CHAPTER 6
NEW YEAR'S EVE_(James Orlebar Cloyster's narrative continued)_
The morning of New Year's Eve was a memorable one for me. My firstnovel was accepted. Not an ambitious volume. It was rather short, andthe plot was not obtrusive. The sporting gentlemen who accepted it,however--Messrs. Prodder and Way--seemed pleased with it; though, whenI suggested a sum in cash in advance of royalties, they displayed amost embarrassing coyness--and also, as events turned out, good sense.
I carried the good news to Julian, whom I found, as usual, asleep inhis hammock. I had fallen into the habit of calling on him after my_Orb_ work. He was generally sleepy when I arrived, at half-pasteleven, and while we talked I used to make his breakfast act as asort of early lunch for myself. He said that the people of the househad begun by trying to make the arrival of his breakfast coincide withthe completion of his toilet; that this had proved so irksome that theyhad struck; and that finally it had been agreed on both sides that themeal should be put in his room at eleven o'clock, whether he wasdressed or not. He said that he often saw his breakfast come in, andwould drowsily determine to consume it hot. But he had never had theenergy to do so. Once, indeed, he had mistaken the time, and hadconfidently expected that the morning of a hot breakfast had come atlast. He was dressed by nine, and had sat for two hours gloating overthe prospect of steaming coffee and frizzling bacon. On that particularmorning, however, there had been some domestic tragedy--the firing of achimney or the illness of a cook--and at eleven o'clock, not breakfast,but an apology for its absence had been brought to him. This embitteredJulian. He gave up the unequal contest, and he has frequently confessedto me that cold breakfast is an acquired, yet not unpleasant, taste.
He woke up when I came in, and, after hearing my news andcongratulating me, began to open the letters that lay on the table athis side.
One of the envelopes had Skeffington's trade mark stamped upon it, andcontained a bank-note and a sheet closely type-written on both sides.
"Half a second, Jimmy," said he, and began to read.
I poured myself out a cup of cold coffee, and, avoiding the bacon andeggs, which lay embalmed in frozen grease, began to lunch off bread andmarmalade.
"I'll do it," he burst out when he had finished. "It's a sweat--afearful sweat, but----
"Skeffington's have written urging me to undertake a rather originaladvertising scheme. They're very pressing, and they've enclosed atenner in advance. They want me to do them a tragedy in four acts. Isent them the scenario last week. I sketched out a skeleton plot inwhich the hero is addicted to a strictly moderate use of Skeffington'sSloe Gin. His wife adopts every conceivable measure to wean him fromthis harmless, even praiseworthy indulgence. At the end of the secondact she thinks she has cured him. He has promised to gratify what heregards as merely a capricious whim on her part. 'I will give--yes, Iwill give it up, darling!' 'George! George!' She falls on his neck.Over her shoulder he winks at the audience, who realise that there ismore to come. Curtain. In Act 3 the husband is seen sitting alone inhis study. His wife has gone to a party. The man searches in a cupboardfor something to read. Instead of a novel, however, he lights on abottle of Skeffington's Sloe Gin. Instantly the old overwhelmingcraving returns. He hesitates. What does it matter? She will neverknow. He gulps down glass after glass. He sinks into an intoxicatedstupor. His wife enters. Curtain again. Act 4. The draught of nectartasted in the former act after a period of enforced abstinence hasproduced a deadly reaction. The husband, who previously improved hishealth, his temper, and his intellect by a strictly moderate use ofSkeffington's Sloe Gin, has now become a ghastly dipsomaniac. His wife,realising too late the awful effect of her idiotic antagonism toSkeffington's, experiences the keenest pangs of despair. She drinkslaudanum, and the tragedy is complete."
"Fine," I said, finishing the coffee.
"In a deferential postscript," said Julian, "Skeffington's suggest analternative ending, that the wife should drink, not laudanum, but SloeGin, and grow, under its benign influence, resigned to the fate she hasbrought on her husband and herself. Resignation gives way to hope. Shedevotes her life to the care of the inebriate man, and, by way ofpathetic retribution, she lives precisely long enough to nurse him backto sanity. Which finale do you prefer?"
"Yours!" I said.
"Thank you," said Julian, considerably gratified. "So do I. It'sterser, more dramatic, and altogether a better advertisement.Skeffington's make jolly good sloe gin, but they can't arouse pity andterror. Yes, I'll do it; but first let me spend the tenner."
"I'm taking a holiday, too, today," I said. "How can we amuseourselves?"
Julian had opened the last of his letters. He held up two cards.
"Tickets for Covent Garden Ball tonight," he said. "Why not come? It'ssure to be a good one."
"I should like to," I said. "Thanks."
Julian dropped from his hammock, and began to get his bath ready.
We arranged to dine early at the Maison Suisse in RupertStreet--_table d'hote_ one franc, plus twopence for mad'moiselle--andgo on to the gallery of a first night. I was to dress for Covent Gardenat Julian's after the theatre, because white waistcoats and the franc_table d'hote_ didn't go well together.
When I dined out, I usually went to the Maison Suisse. I shall neverhave the chance of going again, even if, as a married man, I wereallowed to do so, for it has been pulled down to make room for theHicks Theatre in Shaftesbury Avenue. When I did not dine there, Iattended a quaint survival of last century's coffee-houses inGlasshouse Street: Tall, pew-like boxes, wooden tables withouttable-cloths, panelled walls; an excellent menu of chops, steaks, friedeggs, sausages, and other British products. Once the resort of bucksand Macaronis, Ford's coffee-house I found frequented by a strangeassortment of individuals, some of whom resembled bookmakers' touts,others clerks of an inexplicably rustic type. Who these people reallywere I never discovered.
"I generally have supper at Pepolo's," said Julian, as we left thetheatre, "before a Covent Garden Ball. Shall we go on there?"
There are two entrances to Pepolo's restaurant, one leading to theground floor, the other to the brasserie in the basement. I liked tospend an hour or so there occasionally, smoking and watching thecrowd. Every sixth visit on an average I would happen upon somebodyinteresting among the ordinary throng of medical students andthird-rate clerks--watery-eyed old fellows who remembered Cremorne, amahogany derelict who had spent his youth on the sea when liners weresailing-ships, and the apprentices, terrorised by bullying mates andthe rollers of the Bay, lay howling in the scuppers and prayed to bethrown overboard. He told me of one voyage on which the Malay cook wentmad, and, escaping into the ratlines, shot down a dozen of the crewbefore he himself was sniped.
The supper tables are separated from the brasserie by a line of stuccoarches, and as it was now a quarter to twelve the place was full. At afirst glance it seemed that there were no empty supper tables.Presently, however, we saw one, laid for four, at which only one manwas sitting.
"Hullo!" said Julian, "there's Malim. Let's go and see if we can pushinto his table. Well, Malim, how are you? Do you know Cloyster?"
Mr. Malim had a lofty expression. I should have put him down as ascholarly recluse. His first words upset this view somewhat.
"Coming to Covent Garden?" he said, genially. "I am. So is Kit. She'llbe down soon."
"Good," said Julian; "may Jimmy and I have supper at your table?"
"Do," said Malim. "Plenty of room. We'd better order our food and notwait for her."
We took our places, and looked round us. The hum of conversation waspersistent. It rose above the clatter of the supper tables and thesudden bursts of laughter.
It was now five minutes to twelve. All at once those nearest the doorsprang to their feet. A girl in scarlet and black had come in.
"Ah, there's Kit at last," said Malim.
"They're cheering her," said Julian.
As he spoke, the tentative murmur of a cheer was caught up by everyon
e.Men leaped upon chairs and tables.
"Hullo, hullo, hullo!" said Kit, reaching us. "Kiddie, when they dothat it makes me feel shy."
She was laughing like a child. She leaned across the table, put herarms round Malim's neck, and kissed him. She glanced at us.
Malim smiled quietly, but said nothing.
She kissed Julian, and she kissed me.
"Now we're all friends," she said, sitting down.
"Better know each other's names," said Malim. "Kit, this is Mr.Cloyster. Mr. Cloyster, may I introduce you to my wife?"
Not George Washington — an Autobiographical Novel Page 9