Old Wine and New

by Warwick Deeping

  He stole a glance at Eleanor. She was sitting there with the black bag in her lap, and her hands folded over it. She did not fidget or chatter, and he marvelled at his being in a taxi with her, and sitting beside her, yes, just as though he belonged.

  He felt that he ought to say something.

  “Nothing like doing a thing comfortably.”

  “Yes, Spen, especially at the end of a day’s work.”

  They arrived in Compton Street, and Scarsdale paid the taximan, and hurried to open the door of the restaurant for Eleanor. A waiter met them. He eyed Scarsdale, and then discovered the lady; an incipient superciliousness changed to unction.

  “Table reserved, sir? Yes. Good evening, madame.”

  He gave Eleanor a little bow. They were conducted to their table; the waiter was absorbed in settling madame into her chair; he left Scarsdale to deal with his own hat and coat.

  Scarsdale asserted himself.

  “You might take these, will you.”

  The waiter took them.

  Eleanor was presented with the menu. It was the sort of menu in which brussels sprouts are translated into heaven and presented to St. Peter as flowers of sanctity. The waiter stood at her elbow. Would madame take grapefruit, or hors d’œuvres, or smoked salmon? Eleanor appeared deliberate, judicial. She would have grapefruit, yes, and thick soup. There was an entrée with a long name, and she indicated it with a finger and waited till the waiter uttered the mystic words. Then, she nodded. The main alternatives were mutton cutlets or veal a la something. She could deal with the cutlets, and the vegetables did not need rendering. The scroll ended with an ice. Yes, Eleanor liked ices.

  Scarsdale observed her and adored. He asked for the wine list.

  “Now, what about a little claret?”

  With an air of serenity she confessed that she preferred Burgundy. Of course, then Burgundy was the wine of the gods, though her prompting had been inspired by an advertisement of Australian wine, a purple flagon surrounded by very green vine leaves. She was a woman of resources.

  “A bottle of Beaune, waiter.”

  The evening felt smooth, and Scarsdale was moved to remember that other evening when he had taken Julia Marwood to the theatre, and how ineptly he had emerged from his adventure with that five-hundred-pound young woman. But Eleanor was not Julia; she sat there looking happy with the evening and herself and with him, and when the waiter poured red wine into the glasses, Scarsdale raised his glass.

  “Eleanor”—that was all he said and it was sufficient. They drunk to each other; they were together.

  As for the play, it was a middle-class comedy, quite obviously human and pleasant, but Scarsdale did not give his whole attention to the play. Something was happening down there on the stage, and people came and went, and people laughed and talked, but the reality of the evening was that he was sitting beside Eleanor in the half-darkness, that his arm touched hers, and that he could steal little looks at Eleanor. She had taken off her hat, and her hair looked like a black wreath, and her face had the softness of acceptance. Sometimes she smiled. She was silent and shadowy, yet solid and real.

  His left hand touched something, and was touched in return. His fingers closed on the object, and other fingers closed on his. Almost he held his breath; he looked at the stage and it seemed a mere transparency. He was sitting holding Eleanor Richmond’s hand, and she was holding his.

  3

  Scarsdale found a taxi, but as he opened the door for her she said, “Just as far as the ‘Angel’. Then, let’s walk.”

  Strange old memories! Scarsdale could remember how in the days of his youth the “Angel” at Islington had associated itself with golden wings and a smile of Victorian felicity, but now the rampant streets ascended to no calvary. Light refreshments for the long-legged and the shingled dispensed by Messrs. Lyons’ Nippies. Did the weasel ever pop in the City Road? Pentonville still had its prison, but the church of St. John stood behind chained and rusty gates, with its windows boarded or broken, and even its door a derelict sign—“God is Love”. But God is petrol. And the Agricultural Hall may house a Grocers’ Exhibition, and red coats have fled to Olympia, and the Bailiff’s Daughter died long ago. Was it possible that he—Spenser Scarsdale—had seen Tree play Hamlet at the Islington Theatre? He had been a lanky boy in an Eton jacket, and his collar had felt too tight.

  But Eleanor Richmond was reality. She was no memory. She wore short skirts, and her hair was shingled; it had glossy undulations. They were walking arm-in-arm along Upper Street, and if Islington Green was asphalt and iron railings and plane trees, spring still happened. The night had softened or effaced an almost universal shabbiness; it hung spangles of light upon ugly surfaces; it turned even the thundering buses into silver coaches.

  Scarsdale did not feel the paving-stones. He floated, and yet was aware of the warm solidity of Eleanor’s arm. Even the Essex Road transcended itself. Woman and life persisted.

  He said something banal to her. Probably it was about beauty, and beauty may cease when it is talked about. It is better left to the senses, and her silence was mystical.

  “We can’t help things, Spen.”

  It was by the lower railings of Islington Green that he discovered his inspiration.

  “That’s true, eternally true. I can’t help one thing. I don’t want to help it. What I mean is—”

  She knew quite well what he meant.

  “It just happens.”

  He pressed her arm.

  “Yes, just happens. Amazing. I mean—to me. Though nothing could be more logical—from my point of view.”

  Logical! Well, of course, and she smiled at the Essex Road, and at his quaint tentative tenderness. She liked him that way. She preferred his inarticulate exaltation to the glibness of complacency.

  They walked; their steps seemed in perfect rhythm. They passed the Islington Free Library, and ascended the steps into Astey’s Row. Behind the iron railings the New River had ceased to be a river, and odd litter lay about below the finality of a blank brick wall. Over the way was Pleasant Place, and suddenly Scarsdale’s left arm grew tense.

  “Eleanor—”

  “Yes, Spen.”

  “You’re the most wonderful thing in the world. Yes, what I mean is, I—well—you’re just—well—just wonderful.”

  Her arm answered his.

  “I like you to feel like that, Spen.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  He said again, “How wonderful.”

  They arrived at the gate. It seemed as solitary as a gate on the edge of a wood. He paused; he pushed the gate open and held it. He looked at the small house.

  “I feel I oughtn’t to come in here.”

  “You need not feel like that, Spen.”

  He trembled.

  “Eleanor, you won’t think me a slow ass, will you? But I’m so sensitive about some things. I want to make good.—Now, supposing, supposing—I make good—”

  “Why, yes—”

  “I mean,—if I can get my book taken, would you—?”

  “Would I—?”

  “Yes. Marry me?”

  Her consenting face seemed very near to his, and suddenly he kissed her, and then stood silent and still and shocked.

  “O, my dear, how wonderful, how very wonderful. I can’t think of anything else to say—somehow. But how very wonderful.”

  Chapter Thirty-three

  April, May, June, ninety-odd days at a thousand or more words a day, and “Smith” was finished in type. In more senses than one it was a tour de force, a book written with blood and tears, and with a purpose within its purpose. Its structure may have been old-fashioned; it had a beginning and an end; it rambled a little at times, but its ramblings were human. It contained elements of Scarsdale, simplicities, nuances, a sort of essential faith in the decency of man the animal. It had a naïveté, the prominent and gentle eyes of its interpreter, the colour of his coffee-coloured coat and old blue scarf. In a sense it w
as very personal.

  But when he had written the last page Scarsdale sat in his chair and stared out of the window. Something had gone out of him and registered itself upon paper, but whether it was good or bad in its potentialities, for the life of him he could not say. It had not the objectivity of a bunch of bananas. He sat and wondered whether his soul’s merchandise had value.

  Also, he was afraid. In fact, fear was the predominant emotion. He had finished, and he might be finished. “Smith” might be his final reaction against years of futility. And what was “Smith”—after all—but the stuff which the intellectually genteel describe as fiction, though Scarsdale was not writing for the intellectually genteel. He was writing for the man in himself, and the man in the other fellow across the way. He had tried to put the quintessence of the Essex Road on paper. He did not quite know what he had done.

  And he was afraid. “Smith” was a longish book, some hundred and twenty thousand words, and when he sat and considered this preposterous piece of prose in which the obscurities and ingenuities of a shabby little fellow were recorded, he was the creature of doubt. Who would publish such a book, who would read it? He had tried it on Eleanor, and Eleanor had said strange, sweet things to him about “Smith”. She had said that there were happenings in the book that had made her want to cry, but then Eleanor was prejudiced, and not a publisher.

  His fear was an urge. He was learning not to sit with his neck in a noose like the rabbit of Martinsell Hill. If “Smith” was a book in praise of courage, of the valour of the doss-house and the coffee-stall and the London seat, it behooved its creator to try and play the Smith. Scarsdale’s hare’s eyes might have a natural timidity, but there were other urges in him. He had given Eleanor a ring; they had chosen it at a jeweller’s in Upper Street, diamonds and sapphires. It had cost Scarsdale the price of a short story.

  Exquisite extravagance! Yet it was the beginning of other extravagances, of an adventuresomeness that would send this long-legged creature tilting at windmills.

  He tore himself from his chair. He went down by bus, and sought an interview with Arthur Raymond. He was both apologetic and desperate.

  “Awful cheek my troubling you. The fact is I have just finished a novel. I don’t think it is so bad. I was wondering whether you would advise me.”

  He was rather breathless. He had put his hat down on Raymond’s desk, and suddenly he recovered it as though he felt that he had been guilty of discourtesy.

  “About a publisher?”

  “Yes. Very difficult to get a first novel read. Naturally. But if you could advise me.”

  Raymond glanced at the clock. He was always glancing at the clock, and yet finding time to be kind.

  “If you like,—I’ll read it.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

  “As a matter of fact I have a quiet week-end. If you care to send it along.”

  Scarsdale stood up, sat down again, while his hands crushed his hat.

  “Most awfully generous of you. I—I accept. Of course—you may think it rubbish. It’s about a fellow named Smith, a seedy, obscure chap, and his struggles. I’ll let you have it at once.”

  “I’ll give you an honest opinion.”

  Raymond did more than that. He read “Smith” in the orchard of his Sussex cottage, and he found Smith an astonishing fellow. Now, how the devil had Scarsdale—! But, then, life sprang surprises upon you, especially in the world of creation, and a soirée of some learned society might tempt you to believe that you had trespassed by mistake into a private asylum. Freaks. Raymond took the typescript of “Smith” back to town, and wrote a letter to Malcolm of Makin & Malcolm, and had Scarsdale’s manuscript packed up by his secretary and despatched to Messrs. Makin & Malcolm.

  His letter ran as follows.

  “Dear Malcolm,

  “I may be wrong, but I’m of the opinion that I have made a discovery. Read this novel. I think it is the must human bit of work I have struck for years. I know the author and I have reason to believe that he knows what he is writing about. To me ‘Smith’ is a creation.

  “Possibly you may not see eye to eye with me. Still, I would like you to read this book.

  “Always yours,

  “Arthur Raymond.”

  He dictated a letter to Scarsdale.

  “Dear Mr. Scarsdale,

  “I congratulate you on ‘Smith’. The book so moved me that I have taken the liberty of submitting it to Malcolm of Makin & Malcolm. I can promise you nothing. But I believe in that book, and if Malcolm sees it as I do, you should hear something.

  “Sincerely yours,

  “Arthur Raymond.”

  When Scarsdale had read this letter of Raymond’s he felt strange. He went out into the garden and walked round and round the path, though the path’s orbit did not exceed ten yards. So, the conscious part of him went round and round Raymond’s letter, and marvelled and walked softly, hardly daring to find the earth so solid. “Smith” had been introduced to Malcolm, and even Scarsdale knew that Malcolm’s reputation for flair and energy was exceptional. So, Scarsdale went round and round the path, feeling that he could go on walking for hours, and that he would not cease from walking until the crisis was over.

  But—Eleanor? He decided to say nothing to Eleanor. If the great thing comes to pass—well—he would have still greater things to say to Eleanor. And if Malcolm refused the book—!

  He went in at last and wrote to Raymond. He thanked him; he felt that he could go on thanking Raymond for ever and ever. And when Eleanor returned from Highbury Terrace she found him scribbling at his table in the window. He looked up at her with a little, secret, dim smile.

  “I put the kettle on, Nellie.”

  Yes, he had remembered to put on the kettle.

  2

  A week later the incredible thing happened. Mr. Malcolm had telephoned Raymond for Scarsdale’s address, and the following conversation had taken place between them.

  “I say—that you, Raymond. Yes. About the author of ‘Smith’. Got his address?”

  “What about the book?”

  “Extraordinary bit of work. Rather crude and emotional in places. A kind of innocent book, and yet so damned real. Good of you to send it along.”

  “Going to take it?”

  “I am. I have a flair about that book. What’s this fellow’s address? Who is he?”

  “He has done journalism. Has written me some good short stories. Rather an odd fish. His address is,—wait a moment, here we are,—c/o Mrs. Richmond, Astey’s Row, Canonbury. Got it?”

  “Yes. Thanks, Raymond. Lunch with me at the ‘Garrick’ on Wednesday, will you?”

  “Love to.”

  “Right-o. Good-bye.”

  Malcolm’s letter arrived by the first post. It was like Malcolm the man, frank and abrupt, both shrewd and impulsive. Malcolm was one of those unusual persons, a hard-headed enthusiast. He wrote things about “Smith” that made Scarsdale go all tremulous and tight inside. He asked Scarsdale to lunch on Tuesday. He said—that provided they could agree upon terms, he—Malcolm—proposed to publish “Smith” in the late autumn. He emphasized with complete frankness the risk involved in the publication of a first novel and the problematical extent of the book’s success.

  Scarsdale had read the letter in his sitting-room. Mrs. Richmond was upstairs putting on her hat before walking to Highbury Terrace, and suddenly she heard Scarsdale’s voice at the foot of the stairs. It had a breathlessness.

  “Eleanor,—Eleanor.”

  She came out on the narrow landing.

  “Yes,—Spen.”

  “The book,—Malcolm wants to publish ‘Smith’.”

  “O, my dear, how splendid.”

  His long legs carried him swiftly up the stairs. Almost he seemed to crouch at her feet; his arms embraced her knees.

  “Eleanor,—I can hardly believe it. O, my dear, isn’t it wonderful.”

  She bent over him.

  “Spen,—I believed it
would. I’ve been praying.”

  “Praying! How wonderful, of you and everything.”

  3

  “Smith” was to be published in October. The agreement had been signed; Scarsdale was to receive £100 as an advance on royalties, and the royalties payable were ten per cent. per copy sold on the first five thousand copies, fifteen per cent. on the second five thousand, twenty per cent. after ten thousand copies had been sold, but Scarsdale’s imagination never mounted that twenty per cent. Pegasus. He supposed that “Smith” might sell some two or three thousand copies, and that for a first novel by a thoroughly obscure person such a sale would be considered a success. The hundred pounds advanced to him by Messrs. Makin & Malcolm would be covered by the sales.

  He was honest with Eleanor.

  “I don’t expect that we shall make more than the hundred pounds out of the book.”

  She accepted the “we.” The partnership deed was to be sealed.

  “If you wrote one book a year, Spen.”

  “Short stories pay better. Supposing I had a dozen short stories accepted at eight guineas apiece. A hundred for a book, and roughly a hundred for stories. Of course I might do more.”

  “Two hundred a year. We could live here on that, Spen. Besides, I could go on working.”

  “But I don’t want you to,—Eleanor, unless—of course—”

  “We can see.”

  So, Scarsdale sat down and wrote short stories. Raymond had given him other introductions, and he had placed three stories with other editors. It was not in his mind for the moment to produce a successor to “Smith”; in fact, he had no idea for a second book, no fructifying theme or character. For the moment “Smith” sufficed him and filled the future. Moreover, Scarsdale had other and more moving matters on his mind. He and Eleanor were to be married.