by George Moore
But you haven’t told me yet who Page was, Alec interjected, and I thought reprovingly. I’m just coming to him, I answered. Hubert Page was a house-painter, well known and well liked by Mrs. Baker. He came over every season, and was always welcome at Morrison’s Hotel, and so pleasant were his manners that one forgot the smell of his paint. It is hardly saying too much to say that when Hubert Page had finished his job everybody in the hotel, men and women alike, missed the pleasant sight of this young man going to and fro in his suit of hollands, the long coat buttoned loosely to his figure with large bone buttons, going to and fro about his work, up and down the passages, with a sort of lolling, idle gait that attracted and pleased the eye — a young man that would seem preferable to most men if a man had to choose a bed-fellow, yet seemingly the very one that Albert Nobbs couldn’t abide lying down with, a dislike that Mrs. Baker could understand so little that she stood staring at her confused and embarassed waiter, who was still seeking excuses for his dislike to share his bed with Hubert Page. I suppose you fully understand, she said, that Page is leaving for Belfast by the morning train, and has come over here to ask us for a bed, there not being one at the hotel in which he is working? Albert answered that he understood well enough, but was thinking — He began again to fumble with words. Now, what are you trying to say?
Mrs. Baker asked, and rather sharply. My bed is full of lumps, Albert answered. Your mattress full of lumps! the proprietress rapped out; why, your mattress was repicked and buttoned six months ago, and came back as good as any mattress in the hotel. What kind of story are you telling me? So it was, ma’am, so it was, Albert mumbled, and it was some time before he got out his next excuse: he was a very light sleeper and had never slept with anybody before and was sure he wouldn’t close his eyes; not that that would matter much, but his sleeplessness might keep Mr. Page awake. Mr. Page would get a better stretch on one of the sofas in the coffee-room than in my bed, I’m thinking, Mrs. Baker. A better stretch on the sofa in the coffee-room? Mrs. Baker repeated angrily. I don’t understand you, not a little bit; and she stood staring at the two men, so dissimilar. But, ma’am, I wouldn’t be putting Mr. Nobbs to the inconvenience of my company, the house-painter began. The night is a fine one; I’ll keep myself warm with a sharp walk, and the train starts early. You’ll do nothing of the kind, Page, she answered; and seeing that Mrs. Baker was now very angry Albert thought it time to give in, and without more ado he began to assure them both that he’d be glad of Mr. Page’s company in his bed. I should think so indeed! interjected Mrs. Baker. But I’m a light sleeper, he added. We’ve heard that before, Albert! Of course, if Mr. Page is pleased to share my bed, Albert continued, I shall be very glad. If Mr. Nobbs doesn’t like my company I should — Don’t say another word, Albert whispered, you’ll only set her against me. Come upstairs at once; it’ll be all right. Come along.
Good-night, ma’am, and I hope — No inconvenience whatever, Page, Mrs. Baker answered. This way, Mr. Page, Albert cried; and as soon as they were in the room he said: I hope you aren’t going to cut up rough at anything I’ve said; it isn’t at all as Mrs. Baker put it. I’m glad enough of your company, but you see, as I’ve never slept with anybody in my life, it may be that I shall be tossing about all night, keeping you awake. Well, if it’s to be like that, Page answered, I might as well have a doze on the chair until it’s time to go, and not trouble you at all. You won’t be giving me any trouble; what I’m afraid of is — but enough has been said; we have to lie down together, whether we like it or whether we don’t, for if Mrs. Baker heard that we hadn’t been in the same bed together all the fault would lie with me. I’d be sent out of the hotel in double-quick time. But how can she know? Page cried. It’s been settled one way, so let us make no more fuss about it.
Albert began to undo his white neck-tie, saying he would try to lie quiet, and Page started pulling off his clothes, thinking he’d be well pleased to be out of the job of lying down with Albert. But he was so dog-tired that he couldn’t think any more about whom he was to sleep with, only of the long days of twelve and thirteen hours he had been doing, with a walk to and from his work; only sleep mattered to him, and Albert saw him tumble into bed in the long shirt that he wore under his clothes, and lay himself down next to the wall. It would be better for him to lie on the outside, Albert said to himself, but he didn’t like to say anything lest Page might get out of his bed in a fit of ill-humour; but Page, as I’ve said, was too tired to trouble himself which side of the bed he was to doss on. A moment after he was asleep, and Albert stood listening, his loosened tie dangling, till the heavy breathing from the bed told him that Page was sound asleep. To make full sure he approached the bed stealthily, and overlooking Page, said: Poor fellow, I’m glad he’s in my bed, for he’ll get a good sleep there and he wants it; and considering that things had fallen out better than he hoped for, he began to undress.
He must have fallen asleep at once, and soundly, for he awoke out of nothingness. Flea! he muttered, and a strong one, too. It must have come from the house-painter alongside of me; a flea will leave anyone to come to me. And turning round in bed he remembered the look of dismay that had appeared on the housemaids’ faces yesterday on his telling them that no man would ever love their hides as much as a flea loved his, which was so true that he couldn’t understand how it was that the same flea had taken so long to find him out. Fleas must be as partial to him, he said, as they are to me. There it is again, trying to make up for lost time! and out went Albert’s leg. I’m afraid I’ve awakened him, he said, but Hubert only turned over in the bed to sleep more soundly. It’s a mercy indeed that he is so tired, Albert said, for if he wasn’t very tired that last jump I gave would have awakened him. A moment after Albert was nipped again by another flea, or by the same one, he couldn’t tell; he thought it must be a second one, so vigorous was the bite, and he was hard put to it to keep his nails off the spots. I shall only make them worse if I scratch, he said, and he strove to lie quiet. But the torment was too great. I’ve got to get up, he muttered, and raising himself up quietly, he listened. The striking of a match won’t awaken him out of that sleep! and remembering where he had put the match-box, his hand was on it at once. The match flared up; he lighted the candle, and stood a while overlooking his bed-fellow. I’m safe, he said, and set himself to the task of catching the flea. There he is on the tail of my shirt, hardly able to move with all the blood he’s taken from me. Now for the soap; and as he was about to dab it upon the blood-filled insect the painter awoke with a great yawn, and turning round, he said: Lord amassy! what is the meaning of this? Why, you’re a woman!
If Albert had had the presence of mind to drop her shirt over her shoulders and to answer: You’re dreaming, my man, Page might turned over and fallen asleep and in the morning forgotten all about it, or thought he had been dreaming. But Albert hadn’t a word in her chops. At last she began to blub. You won’t tell on me, and ruin a poor man, will you, Mr. Page? That is all I ask of you, and on my knees I beg it. Get up from your knees, my good woman, said Hubert. My good woman! Albert repeated, for she had been about so long as a man that she only remembered occasionally that she was a woman. My good woman, Hubert repeated, get up from your knees and tell me how long you have been playing this part. Ever since I was a girl, Albert answered. You won’t tell upon me, will you, Mr. Page, and prevent a poor woman from getting her living? Not likely, I’ve no thought of telling on you, but I’d like to hear how it all came about. How I went out as a youth to get my living? Yes; tell me the story, Hubert answered, for though I was very sleepy just now, the sleep has left my eyes and I’d like to hear it. But before you begin, tell me what you were doing with your shirt off. A flea, Albert answered. I suffer terribly from fleas, and you must have brought some in with you, Mr. Page. I shall be covered in blotches in the morning. I’m sorry for that, Hubert said; but tell me how long ago it was that you became a man. Before you came to Dublin, of course? Oh, yes, long before. It is very cold, she said,
and shuddering, dropped her shirt over her shoulders and pulled on her trousers.
II
It was in London, soon after the death of my old nurse, she began. You know I’m not Irish, Mr. Page. My parents may have been, for all I know. The only one who knew who they were was my old nurse, and she never told me. Never told you! interjected Hubert. No, she never told me, though I often asked her, saying no good could come of holding it back from me. She might have told me before she died, but she died suddenly. Died suddenly, Hubert repeated, without telling you who you were! You’d better begin at the beginning.
I don’t know how I’m to do that, for the story seems to me to be without a beginning; anyway I don’t know the beginning. I was a bastard, and no one but my old nurse, who brought me up, knew who I was; she said she’d tell me some day, and she hinted more than once that my people were grand folk, and I know she had a big allowance from them for my education. Whoever they were, a hundred a year was paid to her for my keep and education, and all went well with us so long as my parents lived, but when they died the allowance was no longer paid, and my nurse and myself had to go out to work. It was all very sudden: one day the Reverend Mother (I got my education at a convent school) told me that Mrs. Nobbs, my old nurse, had sent for me, and the first news I had on coming home was that my parents were dead and that we’d have to get our own living henceforth. There was no time for picking and choosing. We hadn’t what would keep us until the end of the month in the house, so out we had to go in search of work; and the first job that came our way was looking after chambers in the Temple. We had three gentlemen to look after, so there was eighteen shillings a week between my old nurse and myself; the omnibus fares had to come out of these wages, and to save sixpence a day we went to live in Temple Lane. My old nurse didn’t mind the lane; she had been a working woman all her life; but with me it was different, and the change was so great from the convent that I often thought I would sooner die than continue to live amid rough people. There was nothing wrong with them; they were honest enough; but they were poor, and when you are very poor you live like the animals, indecently, and life without decency is hardly bearable, so I thought. I’ve been through a great deal since in different hotels, and have become used to hard work, but even now I can’t think of Temple Lane without goose-flesh; and when Mrs. Nobbs’ brother lost his berth (he’d been a bandmaster, a bugler, or something to do with music in the country), my old nurse was obliged to give him sixpence a day, and the drop from eighteen shillings to fourteen and sixpence is a big one. My old nurse worried about the food, but it was the rough men I worried about; the bandsman wouldn’t leave me alone, and many’s the time I’ve waited until the staircase was clear, afraid that if I met him or another that I’d be caught hold of and held and pulled about. I was different then from what I am now, and might have been tempted if one of them had been less rough than the rest, and if I hadn’t known I was a bastard; it was that, I think, that kept me straight more than anything else, for I had just begun to feel what a great misfortune it is for a poor girl to find herself in the family way; no greater misfortune can befall anyone in this world, but it would have been worse in my case, for I should have known that I was only bringing another bastard into the world.
I escaped being seduced in the lane, and in the chambers the barristers had their own mistresses; pleasant and considerate men they all were — pleasant to work for; and it wasn’t until four o’clock came and our work was over for the day that my heart sank, for after four o’clock till we went to bed at night there was nothing for us to do but to listen to the screams of drunken women; I don’t know which was the worser, the laughter or the curses.
One of the barristers we worked for was Mr. Congreve; he had chambers in Temple Gardens overlooking the river, and it was a pleasure to us to keep his pretty things clean, never breaking one of them; it was a pleasure for my old nurse as well as myself, myself more than for her, for though I wasn’t very sure of myself at the time, looking back now I can see that I must have loved Mr. Congreve very dearly; and it couldn’t be else, for I had come out of a convent of nuns where I had been given a good education, where all was good, quiet, refined and gentle, and Mr. Congreve seemed in many ways to remind me of the convent, for he never missed Church; as rare for him to miss a service as for parson. There was plenty of books in his chambers and he’d lend them to me, and talk to me over his newspaper when I took in his breakfast, and ask about the convent and what the nuns were like, and I’d stand in front of him, my eyes fixed on him, not feeling the time going by. I can see him now as plainly as if he were before me — very thin and elegant, with long white hands, and beautifully dressed. Even in the old clothes that he wore of a morning there wasn’t much fault to find; he wore old clothes more elegantly than any man in the Temple wore his new clothes. I used to know all his suits, as well I might, for it was my job to look after them, to brush them; and I used to spend a great deal more time than was needed taking out spots with benzine, arranging his neck-ties — he had fifty or sixty, all kinds — and seven or eight greatcoats. A real toff — my word he was that, but not one of those haughty ones too proud to give one a nod. He always smiled and nodded if we met under the clock, he on his way to the library and I returning to Temple Lane.
I used to look round after him saying: He’s got on the striped trousers and the embroidered waistcoat. Mr. Congreve was a compensation for Temple Lane; he had promised to take me into his private service, and I was counting the days when I should leave Temple Lane, when one day I said to myself: Why, here’s a letter from a woman. You see, Mr. Congreve wasn’t like the other young men in the Temple; I never found a hairpin in his bed, and if I had I shouldn’t have thought as much of him as I did. Nice is in France, I said, and thought no more about the matter until another letter arrived from Nice. Now what can she be writing to him about? I asked, and thought no more about it until the third letter arrived. Yesterday is already more than half forgotten, but the morning I took in that last letter is always before me. And it was a few mornings afterwards that a box of flowers came for him. A parcel for you, sir, I said. He roused himself up in bed. For me? he cried, putting out his hand, and the moment he saw the writing, he said: Put the flowers in water. He knows all about it, I said to myself, and so overcome was I as I picked them up out of the box that a sudden faintness came over me, and my old nurse said: What is the matter with thee? She never guessed, and I couldn’t have told her if I had wished to, for at the time it was no more than a feeling that so far as I was concerned all was over. Of course I never thought that Mr. Congreve would look at me, and I don’t know that I wanted him to, but I didn’t want another woman about the place, and I seemed to know from that moment what was going to happen. She isn’t far away now, in the train maybe, I said, as I went about my work, and these rooms will be mine no longer. Of course they never were mine, but you know what I mean.
A week later he said to me: There’s a lady coming to luncheon here, and I remember the piercing that the words caused me; I can feel them here still; and Albert put her hand to her heart. Well, I had to serve the luncheon, working round the table and they not minding me at all, but sitting looking at each other lost in a sense of delight; the luncheon was forgotten. They don’t want me waiting about, I thought. I knew all this, and said to myself in the kitchen: It’s disgraceful, it’s wicked, to lead a man into sin — for all my anger went out against the woman, and not against Mr. Congreve; in my eyes he seemed to be nothing more than a victim of a designing woman; that is how I looked at it at the time, being but a youngster only just come from a convent school.
I don’t think that anyone suffered more than I did in those days. It all seems very silly now when I look back upon it, but it was very real then. It does seem silly to tell that I used to lie awake all night thinking to myself that Mr. Congreve was an elegant gentleman and I but a poor serving girl that he’d never look twice at, thinking of her only as somebody to go to the cellar for coal or to
the kitchen to fetch his breakfast. I don’t think I ever hoped he’d fall in love with me. It wasn’t as bad as that. It was the hopelessness of it that set the tears streaming down my cheeks over my pillow, and I used to stuff the sheet into my mouth to keep back the sobs lest my old nurse should hear me; it wouldn’t do to keep her awake, for she was very ill at that time; and soon afterwards she died, and then I was left alone, without a friend in the world. The only people I knew were the charwomen that lived in Temple Lane, and the bugler, who began to bully me, saying that I must continue to give him the same money he had had from my old nurse. He caught me on the stairs once and twisted my arm until I thought he’d broken it. The month after my old nurse’s death till I went to earn my living as a waiter was the hardest time of all, and Mr. Congreve’s kindness seemed to hurt me more than anything. If only he’d spared me his kind words, and not spoken about the extra money he was going to give me for my attendance on his lady, I shouldn’t have felt so much that they had lain side by side in the bed that I was making. She brought a dressing-gown to the chambers and some slippers, and then more luggage came along; and I think she must have guessed I was in love with Mr. Congreve, for I heard them quarrelling — my name was mentioned; and I said: I can’t put up with it any longer; whatever the next life may be like, it can’t be worse than this one for me at least; and as I went to and fro between Temple Lane and the chambers in Temple Gardens I began to think how I might make away with myself. I don’t know if you know London, Hubert? Yes, he said; I’m a Londoner, but I come here to work every year. Then if you know the Temple, you know that the windows of Temple Gardens overlook the river. I used to stand at those windows watching the big brown river flowing through its bridges, thinking all the while of the sea into which it went, and that I must plunge into the river and be carried away down to the sea, or be picked up before I got there. I could only think about making an end to my trouble and of the Frenchwoman. Her suspicions that I cared for him made her harder on me than she need have been; she was always coming the missis over me. Her airs and graces stiffened my back more than anything else, and I’m sure if I hadn’t met Bessie Lawrence I should have done away with myself. She was the woman who used to look after the chambers under Mr. Congreve’s. We stopped talking outside the gateway by King’s Bench Walk — if you know the Temple, you know where I mean. Bessie kept talking, but I wasn’t listening, only catching a word here and there, not waking up from the dream how to make away with myself till I heard the words: If I had a figure like yours. As no one had ever spoken about my figure before, I said: Now what has my figure got to do with it? You haven’t been listening to me, she said, and I answered that I had only missed the last few words. Just missed the last few words, she said testily; you didn’t hear me telling you that there is a big dinner at the Freemason’s Tavern to-night, and they’re short of waiters. But what has that got to do with my figure? I asked. That shows, she rapped out, that you haven’t been listening to me. Didn’t I say that if it wasn’t for my hips and bosom I’d very soon be into a suit of evening clothes and getting ten shillings for the job. But what has that got to do with my figure? I repeated. Your figure is just the one for a waiter’s. Oh, I’d never thought of that, says I, and we said no more. But the words: Your figure is just the one for a waiter’s, kept on in my head till my eyes caught sight of a bundle of old clothes that Mr. Congreve had given me to sell. A suit of evening clothes was in it. You see, Mr. Congreve and myself were about the same height and build. The trousers will want a bit of shortening, I said to myself, and I set to work; and at six o’clock I was in them and down at the Freemason’s Tavern answering questions, saying that I had been accustomed to waiting at table. All the waiting I had done was bringing in Mr. Congreve’s dinner from the kitchen to the sitting-room: a roast chicken or a chop, and in my fancy it seemed to me that the waiting at the Freemason’s Tavern would be much the same. The head waiter looked me over a bit doubtfully and asked if I had had experience with public dinners. I thought he was going to turn me down, but they were short-handed, so I was taken on, and it was a mess that I made of it, getting in everybody’s way; but my awkwardness was taken in good part and I received ten shillings, which was good money for the sort of work I did that night. But what stood to me was not so much the ten shillings that I earned as the bit I had learned. It was only a bit, not much bigger than a threepenny bit; but I had worked round a table at a big dinner, and feeling certain that I could learn what I didn’t know, I asked for another job. I suppose the head waiter could see that there was the making of a waiter in me, for on coming out of the Freemason’s Tavern he stopped me to ask if I was going back to private service as soon as I could get a place. The food I’d had and the excitement of the dinner, the guests, the lights, the talk, stood to me, and things seemed clearer than they had ever seemed before. My feet were of the same mind, for they wouldn’t walk towards the Temple, and I answered the head waiter that I’d be glad of another job. Well, said he, you don’t much know about the work, but you’re an honest lad, I think, so I’ll see what I can do for you; and at the moment a thought struck him. Just take this letter, said he, to the Holborn Restaurant. There’s a dinner there and I’ve had word that they’re short of a waiter or two. Be off as fast as you can. And away I went as fast as my legs could carry me, and they took me there in good time, in front, by a few seconds, of two other fellows who were after the job. I got it. Another job came along, and another and another. Each of them jobs was worth ten shillings to me, to say nothing of the learning of the trade; and having, as I’ve said, the making of a waiter in me, it didn’t take more than about three months for me to be as quick and as smart and as watchful as the best of them, and without them qualities no one will succeed in waiting. I have worked round the tables in the biggest places in London and all over England in all the big towns, in Manchester, in Liverpool, and Birmingham; I am well known at the old Hen and Chickens, at the Queen’s, and the Plough and Harrow in Birmingham. It was seven years ago that I came here, and here it would seem that I’ve come to be looked on as a fixture, for the Bakers are good people to work for and I didn’t like to leave them when, three years ago, a good place was offered to me, so kind were they to me in my illness. I suppose one never remains always in the same place, but I may as well be here as elsewhere.