I. The Letter
I HAVE read of men who, when forced by their calling to live for longperiods in utter solitude--save for a few black faces--have made it arule to dress regularly for dinner in order to maintain theirself-respect and prevent a relapse into barbarism. It was in somesuch spirit, with an added touch of self-consciousness, that, atseven o'clock in the evening of September 23 in a recent year, Iwas making my evening toilet in my chambers in Pall Mall. I thoughtthe date and the place justified the parallel; to my advantage even;for the obscure Burmese administrator might well be a man of bluntedsensibilities and coarse fibre, and at least he is alone with nature,while I--well, a young man of condition and fashion, who knows theright people, belongs to the right clubs, has a safe, possibly abrilliant, future in the Foreign Office--may be excused for a senseof complacent martyrdom, when, with his keen appreciation of thesocial calendar, he is doomed to the outer solitude of London inSeptember. I say 'martyrdom', but in fact the case was infinitelyworse. For to feel oneself a martyr, as everybody knows, is apleasurable thing, and the true tragedy of my position was that I hadpassed that stage. I had enjoyed what sweets it had to offer in everdwindling degree since the middle of August, when ties were stillfresh and sympathy abundant. I had been conscious that I was missedat Morven Lodge party. Lady Ashleigh herself had said so in thekindest possible manner, when she wrote to acknowledge the letter inwhich I explained, with an effectively austere reserve of language,that circumstances compelled me to remain at my office. 'We know howbusy you must be just now', she wrote, 'and I do hope you won'toverwork; we shall _all_ miss you very much.' Friend after friend'got away' to sport and fresh air, with promises to write andchaffing condolences, and as each deserted the sinking ship, I took agrim delight in my misery, positively almost enjoying the first weekor two after my world had been finally dissipated to the four bracingwinds of heaven. I began to take a spurious interest in the remainingfive millions, and wrote several clever letters in a vein of cheapsatire, indirectly suggesting the pathos of my position, but indicatingthat I was broad-minded enough to find intellectual entertainment in thescenes, persons, and habits of London in the dead season. I even didrational things at the instigation of others. For, though I should haveliked total isolation best, I, of course, found that there was asediment of unfortunates like myself, who, unlike me, viewed thesituation in a most prosaic light. There were river excursions, and soon, after office-hours; but I dislike the river at any time for itsnoisy vulgarity, and most of all at this season. So I dropped out of thefresh air brigade and declined H----'s offer to share a riversidecottage and run up to town in the mornings. I did spend one or two week-ends with the Catesbys in Kent; but I was not inconsolable when they lettheir house and went abroad, for I found that such partial compensationsdid not suit me. Neither did the taste for satirical observation last. Apassing thirst, which I dare say many have shared, for adventures of thefascinating kind described in the _New Arabian Nights_ led me on a fewevenings into some shady haunts in Soho and farther eastward; but wasfinally quenched one sultry Saturday night after an hour's immersion inthe reeking atmosphere of a low music-hall in Ratcliffe Highway, where Isat next a portly female who suffered from the heat, and at frequentintervals refreshed herself and an infant from a bottle of tepid stout.
By the first week in September I had abandoned all palliatives, andhad settled into the dismal but dignified routine of office, club,and chambers. And now came the most cruel trial, for the hideoustruth dawned on me that the world I found so indispensable couldafter all dispense with me. It was all very well for Lady Ashleigh toassure me that I was deeply missed; but a letter from F----, who wasone of the party, written 'in haste, just starting to shoot', andcoming as a tardy reply to one of my cleverest, made me aware thatthe house party had suffered little from my absence, and that fewsighs were wasted on me, even in the quarter which I had assumed tohave been discreetly alluded to by the underlined _all_ in LadyAshleigh's 'we shall _all_ miss you'. A thrust which smarted more, ifit bit less deeply, came from my cousin Nesta, who wrote: 'It'shorrid for you to have to be baking in London now; but, after all, itmust be a great pleasure to you' (malicious little wretch!) 'to havesuch interesting and important work to do.' Here was a nemesis for aninnocent illusion I had been accustomed to foster in the minds of myrelations and acquaintances, especially in the breasts of thetrustful and admiring maidens whom I had taken down to dinner in thelast two seasons; a fiction which I had almost reached the point ofbelieving in myself. For the plain truth was that my work was neitherinteresting nor important, and consisted chiefly at present insmoking cigarettes, in saying that Mr So-and-So was away and would beback about October 1, in being absent for lunch from twelve tilltwo, and in my spare moments making _pr?cis_ of--let us say--the lessconfidential consular reports, and squeezing the results intocast-iron schedules. The reason of my detention was not a cloud onthe international horizon--though I may say in passing that there wassuch a cloud--but a caprice on the part of a remote and mightypersonage, the effect of which, ramifying downwards, had dislocatedthe carefully-laid holiday plans of the humble juniors, and in my ownsmall case had upset the arrangement between myself and K----, whopositively liked the dog-days in Whitehall.
Only one thing was needed to fill my cup of bitterness, and this itwas that specially occupied me as I dressed for dinner this evening.Two days more in this dead and fermenting city and my slavery wouldbe at an end. Yes, but--irony of ironies!--I had nowhere to go to!The Morven Lodge party was breaking up. A dreadful rumour as to anengagement which had been one of its accursed fruits tormented mewith the fresh certainty that I had not been missed, and bred in methat most desolating brand of cynicism which is produced by defeatthrough insignificance. Invitations for a later date, which I haddeclined in July with a gratifying sense of being much in request,now rose up spectrally to taunt me. There was at least one which Icould easily have revived, but neither in this case nor in any otherhad there been any renewal of pressure, and there are moments whenthe difference between proposing oneself and surrendering as a prizeto one of several eagerly competing hostesses seems too crushing tobe contemplated. My own people were at Aix for my father's gout; tojoin them was a _pis-aller_ whose banality was repellent. Besides,they would be leaving soon for our home in Yorkshire, and I was not aprophet in my own country. In short, I was at the extremity ofdepression.
The usual preliminary scuffle on the staircase prepared me for theknock and entry of Withers. (One of the things which had for sometime ceased to amuse me was the laxity of manners, proper to theseason, among the servants of the big block of chambers where Ilived.) Withers demurely handed me a letter bearing a Germanpostmark and marked 'Urgent'. I had just finished dressing, and wascollecting my money and gloves. A momentary thrill of curiosity brokein upon my depression as I sat down to open it. A corner on thereverse of the envelope bore the blotted legend: 'Very sorry, butthere's one other thing--a pair of rigging screws from Carey andNeilson's, size 1-3/8, _galvanized_.' Here it is:
Yacht _Dulcibella_
Flensburg, Schleswig-Holstein, _Sept_. 21
_Dear Carruthers_,--
I daresay you'll be surprised at hearing from me,as it's ages since we met. It is more than likely, too, that what I'mgoing to suggest won't suit you, for I know nothing of your plans,and if you're in town at all you're probably just getting intoharness again and can't get away. So I merely write on the offchanceto ask if you would care to come out here and join me in a littleyachting, and, I hope, duck shooting. I know you're keen on shooting,and I sort of remember that you have done some yachting too, though Irather forget about that. This part of the Baltic--the Schleswigfiords--is a splendid cruising-ground--A 1 scenery--and there ought tobe plenty of duck about soon, if it gets cold enough. I came out here_via_ Holland and the Frisian Islands, starting early in August. Mypals have had to leave me, and I'm badly in want of another, as Idon't want to lay up yet for a bit. I needn't say how glad I shouldbe if you could come. If you can,
send me a wire to the P.O. here.Flushing and on by Hamburg will be your best route, I think. I'mhaving a few repairs done here, and will have them ready sharp by thetime your train arrives. Bring your gun and a good lot of No. 4's;and would you mind calling at Lancaster's and asking for mine, andbringing it too? Bring some oilskins. Better get the eleven-shillingsort, jacket and trousers--not the 'yachting' brand; and if you paintbring your gear. I know you speak German like a native, and that willbe a great help. Forgive this hail of directions, but I've a sort offeeling that I'm in luck and that you'll come. Anyway, I hope you andthe F.O. both flourish. Good-bye.
Yours ever,
_Arthur H. Davies_.
Would you mind bringing me out a _prismatic compass_, and a pound ofRaven mixture?
This letter marked an epoch for me; but I little suspected the factas I crumpled it into my pocket and started languidly on the _voiedouloureuse_ which I nightly followed to the club. In Pall Mall therewere no dignified greetings to be exchanged now with well-groomedacquaintances. The only people to be seen were some late stragglersfrom the park, with a perambulator and some hot and dusty childrenlagging fretfully behind; some rustic sightseers draining the lastdregs of the daylight in an effort to make out from their guide-bookswhich of these reverend piles was which; a policeman and a builder'scart. Of course the club was a strange one, both of my own beingclosed for cleaning, a coincidence expressly planned by Providencefor my inconvenience. The club which you are 'permitted to make useof' on these occasions always irritates with its strangeness anddiscomfort. The few occupants seem odd and oddly dressed, and youwonder how they got there. The particular weekly that you want is nottaken in; the dinner is execrable, and the ventilation a farce. Allthese evils oppressed me to-night. And yet I was puzzled to find thatsomewhere within me there was a faint lightening of the spirits;causeless, as far as I could discover. It could not be Davies'sletter. Yachting in the Baltic at the end of September! The very ideamade one shudder. Cowes, with a pleasant party and hotels handy, wasall very well. An August cruise on a steam yacht in French waters orthe Highlands was all very well; but what kind of a yacht was this?It must be of a certain size to have got so far, but I thought Iremembered enough of Davies's means to know that he had no money towaste on luxuries. That brought me to the man himself. I had knownhim at Oxford--not as one of my immediate set; but we were a sociablecollege, and I had seen a good deal of him, liking him for hisphysical energy combined with a certain simplicity and modesty,though, indeed, he had nothing to be conceited about; liked him, infact, in the way that at that receptive period one likes many menwhom one never keeps up with later. We had both gone down in the sameyear--three years ago now. I had gone to France and Germany for twoyears to learn the languages; he had failed for the Indian Civil, andthen had gone into a solicitor's office. I had only seen him since atrare intervals, though I admitted to myself that for his part he hadclung loyally to what ties of friendship there were between us. Butthe truth was that we had drifted apart from the nature of things. Ihad passed brilliantly into my profession, and on the few occasions Ihad met him since I made my triumphant _d?but_ in society I had foundnothing left in common between us. He seemed to know none of myfriends, he dressed indifferently, and I thought him dull. I hadalways connected him with boats and the sea, but never with yachting,in the sense that I understood it. In college days he had nearlypersuaded me into sharing a squalid week in some open boat he hadpicked up, and was going to sail among some dreary mudflatssomewhere on the east coast. There was nothing else, and the funerealfunction of dinner drifted on. But I found myself remembering at the_entr?e_ that I had recently heard, at second or third hand, ofsomething else about him--exactly what I could not recall. When Ireached the savoury, I had concluded, so far as I had centred my mindon it at all, that the whole thing was a culminating irony, as,indeed, was the savoury in its way. After the wreck of my pleasantplans and the fiasco of my martyrdom, to be asked as consolation tospend October freezing in the Baltic with an eccentric nonentity whobored me! Yet, as I smoked my cigar in the ghastly splendour of theempty smoking-room, the subject came up again. Was there anything init? There were certainly no alternatives at hand. And to bury myselfin the Baltic at this unearthly time of year had at least a smack oftragic thoroughness about it.
I pulled out the letter again, and ran down its impulsive staccatosentences, affecting to ignore what a gust of fresh air, highspirits, and good fellowship this flimsy bit of paper wafted into thejaded club-room. On reperusal, it was full of evil presage--'A 1scenery'--but what of equinoctial storms and October fogs? Every saneyachtsman was paying off his crew now. 'There ought to beduck'--vague, very vague. 'If it gets cold enough'--cold andyachting seemed to be a gratuitously monstrous union. His pals hadleft him; why? 'Not the "yachting" brand'; and why not? As to thesize, comfort, and crew of the yacht--all cheerfully ignored; so manymaddening blanks. And, by the way, why in Heaven's name 'a prismaticcompass'? I fingered a few magazines, played a game of fifty with afriendly old fogey, too importunate to be worth the labour ofresisting, and went back to my chambers to bed, ignorant that afriendly Providence had come to my rescue; and, indeed, ratherresenting any clumsy attempt at such friendliness.
The Riddle of the Sands Page 2