through into the horrors of that terrible No Man’s Land, where her boy had faced the best and the worst and made his choice.
“He was always a good boy,” she said at last. “You will understand, Mr. Harper, I’m sure. From his very cradle he was good. He never cried like other babies and made a fuss. Of course, as he grew older he had a little of the devil in him, as one might say. I’m sure no mother would have it otherwise. But — Oh! he was a good boy!”
“There, there, mother,” said Mr. Nix, patting her soft shoulder. I’m sure it’s very good of you, Mr. Harper, to come and tell us all this. You can understand that we appreciate it.”
Young Harper took it all the right way. His tact was wonderful for a boy of his years. Mr. Nix, who, like most Englishmen, was a deep-dyed sentimentalist without knowing it, loved the boy.
“You come and see us whenever you like. We’re in most evenings. You’ll always be welcome.” Harper availed himself of the invitation and came very often. He was leading, it seemed, a
lonely life. His parents lived in Newcastle and they had many children. His lodgings were far away in Pimlico, and he had few friends in London. Before a month had passed he was occupying a little spare bedroom in the Nix quarters — a very little bedroom, but wonderful for him, he declared, being so marvellously in the centre of London. “You’ve given me a home,” he cried; “can’t thank you enough. You don’t know what Pimlico can be for a fellow!”
As the days passed Mr. Nix was more and more delighted with the arrangement. Mrs. Nix had a way of going to bed early and Mr. Nix and Harry would sit up talking. Mr. Nix looked forward to those evenings. He had, he discovered, been wanting someone with whom he might talk, and clear his ideas a bit. Harry, although he was so young, had really thought very deeply. Mr. Nix, whose thinking was rather of an amateur kind, very quickly forgot the difference between their years. Harry and he talked as man to man. If anything, Harry was perhaps the older of the two....
Mr. Nix found that it helped him very much when Harry talked. He did not seem to he balancing so many balls in mid-air when Harry was sharing his difficulties.
The boy had, too, a charm. His air of asking Mr. Nix’s advice, as a man of the world. That was what Mr. Nix liked to be considered, and he told Harry many sensible things, especially about women.
“Don’t let them catch you,” was the burden of his opinion. “They are the devil for getting hold of a man before he knows where he is. Play with them, but don’t take them seriously, until the right one comes along. You’ll know it as soon as she does. So much wiser to wait. But they’re clever... damned clever....”
“You’re right, sir,” said Harry. “Ab-solutely: I remember a girl once—”
He plunged into reminiscence. Finally, however, he declared that he didn’t care very much about women. He meant to lead his life apart from them. He’d watched other fellows and he knew the mess they could get into... Especially married women....
“Ah! married women!” repeated Mr. Nix with a sigh. There wasn’t much that he didn’t know about married women. It was terrible the way that they kicking over the traces these days. Really stopped at nothing. Why, he remembered a married woman.....Then Harry remembered a married woman....Then Mr. Nix remembered still another married woman. This led quite naturally to certain disclosures about Mrs. Nix. Mr. Nix had indeed reasons to be thankful. There was a woman who was corrupted by none of these modern ideas.
She was no prude, she knew her world, bat she believed in the good old rules — One man for one woman.”
“It’s been a bit lonely for her,” Mr. Nix continued, “since Lancelot went, and it’s a bit difficult to make her happy. I’m so busy all day, you see. Takes the whole of a man’s time to run a place like this nowadays, I can tell you. Be nice to her, Harry. See as mach of her as you can. She likes you.”
“Indeed, I will,” said Harry fervently. “You two are the first real friends I’ve ever had. I’m grateful, I can tell you.”
Now, strangely enough, the more Mr. Nix thought of his wife, the more seriously and earnestly he puzzled as to the right way to bring her close to him, and make her happy, the less he seemed to realise her. There comes, perhaps, that moment in most married lives when the intimacy of years has thickened the personalities of man and wife so deeply with custom and habit that the real individualities can no longer be discerned. Something of the kind came now to Mr. Nix. The more he attempted to draw closer to Nancy, the more he realised that he was hearing a voice, watching a physical form, having physical contact, but dealing with shadows. He knew so precisely her every movement, her laugh, the way that she caught her breath when she was agitated, the touch of her step on the carpet, that she was no longer a person at all. She was part of himself, perhaps, but a part of himself that he could not treat with his imagination. He had not known before that he had an imagination. The war had given it birth and now it was growing, demanding food, living, thrusting, experiencing, leading its master into many queer places — but neglecting altogether Mrs. Nix.
He found himself, as he sat in his little office downstairs, positively trying to force himself to realise what his wife was like. She had bright yellow hair, a rosy face, a plump figure; she wore two rings, one with a ruby stone, another a pearl. She was marvellously young for her age.... She...
Then, when with a start of surprise he realised what he was doing, he wondered positively whether he were not going mad. He buried himself more and more in the work of the place, of the office, fighting to keep everything straight and proper, realising, although he was frightened to admit it, that Hortons was more vivid to him than anything or anybody else.
Except Harry! “Thank God that boy’s here,” he thought. “I don’t know what we’d do without him. That was a piece of luck for us.”
He lay on his bed staring up into the dark ceiling; were kicking over the traces these days. Really stopped at nothing. Why, he remembered a married woman....
Then Harry remembered a married woman....
Then Mr. Nix remembered still another married woman.
This led quite naturally to certain disclosures about Mrs. Nix. Mr. Nix had indeed reasons to be thankful. There was a woman who was corrupted by none of these modern ideas.
She was no prude, she knew her world, but she believed in the good old rules— “One man for one woman.”
“It’s been a bit lonely for her,” Mr. Nix continued, “since Lancelot went, and it’s a bit difficult to make her happy. I’m so busy all day, you see. Takes the whole of a man’s time to run a place like this nowadays, I can tell you. Be nice to her, Harry. See as much of her as you can. She likes you.”
“Indeed, I will,” said Harry fervently. “You two are the first real friends I’ve ever had. I’m grateful, I can tell you.”
Now, strangely enough, the more Mr. Nix thought of his wife, the more seriously and earnestly he puzzled as to the right way to bring her close to him, and make her happy, the less he seemed to realise her. There comes, perhaps, that moment in most married lives when the intimacy of years has thickened the personalities of man and wife so deeply with custom and habit that the real individualities can no longer be discerned. Something of the kind came now to amazement, he received a very polite letter from the Secretary of the Board, saying that the Directors were thoroughly satisfied with him and had no complaints.
He went on during that month from struggle to struggle. He forgot Harry; he puzzled no longer about Mrs. Nix. He was so tired when night came that he slept the sleep of a drugged man. He no longer saw the dancing balls. He was invigorated, uplifted, desperately excited. He found in himself a capacity for organisation that he had never suspected. He discovered that it delighted him to meet and to conquer his servants. He saw in their eyes, and he was delighted to see it, their own astonishment at this new character that he was developing. He browbeat them, told them to go, showed them that they had better stay, held them together and forced them to content They were afraid of him. By Jove! — They were afraid of him! He looked at himself in the glass. He blessed the crisis that had shown him in his true colours. He contemplated the life of Napoleon....
He went out, and with his own right arm fetched in sulky and wage-demanding workmen. He talked to them and found that there was a great deal to be said on their side.
He began to discover that strange truth that almost everyone was discovering just at this time — namely, that when you read the papers or thought of your fellow human beings in the mass, you hated and despised them, but that, if you talked to any individual, man or woman, you liked and understood them.
Pride grew in his heart, and happiness and contentment.
By the middle of July Hortons was itself again. The crisis was over. Prices were impossible, labour rebellious, the world topsy-turvy, but Hortons was at peace. He sighed, put back his shoulders, patted his little stomach appreciatively, loved all the world and, once again, considered Mrs. Nix.
He would give her now all his time. He would take her out; ma
ke her presents; they should have a splendid new life together.
He came back one evening after a successful meeting with the Board, opened his little hall door, hung up his coat, whistling to himself, opened his drawingroom door, saw Mrs. Nix on the red sofa, enveloped in the arms of Harry, who was kissing her ears, her eyes, her mouth.
He saw this, and then he saw the neat little sitting-room sway and heave. A bright blue vase, holding yellow sprays of some dried flower, raced towards him across the mantelpiece, and he stepped back, putting his hand on to a chair behind him to avoid its contact. The room steadied itself and he realised that he felt sick. He put up his hand to his mouth. Then every sensation was swallowed up by a mad, violent anger, an anger that seemed to increase with every wild beat of his heart, as though that heart were, of its own purpose, pounding him on to some desperate act.
Behind his anger he saw the two faces. Nancy was sitting square on the sofa, her hands spread out, plunging deep into the red stuff of the sofa. Harry was standing, his face white, his eyes bewildered and defiant.
“You might at least have locked the door,” Mr. Nix said, whispering.
His knees trembled so that he suddenly sat down and stared across at them.
“Why didn’t you lock the door?” he repeated. “You knew I’d be coming back.”
“Look here...” Harry began. He stopped, took a pull at himself, straightened his back, stood instinctively as though he were obeying orders— “I love your wife. I’ve loved her for weeks. Of course, it’s all my fault. She doesn’t care for me in that way. She’s just lonely, that’s all.”