diff options
Diffstat (limited to '43423-8.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | 43423-8.txt | 10174 |
1 files changed, 0 insertions, 10174 deletions
diff --git a/43423-8.txt b/43423-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 02c8d8a..0000000 --- a/43423-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,10174 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Old Mole, by Gilbert Cannan - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Old Mole - Being the Surprising Adventures in England of Herbert - Jocelyn Beenham, M.A., Sometime Sixth-Form Master at - Thrigsby Grammar School in the County of Lancaster - -Author: Gilbert Cannan - -Release Date: August 8, 2013 [EBook #43423] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OLD MOLE *** - - - - -Produced by Paul Haxo from page images generously made -available by the Internet Archive and the University of -California Berkeley Library. - - - - - -OLD MOLE - -BEING THE SURPRISING ADVENTURES IN ENGLAND OF HERBERT JOCELYN BEENHAM, -M.A., SOMETIME SIXTH-FORM MASTER AT THRIGSBY GRAMMAR SCHOOL IN THE -COUNTY OF LANCASTER - -BY -GILBERT CANNAN - -AUTHOR OF "ROUND THE CORNER" - -D. APPLETON AND COMPANY -NEW YORK LONDON -1917 - - -Copyright, 1914. by -D. APPLETON AND COMPANY - - -TO -MY WIFE - - -_J'aime les fables des philosophes, je ris de celles des enfants, et je -hais celles des imposteurs._ - -L'INGÉNU. - - -CONTENTS - - PAGE -I. PRELUDE 3 - -II. MARRIAGE 99 - -III. INTERLUDE 147 - -IV. TOYS 171 - -V. IN THE SWIM 203 - -VI. OUT OF IT 289 - -VII. APPENDIX 347 - - - - -I - -PRELUDE - -His star is a strange one! One that leadeth him to fortune by the path -of frowns! to greatness by the aid of thwackings! - -THE SHAVING OF SHAGPAT - - - -I - -PRELUDE - -A SENSITIVE observer, who once spent a week in theatrical lodgings in -Thrigsby, has described the moral atmosphere of the place as "harsh -listlessness shot with humor." That is about as far as you can get in -a week. It is farther than Herbert Jocelyn Beenham, M.A. (Oxon.), got -in the twenty-five years he had given to the instruction of the youth -of Thrigsby in its Grammar School--the foundation of an Elizabethan -bishop. Ambition ever leads a man away from Thrigsby. Having none, H. -J. Beenham had stayed there, achieving the sort of distinction that -swelled Tennyson's brook. Boys and masters came and went, but "Old -Mole" still occupied the Sixth Form room in the gallery above the -glass roof of the gymnasium. - -He was called Old Mole because whenever he spied a boy cribbing, or -larking, or reading a book that had no reference to the subject in -hand, or eating sweets, or passing notes, he would cry out in a voice -of thunder: "Ha! Art thou there, old mole?" Thrigsbian fathers who had -suffered at his hands would ask their sons about Old Mole, and so his -position was fortified by a sort of veneration. He was one of those -men who assume their definite shape and appearance in the early -thirties, and thereafter give no clew to their age even to the most -curious spinster's inquisitiveness. Reference to the Calendar of his -university shows that at the time of his catastrophe he cannot have -been more than forty-eight. - -He was unmarried, not because he disliked women, but from indolence, -obstinacy, combativeness, and a coarse strain in him which made him -regard the female body, attire and voice as rather ridiculous. With -married women he was ceremonious and polite: with the unmarried he was -bantering. When he had been twenty years at the school he began -jocularly to speak of it as his bride, and when he came to his -twenty-fifth year he regarded it as his silver wedding. He was very -proud when his Form presented him with a smoker's cabinet and his -colleagues subscribed for a complete edition of the works of Voltaire -bound in vellum. Best of all was the fact that one of his boys, A. Z. -Panoukian, an Armenian of the second generation (and therefore a -thorough Thrigsbian), had won a scholarship at Balliol, the first -since he had had charge of the Sixth. At Speech Day, when the whole -school and their female relatives and the male parents of the -prize-winners were gathered in the John Bright Hall, the Head Master -would make a special reference to Panoukian and possibly to the happy -coincidence of his performance with the attainment of Mr. Beenham's -fourth of a century in the service of the pious and ancient -foundation. It was possible, but unlikely, for the Head Master was a -sentimentalist who made a point of presenting an arid front to the -world lest his dignity should be undermined. - -It was with a glow of satisfaction that H. J. Beenham took out his -master's hood and his best mortar-board on the eve of Speech Day and -laid them out in his bedroom. This was at five o'clock in the -afternoon, for he had promised to spend the evening with the Panoukian -family at Bungsall, on the north side of the city. It was a heavy July -day and he was rather tired, for he had spent the morning in school -reading aloud from the prose works of Emerson, and the afternoon had -been free, owing to the necessity of a replay of the Final in the -inter-Form cricket championship between his boys and the Modern -Transitus. He had intended to illuminate the event with his presence, -but Thrigsby in July is not pleasant, and so he had come out by an -early train to his house at Bigley in the hills which overflow -Derbyshire into Cheshire. - -He sat with a glow of satisfaction as he gazed at his hood and -mortar-board and thought of Panoukian. He was pleased with Panoukian. -He had "spotted" him in the Lower Third and rushed him up in two and a -half years to the Sixth. There had been an anxious three years during -which Panoukian had slacked, and taken to smoking, and been caught in -a café flirting (in a school cap) with a waitress, and had been -content with the superficial ease and brilliance with which he had -mastered the Greek and Latin classics and the rudiments of philosophy. -There had been a devastating term when Panoukian had taken to writing -poetry, and then things had gone from bad to worse until he (Beenham) -had lighted on the truth that Panoukian was stale and needed a fresh -point of attack. Then he had Panoukian to stay with him at Bigley and -turned him loose in French literature and, as a side issue, introduced -him to Eckermann's version of Goethe's conversation. The boy was most -keenly responsive to literature, and through these outside studies it -had been possible to lead him back to the realization that Homer, -Thucydides, Plato, Virgil and company had also produced literature and -that their works had only been masquerading as text-books. . . . The -fight was won, and F. J. Tibster of Balliol had written a most -gratifying letter of commendation of Panoukian's performance in the -examination. This had yielded the greatest satisfaction to Panoukian -_père_, and he had twice given Mr. Beenham lunch in the most expensive -restaurant of Thrigsby's new mammoth hotel, and now, when Panoukian -_fils_ was to leave the wing of his preceptor, had bidden him to meet -Mrs. Panoukian--an Irishwoman--and all the Miss Panoukians. The -railway journey from Bigley would be hot and unpleasant, and to reach -Bungsall it was necessary to pass through some of the most stifling -streets in Thrigsby. After the exhaustion of the summer term and the -examinations the schoolmaster found it hard to conquer his reluctance. -Only by thinking of the cool stream in the Highlands to which it was -his habit to fly on the day after Speech Day could he stiffen himself -to the effort of donning his dress clothes. (The Panoukians dressed in -the evening since their Arthur had been embraced by Balliol and taken -to the bosom of the Lady Dervorguilla.) He had a cold bath, and more -than ever clearly he thought of the brown water of the burn foaming -into white and creamy flecks over the rocks. How thoroughly, he -thought, he had this year earned his weeks of peace and solitude. - -He would catch the six-twenty-four. He had plenty of time and there -would be a good margin in Thrigsby. He could look in at the Foreign -Library, of which he was president, and give them his new selection of -books to be purchased during the vacation. On the way he met Barnett, -the captain of the Bigley Golf Club, and stayed to argue with him -about the alterations to the fourteenth green, which he considered -scandalous and incompetent. He told Barnett so with such heat and at -such length that he only just caught the six-twenty-four and had to -leap into a third-class carriage. It was empty. He opened the windows -and lay at full length on the seat facing the engine. It was more hot -and unpleasant than he had anticipated. He cursed Barnett and extended -the malediction to Panoukian. It would have been more pleasant to -spend the evening with Miss Clipton, sister and formerly housekeeper -to a deceased bishop of Thrigsby, talking about her vegetable marrows. -. . . Uncommonly hot. Deucedly hot. The train crawled so that there -was no draught. He went to sleep. - -He was awakened by the roar of the wheels crossing Ockley viaduct. -Ockley sprawls up and down the steep sides of a valley. At the bottom -runs a black river. Tall chimneys rise from the hillsides. From the -viaduct you gaze down into thousands of chimneys trailing black smoke. -The smoke rises and curls and writhes upward into the black pall that -ever hangs over Ockley. This pall was gold and red and apricot yellow -with the light of the sun behind it. There were folk at Bigley who -said there was beauty in Ockley. . . . It was a frequent source of -after-dinner argument in Bigley. Beauty. For H. J. Beenham all beauty -lived away from Thrigsby and its environment. Smoke and beauty were -incompatible. Still, in his half-sleeping, half-waking condition there -was something impressive in Ockley's golden pall. He raised himself on -his elbow the better to look out, when he was shocked and startled by -hearing a sort of whimper. Opposite him, in the corner, was sitting a -girl, a very pretty girl, with a white, drawn face and her hands -pressed together, her shoulders huddled and her face averted. Her eyes -were blank and expressionless, and there was a great tear trickling -down her nose. The light from the golden pall glowed over her face but -seemed only to accentuate its misery and the utter dejection of her -attitude. - -"Poor girl!" thought the schoolmaster. "Poor, poor girl!" He felt a -warm, melting sensation in the neighborhood of his breastbone; and -with an impulsiveness altogether unusual to him he leaned forward and -tried to lay his hand on her. He was still only half awake and was -wholly under the impulse to bring comfort to one so wretched. The -train lurched as it passed over a point, and, instead of her hand, he -grasped her knee. At once she sprang forward and slapped his face. -Stung, indignant, shocked, but still dominated by his impulse, urged -by it to insist on its expression, he seized her by the wrists and -tried to force her back into her seat and began to address her: - -"My poor child! Something in you, in your eyes, has touched me. I do -not know if I can. . . . Please sit down and listen to me." - -"Nasty old beast!" said the girl. - -"I must protest," replied Old Mole, "the innocence of my motives." He -still gripped her by the wrists. "Seeing you as I did, so unnerved, -so----" - -The train slowed down and stopped, but he did not notice it. He was -absolutely absorbed in his purpose--to succor this young woman in -distress and to show her the injustice of her suspicions. She by this -time was almost beside herself with anger and fright, and she had -struggled so violently--for he had no notion of the force with which -he held her--that her hair had tumbled down behind and she had torn -the seam of her sleeve and put her foot through a flounce in her -petticoat. - -He was thoroughly roused now, and shouted: - -"You shall listen to me----" - -"Let me go! Let me go!" screamed the girl. - -The train had stopped opposite a train going in the other direction. -The door of the compartment was opened suddenly, and Beenham found -himself picked up and flung into the far corner. Over him towered an -immense form clad in parson's clothes--the very type of vengeful -muscular Christianity. - -In the corner the girl had subsided into hysterical sobs. The parson -questioned her. - -"Do you know this man?" - -"No . . . no, sir." - -"Never seen him before?" - -"Never, sir. He--he set on me." - -"Do you prefer a charge against him?" - -"Yes, sir." - -Beenham could hardly hear what they said, but he was boiling with -indignation. - -"I protest----" he said. - -"Silence!" shouted the parson. "But for my timely intervention Heaven -knows what would have happened. . . . Silence! You and men like you -are a pest to society, impervious to decency and the call of religion. -. . . Fortunately there is law in the country and you shall know it." - -With that he pulled down the chain above the windows. In a moment or -two the scowling guard appeared. The parson described the horrible -scene he had witnessed from the train, that was even now moving -Londonward, his interference, and declared his intention of seeing -that the perpetrator of so vile a deed should be hounded down. He -requested the guard to telephone at the next station to the Thrigsby -police. A small crowd had collected. They hummed and buzzed with -excitement, and fifteen men clambered into the compartment to assist -the parson in his heroic defence of the young woman against the now -fully awake and furious pedagogue. He tried to speak, but was shouted -down: to move toward the parson, but was thrust back into his corner. -Every one else had a perfectly clear-cut idea of what had happened. He -himself was so busy emerging from his state of hallucination and -trying to trace back step by step everything that had happened to -produce the extraordinary eruption into what had been at Bigley an -empty, ordinary, rather stuffy compartment in a railway train, that he -could not even begin to contemplate the consequences or to think, -rather, what they might all be moving toward. It was only as the train -ran into Thrigsby, and he saw the name, that he associated it with -that other word which had been on the parson's lips: - -"Police!" - -There was a cold sinking in the pit of his stomach. Out of his -hallucination came the remembrance that he had, with the most kindly -and generous and spontaneously humane motives, used the girl with -violence.--Police! He was given no time for thought. There was a -policeman on the platform. A crowd gathered. It absorbed Beenham, -thrust him toward the policeman, who seized him by the arm and, -followed by the parson and the girl, they swept swiftly along the -platform, down the familiar incline, the crowd swelling as they went, -along an unknown street, squalid and vibrant with the din of iron-shod -wheels over stone setts, to the police station. There a shabby swing -door cut off the crowd, and Beenham, parson, girl and policeman stood -in the charge room waiting for the officer at the desk to look up from -his ledger. - -The charge was made and entered. The girl's name was Matilda Burn, a -domestic servant. She was prompted by the parson, who swept aside her -reluctance to speak. Old Mole was asked to give his name, address and -occupation. He burst into a passionate flow of words, but was -interrupted and coldly reminded that he was only desired to give bare -information on three points, and that anything he might say would be -used against him in evidence. He explained his identity, and the -officer at the ledger looked startled, but entered the particulars in -slow writing with a scratchy pen. The parson and the girl disappeared. -The officer at the ledger cleared his throat, turned to the accused, -opened his mouth, but did not speak. He scratched his ear with his -pen, stooped and blew a fly off the page in front of him, made a -visible effort to suppress his humanity and conduct the affair in -accordance with official routine, and finally blurted out: - -"Do you want bail?" - -Old Mole gave the name and address of his Head Master. - -"You can write if you like." - -The letter was written, read by the officer, and despatched. There was -a whispered consultation behind the ledger, during which the unhappy -schoolmaster read through again and again a list of articles and dogs -missing, and then he was led to the inspector's room and given a -newspaper to read. - -"Extraordinary!" he said to himself. Then he thought of the Panoukians -and began to fidget at the idea of being late. He abominated -unpunctuality. Had he not again and again had to punish young -Panoukian for indulgence in the vice? The six-twenty-four had given -him ample time. He pulled out his watch: Still twenty-five minutes, -but he must hurry. He looked round the bare, dingy room vaguely, -wonderingly. Incisively the idea of his situation bit into his brain. -He was in custody--_carcer,_ a prison. How absurd it was, rather -funny! It only needed a little quiet, level-headed explanation and he -would be free. The "chief" would confirm his story, his identity. -. . . They would laugh over it. Very funny: very funny. A wonderful -story for the club. He chuckled over it to himself until he began to -think of the outcome. More than once he had served on a Grand Jury and -had slept through the consideration of hundreds of indictments: a -depressing experience for which the judge had rewarded him with -nothing but compliments and an offer of a pass to view His Majesty's -prison. That brought him up with a jerk. He was in custody, charged -with a most serious offence, for which he would be tried at the -Assizes. It was monstrous, preposterous! It must be stopped at once. -What a grotesque mistake! What an egregious, yet what a serious -blunder! That officious idiot of a parson! - -The Head Master arrived. He glowered at his colleague and seemed very -agitated. He said: - -"This is very serious, most unfortunate. It is--ah--as well for the -prestige of the school that it has happened at the end of term. We -must hush it up, hush it up." - -Beenham explained. He told the whole story, growing more and more -amazed and indignant as he set it forth. The Head Master only said: - -"I form no opinion. We must hush it up. It must be kept out of the -papers." - -Not a word more could be wrung from him. With a stiff back and pursed -lips he nodded and went away. He returned to say: - -"Of course you will not appear at Speech Day. I will write to you as -soon as I have decided what had best be done." - -"I shall be at Bigley," said Old Mole. - -He was released on bail and told to surrender himself at the police -court when called upon. - -In a dream he wandered out into the street and up into the main -thoroughfare, along which every day in term time he walked between the -station and the school. Impossible to go to the Panoukians; impossible -to return to Bigley. Suppose he had been recognized! Any number of his -acquaintances might be going out by the six-forty-nine. He must have -been seen! Bigley would be alive with it! . . . He sent two telegrams, -one to the Panoukians, the other to his housekeeper to announce that -he would not be back that night. - -He forgot to eat, and roamed through the streets of Thrigsby, finding -relief from the strain of his fear and his tormented thoughts in -observation. Dimly, hardly at all consciously, he began to perceive -countless existences all apparently indifferent to his own. Little -boys jeered at him occasionally, but the men and women took no notice -of him. Streets of warehouses he passed through, streets of little -blackened houses, under railway arches, under tall chimneys, past -shops and theaters and music-halls, and waste grounds, and grounds -covered with scaffolding and fenced in with pictured hoardings: an -immense energy, the center of which was, surprisingly, not the school. -He walked and thought and observed until he sank into exhaustion and -confusion. In the evening, when the lamps were lit, the main streets -were thronged with men and women idly strolling, for it was too hot -for purpose or deliberate amusement. - -Late, about eleven o'clock, he walked into his club. The porter -saluted. In the smoke room two or three of his acquaintances nodded. -No one spoke to him. In a corner was a little group who kept looking -in his direction, so that after a time he began to feel that they were -talking about him. He became acutely conscious of his position. There -were muttering and whispering in the corner, and then one man, a tall, -pale-faced man, whom he had known slightly for many years, arose from -the group and came heavily toward him. - -"I want to speak to you a moment," said the man. - -"Certainly. Certainly." - -They went outside. - -"Er--of course," said the man, "we are awfully sorry, but we can't -help feeling that it was a mistake for you to come here to-night. You -must give us time, you know." - -Beenham looked the man up and down. - -"Time for what?" he replied acidly. - -"To put it bluntly," came the answer, "Harbutt says he won't stay in -the club if you stay." - -Beenham turned on his heel and went downstairs. At the door he met the -Head Master coming in, who sourly expressed pleasure in the meeting. - -"I shall never enter the club again," said Beenham. - -The Head Master paid no attention to the remark, took him by the arm -and led him into the street. There they paced up and down while it was -explained that the Chief Constable had been approached and was willing -to suspend proceedings until a full inquiry had been made, if Beenham -were willing to face an inquiry; or, in the alternative, would allow -him twenty-four hours in which to disappear from Thrigsby. The Lord -Mayor and three other governors of the school had been seen, and they -were all agreed that such an end to Mr. Beenham's long and honorable -connection with the foundation was deplorable. - -"End!" gasped Beenham. - -"The governors all expressed----" began the Head Master, when his -colleague interrupted him with: - -"What is your own opinion?" - -"I--I----" - -"What is your own feeling?" - -"I am thinking of the school." - -"Then I am to suffer under an unjust and unfounded accusation?" - -"The school----" - -"Ach!----" - -Impossible to describe the wonderful guttural sound that the unhappy -man wrenched out of himself. He stood still and his brain began to -work very clearly and he saw that the scandal had already begun to -move so that if he accepted either of his chief's alternatives and had -the matter hushed up, or he vanished away within twenty-four hours, it -would solidify, crystallize into conical form, descend and extinguish -them. If, on the other hand, he insisted on a public inquiry, there -would be a conflagration in which, though he might leave the court -without a stain on his reputation--was not that the formula?--yet his -worldly position would be consumed with possible damage to the -institution to which he had given so many years of his life. His first -impulse was to save his honor without regard to the cost or damage to -others: but then he remembered the attitude of the men in the club, -fathers of families with God knows what other claims to righteousness, -and he saw that, though he might be innocent as a lamb, yet he had to -face public opinion excited by prejudice, which, if he dared to combat -it, he would only have enflamed. He was not fully aware of the crisis -to which he had come, but his emotion at the idea of severing his -connection with the place that had been the central point of his -existence spurred him to an instinctive effort in which he began to -perceive larger vistas of life. Against them as background everything -that was and had been was reduced in size so that he could see it -clearly and bioscopically. He knew, too, that he was seeing it -differently from the Head Master, from Harbutt, from all the other men -who would shrink away from the supposedly contagious danger of his -situation, and he admitted his own helplessness. With that his -immediate indignation at the conduct of individuals died away and he -was left with an almost hysterical sense of the preposterousness of -the world in which out of nothing, a misconstruction, a whole mental -fabric could be builded beneath the weight of which a normal, -ordinary, respectable, hard-working, conscientious man could be -crushed. And yet he did not feel at all crushed, but only rather -excited and uplifted with, from some mysterious source, a new -accretion of strength. - -"I see the force of your argument," he said to his chief. "I see the -inevitability of the course you have taken. The story, even with my -innocence, is too amusing for the dignity of an ancient foundation and -our honorable profession of pedagogy."--He enjoyed this use of -rhetoric as a relief to his feelings, for he was torn between tragedy -and comedy, tears and laughter--"To oblige the Lord Mayor, the -governors, and yourself, I will accept the generous offer of the Chief -Constable. Good-bye. I hope you will not forget to mention Panoukian -tomorrow." - -The Head Master pondered this for some moments and then held out his -hand. Old Mole looked through him and walked on. He had not gone -twenty yards when he began to chuckle, to gulp, to blink, and then to -laugh. He laughed out loud, went on laughing, thumped in the air with -his fist. Suddenly the laughter died in him and he thought: - -"Twenty-five years! That's a large slice out of a man's life. -Ended--in what? Begun--in what? To show--what is there? Ended in one -sleepy, generous impulse leading to disaster. Twenty-five years, -slumbered away, in an ancient and honorable profession, in teaching -awkward, conceited, and, for the most part, grubby little boys things -which they looked forward to forgetting as soon as they passed out -into the world." And he had taken pride in it, pride in a possession -which chance and the muddle-headed excitability of men could in a -short space of time demolish, pride in the thought that he was half -remembered by some hundreds of the citizens of that huge, roaring city -from whose turmoil and gross energy he had lived secluded. He looked -back, and the years stretched before him tranquil and monotonous and -foolish. He totted up the amount of money that he had drawn out of -Thrigsby during those years and set against it what he had given--the -use of himself, the unintelligent, mechanical use of himself. He -turned from this unpleasant contemplation to the future. That was even -more appalling. Within twenty-four hours he had to perform the -definite act of disappearing from the scene. Beyond that lay nothing. -To what place in the world could he disappear? He had one brother, a -Chancery barrister and a pompous ass. They dined together once a year -and quarreled. . . . His only sister was married to a curate, had an -enormous family and small means. All his relations lived in a church -atmosphere--his father had been a parson in Lincolnshire--and they -distrusted him because of his avowed love for Lucretius and Voltaire. -Certainly they would be no sort of help in time of trouble. . . . As -for friends, he had none. His work, his days spent with crowds of -homunculi had given him a taste for solitude and the habit of it. He -had prided himself on being a clubbable man and he had had many -acquaintances, but not, in his life, one single human being to whom in -his distress he wished to turn. He had liked the crowds through which -he had wandered. They had given him the most comforting kind of -solitude. He was distressed now that the streets were so empty; shops, -public-houses, theaters were closed. How dreary the streets were! How -aimless, haphazard and sprawling was the town! How aimless, haphazard -and sprawling his own life in it had been! - -A woman passed him and breathed a hurried salute. He surveyed her with -a detached, though warmly humorous, interest. She was, like himself, -outcast, though she had found her feet and her own way of living. With -the next woman he shook hands. She laughed at him. He raised his hat -to the third. She stopped and stared at him, open-mouthed. As amazed, -he stared at her. It was the young woman of the train. - -He could find nothing to say, nor she; neither could move. Feeling the -necessity of a salute, he removed his hat, bowed, and, finding a -direct approach impossible, shot off obliquely and absurdly. - -"I had once a German colleague who was a lavish and indiscriminate -patron of the ladies of a certain profession. He resigned. I also have -resigned." - -She said: - -"I'm sorry," and, having found her tongue, added: - -"Can you tell me the way to the Flat Iron Market. My aunt won't take -me in." - -"Are you also in disgrace?" - -"Yes, sir. I was in service. It was the young master. I did love him, -I did really." - -"You had been dismissed when I met you in the train?" - -"Yes, sir. They gave me a quarter of an hour to go, without wages, and -they are sending on my box. My aunt won't take me in." - -Again in her eyes was the expression of helplessness and impotence in -the face of distress that had so moved him, and once again he melted. -He forgot his own situation and was only concerned to see that she -should not come to harm or be thrown destitute upon a cold, a busy, -harsh, and indifferent world. Upon his inquiry as to the state of her -purse, she told him she had only a shilling, and he pressed half a -sovereign into her hand. Then he asked her why she wished to find the -Flat Iron Market, and she informed him she had an uncle, Mr. Copas, -who was there. She had only seen him twice, but he had been kind to -her mother when she was alive, although he was not respectable. - -They were directed by a policeman, and as they walked Beenham gave her -the story of his experience at the police station and how he had -accepted the Chief Constable's ultimatum. And he employed the -opportunity to complete his explanation of his extraordinary lapse -from decorum. - -"You can do silly things when you're half awake," said Matilda. "It's -like being in love, isn't it?" - -"I have never been in love." - -She shot a quick, darting glance at him and he blinked. - - - -Flat Iron Market is a piece of waste land over against a railway arch. -Here on Saturdays and holidays is held a traffic in old metal, cheap -laces and trinkets, sweets and patent medicines, and in one corner are -set up booths, merry-go-rounds, swing boats, cocoanut shies, and -sometimes a penny gaff. In the evening, under the flare and flicker of -naphtha lamps, the place is thronged with artisans and their wives and -little dirty wizened children, and young men and maidens seeking the -excitement of each other's jostling neighborhood. - -Now, as Beenham and Matilda came to it, it was dark and deserted; the -wooden houses were shrouded, and the awnings of the little booths and -the screens of the cocoanut shies flapped in the night wind. They -passed a caravan with a fat woman and two young men sitting on the -steps, and they yawped at the sight of Beenham's white shirtfront. - -"Does Mr. Copas live in a caravan?" asked Beenham. - -"It's the theayter," replied Matilda. - -Picking their way over the shafts of carts and empty wooden boxes, -they came to a red and gilt fronted building adorned with mirrors and -knobs and scrolls, above the portico of which was written: "Copases -Theater Royal," in large swollen letters. At either end of this -inscription was a portrait, one of Mrs. Siddons in tragedy, the other -of J. L. Toole in comedy. Toole had been only recently painted and had -been given bright red hair. Mrs. Siddons, but for her label, would -only have been recognizable by her nose. - -In front of this erection was a narrow platform, on which stood a -small automatic musical machine surmounted with tubular bells played -by two little wooden figures, a man and a woman in Tyrolian costume, -who moved along a semi-circular cavity. In the middle of the façade -was an aperture closed in with striped canvas curtains. This aperture -was approached from the ground by a flight of wooden steps through the -platform. - -"Please," said Beenham, "please give my name as Mr. Mole." - -Matilda nodded and ran up the wooden steps and through the aperture. -She called: - -"It's dark." - -When Mr. Mole followed her he found himself standing on the top of -another flight of steps leading down into impenetrable gloom. He -struck a light and peered into an auditorium of rough benches, the -last few rows of which were raised above the rest. Matilda looked up -at him, and he was struck by the beauty of the line of her cheek from -the brow down into the neck. She smiled and her teeth flashed white. -Then the match went out. - -He lit another, and they moved toward the stage, through the curtains -of which came a smell of onions and cheese, rather offensive on such a -hot night. For the first time Beenham began to feel a qualm as to the -adventure. The second match went out, and he felt Matilda place her -hand on his arm, and she led him toward the stage, told him to duck -his head, and they passed through into a narrow space, lit by a light -through another curtain, and filled, so far as he could see, with -scenery and properties. - -"Have you been here before?" he said. - -"When I was a little girl. I think it's this way." - -He stumbled and brought a great pole and a mass of dusty canvas -crashing down. At once there was the battering of feet on boards, the -din of voices male and female, and above them all a huge booming bass -roaring: - -"In Hell's name, what's that?" - -Matilda giggled. - -A curtain was torn aside, and the light filled the place where they -were. Against it they could see silhouetted the shape of a diminutive -man craning forward and peering. He had a great stick in his hand, and -he bellowed: - -"Come out o' that! It's not the first time I've leathered a man, and -it won't be the last. This 'ere's a theater, my theater. It ain't a -doss house. Come out o' that." - -"It's me," said Matilda. - -"Gorm, it's a woman!" - -"It's me, uncle." - -"Eh?" - -"It's me, Matilda Burn." - -"What? Jenny's girl?" - -"Yes, uncle." - -"Well, I never! Who's your fancy?" - -"It's Mr. Mole." - -The figure turned and vanished, and the curtain swung to again. They -heard whisperings and exclamations of surprise, and in a moment Mr. -Copas returned with a short ladder which he thrust down into their -darkness. They ascended it and found themselves on the stage. Matilda -was warmly embraced, while her companion stood shyly by and gazed -round him at the shabby scenery and the footlights and the hanging -lamps over his head. He found it oddly exciting to be standing in such -a place, and he said to himself: "This is the stage," as in Rome one -might stand and say: "This is the Forum." This excitement and romantic -fervor carried with it a certain helplessness, as though he had been -plunged into a foreign land that before he had only dimly realized. - -"This is the stage! This is the theater!" - -It was a strange sensation of being detached and remote, of having -passed out of ordinary existence into a region not directly concerned -with it and subject to other laws. He felt entirely foreign to it, but -then, also, under its influence, he felt foreign to his own existence -which had cast him high and dry and ebbed away from him. It was like -one of those dreams in which one startlingly leaves the earth and, as -startlingly, finds security in the thin air through which, bodiless, -one soars. There was something buoyant in the atmosphere, a -zestfulness, and at the same time an oppressiveness, against which -rather feebly he struggled, while at the same time he wondered whether -it came from the place or from the people. Mr. Copas, the large -golden-haired lady, the thin, hungry-looking young man, the drabbish -young woman, the wrinkled, ruddy, beaming old woman, the loutish -giant, the elderly, seedy individual, the little girl with her hair -hanging in rat's tails, who clustered round Matilda and smiled at her -and glowered at her and kissed her and fondled her. - -To all these personages he was presented as "Mr. Mole." When at length -Mr. Copas and his niece had come to an end of their exchange of family -reminiscence, the men shook hands with him and the women bowed and -curtsied with varying degrees of ceremony, after which he was bidden -to supper and found himself squatting in a circle with them round a -disordered collection of plates and dishes, bottles, and enameled iron -cups, all set down among papers and costumes and half-finished -properties. - -"Sit down, Mr. Mole," said Mr. Copas. "Any friend of any member of my -family is my friend. I'm not particular noble in my sentiments, but -plain and straightforward. I'm an Englishman, and I say: 'My country -right or wrong.' I'm a family man and I say: 'My niece is my niece, -right or wrong.' Them's my sentiments, and I drink toward you." - -When Mr. Copas spoke there was silence. When he had finished then all -the rest spoke at once, as though such moments were too rare to be -wasted. Matilda and Mr. Copas engaged in an earnest conversation and -the clatter of tongues went on, giving Mr. Mole the opportunity to -still his now raging hunger and slake the tormenting thirst that had -taken possession of him. Silence came again and he found himself being -addressed by Mr. Copas. - -"Trouble is trouble, I say, and comes to all of us. For your kindness -to my niece, much thanks. She will come along of us and welcome. And -if you, being a friend of hers, feel so disposed, you can come along, -too. It's a come-day-go-day kind of life, here to-day and gone -to-morrow, but there's glory in it. It means work and plenty of it, -but no one's ever the worse for that." - -It was a moment or two before Beenham realized that he was being -offered a position in the troupe. He took a long draught of beer and -looked round at the circle of faces. They were all friendly and -smiling, and Matilda's eyes were dancing with excitement. He met her -gaze and she nodded, and he lost all sense of incongruity and said -that he would come, adding, in the most courteous and elegant -phrasing, that he was deeply sensible of the privilege extended to -him, but that he must return to his house that night and set his -affairs in order, whereafter he would with the greatest pleasure -renounce his old life and enter upon the new. He was doubtful (he -said) of his usefulness, but he would do his best and endeavor not to -be an encumbrance. - -"If you gave me the Lord Mayor of Thrigsby," said Mr. Copas, "I would -turn him, if not into a real actor, at least into something so like -one that only myself and one other man in England could tell the -difference." - -Mr. Mole found that he had just time to catch the last train home, -and, after arranging for his return on the following day, he exchanged -courtesies all round, was shown out by a little door at the back of -the stage, and walked away through the now empty streets. He was -greatly excited and uplifted, and it was not until he reached the -incline of the station that memory reasserted itself and brought with -it the old habit of prudence, discretion, and common sense. He was -able to go far enough back to see the little dusty theater and the -queer characters in it as fantastic and antipodean, but when he came -to the events of that evening the contrast was blurred and the world -of settled habit and conviction was merged into the unfamiliarity of -the stage and became one with it in absurdity. The thought of stepping -back from his late experience into ordinary existence filled him with -anger and hot resentment: the passage from the scene at the club and -the interview with his chief to Mr. Copas's company was an easy and -natural transition, or so it seemed when he thought of Matilda. - -He felt very defiant when he reached Bigley and half hoped that he -might meet some of his acquaintances. They would go on catching the -early train in the morning and the through train in the evening, while -he would be away and free. Some such feeling he had always had in July -of superiority over the commercial men who had but three weeks' -holiday in the year, while he had eight weeks at a stretch. Now he was -to go away forever, and Bigley would talk for a little and then forget -and go on cluttering about its families and its ailments and its -inheritances and its church affairs and its golf course and the -squabbles with the Lord of the Manor. He met no one and found his -house shut up, and it took him fully half an hour to rouse his man. By -that time he had lost his temper and had no desire save to bully the -fellow. Everything else was wiped out, and he wanted only to assert -himself in bluster. In this way he avoided any awkward wondering -whether the man knew, got out the information that he was going away, -probably leaving Bigley, selling the house and furniture, and would -write further instructions when he had settled down. He ordered and -counter-ordered and ordered breakfast until he had fixed it at ten, -and at last, after a round volley of oaths because the man turned to -him with a question in his eyes, went upstairs to his room, rolled -into bed, and slept as deeply as an enchanted knight beneath the -castle of a fairy princess. - -The next morning he went through his accounts, found that his capital -amounted to nearly four thousand pounds, had his large suitcase packed -with a careful selection of clothes and books, told his man he was -going abroad, paid him three months' wages in advance, apologized for -his violence overnight, shook hands, went round the garden to say -good-bye to his vegetable marrows and sweet peas, and then departed. - -In Thrigsby he saw his solicitor (an old pupil), who was -professionally sympathetic, but took his instructions for the sale of -his house and furniture gravely and promised to keep his whereabouts -and all communications secret. - -"It is a most serious calamity," said the solicitor. - -"Damn it all," rejoined Old Mole, "I like it." And he visited his -bank. The manager had always thought Beenham "queer," and received his -rather unusual instructions without astonishment. - -"You are leaving Thrigsby?" - -"For good. Can't think why I've stayed here so long." - -He drew a large sum of money in notes and gold and dined well and -expensively at a musty, heavily carpeted commercial hotel. When the -porter had placed his bag in a cab and turned for his instructions he -gaped in surprise on being told to drive to the Flat Iron Market. Even -more surprised were the frequenters of that resort when the cab drew -up by the pavement and a well-dressed, middle-aged gentleman with gold -spectacles descended and pushed his way through the crowd jostling and -chattering under the blare and din of the mechanical organs and the -flicker and flare of the naphtha lamps to the back of Copas's Theater -Royal, which he entered by the stage door. It was whispered that he -was a detective, and he was followed by a buzzing train of men and -women. Disappointed of the looked-for sensation, they soon dispersed -and were swallowed up in the shifting crowd. - -Groping through the darkness, he came to the greenroom--Mr. Copas's -word for it--and deposited his bag. On the stage, through a canvas -curtain, he could hear the thudding of feet and the bellowing of a -great voice broken every now and then with cheers at regular intervals -and applause from the auditorium. In a corner on a basket sat Matilda. -She was wearing a pasteboard crown and gazing at herself in a mirror. -As he dropped his bag she looked up and grinned. - -"So you've come back? I didn't think you would." - -"Yes, I've come back. The school has broken up." - -She removed her crown. - -"Like to see the show? Uncle's got 'em tonight." - -"Got? What has he got?" - -"The audience." - -She led him to the front of the house, where they were compelled to -stand, for all the benches were full, packed with sweating, zestful -men and women who had paid for enjoyment and were receiving it in full -measure. - - - -In the "Tales out of School," published after H. J. Beenham's death by -one of the many pupils who became grateful on his achieving celebrity, -there is an admirable account of his first impression of the theater -which can only refer to the performance of Mr. Copas in the Flat Iron -Market. Till then he says he had always regarded the theater as one of -those pleasures without which life would be more tolerable, one of -those pleasures to face which it is necessary to eat and drink too -much. The two respectable theaters in Thrigsby were maintained by -annual pantomimes and kept open from week to week by the visits of -companies presenting replicas of alleged successful London plays. He -had never attended either theater unless some one else paid. . . . -Here now in this ramshackle Theater Royal, half tent, half booth, his -sensations were very mixed. At first the shabby scenery, the poverty -of the stage furniture, the tawdriness of the costumes of the players, -filled him with a pitying sense of the ludicrous. The program was -generous, opening with "Robert Macaire," passing on to "Mary Queen of -Scots," and ending with a farce called "Trouble in the Home," while -between the pieces there would be song and dance by Mr. Fitter, the -celebrated comedian. All this was announced on a placard hanging from -the proscenium. . . . Mary Queen of Scots was sitting, crowned, on a -Windsor chair at the back of the stage, surrounded with three -courtiers. As Darnley (or it might be Bothwell), Mr. Copas was -delivering himself of an impassioned if halting narration, addressed -to the hapless Queen through the audience. He was certainly a very bad -actor, so Beenham thought until he had listened to him for nearly five -minutes, at the end of which a change took place in his mind and he -found himself forced to accept Mr. Copas's own view of the traffic of -the stage. It was impossible to make rhyme or reason of the play, -which showed the most superb disregard for history and sense. Apart -from Mr. Copas it did not exist. He was its center and its -circumference. It began and ended in him, moved through him from its -beginning to its end. The rest of the characters were his puppets. -When he came to an end of a period Mary Queen of Scots would turn on -one of three moods--the tearful, the regal, the noisily defiant; or a -page would say, "Me Lord! Me Lord!"; or the lugubrious young man, -dressed in priestly black, would borrow from another play and in a -sepulchral voice declaim, "Beware the Ides of March." The performance -was an improvisation and in that art only Mr. Copas had any skill, -unless he had deliberately so subdued the rest that he was left with -his own passionate belief in himself and acting as acting to clothe -the naked and deformed skeleton with flesh. Whatever the process of -his mind he did succeed in hypnotizing himself and his audience, -including Mr. Mole and Matilda, and worked up to a certain height and -ended in shocking bathos so suddenly as to create surprise rather than -derision. He believed in it all and made everybody else believe. - -Matilda gave a sigh as the curtains were drawn and Mr. Copas appeared, -bowing and bowing again, using his domination over his audience to -squeeze more and more applause out of them. - -"Ain't it lovely?" said Matilda. - -"It is certainly remarkable," replied Mr. Mole. - -"You'd never think he had a floating kidney, would you?" - -"I would not." - -"It's that makes him a little quick in his temper." - -From the audience arose a smell of oranges, beer and peppermint, and -there were much talk and laughter, giggling and round resounding -kissing. No change of scene was considered necessary for the song and -dance of Mr. Fitter, who turned out to be the lugubrious young man. He -had no humor, but he worked very hard and created some amusement. Mr. -Copas did not appear in the farce, which was deplorable and made Mr. -Mole feel depressed and ashamed, so that for a moment his old point of -view reasserted itself and he felt aghast at the undertaking upon -which he was embarked. A moment or two before he had been telling -himself that this was "life"--the talk and the laughter and the -kissing; now he felt only disgust at its coarseness and commonness. He -was dejected and miserable, stripped even of the intellectual interest -roused by Mr. Copas. The loutish buffoons on the stage with their -brutal humors filled him with resentment at their degradation. Only -his obstinacy saved him from yielding to the impulse to escape. . . . -Matilda had grown tired of standing and had taken his arm. She laughed -at nearly all the jokes. Her laughter was shrill and immoderate. He -called himself fool, but he stayed. - -He was warmly welcomed by Mr. Copas after the performance. His -congratulations and praise were accepted with proper modesty. - -"Acting," said Mr. Copas, "is a nart. There's some as thinks it's a -trick, like performing dogs, but it's a nart. What did you think of -Mrs. Copas?" - -The question was embarrassing. Fortunately no answer was expected. - -"I've taught her everything she knows. She's not very good at queens, -but her mad scenes can't be beat, can't be beat. My line's tragedy by -nature, but a nartist has to be everything. . . . What's your line, -Mr. Mole?" - -"I don't know that I have a line." - -Mr. Copas rubbed his chin. - -"Of course. You _look_ like a comic, but we'll see, we'll see. You -couldn't write plays, I suppose? Not that there's much writing to be -done when you give three plays a night, and a different program every -night. Just the plot's all we want. Are you good at plots?" - -"I've read a good deal." - -"Ah! I was never a reader myself. . . . Of course, I can't pay you -anything until I know whether you're useful or not." - -"I've plenty of money, thanks." - -Mr. Copas eyed his guest shrewdly. - -"Of course," he said, "of course, if you were really keen I could take -you in as a sort of partner." - -"I don't know that I----" - -"Ten pounds would do it." - -In less than half an hour Mr. Mole was a partner in the Theater Royal -and Mr. and Mrs. Copas were drinking his health in Dublin stout. They -found him a bed in their lodgings in a surprisingly clean little house -in a grimy street, and they sat up half the night discussing plays and -acting with practical illustrations. He was fascinated by the frank -and childish egoism of the actor and enjoyed firing him with the plots -of the Greek tragedies and as many of the Latin comedies as he could -remember offhand. - -"By Jove!" cried Copas. "You'll be worth three pounds a week to me. -Iffyjenny's just the part Mrs. Copas has been looking for all her -life. Ain't it, Carrie?" - -But Mrs. Copas was asleep. - - - -In the very early morning the Theater Royal was taken to pieces and -stacked on a great cart. The company packed themselves in and on a -caravan and they set out on their day's journey of thirty miles to a -small town in Staffordshire, in the marketplace of which they were to -give a three weeks' season. Mr. Copas drove the caravan and Mr. Mole -sat on the footboard, and as they threaded their way through the long -suburbs of Thrigsby he passed many a house where he had been a welcome -guest, many a house where he had discussed the future of a boy or an -academic problem, or listened to the talk of the handful of cultured -men attracted to the place by its school and university. How few they -were he had never realized until now. They had seemed important when -he was among them, one of them; their work, his work, had seemed -paramount, the justification of, the excuse for all the alleged -squalor of Thrigsby which he had never explored and had always taken -on hearsay. That Thrigsby was huge and mighty he had always admitted, -but never before had he had any sense of the remoteness from its -existence of himself and his colleagues. It was Thrigsby that had been -remote, Thrigsby that was ungrateful and insensible of the benefits -heaped upon it. There had always been a sort of triumph in retrieving -boys from Thrigsby for culture. He could only think of it now with a -bitterness that fogged his judgment. His discovery of the Flat Iron -Market made him conceive Thrigsby as a city of raw, crude vitality on -which he had for years been engaged in pinning rags and tatters of -knowledge in the pathetic belief that he was giving it the boon of -education--secondary education. And there frothed and bubbled in his -tired mind all the jargon of his old profession. In a sort of waking -nightmare he set preposterous questions in interminable examinations -and added up lists of marks and averaged them with a sliding rule, and -blue-penciled false quantities in Latin verse. . . . And the caravan -jogged on. He looked back over the years, and through them there -trailed a long monotonous stream of boys, who had taken what he had to -give, such as it was, and given nothing in return. He saw his own -futile attempts to keep in touch with them and follow their careers. -They were not worth following. Nine-tenths of them became clerks in -banks and offices, sank into mediocre existences, married, produced -more boys. The mockery of it all! He thought of his colleagues, how, -if they stayed, they lost keenness and zest. How, if they went, it was -to seek security and ease, to marry, to "settle down," and produce -more boys. Over seven hundred boys in the school there were, and all -as alike as peas in a pod, all being taught year in, year out, the -same things out of the same books by the same men. His thoughts wound -slowly round and round and the bitterness in him ate into his soul and -numbed him. The caravan jogged on. He cared nothing where he was, -whither he might be going, what became of him. Only to be moving was -enough, to be moving away from the monotony of boys and the black -overpowering vitality of Thrigsby. - -It was not easy for Mr. Copas to be silent and he addressed his new -partner frequently on all manner of subjects, the weather, the horse's -coat, the history of Mr. Fitter, and all with such absorption that -they had gone eight miles and were just passing out of Thrigsby into -its southeast spur of little chimney-dominated villages before he -awoke to the fact that he was receiving no attention. - -"Dotty!" he said, with a click of his tongue, and thereafter he fell -to conning new speeches for the favorite parts of his repertory. -Slowly they crawled up a long slope until they rounded the shoulder of -a low rolling hill, from whence the world seemed to open up before -them. Below lay a lake, blue under the vivid sky, gleaming under the -green wooded hills that enclosed it. Beyond rose line upon line of -round hummocky hills. The caravan stopped and with a jolt Mr. Mole -came out of the contemplation of the past when he was known as H. J. -Beenham, and sat gaping down at the lake and the hills. He was -conscious of an almost painful sense of liberation. The view invited -to move on and on, to range over hill after hill to discover what -might lie beyond. - -"What hills are those?" he asked. - -"You might call them the Pennine Range." - -"The backbone of England. That's a school phrase." - -"You been asleep? Eh?" - -"Not exactly asleep. Kind of cramped." - -"You're a funny bloke. I been a-talking to you and you never -listened." - -"Didn't I? I'm sorry." - -"We water the horses just here." - -There was a spring by the roadside and here the caravan drew up. Mrs. -Copas produced victuals and beer. Conversation was desultory. - -"Can't do with them there big towns," said Mr. Copas, and Old Mole -then noticed a peculiarity of the actor's wife. Whenever he spoke she -gazed at him with a rapt stupid expression and the last few words of -his sentences were upon her lips almost before they left his. It was -fascinating to watch and the schoolmaster forgot the feeling of -repugnance with which their methods of eating inspired him. He watched -Mrs. Copas and heard her husband, so that every remark was broken up: - -"Wouldn't go near them if it weren't for the----" - -"Money." - -"Give me a bit of cheese and a mug of beer by the----" - -"Roadside." - -"But the show's got to----" - -"Earn its keep." - -"Earn its keep. I'm going to sleep. Them as wants to walk on can walk -on." - -Mr. Copas rose and went into the caravan and his wife followed him. -The wagon had not yet caught them up. - -"Shall we walk on?" said Matilda. - -"If it's a straight road." - -"Oh! There'll be signposts. We'll maybe find a wood." - -So they walked on. She was wearing a blue print frock with the sleeves -rolled up to her elbow. She had very pretty arms. - -"I sha'n't stop 'ere long," she said. - -"No? Why not?" - -"It ain't good enough. Nothing's good enough if you stop too long at -it. Uncle'll never be any different." - -"Will any of us ever be different?" - -"I shall," she said, and she gave a queer little defiant laugh and her -stride lengthened so that she shot a pace or two ahead of him. She -turned and laughed at him over her shoulder. - -"Come along, slowcoach." - -He grunted and made an effort, but could not catch her. So they moved -until they came to a little wood with a white gate in the hedges. -Through this she went, he after her, and she flung herself down in the -bracken, and lay staring up through the leaves of the trees. He stood -looking down at her. It was some time before she broke the silence and -said: - -"Sit down and smell. Ain't it good? . . . Do you think if you murdered -me now they'd ever find me?" - -"What a horrible idea?" - -"I often dream I've committed a murder. They say it's lucky. Do you -believe in dreams?" - -"Napoleon believed in dreams." - -"Who was he?" - -"He was born in Corsica, and came to France with about twopence -halfpenny in his pocket. He made himself Emperor before he was forty, -and died in exile." - -"Still, he'd had his fling. I'm twenty-one. How old are you?" - -"Twice that and more." - -"Are you rich or clever or anything like that?" - -"No!" he smiled at the question. "Nothing like that." - -She sat up and chewed a long grass stalk. - -"I'm lucky." She gave a little sideways wag of her chin. "I know I'm -lucky. If only I'd had some education." - -"That's not much good to you." - -"It makes you speak prop'ly." - -That was a view of education never before presented to him. Certainly -the sort of education he had doled out had done little to amend the -speech of his Thrigsbian pupils. - -"Is that all you want--to speak properly?" - -"Yes. You speak prop-properly." - -"Nothing else." - -"There is a difference between gentlemen and others. I want to have to -do with gentlemen." - -"And ladies?" - -"Oh! I'll let the ladies look after theirselves." - -"_Them_selves." - -"Themselves." - -She flushed at the correction and a dogged sulky expression came into -her eyes. She nibbled at the grass stalk until it disappeared into her -mouth. For a moment or two she sat plucking at her lower lip with her -right finger and thumb. Through her teeth she said: - -"I _will_ do it." - -Contemptuously, with admirable precision, she spat out the grass stalk -against the trunk of a tree. - -"Did you ever see a lady do that? You never did. You'll see me do -things you've never seen a lady do. You'll see me---- But you've got -to teach me first. You'll teach me, won't you? . . . You won't go away -until you've taught me? You won't go away?" - -"You're the most extraordinary young woman I ever met in my life." - -"Did you come to uncle because of me?" - -"Eh?" - -He stared at her. The idea had not presented itself to him before. She -was not going to allow him to escape it. - -"Did you come to uncle because of me?" - -He knew that it was so. - -"Yes," he said. "Hadn't we better go?" - -"Not yet." - -She was kneeling beside him mischievously tickling the back of his -hand with a frond of bracken. - -"Not yet. Do you remember what you said to me that night?" - -"No. What did I say?" - -"You said you'd never been in love." - -"No more I have." - -"Come along then." - -The caravan hove in sight as they reached the gate. She joined Mrs. -Copas inside, and he, Mr. Copas, on the footboard. He was filled with -a bubbling humor and was hard put to it not to laugh aloud. He had no -clear memory of the talk in the wood, but he liked the delicious -absurdity of it. - -"In love?" he said to himself. "Nonsense." - -All the same he could not away with the fact that he had a new zest -and pleasure in contemplating the future. Thrigsby and all its works -fell away behind him and he was glad of his promise to teach the girl. -. . . One girl after hundreds of boys! It had been one of his stock -jests for public dinners in Thrigsby that the masters of the Grammar -School and the mistresses of the High School should change places. No -one had ever taken him seriously until now Fate had done so. Of course -it could not last, this new kind of perambulatory school with one -master and one pupil; the girl was too attractive; she would be -snapped up at once, settle down as a wife and mother before she knew -where she was. In his thoughts he had so isolated himself with her -that old prejudices leaped up in him and gave him an uncomfortable -sense of indiscretion. That, however, he placated with the reminder -that, after all, they were chaperoned by Mrs. Copas. - -"That's a fine girl, your niece," he said to Mr. Copas. - -"Aye. A handsome bit o' goods. She says to me, she says, 'I want to be -a nactress, uncle,' she says. And I says: 'You begin at the bottom, -young lady, and maybe when you're your aunt's age you'll be doing the -work your aunt does.' They tell me, Mr. Mole, that in London they have -leading ladies in their teens. I've never seen the woman who could -play leads under forty. . . . Good God! Hi! Carrie! Tildy!" - -Mr. Mole had fallen from the footboard, flat on his face in the road. - - - -When he came to himself he thought with a precision and clarity that -amounted almost to vision of his first arrival at Oxford, saw himself -eagerly, shyly, stepping down from the train and hurrying through the -crowd of other young men, eager and shy, and meeting school -acquaintances. He remembered with singular acuteness the pang of shame -he had felt on encountering Blazering who was going to Magdalen while -he himself was a scholar of Lincoln. He pursued the stripling who had -been himself out of the station and up past the gaol, feeling -amazingly, blissfully youthful when he put up his hand and found a -stiff beard upon his chin. Gone was the vision of Oxford, gone the -sensation of youth, and he realized that he was in bed in a stranger's -room, which, without his glasses, he could not see distinctly. There -was a woman by his bedside, a stout woman, with a strong light behind -her, so that he could not distinguish her features. It was a very -little room, low in the ceiling. The smell of it was good. It had one -small window, which was open, and through it there came up the hubbub -of voices and the grinding beat and blare of a mechanical organ that -repeated one tune so quickly that it seemed always to be afraid it -would not have time to reach the end before it began again. The woman -was knitting. He tried to remember who she might be, but failing, and -feeling mortified at his failure, he consoled himself with the -reflection that he was ill--ill-in-bed, one of the marked degrees of -sickness among schoolboys. How ill? He had never been ill in his life. - -"Can I have my spectacles?" he said. - -"Oh!" The knitting in the woman's hands went clattering to the floor. -"Lor'! Mr. Mole, you did give me a start. I shall have the -palpitations, same as my mother. My mother had the palpitations for -forty years and then she died of something else." - -"If I had my spectacles I could see who it is speaking." - -"It's Mrs. Copas. Don't you know me, Mr. Mole?" - -"I--er. I . . . . This is your house?" - -"It's lodgings, Mr. Mole. You've been sick, Mr. Mole, you have. -Prostrated on your back for nearly a week, Mr. Mole. You did give us -all a turn, falling off the caravan like that into the King's high -road. You'd never believe the pool of blood you left in the road, Mr. -Mole. But it soon dried up. . . ." - -He began to have a glimmering, dimly to remember, a road, a caravan, a -horse's tail, dust, a droning voice behind him, but still the name of -Copas meant nothing to him. - -"Copas! Copas!" he said to himself, but aloud. - -Mrs. Copas produced the spectacles and placed them on his nose. Then -she leaned over him in his bed and in the loud indulgent voice with -which the unafflicted humor the deaf, she said: - -"Yes! Mrs. Copas. Matilda's aunt. _You know."_ - -That brought the whole adventure flooding back. - -Matilda! The girl who wanted to speak properly, the girl whom he had -found in the smelly little theater. No! Not in the theater! In the -train! He writhed and went hot, and his head began to throb, and he -felt a strange want of coördination among the various parts of his -body. - -"I'm afraid," he said, "I'm afraid I _am_ ill." - -"There! There!" said Mrs. Copas. "We'll soon pull you round. I'm used -to the nursing; not that Mr. Copas is ever ill. He says a nartist -can't afford to be ill, but we had a comic once who used to have -fits." - -"It's very good of you. I must have been an incubus. I'm sure I must -be taking you away from the theater." - -"We've got a new tune on the organ and we're doing splendid business. -Mr. Copas _will_ be glad to hear you've asked for your spectacles. -. . . Doctor says you mustn't talk." - -And, indeed, he had lost all desire to do so. His head ached so that -he could not keep his eyes open, nor think, nor hear anything but a -confused buzz, and he sank back into the luxury of feeling sorry for -himself. - -Nothing broke in upon that sensation until suddenly the organ stopped. -That startled him and set him listening. In the distance, muffled, he -could hear the huge booming voice of Mr. Copas, but not what he said. - -"Nice people," he thought. "Nice kind people." - -There were three medicine bottles by his bed-side. They suddenly -caught his eye and he gazed at them long and carefully. One was full -and two were half empty. Their contents were brown, reddish, and -white. - -"I must be very ill," he said to himself mournfully. There darted in -on him a feeling of fun. "No one knows! I am ill and no one knows. Not -a soul knows. They won't know. They won't ever know." - -That seemed to settle it. "They" sank away. He hurled defiance after -them, opened, as it were, a trap-door in the past, and gloated over -the sight of "them" hurtling down and down. He felt better after that. -The pain in his head was almost gone. His bed seemed to be floating, -drifting, turning on the tide, while it was moored to Mrs. Copas. He -gazed at her and saw in her the comfortable, easy, hovering present. -He had only to cut the painter to drift out into the wide future. When -he opened his mouth to tell Mrs. Copas that he remembered her -perfectly she laid her finger on her lips and said "Ssh!" and when he -insisted on grunting out a word, she smacked the back of her fat hand -roguishly and cried: - -"Naughty!" - -At that he giggled helplessly and went on giggling until he was near -crying. - -"Histrionics!" said Mrs. Copas, and gave him brandy. - -Matilda appeared at the door and was pushed out. At that Mr. Mole, who -had seen her, began to weep and sobbed like a disappointed child, and -went on sobbing until Matilda was allowed to come in and sit by his -side. She sat on the bed, and he stopped his sobbing as abruptly as a -horse will come to a standstill after a mad sunset gallop. Mrs. Copas -left them. - -Matilda sat stroking her cheek and gazing at him. She cocked her head -on one side and said: - -"Glad you're better, but I don't like men with beards. Napoleon didn't -have a beard." - -"How do you know?" - -"I bought a book about him for a penny. I like Josephine." - -"I don't know much about it, but I always felt sorry for her." - -"She gave as good as she got. That's why I like her. . . . I had a -part to do to-night." - -"A long part?" - -"No. I just had to say to uncle, 'Won't you give her another chance?' -His erring wife had just returned to him." - -"Did you do it well?" - -"No. Uncle said no one who wasn't at the back of the stage could hear -me." - -"Oh! Did you like it?" - -"Yes. I felt funny like." - -Mr. Mole coughed. Matilda stopped. - -"What did I say?" - -"Funny like." - -"Don't people say that?" - -"It is unusual." - -"Oh!" - -"I wasn't a bit nervous. Uncle says that's a bad sign. He says I -looked all right, though I'm sure I was an object with that paint -stuff on my face and the red all in the wrong place. Aunt wouldn't let -me do it myself. . . . You will cut your beard off?" - -"I don't know. I might like it." - -She handed him a mirror, and mischief danced in her eyes as she -watched his disconcerted expression. "Bit of a surprise, eh?" - -He could find nothing to say. Impossible for him to lay the mirror -down. For years he had accepted a certain idea of his personal -appearance--ruddy, heavy-jowled, with a twinkle behind spectacles -surmounted by a passably high forehead that was furrowed by the lines -of a frown almost deliberately cultivated for the purposes of -inspiring terror in small boys delinquent. Now, in the sharpened -receptivity of his issue from unconsciousness, his impression was one -of roundness, round face, round eyes, round brow, round head (balder -than he had thought)--all accentuated by the novelty of his beard, -that was gray, almost white. Age and roundness. Fearful of meeting -Matilda's gaze, he went on staring into the mirror. Her youth, the fun -bubbling up in her, reproached him, made him feel defenceless against -her, and, though he delighted in her presence, he was resentful. She -had so many precious qualities to which he could not respond. - -"I 'spect I must go now," she said. - -"Yes. I'm rather tired." - -She took the mirror from him, patted his hand, and soothed him, -saying: - -"You'll soon be up and doing, and then you'll begin to teach me, won't -you?" - -"How would it be if you came and read to me every evening before the -play? Then we could begin at once." - -"Shall I?" She warmed to the plan. "What shall I read?" - -"You might read your book about Napoleon." - -"Oh! Lovely!" - -Mrs. Copas returned to give him his medicine and to tuck him up for -the night. - -"What day is it?" he asked. - -"Saturday." - -"Are there any letters for me?" He remembered then that there could be -none, that he was no longer his old self, that an explosion in his -affairs had hurled him out of his old habitual existence and left him -bruised and broken among strangers. - -"I would like," he said, "to shave to-morrow." - -"Yes, yes," replied Mrs. Copas, humoring him. "I'm in the next room if -you want anything. Doctor said you was to have as much sleep as you -could get. Being Saturday night, and you an invalid, Mr. Copas bought -you some grapes and sponge-cake, and he wants to know if you'd like -some port wine. We thought it 'ud make you sleep." - -He expressed a desire for port, and she bustled into the next room and -came back with a tumblerful. He was, or fancied he was, something of a -connoisseur, and he propped himself up and sipped the dark liquid, -and, as he was wont, rolled it round his tongue. It tasted of ink and -pepper. He wanted to spit it out, but, blinking up at Mrs. Copas, he -saw the good creature beaming at him in rapt indulgence, and could not -bring himself to offend her. With his gorge rising he sipped down -about a third of the tumbler's contents and then feebly, miserably -held it out toward her. - -"A bit strong for you?" - -He nodded, drew the bed-clothes up over his shoulders and feigned -sleep. The light was put out and he heard Mrs. Copas creep into the -next room. Sleep? The fiery liquor sent the blood racing and throbbing -through his veins. The palms of his hands were dry and hot, and his -head seemed to be bulging out of its skin. His ears were alert to -every sound, and to every sound his nerves responded with a thrill. He -could hear footsteps on the cobbles of the street outside, voices, -hiccoughs, a woman's voice singing. These were the accompaniment to -nearer sounds, a duet in the next room, a deep bass muttering, and a -shrill argumentative treble. The bass swelled into anger. The treble -roared into pleading. The bass became a roar, the treble a squeak. It -was exciting, exasperating. In his bed Beenham tossed from side to -side. He did not want to listen to their altercation, but sleep would -not come to him. The bass voice broke into a crackling; then -spluttering, furious sounds came. The treble squealed pitifully. Came -the thud and smack of a fist on flesh and bone, a gasp, a whine, a -whimper, another thud and smack, and growls from the bass, then -silence. . . . - -Sick at heart Old Mole lay in his bed staring, staring into the -darkness, and the blood in him boiled and bubbled, and his skin was -taut and he shivered. He had heard of men beating their wives, but as -one hears of the habits of wild animals in African forests; he had -thought of it as securely as here in England one may think of a -man-eating tiger near an Indian village. Now, here, in the next room, -the thing had happened. Manliness, that virtue which at school had -been held up as the highest good, bade him arise and defend the woman. -In theory manliness had always had things perfectly its own way. In -practice, now, sound sense leaped ahead of virtue, counted the cost -and accurately gauged the necessity of action. In the first place to -defend Mrs. Copas would mean an intrusion into the sanctuary of human -life, the conjugal chamber; in the second place, in spite of many -familiar pictures of St. George of Cappadocia (subsequently of -England), it would be embarrassing to defend Mrs. Copas in her night -attire; in the third place, the assault had grown out of their -altercation of which he had heard nothing whatever; and, lastly, it -might be a habit with Mr. and Mrs. Copas to smite and be smitten. -Therefore Old Mole remained in his bed, faintly regretting the failure -of manliness, fighting down his emotion of disgust, and endeavoring to -avoid having to face his position. In vain: shunning all further -thought of the miserable couple in the next room, he was driven back -upon himself, to his wretched wondering: - -"What have I done?" - -He had thrown up his very pleasant life in Thrigsby and Bigley, a -life, after all, of some consequence, for what? . . . For the society -of a disreputable strolling player who was blind with conceit, was apt -to get drunk on Saturday nights, and in that condition violently to -assault the wife of his bosom. And he had entered into this adventure -with enthusiasm, had seen their life as romantic and adventurous, -deliberately closing his eyes to the brutality and squalor of it. -Thud, whack! and there were the raw facts staring him in the face. - -There came a little moaning from the next room: never a sound from the -bass: and soon all was still, save for the mice in the skirting board -and occasional footsteps on the cobbles of the street outside. - -No sleep came to Old Mole until the pale light of dawn crept into his -room to show him, shivering, its meanness and poverty. It sickened -him, but when in reaction he came to consider his old mode of living -that seemed so paltry as to give a sort of savor to the coarseness of -this. . . . Anyhow, he reflected, he was tied to his bed, could not -take any action, and must wait upon circumstance, and hope only that -there might not be too many violent shocks in store for him. - -Mrs. Copas bore the marks of her husband's attentions: a long bruise -over her right eye and down to the cheek-bone, and a cut on her upper -lip which had swelled into an unsightly protuberance. Her spirit -seemed to be entirely unaffected, and she beamed upon him from behind -her temporary deformities. When she asked him if he had slept well, he -lied and said he had slept like a top. - -She brought him hot water, razor, brush and soap, and he shaved. Off -came his beard, and, after long scrutiny of his appearance in the -mirror and timid hesitation, he removed the moustache which had been -his pride and anxiety during his second year at Oxford, since when it -had been his constant and unobtrusive companion. The effect was -startling. His upper lip was long and had, if the faces of great men -be any guide, the promise of eloquence. There was a new expression in -his face, of boldness, of firmness, of--as he phrased it -himself--benevolent obstinacy. His changed countenance gave him so -much pleasure that he spent the morning gazing into the mirror at -different angles. With such a brow, such an upper lip, such lines -about the nose and chin, it seemed absurd that he should have spent -twenty-five years as an assistant master in a secondary school. Then -he laughed at himself as he realized that he was behaving as he had -not done since the ambitious days at Oxford when he had endeavored to -decide on a career. Ruefully he remembered that in point of fact he -had not decided. With a second in Greats he had taken the first -appointment that turned up. His history had been the history of -thousands. One thing only he had escaped--marriage, the ordinary -timid, matter-of-fact, sugar-coated marriage upon means that might or -might not prove sufficient. After that, visiting his friends' houses, -he had sighed sentimentally, but, with all the eligible women of his -acquaintance--and they were not a few--he had been unable to avoid a -quizzical tone which forbade the encouragement of those undercurrents -upon which, he had observed, middle-aged men were swept painlessly -into matrimony. . . . Pondering his clean-shaven face in the mirror he -felt oddly youthful and excited. - -In the evening Matilda came as she had promised, with the book, which -proved to be that Life of Napoleon by Walter Scott which so incensed -Heine. The sun shone in at the window upon the girl's brown hair, and -as she opened the book the church bells began to ring with such an -insistent buzzing that it was impossible for her to read. As he lay in -bed Old Mole thought of Heine lying in his mattress-grave, being -visited by his _Mouche,_ just such another charming creature as this, -young and ardent, and by her very presence soothing; only he was no -poet, but a man dulled by years of unquestioning service. He gazed at -Matilda as he could not recollect ever having gazed at a woman, -critically, but with warm interest. There was a kind of bloom on her, -the fragrance and graciousness that, when he had encountered it as a -young man, had produced in him a delicious blurring of the senses, an -almost intoxication wherein dreadfully he had lost sight of the -individual in the possession of them, and considered her only as -woman. Now his subjection to the spell only heightened his sense of -Matilda's individuality and sharpened his curiosity about her. Also it -stripped him of his preoccupation with himself and his own future, and -he fell to considering hers and wondering what the world might hold -for her. . . . Like most men he had his little stock of -generalizations about women, how they were mysterious, capricious, -cruel, unintelligent, uncivilized, match-making, tactless, untruthful, -etc., but to Matilda he could not apply them. He wanted to know -exactly how she personally felt, thought, saw, moved, lived, and he -refused to make any assumption about her. This curiosity of his was -not altogether intellectual: it was largely physical, and it grew. He -was annoyed that he had not seen her come into the room to mark how -she walked, and to procure this satisfaction he asked her to give him -a glass of water. He watched her. She walked easily with, for a woman, -a long stride and only a very slight swing of the hips, and a drag of -the arms that pleased him mightily. As she gave him the glass of water -she said: - -"You do look nice. I knew you would, without that moustache." - -She had a strong but pleasant North-Country accent, and in her voice -there was a faint huskiness that he found very moving, though it was -only later, when he analyzed the little thrills which darted about him -in all his conversations with her, that he set it down to her voice. -. . . She resumed her seat by the foot of his bed with her book in her -hand, and his physical curiosity waxed only the greater from the -satisfaction he had given it. He could find no excuse for more, and -when the bells ceased he took refuge in talk. - -"Where were you born, Matilda?" - -"In a back street," she said. "Father was a fitter, and mother was a -dressmaker, but she died, and father got the rheumatism, so as we all -'ad--had--to work. There was----" - -"Were." She blushed and looked very cross. - -"Were three girls and two boys. Jim has gone to Canada, and George is -on the railway, and both my sisters are married, one in the country, -and one in Yorkshire. I'm the youngest." - -"Did you go to school?" - -"Oh! yes. Jackson Street, but I left when I was fourteen to go into a -shop. That was sitting still all day and stitching, or standing all -day behind a counter with women coming in and getting narked----" - -"Getting what?" - -"Narked--cross-like." - -"I see. So you didn't care about that?" - -"No. There is something in me here"--she laid her hand on her -bosom--"that goes hot and hard when I'm not treated fair, and then I -don't care a brass farthing what 'appens." - -She was too excited as she thought of her old wrongs to correct the -last dropped aitch, though she realized it and bit her lip. - -"I been in service three years now, and I've been in four places. I've -had enough." - -"And what now?" - -"I shall stop 'ere as long as you do." - -Something in her tone, a greater huskiness, perhaps, surprised him, -and he looked up at her and met her eyes full. He was confused and -amazed and startled, and his heart grew big within him, but he could -not turn away. In her expression there was a mingling of fierce -strength, defiance, and that helplessness which had originally -overcome him and led to his undoing. He was frightened, but -deliciously, so that he liked it. - -"I didn't know," she said, "that uncle drank. Father drank, too. There -was a lot in our street that did. I'm not frightened of many things, -but I am of that." - -He resented the topic on her lips and, by way of changing the subject, -suggested that she should read. She turned to her book and read aloud -the first five pages in a queer, strained, high-pitched voice that he -knew for a product of the Board School, where every variance of the -process called education is a kind of stiff drill. When she came to -the end of a paragraph he took the book and read to her, and she -listened raptly, for his diction was good. After he had come to the -end of the first chapter she asked for the book again and produced a -rather mincing but wonderfully accurate copy of his manner. She did -not wait for his comment but banged the book shut, threw it on the -bed, and said: - -"That's better. I knew I could do it. I knew I was clever. . . . -You'll stop 'ere for a bit when you're better. You mustn't mind uncle. -I'll be awfully nice to you, I will. I'll be a servant to you and make -you comfortable, and I won't ask for no wages. . . ." - -"My dear child," replied Old Mole, "you can't possibly have enjoyed it -more than I." - -She was eager on that. - -"Did you really, really like it?" - -"I did really." - - - -So began the education of Matilda. At first he drew up, for his own -use, a sort of curriculum--arithmetic, algebra, geography, history, -literature, grammar, orthography--and a time-table, two hours a day -for six days in the week, but he very soon found that she absolutely -refused to learn anything that did not interest her, and that he had -to adapt his time to hers. Sometimes she would come to him for twenty -minutes; sometimes she would devote the whole afternoon to him. When -they had galloped through Oman's "History of England" she declined to -continue that study, and after one lesson in geography she burned the -primer he had sent her out to buy. When he asked her where Ipswich was -she turned it over in her mind, decided that it had a foreign sound -and plumped for Germany. She did not seem to mind in the least when he -told her it was in England, in the Eastern Counties. . . . On the -other hand, when he procured their itinerary for the next few months -from Mr. Copas and marked it out on the map for her, she was keenly -interested and he seized on the occasion to point out Ipswich and, -having engaged her attention, all the county towns of England and -Scotland. - -"Where were you born?" she asked. - -He found the village in Lincolnshire. - -"And did you go to a boarding-school?" - -He pointed to Haileybury and then to Oxford. From there he took her -down the river to London, and told her how it was the capital of the -greatest Empire the world had ever seen, and how the Mother of -Parliaments sat by the river and made decrees for half the world, and -how the King lived in an ugly palace within sight of the Mother of -Parliaments, and how it was the greatest of ports, and how in -Westminster Abbey all the noblest of men lay buried. She was not -interested and asked: - -"Where's the Crystal Palace, where they play the Cup-tie?" - -He did not know where in London, or out of it, the Crystal Palace -might be, and she was delighted to find a gap in his knowledge. On the -whole she took her lessons very seriously, and he found that he could -get her to apply herself to almost any subject if he promised that at -the end of it she should be allowed to read. . . . Teaching under -these circumstances he found more difficult than ever he had imagined -it could be. In his Form-room by the glass roof of the gymnasium he -had been backed by tradition, the ground had been prepared for him in -the lower Forms; there was the whole complicated machinery of the -school to give him weight and authority. Further, the subjects of -instruction were settled for him by the Oxford and Cambridge -Examination Board. Now he was somewhat nettled to find that, though he -might draw up and amend curricula, he was more and more forced to take -the nature and extent of his teaching from his pupil, who, having no -precise object in view, followed only her instinct, and that seemed to -bid her not so much to lay up stores of knowledge as to disencumber -herself, to throw out ballast, everything that impeded the buoyancy of -her nature. - -They were very pleasant hours for both of them, and in her company he -learned to give as little thought to the future as she. At first, -after he recovered, he fidgeted because there were no letters. Day -after day passed and brought him no communication from the outside -world. Being a member of many committees and boards, he was used to a -voluminous if uninteresting post. However, he got used to their -absence, and what with work in the theater and teaching Matilda he had -little time for regret or anxiety. He had been up from his bed a whole -week before he bought a newspaper, that which he had been in the habit -of reading in his morning train. It was dull and only one announcement -engaged his attention; the advertisement of the school setting forth -the fees and the opening date of the next term--September 19. That -gave him four weeks in which freely to enjoy his present company. -Thereafter surely there would be investigation, inquiry for him, the -scandal would reach his relatives and they would--would they -not?--cause a search for him. Till then he might be presumed to be -holiday-making. - -Meanwhile he had grown used to Mr. Copas's manner of living--the dirt, -the untidiness, the coarse food, the long listlessness of the day, the -excitement and feverishness of the evening. Mrs. Copas's -disfigurements were long in healing, and when he was well enough he -replaced her at the door and took the money, and sold the -grimy-thumbed tickets for the front seats. He sat through every -performance and became acquainted with every item in Mr. Copas's -repertory. With that remarkable person he composed a version of -"Iphigenia," for from his first sketch of the play Mr. Copas had had -his eye on Agamemnon as a part worthy of his powers. Mr. Mole insisted -that Matilda should play the part of Iphigenia, and Mrs. Copas was -given Clytemnestra wherewith to do her worst. . . . The only portion -of the piece that was written was Iphigenia's share of her scenes with -Agamemnon. These Old Mole wrote out in as good prose as he could -muster, and she learned them by heart. Unfortunately they were too -long for Mr. Copas, and when it came to performance--there were only -two rehearsals--he burst into them with his gigantic voice and hailed -tirades at his audience about the bitterness of ingratitude in a fair -and favorite daughter, trounced Clytemnestra for the lamentable -upbringing she had given their child, and, in the end, deprived -Iphigenia of the luxury of slaughter by falling on his sword and -crying: - -"Thus like a Roman and a most unhappy father I die of thrice and -doubly damned, self-inflicted wounds. By my example let all men, -especially my daughter, know there is a canon fixed against -self-slaughter." - -He made nonsense of the whole thing, but it was wonderfully effective. -So far as it was at all lucid the play seemed to represent Agamemnon -as a wretched man driven to a miserable end by a shrewish wife and -daughter. - -Much the same fate attended Mr. Mole's other contribution to the -repertory, a Napoleonic drama in which Mr. Copas figured--immensely to -his own satisfaction--as the Corsican torn between an elderly and -stout Marie Louise and a youthful and declamatory Josephine. Through -five acts Mr. Copas raged and stormed up and down the Emperor's -career, had scenes with Josephine and Marie Louise when he felt like -it, confided his troubles and ambitions to Murat when he wanted a rest -from his ranting, sacked countries, cities, ports as easily and neatly -as you or I might pocket the red at billiards, made ponderous love to -the golden-haired lady of the Court, introduced comic scenes with the -lugubrious young man, wept over the child, dressed up as L'Aiglon, -whom he called "Little Boney," banished Josephine from the Court, and -died on the battlefield of Waterloo yielding up his sword to the Duke -of Wellington, represented by Mr. Mole, his first appearance upon any -stage, with this farewell: - -"My last word to England is--be good to Josephine." - -It was the Theater Royal's most successful piece. The inhabitants of -that little Staffordshire town had heard of the Duke of Wellington and -they applauded him to the echo. Every night when they played that -stirring drama, after Mr. Copas had taken his fill of the applause, -there were calls for the Duke, and Mr. Mole would appear leading -Josephine by the hand. - -At the top of their success Mr. Copas decided to move on. - -"In this business," he said, "you have to know when to go. You have to -leave 'em ripe for the next visit, and go away and squeeze another -orange. I said to Mrs. Copas, the night you came, that you looked like -luck. You've done it. If you'll stay, sir, I'll give you a pound a -week. You're a nartist, you are. That Wellington bit of yours without -a word to say--d'you know what we call that? We call that 'olding the -stage. It takes a nartist to do that." - -Mr. Mole took this praise with becoming modesty and said that he would -stay, for the present. Then he added: - -"And about Matilda?" - -"She's my own niece," replied Mr. Copas, "but I don't mind telling you -that she's not a bit o' good. She ain't got the voice. She ain't got -the fizzikew. When there's a bit o' real acting to be done, she isn't -there. She just isn't there. There's a hole where she ought to be. I'm -bothered about that girl, I am, bothered. She doesn't earn her keep." - -"I thought she was very charming." - -"Pretty and all that, but that's not acting. Set her against Mrs. -Copas and where is she?" - -Mr. Mole's own private opinion was that on the stage Mrs. Copas was -repulsive. However, he kept that to himself. Very quietly he said: - -"If Matilda goes, I go." - -Mr. Copas looked very mysterious and winked at him vigorously. Then he -grinned and held out a dirty hand. - -"Put it there, my boy, put it there. What's yours?" - -Within half an hour he had coaxed another ten pounds out of Mr. Mole's -pocket and Matilda's tenure of the part of Josephine was guaranteed. - - - -At their next stopping-place, on the outskirts of the Pottery towns, -disaster awaited the company. A wheel of the caravan jammed as they -were going down a hill and delayed them for some hours, so that they -arrived too late in the evening to give a performance. Mr. Copas -insisted that the theater should be erected, and lashed his assistants -with bitter and blasphemous words, so that they became excited and -flurried and made a sad muddle of their work. When at last it was -finished and Mr. Copas went out himself to post up his bills on the -walls of the neighborhood, where of all places he regarded his fame as -most secure, he had got no farther than the corner of the square when -he came on a gleaming white building that looked as though it were -made of icing sugar, glittering and dazzling with electric light and -plastered all over with lurid pictures of detectives and criminals and -passionate men and women in the throes of amorous catastrophes and -dilemmas. He stopped outside this place and stared it up and down, -gave it his most devastating fore-and-aft look, and uttered one word: - -"Blast!" - -Then unsteadily he made for the door of the public-house adjoining it -and called for the landlord, whom he had known twenty years and more. -From the platform of the theater Mrs. Copas saw him go in, and she -rushed to find Mr. Mole, and implored him to deliver her husband from -the seven devils who would assuredly possess him unless he were -speedily rescued and sent a-billposting. - -Mr. Mole obeyed, and found the actor storming at the publican, asking -him how he dare take the bread from the belly and the air from the -nostrils of a nartist with a lot o' dancing dotty pictures. With -difficulty Mr. Copas was soothed and placated. He had ordered a glass -of beer in order to give himself a status in the house, and the -publican would not let him pay for it. Whereupon he spilled it on the -sanded floor and stalked out. Mr. Mole followed him and found him -brooding over a poster outside the "kinema" which represented a lady -in the act of saving her child from a burning hotel. He seized his -paste-pot, took out a bill from his satchel, and covered the heads of -the lady and her child with the announcement of his own arrival with -new plays and a brilliant and distinguished company. - -When he was safely round the corner he seized his companion by the arm -and said excitedly: - -"Ruining the country they are with them things. Last time I pitched -opposite one o' them, when they ought to have been working my own -company was in there watching the pictures." - -"I have always understood," replied Mr. Mole, "that they have a -considerable educational value, and certainly it seems to me that -through them the people can come by a more accurate knowledge of the -countries and customs of the world than by reading or verbal -instruction." - -Mr. Copas snorted: - -"Have you _seen_ 'em?" - -"No." - -"Then talk when you have. I say it's ruining the country and pampering -the public. Who wants to know about the countries and customs of the -world? What men and women want to know is the workings of the human -heart." - -Unexpectedly Mr. Mole found himself reduced to triteness. The only -comment that presented itself to his mind was that the human heart was -a mystery beyond knowing, but that did not allow him to controvert the -actor's dictum that no one wanted to know about the countries and -customs of the world, and he wondered whether the kinematograph did, -in fact, convey a more accurate impression of the wonders of the world -than Hakluyt or Sir John Mandeville, who did, at any rate, present the -results of their travels and inventions with that pride in both truth -and lying which begets style. - -He determined to visit the kinematograph, and after he and Mr. Copas -had completed their round and made it possible for a large number of -the inhabitants of the Potteries to become aware of their existence, -he returned to the Theater Royal and fetched Matilda. They paid -threepence each and sat in the best seats in the middle of the hall, -where they were regaled with a Wild West melodrama, an adventure of -Max Linder, a Shakespearean production by a famous London actor, a -French drama of love and money, and a picture of bees making honey in -their hive. Matilda liked the bees and the horses in the Wild West -melodrama. When Max Linder climbed into a piano and the hammers hit -him on the nose and eyes she laughed; but she said the French drama -was silly, and as for the Shakespearean production she said: - -"You can't follow the play, but I suppose it's good for you." - -"How do you mean--good for you?" - -"I mean you don't really like it, but there's a lot of it, and a lot -of people, and the dresses are lovely. It doesn't get hold of you like -uncle does sometimes." - -"Your uncle says the kinemas are ruining the country." - -"Oh! He only means they're making business bad for him." - -"Your uncle says you'll never make an actress, Matilda." - -"Does he?" - -(Some one behind them said "Ssh!" - -"Ssh yourself," retorted Matilda. "There ain't nothing to hear.") - -"Does he?" she said. "What do _you_ think?" - -"I'm afraid I don't know much about it." - -For the first time he noted that when he was with Matilda his brain -worked in an entirely novel fashion. It was no longer cool and -fastidiously analytical, seizing on things and phenomena from the -outside, but strangely excited and heated, athletic and full of energy -and almost rapturously curious about the inside of things and their -relation one with another. For instance, he had hitherto regarded the -kinematograph as a sort of disease that had broken out all over the -face of the world, but now his newly working mind, his imagination ---that was the word for it--saw it as human effort, as a thing -controlled by human wills to meet human demands. It did not satisfy -his own demand, nor apparently did it satisfy Matilda's. For the rest -of the audience he would not venture to decide. Indeed he gave little -thought to them, for he was entirely absorbed by the wonder of the -miracle that had come to him, the new vision of life, the novel -faculty of apprehension. He was in a state of ferment and could not -sort his impressions and ideas, but he was quite marvelously -interested in himself, and, casting about for expression of it all, he -remembered stories of seeds buried for years under mighty buildings in -cities and how when the buildings were pulled down those seeds put -forth with new vigor and came to flower. So (he said to himself) it -had been with him. Excitedly he turned to Matilda and said: - -"About this acting. Do you yourself think you can do it?" - -"I'm sure I can." - -"Then you shall." - -The lights in the hall went up to indicate the end of the cycle of -pictures. - - - - -All that night and through the next day his exaltation continued, and -then suddenly it vanished, leaving him racked by monstrous doubts. His -mind, the full exercise of which had given him such thrilling delight, -seemed to become parched and shriveled as a dried pea. Where had been -held out for him the promise of fine action was now darkness, and he -sank deeper and deeper into a muddy inertia. Fear possessed him and -brought him to agony, dug into his sides with its spur, drove him -floundering on, and when out of the depths of his soul he strove to -squeeze something of that soaring energy that had visited him or been -struck out of him (he knew not which it was) he could summon nothing -more powerful to his aid than anger. He wept tears of anger--anger at -the world, at himself, and the blind, aimless force of events, at his -own impotence to move out of the bog, at the folly and obstinacy which -had led him to submit to the affront that had been put upon him by men -who for years had been his colleagues and comrades. His anger was -blown to a white heat by disgust when he looked back and counted the -years he had spent in fatted security mechanically plying a mechanical -profession, shut out by habit and custom from both imaginative power -and the impotence of exhaustion. He raged and stormed and blubbered, -and he marveled at the commotion going on within him as he pursued his -daily tasks, read aloud with Matilda, argued with Mr. Copas, took -money at the door of the theater in the evening, sat among the dirty, -smelling, loutish audience. In his bitterness he found a sort of -comfort in reverting to his old bantering attitude toward women, to -find it a thousand times intensified. More than half the audience were -women, poor women, meanly dressed, miserably corseted; the fat women -bulged and heaved out of their corsets, and the thin women looked as -though they had been dropped into theirs and were only held up by -their armpits. There they sat, hunched and bunched, staring, gaping, -giggling, moping, chattering, chattering . . . Ach! They were silly. - -And the men? God save us! these sodden, stupid clods were men. They -slouched and sprawled and yawned and spat. Their hands were dirty, -their teeth yellow, and their speech was thick, clipped, guttural, -inhuman. . . . Driven on by a merciless logic he was forced into -consideration of himself. As he sat there at the end of the front row -he turned his hands over and over; fat, stumpy hands they were, and he -put them up and felt the fleshiness of his neck, the bushy hair -growing out of his ears, and he ran them along his plump legs and -prodded the stoutness of his belly. He laughed at himself. He laughed -at the whole lot of them. And he tried to remember a single man or a -single woman whom he had encountered in his life and could think of as -beautiful. Not one. - -He turned his attention to the stage. Copas was almost a dwarf, a -strutting, conceited little dwarf, pouring out revolting nonsense, a -hideous caricature of human beings who were the caricatures of -creation. He said to himself: - -"I must get out of this." - -And he found himself using a phrase he had employed for years in -dealing with small boys who produced slovenly work and wept when he -railed at them: - -"Tut! Tut! This will never do!" - -At that he gasped. He was using the phrase to himself! He was -therefore like a small boy in the presence of outraged authority, and -that authority was (words came rushing in on him) his own conscience, -his own essence, liberated, demanding, here and now, among men and -women as they are, the very fullness of life. - -He had not regained his mood of delight, but rather had reached the -limit of despair, had ceased blindly and uselessly to struggle, but -cunningly, cautiously began to urge his way out of his despond. -Whatever happened, he must move forward. Whatever happened, he must -know, discover, reach out and grasp. - -And he blessed the illumination that had come to him, blessed also the -blackness and misery into which, incontinently, he had fallen. He -submitted to exhaustion and was content to await an accretion of -energy. - -Thereafter, for a little while, he found himself more akin to Mr. -Copas, drank with him, cracked jokes with him, walked with him and -listened to his talk. He began to appreciate Mrs. Copas and to -understand that being beaten by a man is not incompatible with a -genuine affection and sympathy for him. He speculated not at all, and -more than ever his instruction of Matilda became dependent upon her -caprice. - -Her uncle now gave her a salary of five shillings a week and upon her -first payment she went out and bought a cigar for her mentor. She gave -three half-pence for it and he smoked it and she wore the band on her -little finger. To guard against such presents in the future he bought -himself a box of fifty Manilas. - -Mrs. Copas began to sound him as to his resources. Losing patience -with his evasions she asked him at last bluntly if he were rich. He -turned his cigar round his tongue and said: - -"It depends what you mean by rich." - -"Well," she replied cautiously, feeling her ground, "could you lay -your hands on fifty pounds without selling anything?" - -"Certainly I could, or a hundred." - -"A hundred pounds!" - -Her eyes and mouth made three round O's and she was silenced. - -Both were astonished and both sat, rather awkwardly, adjusting their -financial standards. She took up her knitting and he plied his cigar. -They were sitting on boxes outside the stage door in the warm August -sunlight. She gave a discreet little cough and said: - -"You don't . . . you didn't . . . have a wife, did you?" - -"No. I have never had a wife." - -"Think of that now. . . . You'd have a house-keeper maybe?" - -"A married couple looked after me." - -"Well, I never! Well, there's never any knowing, is there?" - -He had learned by this time that there was nothing at all behind Mrs. -Copas's cryptic utterances. If there were anything she could arrive at -it by circumlocution, and in her own good time would make it plain. -Her next remark might have some connection with her previous train of -thought or it might not. She said in a toneless, detached voice: - -"And to think of you turning up with our Matilda. And they do say how -everything's for the best. . . . It's a pity business is so bad here, -isn't it?" - - - -Business was very bad. The faithful few of the district who always -patronized Mr. Copas year after year attended, but they amounted to no -more than fifty, while the young people were drawn off by the -kinematograph. They even sank so far as to admit children free for -three nights in the hope that their chatter would incite their parents -to come and share the wonders they had seen. On the fourth night only -four old women and a boy paid for admission. - -The situation was saved by a publican on the other side of the square -who, envious of his rival's successful enterprise with the -kinematograph, hired the theater for a week's boxing display, by his -nephew, who was an ex-champion of the Midlands with a broken nose and -reputation. - -That week was one of the most miserable depression. Mr. Copas drank -freely. Mrs. Copas never stopped chatting, the company demanded their -salaries up to date, accepted a compromise and disappeared, and the -ex-champion of the Midlands took a fancy to Matilda. He followed her -in the streets, sent her half-pounds of caramels, accosted her more -than once and asked her if she did not want a new hat, and when she -snubbed him demanded loudly to know what a pretty girl like her was -doing without a lad. Chivalrously, not without a tremor, Mr. Mole -offered himself as her escort in her walks abroad. They were -invariably followed by the boxer whistling and shouting at intervals. -Sometimes he would lag behind them and embark upon a long detailed and -insulting description of Mr. Mole's back view; sometimes he would -hurry ahead, look round and leer and make unpleasant noises with his -lips or contemptuous gestures with his hands. - -Matilda had found a certain spot by a canal where it passed out of the -town and made a bee-line across the country. There was a bridge over a -sluice which marked the cleavage between the sweet verdure of the -fields and the soiled growth of the outskirts of the town. It was a -lonely romantic spot and she wished to visit it again before they -left. She explained to her friend that she wanted to be alone but -dared not because of her pursuer, and her friend agreed to leave her -on the bridge and to lurk within sight and earshot. - -They had to go by tram. The boxer was twenty yards behind them. They -hurried on, mounted the tram just as it was starting, and -congratulated themselves on having avoided him. When they reached the -bridge there he was sitting on the parapet, whistling and leering. -Matilda flamed scarlet and turned to go. Boiling with fury Old Mole -hunched up his shoulders, tucked down his head (the attitude familiar -to so many Thrigsbians), and bore down on the offender. He grunted -out: - -"Be off." - -" 'Ave you bought the bally bridge?" - -And he grinned. The coarseness and beastliness of the creature -revolted Mr. Mole, roused him to such a pitch of furious disgust, that -he lost all sense of what he was doing, raised his stick, struck out, -caught the fellow in the chest and sent him toppling over into the -pool. He leaned over the parapet and watched the man floundering and -splashing and gulping and spitting and cursing, saw his face turn -greeny white with hard terror, but was entirely unmoved until he felt -Matilda's hand on his arm and heard her blubbering and crying: - -"He's drowning! He's drowning!" - -Then he rushed down and lay on his stomach on the bank and held out -his stick, further, further, as far as he could reach, until the lout -in the water clutched it. The boxer had lost his head. He tugged at -the stick and it looked for a moment as though there would be two men -in the water. It was a question which would first be exhausted. Grayer -and grayer and more distorted grew the boxer's face, redder and redder -and more swollen Old Mole's, until at last the strain relaxed and -Matilda's tormentor was drawn into shallow water and out on to the -bank. There he lay drenched, hiccoughing, spitting, concerned entirely -with his own discomfort and giving never a thought either to the -object of his desires or his assailant and rescuer. At last he shook -himself like a dog, squeezed the water out of his sleeves, sprang to -his feet and was off like a dart along the towpath in the direction of -the tall fuming chimneys of the town. - -Matilda and Old Mole walked slowly out toward the setting sun and in -front of them for miles stretched the regiments of pollarded willows -like mournful distorted human beings condemned forever to stand and -watch over the still waters. - -"Life," said Old Mole, "is full of astonishments. I should never have -thought it of myself." - -"He was very nearly drowned," rejoined Matilda. - -"It is very singular," said he, more to himself than to her, "that -one's instinct should think such a life worth saving. A more bestial -face I never saw." - -"I think," said she, "you would help anybody whatever they were like." - -She took his arm and they walked on, as it seemed, into the darkness. -Until they turned, neither spoke. He said: - -"I am oddly miserable when I think that in a fortnight the school will -reopen and I shall not be there. I suppose it's habit, but I want to -go back and I know I never shall." - -"I don't want never to go back." - -"Don't you? But then you're young and I'm rather old." - -"I don't think of you as old. I always think of you as some one very -good and sometimes you make me laugh." - -"Oh! Matilda, often, very often, you make me want to cry. And men -don't cry." - -A little scornfully Matilda answered: - -"_Don't_ they!" - -Through his mournfulness he felt a glow of happiness, a little aching -in his heart, a sort of longing and a pleasant pride in this excursion -with a young woman clinging to his arm and treating him with sweet -consideration and tenderness. - -"After all," he thought, "it is certainly true that when they reach -middle age men do require an interest in some young life." - -So, having fished out a theory, as he thought, to meet the case, he -was quite content and prepared, untroubled, to enjoy his happiness. - -He did thoroughly enjoy his happiness. His newly awakened but -unpracticed imagination worked like that of a sentimental and -self-cloistered writer who, having no conception of human -relationships, binds labels about the necks of his personages-- -Innocent Girlhood, Middle-aged Bachelorhood, Mother's Love, Manly -Honor, English Gentleman--and amuses himself and his readers with -propping them up in the attitudes meet and right to their affixed -characters. Except that he did not drag the Deity into it, Old Mole -lived perfectly for a short space of time in a neatly rounded -novelette, with himself as the touching, lamb-like hero and Matilda as -the radiant heroine. He basked in it, and when on her he let loose a -flood of what he thought to be emotion she only said: - -"Oh! Go on!" - -True to his sentimentality he was entirely unconscious of, absolutely -unconcerned with, what she might be feeling. He only knew that he had -been battered and bewildered and miserable and that now he was -comfortable and at his ease. - -The appointed end of all such things, in print and out of it, is -marriage. Outside marriage there is no such thing as affection between -man and woman (in that atmosphere passion and desire do not exist and -children are not born but just crop up). True to his fiction--and how -many men are ever true to anything else?--Old Mole came in less than a -week to the idea of marriage with Matilda. It was offensive to his -common sense, so repugnant indeed that it almost shocked him back into -the world of fact and that hideous mental and spiritual flux from -which he was congratulating himself on having escaped. He held his -nose and gulped it down and sighed: - -"Ah! Let us not look on the dark side of life!" - -Then he asked himself: - -"Do I love her? She has young dreams of love. How can I give her my -love and not shatter them?" - -And much more in this egoistic strain he said, the disturbance in his -heart, or whatever organ may be the seat of the affections, having -totally upset his sense of humor. He told himself, of course, that she -was hardly the wife for a man of his position, but that was only by -way of peppering his emotions, and he was really rather amazed when he -came to the further reflection that, after all, he had no position. To -avoid the consternation it brought he decided to ask Matilda's hand in -marriage. - - - -As it turned out, to the utter devastation of his novelette, it was -his hand that was asked. - -He bought Matilda a new camisole. He had heard the word used by women -and was rather staggered when he found what it was he had purchased. -Confusedly he presented it to Innocent Girlhood. She giggled and then, -with a shout of laughter, rushed off to show Mrs. Copas her gift. He -did not on that occasion stammer out his proposal. - -He took her for three walks and two tram-drives at fourpence each, but -she was preoccupied and morose, and gave such vague answers to his -preliminary remarks that his hopes died within him and he discussed -the Insurance Act and Lancashire's chances of defeating Yorkshire at -Bradford. Moreover, Matilda was pale and drawn and not far from being -downright ugly, far too plain for a novelette at all events. He felt -himself sliding backward and could hear the buzz and roar of the chaos -within himself, and the novelette was unfinished and until he came to -the last jaunting little hope in the future, the last pat on the back -for the hero, the final distribution of sugar-plums all round, there -would be no sort of security, no sealed circle wherein to dwell. He -felt sick, and the nausea that came on him was worse than the fear and -doubt through which he had passed. He was like a man after a long -journey come hungry to an inn to find nothing to eat but lollipops. - - - -When they returned from their last tram-drive they had supper with Mr. -and Mrs. Copas, who discussed the new actors whom they had engaged, as -only two of the old company were willing to return. The new comic had -acted in London, in the West End, had once made his twenty pounds a -week. They were proud of him, and Mr. Copas unblushingly denounced the -Drink as the undoing of many a nartist. Very early in the evening, -before any move had been made to clear the plates and dishes away, -Matilda declared herself tired, and withdrew. Mr. Copas went on -talking and Mrs. Copas began to make horrible faces at him, so that -Old Mole, in the vagueness of his acute discomfort, thought mistily -that perhaps they were at the beginning of an altercation, which would -end--as their altercations ended. However, the talk went on and the -grimaces went on until at last Mr. Copas perceived that he was the -object of them, stopped dead, seized his hat and left the room. Mrs. -Copas beamed on Mr. Mole. She leaned back in her chair and folded her -arms. They were bare to the elbow and fat and coarse and red. She went -on beaming, and nervously he took out a cigar and lit it. Mrs. Copas -leaned forward and with a knife began to draw patterns with the -mustard left on the edge of a plate. - -"We'll be on the move again soon, Mr. Mole." - -"I shall be glad of that." - -"What we want to know, what I want to know and what Mr. Copas wants to -know is this. What are you going to do about it?" - -"I . . . I suppose I shall go with you." - -"You know what I mean, Mr. Mole. Some folk ain't particular. I am. And -Mr. Copas is very careful about what happens in his theater. If it -can't be legitimate it can't be and there's nothing more to be said. -. . . Now, Mr. Mole, what are you going to do?" - -"My good woman! I haven't the least idea what you are talking about. I -have enjoyed my stay with you. I have found it very instructive and -profitable and I propose to----" - -"It's Matilda, Mr. Mole. What's done is done. We're not saying -anything about that. Some says it's a curse and some says it's the -only thing worth living for. Matilda's my own husband's niece and I've -got to see her properly done by whether you're offended with a little -plain speaking or not, Mr. Mole." - -She had now traced a very passable spider's web in mustard on the -plate. - -"If you need to be told, I must tell you, Mr. Mole. Matilda's in the -way." - -No definite idea came to Mr. Mole, but a funny little throb and -trickle began at the base of his spine. He dabbed his cigar down into -half a glass of beer that Mr. Copas had left. - -"We've talked it out, Mr. Mole, and you've got to marry her or pay up -handsome." - -Marry! His first thought was in terms of the novelette, but those -terms would not embrace Mrs. Copas or her present attitude. His first -glimpse of the physical fact was through the chinks of his sentimental -fiction, and he was angry and hurt and disgusted. Then, the fiction -never having been rounded off, he was able to escape from it--(rare -luck in this world of deceit)--and he shook himself free of its dust -and tinsel, and, responding to the urgency of the occasion, saw or -half-saw the circumstances from Matilda's point of view. Mentally he -swept Mrs. Copas aside. The thing lay between himself and the girl. -Out of her presence he could not either think or feel about it -clearly. Only for himself there lay here and now, before him, the -opportunity for action, for real, direct, effective action, which -would lift him out of his despond and bring his life into touch with -another life. It gave him what he most needed, movement, uplift, the -occasion for spontaneity, for being rid, though it might be only -temporarily, of his fear and doubt and sickness of mind. Healthily, or -rather, in his eagerness for health, he refused to think of the -consequences. He lit another cigar, steadying himself by a chair-back, -so dazzled was he by the splendor of his resolution and the rush of -mental energy that had brought him to it, and said: - -"Of course, if Matilda is willing, I will marry her." - -"I didn't expect it of you, being a gentleman," returned Mrs. Copas, -obliterating her spider's web, "and, marriage being the lottery it is, -there are worse ways of doing it than that. After all, you do know -you're not drawing an absolute blank, which, I know, happens to more -than ever lets on." - - - -Mr. Mole found that it is much easier to get married in life than in -sentimental fiction. He never proposed to Matilda, never discussed the -matter with her, only after the interview with Mrs. Copas she kissed -him in the morning and in the evening, and as often in between as she -felt inclined. He made arrangements with the registrar, bought a -special license and a ring. He said: "I take you, Matilda Burn, to be -my lawful wedded wife," and she said: "I take you, Herbert Jocelyn -Beenham, to be my lawful wedded husband." Mrs. Copas sat on the -registrar's hat, and, without any other incident, they were made two -in one and one in two. - -In view of the approaching change in his condition he had written to -his lawyer and his banker in Thrigsby, giving orders to have all his -personal property realized and placed on deposit, also for five -hundred pounds to be placed on account for Mrs. H. J. Beenham. - -The day after his wedding came this letter from the Head Master: - -"MY DEAR BEENHAM:--I am delighted that your whereabouts has been -discovered. All search for you has been unavailing--one would not have -thought it so easy for a man to disappear--and I had begun to be -afraid that you had gone abroad. As I say, I am delighted, and I trust -you are having a pleasant vacation. I owe you, I am afraid, a profound -apology. If there be any excuse, it must be put down to the heat and -the strain of the end of the scholastic year. I was thinking, I -protest, only of the ancient foundation which you and I have for so -long served. The Chairman of the Governors, always, as you know, your -friend, has denounced what he is pleased to call my Puritanical -cowardice. The Police have made inquiries about the young woman and -state that she is a domestic servant who left her situation in -distressing circumstances without her box and without a character. I -do apologize most humbly, my dear Beenham, and I look to see you in -your place at the commencement of the approaching term." - -Old Mole read this letter three times, and the description of his wife -stabbed him on each perusal more deeply to the heart. He tore the -sheet across and across and burned the pieces on the hearth. Matilda -came in and found him at it: and when she spoke to him he gave no -answer, but remained kneeling by the fender, turning the poker from -one hand to the other. - -"Are you cross with me?" she said. - -"No. Not with you. Not with you. Not with you." - -"You don't often say things three times." - -She came and laid her hands on his shoulders, and he took them and -kissed them, for now he adored her. - - - -In the evening came a knock at the front door. Mr. Mole was at the -theater arranging for a new play with which to reopen when the boxing -season, which had been extended, was over. The slut of a landlady took -no notice, and the knock was repeated thrice. Matilda went down and -opened the door and found on the step a short, plump, rotund, elegant -little man with spectacles and a huge mustache. He asked for Mr. -Beenham, and she said she was Mrs. Beenham. He drew himself up and was -very stiff and said at the back of his throat: - -"I am your husband's brother." - -She took him upstairs to their sitting-room, and he told her how -distressed he was at the news that had reached him and to find his -brother living in such a humble place. He added that it was a serious -blow to all his family, but that, for his part, the world being what -it was and life on it being also what it was, he hoped that all might -be for the best. Matilda let him have his say and tactfully led him on -to talk about himself, and he told her all about his practice at the -Chancery Bar, and the wine at his club, and his rooms in Gray's Inn, -and his collection of Battersea china, and his trouble with the -committee of his golf club, and his dislike for most of his relations -except his brother Herbert, who was the last man in the world, as he -said, he had ever expected to go off the rails. She assured him then -that Herbert was the best and kindest of men, and that it would not be -her fault if their subsequent career did not astonish and delight him. -She did not drop a single aitch, and, noticing carefully his London -pronunciation, she mentally resolved to change her broad a's and in -future to call a schoolmaster a schoolmarster. . . . Their -conversation came abruptly to an end, and she produced a pack of cards -and taught him how to play German whist. From that he led her to -double-dummy Bridge, and they were still at it when his brother -returned. Matilda was scolded for being up so late, kissed, by both -men, and packed off to bed. - -Whisky was produced. Said brother Robert: - -"Well, of all the lunatics!" - -"So you've been shocked and amazed and horrified. Do the others know?" - -"Not yet. . . . I thought I'd better see you first." - -"All right. Tell them that I'm married and have become a rogue and a -vagabond." - -"You're not going on with this?" - -"I am." - -"Don't be a fool. Your wife's perfectly charming. There's nothing -against her." - -"That's had nothing to do with it. I'm going on for my own -satisfaction. I've spent half my life in teaching. I want to spend the -rest of it in learning." - -"From play-actors? Oh! come!" - -"My dear Robert, life isn't at all what you think it is. It isn't what -I thought it was. I'm interested. I'm eager. I'm keen. . . ." - -"And mad. . . ." - -"Maybe. But I tell you that life's got a heart to it somewhere, and -I'm going to find my way to it." - -"Then you're not going back?" - -"Never: neither to the old work, nor to the old kind of people." - -"Not even when I tell you that Uncle Jocelyn is dead at last and has -left us each ten thousand! Doesn't that make any difference, H. J.?" - -H. J. received this intelligence almost with dismay. It took him back -into the family councils, the family speculations as to Uncle -Jocelyn's will, the family squabbles over Uncle Jocelyn's personal -effects and their distribution, the family impatience at Uncle -Jocelyn's unconscionable long time in dying. And the vision of it all -irritated and weighed heavily on him. Often in Thrigsby he had said to -himself that when Uncle Jocelyn died he would retire. And now Uncle -Jocelyn was dead and he found his legacy rather a bewilderment than a -relief. It was such a large sum of money that it made him fall back -into his old sense of the grotesque in his relations with Mr. Copas -and his galley, just when he was congratulating himself on being able -to enter on his new life with real zest and energy. - -"No," he said, "that makes no difference. I shall stay where I am." - -"If there is ever any trouble," replied Robert, "I shall be only too -glad to help." - -"Thank you." - -Robert tapped at his mustache and said: - -"I suppose being married won't interfere with your golf." - -"I'm afraid it will." This came very tartly. - -"Er. . . . Sorry." - -That had flicked Robert on the raw. He had been feeling indulgent -toward his demented brother until his more than doubtful attitude -toward ten thousand pounds. When that was followed with the -renunciation of golf he was genuinely distressed and went away -muttering behind his mustache: - -"I give it up. I give it up. 'Pon my honor. _Non compos,_ don't -y'know, _non compos_." - - - -Nothing would induce Old Mole to visit Thrigsby again, and his -solicitor had to send a clerk down with documents for his signature. -When all the legal threads were tied up he told Matilda the extent of -his fortune, and how he had been asked to return to his position at -the school. - -"Are you sorry?" she asked. - -"No." - -"You sha'n't ever be, for me. Will you read to me now?" - -And he read the first two acts of "King Lear." - -"That isn't the play you were reading the other day. The one about -Venice and the man who was such a good soldier." - -He had begun "Othello," but it had filled him with terror, for it had -brought home to him the jealousy that was gnawing at his heart, -creeping into his bones. Delivered from sentimentality by his -surrender to his own generous impulse, sanded over as he was by years -of celibacy, he had day by day more swiftly yielded to this woman whom -he had taken for his wife, and had arrived at a passion torn, knotted, -and twisted by jealousy of that other whom he had never known, whose -child now waxed in her womb and brought her to long periods of almost -self-hypnotized inward pondering, so that, though she was all grace, -all tenderness and gratitude toward him, she was never his, never, -even in their most pleasant moments, anything but remote. The agonies -through which he passed made him only the more determined to be gentle -with her, and often when he took her hand and pressed it, and she gave -him not the pressure in return for which he hoped and so longed, he -would be unable to bear it and would go out and walk for miles and cry -out upon the injustice of the world. And then he would think that -perhaps she loved him, perhaps it was an even greater torture to her -to have this other between them; surely if that were so it must be -keener suffering for her since it was her doing and her folly and not -his. And he would hate the stain upon her, give way before the -violence of his hatred, and call her unworthy and long with a sick -longing for purity, an ideal mating, the first kindling in both man -and woman so that each could be all to the other, wholly, with never -so much as a thought lost in the past, never so much as the smallest -wear and usage of anterior desire. . . . He would persuade himself -that she did not love him at all; that she and the old bawd had -entrapped him by sordid and base cunning. And those were the worst -hours of all. But when he was with her and she gave him her smile or -some little sudden friendly caress he would feel comforted and very -sure of her and of the future when they would both forget, and then -both his hatred and his longing for a perfect world would fall away -from him and he would see them as absurd projections of those -contrasts which arise and haunt the half-comprehending mind. And he -would tell himself that all would be well; that they would be happy in -the child which would be his also, for the love he had for her. And -his jealousy would return. - -Therefore he read "King Lear," and the pity of it purged him, though -he was not without feeling that he, too, was cast out upon the barren -places of the earth to face the storm and meet disaster. Feeling so he -said to Matilda: - -"Money and material things seem to have nothing to do with life at -all. Here am I with you, whom I love. . . ." - -"Do you?" - -"I love you." - -"Thank you." - -"With you, and no possible anxiety as to the future, and yet I seem to -myself to be on the very brink of explosion and disaster." - -"Dear man, I wish you wouldn't think so much." - -"I must think, or my feelings swamp me." - -She thrilled him by taking his hand, and she said: - -"Do you know what I want?" - -"No. You shall have it." - -"I want to make you happy." - -That was the most definite assurance of her feeling for him she had as -yet given him. It soothed his jealousy, made it easier for him to -conquer it, but presently it laid him open to a new dread. The time -for her confinement was drawing on, and he began to think that out, -too; the violence and bloodiness of birth haunted him, the physical -pain it entailed, the possibility of its being attended by death. She -had promised him happiness, and she might die! He became -over-scrupulous in his treatment of her and worried her about her -health so that she lost her temper and said: - -"After all, it's me that's got to go through with it, and _I_ don't -think about it." - -That brought him up sharp, and he held his peace and watched her. -Truly she did not think about it. She accepted it. It was to her, it -seemed, entirely a personal matter, perfectly in the order of things, -to be worried through as occasion served. It might go well, or it -might go ill, but meanwhile there were the things of the moment to be -attended to and the day's pleasure to be seized. He was humbled and a -little envious of her. For a little while he indulged in an orgy of -self-reproach, but she only laughed at him and told him that when she -had so much cause for feeling depressed he might at least comfort her -with the sight of a cheerful face. He laughed, too, and told himself -he was a selfish ass and that she was made that way and he was made -another, and that perhaps men and women are made so, men thinking and -women accepting, or perhaps they only become so in the progress of -their lives. - -Matilda's baby came four months after their marriage. It was -still-born. - - - - -II - -MARRIAGE - -_Sie war liebenswürdig und er liebte sie: aber er war nicht -liebenswürdig und sie liebte ihn nicht._ - - - -II - -MARRIAGE - -MATILDA kept her promise and made her husband happy. She reduced him -to that condition wherein men and women believe that never has the -world been visited by such love and that they will go on loving -forever and ever. This she achieved by leaving his affections to look -after themselves and concentrating all her energies on seeing that he -was properly fed and clothed, had the requisite amount of sleep and -just enough cosseting to make him wish for more, which he did not get. -She left the ordering of their coexistence in his hands, and he, being -happy, span a cocoon of charming fancies about it, and showed little -disposition to change. Therefore they continued with Mr. Copas and -became acquainted with the four quarters of England and the two or -three kinds of towns which in vast numbers have grown on it, like -warts on the face of Oliver Cromwell. Bemused by the romance of love -and the sense of well-being that its gratification brings, he observed -very little and thought less, and he did not perceive that he was -falling into a routine as dispirited as that in which he had gone -round and round out of adolescence into manhood and out of manhood -into middle age. Such is the power of love--or rather of a certain -very general over-indulged variant of it--that it can lift a man out -of space and time and set him drifting and dreaming through a larger -portion of his allotted span than he can afford to lose. As there is a -sort of peace in this condition, it is highly prized: indeed, it -passes for an ideal, being as material as a fatted pig into whose -sides you can poke your finger, as into a cushion; it has the further -merit that it needs no effort to attain, but only a fall and no -struggle. Old Mole fell into it and prized it and told himself that -life was very good. When he told his wife that life was very good she -said that it was a matter of opinion and it depended what you happened -to want. - -"What do you want?" he asked. - -She thumped her chest with the odd little teasing gesture that was -perhaps most characteristic of her, and said: - -"Something big." - -"Aren't you content?" - -"Oh, yes. But I want to know, to find out." - -He stretched his legs and, with a beautiful sense of enunciating -wisdom, he remarked: - -"There is nothing to know, nothing to find out. Here are we, a man and -a woman, fulfilling the destiny of men and women, and, for the rest, -happy enough in the occupation to which circumstances and our several -destinies and characters have brought us. I am perfectly happy, my -dear, most surprisingly happy when I look back and consider all -things. I have no ambition, no hopes, and, I fancy, no illusions; most -happily of all, I have no politics. I did not make the world and I do -not believe that I can undo anything good or evil which, for the -world's purposes, is necessary to be done. . . ." - -He had developed a habit of talking and did not know it. She had taken -refuge in silence and was aware of it. - -Once she asked him if he did not feel the want of friends. - -"Friends?" he answered. "I want nothing while I have you." - -She made no reply and he was left hurt, because he had expected -appreciation of his entire devotion. - - - -She was happy, too, but more keenly than he, for she was a little -dazed by her astounding luck, and behind her pleasure in him and his -unfailing kindness and consideration lay the sting of uneasiness and -the dread that the comfort of such charming days could not last. -Ignorant, untaught, unprepared, love had been for her a kiss of the -lips, a surrender to the flood of perilous feeling, a tampering with -forces that might or might not sweep you to ruin: a matter of fancy, -dalliance, and risk. She had fancied, dallied, dared, and when she had -thought to be swept to ruin--and that swift descent also had had its -sickening fascination--she had been tumbled into this security where -love was solid, comfortable, omnipresent, and apparently all -providing. She was perpetually amazed at her husband and chafed only -against herself because she could not share his complacency. It was -easy for her to assimilate his manners and to take the measure of his -refinement. With talk of her brothers and sisters she would lead him -on to tell of his family, and especially of the women among whom he -had spent his boyhood, and she would contrast herself with them and -rebel against everything in herself that was not harmonious with their -atmosphere. And she found it increasingly difficult to get on with her -aunt, Mrs. Copas. - -The new comic, John Lomas, was a great success. He was a fat little -man in the fifties with a thorough knowledge of his business, which -was to make any and every kind of audience laugh. A wonderful stock of -tricks he had, tricks of voice, of limbs, of gesture, of facial -expression, nothing but tricks, inexhaustible. He cared about nothing -in the world but what he called "the laugh," and when he got one he -wanted another, and always had a quip or a leer or a cantrip to get -it. But he was a rascal and a drunkard, and had lost all sense of the -fitness of things and always went on too long until his audience was -weary of him. Therefore he had come down and down until he found an -appetite to feed that was gross enough to bear with his insistence. -. . . He said--it may have been true--that he had played before the -King of England, and he was full of stories of the theaters in London, -the real nobby theaters where the swells paid half a guinea for a seat -and brought their wives and other people's wives in shining jewels and -dresses cut low back and front. He had played in every kind of piece, -from the old-fashioned kind of burlesque to melodrama, drama, and -Shakespeare, and he had never had any luck, but had always been on the -point of making a fortune. "Charley's Aunt," he said, had been offered -to him, and he had taken an option, but at the last moment his backers -failed him. "And look at the money that had made and was still -making." His first stage of intoxication was melancholy, and then he -would weep over the mess he had made of his life and grow maudlin and -tell how badly he had treated the dear little woman who had been his -wife so that she had left him and gone off with a bloody journalist. -When that mood passed he would grow excited and blustering, and brag -of the slap-up women he had had when he was making his thirty pounds a -week. His most intimate confessions were reserved for Matilda, for he -despised Copas because he had never known anything better than a -fit-up. And of Mr. Mole he was rather scared. - -"I don't know," he would say to Matilda. "I don't know what it is, but -your guv'nor ain't one of us, is he now?" - -And when Matilda agreed that Mr. Mole was different he called her a -silly cuckoo for not making him take her to London and the Continong -to have a high old time. - -He could play the piano in a fumbling fashion, and he used to sing -through the scores of some of the old pieces he had been in, with -reminiscences of the players who had been successful in them and full -histories of their ups and downs and their not unblemished lives, all -with a full-throated sentimentality that made every tale as he told it -romantic and charming. Broken and rejected by it as he was, he -worshiped the theater and gloried in it, and the smell of the grease -paint was to him as the smell of the field to a Jewish patriarch. - -One day he insisted that Matilda should sing, and he taught her one of -the old coon songs that had haunted London in the days of his -prosperity. At first she was shy and sang only from her throat, and he -banged out the accompaniment and drowned her voice and told her that -really no one would hear her but the conductor. She must sing so that -she could feel as if her voice was a little bigger than herself. The -phrase seized her imagination, and she tried again. This time she -produced a few full notes and then had no breath left to compass the -rest. However, he was satisfied, and said she'd do for the chorus all -right. - -"And some of those gels, mark you," he said, "do very well for -themselves, in the way of marriage, and out of it." - -He taught her to dance, said she had just the feet for it. "Not real -slap-up dancing, of course, but the sort you get in any old London -show; the sort that's good enough with all the rest--and you've got -that all right, my dear--and not a bit of good without it." - -The development of these small accomplishments gave her a very full -pleasure, greater confidence in herself, and a feeling of -independence. She took a naïve and childish pride in her body from -which these wonders came. They gave her far keener delight than "the -acting" had ever done, but she never connected them with her ambition. -They were a purely personal secret treasure, an inmost chamber whither -she could retire and let go, and be expansively, irresponsibly -herself. - - - -Toward the end of the first year of their marriage, in the harsh -months of the close of the year, they were for six weeks in a city -that sprawled and tumbled over the huge moors of Yorkshire. It rained -almost continuously, and it was very cold, but in that city, which -almost less than any other of the industrial purgatories of the -kingdom appreciates art and the things of the mind, they prospered. -John Lomas got his fill of laughter, and, the kinematograph being no -new thing there, the theater weathered that competition. - -Matilda wrote to her sister, Mrs. Boothroyd, whose husband was -employed at the municipal gasworks, and sent her a pass. She gave her -news: how she was married and happy and enjoying her work with her -uncle. The Boothroyd family only knew of Matilda's disaster and -nothing of her subsequent history. Mr. Boothroyd, who was a deacon at -his chapel, forbade his wife to take any notice of the letter, and she -obeyed him, but, when he was on the night shift at the works, she made -use of the pass. - -The program consisted of Mr. Mole's "Iphigenia," and a farce -introduced into the repertory by John Lomas from what he could -remember of a successful venture at the old Strand Theater in London. -Matilda appeared in both pieces. She was so successful that Mrs. -Boothroyd, who sat in the front row, swelled with pride, and, as she -clapped her hands, turned to her neighbor: - -"Isn't she good? And so pretty, too! Whoever would have thought it? -But there always was something about her. She's my sister, you know." - -"Indeed? Then I am pleased to meet you. She is my wife." - -"Well, I never! . . ." - -Mrs. Boothroyd seized Old Mole by the hand and shook it warmly, while -she giggled with excitement. She bore a faint resemblance to Matilda, -but looked worn, had that pathetic, punctured appearance which comes -from overmuch child-bearing. Throughout the rest of the performance -she only glanced occasionally at the stage and devoted her attention -to scanning her brother-in-law's appearance. At the close of the -second piece she said: - -"I _am_ glad. It would never ha' done for her to 'ave a young 'usband. -She was always the flighty one." - -This sounded ominously to Old Mole, who for more than a year now had -been young with Matilda's youth, and so comfortably accustomed to it -that he never dared in thought dissever himself from her. He rejoined -that his sister-in-law would be glad to know that Matilda was settled -down. - -They went behind and found her hot and flustered, painted, and half -out of the gipsy dress in which she had made her last appearance. When -she saw Mrs. Boothroyd she gave a cry of delight, rushed to her and -flung her arms round her neck and kissed her. - -"Didn't Jimmy come, too?" - -"No; Jimmy was at the works, and couldn't come." - -Matilda asked after all the Boothroyd children and her own brothers -and sisters, and all their illnesses and minor disasters were -retailed. Mr. and Mrs. Copas came in and embraced Bertha Boothroyd, -whom they had not seen since she was a little girl, and when she said -how proud she was of Matilda they replied that she had every reason to -be. John Lomas appeared with stout and biscuits, and the occasion was -celebrated. Warmed by this conviviality, Mrs. Boothroyd invited them -all to tea with her on the next day but one, then, alarmed at the -thought of what she had done, gave a little frightened gasp, was pale -and silent for a few moments, and at last said she must be home to -give Jim his supper when he came back. - -She kissed and was kissed. Her disquietude had blown the high spirits -of the party. When she had gone Matilda said: - -"Jim's a devil. Bertha's had a baby every year since she was married, -and he thinks of nothing but saving his own soul." - - - -Next day came a note from Bertha saying she was afraid her little -house would not accommodate the whole party, but would Matilda bring -her husband. "Is Mr. Mole an actor?" she asked. "I told Jim he -wasn't." - - - -Bertha's address was 33 June Street. It was a long journey by tram, -and then Matilda and her husband had to walk nearly a mile down a -monotonous road intersected with little streets. The name of the road -was Pretoria Avenue, and on one side the little streets were called -after the months of the year, and on the other after the twelve -Apostles. The Boothroyds therefore lived in the very heart of the -product of the end of the nineteenth century. Their front door opened -straight on to the street, they had a little yard at the back, and -their house consisted of eight rooms. The parlor door was unlocked for -the visit, and, amid photographs of many Boothroyds, testimonials to -the worthiness of James Boothroyd and his Oddfellows' certificate, tea -was laid, none of your proper Yorkshire teas, but afternoon tea with -thin bread and butter. Five little Boothroyds in clean collars and -pinafores were placed round the room, and stared alternately at the -cake on the table and their aunt and their new uncle. Old Mole -endeavored to avoid their gaze, but the room seemed full of round -staring gray eyes, and when he considered the corpulent American organ -that took up the whole wall opposite the fireplace, he was astonished -that so many people could be crammed into so small a space. Then he -estimated that there were at least sixty other exactly similar houses -in the street, that from January to December there were streets in -replica, not to mention those on the other side of the road which were -named from John to--surely not to Judas? He remembered then that one -street was called Paul Street. . . . Dozens and dozens of houses, each -with its Boothroyd family and its American organ. Dejectedly he told -himself that these were the poor, until, glancing across at Matilda, -he remembered that it was from such a house, among dozens of such -houses, that she had come. That thought colored his survey, and he -reminded himself, as nearly always he was forced to do when -considering her actions or any episode in her history, that his own -comfortable middle-class standards were not at all proper to the -consideration of the phenomena of mean streets. Desperately anxious to -make himself pleasant to Matilda's sister, he asked heavily: - -"Are these all----?" - -She was in such a flutter that she did not leave him time to finish -his sentence, took him to be referring to the children, and said: -"Yes, they were all hers, and there were two more in the kitchen." - -With more tact Matilda cut the cake and gave a piece to each of the -five children. Mrs. Boothroyd said she was spoiling them, and Matilda -retorted: - -"If they're good children you can't spoil them." - -And the children giggled crumbily and presently they sidled and edged -up to their aunt and began to finger her and pluck at her clothes. -Seeing his wife so set Old Mole off on an entirely new train of -thought and feeling, and he began to contrast the Copas atmosphere -with this domestic interior. Very queerly it gave a sort of life to -that crusted old formula that had, with so many others, gone by the -board in his eruption from secondary education, wherein it was laid -down that a woman's place is her home. He could never, without -discomfort, apply any formula to Matilda, but to see her there, with -the bloom on her, in her full beauty, with the five little children at -her knees, made this idea so attractive that he was loath to -relinquish it: nor did he do so until Matilda asked if she might see -the house, when she and Mrs. Boothroyd and the five children left him -alone with the ruins of the cake and the American organ. - -He was profoundly uneasy. He had not exactly idealized the Copas -theater and all its doings, but he had come to them on the crest of a -violent wave of reaction and had been apt to set them against and -above everything in the world that was solid and stolid and workaday. -It had been enchanted for him by Matilda, and she had in June Street -set an even more potent spell upon him and wafted him not into any -kingdom of the imagination, but into the warm heart of life itself. In -the Copas world he had made no allowance for children: in June Street, -in dull industrial respectability, children were paramount. They -surrounded Matilda and set him, in his slow fashion, tingling to the -marvel of her. His response to this miracle took the form of a desire -to open his pockets to the children. He took out a handful of money, -and had selected five shillings when the door opened and a man -entered, a dark, white-faced, thin-lipped man, with dirty hands and an -aggressive jut of the shoulders. - -"Ye've been tea-partying, I see," said the man. - -Old Mole explained his identity. The man put his head out of the door -and yelled to his wife. She returned with Matilda, but the children -did not come. James Boothroyd ignored the visitors to his house and -said to his cowering wife: - -"You'll clean up yon litter an' you'll lock t'door. What'll neighbors -say of us? I don't know these folk. You'll lock t'door and then you'll -gi' me me tea in t'kitchen." - -There was no sign of anger in the man. He had taken in the situation -at a glance and was concerned only to bring it to the issue he -desired. His relations by marriage were spotted by a world which he -shunned as darkest Hell, and he would have none of them. - -With as much dignity as he could muster, Old Mole led his wife out -into June Street. He was filled only with pity for Bertha. - -Said Matilda: "Didn't I tell you he was a devil?" - -Later in their lodging he asked her: - -"Are all the men in those streets like that?" - -"If they're religious, they're like that. If they're not religious -they're drunk. If they're not drunk you never know when they're going -to leave you. That's the sort of life I came out of and that's the -sort of life I'm never going back into if I can help it." - -"You won't need to, my dear." - -"You never know." - -With which disquieting assurance he was left to reflect that she -seemed to have been as much upset by her visit to June Street as -himself. He was tormented by a vision of England, this little isle, -the home of heroes and great men, groaning beneath the weight of miles -of such streets and sinking under the tread of millions of men like -James Boothroyd. Lustily he strove for a cool, intellectual -consideration of it all, a point from which the network of the meanish -streets of the cities of England could be seen as justifiable, -necessary, and unto their own ends sufficient, but, seen from the -Copas world, they were repulsive and harsh; viewed through Matilda -they were touched with magic. - - - -They were both unsettled and passed through days of irritation when -they came perilously near to quarreling. In the end they made it up -and found that they had conquered new territory for intimacy. On that -territory they discussed their marriage, and he told her that he would -like her to have a child. She burst into tears, and confessed that -after her calamity the doctor had told her it was very improbable she -ever would. He was for so long silent on that, being numbed by the -sudden chill at his heart, that she took alarm and came and knelt at -his side and implored him to forgive her, and said that if he did not -she would go out on to the railway or into the canal. Then he, too, -wept, and they held each other close and sobbed out that the world was -very, very cruel, but they must be all in all to each other. And he -said they would go away and settle down in some pretty place and live -quietly and happily together right away from towns and theaters and -everything. She shook her head, and, with the tears streaming down her -cheeks, she said: No, she did not want to be a lady; at least, not -that sort of a lady. He made many suggestions, but always her mind -flew ahead of his, and she had constructed some horrid sort of a -picture of the existence it would entail. At last he gave it up and -said he supposed if there was to be a change it would come of its own -accord. - - - -It came. - -Mrs. Copas, quite suddenly and for no apparent reason, decided that -she was middle-aged, entirely altered her style of dressing and doing -her hair, and, as the outward and visible sign of the advent of her -maturity, set her heart on a black silk gown. She cajoled and teased -and bullied her husband, but in vain. He was replenishing the -theatrical wardrobe and could not be led to take any interest in hers. -She pursued Mr. Mole with hints and flattery, but he could not or -would not see her purpose. He had decided that Matilda should be -dressed in a style more befitting his wife than she had adopted -heretofore, and was spending many happy and weary hours in the shops -patronized by the wives of clerks and well-to-do tradespeople. -Incidentally he discovered a great deal about what women wear and its -powerful influence over their whole being. In her new clothes Matilda -was more dignified, more handsome, more certain of herself, and she -gained in grace. . . . Mrs. Copas took to haunting their lodgings and -was nearly always there when a new hat or a new jacket came home from -the shops. She would insist on Matilda's trying them on, and would go -into loud ecstatic praise and long reminiscences of the fine garments -she had had when she was a young woman, and Mr. Copas was the most -attentive husband in the world. - -An old peacock without its tail is a sorry sight, and the young birds -scorn him. Matilda did not exactly scorn her aunt, but her continued -presence was an irritant. She was not yet at her ease in the -possession of many fine clothes and was entirely set on gaining the -mastery of them and of the accession of personality they brought. Mrs. -Copas was a clog upon this desire, and therefore when, after many -hints and references, she came suddenly to the point and asked -pointblank for a loan of four pounds wherewith to buy a black silk -gown, Matilda flushed with anger and exasperation and replied curtly -that her husband was not made of money. - -"No, dearie, I know, but I'd so set my heart on a black silk gown." - -And the towsled old creature looked so pathetic and disappointed that -Matilda was on the point of yielding; but indeed she was really -alarmed at the amount of money that had been spent--more than twenty -pounds--and she followed up her reply with a firm No. - -Mrs. Copas took it ill, and set herself to making things unpleasant -for Mr. Mole and his wife. She had control of affairs behind scenes -and also of the commissariat, and it was not long before she had -provoked a quarrel. Matilda told her she was a disagreeable old woman; -to which she hit back with: - -"Some women don't care how they get husbands." - -Following on that there was such a sparring and snarling that in the -end Mr. Copas declared that his theater was not big enough for the two -of them, and that Matilda must either eat her words and beg her aunt's -pardon or go. As the most injurious insults had come from her aunt, -Matilda kicked against the injustice of this decree and flounced away. -She said nothing to her husband of what had taken place. They were at -the beginning of December, and already the hoardings of the town were -covered with announcements of the approaching annual pantomime at the -principal theater, together with the names of the distinguished -artistes engaged. Matilda dressed herself in her very smartest and for -the first time donned the musquash toque, tippet and muff she had been -given. They were the first furs she had ever possessed, and she felt -so grand in them that she was shy of wearing them. When she had walked -along several streets and seen herself in a shop window or two, they -gave her courage for her purpose, and she told herself that she was, -after all, as good as anyone else who might be wanting to do the work, -set her chin in the air, went to the theater, and asked to see the -manager. The doorkeeper had instructions not to turn away anything -that looked promising and only to reject those who looked more than -thirty-five and obviously had no chance of looking pretty even behind -the footlights. He did not reject Matilda. She was shown into the -manager's presence, stated her wishes and accomplishments and -experience. The manager did not invite her either to sing or to dance, -but asked her if she minded what she wore. She had seen pantomimes in -Thrigsby, and she said she did not mind. - -"All right, my dear," said the manager, who was good looking, young, -but pale and weary in expression. And Matilda found herself engaged -for the chorus at one pound a week. - -She told Lomas first, and he was delighted. When it came to her -husband she found it rather difficult to tell him, was half afraid -that he would forbid her to pursue the adventure, and half ashamed, -after his great kindness, of having acted without consulting him. -However, she was determined to go on with it and to uproot him from -the Copas theater. She began by telling him of her quarrel with her -aunt. - -"I thought that was bound to happen," he said. - -"Yes. It came to that that uncle said I must go. What do you think -I've done?" - -"Bought a new dress?" - -"No. Better than that." - -"Made friends with the Lord Mayor?" - -"Funny! No." - -"What have you done, then?" - -"I've got an engagement at the theater, the real, big theater where -they have a proper stage, and a stage door and a box office, and a -manager who wears evening dress." - -"Indeed? And for how long?" - -"It may be for ten weeks and it may be for thirteen. It was fifteen -last year." - -"And what am I to do?" - -She had not thought about him and was nonplussed. However, he needed -very little cajoling before he gave his consent to her plan, and she -told him that if he got bored he could easily go away by himself and -come back when he wasn't bored any longer. Inwardly he felt that the -difficulty was not going to be so easily settled as all that, but he -was on the whole relieved to be rid of Mr. Copas, who had arranged to -move on as soon as the pantomime opened to the distraction of the -public and the devastation of his business. When Mr. Mole announced -his intention of remaining the actor was affronted and refused to -speak to him again. Matilda said, a little maliciously, that he was -afraid of being asked for the money he owed them, and that was her -parting shot after Mrs. Copas, who got her own back with the loud -sneer in Mr. Mole's presence: - -"There's not many married women would wear tights and not many -husbands would let 'em." - -Old Mole gasped, and looked forward with dread to the first -performance of the pantomime. He was spared the indignity of tights, -for the fifty women in the chorus were divided into "girls" and -"boys," in accordance with their size, and Matilda was a "girl." She -took her work very seriously, put far more energy into it than she had -ever done into "Iphigenia" or "Josephine." The theater, one of the -largest in England, awed her by the size of its machinery, and she was -excited and impressed by all the talk and gossip she heard of the -doings of the theaters and the halls. She disliked most of her -colleagues in the chorus, and of the principals only one was not too -exalted to take notice of her. This was a young actor named, -professionally, Carlton Timmis (pronounced Timms), who played the -Demon King. He was very attentive and kind to her, and when she asked -if she might introduce him to her husband he was obviously dismayed, -but expressed himself as delighted. He was a rather beautiful young -man and very romantic, and he and Old Mole found much to talk of -together. - -"You can't think," said Timmis, "what a relief it is to meet a man -with a soul. Among all those idiots one is parched, withered, dried -up." - -And much the same thought was in Old Mole's mind. Looking back he was -astonished that he could for so long have tolerated the unintelligent -society in which he had been cast. Timmis had decided, if erratic, -opinions, and he loved nothing better than gloomily to grope after -philosophical conceptions. Being very young and unsuccessful, he was -pessimistic and clutched eagerly at everything which encouraged him in -his belief in a world blindly responding to some mysterious law of -destruction. Old Mole was inclined toward optimistic Deism and -materialism, and they struck sparks out of each other, Timmis moving -in a whirl of nebulous ideas, and his interlocutor moving so slowly -that, by contrast, he seemed almost rigid. - -"Take myself," Timmis would say. "Can there be any sense in a world -which condemns me to play the Demon King in an idiotic pantomime, or -indeed in a world which demands, indulges, encourages, delights in -such driveling nonsense as that same pantomime?" - -"There is room for everything in the world, which is very large," -replied Old Mole. - -"Then why are men starved, physically, morally and spiritually?" - -"The universe," came the reply, between two long puffs of a cigar, -"was not made for man, but man was made for the universe." - -(This was an impromptu, but Old Mole often recurred to it, and indeed -declared that his philosophy dated from that day and that utterance.) - -"But why was the universe made?" - -"Certainly not from human motives and not in terms of human -understanding. To hear you talk one would think the whole creation was -in a state of decomposition." - -"So it is. That is its motive force, an irresistible rotting away into -nothing. I don't believe anything but decomposition could produce that -pantomime." - -"The pantomime is so small a thing that I think it impossible for it -to be visibly affected by any universal process. It is simply a human -contrivance for the amusement of human beings, and you must admit that -it succeeds in its purpose." - -"It has no purpose. It succeeds in spite of its stupidity by sheer -force of the amiable cleverness of an overpaid buffoon and the charm -and physical attractions of two or three young women." - -Old Mole was forced to admit the justice of this criticism, and to -drive it home Timmis recited the eight lines with which in the cave -scene he introduced the ballet: - - - _Now Sinbad's wrecked and nearly drowned, you see. - He thinks he's saved, but has to deal with me. - I'll wreck him yet and rack his soul as well-- - A shipwrecked sailor suits my purpose fell. - I'll catch his soul and make it mine for aye - And he'll be sorry he ever stepped this way. - But who comes here to brave my cave's dark night? - Aha! Oh, curse! It is the Fairy Light._ - - -Matilda had been listening to them, and she said: - -"Doesn't she look lovely when she comes on all in white? Such a pretty -voice she has, too." - -"You like the pantomime, my dear?" - -"Oh, yes!" - -"Could you say why?" - -"It's pretty and gay, and it's wonderful to hear the people in that -great big place laughing and singing the choruses." - -"You see, Timmis, the pantomime has justified its existence." - -"But what on earth has it got to do with Sinbad?" - -"Nothing. Why should it? Sinbad is an Eastern tale. The pantomime is -an English institution. It reflects the English character. It is -heavy, solid, gross, over-colored, disconnected, illogical and -unimaginative. On the other hand, it is humorous, discreetly sensual, -varied and full of physical activity. It affords plenty to listen to -and nothing to hear, plenty to look at and nothing to see, and it is -like one of those Christmas puddings which quickly make the body feel -overfed and provide it with no food." - -"Anyhow," said Matilda, "it's a great success, and they say it will -run until after Easter." - -It did so: the tunes in it were whistled and sung in the streets, the -comedians' gags became catchwords, the principal buffoon kicked off at -a charity football match, and, upon inquiry, Old Mole found that -clerks, schoolboys and students visited the theater once a week, and -that among the young sparks of the town, sons of mill-owners and -ironmasters, there was considerable competition for the favors of the -chorus ladies. Some of these phenomena he remembered having observed -in Thrigsby, and at least one of his old pupils had come to grief -through a lady of the chorus and been expelled by his affrighted -family to the Colonies. By the end of the fifth week he was thoroughly -sick of it all, and he began to agree with Timmis that the success of -the show was very far from justifying it. It was so completely lacking -in character as to be demoralizing. His third visit left him clogged -and thick-witted, as though he had been breathing stale air. It was a -poison: and if it were so for him, what (he asked himself) must it be -for young minds and spirits? . . . And yet Matilda throve in it. She -liked the work and she now liked the company, who, being prosperous, -were amiable, and they liked her. Most of all, she loved the -independence, the passage from the solid, safe, warmly tender -atmosphere with which her husband surrounded her to the heat, the rush -and the excitement of the theater. When he left her at the stage door -she would give a shrug of the shoulders that was almost a shake, give -him a swift parting smile that he always felt might have been given to -a stranger, and with a quick gladness dart through into the lighted -passage. . . . Before many weeks had passed she had letters, flowers, -presents, from unknown admirers. He asked Timmis if there was any harm -in them, and the actor replied that it was the usual thing, that women -had to look after themselves in the theater, and that these attentions -pleased the management. They pleased Matilda: she laughed at the -letters, decorated their rooms with the flowers, and left the presents -with the stage doorkeeper, who annexed them. Old Mole definitely -decided that he disliked the whole business and began to think -enviously of James Boothroyd, who was religious and a devil, but did -at least have his own way in his own house. To achieve that the first -thing necessary was to have a house, and he half resolved to return to -his old profession--not considering himself to be fit for any other. -But he never rounded the resolution and he never broached his thoughts -to Matilda. He told himself that by Easter it would be all over and -they would go away, perhaps abroad, see the world. . . . Then he -realized that apart from Matilda he had no desires whatever, that his -affections were entirely engaged in her, and that, further, he was -spasmodically whirled off his feet in a desire that was altogether -independent of his will, obedient only to some profound logic either -of his own character or of the world outside him, to mark and consider -the ways of men. Rather painfully he was aware of being detached from -himself, and sometimes in the street, in a tram, he would pull himself -up with a start and say to himself: - -"I don't seem to be caring what happens to me. I seem to be altogether -indifferent to whatever I am doing, to have no sort of purpose, while -all these men and women round me are moving on with very definite -aims." - -Deliberately he made the acquaintance of men teaching in the little -university of the place and in its grammar school. He saw himself in -them. He could talk their language, but whereas to them their terms -were precise and important, to him they were nothing but jargon. . . . -No: into that squirrel cage he would not go again. They seemed happy -enough and pleased with themselves, but, whereas he could enter fully -into their minds, the new regions that he had conquered for himself -were closed to them. They complained, as he had done in Thrigsby, of -the materialism of their city, and in moments of enthusiasm talked of -the great things they could do for the younger generation, the future -citizens of the Empire, if only some of the oozing wealth of the -manufacturers could be diverted to their uses. But the city had its -own life, and they were no more a part of it than he had been of -Thrigsby. . . . When they had cured him of his discontent he was done -with them, and took refuge in books. He bought in a great store of -them and fumbled about in them for the threads of philosophy he was -seeking. He procured stimulation, but very little satisfaction, and he -was driven to the streets and the public places. Very secret was the -life of that city. Its trades were innumerable. Everything was -manufactured in it from steel to custard powder. It owed its existence -to the neighboring coalfields, its organization to a single family of -bankers whose interests were everywhere, in almost every trade, in the -land, in the houses, in the factories, in the supply of water and -lighting, and everywhere their interests were trebly safeguarded. The -city lived only for the creation of wealth and by it. With the -distribution of wealth and the uses it was put to it had no concern; -nor had its citizens time to consider them. Their whole energies were -absorbed in keeping their place in the markets of the world, and they -were too exhausted for real pleasure or domestic happiness. When Old -Mole considered the life of that city by and large, James Boothroyd -appeared to him as its perfect type. And yet he retained his optimism, -telling himself that all this furious energy was going to the forging -of the city of the future. - -"The bees," he said, "build the combs in their hives, the ants the -galleries in their hills, and men their sprawling cities, and to -everything under the sun there is a purpose. Let me not make the -mistake of judging the whole--which I cannot see--by the part." - -He had reached this amiable conclusion when Carlton Timmis entered his -room, sat down by the table and laid a bulky quarto envelope on it. He -was agitated, declined the proffered cigar, and broke at once into the -following remarkable oration: - -"Mr. Mole, you are one of the few men I have ever met who can do -nothing with dignity and without degradation. Therefore I have come to -you in my distress to make a somewhat remarkable request. And it is -due to you and to myself to make some explanation." - -He seemed so much in earnest, almost hysterical, and his great eyes -were blazing with such a fervor that Old Mole could not but listen. - -"My real name," said Timmis, "is Cuthbert Jones. My father is a small -shopkeeper in Leicestershire. He is a man, so far as I can discover, -devoid of feeling, but with a taste for literature and--God knows why, -at this time of day!--the philosophy of the Edinburgh school. He had a -cruel sense of humor and he made my mother very unhappy. He encouraged -me to read, to write, to think, to be pleased with my own thoughts. It -amused him, I fancy, to see me blown out with my own conceit, so that -he might have the pleasure of pricking my bladder-head and then -distending it again. For weeks together I would have his praise, and -then nothing but the most bitter gibes. I had either to cling to my -conceit to keep my head above water or sink into the depths of misery -and self-distrust. I devoured the lives of illustrious men and -attributed their fame to those qualities in them which I was able to -find in myself. I sought solitude, avoided companions of my own age, -and I was always desperately, wretchedly in love with some one or -other. I really believed myself to be a genius, or rather I used to -count over my symptoms and decide one day that I was, the next that I -was not. All this roused my father to such a malicious delight, and -with his teasing he made my life so intolerable that at last I could -stand it no longer, and I ran away. I walked to London, and then, -after applying in vain for work at the newspaper offices, I obtained a -situation in a theater as a call boy. I could not possibly live on -what I earned, and should have been in a bad way but for a kind -creature, a dresser, who lodged me in her house, took my wages in -return, and allowed me pocket money and money for my clothes. I wrote -to my father and received an extraordinary letter in which he -applauded my action and expressed his belief that nothing could -prevent a man of genius from coming to the top. 'It is as impossible -to keep a bad man up as to keep a good man down,' he said. I have -neither gone down nor up, Mr. Mole. As I have grown older I have -slipped into one precarious employment after another. No one pays any -attention to me, no one, except yourself, has ever troubled to -discover my thoughts on any subject, and often, when I have been -inclined to think myself the most miserable of men, I have found -correction in the memory of my boyish belief in my genius. . . . Such -changes of fortune as I have had have come to me through women. All -the kindness I ever received came through them, and every disaster -that has crushed me has arisen through my inability to stop myself -from falling in love with them. . . . You will understand what I mean -when I talk of the life of the mind. That life has always been with -me, and it has perhaps been my only real life. I have had great -adventures in it. I have aimed and wrestled and struggled toward a -goal that has many times seemed to me immediately attainable." - -He paused and brushed back his hair, and his eyes set into an -expression of extraordinary wistful longing and into his voice came a -sweetness most musical and moving. - -"There is, I believe, a condition within the reach of all men wherein -the selfish self is shed, the barrier broken down between a man and -his vision and purpose, so that his whole force can be concentrated -upon his object and his every deed and every thought becomes an act of -love. I have many a time come within reach of this condition, but -always just when I seemed most sure I have toppled over head and ears -in love with some woman, whom in a very short space of time I despised -and detested. When I met you I was uplifted and exalted and come -nearer to my goal than ever before, and now, more fatuously, more -idiotically than ever, I am in love. . . . I give it up. I am forced -to the conclusion that I am one of those unhappy beings who are -condemned to live between one state and the other, to be neither a -slave bent on eating, drinking, sleeping and the grosser pleasures, -nor a free man satisfying his every lust and every desire, by the way, -only the more sturdily and mightily to go marching on with the great -army of friends, lovers and comrades. . . . In short, Mr. Mole, I am -done for." - -"Well, well." Old Mole was aware of the entire inadequacy of this -either as comment or as consolation, but he was baffled by the -self-absorption which had gone to the making of this elaborate -analysis: and yet he had been stirred by the Demon King's vision of -the possibilities of human nature and roused by the words "every deed -and every thought an act of love." There was a platonic golden -idealism about it that lifted him back into his own youth, his own -always comfortable dreams, and, contrasting himself with Timmis (or -Jones), he saw how immune his early years had been from suffering. -Timmis might be done for, but if anyone was to blame it was his -malicious, erratic father. Then, with his mind taking a wide sweep, he -saw that there could be no question of blame or of attaching it, since -that father had also had a father who perhaps suffered from something -worse than Edinburgh philosophy. There could be no question of blame. -The world was so constructed that Timmis (or Jones) was bound to be -out of luck and to fail, just as it seemed to be in the order of -creation that he himself, H. J. Beenham, should be comfortable and -beyond the reach of the cares most common to mankind. There were fat -kine and lean kine, and, come what may, the lean kine would still -light upon the meager pasture. - -There be fat men and lean men, but men have this advantage over kine, -that they can understand and help each other. - -So Old Mole nursed his knee and told himself that Timmis was obviously -sincere in believing himself to be done for, and therefore for all -practical purposes he was done for, and there was no other useful -course to pursue than to listen to what further he might have to say, -and then, from his point of view, to consider the position and see if -there were not something he had overlooked in his excited despair. - -Timmis concluded his tale, and nothing had escaped him. His own -opinion of his moral condition must be accepted: as to his material -state, that could not possibly be worse. He had loved, wooed and won a -lady in the chorus upon whom the manager had cast a favorable eye and -the light of his patronage. There had been a scene, an altercation, -almost blows. Timmis's engagement ceased on the spot, and, as he said, -he now understood why actors put up with so much insult, insolence and -browbeating on the part of their managers. He had three shillings in -his pocket with which to pay his rent and face the world, and he was -filled with disgust of women, of the theater, of himself, and would -Mr. Mole be so kind as to lend him fifty pounds with which to make a -new start in a new country; he believed that in fresh surroundings, -thousands of miles away from any philosophy or poetry, or so-called -art, he could descend to a lower level of existence, and perhaps, -without the intervention of another disastrous love affair, redeem his -false start. He was not, he said, asking for something for nothing--no -man born and bred in England could ever bring himself to ask for or to -expect that!--he was prepared to give security of a sort which only a -man of intelligence and knowledge of affairs would accept. He had -brought a play with him in typescript. It was called "Lossie Loses." -In his time Timmis had written many plays, and they were all worthless -except this one. Most of them were good in intention but bad in -performance: he had burned them. This was bad in intention but good in -execution, and one of these days it would become a considerable -property. An agent in London had a copy, he said, and he would write -to this man and tell him that he had transferred all his rights to Mr. -Mole. He then produced a pompous little agreement assigning his -property and stating the consideration, wrote his name on it with a -large flourishing hand, and passed it over with the play to his friend -in need. After a moment's hesitation, during which he squashed his -desire to improve the occasion with a few general remarks, Old Mole -thought of the unlucky creature's three shillings and of the -deliverance that fifty pounds would be to him, and at once produced -his checkbook and wrote out a check. - -No man has yet discovered the art of taking a check gracefully. Timmis -shuffled it into his pocket, hemmed and ha'd for a few seconds, and -then bolted. - -Old Mole took up his play and began to read it. It did not interest -him, but he could not put it down. There was not a true emotion in it, -not a reasonable man or woman, but it was full of surprising tricks -and turns and quiddities, was perpetually slopping over from sugary -tenderness to shy laughter, and all the false emotions in it were -introduced so irrelevantly as never to be thoroughly cloying, and -indeed sometimes to give almost that sensation of delighted surprise -which comes truly only from the purest and happiest art. Not until it -was some moments out of his hands did Old Mole recognize the thing in -all its horrid spuriousness. Then he flung it from him, scowled at it, -fumed over it, and finally put it away and resolved to think no more -about it or of Carlton Timmis. - -That night when he met Matilda she was in high delight. The "second -girl" was ill; her understudy had been called away to the sick bed of -her only surviving aunt, and she had been chosen to play the part at a -matinée to see if she could do it. Her name would not be on the -program, but she would have ten lines to speak and one verse in a -quartet to sing, and a dance with the third comedian. Wasn't it -splendid? And couldn't they go and have supper at the new hotel just -to celebrate it? All the girls were talking about the hotel, and she -had never been to a real restaurant. - -It is hard not to feel generous when you have given away fifty pounds, -and Old Mole yielded. They had oysters and grilled kidneys, and they -drank champagne. Matilda had never tasted it before and she made a -little ceremony of it. It was so pretty (she said), such a lovely -color, and the bubbles were so funnily busy. He drank too much of it -and became amorous. Matilda was wonderfully pretty and amusing in her -excitement, and he could not take his eyes off her. - -"Tell me," he said, "do you really like this life?" - -"I love it. It's something like what I've always wanted to be. In some -ways it's better and some ways it's worse." - -"I don't see much of you now." - -"You like me all the better when you do see me." - -"We're not getting on much with your education." - -"Education be blowed." - -He was distressed and wished she had not said "be blowed." She saw his -discomfort and leaned forward and patted his hand. - -"Don't you fret, my dear. There's a good time coming." - -But unaccountably he was depressed. He was feeling sorry he had -brought her. There was a vulgarity, a sensuousness in the glitter and -gilt of the restaurant that sorted ill with what in his heart he felt -and was proud to feel for Matilda. He was sorry that she liked it, but -saw, too, that she could not help but be pleased since to her it was -all novel and dazzling. Hardest of all to bear, he was forced to admit -that he had no immediate alternative to lay before her. - -They drove home in a taxi, and she caressed him and soothed him and -told him he was the dearest, kindest, gentlest and most considering -husband any girl could have the luck to find. And once again, -ominously, he was struck by the strangeness of the word husband on her -lips. For a short while he was haunted by the figure of Timmis, with -his disgust of women even while he loved one of them. But he shook -away from that and told himself that if there was something lacking in -his relations with his wife the fault must lie with him, for he at -least had a certain scale of spiritual values, while she had none, -nor, from her upbringing, could she have had the opportunity of -discovering any in herself or her relations with those about her. - -She said he thought too much, but without thought, without passionate -endeavor, how could marriage fail to sink into brutish habit? Was that -too fastidious? Since there is an animal element in human life, were -it not as well to deal with it frankly and healthily on an animal -level? That offended his logic. There could be no element in life that -was not harmonious with every other element. The gross indulgence of -sex had always been offensive to him, a stupid protraction of the -heated imprisonment of adolescence, a calamity that must result in -arrested development. Marriage had forced him to think about these -things, and he was determined, so far as in him lay, to think about -them clearly, without dragging in literature, or sentiment, or -prejudice. In marriage, admittedly, lay the highest spiritual -relationship known, or ever to be known, to human beings. In marriage, -obviously, the body had its share. If the body's share were regarded -as separate from the rest, as an unfortunate but not unpleasant -necessity, then, being separate, how could it be anything but a clog -upon the full and true union? It was impossible for him to think of -sex as a clot in the otherwise free mating of souls, and, indeed, his -experience assured him that the exercise of his sex gave him not only -the most wonderful deliverance from physical obsessions, but also from -the uneasy and unprofitable brooding of the mind. - -But he was uneasy and anxious in his marriage, came to believe that it -was because his wife was content with so little when he desired to -give her so much more, and blamed himself for his apparent inability -to set forth his gift of emotion and human fellowship in terms that -she could understand. - - - -He went to see her play her part in the pantomime and suffered agonies -of nervousness for her. She delivered her ten lines without mishap, -sang her part in the quartet inaudibly, and her dance in the duet was -applauded so loudly that at last the conductor tapped his little desk, -and Matilda came tripping forth again with her comedian, bowed, kissed -her hand, and went through the movements--absurd, banal, pointless as -they were--with a shy grace and a breathless, childish pleasure that -were charming. He was swept into the collective pleasure of the -audience and clapped his hands with them and felt that the Matilda -there on the stage was not his Matilda, but a creature belonging to -another world, of whose existence he was aware, while nothing in his -world could have any influence or any bearing on her whatsoever. . . . -He would meet her at the stagedoor, and she would be his Matilda, -while the other remained behind, as it were, inanimate in her charmed -existence. Both were infused with life from the same source of life; -the essence passed from one to the other, and therefore there was not -one Matilda but three Matildas. - -He lost himself in this mystic conception and was timely rescued by -her meeting him as he passed through the vestibule. She took his arm -and hugged it and asked him if he liked it. - -"Wasn't it good getting an encore? That dance has only been encored -six times before." - -He told her how nervous he had been. - -"I wasn't a bit nervous once I was on, but in the wings it was awful." - -She said she wanted to take him behind the scenes so that he could see -what a real theater was like. They passed through the stagedoor and -along narrow, dusty passages, up steep flights of stone stairs, she -chatting gaily in spite of the frequent notices enjoining silence, and -every now and then they were stopped and Matilda was embraced by male -and female alike, and all the women said how glad they were, and the -men said: "good egg" or "top hole." Suddenly out of the narrow, dusty -ways they came upon the stage, huge and eerie. There was only a faint -light, the curtain was up, and there were tiny women in the auditorium -dropping white cloths from the galleries and shrouding all the seats. -Never had Old Mole had such a sense of emptiness and desolation. A -man's voice came from far up above the stage, and it sounded like a -thin ghostly mocking. There was a creaking and a rasping, and a great -sheet of painted canvas descended, the wings were set in place, and a -flight of stairs was wheeled up and clamped: the scene was set for the -opening of the pantomime. Suddenly the lights were turned on. Matilda -began to hum the opening bars of the overture. Old Mole blinked. He -was nearly blinded. The colors in the scenery glowed in the light. He -had the most alarming sense of being cut off from his surroundings, of -being projected, thrust forward toward the mysterious, empty -auditorium with its shrouded seats and the little women bustling up -and down in it. Almost irresistibly he was impelled to shout to them, -to engage their attention, to make them look at him. His mind eased -and a thrill of importance ran through him: never had he seemed to -himself to bulk so large. He was almost frightened: the immense power -of the machinery, the lighted stage and the darkened auditorium -alarmed and weighed crushingly upon him. - -"It's like a vault," said Matilda, "with no one in front. But when -it's full, on a Saturday night, hundreds and hundreds of faces, it's -wonderful." - -To him it was not at all like a vault, but like an engine disconnected -from its power. The mind abhors a vacuum, and he was striving to fill -the emptiness all about him, thronging the auditorium with imaginary -people, and struggling to occupy the magic area of light in which he -stood. In vain: he was impotent. He felt trapped. - -"Let us go," he said. - -On the stairs they met the manager. - -"Hullo, Tilly," he said. "You're a good girl." - -"Thanks." - -Old Mole hated the young man, for he was common and loose in manner -and in no way worthy of the enchanted Matilda or of the marvelous -organism, the theater, in which she seemed to live so easily and -freely. - -His thoughts were much too confused for him to impart them to her, and -he was vastly relieved when they left the theater and she became his -Matilda. - -That night he read to her. He had been delighting in "Lucretius," and -he had marked passages, and he turned to that beginning: - -"Iam iam non domus accipiet te læta, neque uxor Optima. . . ." - -He translated for her: - -" 'Now no more shall a glad home and a true wife welcome thee, nor -darling children race to snatch thy first kisses and touch thy heart -with a sweet silent content; no more mayest thou be prosperous in thy -doings and a defence to thine own; alas and woe!' say they, 'one -disastrous day has taken all these prizes of thy life away from -thee'--but thereat they do not add this, 'and now no more does any -longing for these things assail thee.' This did their thought but -clearly see and their speech follow they would deliver themselves from -much burning of the heart and dread. 'Thou, indeed, as thou art sunk -in the sleep of death, wilt so be for the rest of the ages, severed -from all weariness and pain.' . . . - -"Yet again, were the nature of things to utter a voice and thus with -her own lips upbraid one of us, 'What ails thee, O mortal, that thou -fallest into such vain lamentation? Why weep and wail at death? For -has thy past life and overspent been sweet to thee, and not all the -good thereof, as though poured into a cracked pitcher, has run through -and perished without joy, why dost thou not retire like a banqueter -filled with life, and, calmly, O fool, take thy sleep? But if all thou -hast had is perished and spilled and thy life is hateful, why seekest -thou yet to add more which shall once again all perish and fall -joylessly away? Why not rather make an end of life and labor? For -there is nothing more that I can contrive and invent for thy delight; -all things are the same forever. Even were thy body not yet withered, -nor thy limbs weary and worn, yet all things remain the same, didst -thou live on through all the generations. Nay, even wert thou never -doomed to die'--what is our answer?" - -"Don't you believe in God?" asked Matilda. - -It came like a question from a child, and he had the adult's -difficulty in answering it, the doubt as to the interpretation that -will be put upon his reply. - -"I believe," he said slowly, "in the life everlasting, but my life has -a beginning and an end." - -"And you don't think you go to Heaven or Hell when you're--when you're -dead?" - -"Into the ground," he said. - -Matilda shivered, and she looked crushed and miserable. - -"Why did you read that to me?" she said at last. "I was so happy -before. . . . I've always had a feeling that you weren't like ordinary -people." - -And she seemed to wait for him to say something, but his mind harped -only on the words: "For there is nothing more that I can contrive and -invent for thy delight," and he said nothing. She rose wearily and -took her hat and coat and the musquash collar that had been her pride, -and left him. - -For hours he sat over the fire, brooding, flashing occasionally into -clear logical sequences of thought, but for the most part browsing and -drowsing, turning over in his mind women and marriage and the theater -and genius, the authentic voice of the nature of things, the spirit of -the universe that sweeps into a man's brain and heart and burns away -all the thoughts of his own small life and fills him with a music that -rings out and resounds and echoes and falls for the most part upon -deaf ears or upon ears filled only with the clatter of the marketplace -or the sweet whisperings of secret, treacherous desires. And he -thought of the engines in that city, day and night, ceaselessly -humming and throbbing, weaving stuffs and forging tools and weapons -for the clothing and feeding of the bodies of men: the terrifying -ingenuity of it all, the force and the skill, the ceaseless division -and subdivision of labor, the multiplication of processes, the -ever-increasing variety of possessions and outward shows and material -things. But through all the changes in the activities of men, behind -all their new combinations of forces "all things are the same forever -and ever. . . ." He remembered then that he had hurt Matilda, that she -had resented his not being "like ordinary people," resented, that is, -his acceptance of the unchanging order of things, his refusal to -confuse surface change with the mighty ebb and flow of life. It was, -he divined, that she had never reached up to any large idea and had -never conceived of any life, individual or general, outside her own. -To her, then, the life everlasting must mean _her_ life, and he -regretted having used that phrase. She was concerned, then, entirely -with her own existence--(and with his in so far as it overlapped -hers)--and life to her was either "fun" or something unthinkable. -. . . . It seemed to him that he was near understanding her, and he -loved her more than ever, and a rare warmth flooded his thoughts and -they took on a life of their own, were bodied forth, and in a sort of -ecstasy, thrilling and triumphant, he had the illusion of being lifted -out of himself, of soaring and roaming free and with a power -altogether new to him, a power whereof he was both creator and -creature, he saw out of his own circumscribed area of life into -another life that was no replica of this, but yet was of the same -order, smaller, neater, trimmer, concentrated, and distilled. There -was brilliant color in it and light and shade sharply distinct, and -everything in it--houses, trees, mountains, hills, clouds--was rounded -and precise: there was movement in it, but all ordered and purposeful. -The sun shone, and round the corner there was a selection of moons, -full, half, new, and crescent, and both sun and moon could be put away -so that there should be darkness. As for stars, there were as many as -he chose to sprinkle on the sky. . . . At first he could only gaze at -this world in wonder. It sailed before him in a series of the most -dignified evolutions, displaying all its treasures to him; mountains -bowed and clouds curtseyed, and Eastern cities came drifting into -view, and ships and islands; and there were palaces and the gardens of -philosophers, sea beaches whereon maidens sang and mermaids combed -their hair; and there were great staircases up and down which moved -stately personages in silence, so that it was clear there was some -great ceremony toward, but before he could discover the meaning of it -all the world moved on and displayed another aspect of its seemingly -endless variety. And he was sated with it and asked for it to stop, -and at last with a mighty effort he became more its creator than its -creature, and, as though he had just remembered the Open Sesame, it -stayed in its course. It stayed, and in a narrow, dark street, with -one flickering light in it, and the brilliant light of a great -boulevard at the end of it, he saw an old white-bearded man with a -pack on his back and a staff in his hand. And the old man knew that he -was there, and he beckoned to him to come into the street. So he went -and followed him, and without a word they turned through a little dark -gateway and across up a courtyard and up into a garret, and the old -man gave him a sack to sit on and lifted his packet from his back and -out of it built up a little open box, and hung a curtain before it. -Old Mole settled on his sack and opened his lips to speak to the old -man, but he had disappeared. - -The curtain rose. - - - - -III - -INTERLUDE - -_I may have lost my judgment and my wits, but I must confess I liked -that play. There was something in it._ - -THE SEAGULL - - - -III - -INTERLUDE - -_Go now, go into the land - Where the mind is free and the heart -Blooms, and the fairy band - Airily troops to the dusty mart; -And the chatter and money-changing - Die away. In fancy ranging, -Let all the inmost honey of the world - Sweeten thy faith, to see unfurl'd -Love's glory shown in every little part - Of life; and, seeing, understand._ - - -BY a roadside, at the end of a village, beneath the effigy of a god, -sat a lean, brown old man. He had no covering for his head and the -skin of the soles of his feet was thickened and scarred. In front of -him were two little boxes, and on his knees there lay open a great -book from which he was reading aloud in an unknown tongue. - -From the village there came a young man, richly clad and gay, attended -by two slaves. He saluted the effigy of the god and asked the old man -what he might be reading. The old man replied that it was the oldest -book in the world and the truest, and when he was questioned about the -boxes he said that one of them contained riches and the other power. -The young man looked into them and saw nothing. He laughed and spoke -to one of his slaves, saying the old and the poor must have their -fancies since there was nothing else for them, and, upon his orders, -the slave filled the boxes with rice, and at once there sprung up two -mighty trees. The slaves fled howling and the young man abased himself -before the effigy of the god and stole away on his knees, praying. The -old man raised his hands in thanksgiving for the shade of the trees, -lifted them out of the boxes, and once more arranged them before him. - -In the wood hard by arose the sound of high words and out upon the -road, brawling and storming, tumbled two youths, comely and tall and -strong. They stopped before the old man and appealed to him. - -"Our father," said he who first found breath, "is a poor man of this -village, and I am Peter and my brother is Simon. Two days ago, on a -journey, we saw the picture of the loveliest maiden in the world. We -do not know her name, but we are both determined to marry her, and -there is no other desire left in us. We have fought and wrestled and -swum for her, but can reach no conclusion. I will not yield and he -will not yield. Is all our life to be spent in wrangling?" - -The old man closed his book and replied: - -"The loveliest maiden in the world is Elizabeth, daughter of the -greatest of emperors. If you are the sons of poor men how can you ever -hope to lift eyes to her? Look now into these boxes and you shall be -raised to a height by which you shall see the Emperor's daughter and -not be hidden in the dust of her chariot." - -They looked into the boxes, and Simon saw in the one a piece of gold, -but Peter looked as well into the other, and in it he saw the face of -his beloved princess and had no thought of all else. Simon asked for -the first box and Peter for the second, and they received them and -went their ways, Simon to the village and Peter out into the world, -each gazing fascinated into his box. - -"To him who desireth little, little is given," said the old man. "And -to him who desireth much, much is given; but to neither according to -the letter of his desire." - -By the time he reached his village Simon had five gold pieces in his -pocket, and as soon as he took one piece from the box another came in -its place. He lent money to every one in the village at a large rate -of interest and was soon the master of it. There began to be talk of -him in the town ten leagues away and there came men to ask him for -money. He moved to the town and built himself a big house, and it was -not long before he began to look to the capital of the country. - -When he moved to the capital he had six houses in different parts of -the country, racehorses, picture galleries, mines, factories, -newspapers, and he headed the list of subscribers to the hospitals -patronized by the Royal Family. At first, in the great city, he was -diffident and shy among the illustrious personages with whom he -fraternized, but it was not long before he discovered that they were -just as susceptible to the pinch of money as the carpenter and the -priest and the bailiff and the fruiterer in his village. It was quite -easy to buy the control of these important people without their ever -having to face the unpleasant fact. More than one beautiful lady, -among them a duchess and a prima donna of surpassing loveliness, -endeavored to cajole him and to discover his secret. In vain; he could -not forget the Princess Elizabeth, and now ambition spurred him on. He -was wearying of the ease with which fame and position and the highest -society could be bought, and began to lust for power. With his native -peasant shrewdness he saw that society consisted of the People, of -persons of talent and cunning above them, of the descendants of -persons of talent and cunning left high and dry beyond the reach of -want, of ornamental families set at the head of the nations, of a few -ingenious minds who (so far as there was any direction) governed the -workings and interlockings of all the parts of the whole. They had -control of all the sources of money except his box, and he determined, -to relieve his boredom and also as a means of reaching his Princess, -to pit his power against theirs. - -He was never ashamed of his mother, and she came to stay with him once -a year for a week, but she never ceased to lament the loss of her -other son, Peter, from whom no word had come. One night she had a -dream, and she dreamed she saw Peter lying wounded in a thicket, and -she knew perfectly where it was and said she must go to find him. -Simon humored her and gave her money for a long voyage. She went back -to her own village and out upon the road until she came to the effigy -of the god, for this was the only god she knew, and she prayed to him. -The old man appeared before her and told her to go to her home, for -Peter would return to her before she died. At this she was comforted, -and went home to her husband and sent Simon back his money, because -she was afraid to keep so large a sum in the house. - -It was said in the capital that the land of the greatest of emperors -was the richest of all countries, but the people were the stupidest -and had no notion of its wealth. The financiers were continually -sending concessionaires and adventurers, but they came away -empty-handed. Simon had now paid his way into the royal circle, and -for defraying the debt on the royal stable had been ennobled. He -suggested to the King that he should send an embassy to invite the -greatest of emperors and his daughter to pay a visit to the capital to -see the wonders of their civilization. - -The embassy was sent, the invitation accepted, and the Emperor and the -Princess arrived and their photographs were in all the illustrated -papers. They did not like this, for in their own country only one -portrait of the Emperor was painted, and that was the life work of the -greatest artist of the time. The Princess was candor itself, and said -frankly what she liked and what she did not like. She liked very -little, and after she had been driven through the capital she sent for -the richest man in the country, and Simon was brought to her. He bowed -before her and trembled and told her that all his wealth was at her -service. So she told him to pull down all the ugly houses and the dark -streets and to make gardens and cottages and to give every man in them -a piece of gold. - -"They will only squander it," said Simon. - -"Let them," replied the Princess Elizabeth. "Surely even the most -miserable may have one moment of pleasure." - -"In your country are there no poor?" - -"There are no rich men. There are good men and bad men, and the good -are rewarded, and honored." - -As she ordered, so it was done, and the poor blessed the Princess -Elizabeth, but the financiers muttered among themselves, and they -arranged that one of their agents should go to the Emperor's country, -stir up sedition, and be arrested. Then they announced in their -newspapers international complications, said day after day that the -national honor was besmirched, and demanded redress. The Emperor and -the Princess Elizabeth hurriedly left the capital and returned to -their own country. Simon had declared his admiration for the Princess -and she had snubbed him. His newspapers added to the outcry, and he -ordered a poet to write a national song, which became very popular: - - - _We ain't a fighting nation, - But when we do, we do. - We've got the ships, we've got the cash, - We've got the soldiers, too._ - - _So look out there and mind your eye, - We're out to do, we're out to die, - For God and King and country._ - - -But in the Emperor's country all the songs were in praise of the -Princess Elizabeth, and when she heard that ships of war were on the -seas and huge vessels transporting soldiers, she consulted with the -Minister and gave orders for all weapons to be buried and for all -houses to be prepared to receive the guests and the great hall of the -palace to be made ready for a banquet. - -Her Minister was Peter, and she delighted in his wisdom and never -wearied of listening to the tale of his adventures, how in his quest -he had been cheated, and robbed, and beaten, and cast into prison, and -scourged, and bastinadoed, and incarcerated for a lunatic, and mocked -and despised, nearly drowned by a mountain torrent, all but crushed by -a huge boulder that came crashing down a hillside and carried away the -tree beneath which he was sleeping; and how all these afflictions did -but intensify his vision of that which he loved, so that the pain and -the terror of them fell away and he was left with the glorious -certainty of being near his goal. He did not tell her what that was -because it was very sweet to serve her, and he knew that she was proud -and had rejected the hands of the greatest and handsomest princes of -her father's dependencies. It was very pleasant for him to see her -emotion as he told his tale, and when she almost wept on the final -adventure, how, as he neared her father's city, he was set upon by a -band of peasants, who believed him to be a blasphemer and a wizard -because of his box, and left for dead, and how he awoke to find her -bending over him, then he could scarcely contain himself, and he would -hide his face and hasten from her presence. - -He had a little house in one of her private parks, and whenever she -was in any difficulty she came to consult him, for his sufferings had -made him sensible, and his devotion to a single idea gave him a -nobility which she found not in her other courtiers. - -It was he, then, who advised the cordial reception of the hostile -armies, for he had observed, in the numerous assaults of which he had -been the victim, that when he hit back he only incensed his adversary -and roused him to a madder pitch of cruelty. Also he had lived among -soldiers and knew them to be slaves of their bellies and no true -servants of any cause or idea. Therefore, he gave this counsel, and it -was followed, and the army was disbanded, and the citizens prepared -their houses and decorated the city against the coming of the army. -When they arrived, all the populace turned out to see them, and the -generals and captains were met by the chief men, the poets, and the -philosophers, and the scholars, and made welcome. There were feasting -and fireworks, and the harlots devoted themselves to the service of -the country, and by night a more drunken army was never seen. Their -guns and ammunition were thrown into the harbor, and next day they -were allowed to choose whether they would return to their own country -or stay and become citizens of this. Nine-tenths of the soldiers chose -to stay, many of them married and made honest women of the devoted -creatures who had been their pleasure, and thus the causes of virtue -and peace were served at once. The soldiers and their wives were -scattered up and down the country, work was found for them, and both -lost the rudeness and brutality induced by their former callings. - -The other tenth returned to their own country. Simon and the -financiers heard their galling story and told the people that a -glorious victory had been won and the nation's flag, after horrible -carnage, planted over yet another outpost of the Empire. There was -immense enthusiasm. Shiploads of Bibles were sent out, and a hundred -missionaries from the sixty-five different religious denominations. - -Peter's advice was sought, and he ordered a cellar to be prepared. The -Bibles were stored in this, and the missionaries were set to translate -them back into the original languages. They had got no further than -the twentieth chapter of Genesis when they declared their willingness -to be converted to the religion of the country; but there was no -professed religion, for, when the Princess had asked Peter what her -father could best do to serve his subjects and make his name blessed -among them, he had replied: - -"Let him abolish that which most engenders hypocrisy. Let him -establish the right of every man to be himself. Let there be good men -and bad men--since there must be good and bad--but no hypocrites. Let -him withdraw his support from that religion which maintains priests, -superstition and prejudice, and it will topple down. Faith is an act -of living, not a creed." - -At first the Emperor was afraid that if the State religion toppled he -would come crashing down, but he could deny his daughter nothing, and -he withdrew his support. In less than a year there was not a sign of -the professed religion, and no one noticed its absence. There was a -marked improvement in the behavior of the people and their good sense, -which made it possible for Peter's advice to be followed in dealing -with the foreign army. There was a notable decrease in crime, and -litigation became so infrequent that half the Courts of Justice were -closed, and the Attorneys and Advocates retired into the country or -adopted the profession of letters. With the money released by the -disestablished religion and the reduced Courts of Justice the Emperor -founded universities and schools and set apart money to endow -maternity and medicine, saying: "We have all money enough for our -pleasure, but it is when the shadow of a natural crisis comes over us -that we are in need." - -The Princess was loud in praise of her Minister, and the people and -the men of letters declared that the Emperor really was the greatest -ruler the world had ever seen. The Emperor swallowed it all as a good -monarch should, but Peter was overcome with tenderness for his -Princess, and, dreading lest he should betray his secret, he asked her -leave to depart for a while, and betook him to his own country and his -village to see his mother. - -She lay upon her deathbed and was very feeble. Simon had sent her some -calf's-foot jelly, but was too deeply engaged to come. Peter sat by -her bedside and told her about his Princess, and she patted his hand -and laughed merrily, and said: - -"You always were a bonny liar, laddie. Kiss me and take my blessing." - -Peter kissed her and took her blessing, and she died. - -He went to the roadside where he had come by his box and his vision, -but the old man was not there, the trees were cut down, and the effigy -of the god had rotted away and only the stump of it was left. He -planted an acorn in the place to mark the beginning of his joy in -life, but, knowing that the act of breathing is prayer enough, he -decided to go away and think no more about his good fortune or his bad -fortune, or the profit he had drawn from both. He sighed over the -thousands of miles that separated him from his Princess, and decided -each day to reduce them by at least thirty. - -The news of the war had only just reached that part of the country, -and he heard men talking of the glorious victory. At first he was -alarmed, but when he heard more he laughed and told the men the truth. -They took and ducked him in the horse pond for a spy and a traitor, -and when he crawled out they thrashed him with whips until they had -cut his clothes in ribbons and his flesh into weals. Then they put him -in the old stocks and left him there for a day and a night. He was -cold and hungry, and his bones ached, but when he found himself near -to counting his miseries and wishing himself dead, then he took out -his box and gazed at the image of the Princess and said to it: - -"Yet will I live to serve you. My life is nothing except it go to -sustain the wonder of yours." - -So he bore this calamity, as he had borne so many others, for her -sake. - -He had no other clothes, and when he was released he patched and -mended his suit and made his way, working and singing for his bread, -to the capital. There he inquired after his brother, and men looked -awed as they pronounced his name, and they all knew his house and the -names of his racehorses, but of the rest they could tell very little. -Peter went to the magnificent house, ragged as he was, and asked to -see his brother. Two lackeys and a butler opened the door, and they -lifted their noses at him. The butler said his lordship had brothers -and fathers and cousins coming to see him all day long, but Peter -persisted, and was told he might be his lordship's brother, but his -lordship was away on his lordship's yacht and no letters were -forwarded. - -Having no other interest in the capital, Peter set out on his return, -and when he came to the frontier of the fortunate land that had nursed -his Princess he was greeted with tidings that made his heart sink -within him. A handsome stranger told him that the Emperor had enclosed -the commons and great tracts of forest, and prospected the whole -country for coal and oil and metals and precious stones, and how the -poets and the philosophers and the scholars were cast down from their -high places, and, most lamentable of all, how the Princess was -imprisoned because she would not marry the new Emperor of Colombia, -who had arrived in his yacht with untold treasures, and how her -private parks were taken for menageries, racecourses and football -grounds. Peter buried his head in his arms and wept. - -With the stranger he journeyed toward the capital. Over great tracts -of the country there hung black clouds of smoke; new cities meanly -built, hastily and without design, floundered out over the hills and -meadows; pleasant streams were fouled; sometimes all the trees and the -grass and plants and hedgerow bushes were dead for miles; and in those -places the men and women were wan and listless and their poverty was -terrible to see: there were tall chimneys even in the most lovely -valleys, and in them were working pregnant women and little children, -and Peter asked the stranger whose need was satisfied by their work. - -"There are millions of men upon the earth," answered the stranger, -"and what you see is industrial development. It drives men to a frenzy -so that they know not what they do." - -And when they came to the capital they found the frenzy at its height. -It was no longer the peaceful and lovely city of Peter's happiness; -gone were the gardens and groves of myrtle and sweet-scented laurel; -gone the beautiful houses and the noble streets; tall buildings of a -bastard architecture, of no character or tradition, towered and made -darkness; huge hotels invited to luxury and lewdness; the Emperor's -ancient palace was gone, and its successor was like another hotel, and -in the avenue, where formerly the most gracious and distinguished of -the citizens used to make parade amid the admiration and applause of -their humble fellows, was now a throng of foreigners and vulgarians, -Jews, Levantines, Americans, all ostentation and display. . . . -Beneath the splendor and glitter linked a squalor and a sordid misery -that called aloud, and called in vain, for pity. And in the outskirts -were again the chimneys and the factories with the machines thudding -night and day, and round them filth and poverty and disease. . . . The -priests were back in their place to give consolation to the poor, who -were beyond consolation, and the Courts of Justice were housed in the -largest building in the world. At every street corner newspapers were -sold. - -In a new thoroughfare driven boldly through the most ancient part of -the city and flanked absurdly with common terraces of houses, they -found a thin crowd standing in expectation. The two Emperors were to -go by on their way to open the new Technical College and Public -Library. They passed swiftly in an open carriage, and a faint little -cheer went up, so different from the vast roar that used to greet the -Emperor and the Princess in all their public appearances. The Emperor -looked haggard and nervous, as though he were consumed with a fever, -but the Emperor of Colombia was fat as a successful spider. Peter -gasped when he saw him, for he was Simon. But he said nothing, and -they passed on. - -Saddest sight of all were the prosperous, well-fed women gazing with -dead eyes into the shop windows wherein were displayed fashionable -garments and trinkets, overwhelming in their quantity. - -Preferable to that was the avenue with the Jews and the Levantines and -the Americans. Thither with the stranger Peter returned, and he met a -poet, lean and disconsolate, who had been his intimate friend. They -three talked together, and the poet asked if there were no power to -cool the heat and reduce the frenzy in the blood of the inhabitants of -the country. Said the stranger: - -"There is a power which makes the earth a heaven; a power without -which the life of men is no more than the life of tadpoles squirming -in a stagnant pond." - -Peter said the power must be Love: the poet declared it was -Imagination. - -"Love in itself," said the stranger, "is a human, comfortable thing; -with the light of imagination, love is the living word of God in the -heart of man." - -And behold the stranger stood before them, an angel or genius clad all -in white with wings of silver that rose above him and beat to flight, -and away he soared to the sun. And the poet raised his head, and in a -loud voice declaimed musical words, and Peter sobbed in his joy, but -the Jews and the Levantines and the Americans had seen nothing, and -wearily they drove and walked along the avenue, scanning each other in -sly envy. - -Hard and bitter was the lot of the people, and their loyalty to the -Emperor was shaken. There were none now to bless his name, none to -call him the greatest of rulers, and only the priests praised him for -his wisdom in yielding to the tide of progress. There was little -happiness anywhere: the old superstitions and prejudices were restored -to currency, the tyranny of public opinion was enthroned again, and -books were written and plays performed to fortify its authority. - -Every day Simon sent the Princess richer presents and messengers to -crave the boon of an audience; but the Princess made no reply and -would never leave her apartments. Every day she used to stand at her -window and gaze in the direction where Peter's country lay and pray -for his return. One day her ape was with her, and he chattered -excitedly and hurled himself into the sycamore tree that grew beneath -her window. He returned in a moment with an empty box. She looked into -it and saw the image of Peter, as he was, ragged and unhappy, but with -adoration in his eyes. Then she could no longer dissemble, but, with -happy tears, she confessed to herself that she loved him. . . . Next -day she walked in her garden, and on the other side of the little -stream marking its boundary she saw Peter. They told their love, and -he swore to deliver her and not to see her again until he had done so. -With a brave heart she wished him Godspeed and threw him back his box, -in which she had concealed three kisses and a lock of her hair. - -For forty days and forty nights did Peter remain in solitude, -wrestling with himself and cogitating how he might best accomplish the -salvation of his adored Princess and the country that was dearer to -her even than himself. Step by step he followed Simon's career from -the time when he had chosen the box with the piece of gold to the -golden ruin he had brought upon thousands of men. Then he resolved to -send his own box to his brother; nay, himself to take it. He procured -gorgeous apparel, and immense chests, and camels and horses and -elephants, disguised a hundred and fifty of his friends in Eastern -apparel, and in this array presented himself at the Summer Palace, -where his brother was lodged. The doors were opened to him, and he was -passed on from lackey to lackey until he found himself in his -brother's presence. Simon greeted him cordially and asked for his -news, and how he had fared. - -"I have all my desires," said Peter. "I have fulfilled my destiny, and -I am come to give you my box. It has served me well." - -Greedily Simon snatched the box and opened it to see what treasure it -might contain. He saw no image of beauty therein, but only himself, -and the vision of his own soul crushed by the weight of his -possessions, and the pride died in him and all the savage lusts to -gratify which he had plotted and schemed and laid waste, and he -groaned: - -"All my power is but vanity and my hopes are in the dust. I am become -a monster and unworthy of the Princess Elizabeth." - -His words rang through the Palace, and his servants and those who had -called themselves his friends fell upon his possessions and divided -them and fled from the country. So deserted, he embraced Peter and -vowed that his brother's love was now a greater treasure to him than -all he had sought in his folly. They took counsel together and decided -that they had best persuade the greatest of emperors to grant his -people a Parliament so as to avert the imminent revolution. They did -that, but it was too late. Peter's procession through the streets to -the Summer Palace had alarmed the people with the dread of another -Imperial visitor as injurious as the last, and they had made -barricades in the streets, and sacked the great hotels, and dragged -the Emperor and all his counsellors and courtiers into the stews and -there slaughtered them. The Princess Elizabeth was released and -loyally acclaimed, and it was only on her intercession that Peter and -Simon were spared. She granted the people a Parliament, and the Courts -of Justice were taken for its House, and she opened and prorogued it -in the regal manner. - -After a year of mourning, during which the wisest of laws were framed -for the control of the mines and the factories and all the sources of -wealth, and land and water were made all men's and no man's property, -and the children were trained to believe in the revealed religion of -love as the living word of God in the heart of man, then the Princess -announced her marriage with her Minister and adviser, Peter, the son -of a poor man, and they lived happily with their people, and all men -loved and praised Peter, and Peter praised and worshiped the Princess -Elizabeth. They lived to a ripe old age, gathering blessings as they -went, and they had sixteen children. - -But Simon returned to his own country and his village, taking with him -the two boxes. Out of the one he never took another piece of gold, and -into the other he never looked until he was at peace with himself and -knew that he could gaze upon his soul undismayed. When he looked into -it he saw Peter and the Princess and their children, for all his love -was with them. Then he went out upon the road, and beneath an enormous -oak tree he found the lean, brown old man with his great book on his -knees, reading aloud. He laid the boxes at his feet and bowed to him -and said: - -"It is well." - -The old man bowed, and, turning a page in his book, he read: - -"It is well with the world. Man frets his peace in his little hour on -this earth, whereof he is and whereto he returns; but it is well with -the world." - - - -The curtain fell. The little theater disappeared, and all that he had -seen and heard in it buzzed in Old Mole's head, and the colors whirled -and a flood of emotion surged through his body, and the spell of it -all was upon him. He shifted uneasily upon the sack on which he was -seated, and there came a rent in it. Inside it was a corpse, and, when -he peered at it in horror, he knew that it was himself. - -The enchantment broke, and, shivering and very cold, he fell back into -the world of familiar things, the room in the lodging house, with the -fire out, and above his head, in the first floor front, lay Matilda, -sleeping. He went up to her, and she lay with her hair back over her -pillow and her hand under her cheek, and he said: - -"I will live to serve you. For my life is nothing except it go to -sustain the wonder of yours." - - - -Old Mole was much astonished at this effort of his imagination, and -later on wrote and rewrote it many times, but what he wrote was no -more than the pale echo of what he had heard, the faded copy of what -he had seen. When he came to analyze and diagnose his condition he -concluded that the vivid impressions produced on his unexercised -receptive mind had induced a kind of self-hypnotism in which he had -been delivered up to the power of dreams subject peculiarly to the -direction of his logical faculty. He could not remember having eaten -anything that would account for it. - - - - -IV - -TOYS - -_Worte! Worte! Keine Thaten! -Niemals Fleisch, geliebte Puppe, -Immer Geist und keinen Braten, -Keine Knödel in der Suppe._ - -ROMANCERO - - -IV - -TOYS - -WHEN the pantomime came to an end (as it did before a packed house, -that cheered and cheered again and insisted on speeches from the -comedians and the principal boy and the principal girl, and went on -cheering regardless of last trains and trams and closing time) Matilda -was told that, if she liked and if she had nothing better to do, she -could return again next year. She declared her pleasure at the -prospect, but inwardly determined to have something a great deal -better to do. She had drawn blood from the public and was thirsting -for more of it. Her condition was one with which Old Mole was destined -to become familiar, but now he was distressed by her excitement, -insisted that she was tired (she looked it), and decided on a holiday. -She would only consent on condition that he allowed her to take -singing lessons and would pay for them. Still harping on economy--for -she could not get the extent and fertility of his means into her -head--she pitched on Blackpool because she had a sort of cousin there -who kept lodgings and would board them cheap. He tried to argue with -her, and suggested London or Paris. But London had become to her the -heaven to which all good "professionals" go, and Paris was very little -this side of Hell for wickedness, and her three months in the theater -had had the curious result of making her set great store by her estate -as a married woman. To Blackpool they went and were withered by the -March winds and half starved by Matilda's cousin, who despised them -when she learned that they were play actors. They were miserable, and -for misery no worse setting could be found than an empty pleasure -city. They frequented the theater, and very quickly Matilda made -friends with its permanent officials and arranged for her singing -lessons with the conductor of the orchestra, who was also organist of -a church and eked out a meager living with instruction on the violin, -'cello, piano, organ, flute, trombone, tympani, voice production and -singing--(all this was set forth on his card, which he left on Old -Mole by way of assuring himself that all was as it should be and he -would be paid for his trouble). Matilda had four lessons a week, and -she practiced most industriously. "It was not," said her instructor, -"as though she were training for op'ra, but just to get the voice -clear and refine it. . . ." He was very genteel, was Mr. Edwin Watts, -and he did more for her pronunciation in a week than Old Mole had been -able to accomplish in a year and more. His gentility discovered the -gentleman in his pupil's husband, and he invited them to his house, -and gave them tickets for concerts and the Tower and a series of organ -recitals he was giving in his church. He was a real musician, but he -was alone in his music, for he had an invalid wife who looked down on -his profession and would admit none of his friends to the house, which -she filled with suites of furniture, china knickknacks, lace curtains -and pink ribbons. The little man lived in perpetual distrust of -himself, admired his wife because he loved her, and submitted to her -taste, regarding his own as a sort of unregenerate longing. Neither -Old Mole nor Matilda were musical, but, when his wife was out to tea -with the wife of the bank manager or the chemist, Watts would invite -them to his parlor and play the piano--Bach, Beethoven, Chopin--until -they could take in no more and his music was just a noise to them. But -there was no exhausting his capacity or his energy, and when they were -thoroughly worn out he used to play "little things of his own." He was -very religious and full of cranks, a great reader of the -advertisements in the newspapers, and there was no patent medicine, -hair restorer, magnetic belt, uric acid antidote that he had not -tried. He was proud of it, and used to say: - -"I've tried 'em all except the bust preservers." - -It was precisely here that he and Old Mole found common ground. With -his new mental activity Old Mole had become increasingly sensitive to -any sluggishness in his internal organs and began to resent his -tendency to fleshiness. He and Mr. Watts had immense discussions, and -the musician produced remedies for every ailment and symptom. - -Matilda said they were disgusting, but Old Mole stuck to it, smoked -less, ate less, took long walks in the morning, and attained a -ruddiness of complexion, a geniality of manner, a sense of wellbeing -that helped him, with surprising suddenness, to begin to enjoy his -life, to delight in its little pleasures, and to laugh at its small -mischances and irritations. With a chuckling glee he would watch -Matilda in her goings out and her comings in, and he preferred even -her assiduous practicing to her absence. He was amazed at the -swiftness with which, on the backward movement of time, his past life -was borne away from him, with his anxieties, his unrest, his -bewilderment, his repugnance in the face of new things and new people. -He found that he was no longer shy with other men, nor did he force -them to shyness. He lost much of his desire to criticize and came by a -warm tolerance, which saved him from being conscious of too many -things at once and left him free to exist or to live, as the case -might be. He felt ready for anything. - -When, therefore, Matilda announced that Mr. Watts had procured her an -engagement with a No. 2 Northern Musical Comedy Company, touring, "The -Cinema Girl" and "The Gay Princess," he packed up his traps, told -himself that he would see more of this astonishing England, and went -with her. She had two small parts and was successful in them. And now, -when she was in the theater, he no longer skulked in their lodgings -nor divided her existence into two portions--his and the theater's, -but went among the company, joined in their fare and jokes and -calamities, played golf with the principal comedian and the manager, -and saw things with their eyes. This was easy, because they saw very -little. They liked and respected him, and soon discovered that he had -money. Matilda's lot was made comfortable and her parts were enlarged. -Neither she nor her husband attributed this to anything but her -talent, and it made them very happy. Her name was on the program, and -they cut out all the flattering references to her in the newspapers -and pasted them into a book, and it were hard to tell which read them -the oftener, he or she. He felt ready for everything, expanded like a -well-tended plant; but with his unrest had gone much of his sympathy -and the tug and tear of his heart on the sight of misery. He watched -men now as they might be dolls, pranked up and tottering, flopping -through their daily employments, staggeringly gesticulating through -anger and love, herding together for pleasure and gain, and when both -were won (or avoided), lurching into their own separate little houses. -In this mood it pleased him to be with the dolls of the theater, -because they were gayer than the rest, farded, painted, peacocking -through their days. He caught something of their swagger, and, looking -at the world through their eyes, saw it as separate from himself, full -of dull puppets, bound to one place, caught in a mesh of streets, -while from week to week he moved on. The sense of liberty, of having -two legs where other men were shackled, was potent enough to carry him -through the traveling on Sundays, often all day long, with dreary -waits at empty, shuttered stations, and blinded him to the small -miseries, the mean scandals, the jealousies, rivalries and wounded -sensibilities which occupied the rest of the company. . . . There was -one woman--she was perhaps forty-five--who sat opposite to him on -three consecutive Sundays. She played, in both pieces, the inevitable -dowager to chaperone the heroine; she was always knitting, and, with -brows furrowed, she stared fixedly in front of her; her lips were -always moving, and every now and then she would nod her head -vigorously, or she would stop and stare desperately, and put her hands -to her lips and her heart would leap to her mouth. At first Old Mole -thought she was counting the stitches; but once, in the train, she -laid aside her knitting and produced a roll of cloth and cut out a -pair of trousers. Her lips went more furiously than ever, and suddenly -her eyes stared and she held out her hand with the scissors as though -to ward off some danger. Old Mole leaned across and spoke to her, but -she was so taken up with her own thoughts that she replied: - -"Yes, it's better weather, isn't it?" jerked out a watery smile and -withdrew into herself. When Old Mole asked Matilda why the woman -counted her stitches even when she was not knitting, and why, -apparently, she dropped so many stitches when she was, Matilda told -him that the woman had lost her voice and her figure and could make -very little money, and had a husband who was a comedian, the funniest -fellow in the world off the stage, but when he was "on" all his humor -leaked away, and though he worked very hard no one laughed at him, and -he, too, made very little money. They had six children, and all the -time in the train the woman was making calculations. She often -borrowed money, but that only added to her perplexity, because she -could not bear not to pay it back. - -This story almost moved Old Mole, but his mood was too strong for him, -and the woman only came forward to the foreground of the puppet show, -a sort of link between the free players, the colored, brilliant dolls, -and the drab mannikins who lived imprisoned in the background. - -His was a very pleasant mood to drift in and lounge and taste the -soothing savor of irony, which dulls sharp edges and tempers the -emphasis of optimism or pessimism. It seems to deliver the soul from -its desire for relief and sops its hunger with a comfortable pity. But -it is a lie. Old Mole knew it not for what it was and hugged it to -himself, and called it wisdom, and he began to write a satire on -education as he had known it in Thrigsby. He reveled in the physical -labor of writing, in the company of his ideas as they took shape in -the furnace of concentration, and what he had intended to be a short -pamphlet grew into an elaborate account of his twenty-five years of -respectable and respected service, showing the slow submergence of the -human being into the machine evolved for the creation of other -machines. . . . He was weeks and months over it. The tour did not come -to an end as had been anticipated, but was continued through the -holiday months at the seaside resorts. They returned to Blackpool in -August, and then he finished his work and read it to Edwin Watts. The -musician had an enormous reverence for the printed word, and had never -met an author before. His emotionalism warmed up and colored the -dryness and bitterness of Old Mole's tale, and he saw in it only a -picture of suppression and starved imagination like his own. He -applauded, and Old Mole was proud of his firstborn and determined to -publish it. In his early days he had revised and prepared a book of -Examination Papers in Latin accidence for a series, and to the -publisher he sent his "Syntax and Sympathy." It had really moved Edwin -Watts, and he composed in its honor a sonata in B flat, which he -dedicated "To the mute, inglorious Miltons of Lancashire." It was -played on the pier by a municipal band, but did not immediately -produce any ebullition of genius. - -When Old Mole told Matilda that he had written a book she asked: - -"Is it a story?" - -"A sort of story." - -"Has it a happy ending? I can't see why people write stories that make -you miserable." - -"It's a wonderful book," said Edwin Watts. - -And Old Mole said: - -"I flatter myself there are worse books written." - -When Watts had gone Matilda said: - -"If it's not a nice book I couldn't bear it." - -"What do you mean--you couldn't bear it?" - -"If it's like that Lucretius you're so fond of I'd be ashamed." - -In the intoxication that still endured from the fumes of writing he -had been thinking that the book was not incomparable with "De Rerum -Natura," something between that and the Satires of Juvenal. - - - -In a few weeks his manuscript returned with a polite letter from the -publisher declining it, desiring to see more of Mr. Beenham's work, -and enclosing his reader's report. It was short: - -" 'Syntax and Sympathy' is satire without passion or any basis of love -for humanity. There is nothing more damnable. The book is clever -enough. It would be beastly in French--there is a plentiful crop of -them in Paris; in England, thank God, with our public's loathing of -cleverness, it is impossible." - -The author burned letter and report, and at night, when Matilda was at -the theater, buried the manuscript in the sands. - - - -If there be any man who, awaking from a moral crisis, finds himself -withered by the fever of it and racked with doubt as to his power to -go boldly and warmly among his fellowmen without being battered and -bewildered into pride or priggishness or cold egoism or thin-blooded -humanitarianism, let him go to Blackpool in holiday time. There he -will find hundreds of thousands of men, women and children; he will -hear them, see them, smell them, be jostled and chaffed by them. He -will find them in and on the water, on the sands, in the streets, in -the many public places, shows and booths, in the vast ballrooms, -straggling and stravading, smoking, drinking, laughing, guffawing, -cracking coarse jokes, singing bawdy and patriotic songs with equal -gusto, making music with mouth-organs, concertinas, cornets; young men -and maidens kissing and squeezing unashamed, and at night stealing out -to the lonely sands; old men and women gurgling over beer and tobacco, -yarning over the troubles that came of just such lovemaking in their -young days; and all hot and perspiring; wearing out their bodies, for -once in a way, in pleasure, gross pleasure with no savor to it nor -lasting quality, but coarse as the food they eat, as the beds they lie -on, as the clothes they wear; forgetting that their bodies are, day -in, day out, bent in labor, forgetting the pinch and penury of their -lives at home, forgetting that their bodies have any other than their -brutish functions of eating, drinking, sleeping, excretion and -fornication. . . . Old Mole watched it all, and, true to his ironical -mood, he saw the mass in little, swarming like ants; in the early -morning of the great day these creatures were belched forth from the -black internal regions of the country, out upon the seashore; there -they sprawled and struggled and made a great clatter and din, until at -the end of the day they were sucked back again. Intellectually it -interested him. It was a pageant of energy unharnessed; but it was all -loose, unshaped, overdone, repeating itself again and again, so that -at last it destroyed any feeling he might have had for it. He saw it -through to the end, to the last excursion train going off, crammed in -every compartment, with tired voices singing, often quite beautifully, -in harmony. - -Matilda had refused to go out with him. She came home very late from -the theater, and said she had been helping the knitting woman cut out -some clothes. He asked her if she had ever seen the crowds in the -pleasure city. She looked away from him, and with a sudden, almost -imperceptible, gesture of pain replied: - -"Once." - -He knew when that was, and with a tearing agony the old jealousy -rushed in upon him and with a brutality that horrified him, that was -whipped out of him, to the ruin of his self-control, he ground out: - -"Yes. I know when that was." - -Her hand went tugging up to her breast and she said with passionate -resentment: - -"You ought never to say a thing like that to me." - -His blood boiled into a fury and he turned on her, but she was gone. -He wrestled with himself, toiled and labored to regain his will, the -mastery of his thoughts and his feelings. The jealousy died away, but -no other emotion came to take its place. He regained his will, saw -clearly again, but was more possessed by his irony than before. He was -no longer its master, no longer drifting comfortably, but its slave, -whirled hither and thither at its caprice--and it was like a hot gusty -wind blowing in him before a storm. All the color of the world was -heavy and metallic, but it was painted color, a painted world. He was -detached from himself, from Matilda, and he and she passed into the -puppet show in the miserable liberty of the gaily painted dolls: free -only in being out of the crowd, sharing none of the crowd's energy, -having no part in any solidarity. - -He made himself a bed on the hard horsehair sofa in their room and lay -hour by hour staring at the window panes, listening to the distant -thud and thunder of the sea, watching for the light to come to make -plain the window and show up the colors of the painted world. - -In the morning they avoided each other, and she spent the day with the -knitting woman, he with Edwin Watts, and, when, at night, she returned -from the theater, he was asleep. It was the first time they had -strangled a day, and it lay cold and dark between them. He admitted -perfectly that he was at fault, but to say that he was sorry was a -mockery and an untruth. He was not sorry, for he felt nothing. - -They bore the burden of their sullen acquiescence in silence into the -third day, and then she said: - -"If you want me to go, I'll go." - -"No! No! I'll go." - -Silence had been torture, but speech was racking. They were at the -mercy of words, and there was an awful finality about the word _go_ -which neither desired and yet neither could qualify. . . . Plainly she -had been weeping, but that exasperated him. She, at any rate, had -found an outlet, and he had discovered none. And all the time he was -haunted by the futility, the childishness of it all. - -"Where will you go?" she asked. - -"Does it matter?" - -"I suppose not. But some one must look after you." - -He muttered unintelligibly. - -Was he--was he coming back? Of course he was. He would let her know. - -He went to Paris and stayed in his old hotel in the Rue Daunou. The -exhilaration of the journey, the spirit of amusement that is in the -air of the city of light, buoyed him up for a couple of days. He dined -skillfully and procured the glow of satisfaction of a bottle of fine -wine, sought crowds and the curious company of the boulevards, but as -soon as he was alone again his inflation collapsed and he took pen, -paper and thick paintlike ink and wrote his first letter to her. He -began "my love," crossed that out and substituted "my dearest," tore -up the sheet of paper and began "my dear." He pondered this for a long -time and wrote his initials and circles and squares on the paper, as -it dawned on him that for the first time for nearly thirty years--well -over twenty, at any rate--he was writing a love letter, that it had to -be written, and that the last series upon which he had embarked was no -sort of model for this. He chewed the ends and ragged threads of folly -of his twenties and was astonished at the small amount of truth and -genuine affection he could find in them, wondered, too, what had -become of the waters of the once so easily tapped spring of ardor and -affection. It seemed to him that he could mark the very moment of its -subterranean plunge. It had been, had it not, when he had made his -fruitless effort to escape from Thrigsby, when he had applied--in -vain--for the Australian professorship. Then he had shut and locked -the door upon himself, and he remembered clearly the day, at the -beginning of term, when he had, with glowing excitement and a sort of -tragical humor, saluted his Form Room as his lasting habitation. . . . -Once more he scratched H. J. B. on the paper before him, but saw it -not, for clearly in his mind was the vision of Matilda, lying in her -bed with her hair thrown back over her pillow and her hand beneath her -cheek, and the whiteness of her throat and the slenderness of her -arms, the scent of her hair. . . . His heart was full again. He took -another sheet of paper, and, with no picking of phrases, he wrote: - -"My little one. Are there still the marks of your tears on your -cheeks? There are still the bruises of my own obstinacy upon my barren -old heart. I am here, miles away from you, in another country, but I -am more with you than I have ever been. What a burden I must have been -upon you! It must have been that I must selfishly have felt that. One -would suffer more from being a burden than from bearing a burden. (And -you said: 'Who will look after you?' I think that rasped my blown -vanity more than anything.) One would suffer more, I say, if one were -a withered, parched, tedious old egoist, as I am. Tell me, are there -still the marks of your tears on your cheeks? I cannot bear not to -know. I love you. Now I know that I love you. If this world were -fairyland, you would love me. But this world is this world. And it is -the richer, as I am, by my love for you. - - H. J. B." - -As feverishly and feather-headedly as a boy he skimmed upon the air to -post this letter, and as he slipped it into the box he kissed the -envelope, and as he did so he was overcome by a sense of the delicious -absurdity of his love, of all love, and he bowed low and gravely to -the Opera House and said: - -"You are a pimple on the face of the earth, my friend, but my love is -the blood of its veins." - -He packed his bag before he went to bed, was up very early in the -morning, and, as soon as a certain shop in the Rue de la Paix was -opened, went in and bought a necklace of crystals and emeralds. He was -in London by six o'clock and half an hour later in the northern -express. He reached Blackpool before his letter. The company and -Matilda were gone. It was Sunday. The theater was closed and he had -lost his card of the tour. Watts did not know. He never knew anything. -Companies came and went and he stayed, as he said with his weak, -watery smile, "right there," only thankful that their damnable tunes -were gone with them. Old Mole cursed him for an idiot and hunted up -the stage doorkeeper, whose son was callboy and knew everything. He -routed them out of bed, got the information he needed, and was off -again as fast as a cross-country train could carry him. - -He broke in on Matilda as she was at breakfast, rushed at her -boisterously. Through the long hours in the crawling train, with the -dawn creeping gray, opal, ripe strawberry, over moors and craggy -hills, he had contrived the scene, played a game of Consequences with -himself, what he said to her and what she said to him, but Matilda -peered at him and in a dull, husky voice said: - -"Oh! It's you." - -And fatuously he stood there and said: - -"Yes." - -She was pale and weary and there were deep marks under her eyes. She -said: - -"You didn't leave me any money. It was important. We got here last -night and then they told us there'd be no last week's salary. They -didn't pay us on Friday. We traveled on Sunday as usual, and when we -got here they told us. Some one in London's done something. -Enid"--that was the name of the knitting woman--"Enid looked awful -when they told us, quite ill. I went home with her, and I've been up -with her all night. She didn't sleep a wink, but went on counting and -counting out loud, like she used to do to herself in the train. . . . -I've been up with her all night, but it wasn't any good, because in -the morning, when the dawn came, she got up and walked about and went -into the next room, and when I went after her she was dead. And if I'd -only had a little money. . . . She was a good woman and the only -friend I had, and she killed herself." - -He sat by her side and took her hand and soothed her. - -"But, my dear child, you had plenty of money of your own in the bank, -and your own checkbook." - -"I didn't know I was to spend that. It was in the bank. You never told -me what to do with the book." - -And to find something to say, to draw her thoughts off the miserable -tragedy, he explained to her the mysteries of banking, how, when you -have more money than you can spend--she had never had it and found -that hard to grasp--you pay it into your account and it is entered -into a book, and how, if it is a great deal more than you can spend, -you lend it to the bank and they pay you interest for it and lend it -to other people. She began to grasp it at last and to see that the -money was really hers and she would be putting no injury nor affront -upon the bank by asking for some of it by means of a check. Then she -said: - -"Have we a lot of money in the bank?" - -"Not an enormous quantity, but enough to go on without selling out." - -"What does that mean?" - -He tried to explain the meaning of investments, of stocks and shares, -but that was beyond her capacity and her immediate interest. She had -begun to think practically of her money, and she said: - -"Some of these people have nothing at all." - -And she made him show her how to write a check, and they hunted up all -the poorer members of the company--those who had any money were -already gone in search of work--and she gave them all enough to pay -their rent and for their journey to their homes. Then she wrote to -Enid's husband and gave him all sorts of messages that had not been -entrusted to her, said that thirty-five shillings had been found in -Enid's purse and sent that amount to him. - -They stayed for the inquest, and Enid's husband came. He said what a -good wife she had been to him, and what cruel times they had been -through together, and how he couldn't believe it, and it wasn't like -her to do such a thing, and she would have been another Florence St. -John if she hadn't married him, and he hadn't got the name of a Jonah. -"S'elp me God!" he said, "she was the right stuff on and off the -stage, and them as hasn't had cruel times and been a Jonah won't ever -understand what she's been to me." Through his incoherence there shone -a beauty of dumb, humble and trusting love that now triumphed over -death as it had triumphed over the monotonous, degrading slips and -deprivations of life. Before it Old Mole bowed his head and felt a -sort of envy, a regret that he, too, had not had cruel times and been -a Jonah. - -Clumsily he tried to tell Matilda how he felt, but she could hardly -bear to talk of Enid and closed every reference to her with: - -"If I had known I could have saved her. I ought to have known." - -Even worse was it when he gave her the necklace. - -From the scene of the disaster they had moved to a little fishing -village on the Yorkshire coast where they lodged in the cottage of a -widow named Storm, perched halfway up a cliff, and from the windows -they could see right over the North Sea, smooth as glass, with the -herring fleet dotted like flies on its gleaming surface. Here, he -thought, they could overcome their difficulties and relax the tension -brought about by that last dark experience. There would be health in -the wide sea and the huge cliffs and the moorland air. But it was the -first time Matilda had been out of the crowd, and the peace and the -emptiness induced brooding in her. - -When he gave her the necklace she took it out of its white satin and -velvet case and fingered it and let the light play on it. Then it -seemed to frighten her, and she asked how much it had cost. He told -her. - -"It seems a sin," said she, and put it back in its case. - -That night she received his letter and then only she seemed to -understand why he had given her the necklace, and she came and patted -his shoulder and kissed the top of his head. She began to talk of -Enid, how she never complained and never said an unkind word of -anybody, and how proud she was of two little trinkets, a brooch and a -bangle, given her by her husband, which she said she had never pawned -and never would. - -"The world seems upside down," said Matilda. - -"No. No," he protested. "It is all as it should be, as it must be. My -dear child, I can't tell you how sorry I am. I hurt you, made things -hard for you. I was seeing the world all wrong. Men and women seemed -only toys. . . ." - -"But Enid used to say, you can't expect anything from people when they -have to think of money all day long." - -"When did she say that?" - -"When her husband was out so long and didn't write to her." - -"Did she love him very much?" - -"Yes." - -"And I love you." - -"Yes. But. . . . It's so different." - -He looked at her and she met his gaze. In her eyes there was a -strength, a determination, a depth that were new to her. It stimulated -him, braced him, and he felt that something was awakened in her, -something that demanded of him, demanded, insisted. He was ashamed of -his letter, ashamed that he had given her the necklace, ashamed that -when she demanded of him the glory of life he had thought no higher -than to give her pleasure. - -So he was flung back into torment, and where before he saw humanity -and its infinite variety as smaller than himself, now, with full swing -to the opposite pole of exaggeration, he saw it as immeasurably larger -and superior, full of a mighty purpose, ebbing and flowing like the -sea, while, perched above the fringe of it, he cowered. - -He concealed his distress from her. He was not so far gone but he -could delight in the scents and sounds of the country, and he would -tramp away over the moors or along the cliffs by himself, lie in the -heather and smoke and watch the clouds, real, full-bellied clouds, -lumbering and far off shedding a gray gauze of rain. He would fill his -lungs with the keen air and return home hungry to sup on plain cottage -fare or delicious herrings fresh from the sea. - -One night, to please him, Matilda wore the necklace. It was -pathetically out of place on her cheap little blouse, incongruous in -their surroundings, the stiff, crowded fisherman's parlor. - -It was that decided him. There must be an end of drifting. Sink or -swim, they must endeavor to take their place in the world. They would -go to London. If among the third-rate mummers who had been their -company for so long Matilda could so wonderfully grow and expand, what -might she not, would she not, do among gentler, riper souls? And, for -himself, he would seek out a task. There must be in England men of -active minds and keen imaginations, men among whom he could find, if -not the answers to, at least an interest in, the questions that came -leaping in upon him. They would go to London and make a home, and -Matilda should be the mistress of it. She should live her own life, -and he his, and there would be an end of the strain between them, and -the beginnings of the most fruitful comradeship. - - - -Once again the immediate execution of his plans was frustrated. A -strike was declared on the railways of Great Britain, and it became -impossible for them to move, for they were on a branch line. Letters -and newspapers were brought nine miles by road and there was no lack -of food. The newspapers for a week devoted four columns to the story -of the strike, then three columns, then two, then one. A little war -broke out in the Persian Gulf. That dominated the strike, which lasted -three weeks, and ended in the intervention of the Government, with -neither the companies nor the men yielding. - -The village had its Socialists, the postman and the fish buyer, and, -in the beginning of it, they talked excitedly of a general strike; the -dockers would come out and the carters; every port would be closed, -transport at a standstill; the miners would lay down their tools, and -such frightful losses would be inflicted on the capitalists that they -would be unable to pursue their undertakings. They would be taken out -of their hands and worked by the laborers for the laborers, and then -there would be the beginnings of justice upon the earth and the -laborers would begin to enjoy the good things of the world. Old Mole -asked them what they meant by the good things of the world, and the -answer was strangely Hebraic--a land flowing with milk and honey, -where men labored for six days (eight hours a day) and rested the -seventh day, and had time to talk and think. They set an enormous -value on talking and thinking, and all their enthusiasm was for -"settling questions." The land would be "settled," and education, and -housing, and insurance, and consumption, and lead poisoning. Each -"question" was separated from every other; each existed apart from -everything else, and each had its nostrum, the prescription for which -was deferred until the destruction of the capitalists, and the -liberation of the middle classes from their own middle classishness-- -(for these Socialists detested the middle classes even more than the -capitalists)--had placed the ingredients in their hands. The -"questions" had to be settled; the capitalists had created them, the -middle classes, like sheep, accepted them; the "questions" had to be -settled once for all, and therefore the capitalists had to be ruined -and the middle classes squeezed in their pockets and stomachs until -they surrendered and accepted the new ordering of the world in -justice, brotherhood, and equality. Already the strike was doing -damage at the rate of hundreds and thousands a week, and they had -caught the bulk of the middle classes in their holidays, and thousands -of them would be unable to get back to their work. - -In the thick of it Old Mole, to satisfy himself, walked over to that -town which is advertised as the Queen of Watering Places. There were -thousands of the middle classes on the sands. Their children were -sprawling on sand castles and dabbling in the thin washings of the -sea. Fathers and mothers were lounging in deck chairs, sleeping under -handkerchiefs and hats and umbrellas; grandmothers were squatting in -charge of their grandchildren. Some of them were reading about the -strike in the newspapers. At teatime the beach was cleared as though -all human beings had been blown from it by a sea breeze. An hour later -it was thickly thronged and the pierrots in their little open-air -theater were playing to an enormous audience. The strike had prolonged -their holiday; they were prepared to go on in its monotony instead of -in the monotony of their work and domestic life. They were quite -contented, dully acceptant. There were no trains? Very well, then; -they would wait until there were trains. Respectable, well-behaved, -orderly, genteel people do not starve. . . . And they were right. - -However, it set Old Mole thinking about his own means, the -independence which he owed to no virtue nor talent, nor thrift of his -own, but to a system which he did not understand, to sources which in -the intricacies of their journey to himself were impossible to follow. -Of the many enterprises all over the world, in the profits of which he -had his share, he knew nothing at all. The reports that were sent to -him were too boring or too technical to read. The postman and the fish -buyer assured him that he was living upon the underpaid and overtaxed -labors of thousands of unhappy men and women. He had no reason for -disbelieving them, but, on the whole, his sympathies were with the -middle-classes, his attitude theirs; that respectable, well-behaved, -orderly, genteel people do not starve. Not that he classed himself -with them; he disliked the memory of his colleagues at Thrigsby, of -the men at the golf club at Bigley more than anything, and at this -time he was not moderate in his dislikes. He warmed to the enthusiasm -of the Socialists, but was exasperated by the manner in which, after -having made a clean sweep of everything except themselves and their -kind, they could produce no constructive idea, but only a thin -cerebral fluid, done up in different colored bottles as in a pharmacy. -Just at the point when he found himself beginning to dream of a world -of decent, kindly, human beings delivered (as far as possible) from -their own folly and the tyrannies bred from it, they left humanity -altogether and gloated hectically over their "questions." - -If that were Socialism, he would have none of it; he preferred money. -He told them so, and found that he had uttered the most appalling -blasphemy. They said that Socialism was a religion, the religion that -would save the world. - -Said Old Mole: - -"There have been Hebraism, Buddhism, Mohammedanism, Christianity, the -worship of Isis and Osiris, the worship of the Bull, the Cat, the -Snake, the Sun, the Moon, the Stars, the Phallus; there have been -prophets without number and martyrs more than I can say, saints for -every day in the year and more, and none of them has saved the world. -More than that, I will go so far as to say that none of them has done -as much to raise the standard of living as money." - -"Damn it all," said the fish buyer, "I'm not talking about -superstitions. I'm talking about ideas." - -"Money also is an idea," replied Old Mole, "and it is as generally -misunderstood as any other." - -He was beginning to be rather excited, for he felt that he was getting -the better of the argument, and would not allow himself to see that he -had floundered on to the debater's trick of shunting his opponents on -to unfamiliar country. They had gone up and down one stretch of line, -between two points--capitalism and labor--for so long, without looking -on either side of them, that it needed only a very slight adjustment -or transposition of terms to reduce them to a beating of the void. -They clung to their point, and the postman at last said triumphantly: - -"But money isn't a religion; Socialism is--the religion, the only -religion of the working classes of this country. They've had enough of -the next world; they want a bit o' this for a change." - -"So do I," returned Old Mole, "all of it. I say that money is an idea, -perhaps the only practicable idea in the world at present. It isn't a -religious idea simply because men as a whole are not religious. It has -the advantage over your Socialism that it is a part of life as it is, -while your religion, as you call it, is only a straining after the -future life, an edifice without a foundation, for to bring about its -realization you have to hew and cut and shape human nature to fit into -the conditions of your fantasy. If I wanted to be a prophet, which I -don't--I should base my vision on money. There would be some chance -then of everybody understanding it and really taking it into his life. -If you could make money a religious idea--that is, make money a thing -which men would respect and revere and abuse as little as -possible--you would very likely produce something--deeds, not words -and questions." - -"Don't you call the strike 'doing something'?" cried the fish buyer. - -"We shall see," replied Old Mole. - -The postman filled his cutty and laughed: - -"Don't you see," he said to the fish buyer, "that he is pulling your -leg?" - -So, convinced of their superiority, they abandoned the discussion. - -His tussles with these Jeremiahs of the Yorkshire village gave Old -Mole the confidence he needed, and the exultant glow of a sharpening -of the wits, which are like razors, most apt to cut the wielder of -them when they are most dull. He tortured himself no more with his -failure to satisfy Matilda, but laid all his hopes in the future and -the amusing life in London that he wished to create for her. Intensely -he desired her to develop her own life, to grow into the splendid -creature he now saw struggling beneath the crust of ignorance and -prejudice and shyness and immaturity that hemmed her in. There was -such beauty in her, and he had failed to make it his, a part of -himself, and in his blundering efforts to teach her, to lead her on to -the realization and gift of herself, he had wounded her even when he -most adored her. . . . The dead woman, Enid, had been more to her than -he had ever been. He saw that now. She had known in that woman's lift -something that was not in her own, and she desired it; how much it was -painful to see. She never looked for it in him, but gazed in upon -herself in a sort of pregnancy of the soul. And, like a pregnant -woman, she must be satisfied in her whimsies, she must have her -desires anticipated, she must be given the color and brightness of -life, now before her sensitiveness had passed away for want of fair -impressions. These she had been denied in the young years of her life. -She must have them. . . . She must have them. . . . - -She accepted his proposal to go to London without enthusiasm. She -thought over it for some time and at last she said: - -"Yes. It will be best for you. I don't want you to go away again." - - - -And the night before they left, when the train-service was restored, -she took out the necklace as she was undressing and tried it on, and -looked at herself in the mirror and said: - -"I'd like to wear this in London. But I shall want an evening dress, -sha'n't I?" - -She smiled at him. His heart overflowed and colored the workings of -his mind with a full humor. He thought: - -"If there be ideas, how better can they be expressed than in terms of -Matilda?" - - - - -V - -IN THE SWIM - -_Whoever has an ambition to be heard in a crowd must press, and -squeeze, and thrust, and climb, with indefatigable pains, till he has -exalted himself to a certain degree of altitude above them._ - -A TALE OF A TUB - - - -V - -IN THE SWIM - -THEY stayed at first in one of the hotels designed to give provincials -bed and breakfast for five shillings, for visitors to London do not -mind in how much they are mulcted in pursuit of pleasure, but resent -the payment of an extra farthing for necessaries. They were high up on -the fifth floor and could see right over many roofs and chimneys to -the dome of St. Paul's. They saw the sights and lunched and dined in -restaurants, and went by river to Greenwich, by tram to Kew, and Old -Mole was forced to admit that it is possible to fall short of a -philosophic conception of happiness and yet to have a very amusing -time. It was Matilda's ambition to go to every theater in London. She -found it possible to enjoy everything, and therefore he was not bored. - -Sheer physical exhaustion brought their pleasure-seeking to an end, -and they set about finding a habitation. On their arrival Old Mole had -written to his brother, but had had no reply. At last a scrubby clerk -arrived with a note: - - -"So glad you have come to your senses. Come to lunch, 1.15.--R. B." - - -They went to lunch in Gray's Inn, and after so much frequenting of -public places it was deliciously peaceful to sink into private -armchairs among personal belongings and a goodly company of books. -Robert was very genial and kissed Matilda and delivered her over to -his laundress for the inevitable feminine preparations for a meal. -While she was away he told Old Mole that he had taken silk, and was -retiring from the Bar, and building himself a house at Sunningdale, -for the links, and was looking out for a suitable tenant. If Old Mole -liked to keep a room for him he could have the place practically as it -stood, on a two-thirds sharing basis. . . . It were hard to find, in -London, a pleasanter place. The windows looked out onto the rookery, -the rooms were of beautiful design and proportion, and there were -eight of them altogether distributed over two floors, communicating by -a charming oak-balustraded staircase. - -"I've lived here for thirty years," said Robert, "and I'd like it kept -in the family." - -Old Mole was delighted. It saved all the vexation and discomfort of -finding and furnishing a house, and here, ready-made, was the -atmosphere of culture and comfort he was seeking and inwardly -designing for the blossoming of Matilda. - -Robert beamed on her when she came in, and said: - -"We've made a plan." - -She was properly excited. - -"Yes. You're going to live here." - -"Here? . . . Oh!" And she looked about among the pictures and the old -furniture and the rich curtains and hangings, and timidly, shyly, as -though she were not certain how they would take it, adopted them. - -They made her sit at the head of the table and placed themselves on -either side of her, and, as Robert poured her out a glass of wine -(Berncastler Doktor), he said: - -"You know, the old place has always wanted this." - -"Wanted--what?" asked Matilda. "I think it's perfect." - -"A charming hostess," said Robert, with an elaborate little bow of -courtliness. - -A fortnight later saw Robert installed at Sunningdale and the Beenhams -in occupation of his chambers. They shared only the dining-room; Old -Mole had the upstairs rooms and Matilda those downstairs. It was his -arrangement, and came from reaction against the closeness in which -they had lived during the long pilgrimage from lodging to lodging. - -Once a fortnight Robert engaged Old Mole to play golf with him, and he -consented because he desired to give Matilda as full a liberty as she -could desire. In the alternate weeks Robert came to stay for two -nights and occupied his room next to Old Mole's. He would take them -out to dinner and the theater, and after it the brothers would sit up -yarning until the small hours, and always the discussion would begin -by Robert saying: - -" 'Pon my honor, women are extraordinary!" And then, completely to his -own satisfaction, he would produce those generalizations which, in -England, pass for a knowledge of human nature, and Old Mole would -recognize them as old companions of his own. They were too absurd for -anger, but Robert's persistence would annoy him, and he would say: - -"When you live with a woman you are continually astonished to find -that she is a human being." - -"Human," answered Robert, sweetening the sentiment with a sip of port, -"with something of the angel." - -"Angel be damned," came in explosive protest, "women are just as human -as ourselves, and rather more so." - -"Ah!" said Robert, with blissful inconsequence, "but it doesn't do to -let 'em know it." - -Robert's contemptuous sentimentalization of women so bothered Old Mole -that he sought to probe for its sources. Among the books in the -chambers were many modern English novels, and he found nearly all of -them, in varying formulæ, dealing axiomatically with woman as an -extraneous animal unaccountably attached to the species, a creature -fearfully and wonderfully ignorant of the affairs of the world, of her -own physical processes, of the most elementary rules of health, -morality, and social existence, capricious, soulless, unscrupulous, -scheming, intriguing, concerned wholly and solely with marriage, if -she were a "good" woman, with the destruction of marriage if she were -"bad"; at best being a sort of fairy--(Robert's "angel")--whose -function and destiny were to pop the sugarplum of love into the mouths -of virtuous men. The most extreme variant of this conception was to be -found in the works of Robert Wherry, who, in a syrupy medium, depicted -women as virginal mothers controlling and comforting a world of -conceited, helpless little boys. Wherry was enormously successful, and -he had many imitators, but none of them had his supreme audacity or -his canny belief in the falsehood which was his only stock in trade. -The trait of Wherry was upon all the novels in Robert's collection. -Even among the "advanced" novels the marks of the beast were there. -They advanced not by considering life, but by protest against Wherry. -They said, in effect, "Woman is not a mother, she is a huntress of -men, or a social worker, or a mistress--(the conscious audacity in -using that word!)--or a parasite, or a tyrant"; and one bold fellow -said, "She has breasts"; he said it not once, but on every fifth page -in every book. Old Mole found him even more disgusting than Wherry, -who at least, in his dexterity, might be supposed to give pleasure to -young girls and foolish, inexperienced persons of middle age--(like -Robert)--and no great harm be done. - -To protect himself against the uncleanness of these books he took down -"Rabelais," which Robert kept tucked away on his highest shelf. And -when he had driven off the torpor in his blood and thoughts induced by -the slavishness of Robert's modern literature, he told himself that it -was folly to take it seriously: - -"There have always been bad books," he said. "The good survive in the -love of good readers. Good taste is always the same, but vicious taste -is blown away by the cleansing winds of the soul." - -All the same, he could not so easily away with modern literature, for -he was suffering from the itch to write, and had already half-planned, -being, like every one else, subject to the moral disease of the time, -an essay on Woman. Wherry and the rest brought him up sharp: they made -him very angry, but they made him perceive in himself many of the -distressing symptoms he had found in them. He gave more thought to -them, and, though he knew nothing of how these books were written, or -of the conditions under which literature was at that time produced and -marketed, he came to see these men and women as mountebanks in a fair, -each shouting outside a little tent. "Come inside and see what Woman -is like." And some showed bundles of clothes, with nobody inside them; -and some showed life-size dolls; and some showed women nude to the -waist; and some showed women with bared legs; and some showed women in -pink fleshings; and some showed naked women who had lost their -modesty, and therefore could not be gazed upon without offence. - -He pondered his own essay, and recognized that its subject was not -Woman, but Matilda. In that gallery he could not show her, nor could -he, without shame, display her to the public view. And therein, it -seemed to him, he had touched the secret of all these lewd -exhibitions. The displayers of them, in their impatient haste to catch -the pennies of the public, or admiration, or whatever they might be -desiring, were presenting, raw, confused and unimagined, their own -unfelt and uncogitated experience, or, sometimes, an extension of -their experience, in which, by an appalling logic, while they limned -life as they would like to live it, they were led to the limits of -unreason and egoistic folly. In presentation or extension, only those -shows had any compelling force in which egoism was complete and entire -lack of feeling relieved the showmen of fine scruples or human -decency. Where shreds of decency were left they only served to show up -the horrible obscenity of the rest. - -Looking at it in this light--and there seemed no other way of -correlating this literature with human life--Old Mole was distressed. - -"It is bad enough," he thought, "when they make a public show of their -emotions, but when they parade emotions they never had, that is the -abomination of desolation." - -Matilda read some of them. She gulped them down at the rate of two in -an evening, but when he tried to discuss them with her she had nothing -to say about them. To her they were just stories, to be read and -forgotten. He tried to persuade himself that she was right, at any -rate more sensible than himself, but could get no further than the -admission of the fact that she had no feeling for literature and would -just as soon read a cash-made piece of hackwork as a masterpiece. That -led him back to the subject of his essay and woman's indifference to -ideas and idealism. He had been considering it as a general -proposition, but he was forced to admit that it was in truth only -Matilda's indifference to his own ideas, and he was not at all sure -but she possessed something much more valuable, a power to assimilate -ideas when they had taken flesh and become a part of the life that is -lived. He knew that he was using her as a test, a touchstone, and -through her he had learned to tolerate many things which his reason -scouted. As a practical criterion for life and living (two very -different things, as he was beginning dimly to perceive)--she was very -valuable to him, but it was when he passed on to the things of art and -found himself faced with the need of getting or begetting clear -conceptions of phenomena, in his search for the underlying, connecting -and resolving truth, that she failed him. She said he thought too -much. Perhaps he did, but it was a part of his way of living, and he -could not rest content with his relation with her, except he had also -his idea of her. It was a relief to him, and he felt he was greatly -advanced along the road by which he was traveling when he found her in -the National Gallery among the five singing women of the _Nativity_ of -Piero della Francesca. That discovery gave her an existence in the -world of art. He told her about the picture and took her to see it. - -"Good Lord!" she said. "Is that what you think I'm like?" - - - -She had thrilled to London. She used to say she would like to go back -into the provinces just to have again the pleasure of arriving at the -station and coming out into the roar of the traffic and the wonderful -London smell. The shops had bowled her over. Cities she had known -where there was one street of elegant shops, towns where there might -be one shop whose elegance lifted it high above all the rest, but here -there were miles and miles of them. She discovered them for herself, -and then took her husband to see the magical region of Oxford Street -and Regent Street. In Bond Street they saw a necklace just like hers, -and a most elegant young man went into the shop and the necklace was -taken out of the window. She saw hats and coats and tailor-mades that -she bought "in her mind," as she said, for she was still scared of -money, and he could not induce her to be anything but frugal. (She -would walk a mile to save a penny bus fare.) . . . When they went into -Gray's Inn and Robert removed his curtains and some of his furniture, -she asked if she might buy some of her things herself, and they -visited the great stores. She quickly lost her awe of them, and when -she had drawn two or three checks for amounts staggering to her who -had lived all her life cooped in by a weekly financial crisis, she -applied her mind to the problem, and did many little sums on scraps of -paper to reassure herself that she had not shaken the bank's faith in -her stability and honesty. It ceased to be a miracle to her, but she -hated drawing checks to herself, for cash vanished so easily and -unaccountably, while for checks made payable to tradespeople she -always had something to show. In this state of mind she decided, and, -as something momentous, announced her decision to buy an evening -dress. It was no light undertaking. A week passed before she found the -material, and when she had bought it--(for in her world you always had -dresses "made up")--she was doubtful of her taste, and as dubious of -Old Mole's. She bought the _Era_ and looked up the address of the -second girl in the pantomime, who remained to her the smartest woman -of her acquaintance. Curiosity as to the address in Gray's Inn brought -the "second girl" flying to her aid; she was delighted to be of use -and undertook to show Matilda the ins and outs of the shops and "the -dear old West End." She gave counsel as to trimming, knew of an -admirable dressmaker near Hanover Square, "ever so cheap." The -dressmaker also sold hats, and Matilda bought hats for herself and her -friend. The dressmaker also sold opera cloaks, and Matilda bought an -opera cloak. The dress and the cloak necessitated, enforced, finer -stockings, shoes, gloves than any Matilda possessed, and these also -she purchased. . . . When all these acquisitions came home she laid -them out on her bed and gazed at them in alarm and pleasure. It was -the middle of the afternoon, but she changed every stitch of her -clothing and donned everything new, the dress and the opera cloak, the -necklace, and, as she had seen the ladies do in the theater, she wore -a ribbon through her hair. In this guise Old Mole surprised her. He -was ravished by her loveliness, but was so taken aback by all these -secret doings, so tickled by her simplicity, that he laughed. He -laughed indulgently, but he sapped her confidence, reduced all her -pleasure to ashes, and there were tears, and she wished she had never -come to London, and she knew she was not good enough for him, but he -need not so plainly tell her so nor scorn her when she tried to make -herself so: other women had pretty clothes, women, too, who were hard -put to it to make a living. - -He soothed her and said if she would wear her silks and fine array he -would take her out next time Robert came. - -"I don't want to go out with Robert." - -"Why not?" - -"If I'm not good enough to know your sister, I'm not good enough to -know your brother." - -"That isn't reasonable." - -She was ruffled and hot, and in her heart annoyed with him for coming -in on her like that, for she had planned to take him by surprise on -their first evening's pleasuring. She did not want to be soothed, and -preferred sparring. - -"Your sister's in town, isn't she?" - -"Yes." - -"Have you seen her?" - -"No." - -"You have." - -"I have not." - -He knew why she was sparring; he knew that to disappoint a woman in -the vanity of her clothes is more immediately dangerous than to treat -her with deliberate insult or cruelty, but he was exacerbated by her -unfair onslaught on Robert, and he was sore at the attitude taken -toward him by his family. Robert had done his best, but the rest were -implacable; they would not admit his right to his own actions -independent of their opinion. Not content with holding their opinion, -they communicated it to him in the most injurious letters, written at -intervals most nicely calculated for his annoyance. To a philosopher -in search of tolerance and an open mind all this had been ruffling. - -The quarrel blew over. Matilda dried away her tears, and he begged her -pardon and promised to give her another evening dress finer even than -that, made at a real, smart, fashionable, expensive dressmaker's. -. . . Shyly and diffidently they entered a famous house in Albemarle -Street and were told that without an introduction the firm could not -make for madam. A splendid cocotte in glorious raiment swept by them -and out into the street. She had a little spaniel in her arms and a -silver-gray motorcar was awaiting her. Into this she mounted and was -whirled away. With something of both contempt and envy the stately -young woman who had received them gazed after this vision of wealth -and insolence. Old Mole and Matilda felt very small and crept away. - -Old Mole said: - -"The wealth of London is amazing. A man would need at least ten -thousand a year to amuse himself with a woman like that." - -Matilda said: - -"A creature like that!" - -And a little later she said: - -"I think I'll wait for my dress." - -However, she had not to wait, for Old Mole gave the story to Robert, -who, with a nice sense of the fitness of things, told his sister that -he wished to buy a dress for a friend of his, and, armed with her -introduction, he and Matilda went and ordered a gown at an -establishment even more exclusive than that in Albemarle Street. This -establishment was so select that only the most indubitably married or -otherwise guaranteed ladies were served; one there obtained the French -style without the suspicion of French Frenchness. - -The quarrel blew over, but the sensibilities of both were rasped, and -they were cautious and wary with one another, which is perhaps the -greatest trial of the blessed state of matrimony. He labored to be -just to her, to endeavor to understand her. She was, he confessed, in -a difficult position, lifted above her kind--though it was -inconceivable that she could ever have met the fate or assumed the -condition of her sister, Mrs. Boothroyd--and not adopted into his. He -was self-outlawed, driven out of the common mind of his class, and, so -far as he could see, of his country, into his own, and therein he had -as yet discovered no habitation, not even a site whereon to build. She -could not share his adventures and sorrows, and, except himself and -Robert, had no companionship. He asked her if she had no acquaintance -in London, and she confessed to the "second girl," Milly Dufresne. He -proposed that she should ask Miss Dufresne to dinner to provide the -occasion for the wearing of her new gown. She said she did not suppose -he would care for Miss Dufresne, but he protested that her friends -were of course his and he was only too delighted that she had a -companion of her own sex and age. - -The day was fixed (her birthday), the dinner ordered and arranged, a -man hired for the evening to do the waiting. Without a word being -said, it was assumed that there should be the ceremony due to the -necklace and the French (style) gown. - -As he considered all these preparations, Old Mole thought amusedly -that they were not at all for Miss Dufresne and Robert (who had been -invited), but rather a homage paid to their possessions, and, -searching within himself for the causes of the comfort and -satisfaction he felt, he found that this dinner was the first action -which had brought them into harmony with the London atmosphere. -Ethically there was nothing to be said for such a pretence at -hospitality; but as submission to the æsthetic pressure of their -surroundings, as expedience, it was quite wonderfully right. It was -the thin end of the wedge, the first turn of the gimlet in the boring -of the bunghole of the fat barrel of London existence; and, if it were -their fate to become Londoners, they were setting about it with -sufficient adroitness. He was only afraid that Miss Dufresne would -lead him back into the atmosphere of the theater from which he was so -relieved to have escaped. The theater that he had known was only an -excrescence on English life, a whelk or a wen on its reputable bald -head. He had perched on it like a fly, but his concern, his absorbing -concern, was to get at the brains inside that head and the thoughts -inside the brain. - -On the morning of the day fixed for the dinner Robert wired that he -could not come, and Old Mole was left with the awful prospect of -tackling Miss Dufresne alone. His recollection of her was of a most -admirably typical minx with an appetite for admiration and flattery -that had consumed all her other desires. - -"Lord save us!" he said. "I was baffled by that type as a young man; -what on earth can I do with it in my fifties?" - -And in his heart he was fearful of spoiling Matilda's pleasure. This -dread so oppressed him that, finding her flurried and irritable with -the work of preparation, he decided to absent himself, to lunch at -Robert's club, of which he had just been elected a member, and to -soothe himself with a walk through Whitehall and the parks in the -afternoon. - -As he walked--it was a fine spring day with the most beautiful -changing lights and a sweet breeze--he congratulated himself on the -wisdom of having come to London. Marriage might be difficult--there -was no warrant, Scriptural or other, for expecting it to be easy--but -at least in London there was interest. There was not the unrelieved -sordidness of other English cities. There was a tradition, some -attempt to maintain it, graciousness, a kind of dignity--it might be -the dignity of a roast sirloin of beef, but dignity it certainly -was--here and there traces of manners, and leisure not altogether -swamped by luxury. Coming from Thrigsby was like leaving the racket of -the factory for the elegant shop in which the finished articles were -sold. He liked that simile, and there he left his speculations -concerning London. He was not at his ease in this kind of thinking; a -thought was only valuable to him when it was successfully married to -an emotion to produce an image. For London he could find no image, and -when he thought of England he was taken back to his most vivid -emotion, that when in the caravan with Copas they had breasted the -hill and come in view of the Pennine Range: but this was a mere -emotion mated with no thought. As for the Empire, it simply had no -significance. It was a misnomer, or rather, a name given to an -illusion, or, at best, a generalization. It was certainly not an -entity, but only the impossible probability of a universally accepted -fiction. He could not accept it, nor could he accept the loose -terminology of the politicians. For this reason he could never now -read the newspapers except for the cricket and football news in which -his interest was maintained by habit. - -Less and less was he interested in things and ideas that were not -immediately human, and therefore fluid and varying in form and color -as clouds and trees in the wind and birds in the air--and human beings -on the earth. Rigid theory and fixed conceptions actually hurt him; -they were detached, dead, like windfall fruit rotting on the ground, -and everywhere, in books, in the newspapers, in public speeches, he -saw them gathered up and stored, because it was too much trouble to -take the ripe fruit from the tree, or to wait for the hanging fruit to -ripen, or because (he thought) men walk with their eyes to the ground, -even as he had done, and see nothing of the beauty above and around -them. And, thinking so, he would feel an impulse to arise and shout -and waken men, but then, regretfully, he would admit that he was too -old to surrender to this impulse, and would think too much before he -spoke, and would end by prating like Gladstone or roaring like Tom -Paine. - -It seemed to him that the character of London was changed or changing. -He delighted especially in the young men and women, who walked with a -new swagger, almost with freedom, and adorned themselves with gay, -bold colors. The young women especially were limber in their -movements, marvelously adroit in dodging their hampering garments. -Their bodies were freer. They had not the tight, trussed appearance of -the young women of his own day and generation. He delighted especially -in the young women of London. They gave him hopefulness. - -He was pleased to see that the young men delighted in them, also. They -walked with their arms in the arms of the young women in a fine, warm -comradeship, whereas, in his day, and not so long ago neither, the -girls had placed a timid little hand in the arms of their swains and -been towed along in a sort of condescension. It pleased him to see the -young men frankly, and in spite of themselves and their dignity and -breeding, give the proper involuntary salute to passing youth and -beauty. . . . As he sat in St. James's Park a deliciously pretty girl -passed by him, and she repeated nothing of the full homage he paid -her, but then came a tall young man, sober and stiff, in silk hat and -tail coat. They passed, the young man and the young woman: a lifting -of the shoulders in the young man, a tilt of the head in the young -woman, a half-smile of pleasure, and they went their ways. The young -man approached Old Mole. He gave a little start and up went his hand -in the old school salute. Old Mole rose to his feet. - -"My dear fellow. . . ." - -It was A. Z. Panoukian. - -He said: - -"Well, sir----" - -They sat down together. Panoukian bore the old expression which had -always overcast his face when there were discoverable laches in his -conduct, and Old Mole felt himself groping for the mood of jocular -severity with which he had been wont to meet that expression. - -"Well, sir, I never thought----" - -Old Mole found the formula: - -"Panoukian, what have you been up to?" - -"Well, sir, I'm jolly glad to have met you, because I didn't know what -you might have heard." - -"Pray, Panoukian, forget that I was ever your schoolmaster. I am no -longer an academic person, though there are distressing traces of my -old profession in my outlook." - -Panoukian had heard the story, and a grin spread across his face. That -made things easier. He plumped out a full confession and personal -history. - -He had been a rank failure at Oxford. He had no one but himself to -blame, of course. Perhaps he had not given the place a fair trial, but -at the end of his fourth term he had decided that it was no use going -on, and removed himself. It was partly, he thought, that he could not -endure Tibster, and partly that he had lost all power of concentrating -on his work. - -"I don't know," he said, "but at school there was always something to -work for, to get to Oxford. When I got there I seemed to shoot ahead -of it, to see beyond it, and in the place itself I could find nothing -but Tibster and the Tibsterian mind, cut off from the world outside -and annoyed because that world has a voluptuousness which is not in -its own little box. I think I changed physically, grew a new kidney or -another lobe of the brain. Anyhow, the world shrank and I became very -large and unwieldy, and there was nothing positive in my existence -except my dislike of Tibster." - -"Did you smoke a great deal?" asked Old Mole. - -"Only after the crisis." - -"Did you make a verse translation of the Odyssey?" - -"Only the first four books." - -"I imagine, if you had taken your symptoms to Tibster, he would have -put you right. The university has that effect on sensitive -undergraduates, especially on non-Public School men. A sudden growth, -a swift shooting from boyhood into the beginnings of manhood. It is -very touching to watch; but Tibster must have seen it happen so often -that it would be difficult for him to notice that it was happening to -you more violently than usual." - -"I never thought of it from Tibster's point of view." - -"My dear Panoukian, I am only just beginning to see your affairs from -your point of view, or, indeed, to admit that you have a point of view -at all. . . . I hope it was not a great disappointment to your -father." - -Panoukian said his father had died during his second term. He had been -attached to his father and was with him at the end, and perhaps that -was what began the crisis. The business had gone to his brothers, but -he was left enough to live on, and that was how he came to be in -London. For the time being he was acting as secretary, unpaid, to -Tyler Harbottle, M. P. for North Thrigsby and an old friend of his -father's. Old Mole remembered Harbottle, a butter merchant in Thrigsby -and president of the Literary Society, the Field Society, the Linnæan -Society, the Darwin Club, the Old Fogies, and the Ancient Codgers, and -formerly a member of the Art Gallery Committee, and, in that capacity, -provocative of the outcry on the purchase of a picture by so advanced -and startling a painter as Puvis de Chavannes. He asked Panoukian how -he liked the House of Commons, and Panoukian said it was full of -Tibsters with soap and chemicals and money on their brains instead of -Greek and Latin and book philosophy. - -"Harbottle is a Tibster, with a little nibbling mind, picking here and -there, not because he is hungry, but because he is afraid some one -else will get the pieces if he doesn't. I went to him because I wanted -to work; but it isn't work, it's just getting in other people's way. -And there are swarms of Harbottles in the House. I sometimes think -that the whole of politics is nothing but Harbottling. It would be all -very well to have the brake hard on if the country were going to Hell, -but when it is a matter of a long, stiff hill it is heartrending." - -And with a magnificent gesture he swept all the Tibsters and -Harbottles away. Old Mole found his enthusiastic, sweeping -condemnation very refreshing. There was youth in it, and he was -beginning to value youth above all things. Above wisdom and -experience? At least above the caution of inexperience. - -Clearly Panoukian was prepared to go on talking, to leave Harbottle to -go on nibbling without his aid, but Old Mole had begun to feel a -chill, and rose to go. Panoukian was also going toward the India -Office--Harbottle was corresponding with the Secretary about two -Parsees who had been refused their right of appeal to the Privy -Council--and so far they went together. As they parted Old Mole -remembered Matilda's dinner party and Miss Dufresne. Panoukian seemed -an excellent buffer. He invited him, and from the eagerness with which -the invitation was accepted he surmised that Panoukian was rather -lonely in London. Then he felt glad that he had asked him. - - - -The party was very successful. Matilda was delighted to have another -male, and that a young one, to admire her fine feathers, and Panoukian -was obviously flattered and deliciously alarmed to meet a real live -actress who confirmed him in his superstitious notions of the morals -of the stage by flirting with him at sight. He was not very skilful in -his response, but a very little subjugation was enough to satisfy Miss -Dufresne: she only needed to know that she could an she would. He was -very shy, and, with him, shyness ran to talkativeness. With Matilda he -was like a schoolboy; his attitude toward her was a softening and -rounding with chivalry of his attitude toward Old Mole. He hardly ever -spoke to her without calling her Mrs. Beenham: "Yes, Mrs. -Beenham"--"Don't you think so, Mrs. Beenham?"--"As I was saying to -your husband, Mrs. Beenham. . . ." When he left he summoned up courage -to ask Old Mole if he would bring Mrs. Beenham to tea with him. He -lived in the Temple and had a wonderful view of St. Paul's and the -river. Old Mole promised he would do so, and asked him to come in -whenever he liked. - -"It's awfully good of you," said Panoukian, and with that he went off -with Miss Dufresne, who had engaged him to see her into a taxi. -Matilda stood at the head of the stairs and watched them go down. - -"Good night, dearie," called Miss Dufresne, and Panoukian, looking up, -saw Matilda bending over. - -"Good night, Mrs. Beenham," he cried. - -Matilda, returning to the study, said: - -"What a nice voice that boy has got." - -"I used to expect great things of Panoukian," said Old Mole, "but then -neither he nor I had seen beyond Oxford." - -"Is he very clever?" - -"He used to have the sort of cleverness schoolmasters like. It remains -to be seen whether he has the sort of cleverness the world needs. He -is very young." - -"Not so _very_ young." - -"Like your party?" - -"Oh, yes." - -"You looked very pretty." - -"Thank you, sir." - -"Good girl. What about bed?" - -But she was loth to move. She began several topics, but soon dropped -them. At last she plunged: - -"Millie's going into a new piece. It's a real play this time. It's -about the stage and there are to be a lot of chorus girls in it. She -says she could get me in easily." - -Old Mole took this in silence. - -"I won't go if you don't like it," she said. - -"Have you said you would go?" - -"Yes, yes." - -"Do you want to?" - -"What else is there for me to do?" - -Indeed, what was there? He was saddened and angry at the use of the -argument. He had wanted her to feel free, to come and to go, so long -only as she treated him with frankness, and here he had so far failed -that she had made arrangements to return to the theater and then asked -for his _post facto_ consent. What was it that kept her in awe of him? -Not his thoughts of her, nor his feeling for her, so far as he knew -either. . . . He kissed her good night and sat sadly brooding over it -all: but it was too difficult for him, and he was tired and his humor -would not come to his aid. He sought refuge in books, but they yielded -him none, and at last Panoukian's phrase recurred to him: - -"Perhaps," he said, "perhaps I am a Harbottler in marriage, nibbling -at love. God help me if I am." - -He thought surely he had reached the worst. But Fate is inexhaustibly -ingenious. He was to have his bellyful of Harbottling. - - - -Among his letters on the morning after the party he found one, the -envelope of which bore in print the name of Langley Brown, Literary -and Dramatic Agent, 9 Coventry Street, W. This letter informed him -that Mr. Henry Butcher, of the Pall Mall Theater, proposed to -immediately produce--(the split infinitive is Mr. Langley Brown's)--a -play called "Lossie Loses," by Carlton Timmis, the rights of which Mr. -Brown believe to be in Mr. Beenham's hands. And would Mr. Beenham call -on Mr. Brown, or, if not, write to give his consent, when the contract -would be drawn up and the play produced. - - - -He had almost forgotten Carlton Timmis. The letter had been forwarded -through his banker. He stared at it, turned it over and over, read it -again. It seemed to be an authentic document. He handed it to Matilda. -She said with awe: - -"Mr. Butcher!" - -And, with unconscious imitation of the humor of the English Bench, Old -Mole asked: - -"Who is Mr. Butcher?" - -This was shocking ignorance. For twenty years and more Mr. Henry -Butcher's name had been in the newspapers, on the hoardings, and his -portrait, his wife's portrait, his baby's portrait, his dog's -portrait, his horse's portrait had appeared in the magazines, and his -commendation of a certain brand of cigarette had for the last ten -years been used by the makers as an advertisement. For all that, his -name and personality had not penetrated Old Mole's consciousness. - -"Did you buy the play?" asked Matilda. - -"I lent him fifty pounds, and he left it with me. I had no very clear -idea as to his intention." - -"Is it a good play?" - -"You shall read it." - -He unearthed it with some difficulty and gave it to her. She read it -and wept over it. - -"Is it a good play?" he asked. - -"I don't know, but it's a lovely part." - - - -He went to see Mr. Brown, a flashy little Cockney who peppered him -with illustrious literary names and talked about everything but the -business in hand. Old Mole asked where Timmis might be, and Mr. Brown -said he had heard from him only once, and that from a place called -Crown Imperial, in British Columbia. - -"A good fellow, Timmis, but cracked. Impatient, you know. I never can -make young writers see that they've got to wait until the old birds -drop off the perch before their masterpieces can come home to roost." - -"Is 'Lossie Loses' a masterpiece?" asked Old Mole innocently. - -"Between ourselves," replied the agent, "I don't think there's much in -it. But Mr. Butcher has been having a lean period lately and wanted -something cheap, and thought he'd try a new author." - -He produced the contract. Old Mole read it through in a sort of dream -and signed it. He was shown out with a hearty handshake, and that very -evening he received from Mr. Brown a check for ninety pounds--a -hundred in advance of royalties less 10 per cent. commission. He was -disconcerted. There was some uncanny wizardry in it that, by merely -walking into an office and signing a paper, one could at the end of -the day be the richer by ninety pounds with never a stroke of work -done for it. His first impulse was to give the check to Matilda, but, -on reflection, he decided to give her forty and to keep the fifty for -Timmis if he could be found. He looked up Crown Imperial, British -Columbia, on the map and in the gazetteer, but there was no mention of -it, and, concluding that it must be a new place, he wrote to Timmis -there in the hope of catching him. When he had posted his letter he -remembered that Timmis might have dropped his stage name, and wrote -another letter to Cuthbert Jones. Then he brushed the play from his -mind. - - - -Within a fortnight it was impossible to walk along any of the main -thoroughfares of London without seeing the words "Lossie Loses," with -the name of Mr. Henry Butcher in enormous letters, and the name of -Carlton Timmis in very small print. - -For the first night Old Mole received, with Mr. Butcher's compliments, -a ticket for Box B. Panoukian and Robert came to dinner. Matilda wore -her first evening dress and the opera cloak, a red ribbon in her hair, -and graced the front of the box with the three men behind her. - -There is a certain manner appropriate to a seat in the front of a -box--a consciousness that is not quite self-consciousness, a certain -setting back of the shoulders, a lifting of the head, a sort of shy -brazenness, an acceptance of being part of the show, and, for all the -pit knows, a duchess. Matilda had caught it to perfection and turned a -dignified profile to the opera glasses directed upon her. Panoukian -pointed out the political personages in the stalls, and, being a great -reader of those glossy photographic papers, which are perhaps the most -typical product of the time, was able to recognize many of the -literary and artistic celebrities of the moment. Actresses glided -fussily to their seats, smiling acknowledgment to the applause of the -groundlings. There was a bobbing up and down, a bowing and a smiling, -a waving of programs and fans from acquaintance to acquaintance, a -chatter and hum of many voices that drowned the jigging overture, and -went droning on into the first few moments of the play. - -Old Mole's memory of it was hazy, but sufficiently alive to quarrel -with some of the impressions he now had of it and to enable him to -distinguish between the work of the actors and the work of the author. -The play was worse and better than he had thought. In his recollection -it was not so entirely unscrupulous in its appeal to the surface -emotions, nor so extraordinarily adroit in sliding off into a dry, sly -and perfectly irrelevant humor just at the moment when those base -appeals looked as though they were going to be pushed so far as to -offend even the thickest sensibilities. Each curtain was brought down -with a neat, wistful little joke, except at the end of the third act, -when, in silence, Lossie, the little unloved heroine of the play, -prepared to cook the supper for the husband who had just left her. In -the fourth act he came back and ate it, so that all ended happily. The -atmosphere was Lancashire, and the actors spoke Scots, Irish, Belfast, -Somerset, and Wigan, but that did not seem to matter. The actress who -played Lossie spoke with a very good Thrigsby accent, and her -performance was full of charm. She had a fine voice and knew how to -use it, and her awkwardness of gesture suited the uncouthness with -which the Lancashire folk were endowed. She and the sad little jokes -carried all before them, and there was tremendous applause at the end -of each act and the close of the play. - -Mr. Henry Butcher made a grateful little speech, and, looking toward -Old Mole's box, said the author was not in the house. All eyes were -turned toward the box, and the shouting was renewed. - -Entirely unconscious of the attention and interest they were arousing, -the party escaped. Robert was hungry and insisted on having oysters. -As they ate them they discussed the play. Robert and Matilda were -enthusiastic, Old Mole was dubious and depressed, and Panoukian -contemptuous. - -"I've seen worse," he said, "but nothing with quite so much -effrontery. It was like having your face dabbed with a baby's powder -puff. I felt all the time that in a moment they would have a child -saying its prayers on the stage. But they never did, and there was -extraordinary pleasure in the continual dread of it, and the continual -sense of relief. And every now and then they made one laugh. I believe -it will succeed." - - - -It succeeded. The critics unanimously agreed that the new play had -charm, and, said one of them: "It is with plays, as with women; if -they have charm, you need look no further. All London will be at -Lossie's feet." - -At the end of the first week Old Mole received a check for one hundred -and ten pounds; at the end of the second a check for one hundred and -twenty-five. He sent two cablegrams to Carlton Timmis and Cuthbert -Jones at Crown Imperial, British Columbia. No answer. Timmis (or -Jones) had disappeared. - -Money poured in. - -The play was bought by cable for America, and five hundred pounds -passed into Old Mole's account. It became almost a horror to him to -open his letters lest they should contain a check. - -Worst of all, the newspapers scented "copy." A successful play, a -vanished author, no one to claim the fame and fortune lying there. One -paper undertook to find Carlton Timmis. It published photographs of -him, scraps of biography and anecdotes, but Timmis remained hidden, -and the newspapers yelled, in effect, "Where is Timmis? The public -wants Timmis. Wireless has tracked a murderer to his doom, surely it -cannot fail to reveal the whereabouts of the public's new darling?" -Another journal found its way to the heart (_i.e.,_ the box office) of -the theater and asked in headlines, "_Is Butcher Paying Royalties_?" -Butcher wrote to say that he was paying royalties to the owner of the -play, whose name was not Carlton Timmis. And at last a third newspaper -announced the name of the beneficiary of the play--H. J. Beenham. -Gray's Inn was besieged. Old Mole was in despair and declared that -they would have to pack up and go away until the uproar had died down, -but, more sensibly, Matilda invited a journalist in, gave him a drink, -and told him the little there was to tell. The next check was for a -hundred and eighty pounds. - -Money poured in. - -Five companies were sent out with "Lossie Loses" in America, three in -England, and the play was given in Australia and South Africa. It was -also published. Money poured in. It came in tens, in hundreds, in -thousands of pounds. It became a purely automatic process, and Old -Mole quickly lost interest in it and ceased to think about it. He told -himself that it would soon come to an end, that such a violent -eruption of gold could not last very long, and his attention was -engrossed by its effects. - -In his own mind it had brought about no moral crisis like that of his -first catastrophe, but, insensibly, it had altered his point of view, -given him a sense of security that was almost paralyzing in its -comfort. All his old thoughts had been in self-protection against the -people with whom he had come in contact, people to whom he was a -stranger, different from themselves, and therefore suspect. But now in -London when he met new people they bowed before him, put themselves -out to ingratiate him, almost, it seemed, though he hated to think so, -to placate him. His name was known. He was Mr. Beenham, and was -somehow responsible for "Lossie Loses," which everybody had seen and -the public so loved that three matinées a week were necessary, and -there were beginning to be Lossie collars and Lossie hats and Lossie -muffs and Lossie biscuits and Lossie corsets. . . . And his sister had -called on Matilda and removed that source of bitterness. And at the -club men sought his acquaintance. He had letters from more than one of -his old colleagues at Thrigsby and several of his former pupils sought -him out. A few of them were distinguished men--a doctor, a barrister, -a journalist, the editor of a weekly literary review. They invited him -to their houses, and he was delighted with the ease and grace with -which Matilda bore herself and was more than a match for their wives, -and became friendly with one or two of them. They moved among people -whose lives were easy and smooth-running in roomy, solidly furnished -houses, all very much like each other in style and taste. The people -they met at these houses in South Kensington and Hampstead were almost -monotonously alike. At the doctor's house they met doctors, at the -barrister's solicitors and more barristers, at the editor's -journalists and writers. They were different only in their -professions: those apart, they were as alike as fossil ammonites in -different strata: and they all "loved" "Lossie Loses." The women were -very kind to Matilda and invited her to their tea parties and "hen" -luncheons. She read the books they read and began to have "views" and -opinions, and to know the names of the twentieth century poets; she -picked up a smattering of the jargon of painting and music just as she -caught the trick of being smart in her dress, and for the same reason, -because the other women had "views" and opinions and talked of music -and painting and were smart in their dress. The eruption of gold into -their lives had blown her desire to return to the theater into the -air. She was fully occupied with dressing, buying clothes, ever more -clothes, and arranging for the hospitality they received and gave. - -Her husband was amazed at the change in her. It was as startling as -the swift growth of a floundering puppy into a recognizable dog. It -was not merely a matter of pinning on clothes and opinions and a set -of fashionable ideas: there was real growth in the woman which enabled -her to wear these gewgaws with ease and grace so that they became her -and were an ornament, absurd it is true, but so generally worn--though -rarely with such tact--that their preposterousness was never noticed -in the crowd. She was gayer and easier, and she seemed to have lost -the tug and strain at her heart. Often in the daytime she was dull and -listless, but she never failed to draw upon some mysterious reserve of -vitality for the evening. - -He was sometimes alarmed when he watched the other women who had not -her freshness, and saw how some of them had ceased to be anything but -views and opinions and clothes. But he told himself that she was not -tied, as the rest were, by their husband's professions, to London, and -that they could always go away when they were tired of it. . . . He -was often bored and exhausted, but he put up with it all, partly -because of the pleasure she was finding in that society, and partly -because he felt that he was getting nearer that indeterminate but -magnetically irresistible goal which had been set before him on--when -was it?--on the night when his thoughts had taken form and life and he -had been launched into that waking dreamland. With that, even the most -violent happenings seemed to have very little to do; they were almost -purely external. One might have a startling adventure every day, and -be no nearer the goal. One might have so many adventures that his -capacity to enjoy them would be exhausted. There was, he felt sure, as -he pondered the existence of these professional people and saw how -many of them were jaded by habit, but were carried on by the impetus -of the habits of their kind, so that they were forever seeking to -crowd into their days and nights far more people, thoughts, ideas, -books, æsthetic emotions than they would hold--there was somewhere in -experience a point at which living overflowed into life and was -therein justified. So much seemed clear, and it was that point that he -was seeking. In his relationship with Matilda, in his love for her, he -had striven to force his way to it. The violence of his meeting with -her, the brutality of his breach with his old existence, had, by -reflex action, led him to violence and brutality even in his kindness, -even in his attempted sympathy. - -That seemed sound reasoning, and it led him to the knowledge that -Matilda had plunged into the life of the professional people with its -round of pleasures and functions, its absorption in tailors and -mummers and the amusers of the people, its entire devotion to -amusement, as a protection against himself. It was an unpleasant -realization, but amid so much pleasantness it was bracing. - - - -Money poured in. "Lossie Loses" was visited by all the Royal Family. -When it had been performed two hundred and fifty times the Birthday -Honors list was published and Henry Butcher was acclaimed "our latest -theatrical knight." He gave a supper party on the stage to celebrate -the two occasions; and he invited Mr. and Mrs. Beenham. - -There were present the Solicitor-General, Mr. Justice Sloppy, the -three celebrated daughters of two dukes, the daughters-in-law of three -Cabinet Ministers, a millionaire, two novelists, five "absolutely -established" dramatists, three dramatic critics, nine theatrical -knights, the ten most beautiful women in London, the Keeper of the -Coptic Section of the South Kensington Museum, Tipton Mudde, the -aviator, and Archdeacon Froude, the Chaplain of the Actors' Union. -There were others who were neither named nor catalogued in the -newspaper (Court and Society) next day. As Mr. Justice Sloppy said, in -the speech of the evening: "For brains and beauty he had never seen -anything like it. . . ." The toasts were the King, Sir Henry Butcher, -Lossie, and the Public, and there, as Panoukian remarked when the -feast was described to him, you have the whole thing in a nutshell, -the topnotch of English philosophy, the expression of the English -ideal, lots of food, lots of drink, lots of talk, of money, of people, -and then a swollen gratitude--"God bless us every one." And Panoukian -then developed a theory that England, the English character, had -reached its zenith and come to flower and fruit in the genius of -Charles Dickens. Thereafter was nothing but the fading of leaves, the -falling of leaves, the drowsing into hibernation. He was excited by -the idea of falling leaves to describe the intellectual and moral -activity of the country. It would seem to explain the extraordinary -predominance of the Harbottles, who were so thick upon every English -institution that Vallombrosa was nothing to it. - -Old Mole met Tyler Harbottle again, and, allowing for Panoukian's -youthful exaggeration, had to admit the justice of his estimate. -Harbottle was very like a falling leaf, blown hither and thither upon -every gust of wind, dropping, skimming, spinning in the air, but all -the time obeying only one impulse, the law of gravity, which sent him -down to the level of the ground, the public. Seeing nothing but the -public, nothing beyond it, hoping for nothing but a comfortable -resting place when at last he came to earth, Harbottle was under the -illusion that the winds that tossed him came from the public, and when -they blew him one way he said, "I will go that way," and when they -blew him another he said, "I will go this." He was a Unionist Free -Trader in theory and by label: in practice he was an indefatigable -wirepuller. By himself he was unimportant, but there were so many of -him and his kind that he had to be placated. - -Old Mole met all the Harbottles. After Sir Henry Butcher's party he -and Matilda were squeezed up into a higher stratum of society. Tipton -Mudde took Matilda up in his monoplane and thereafter their whole -existence grew wings and flew. They now met the people of whom their -professional acquaintances had talked. The triumph of "Lossie Loses" -continued: it was said the play would beat the record of "Our Boys." -Money poured in, and almost as bewildering was the number of -invitations--to vast dinner parties, to at homes, to drawing-room -meetings, to boxes at the Opera, to luncheons at the luxurious hotels, -to balls, to political receptions, to banquets given to celebrate -honors won or to mark the end of a political campaign, or to welcome -an actor-manager home from Australia. Whenever a Harbottle pulled out -a plum from the pie than the subtler Harbottles buzzed like flies -around it and arranged to eat and drink and make merry or at least to -make speeches. - -For a time it was very good fun. Old Mole and Matilda did as the -Harbottles did. They had so many engagements that they were compelled -to buy a motorcar and to engage a chauffeur. Without it Matilda could -never have found time to buy her clothes. She went to the dressmaker -patronized by all the female Harbottles, but the dressmaker made for -an old-fashioned duchess, who adhered to the figure of the nineties -and refused to be straight-fronted. The female Harbottles fled from -this horrid retrogression and made the fortune of an obscure little -man in Chelsea. - -It was good fun for a time, and Old Mole was really interested. Here -on the top of English life, its head and front--for the great-leisured -governing classes no longer governed; they had feudal possessions but -not the feudal political power--was a little world whizzing like a -zoetrope. You might peep through the chinks and the figures inside it -would seem to be alive, but when you were inside it there were just a -number of repetitions of the same figures in poses disintegrated from -movement. The machine whizzed round, but what was the force that moved -it? Impossible to enter it except by energy or some fluke that made -you rich enough or famous enough for there to be flattery in your -acquaintance. True, Old Mole only saw the figures inside the machine -arranged for pleasure. They were workers, too, but their pleasure was -a part of their work. Lawyers who were working eighteen hours a day -could find time to visit three great entertainments in an evening; -politicians after an all-night sitting in the House could dine out, -see two acts of the Opera, or the ballet, or an hour or so of a revue, -and then return to the division Lobbies; actors, after two -performances in the day, could come on to a reception at midnight and -eat caviare and drink champagne. There were very few of whom it could -be said that the rout was the breath of their nostrils; but all -continued in it, all accepted it as a normal condition of things, as -the proper expression of the nation's finest energies. Impossible to -avoid it, furtherance of ambition and young devotion to an ideal both -led to it. . . . Pitchforked into it so suddenly, with so many vivid -impressions after wanderings, Old Mole felt how completely it was cut -off from the life of the country, because from the inside and the -outside of the machine things looked so entirely different. He had to -go no further than his own case. On all hands he heard it said so -often that "Lossie Loses" was a wonderful play--"so delicate, so -fanciful, so full of the poetry of common things"--that it needed only -a very little weakening of his critical faculty for him to begin to -believe it and greedily to accept the position it had given him. As it -was, knowing its intrinsic falsehood and baseness, he marveled that -people of so much intelligence could be bemused by success into such -jockeying of their standards. But he began to perceive that there were -no standards, neither of life nor of art. There could not be, for -there was no time for valuation, just as there was no time for -thinking. Here and there he found an ideal or two, but such wee, worn, -weary little things, so long bandied about among brains that could not -understand them and worried into a decline by the shoddy rhetorical -company they had been forced to keep. Arguing from his own case, Old -Mole came to the conclusion that the whole whirligig had come about -from a constant succession of decent ordinary mortals having been, -like himself, the victims of an eruption of gold which had carried -them, without sufficient struggle or testing of imagination or moral -quality, to an eminence above their fellows, upon which, in their -bewilderment, they were conscious of nothing but a dread of falling -down. In that dread, sharing no other emotion, they clung together -fearfully, met superficially, were never content unless they were -meeting superficially, creating flattery and even more flattery to -cover their dread. And, as they were forever gazing downward into the -depths from which they had been raised, it was impossible for them to -see more than a yard or so further than their own feet. Fearful of -taking a false step, they never moved; their minds curled up and went -to sleep. They could create nothing, and could only imitate and -reproduce. They had abandoned the dull habits of the middle class and -yet were the slaves of middle-class ideas. There were very charming -people among them, but they accepted good-humoredly that England had -nothing better to offer. They had pleasant houses in Town and in the -country, delightful and amusing people to visit them, to keep them -from boredom, and they asked no more. - -Old Mole studied the history of England, the railway frenzy, the -growth of the manufacturing districts, the foundation of the great -shipbuilding yards, the immense eruption of gold that had swept away -the old, careless, negligent, ruling squires, and set in their place -those who could survive the scramble. And the scramble had never -ceased; it had been accepted as the normal state of things. The heat -and excitement of the rout gave the illusion of energy, which, being -without moral direction, was pounced upon by the English desire for -comfort and the appearance of solidarity, the mania for having the -best of everything in the belief that it will never be bettered. So -against the inconveniences of an antiquated system of laws, a mean and -narrow code of morals, the consequences of their own reckless -disregard of health in the building of the great cities of industry, -in the payment of those who labored in them, they padded themselves in -with comfort, more and more of it. - -"Almost," said Old Mole, "I am persuaded to become a Jew, to sweat the -sweaters, pick the profits, rule the world in honor of the cynical -Hebrew god who created it, and live in uneasy triumph in the domestic -virtues and worship of the flesh uncrucified." - - - -Once you have been drawn into the machine it is very difficult to get -out of it. Old Mole struggled, but money and invitations came pouring -in. "Lossie Loses" survived two holiday seasons. During the second the -actress who played Lossie went away on her vacation, and Matilda, -urged on by Butcher, with whom she had become friendly, played the -part, was successful, and gave the piece a new spurt of vitality. It -was not a brilliant performance, but then a brilliant performance -would have killed the play. The play needed charm, Matilda had it, -and, by this time, among so many expertly charming women, she had -learned how to manipulate it. Her appearance on the stage extended her -popularity among her distinguished acquaintances, but subtly changed -her status, and she had to learn how to defend herself. Her life -became more exciting and she expanded in response to it. She -distressed Old Mole by talking about her adventures, and he began to -think it was really time to go. - - - -They went abroad for several months, to Paris, Florence, Rome, Sicily, -Algiers, but as they stayed in luxurious and expensive hotels they -might almost as well have stayed in London. Old Mole discovered -nothing except that the eruption of gold must have been universal and -that the character of the English nation had found its most obvious -expression in its stout, solid, permanent telegraph poles. - -They returned to London, and Matilda accepted a small part in a new -play by a famous dramatist, who had borrowed "Lossie" from the -"greatest success of the century," called her "Blendy," and set her to -leaven the mixture he had produced after the two years' hard work -fixed as the proper quantum by Henrik Ibsen. - -More success. - -And Old Mole, feeling that he was now beyond all hope of escape, since -he was suffering from a noticeable fatty degeneration of the will, had -argued with Matilda, but she had had her way, for he could find no -rejoinder to her plea that it was "something to do." - -He refused to leave Gray's Inn. She was tired of it; said the rooms -were cramped, but he clung to it as an anchorage. - -There was a steadying of their existence. She took her work seriously, -and rested as much as possible during the day. In the evenings he -missed her, and he detested having his dinner at half-past six. But -the discomfort was a relief and gave him a much needed sharpening of -the wits. Every night he met her at the theater and made more -acquaintances in it. He applied his theory of the eruption of gold to -them, and, studying them for that purpose, was amazed to find how -little different they were from Mr. Copas and the miserable John -Lomas. Copas had been untouched by the eruption. These men, and -particularly Henry Butcher and Matilda's manager, were Copas varnished -and polished. Beneath the varnish they were exactly the same; -self-important, self-centered, entirely oblivious of life outside the -theater, utterly unheeding of everything outside their profession that -could not be translated into its cant and jargon, childishly jealous, -greedy of applause, sensitive of opinion, boys with the appetites and -desires of grown men, human beings whose development had been -arrested, who, in a healthy society, would be rogues and vagabonds, or -wandering adventurers, from sheer inability to accept the restrictions -and discipline imposed by social responsibility. They were cruelly -placed, for they were in a position needing adult powers, having -audiences night after night vaster than could be gathered for any -divine or politician or demagogue; they had to win their own -audiences, for no theater was subsidized; and when they had won them -they were mulcted in enormous sums for rent; they were sucked, like -the other victims of the eruption, into the machine, the zoetrope, and -being there, in that trap and lethal chamber of spontaneity, they had -to charm their audiences, with nothing more than the half-ideas, the -sentimental conventions, the clipped emotions of their fellow -sufferers. They were squeezed out of their own natures, forced into -new skins, could only retain their positions by the successful -practice of their profession, and were forced to produce plays and -shows out of nothing, being robbed both of their Copas-like delight in -their work and of their material for it. Their position was calamitous -and must have been intolerable without the full measure of applause -and flattery bestowed on them. - -Clearly it was not through the theater that Old Mole could find the -outlet he was seeking. - -He turned wearily from its staleness, and told himself, after long -pondering of the problem, that he had been mistaken, that he had been -foolishly, and a little arrogantly, seeking in life the imaginative -force, the mastery of ideas and human thoughts and feelings that he -had found in literature. Life, maybe, proceeds through eruption and -epidemic; art through human understanding and sympathy and will. . . . -That pleased him as a definite result, but at once he was offended by -the separation, yet, amid so much confusion, it was difficult to -resist the appeal of so clean and sharp a conception. It lost the -clarity of its outline when he set it against his earlier idea of -living brimming over into life. . . . There were then three things, -living, life and art, a Trinity, three lakes fed by the same river. -That was large and poetic, but surely inaccurate. For, in that order, -the lakes must be fed by a strange river that flowed upward. . . . -Anyhow, it was something to have established the three things which -could comprise everything that had penetrated his own consciousness, -three things which were of the same essence, expressions of the same -force. Within the action and interaction there seemed to be room for -everything, even for Sir Henry Butcher, even for Tyler Harbottle, M.P. - -He had arrived at the sort of indolent charity which, in the machine, -passes for wisdom and sanity, the unimaginative tolerance which furs -and clogs all the workings of a man's mind and heart. It is not far -removed from indifference. . . . In his weariness, the exhaustion and -satiety of the modern world, he measured his wisdom by the folly of -others, and in his satisfaction at the discrepancy found conceit and -thought it confidence. He began to write again and returned to his -projected essay on Woman, believing that he had in his idea -disentangled the species from Matilda. He was convinced that he had -risen above his love for her, to the immense profit of their -relationship, which had become more solid, settled and pleasurable. As -he had planned when they came to London, so it had happened. They had -gone their ways, seemed for a time to lose sight of each other, met -again, and were now--were they not?--journeying on apace along life's -highway, hailing the travelers by the road, aiding the weary, cracking -a joke and a yarn with those of good cheer, staying in pleasant inns. - -"Something like a marriage!" thought he. "Life's fullest adventure." - -And he measured his marriage against those of the men and women in the -machine; sour captivity for the most part, or a shallow, prattling and -ostentatious devotion. - -His essay on Woman was only a self-satisfied description of his -marriage. Out of the writing of it came no profit except to his -vanity. Preoccupied with questions of style, he pruned and pared it -down, refashioned and remodeled it until at last he could not read it -himself. Having no convenient sands in which to bury it, he gave it to -Panoukian to read. - -Panoukian was in that stage of development (which has nothing to do -with age) when a man needs to find his fellows worshipful and looks -for wonders from them. He was very young, and kindness from a man -older than himself could bowl him over completely, set his affections -frothing and babbling over his judgment, so that he became enslaved -and sycophantish, and prepared, mentally if not physically, to stand -on his head if it so happened that the object of his admiration could -be served by it. He was in a nervous state of flux, possessing small -mastery over his faculties, many of which were only in bud; his life -was so little his own, was so shapeless and unformed that there could -be no moderation in him; his admirations were excessive, had more than -once landed him in the mire, so that he was a little afraid of them, -and to guard against these dangers sought refuge in intolerance. To -prevent himself seeing beauty and nobility and being intoxicated by -them, he created bugbears for himself and hated them, and was forever -tracking them down and finding their marks in the moot innocent -persons and places. He was very young, mightily in love with love, so -that he was forever guarding himself from coming to it too early and -being fobbed off with love cheapened or soiled. His passion was for -"reality," of which he had only the most shapeless and uncommunicable -conception, but he was always talking about it with fierce -denunciations of all the people who seemed to him to be deliberately, -with criminal folly, burking it. For this reality his instinct was to -preserve himself, and he lived in terror of his loneliness driving him -to headlong falls from which he might never be able to recover. He was -a full-blooded, healthy young man and must have been wretchedly -unhappy had it not been that people, in their indolent, careless way, -were often enough kind to him to draw off some of his accumulated -enthusiasm in an explosive admiration and effusive, though tactfully -manipulated, affection. Old Mole was kinder to him than anyone had -ever been except his father, but then his father had had no other -methods than those of common sense, while in Old Mole there was a -subtlety always surprising and refreshing. Also Old Mole was prepared -almost indefinitely, as it seemed, to listen to Panoukian's views and -opinions and rough winnowing of the wheat from the chaff of life, so -far as he had experienced it. - -Panoukian therefore read Old Mole's manuscript with the fervor of a -disciple, and found in it the heat and vigor which he himself always -brought to their discussions. The essay, indeed, was like the master's -talk, cool and deliberate, broken in its monotony by comical little -stabs of malice. The writing was fastidious and competent. Panoukian -thought the essay a masterpiece, and there crept a sort of reverence -into his attitude toward its author. This was an easy transition, for -he had never quite shaken off the rather frightened respect of the -pupil for the schoolmaster. Then, to complete his infatuation, he -contrasted Old Mole with his employer, Harbottle. - -And Old Mole was fond of Panoukian. At first it was the sort of amused -tenderness which it is impossible not to feel on the sight of a leggy -colt in a field or a woolly kitten staggering after a ball. Then, by -association and familiarity, it was enriched and became a thing as -near friendship as there can be between men of widely different ages, -between immaturity and ripeness. It saved the situation for both of -them, the young man from his wildness, the older from the violent -distortion of values which had become necessary if he were to move -easily and comfortably in the swim. Above all, for Old Mole, it was -amusing. For Panoukian nothing was amusing. In his intense longing for -the "reality" of his dreams he hated amusement; he detested the vast -expenditure of energy in the modern world on making existence charming -and pleasant and comfortable, the elaborate ingenuity with which the -facts of life were hidden and glossed over; he despised companionable -books, and fantastical pictures and plays, luxurious entertainments, -magazines filled with advertisements and imbecile love-stories, -kinematographs, spectacular football, could not understand how any man -could devote his energies to the creation of them and retain his -sincerity and honesty. He adored what he called the English genius, -and was disappointed and hurt because the whole of English life was -not a spontaneous expression of it, and he found one of his stock -examples in architecture. He would storm and inveigh against the -country because the English architectural tradition had been allowed -to lapse away back in the dark ages of the nineteenth century. He had -many other instances of the obscuring or sudden obliteration of the -fairest tendencies of the English genius, and to their mutual -satisfaction, Old Mole would put it all down to his theory of the -eruption of gold. - -Nearly all Panoukian's leisure was spent at Gray's Inn or out with Old -Mole and Matilda, or with them on their visits to those of their -friends to whom they had introduced him. He was good-looking, well -built, easily adept at ball-games--for he possessed a quick, sure -eye--and his shy frankness made him likeable. The charm of English -country life would soften his violence and soothe his prejudices, but -only the more, when he returned to London, would he chafe against the -incessant pursuit of material advantages, the mania of unselective -acquisition, the spinning and droning of the many-colored humming-top. - -From the first moment he had been Matilda's slave, and no trouble was -too great, no time too long, no task too tedious, if only he could -yield her some small service. He would praise her to Old Mole: - -"She is so real. Compare her with other women. She does all the things -they do, and does them better. She takes them in her stride. She can -laugh with you, talk with you, understand what you mean better than -you do yourself, give you just the little encouragement you need, and -you can talk to her and forget that she is a woman. . . . You don't -know, sir, what an extraordinary difference it has made in my life -since I have known you two." - -That would embarrass Old Mole, and he found it impossible to say -anything without jarring Panoukian's feelings. Therefore he would say -nothing, and later he would look at Matilda, watch her, wait for her -smile, and wonder. Her smile was the most surprising, the most -intimate gift he ever had from her. Often for days together they would -hardly see each other and, when they met, would have little to say, -but he would watch until he could meet her gaze, win a smile from her, -and feel her friendliness, her interest, and know that they still had -much to share and were still profoundly aware of each other. He would -say to her sometimes: - -"I don't see much of you nowadays." - -She would answer: - -"But you are so interested in so many things. And I like my life." - -And in the gentle gravity with which she now spoke to him, which was -in every gesture of her attitude toward him, he would discern a fuller -grace than any he had hoped to find in her. She was so trim and neat, -so well disciplined, so delicate and nice in all she did; restrained -and subtle but with no loss of force. Even her follies, the absurd -modish tricks she had caught in the theater and among the women who -fawned on her, seemed no impediment to her impulse should the moment -come for yielding to it. She was no more spendthrift of emotion and -affection than she was of money, and, almost, he thought, too thorough -in her self-effacement and endeavor to be no kind of burden upon him. - -"I am so proud of you!" he would say. - -And she would smile and answer: - -"You don't know, you never will know, how grateful I am to you." - -But her eyes would gaze far beyond him, through him, and light up -wistfully, and he would have a queer discomfortable sensation of being -a sojourner in his own house. Then he would think and puzzle over -Panoukian's rapturous description of her. She was discreet and -guarded: only her smile was intimate; her thoughts, if she had -thoughts, were shy and never sought out his; demonstrative she never -was. She led a busy, active life, the normal existence of moneyed or -successful women in London, and she was distinguished in her -efficiency. She had learned and developed taste, and was ever -transforming the chambers in Gray's Inn, driving out Robert and -installing in every corner of it the expression of her own -personality. After the first dazzling discovery of the possibilities -of clothes she had rebelled against the price charged by the -fashionable dressmakers and made her own gowns. Robert used to twit -her about her restlessness, and declared that one week when he came he -would find her wearing the curtains, and the next her gown would be -covering the cushions. Old Mole used to tease her, too, but what she -would take quite amiably from Robert she could not endure from him. - -"I thought you'd like it," she would say. - -"But, my dear, I do like it!" - -"Then why do you make fun of me?" - -And sometimes there would be tears. Once it came to a quarrel, and -after they had made it up she said she wanted a change, and went off -to stay with Bertha Boothroyd. In two days she was back again with the -most maliciously funny description of Jim's reception of her and his -absolute refusal to leave her alone with Bertha lest she should be -contaminated. Then she was gay and light-hearted, glad to be back -again and more busy than ever, and when Panoukian came to see them she -teased him out of his solemnity and earnestness almost into tears of -rage. She told him he ought to go to Thrigsby and work, find some real -work to do and not loaf about in London, in blue socks and white -spats, waiting until he was old enough to be taken seriously. - -He went away in the depths of misery, and she said to Old Mole: - -"Why don't you find him something to do?" - -"I? How can I find him. . . ?" - -"Don't you know that you are a very important person? You know -everybody who is anybody, and there is nobody you can't know if you -want to. Think of the hundreds of men in London who spend their whole -lives struggling to pull themselves up into your position so that in -the end they may have the pleasure of jobbing some one into a billet." - -"That," said Old Mole, "is what Panoukian calls Harbottling." - -She made him promise to think it over, and he began to dream of a -career for Panoukian, a real career on the lines of Self-Help. - -In his original pedagogic relation with Panoukian he had blocked out -for him an ascent upon well-marked and worn steps through Oxford into -the Home Civil Service, wherein by the proper gradations he should -rise to be a Permanent Under-Secretary and a Knight, and a credit to -the school. To the altered Panoukian and to Old Mole's changed and -changing mind that ambitious flight was now inadequate. Panoukian was -undoubtedly intelligent. Old Mole had not yet discovered the idea that -could baffle him, and he was positively reckless in his readiness to -discard those which neither fitted into the philosophy he for the -moment held nor seemed to lead to a further philosophy at which he -hoped to arrive. Every day Panoukian became more youthful and every -day more breathlessly irreverent. Nothing was sacred to him: he -insisted on selecting his own great men, and Old Mole was forced to -admit that there was some wisdom in his choice. He read Voltaire and -hated organized religion; Nietzsche and detested the slothfulness and -mean egoism of the disordered collection of human lives called -democracy; Butler and quizzed at the most respected and dozing of -English institutions; Dostoevsky and yearned out in a thinly -passionate sympathy to the suffering and the diseased and the victims -of grinding poverty. He was not altogether the slave of his great men: -after all they were dead; life went on and did not repeat itself, and -he (Panoukian) was in the thick of it, and determined not to be -crushed by it into a cushioned ease or the sodden insensibility of too -great misery. - -"My problem," he would say, "is myself. My only possible and valid -contribution to any general problem is the effective solution of that. -In other words, can I or can I not become a human being? If I succeed -I help things on by that much; if I fail, I become a Harbottle and -retard things by that much. Do you follow me?" - -Old Mole was not at all sure that he did, but he found Panoukian -refreshing, for there was in him something both to touch the -affections and excite the mind, and in his immediate surroundings -there was very little to do as much. There were men who talked, men -who did little or nothing else; but they lacked warmth, they were -Laputans living on a floating island above a land desolate in the -midst of plenty. Among such men it was difficult to conceive of -Panoukian finding a profitable occupation. Take him out of politics, -and where could he be placed? For what had his education fitted him? -Panoukian had had every kind of education. He had begun life in an -elementary school, passed on by his own cleverness to a secondary -school, and from that to the university where contact with the ancient -traditions of English culture, manhood and citizenship had flung him -into revolt and set him thinking about life before he had lived, -braying about among philosophies before he had need of any. There was -a fine stew in his brain, a tremendous array of ideas beleaguering -Panoukian without there being any actual definite Panoukian to -beleaguer. Certainly Old Mole could not remember ever having been in -such a state himself, nor in any generation subsequent to his own -could he remember symptoms which could account for the phenomenon. He -had to look far to discover other Panoukians. They were everywhere, -male and female. He set himself to discover them; they were in -journalism, in science, in the schools of art, on the stage, writing -wonderfully bad books, producing mannered and deliberately ugly verse, -quarreling among themselves, wrangling, detesting each other, -impatient, intolerant, outraging convention and their affectionate and -well-meaning parents and guardians, united only in the one savage -determination not to lick the boots of the generation that preceded -them. When they could admire they worshiped; they needed to admire; -they wanted to admire all men, and those men whom they found -unadmirable they hated. - -It was all very well (thought Old Mole) for Matilda with her cool -common sense to say that Panoukian must do something. What could he -do? His only positive idea seemed to be that he would not become a -Harbottle; and how better could he set about that than by living among -the species with the bitterness of his hatred sinking so deep into his -soul that in the end it must become sweetness? In theory Panoukian was -reckless and violent; in practice he was affectionate and generous, -much too full of the spasmodic, shy kindness of the young to fit into -the Self-Help tradition. Indeed, it was just here that the Panoukians, -male and female, were so astonishing. For generations in England -personal ambition had been the only motive force, the sole measure of -virtue, and it was personal ambition that they utterly ignored. They -were truly innocent of it. Upon that axis the society in which they -were born revolved. They could not move with it, for it seemed to them -stationary, and it was abhorrent to them. Their thoughts were not the -thoughts of the people around them. They could neither speak the old -language nor invent a new speech in which to make themselves -understood. Virtue they could perceive in their young hunger for life, -but virtue qualified by personal ambition and subserving it they could -not understand. They were asking for bread and always they were -offered stones. . . . Old Mole could not see what better he could do -than be kind to Panoukian, defend him from his solitude and give him -the use of the advantages in the "swim" of London which he had no mind -himself to employ. - - - -One of the few definite and tangible planks in Panoukian's program was -a stubborn conviction that he must have an "idea" of everything. It -was, he insisted, abominable to live in London unless there was in his -mind a real conception of London. - -"You see," he would say, "it would be charming and pleasant to accept -London as consisting of the Temple, the House and Gray's Inn, with an -imperceptible thread of vitality other than my own to bind them -together. We've had enough of trying to make life charming and -pleasant. All that is just swinish rolling in the mud. Do you follow -me? We've had enough. We were begotten and conceived and born in the -mud, and we've got to get out of it; and, unless you see that mud is -mud, you can't see the hills beyond, and the clear rivers, and the -sky. Can you?" - -"No, you can't," said Old Mole, groping about in his incoherence, and -speaking only because Panoukian was waiting for a shove into his -further speculations. - -"I mean, London may be all in a mess, which it is, but if I haven't a -clear idea of the mess I can't begin to mop it up, and I can't begin -on it at all until I've cleaned up the bit of the mess that is in -myself, can I? I mean, take marriage, for instance." - -"By all means, take marriage." - -"Well, you're married and I'm not, but it isn't a bit of good -screaming about marriage unless your own marriage is straightened out -and,--you know what I mean?--understood, is it? . . ." - -So he would go on, whirling from one topic to another--marriage, -morals, democracy, the will to power,--thinking in sharp contrasts, -sometimes hardly thinking, but feeling always. Vaguely, without -objects, catching himself out in some detestable sentimentality, -admitting it frankly and going back again over his whole argument to -pluck it out. Panoukian was to himself a weedy field, and with bowed -back and stiffened loins he was engrossed in stubbing it. It was -exhausting to watch him at it, and when, as sometimes happened, Old -Mole saw things through Panoukian's eyes he was disquieted. Then there -seemed no security in existence; civilization was no longer an -achievement, but a fluid stream flowing over a varied bed--rock, -pebbles, mud, sand; society was no establishment, but a precarious, -tottering thing, a tower of silted sands with an oozy base, blocking -the river, squeezing it into a narrow and unpleasant channel. In the -nature of things and its law the river would one day gather unto -itself great waters and bear the sands away. . . . Meanwhile men -strove to make the sand heap habitable, for they were born on it, -lived and died on it, and never looked beyond. Their whole lives were -filled with dread of its crumbling, their whole energies devoted to -building up against it and against the action of wind and rain and -sun. They built themselves in and looked not out, and made their laws -by no authority but only by expediency. And the young men, in their -vitality too great for such confinement, knew that somewhere there -must be firm ground, and were determined to excavate and to explore. -And Old Mole wished them well in the person of Panoukian. - - - -That young man set himself to discover London. He was forever coming -to Gray's Inn with exciting tales of streets discovered down by the -docks or in the great regions of the northern suburbs. He set himself -to walk from end to end of it, from Ealing to West Ham, from Dulwich -to Tottenham, and he vowed that there were men really living in it, -and he began to think of the democracy as a real entity, to be exalted -at the thought of its power. Old Mole demurred. The democracy had no -power, since it knew not how to grasp it. Its only instrument was the -vote, which was the engine of the Harbottles, the nibblers, the -place-seekers, the pleasure-hunters, those who scrambled to the top of -the sandy tower, where in the highest cavern there were at least air -and light and only the faintest stench from the river's mud. Here -there was so much divergence between Old Mole and Panoukian that they -ceased to talk the same language, and Old Mole would try another tack -and reach the stop-gap conclusion that the difference came about from -the fact that Gray's Inn was very comfortable, while Panoukian's -chambers in the Temple were bleak and bare. That was unsatisfactory, -for Panoukian would inveigh against comfort and vow, as indeed was -obvious, that no one had yet devised a profitable means of spending a -private income of thirty thousand a year. After reading an economic -treatise he came to the conclusion that the whole political problem -resolved itself into the wages question. Old Mole hated problems and -questions. They parched his imagination. His whole pleasure in -Panoukian's society lay in the young man's power to flood ideas with -his vitality. He argued on economic lines and gradually forced the -young man up to the spiritual plane and then gave him his conception -of society as a sand heap. That fired Panoukian. Was it or was it not -necessary for human beings to live upon shifting ground, with no firm -foothold? And he said that the great men had been those who had gone -out into the world and brought back tales of the fair regions -contained therein. - -"They have dreamed of fair regions," said Old Mole, "but no man has -ever gone out to them." - -"Then," said Panoukian, "it is quite time some one did." - -Matilda came in on that, caught the last words, and asked hopefully: - -"What is it you are going to do?" - -"He is going," said Old Mole, "to discover the bedrock of life and -live on it." - -"Is that all?" Matilda looked disappointed. "I hoped it was something -practical at last." - -The two men tried to carry on the discussion, but she closured it by -saying that she wanted to be taken out to dinner and amused. Panoukian -flew to dress himself in ordered black and white, and Matilda said to -Old Mole: - -"The trouble with you two is that you have too much money." - -"That, my dear, is the trouble with almost everybody, and, like -everybody else, we sit on it and talk." - -"It would do you both a world of good to have some real hard, -unpleasant work." - -"I can't agree with you. For twenty-five years I had real, hard, -unpleasant work five days in the week, and it profited neither myself -nor anybody else. I went on with it because it seemed impossible to -leave it. It left me, and my life has been a much brighter and -healthier thing to me. Panoukian is young enough to talk himself into -action. I shall go on talking forever." - -And he went on talking. Matilda produced a workbox and a pile of -stockings and began darning them. They sat one on either side of the -fireplace, and in the chimney sounded the explosive coo of a pigeon. - -"My dear," said Old Mole, "you know, I believe in Panoukian. I believe -he will make something of himself. I fancy that when he is mature -enough to know what he wants he will be absolutely ruthless in making -for it." - -"Do you?" - -Matilda rolled a pair of stockings up into a ball and tossed them into -a basket on the sofa some yards away. It was a neat shot, and Old Mole -admired the gesture with which she made it, the fling of the arm, the -swift turn of the wrist. - -"I do," he said. "Until then there can be no harm in his talking." - -"No. I suppose not. But you do go on so." - - - -Panoukian returned. Matilda made ready, and they set out. Old Mole -took them up to the Holborn gate and watched them walk along toward -Chancery Lane. It was a July evening. He watched them until they were -swallowed up in the hurrying crowd, the young man tall and big, -towering above Matilda small and neat. He saw one or two men in the -street turn and look at her, at them perhaps, for they made a handsome -couple. He admired them and was moved, and a mist covered his -spectacles. He took them off and wiped them. Then, kindling to the -thought of a quiet evening to end in the excitement of their return, -he walked slowly back under the windows flaring in the sunset. - -"Truly," he said, "the world is with the young men. There can be no -pleasanter task for the middle-aged than to assist them, but, alas! we -can teach them nothing, for, as the years go by, there is more and -more to learn." - - - -He sat up until half-past one with the chamber growing ever more chill -and empty, and his heart sinking as he thought of accidents that might -have befallen them. He was asleep on their return and never knew its -precise hour. They gave a perfectly frank and probable account of -their doings: dinner at a grill-room, a music-hall, supper at a German -restaurant, and then on to an At Home at the Schlegelmeiers', where -there had been a squash so thick that once you were in a room it was -impossible to move to any of the others. They had been wedged into the -gallery of the great drawing-room at Withington House, where the -principal entertainment had been a Scotch comedian who chanted lilting -ballads. It was this distinguished artist's habit to make his audience -sing the chorus of each song, and it had been diverting to see -duchesses and ladies of high degree and political hostesses singing -with the abandon of the gods at an outlying two-shows-a-night house: - - - _Rolling, rolling in the heather, - All in the bonny August weather, - There was me and Leezy Lochy in the dingle, - There was Jock and Maggie Kay in the dell, - For ilka lassie has her laddie, - And ilka laddie has his lassie, - And what they dae together I'll na tell, - But Leezy, Leezy Lochy in the dingle, - Is bonny as the moon above the heather._ - - -Matilda sang the song all through and made Old Mole and Panoukian -troll the chorus. There were a freshness and warmth about her that -were almost startling, full of mischief and sparkling fun. She teased -both the men and mysteriously promised them a great reward if they -could guess a riddle. - -"My second is in woman but not in man, my first is French, I have two -syllables, and you'll never guess." - -"Where did you get it?" asked Panoukian. - -"I made it up." - -So they tried to guess and soon confessed themselves beaten. Then she -told them that the second half of the riddle was _sense_, because she -never knew a man who had it; and the first half was _non_ and together -they made _nonsense_, because she felt like it. - -Her mood lasted for five days. Panoukian came in every evening--(she -was rehearsing for a new play, but only in the daytime)--and they -frolicked and sang and burlesqued their own solemn discussions. On the -sixth day her high spirits sank and she was moody and silent. She -forbade Panoukian to come in the evening. He came at teatime, and she -stayed out. One day Old Mole had tea with Panoukian. They walked in -the Temple Gardens afterward, and Panoukian blurted out: - -"I don't know if your wife has told you, sir, but after we left the -Schlegelmeiers' it was such a glorious night, and we were so glad to -be in the air again, that we took a taxi and drove down to Richmond -and came back in the dawn. There wasn't any harm in it, as you and I -see things, but I've been thinking it over and come to the conclusion -that you ought to know." - -A sudden anger took possession of Old Mole, and he retorted: - -"Of course, if there were any harm in it, you wouldn't tell me." - -"Hang it all, sir. You haven't any right to say that to me." - -"No, no. Quite right. I haven't. No. I beg your pardon. I'm glad to -see you such friends. She isn't very good at making friends. -Acquaintances come and go, but there seem to be very few people whom -she and I can share." - -"I have the profoundest respect for her," said Panoukian. "As we were -coming back in the dawn she told me all her life. The things she has -suffered, the misery she has come through." - -And they fraternized in their sympathy for Matilda. Panoukian gave an -instance of her early sufferings. She had never told it to her -husband, and he returned to Gray's Inn puzzled and uneasy, to find her -sitting idle, doing nothing, with no pretence at activity. He was -tender with her, and asked if she might be ill. She said no, but she -had been thinking and wanted to know what was the good of anything. -She said she knew she never could be like the other women they knew; -it wasn't any good, they seemed to feel that she was different and -hadn't had their education and pleasant girlhood, and they only wanted -her because they thought she was a success. He told her that he wanted -nothing less than for her to be like the other women, that he never -wanted her to live in and be one of the crowd, but only to be herself, -her own brave, delightful self. - -"That's what Arthur says." (They had begun to call Panoukian _Arthur_ -during their few days of high spirits.) "He says you've got to be -yourself or nothing. And I don't understand, and thinking makes it so -hard. . . ." She did not want him to speak. She said, "You still love -me? You still want me?" - -And there came back to him almost the love of their wanderings, the -old desire with its sting of jealousy. - -For three days after that she never once spoke to him. - - - -It seemed she wrote to Panoukian, for he appeared again on her last -night before the opening of the new play, and was there when she -returned from the dress rehearsal. She shook hands with him, made him -sit by the fireplace opposite Old Mole, took up some sewing, and said: - -"Now talk." - -After some diffidence Panoukian began, and they came round to "Lossie -Loses," the last weeks of which had at length been announced. It would -have run for two years and two months. Panoukian's theory of its -success was that people were much like children, and once they were -pleased with a story wanted it told over and over again without a -single variation. - -"The public," said Matilda, "are very funny. When they don't listen to -you, you think them idiots; when they do, you adore them and think -them wonderful." - -"I have never felt anything but contempt for them for liking 'Lossie -Loses,' " said Old Mole. - -"But then," put in Panoukian, "you did not write it. If you had, you -would be persuaded by now that it is a masterpiece. That is how -Harbottles are made: they attribute their flukes to their skill and -insist on being given credit for them." - -"I often wonder," said Old Mole, "what the man who wrote it thinks -about it. He must surely know by now." - -"He must be dead." Matilda swept him out of consideration with her -needle. "I don't believe any man would have let it go on so long and -not come forward." - -Panoukian examined the ethical aspect of the situation, and from that -they passed to the discussion of morals, whether there was in fact any -valid morality in England, or simply those things were not done which -were unpleasant in their consequences. The Ten Commandments were -presumably the basis of the nation's morality, since they were read -publicly in places of worship every Sunday (though the majority of the -adult population never went near any place of worship). How many of -the Commandments were closely observed, how many (in the general -custom) met with compromise, how many neglected? Murder and the more -obvious forms of theft were punished; deliberate and wicked fraud, -also, but at every turn the morality had been modified, its bad -admitted to be not always and altogether bad, its good equally subject -to qualification. It had been whittled and chipped away by -non-observance until practically all that was left was a bad -consisting of actions which were a palpable nuisance to society, with -never a good at all. - -"Either," said Panoukian, "the Jewish morality has never been suitable -for the Western races or they have never been intelligent enough to -grasp its intention or its applicability to the facts of life and the -uses of society." - -"I wish you wouldn't use so many long words," said Matilda. - -But Panoukian rushed on: - -"I can't believe in the justice of a morality which is based on the -idea of punishment. It is inevitable that such a system should set a -premium on skill in evading consequences rather than on right action." - -"I believe," said Old Mole, "in tolerance, you can't begin to hold a -moral idea without that." - -"Right," said Matilda, "is right and wrong is wrong. I always know -when I'm doing right and when I'm doing wrong." - -"But you do it all the same?" asked Panoukian. - -"Oh, yes." - -"And so does every healthy human being. So much for morality." - -"Don't you believe that people are always punished?" asked Old Mole. - -"Certainly not. There are thousands of men who go scot free, and so -sink into self-righteousness that more than half their faculties -atrophy, and not even the most disastrous calamity, not even the most -terrible spiritual affliction, can penetrate to their minds." - -"That," said Old Mole, "is the most horrible of punishments and seems -to me to show that there is a moral principle in the universe. I find -it difficult to understand why moralists are not content to leave it -at that, but I have observed that men apply one morality to the -actions of others and another to their own. The wicked often prosper, -and the righteous are filled with envy and pass judgment, wherein they -cease to be righteous." - -"My father," said Matilda, "was a very bad man, but I was fond of him. -My mother was a good woman, and I never could abide her." - -"It is all a matter of affection," quoth Panoukian with more than his -usual emphasis. - -"I agree," muttered Old Mole. - -And all three were surprised at this conclusion. They were uneasily -silent for a moment or two, when Panoukian departed. Then Matilda rose -and came to her husband and held out her hand. He took it in both his -and looked up at her. - -"Good night," she said. - -"Good night." - -"Until to-morrow." - -And slowly the smile he loved came to her face. Warmed by it and -encouraged, he said: - -"Is anything worrying you?" - -The smile disappeared. - -"No. Nothing. I'm beginning to think about things, and you. It's all -so queer. . . . Good night." - -And she was gone. - - - -He attended the first night of the new play. Matilda had a larger -part, and one very short scene of emotion, or, at least, of what -passed for it in the English theater of those days, that is to say it -was a nervous and sentimental excitement altogether disproportionate -to the action, and not built into the structure of the play, but -plastered on to it to conceal an alarming crack in the brickwork. -Matilda did very well and only for a moment let the scene slip out of -the atmosphere of gimcrackery into the air of life. She did this -through defective technique, but that one moment of genuine feeling, -even in so false a cause, was so startling as to whip the audience out -of its comfortable lethargy into something that was so near pleasure -that they could not but applaud. It was an artistic error, since it -was her business to be as banal and shallow as the play, which had -been made with great mechanical skill so that it required only the -superficial service of the actors, and, unlike the candle of the Lord, -made no attempt to "search out the inward parts of the belly." In her -part Matilda had to discover and betray in one moment her love for the -foppish hero of the piece, and being, as aforesaid, wanting in her -technical equipment, drew, for the purpose of the scene, on her own -imagination, and that which--though she might not know it--had -possession of it. The audience was startled into pleasure, Old Mole -into something like terror. There was in the woman there on the stage -a power, a quality, an essence--he could not find the word--on which -he had never counted, for which he had never looked, which now, he -most passionately desired to make his own. He knew that it was not -artistry in her, his own response to it had too profoundly shaken him; -it was living fire, flesh of her flesh, and marvelously made her, for -the first time, kin and kind with him. And he knew then that he had -been living on theory about her, and was so contemptuous of it and of -himself that he brushed aside all thought of the past, all musings and -speculations, and was all eagerness to join her, to tell her of the -amazing convulsion of himself, and how, at last, through this -accident, he had recognized her for what she was. . . . He could not -sit through the rest of the play. Its artificiality, its inane -falsehood disgusted him. He went out into the brilliantly lighted -streets and walked furiously up and down, up and down, and on. And the -men and women in the streets seemed small and mechanical, utterly -devoid of the vital principle he had discerned in his wife's eyes, -voice, gesture, as she played her part. They were just a crowd, -mincing and strutting, bound together by nothing but the capacity to -move, to place one leg before another and proceed from one point to -another of the earth's surface. He had that in common with them, but -nothing else: nothing that bound him to them. (So he told himself, and -so truly he thought, for he was comparing a moment of real experience -with a series of impressions made on him by his surroundings.) He -walked up and down the glittering streets, streaked with white and -yellow and green and purple lights, and the commotion in him waxed -greater. . . . When he returned to the theater Matilda was gone, and -had left no message for him. - -He found her in her bed, with the light on, reading. She had undressed -hastily and her clothes were littered about the room in an untidiness -most unusual with her. She stuffed what she was reading under her -pillow. - -"You didn't wait for me," he said. - -"No. I didn't want to see anybody. I rushed away before the end." - -"Anything wrong?" - -"I hate the theater. I hate it all, the people in it, the blinding -lights, the painted scenery, the audience, oh! the audience! I don't -ever want to go near it again. It's just playing and pretending. -. . ." - -"The piece was certainly nothing but a pretence at drama." - -"Oh! Don't talk about it." - -"But I want to know what has upset you." - -"I can't tell you. I don't know myself. I only know that I'm -miserable, miserable. Just let me be." - -He had learned that when she was ill or out of sorts or depressed she -never had any desire left in her but to curl up and hide herself away. -At such times the diffidence inherent in her character seemed wholly -to master her, and there was no rousing her to a better grace. He -withdrew, his exaltation dampened, and repaired to his study, where in -the dark at his desk in the window he sat gazing out into the night, -at the few lighted windows of the Inn, and the bruise-colored glow of -the sky. He could think only of her and now it seemed to him that he -could really lose himself and live in her, and through her come to -love. He remembered how, when she was rehearsing, he had asked how she -was progressing, and she had replied: "I shall never get it. Either -the part's all wrong or I am." And that evening she had "got it," -reached what the author had been fumbling after, the authentic note of -human utterance, the involuntary expression of love. It had alarmed -himself: how devastating must it then have seemed to her! It was -almost horrible in its irrelevance. It came from neither of them and -yet it was theirs, but not for sharing. It had driven her, like a -beast on a stroke of illness, to hide away from him, but through her -and only through her could he approach it. The abruptness of its -outburst, its geyser-like upward thrust, made it alone seem natural -and all their life of habit artificial and shabby; how much more then -the stale and outworn tricks of the theater! He approached it, -worshiping, marveling at the sense of release in his soul, and knew -that, with the power it gave him, he had bitten through the crust of -life, whereat he had been nibbling and gnawing with his mind and -picking with the chipped flints of philosophies. And he was awed into -humility, into admission of his own impotence, into perception, clear -and whole, of the immensity of its life's purpose, of its huge force -and mighty volume bearing the folly and turbulence of mind and flesh -lightly on its bosom, so that a man must accept life as to be lived, -can never be its master, but only its honorable servant or its -miserable slave. He had then the sense of being one with life, from -which nothing was severed, not the smallest bubble of a thought, not -the least grain of a desire, of possessing all his force and a -boundless reserve of force, and he whispered: - -"I love." - -And the mighty sound of it filled all the chambers of his life, so -that he was rich beyond dreams. - -He laid his head in his arms and wept. His tears washed away the -stains of memory, the scars and spotted dust upon his soul, and he -knew now that he had no longer to deal with an idea of life, but with -life itself, and he was filled with the desperate courage of his -smallness. - - - -For a brief space after a storm of summer rain the world is a place of -glowing color, of flowing, harmonious lines. So it was now with Old -Mole, and he discovered the charm of things. His habitual life went on -undisturbed, and he could find pleasure even in that. His love for -Matilda reduced him to a sort of passiveness, so that he asked nothing -of her, gave her of himself only so much as she demanded, and was -content to watch her, to be with her, to feel that he was in no way -impeding her progress. - -She showed no change save that there was a sort of effort in her -self-control, as though she were deliberately maintaining her old -attitude toward him. She never made any further allusion to her avowed -hatred of the theater, and returned to it as though nothing had -suffered. He told himself that it was perhaps only a mood of -exhaustion, or that, though she might have passed through a crisis, -yet it was possible for her to be unaware of it, so that its effects -would only gradually become visible and very slowly translated into -action. After all, she was still very young, and the young are -mercifully spared having to face their crises. . . . When he went to -see her play her part again she had mastered her scene by artistry; -the almost barbaric splendor of her outburst was gone; she had a trick -for it, and her little scene became, as it was intended to be, only a -cog in the elaborate machinery by which the entertainment moved. - -This time Panoukian was with him, and denounced the piece as an -abomination, a fraud upon the public--(who liked it immensely)--and he -produced a very ingenious, subtle diagnosis of the diseases that were -upon it and submitted it to a thorough and brutal vivisection, act by -act, as they sat through it. Old Mole was astonished to find that -Panoukian's violence annoyed him, offended him as an injustice, and, -though he did not tell him so, saw clearly that he was applying to the -piece a standard which had never for one moment been in the mind of -the author, whose concern had been to the best of his no great powers -to contrive an amusing traffic which should please everybody and -offend none, supply the leading actors with good and intrinsically -flattering parts, tickle the public into paying for its long-continued -presentation, and so pay the rent of the theater, the formidable -salary list, and provide for the satisfaction of his pleasures, the -caprices of his extremely expensive wife, and his by no means peculiar -mania for appearing in the columns of the newspapers and illustrated -journals; pure Harbottling; but it had nothing at all to do with what -Panoukian was talking about, namely, art. It was certainly all out of -drawing and its moral perspective was all awry, but it was hardly more -fantastical and disproportionate than Panoukian's criticism. It was -entirely unimportant: to apply a serious standard to it was to raise -it to a level in the mind to which it had no right. Of the two, the -author and Panoukian, he was not sure but Panoukian was the greater -fool. However, extending his indulgence from one to the other, he let -the young man talk his fill, and said nothing. He had begun to -treasure silence. - -He loved the silent evenings in Gray's Inn, where he could sit and -smoke and chuckle over the world's absurdity, and ponder the ways of -men so variously revealed to him in the last few years, and gloat over -his own happiness and dream of the days when Matilda should have come -to the full bloom of her nature and they would perfectly understand -each other, and then life would be a full creation, as full and -varied, as largely moving as the passing of the seasons. He had -delightful dreams of the time when she would fully share his silence, -the immense region beyond words. He was full of happiness, gummy with -it, like a plum ripe for plucking--or falling. - -In his fullness of living--the very top, he told himself, of his age, -of a man's life--he found it easy to cover paper with his thoughts and -memories, delightful and easy to mold them into form, and to amuse -himself he began a work which he called "Out of Bounds," half -treatise, half satire on education, dry, humorous, mocking, in which -he drew a picture of the members of his old profession engaged in -hacking down the imaginations of children and feeding the barren -stumps of their minds with the sawdust of the conventional curricula. -He was very zestful in this employment, perfectly content that Matilda -should be even less demonstrative than before, telling himself that -she was wrestling with the after effects of her crisis and would turn -to him and his affection when she needed them. He made rapid progress -with his work. - -"Lossie Loses" came to an end at last, and he counted the spoils. He -had gained many thousands of pounds--(the play was still running in -America)--a few amusing acquaintances, a career for his wife, and an -insight into the workings of London's work and pleasure which he would -have found it hard to come by otherwise. He chuckled over it all and -flung himself with fresh ardor into his work. - -After the hundredth performance of her play Matilda declared that she -was tired, and wanted a rest, and she threw up her part. She came to -him and said she wished to go away. - -"Very well. Where shall we go?" - -"I want to go alone." - -And she waited as though she expected a protest from him. For a moment -she gazed at him almost with pleading in her eyes, and then she -governed herself, stood before him almost assertively and repeated: - -"Alone." - -In the aggression he felt the strain in her and told himself she was -wanting to get away from him, to break the habit of their life, to -come back to him fresh, to advance toward him, reach up to the prize -he held in his hands. He told himself that to break in upon her -diffidence might only be to thicken the wall she--(he said it was -she)--had raised between them. He said: - -"Won't you mind?" - -"No. I want to be alone." - -"Where will you go then?" - -"I don't know. Anywhere. By the sea, I think." - -He suggested the Yorkshire coast, but she said that was too far and -she didn't like the North. - -"Oh! No!" he said. "Want to forget it?" - -She passed that by. - -He took down a map, and she looked along the south coast and pitched -on a place in Sussex, because it was far from the railway and would -therefore be quiet. He left his work, wired to the hotel for rooms, -sat and talked to her as she packed, saw her off the next morning and -returned to his work, rejoicing in the silence and emptiness of the -chambers. - -He sent her letters on to her without particularly noticing their -superscription. On the third day a letter came for her, and he -recognized the handwriting as Panoukian's. He sent that on. When his -work went swimmingly and his pen raced he wrote to her, long, droll, -affectionate epistles: when his work hobbled then he did not write and -hardly gave a thought to her. She wrote to him in her awkward hand -with gauche, conventional descriptions of the scenery amid which she -was living. He read them and they gave him fresh light on education. -He was reaching the constructive part of his work, and it began to -take shape as an exposition of the methods by which the essential -Matilda might have been freed of the diffidence and self-distrust -which hemmed her in. That brought him to feminism, and he imagined a -description of women in Trafalgar Square screaming in a shrill -eloquence for deliverance from the captivity into which they had been -cast by the morals of the sand heap. He was keenly interested in this -scene, and, as he had sketched it, was not sure that he had the -topography of the Square exact. - -One evening, therefore, he dined at his club, meaning to walk home by -the Square and the Strand. He was drawn into an argument and did not -set out before ten o'clock. It was one of those nights when heavy -clouds lumber low over the city and absorb the light, break the chain -of it so that the great arcs are like dotted lanterns, and behind them -buildings loom. He turned down Parliament Street to get the full -effect of this across the Square, and then came up across and across -it, carefully observing how the great thoroughfares lay in relation to -the Nelson Column. As, finally, he was crossing to the Strand he was -almost dashed over by a taxicab, drew back, looked up, saw his wife -gazing startled out of the window. He stared at her, but she did not -recognize him and seemed to be entirely absorbed in the fright and -shock of the avoided accident. He followed the car with his eyes. It -had turned sharply in the middle of the road to pass into the -southward stream of traffic. He saw it slow down and draw up outside a -huge hotel, and hurried after it. The porter came out and opened the -door. Matilda stepped to the pavement, and after her Panoukian. They -passed in through the revolving door of the hotel just as he reached -the pavement. The porter staggered in with Matilda's portmanteau. - -Old Mole lunged forward on an impulse. He reached the door and glared -through the glass. The hall was full of people, there was a great -coming and going. He could see neither Matilda nor Panoukian. He -turned and walked very slowly down the steps of the hotel. There were -four steps. He reached the pavement and was very careful not to walk -on the cracks. At the edge of the pavement he stopped and stared -vacantly up at the Nelson Column. Small and black against the heavy -clouds stood the statue, and almost with a click Old Mole's brain -began to think again, mechanically, tick-tocking like a clock, -fastening on the object before his eyes, and clothing it with -associations. - -"Nelson--Romney--Lady Hamilton--Lady Hamilton--Emma--Nelson's -enchantress--Nelson," and so on all over again. . . . The action of -his heart was barely perceptible, a slow beat, a buzzing at his ears. -"Nelson--Romney----" - -He stood gazing up at the statue. The clouds behind it moved and gave -it the appearance of moving. It was very certain that the sword moved. -. . . "England expects. . . ." He gazed fascinated. A little crowd -gathered. Men and women stood around and behind him and gazed up. He -was aware of them, and he said: - -"Idiots." - -But he could not move. The crowd spread over the pavement and blocked -the way. A policeman appeared and moved them on. He jostled Old Mole. - -"Move on, there. You're causing an obstruction." - -Old Mole stared at him stupidly. - -The officer spoke to him again, but made no impression. Old Mole -stared at the hotel as though he were trying to remember something -about it, but he did not move. The officer hailed a taxi, bundled him -into it, and drove with him to the police station. In the charge room -there was confabulation, and Old Mole gaped round him: the furniture, -the large men in uniform swam mistily before him. One of the men -approached him sympathetically, and he heard a voice say: - -"Can't make nothink of it, sir." - -His brain fastened on that as expressing something that it was trying -to get clear. He felt a slight relaxation of the numbness that was -upon him. - -Another voice said: - -"What's your name?" - -"Name?" said Old Mole. - -The man in front of him said: - -"The Inspector says: What's the name?" - -"Panoukian," said Old Mole. - - - - -VI - -OUT OF IT - -_When the pie was opened, the birds began to sing._ - -THE QUEEN OF HEARTS - - - -VI - -OUT OF IT - -THE name acted as an aperitive on Old Mole's faculties, he opened his -eyes and mouth very wide and ate his breath like a fish, and began -eloquently to apologize to the policemen for the trouble he had given -them. He diagnosed his condition as a brief suspension of the -reasoning faculties, a perfectly normal affliction to which all men -were liable. The policemen listened to him stolidly and exchanged -slow, heavy winks, as to say that they had indeed drawn a strange fish -out of the sea of London. Their prize was soon able to give a coherent -account of himself, and they let him go with no worse than a request -to pay the cost of the cab in which he had been brought. - -There was heavy rain when he reached the streets. The people were -coming out of the theaters and halls, scurrying along under umbrellas, -darting for cover, wrestling their way into cabs and omnibuses and -Tube stations. The streets were like black mirrors, or deep sluggish -rivers, with the lights drowned in them. The people were all hurrying -to get out of the rain. Old Mole was indifferent to it, and more -acutely than ever was he visited by the sense of having nothing in -common with them. By sheer force of numbers they presented themselves -to his mind as obscene. At one point he was caught in a crowd and so -offended by the smell of warm flesh, wet clothes and heated india -rubber that he was for a moment possessed by a desire to strike the -nearest man. He restrained himself and walked on. In front of him -there were a brace of marketable women profiting by the weather to -display their legs up to their knees. His mind raced back to the -Puritanism in which he had been nurtured, and he was filled with the -Antonine heated horror of women. . . . All the way home he was beset -with sights and scenes that accentuated his disgust. - -It was not until he reached Gray's Inn that he was faced with the -pathetic absurdity of his situation, and then he found it unthinkable. -There was not an object in the chambers but cried aloud of Matilda. -She had made the place beautiful, changed its tone from masculine to -feminine, and she was there though she was absent. It was very grim -and horrible; like coming on the clothes of a beloved creature of -whose death he had been told. He played with the idea of death -voluptuously. She was dead, he told himself; his own end was not far -off. The shadow of it was over the place. He went from room to room, -fingering her possessions, touching the stuffs and garments he had -last seen in her hands. He opened her wardrobe and thrust his hands -among her soft gowns. He stood by her bed and patted the pillow and -smoothed the coverlet. He caught sight of himself in her mirror and -told himself that he could see her face, too. And she was very young, -too young to be dead: and he was startlingly, haggardly old. Surely -the end could not be far off. - -He went from room to room, picturing her in each as he had last seen -her. - -He pushed his mood of horror to its extremity so that he was nigh sick -with it. - -All night in his study he prowled round and round. He locked himself -in, locked the outer door, locked all her rooms and pocketed the keys. -She would not, she should not, come back. No one should enter. The -obscenity of the streets clung to him and he could see his situation -in no other light. All his life he had regarded the violation of -marriage as a thing so horrible that it could only happen among -monsters and therefore so remote from himself as to find no place in -his calculations. There was a certain side of human life which was -settled by marriage. Outside it was obscenity, from the poison of -which marriages were impregnably walled in. The walls were broken -down; a filthy flood swamped the fair city of his dreams, and for a -short while he was near mad with thoughts of lust and jealousy and -revenge. He knew it but could not away with it. There was an -extraordinary pleasure, a giddy delight in yielding to the flood, -giving rein to the long penned up forces of the animal in him, and -breaking into childish, impotent anger. - -Slowly he lingered, and he began to imagine, to invent, what others -would think of him--Robert, his sister, his acquaintances at the club, -and there was a sort of pleasure in the writhing of his vanity. He -despised himself for it, but he wallowed in it. Never before had he -seen such a quantity of mud and its appeal was irresistible. - -When at last he crawled out of it he sat in rueful contemplation of -himself and went back to the cause of it all: the averted accident in -Trafalgar Square, the hotel door swinging--the low-hanging clouds, the -crowd, the Nelson statue. . . . Nelson: Emma. And Old Mole laughed: -after all, there were distinguished precedents, Sir William Hamilton, -most of the friends of Julius Cæsar, Hans von Bülow, George II. The -thing had happened even in Thrigsby, but there it had been only a tale -to laugh at, with pitying condemnation for the husband and a sudden, -irrepressible envy of the lover; envy, neither more nor less; he felt -gratified at the honesty of this admission, though not a little -surprised at it. It was like a thin trickle of cold water upon his -fever, invigorating him, so that he struggled to break through the -meshes of sentimentality in which he had been caught. He broke free, -and to his astonishment found himself sitting at his desk and turning -over the closely written sheet which he had left on the blotting pad. -He corrected a serious mistake in the topography of Trafalgar Square -and went on writing. . . . The outcry of the women against the moral -atmosphere of the sand heap reached up to a noble eloquence in which -were declared their profound pity and sympathy for the men trapped in -sensuality and habitual vice. They declared their ability to think of -men as suffering human beings, wounded and deformed by ignorance and -prejudice, and asked only for the like true chivalry from men. He -drained the vat of his ideas dry, and, at last, at five o'clock in the -morning, exhausted, he went to bed. - -He awoke to a sense of novelty and unfamiliarity in his surroundings -and in himself, welcomed the new day with the thankfulness of health, -splashed lustily in his bath, jovially slapped his belly as he dried -himself, and chuckled at its rotundity, regarded it as a joke, the -private particular joke of middle age. Almost it seemed as though his -body had a separate personality of its own, certainly it had many -adventures, many inward happenings of which he was not aware, a -variety of processes beyond his discernment. That amused him mightily. -. . . He remembered the horrors of the night. It must have been a -nightmare! Of course, a nightmare was often followed with a feeling of -health and a grotesque humor! - -There were three letters on his breakfast table. One was from Matilda, -posted the day before at the Sussex village. She said she was well, -though the weather was bad, and she was getting rather more loneliness -than she had bargained for. She sent her love and hoped he was happy -without her. He tore up the letter and burned it, and turned back the -thoughts and memories it had summoned forth. He applied himself -hungrily to his breakfast and took careful note of the process of -eating, trying to discover why it should be pleasant and why, slowly, -it should take the zest off his appetite for the day's doings. - -"Queer," he thought, "how little interest we take in the body. It -might be an unfailing source of entertainment. It is not so certain -neither that it is not wiser than the mind." - -All day he harped on thoughts of the body and was fiercely busy -scrubbing his own clean of the base ideas of the night. He was fairly -rid of them at last toward evening, but his mind was in a horrid -confusion, and he was rather alarmed at the hard appearance of -actuality taken on by his body. It blotted everything else out. He saw -it in the masked light and shade of dirt and cleanliness. From that he -went on to the other seeming opposites--life and death, love and hate, -vice and virtue, light and darkness--found so many of them that he was -semi-hypnotized and sank into an unthinking contemplation. There was -good and there was bad, two points, in the catenary of which he was -slung as in a hammock, with the void beneath. . . . Life as an exact -equation was an impossible, appalling idea; but he could not break -free from it. He could not escape from the trite dualism of things. -. . . From the stupor of ideas he returned to his body and found in -that the same tyranny of the number two: he had two eyes, two ears, -two hands, two feet, two lungs, two kidneys. It comforted him greatly -to reflect that he had only one heart, one nose, one mouth. - -"Bah!" he said, "I am making a bogey of my own shadow." - -And he resolved to take a Turkish bath before dining at the club. He -did so, and was baked and kneaded and pummeled and lathered back into -a tolerable humor, and, as he lay swathed in warm towels and smoking -an excellent cigar, he faced the situation, yielded to it, let it -sting and nip at his heart, and was so racked with its pain that he -could form no clear idea of it, nor struggle, but only lie limp and -pray to God, or whatever devil had let such furies loose upon him, -that the worst might soon be over before he was betrayed into any -brutal or foolish act. He was amazed to find that his vanity had been -slain: it had died in the night of shock, so he diagnosed it. No -longer was he concerned with what other people would think of himself. -The cruel pain twinged the sharper for it, and he saw that vanity is a -protective crust, a shell grown by man to cover his nakedness. . . . -His general ideas were clear enough: and the amusement of them served -to distract him in his agony. It tickled him to think of a Turkish -bath in Jermyn Street as the scene of such a mighty sorrow, and said: - -"So much the better for the Turkish bath. It becomes the equal of Troy -or Elsinore or the palace of Andromache, and nobler, for mine is a -real and no poet's tragedy. It is a true tragedy, or, my vanity being -dead, I should not bother my head about it. . . . Is my vanity dead? I -have shed it as a crab his claw or a lizard his tail. It will grow -again." - -He sank deep into pain until it seemed to him he could suffer no more, -and then he went over to his club and dined fastidiously--a crab (to -inspect its claw), a quail, and a devil on horseback, with a bottle of -claret, very deliberately selected in consultation with the head -waiter. Throughout his meal he read the wine list from cover to cover -and back again, and thought how closely it resembled the Thrigsby -school list. It contained so many familiar names that he was put out -at its not including Panoukian's, and of Panoukian slowly he began to -think: at first sleepily and in the gross content of his good dinner, -as a wine, heady, sparkling, inclined to rawness, too soon bottled, or -too soon uncorked, he could not be certain which. Then he thought of -Panoukian as a man, and a savage anger burst in upon him, and he -thought of Panoukian's deed as the atmosphere of the club dictated he -should think of it. Panoukian had acted dirtily and dishonorably: he -should be hounded out, hounded out. Panoukian had wormed himself into -his (Old Mole's) affections and trust, to betray both. He had shown -himself a cad, a blackguard, a breaker of the laws of hospitality and -good society. . . . There was a solid plumpness in this conception of -Panoukian that pleased Old Mole almost sensually, gave him the same -sort of mouth-watering anticipation as the breast had done of the -quail he had just eaten. He had Panoukian nicely dished up, brown, -done to a turn: he would poise the knife for one gloating moment, -plunge it in, and cleave the ripe morsel from breast to back. -Panoukian had been cooked by his own actions: he deserved the knife -and the crunch of teeth. Old Mole, like many another good man wronged, -felt ogreish. . . . He began in his head (and with the aid of the wine -in his head) to compose letters to Panoukian, commencing "Sir" or -"Dear Sir," or, without approach, plunging into such a sentence as: -"No matter how public the place, or how painful to myself, I shall, -when I next meet you, be obliged to thrash you." - -And he gloated over the thoughts of thrashing Panoukian: mentally -chose the stick, a whippy cane; the fleshy portion of Panoukian's -anatomy under the tails of his too-much-waisted coat. He rejoiced in -the scene. It might be in the House, under the eyes of all the -Harbottles: or, better still, in the Temple before the grinning -porters. - -He was brought to himself by a crash and a tinkle. He had waved his -fork in the air and knocked over his last glass of claret. The head -waiter concealed his annoyance in fatherly solicitude and professional -business, and suggested another half-bottle. Weakly Old Mole -consented, and while he was waiting, after collecting his thoughts, -found that they had left Panoukian and come to Matilda. Her image was -blurred: his love had become sorrow and a creeping torment, and the -torment was Matilda, the blood in his veins, inseparable from himself. -And because she was inseparable Panoukian became so, too. There could -be no gain in thrashing Panoukian: that was just blustering nonsense; -"defending his honor" was the phrase. Idiots! He looked round at the -other diners. What was the good of defending that which was lost? What -was there to defend? You might as well ask a sea captain whose ship -had been blown up by a mine why on earth he did not use his guns. -. . . Further, honor was a word for which he could find no precise -meaning. It was much in vogue in the theater, from Copas to Butcher. A -woman's honor apparently meant her chastity. A man's honor, in some -very complicated way, seemed to be bound up in the preservation of -woman's, as though she herself were to have no say in the matter. No; -honor would not do: it was only a red herring trailed across the -scent. - -Next came the cause of morality, which demanded the punishment of -offenders. To his consternation he found himself thinking of the -affair impersonally, pharisaically, inhumanly, detaching himself from -Matilda, thrusting her violently away, giving her a dig or two with -the goad of self-righteousness, and swelling at the neck with -conscious rectitude. Why? . . . She must suffer for her sins. - -Sin? _Sünde, pécher._ He thought of it in three or four languages, but -in all it created an impression of overstatement and, more, of bad -taste. He had lived for so long with a warm, intimate idea of Matilda -that he resented the intrusion of morality, bidding him stand above -her, judge and condemn. It might be simpler, the easiest attitude to -adopt--a suit of ready-made mental clothes, reach-me-downs--but it was -uncomfortable, cold, and, most astonishing of all, degrading. It was -to be impersonal in a desperately personal matter. _Ça ne va pas._ - - - _Du bist wie eine Blume. - So rein und schön und hold . . ._ - - -Like nearly every lover who has any acquaintance with the German -language, he had tagged Heine's verses on to his beloved. He clutched -at them now. They were still apt. He used them as a weapon with which -to drive back the cause of morality, but he was still very far from -the mastery of himself and the affair--_l'affaire Panoukian._ He was -the victim of a fixed idea--the taxicab, the hotel door swinging -round, the low-hanging clouds, the Nelson statue. . . . George II had -caused the death of Königsmarck, but his sympathies had never been -with George II; besides that was a monarch, and not even the success -of "Lossie Loses" and his acquaintance with half the Cabinet would -enable him with impunity to procure the death of Panoukian. Apart from -the defence of honor and the cause of morality, what do men do in the -circumstances? - -He was to receive instruction. . . . - -In the reading room he picked up an evening newspaper. It was pleasant -to hold a tangible object in his fingers and to pass into the reported -doings of the great and the underworld. He had heard gossip of the -final catastrophe of a notoriously wretched marriage. The divorce -proceedings were reported in the paper. The husband--Old Mole knew him -slightly and did not like him--gave evidence to show himself as a -noble and generous creature, near heartbroken, and the woman, whom his -selfishness had driven into a desperate love, as light or hysterical. -It was such a distortion of the known facts, such an audacious -defiance of the knowledge common to all polite London, that Old Mole -was staggered. He read the report again. One sentence of the evidence -was almost a direct appeal for sympathy. Knowing the man, he could -picture him standing there, keeping his halo under his coat-tails and -donning it at the right moment. It was theatrical and very adroit. - -"Bah!" said Old Mole. "He is groveling to the public, sacrificing even -his wife to the many headed." - -And his sympathies were with the woman. At least she had shown -courage, and the man had lied and asked for admiration for it: so -honor was defended and the cause of morality served. - -A little knot of men in the room were discussing the case. Their -sympathies were with the man. - -"If a woman did that to me," said the nearest man, "I'd thrash her, I -would. Thank God, I'm a bachelor." - -"I don't know what women are coming to," said a fat little man, as -cosily tucked into his chair as a hazel nut in its husk. "They seem to -think they can do just as they please." - -A tall thin man said: - -"It all began with the bicycle. Women have never been the same since -bicycles came in." - -"It wouldn't have been so bad," said the fat little man, "if they'd -cut and run." - -And Old Mole repeated that sentence to himself. - -"What I can't understand is," said the first speaker, who seemed the -most indignant, "why he didn't shut her up until she had come to her -senses. After all, we are all human, and that is what I should have -done. If women won't regard the sacredness of the home, where are we?" - -"Surely," said Old Mole, incensed into speaking, "it depends on the -home." - -"I beg your pardon, sir," retorted the nearest man with some heat. "It -does not. In these matters you can't make exceptions. Home is home, -and there is no getting away from it. If a woman grows sick of her -home it is her own fault and she must stick to it, dree her own weird, -as the Scotch say. Destroy the home and society falls to the ground." - -And Old Mole, sharpened by argument, replied: - -"Society is no more permanent than any other institution. Its -existence depends entirely on its power to adapt itself to life. It is -certainly independent of the innumerable sentimental ideas with which -men endeavor to plaster up the cracks in its walls, among which I must -count that of home." - -The three men gaped at him. He continued: - -"Home, I conceive, has a meaning for children. It is the place in -which they grow up. We make homes for our young as the birds make -nests for theirs. When the children go forth then the home is empty -and is no longer home. Men are no longer patriarchs and no more do -they gather the generations under one roof-tree. . . . In the case -under discussion there were no children, therefore there was never a -home to defend or regard as sacred. Man and woman alike had placed -themselves in a false position. What further they had to suffer we do -not know. We know that the man took refuge in the closest egoism, and -the woman finally in the restless adventure of which we know no more -than has been reported to a newspaper by a dull and mechanical -shorthand writer. My own view is that, where there are no children, -society at large is not interested. Society is only interested in any -marriage in so far as it will provide children to ensure its continued -existence. Once children are born it is interested to see that they -are fed, clothed and educated. (How effectively our present society -pursues that interest you may easily observe if you will visit East or -South London.) Beyond that its interference, explicit or covert, seems -to me to be an unwarrantable intrusion into the privacy of the human -soul. No one of us here is in a position to judge of the affair which -is the occasion of your argument, and . . . and . . . I beg your -pardon for interfering with it." - -He rose and passed out the room, leaving three very surprised clubmen -behind him. But none of them could be more surprised than himself: -surprised and relieved he was. He had been sickened at the idea of a -woman being delivered up to the chatter of idle tongues, and in the -violence of his distress had come by an absolute certainty that any -dignified issue to his present affection could only come through an -unprejudiced and unsentimental consideration of the whole facts. It -was not going to be easy; but, dear God, he wanted something -difficult, something really worth doing to counteract his misery. When -he thought of himself and the ache at his heart he was blinded with -tears and could see the facts only from one angle--his own. - - - _Du bist wie eine Blume, - So rein und schön und hold . . ._ - - -Seen from that angle, Matilda was reduced in stature, distorted, ugly, -mean. But he had loved her, loved her, and must still have the truth -of her: more than ever before he needed to understand her. The beauty -and delight and youth he had enjoyed in her must not go down in -bitterness. - -One saying he took away with him from the club: - -"It wouldn't have been so bad if they'd cut and run." - -Perhaps, he thought to himself, they had "cut and run." And for him it -became worse, to think that she had gone, without a word, with never a -complaint, just gone. He remembered the night when she had said she -was miserable, when he had found her in her bed, after the play, with -her room in a litter. And he fell to thinking of the trials he must -have put upon her, probing for all the possible offences, secret, -subtle, unsuspected, of body and soul that might be laid at his door. -There were many that he could think of, but his darkest hours came -then when he perceived the fine balance, the perilous poise of married -life, the imperceptible dovetailing of interests and habits and -humors, the regions beyond perception where souls meet. Its nice -complications were almost terrifying: at thousands of points men and -women might fail, offend each other, crush each other, destroy, never -dreaming of the cause, never, at the time, marking the effect. For -such an adventure there need be heroism: to break, when even failure -and offence and mutual exasperation bind, strength and courage -superhuman or despairing. And men judge! And condemn! They measure -this subtlest and most searching relationship with opinions and dull -compromise and rules. - -He was tortured with the thought of all the injuries he might have -done her, and he invented more, invented burdens that he had never put -upon her to account for her going away from him, with never a word. -For three days he lived in this torment, winding about and about from -general to particular and back again by the most circuitous route, a -_Rundreise_ with the current morality for Baedeker. And every now and -then the obsession would stab home to his heart--the hotel door -swinging, the flat infidelity. Once, when the pain was so mortal that -he could contain himself no longer, he wrote to her at the hotel. He -posted the letter. That was on the second day. On the third he was in -an agony. No answer came. - -On the fourth day a telegram arrived from the Sussex village and an -hour later she, brown, healthy, with a grand swing in her walk, a new -depth of bosom, a squarer carriage of the shoulders; a rich bloom on -her. She kissed his cheek. - -He stared and stared at her. He looked for change in her. - -"You!" - -"Didn't you get my telegram?" - -"Oh! yes." - -"I'll take my things off, and we'll have some tea." - -She left him. He stood at the head of the little stairs leading down -to her apartments, and he trembled and was near weeping. In her room -he could hear her singing to herself, happily, blithely as a bird, -with a full note that caught at his heart. She seemed to sing no song, -but a melody, young and joyous with a full summer gaiety. The sun -shone through the staircase window upon his hand where he clutched the -balustrade. He was gripping it so tight that the veins stood out and -the skin on his knuckles was white. A tear fell on his hand and he -looked down at it. It was a plump, podgy, puckered middle-aged hand. - -He whisked back into his room as he heard her door open. - -They had tea, and he could not take his eyes off her. She thought he -looked ill and pulled down. On his desk she saw the pile of his -papers. - -"You've been writing," she said. "You've been overdoing it. It's never -safe to leave a man alone." - -"Yes," he replied. "I have written a good deal." - -"Is it a story?" - -"No. Not exactly a story." - -"Is it finished?" - -"No. I doubt if it will ever be finished now." - -She began to talk of the theater. She had been wired for to resume her -part, as her understudy was proving unsatisfactory. Further she had -had two offers. One to appear in a new musical comedy, the other of a -part in a play to be produced at a little "intellectual" theater for -eight matinées. She felt inclined, she said, to accept both. It would -mean very hard work, but it would be experience, and it was flattering -to be noticed by the superior persons of the stage. And she asked his -advice. He thought it might be too much for her to have so much -rehearsing and to play in the evening as well. That she brushed aside. -She was feeling splendid, strong enough to act a whole play. - -"You are becoming a regular Copas," he said. - -She laughed; he, too, and they plunged into reminiscences of the old -days. - -"I sometimes think," he said, "that those were the happiest months of -my life." - -"Nonsense. There's always more and more in front." - -"For you." - -She went off into peals of laughter, for she had just remembered the -encounter with the prize-fighter. Her sturdy gaiety simply swept him -off his feet, and he could only follow in the train of her mood. They -made so merry that they lost count of the time, and she suddenly -sprang to her feet with a cry and scurried away, dinnerless, not to be -late at the theater. - -"I ought to have told her," he said to himself. "I ought to have said: -'I know.' . . . But how fine she looked! How happy she must be!" - -Happy? There was something in her mood beyond happiness: a zestful -strength, a windiness that seemed to blow through every cranny of her -soul, whipping the blood in her veins, so that she could not pause for -states and conditions of the spirit, nor check herself to avoid -unhappiness in herself or others. She was like a ship in full sail, -bending to the wind, skimming over tossing seas. She was gallant. She -was what he had always hoped she might become. There was in her such a -new flood of vitality that he felt ashamed at the thought of bidding -her pause to submit to his inquisition. Impossible to check her -flight, cruel suddenly to present her with the meanness of what she -had done while she was still glowing with its splendor. - -He had caught something of her glow, and now he wrestled to break free -of rules of conduct and moral codes, and he began, at last, to -consider his problem in terms of flesh and blood. There were three -points of view to be mastered: three lives knotted together in a -tangle and the weakest strand would be broken. - -He felt hopeful. There would be a fight for it, and to that he -thrilled. He had the exaltation of one on the brink of great -discovery. - - - -He went to fetch her from the theater. The stagedoor lay at the back -in an alley joining two great thoroughfares. As he entered the alley -from one end he saw Matilda and Panoukian leave by the other, and he -had his arm in hers. Old Mole turned, with the fluttering sense of an -escape, glad not to have met them. And when he had controlled himself -he was amused to think that they could not have dreaded the encounter -more than he. - -He took a long walk to delay his return, and when he reached the -chambers they were in darkness. He crept softly down the little stairs -and tried her door. It was locked. - -In a moment's panic he thought that this time she had really "cut and -run," and he was almost stunned with his terror of it. It was too -soon, too soon: it would be disastrous; he would be left without -understanding, to the mercy of the obsession; he had not all the -threads in his hands; until he had, it would be rash folly to snap. He -stood against her door, with his ear to the panel, holding his breath, -straining to hear. There were explosive noises in the house. From the -room he could catch nothing for them. Closer and closer he pressed to -the door, his ear against the panel. He lurched and the panel creaked. -Silence. He heard her stir in her bed. - -She was there! That was all he wanted to know. On tiptoe he crept -away. . . . She was there! He would yet gather all the threads and -then he or she would snap. One or other would be broken. - -What had he then? The evidence of his own eyes. Was that not enough? -It was enough for prescribed remedies, to which he could not resort -without revenge, for which he had not now the least desire. What his -eyes had seen was so isolated, so severed from the rest of his life as -to be monstrous and injurious. By itself it was damnable harlotry. -(There was a sort of boyish satisfaction in fishing out the words of a -grosser age with which to bespatter it and make it even more offensive -to pure-mindedness.) But, as he loved the woman, it could not stand by -itself. He was in it, too. Actions cannot be judged by themselves. -There must have been an antecedent conspiracy of circumstance and -fault to lead to such misdemeanor. - -With a tight control of himself he could now almost think of it -without jealousy (hardly any of that was left but the quick, shallow -jealousy of the brute), but he could not think of it without passion, -and through that he could discern its inherent passion and, faintly, -respond to it. That put an end to all mean suspicions of a conspiracy -against himself, or of cowardly contriving to enjoy stolen fruit and -leave no trace. . . . She had locked the door against him. So much was -definite, and he had a sort of envying admiration for her that she -could be precise while he was still floundering and groping for -understanding. . . . Certainly he had never seen her so sure of -herself. - -But then, if she were so sure, why did she not "cut and run." Then it -would not be so bad. For a flash he saw the thing with the eyes of a -fat clubman; the passion in him ebbed and he lost grip, and blundered -into a mist. A lunge forward cleared him. She was sure of herself, so -sure that she was giving no thought to her position except as it -immediately presented itself. The new factor in her life called for no -change, and everything she had was enriched by it, her possessions, -her work, even her domestic life. It must all seem to her clear gain, -and therefore she was sure. She loved her love, and everything that -had led to it, and therefore she was sure. - -From that flight upward Old Mole came to the sensation of falling. He -was possessed by a prevision, felt that in a moment he would see all -things plain, would know exactly what was going to happen. He strained -forward, felt sleep overcoming him, struggled against it, and fell -asleep. - - - -Then Matilda was busy all day rehearsing, and, during the little time -he had with her, she talked the slang and gossip of the theater. Once -she asked after the work, and he read a little of it to her, and she -liked it and he plucked up courage to go on with it. She laughed at -his cuts at women and admitted that he had thrust home at more than -one of her own foibles. He had written part of a chapter on the -_Theater as Education._ She could make nothing of that. The theater to -her was a place in which you played "parts," sometimes good and -sometimes bad, and you were always waiting for the supreme, -all-conquering "part" to turn up. She did what she was asked to do to -the very best of her ability; that was her work and she did not look -beyond it. The flattering side of London, its pleasures, fashions and -functions had fallen into the background and she gave it just the -attention which her interest seemed to demand. It never struck her as -strange that she should be given no more of a play than her own part -to read, and if she had been given the play would probably not have -read it. She learned her part, movements and gestures, cues during -rehearsal, and never watched any scene in which she did not appear. - -By her part in the "intellectual" play she was mystified. None of her -Copas or Butcher tricks were in the least suited to it. She had an -enormous part to learn: all talk, gibes at marriage, and honor, and -wealth, and domesticity, all the fetishes of the theater in which she -was beginning to find her footing. The manager of the theater was his -own producer; he had chosen her because she looked the part, "the -rising temperament," he called it, and he added to her bewilderment -with the invention of elaborate detail to break the flood of talk, -and, in the absence of action, to bind the play together. Everyone in -that theater spoke of the play with awe, so she concealed her -perplexity and brought it to Old Mole. - -"There are no scenes in it," she said. "No cues. Nothing you can take -hold of. I say my lines: the other people in the play don't seem to -take any notice of them, but just go on talking. I suppose it's very -clever, but it isn't acting. I don't believe even my uncle could do -anything with it." - -He recommended her to read the play, and she procured a copy from the -author. When she had read it she said: - -"I know why nothing happens in it. There isn't a soul in it who cares -about anybody else. It's all teasing. They can't do anything else -because they don't care. And they have nothing really to talk about, -so I suppose that's why they discuss the Poor Law Commission, and the -Cat and Mouse Bill, and the Social Evil and all sorts of things I -never heard of." - -Old Mole read it, and found it clever, amusing, but sterilizing and -exhausting, and, in its essence, he could not find that it was very -different from "Lossie Loses" or the contrivances of the Butcher -repertory. It was just as unimaginative. It had come into existence, -not from any spiritual need, but entirely to rebut Butcherdom. -Butcherdom shadowed it. The author in writing his play seemed first of -all to have thought what would happen in a Butcher entertainment in -order to decide on something different. He had not moved from Butcher -back to life, but had run from Butcher down a blind alley. And the -result was an almost brilliant hotchpotch with a strong savor of -hatred and contempt and the tartness of isolation. Contempt for -Butcher might be its strongest motive, but alone it could not account -for it. Old Mole sought loyally for the best, but could find nothing -nobler than the desire for admiration. The author was not scrupulous, -nor was he ingenious; his bait for reputation was the ancient and -almost infallible trick of measuring his cleverness by the stupidity -of others. - -It lacked theatrical effectiveness and therefore it was impossible to -get its meaning or even a drift of it into Matilda's head. She learned -her lines like a parrot, delivered them like a parrot--(thoroughly to -the satisfaction of the producer)--looked charming in her expensive -gowns and attracted the notice of the critics. The author told an -interviewer that his play was a masterpiece of its kind, and that -Matilda was one of the most remarkable actresses on the English stage. -The piece ran for its eight matinées and was then heard of no more, -but to Old Mole it had much value. It set him wondering. The stage had -nothing to show but the false emotions of Butcherdom and the absence -of emotion of the "intellectuals." The theater must express the life -of the country or it could not continue to exist, as it indubitably -did. There was always a new playhouse being built. Money was poured -into the theater through the stagedoor and through the box-office, but -its best efforts were shown in childish fancy. It was at its -healthiest and least odiously pretentious in the presentation of -melodrama, with its rigid and almost idiotic right and wrong, its -stupid caricature of the workings of the human heart. If it had a -tradition, melodrama was its only representative. The plays of -Shakespeare were melodrama in the hands of a man of genius. Without -genius the national drama was heavy and lumpish, stolidly clinging to -unquestioned and untested values, looking for no higher rewards in -life than riches and public esteem. - -It was astonishing to Old Mole that he could be so deeply interested -in these things. He had expected to be absorbed in his sorrow and the -problem of handling it. Then he found that he was testing the two -theaters, the Butcherish and the "intellectual," by the passion that -had flamed into his heart through his love for Matilda at the moment -when it had been outraged. In neither was there a spark to respond to -his fire. The Butcher theater was a corpse; the intellectual theater -that same corpse turned in its grave. And it amused him to imagine how -his case would be handled in them; in the one it would be measured by -rule of thumb--the eternal triangle, halo'd husband, weeping wife, -discomfited lover, or, if violent effects were sought for, the woman -damned to an unending fall, the two men stormily thanking their vain -and shallow God they were rid of her; in the other it would be talked -out of court, husband and wife would never rise above a snarl, and -lover would go on talking; in both men and women would be cut and -trimmed to fit in with a formula. In the one the equation would be -worked out pat; in the other it would go sprawling on and on like the -algebraic muddle of a flurried candidate in an examination who has -omitted a symbol and gone on in desperate hope of a result. - -Old Mole had discarded formulæ. He was dealing with a thing that had -happened. Judgment of it, he said, was futile. The issue of it -depended not on himself alone. As its consequences unfolded themselves -he must apply the test of passion, grasp and, so far as possible, -understand, and let passion burn its way to an outlet. - -Familiarity with this mystery, straining on from day to day, soon made -it possible for him to accept the surface happenings of life without -resentment. - - - -For her part in the musical comedy Matilda took singing and dancing -lessons, so that she was out all day and every day. She was to receive -a salary twice as large as any she had yet earned, and would be -financially independent even though she indulged her extravagance, -than which nothing was less probable. In all the working side of her -life he took a very comfortable pride. If she was not altogether his -creation, at least he had helped her to shape herself, and it was a -delight to see her character taking firm lines. And, as he watched -her, he thought of the current sentimental prating of motherhood and -its joys and its concomitant pity of men debarred from them, the -absurdity of the segregation of the sexes: as if love were not in its -essence creative; as if it had not begun to create before it reached -consciousness; as if men could only take the love of woman, as in a -pitcher, to spill it on the ground; as if love were not always beyond -giving and taking, reaching out and out to create, lifting half-formed -creatures into Being. . . . By the side of the other two theaters the -musical comedy stage seemed almost to shine in candor, and he was glad -that Matilda--the Matilda of his creation--should pass into it to -charm the chuckle-heads out of their dullness. - -She passed into it gleefully and he was able to separate her from that -other Matilda in whom there was a passion at grips with his. He was -certain now that it was passion and no vagary, for, day by day, under -her working efficiency, she gained in force, and warmth and stature. - -For five weeks Panoukian had made no appearance in Gray's Inn. Then -one day he came with a fat Newfoundland puppy, a present for Matilda. -She was out. Old Mole received him. - -"Hullo!" - -"How do! sir." - -They stood looking at each other, Old Mole holding the door back, -Panoukian hesitating on the threshold with the puppy in his arms. - -Old Mole thought: - -"I will speak to him. I will tell him what I think of him. I will make -him feel what he is." - -He said: - -"Come in." - -"Are you alone?" asked Panoukian. - -"Yes. Come in." - -They entered Old Mole's study, Panoukian first. - -"She said she wanted a dog, so I brought her this." - -Panoukian put the puppy on the floor, walked over to the cigarette box -and helped himself. - -Old Mole opened his mouth to speak, but it was dry and he could make -no sound. He ran his tongue over his lips. At last he shot out: - -"Panoukian!" - -Panoukian was pulling the puppy from under the bookcase. He turned and -faced Old Mole with his schoolboy expression of wondering what now -might be his guilt. He looked so young that none of the words with -which Old Mole was preparing to crush him--scoundrel, traitor, -villain, blackguard--was anything but inept. He was just engagingly, -refreshingly young; younger than he had ever been, even as a boy. The -discontent, the hardness and strain of revolt had faded from his eyes; -they were clear and bright. He was as fresh as the morning. Plainly he -had no thought beyond the puppy and the pleasure he had hoped to bring -with it, and was startled by the harshness of the pedagogic note in -Old Mole's exclamation, startled into shyness. - -Old Mole's determination crumbled away: his laudable resolve was -whisked away from him. He excused himself with this: - -"I have no right to speak to him before I have come to an -understanding with her." - -There was embarrassment between them, the awkwardness of master and -pupil. To bridge it he said: - -"It is a long time since you have been to see us." - -Directly he had said it he knew that he had contributed to their -deception, but while he was seeking a means of withdrawal Panoukian -pounced on his opportunity and dragged their three-cornered -relationship back to the old footing: and Old Mole could not -altogether disguise his relief. - -"Yes," he said. "I've been so busy. Old Harbottle is running a private -ball, and there's been a tremendous lot of work up and down the -country." - -"Up and down the country," repeated Old Mole. - -"Yes. Harbottle's beginning to listen to what I say. I've been giving -him some telling questions lately, and he's already cornered the Front -Bench twice. . . . The old idiot is beginning to discover the uses of -impersonal unpopularity as an instrument of success. He would never -have taken the plunge by himself, and he's very grateful to me." - -"So you are beginning to do something?" - -"You can't do much in politics. I used to think you could. You can't -do first-rate things, but I'm beginning to realize that it's a -second-rate job." He grinned. "The odd thing is that, since I realized -that, I'm getting quite to like old Harbottle. He's second-rate. He -doesn't know it, of course, because he hasn't the least notion of what -a first-rate man is like. He is perfectly cast-iron second-rate. Most -surprising of all is that I am beginning to see that every man has the -right to be himself--subject, of course, to every other man's right to -kick him for it." - -"Eh?" - -Old Mole was startled. Tolerance was the last thing he expected from -Panoukian; it was entirely out of keeping with his boyishness. He -waited for more, but nothing came; and this was the most astonishing -of all, for there Panoukian sat, boyish, glistening with youth, -enunciating a maxim of tolerance, and actually relishing silence. -Panoukian, having nothing more to say, was content to say nothing! -. . . It was too bad. Almost it seemed that he had gone through all -his misery for nothing. He had striven to master his situation only at -every turn to be met with the triumph of the unexpected. He had -decided to start by seeing the affair from Matilda's point of view and -Panoukian's, and now, ludicrously, maddeningly, they had both changed, -and both, apparently, were being intent on showing an amicable front -to him. They were--and he writhed at the thought--they were trying to -spare his feelings. - -An admirable maxim that! Panoukian, of course, had every right to be -Panoukian; _ergo,_ if needs must, to change into another Panoukian. -The young man's placid, contented, comfortably absorbed silence was -exasperating. - -"Panoukian!" said Old Mole. - -Panoukian groped out of his silence. - -"Yes, sir." - -(Ludicrously boylike he looked, all wide-eyed, deliberate innocence.) - -"There is a passage in Montaigne which, I think, excellently -illustrates the observation you made some time ago. It is over there -at the end of the bookcase." - -Panoukian rose and strolled over to the shelf indicated, his back -toward Old Mole, who sprang to his feet, strode, breathing heavily, -glared fixedly at the round apex of the angle of Panoukian and lunged -out in a lusty kick. The young man pitched forward, righted himself, -and swung round, with his hand soothing the coat-tail-covered portion -of his body. - -"Why the Hell did you do that?" he grunted. - -"To illustrate your maxim," said Old Mole, "and also to relieve my -feelings." - -"If you weren't who you are and what you are," retorted Panoukian -sharply, "I should knock you down." - -To that Old Mole could not find the apt reply, and once again, -ruefully, he was forced to see that he had been betrayed into an -absurdity. In that moment he hated Panoukian more than anyone he had -ever known. He had been whirled by the unexpectedness of Panoukian -into throwing away his one flawless weapon, his dignity, and without -it he was powerless. Without it he could not even draw on the -prescribed attitudes and remedies for gentlemen in his position. All -the same he was thoroughly pleased to have caused Panoukian pain, and -hoped he would be forced to take his meals from the mantelpiece for a -day or two. - -They stood glaring at each other, both wondering what would happen -next. Panoukian retired gracefully from the conflict by stooping to -pick up the puppy. Old Mole snorted, grabbed his hat, and stumped away -and out of the chamber. - - - -The callousness of Panoukian! The effrontery! That he should dare to -show his face, and such an unabashed, innocent face! Where was that -conscience which makes cowards of us all? . . . At any rate, thought -Old Mole, after being kicked Panoukian would not venture to appear -again. But was that so sure? Was it so certain that his unpremeditated -act of violence would jolt Panoukian's conscience into activity? -Having swallowed the indignity of his position, would he not the more -easily be able to digest affront and insult and humiliation? How if -the kick had not settled the affair Panoukian? - -From his own uneasiness and almost shame Old Mole knew that it had -not, that possibly it might have only the effect of crystallizing the -change of relation between himself and Panoukian, of obliterating the -tie of affection, of equalizing matters, of slackening the rein on -Panoukian, of releasing him from every other claim upon his affection, -except the violent outpouring of love which had swept him into -disregard for convention, and honor, and the cause of morality. If -there be degradation in violence, it affects the kicker as well as the -kicked. Old Mole found himself very near understanding Panoukian. -Clearly he had come to the chambers on an impulse. Matilda had desired -a dog, he had seen the very dog, and come racing with it. Encountering -Old Mole for the first time since the eruption in their affairs, he -had carried the scene through with an admirable candor. There was no -shiftiness in him, nor slyness: that would have been horrible, the -sure indication of a beastly intrigue. No: either Panoukian was so -possessed by his emotions, by the joy of what was probably his first -full affair of the heart, that he could give no thought either to his -own position or Matilda's or her husband's; either that or he was so -intent on his passion, so absorbed by it, as to be lifted beyond -scruples or thought of impediment, and was tearing away like a bolting -horse, regardless of the cart behind or the cart's occupants. In -either case Old Mole felt that he had something definite to deal with, -genuine feeling and no farded copy of it. And he felt sorry for the -kick and wished he could withdraw it. - -The very next day Panoukian came to dinner at half-past six. Matilda -brought him. They had met by chance in the Strand, and she had -persuaded him to come back with her. - -The meal was to all appearances like hundreds of others they three had -had together. Old Mole sat at the head of the table, with Matilda on -one side of him, Panoukian on the other, and he watched them. They did -not watch him. They grinned at each other like happy children, and -made absurd jokes and teased, and their most ordinary remarks seemed -to have a secret and profound meaning for them. Sometimes they -explained their references to Old Mole, and then it was always -"We"--Panoukian said: "We," Matilda: "Arthur and I" . . . and beneath -all their talk there seemed to be a game, but a game in all -seriousness, of fitting their personalities together. Every now and -then, when they were filled with a bubbling consciousness of their -wealth, they would throw a scrap to Old Mole out of sheer lavishness -and babyish generosity. But other thought for or of him they had -obviously none. They were not embarrassed by his presence, nor, to his -amazement, was he by theirs. Only he was distressed, when they threw -him a scrap of their happiness, to find that he knew not what to do -with it, and could only put it away for analysis. - -"I analyze and analyze," he thought, "and there are they with the true -gold in their hands, hardly knowing it for precious metal." - -Oh, yes! They were in love, and they had no right to be in love, and -it was his duty to put an end to it. - -But how? - -He could only say: "This woman is my wife. I forbid her to explore any -region of life which I cannot enter. She has no entity apart from me; -her personality can find no food except what I am able or choose to -provide for her." - -That was impossible, for it was not true. - -More humanly he might say: - -"I can understand that you love each other. But I cannot condone the -selfishness it has led you to, or the secrecy. . . ." - -There he stopped. There was no secrecy. They were disguising nothing. -They did not tell him because their intimacy was, as yet, so -preciously private an affair that it could not bear talking of; and he -bowed to that and respected their reticence. - -Matilda went to tidy her hair and he was left alone with Panoukian. -They could find nothing to say to each other. The minds of both were -full of the woman. Without her they fell apart, each into his separate -world. And Old Mole knew that the issue of the adventure lay with her, -and he knew that Panoukian looked for no issue and was living blindly -in the present. He felt sorry for Panoukian. - -The evening papers were thrust through the door. Panoukian fetched -them and gave them to his host. The largest event of the day was the -grave illness of Sir Robert Wherry. - -"Dear, dear," said Old Mole. - -"I shouldn't have thought he was human enough to be ill," said -Panoukian. - -"It is ptomaine poisoning, set up by a surfeit of oysters." - -"There'll be a terrific funeral. He was the greatest of Harbottlers. -He loved the public and his love was requited." - -And Old Mole thought of that other Harbottler who had so loved the -public that he had trampled his wife in the mud to retain its esteem. - -Matilda returned: - -"Who's coming to the theater with me?" she said, and her eyes lighted -on Panoukian and she gave him a smile more profound, more subtle, more -tenderly humorous than any she had ever bestowed on Old Mole. Both men -rose. Old Mole reached the door first. With graceful generosity -Panoukian bowed, yielded his claim, kissed Matilda's hand, and took -them to the door. Old Mole went first. Halfway down the stairs Matilda -turned: - -"Oh! Arthur," she said, "the puppy's a perfect darling." - - - -As coarse men take to drink, or philandering, or tobacco, to relieve -the strain of existence, so Old Mole took to work. His "Out of Bounds" -(Liebermann, pp. 453, 7_s._ 6_d._ net) is a long book, but it was -written, revised, corrected in proof and published within six months. -It was boomed, and lay, unread, on every one's drawing-room table. He -received letters about it from many interesting personages, and from -his sickbed Robert Wherry gave it his pontifical blessing. The -Secretary of State for Education asked Old Mole to dinner, and -declared sympathy with the criticism of the prevailing system, but -shook his head dubiously over the probability of his department taking -any intelligent interest in it. - -"I quite agree," he said, "that you ought to get at children through -their imaginations, but imagination isn't exactly a conspicuous -quality of government departments." - -"Then I don't see how you can govern," said Old Mole. - -"We don't," said the Secretary of State. "We take orders, like -everybody else, but we are in a position to pretend that we are giving -them. A government department is a great wheel going round very, very -slowly, shedding regulations upon the place beneath. Every now and -then, when none of the permanent officials is looking, an intelligent -man can slip a real provision into the feeder and trust to luck for -its finding the right need and the right place. . . . But it is not -often we have the advantage of such thoroughly informed criticism, Mr. -Beenham. The country is lamentably little interested in education, -considering how much it has suffered from it." - -"I have suffered from it." - - - -He was amused by his celebrity. Every little group had a cast for him, -but none of their bait attracted him in the least. He preferred to -swim in his own waters, leisurely, painfully in the wake of Panoukian -and Matilda. They at least knew where they were going, were possessed -by an immediate object. Where all the politicians and scribes were -looking away from their own lives toward a reorganized society based -on a change in humanity, a change not in degree but in kind, Panoukian -and Matilda were changing, growing, responding to natural necessity. -They were loving, loving themselves, loving life, their bodies, their -minds, everything that body and mind could apprehend. - -"There is no social problem," said Old Mole, "there is only the moral -problem, and that is settled by the act of living, or left in a -greater tangle by the refusal to live." - - - -One night as he returned home from a dinner at a literary and artistic -club he stood at the head of the little stairs looking down into the -darkness. He was filled with regret for the past that had contained so -much pleasantness and appalled by the vision of the future stretching -on without Matilda, for it would be without her though she stayed -under his roof. Between the theater and the other she gave so much -that she had very little left for him--so little: gentleness and -kindness and consideration, things which it were almost kinder not to -give. It were best, he thought, that she should go and make her own -life, with or without the other. She had her career, her work: friends -she would always make, acquaintances she could always have in -abundance. . . . And yet she stayed. He had felt dependent on her for -the solution, for the proof, as it were, that the three angles of a -triangle are equal to two right angles. But she stayed. There must -then be something that she treasured in her life with him. . . . And -he was curious to know what it might be. Almost before he was aware of -it he was down the little stairs and at her door, listening, and he -was chilled with pity. She was weeping, and smothering the sound of -it. - -"Poor child!" he thought. - -And he tapped lightly at her door. No sound. Again he tapped. She came -then. - -"I heard you," he said. "It was more than I could bear." - -She led him into her room and made him sit on her bed as she slithered -into it again. She would not have the light turned on. - -"I couldn't bear you to be unhappy. You have been so happy." - -"Yes," she said. - -"Do you want to go?" he asked. - -"I'm afraid." - -At first he thought she meant she was afraid of the tongues of the -many, but that fear could be no more than superficial. Hers was deep. -It seemed to shake her as an angry wind a tree. - -"Well, well," he said. - -She reached out in the darkness for his hand. In silence she pressed -his hand, and then: - -"You never know," she said. - -It was all she could tell him, that she was suffering. He said: - -"There is nothing to fear," and in silence he pressed her hand. - -"You _have_ been good to me." - -There was a knell in the words. They were the epitaph of their life -together. - -"I think," he said, "that, if we were so foolish as to tot up the -gains on either side, mine would be the greater." - -Again she pressed his hand. - -"I'm not a bit like Josephine really, am I?" - -"My dear child." He was very near tears. "My dear child, not a bit." - -So he left her. - -What was she afraid of? His judgment of her? That had come up as a -dark rain-heavy cloud. But it had passed without shedding its waters. -Now, yielding to the tenderness and pity she had just roused in him, -he was led to an inly knowledge of her. She was afraid of her love, -afraid of her own devouring absorption in it. (Something of the kind -he had known himself, in early days with her.) So she clung to -material things, to the existence they had together builded, to his -own proven kindness, and, as she clung, only the fiercer burned the -flame within her, flickering destruction to everything she cherished. -Sooner or later she must yield. He saw that, but also he knew that to -precipitate the severance might be forever to condemn her to her -dread, so that she would be withered with it. But if, of her own -despair, or fierce ecstasy, or sudden illumination of the inmost -friendliness of what she feared, came surrender, then would she win -through to the ways of brightness, and be mistress of her own life and -love. He had passed his own alternative, an easy choice; he could see -on to hers, a more grinding test. He shuddered for her, and, knowing -its peril, made no move to help. - - - -Often he would absent himself from the chambers for days together. The -atmosphere was too explosive, the strain too great. She would see him -to the door and kiss his cheek, and her eyes would say: - -"Perhaps I shall be gone when you come back. You understand?" - -And he would turn his eyes away because they said too much. - -But she did not go. - - - -For many weeks she did not see her lover. Old Mole knew that because -she was home earlier from the theater and was rarely out in the -afternoon, and spent much time in writing--she who could never write -without an effort--letters, the charred fragments of which he found in -the hearth. Then she was restless and frantically busy: - -Ruefully he would think: - -"Idiots! They are trying to give it up for me." - -What if they did give it up? He began excitedly to persuade himself -that they would redeem their fault, find nobility in self-sacrifice. -But that would not do. He was too wary a guardian of his egoism. That -would not do. They had nothing to gain from it. They could give him -back nothing. They had taken nothing from him. What she had been to -her lover was something which she had never been, never could be, to -him. . . . That was how he now phrased it to himself. His love had -fashioned her, shaped her, made her lovely: it had needed another love -to breathe life into her. And, warming into life, she was afraid of -life. - -He saw Panoukian in the street. Lean the young man was, and drawn, and -pale, prowling: a figure of thin hunger, famished and desperate. He -saw Old Mole and swerved to avoid him, but he was not quick enough, -and his arm was squeezed with a timid friendliness. He gave a nervous -start, butted forward with his head and snarled: - -"Go to Hell!" - -And he broke away and wriggled like an eel into the crowd. - -"God help us!" said Old Mole, "for we are making pitiable fools of -ourselves. The vulgar snap and quarrel would be better than this. -. . . No, it would not." - - - -It was painfully amusing to him to see Matilda's face in the -picture-postcard shops. The photographers had touched her up into a -toothy popular beauty, blank, expressionless, fatuous. It was the -woman's face with the woman painted out: just a mask, signifying -nothing, never a thought, never a feeling, never a desire, and not a -spark of will. To thousands of young men it would serve as an ideal of -womanhood, and they would slop their calfish emotions over it; they -would go to see her in the theater, covet her with mealy -lasciviousness. What a filthy business was the theater! He wished to -God he had never let her enter it, and told himself things would have -been very different then. But would they? What had he given her to -hold her? What ultimately had he given her? Tenderness and little -kindnesses, indulgence and fondling: but those were only so many -trinkets, little flowers plucked in the hedgerows and passed to the -fair companion. But finally, finally, what had he given her? And -bitterly he said: - -"Instruction. . . . A damned ugly word." - -She had been his pupil, he her master. At every step he had instructed -her, not tritely as a Mr. Barlow, but he had been Barlowish, and that -was bad. He had never admitted her to equality. How could he? He had -never admitted himself to equality with his inmost self. He had -always, as it were, instructed himself, set out upon the crowded way -of life with mnemonic precepts, and gathered more and more of them, so -that he had never, after childhood, drawn upon his innate knowledge, -that was more than knowledge. Without its use his life had, for -convenience, been split up into parts more and more, with passing -years, at variance with each other. And when the time came to give his -life he was no longer master of it. He could lend this and that and -the other part; lend, in usury, for only a life can be given. . . . He -had brought her to suffering: the much he had given her, the -pleasantness and ease, making her only the more intimately feel her -need of the more he might have given. He had brought her to suffering -and through her suffering he was beginning to learn. - -When he thought of her suffering he was tempted to say to her--perhaps -not in words--"You will not go. I will. I will leave you free." But -that would be to lay her under another obligation, and once more to -instruct. The thing was beyond good and evil now: they three were -passing through the inmost fire of life. Absurdly he thought of the -three Hebrews of the Bible and of an old rhyme his nurse had been used -to gabble at him and Robert when they were little boys: - - - _Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego, - Shake the bed, - Make the bed, - And into bed you go._ - - -For a moment or two, like a proper Englishman, he sighed for the happy -state of childhood. Then he shook that off. - -"Bah!" he said. "We sacrifice the whole of our lives to the ideas -implanted in us during the first foolish years of them." - - - -Sir Robert Wherry lay adying. He had never been able to resist an -obituary. Never an illustrious man died but Wherry rushed into print, -preferably in the _Times_ newspaper, with reminiscence and -lamentation. So, as he lay adying, he composed many obituaries of -himself. There were reporters at his door waiting upon his utterances. -They came as regularly as the bulletins. As each might be his last, it -was carefully framed to rival Goethe's or Nelson's or the Earl of -Chatham's final words. Three of them began: "We men of England . . ." -one "My mother said . . ." two with the word "Love . . ." and once, -remembering William Blake, he raised his head and prated of angels. -Last, with the true inspiration of death, faithful to himself and the -work of his life, he turned and smiled at his nurse and his wife and -daughter and said: "Give my love to my public." So he died, and there -were tears in thousands of British homes that night. - -His death crowded every other topic to the back pages of the -newspapers. There were columns of anecdotes and every day brought a -fresh flood of tributes from divines, lecturers, novelists, -dramatists, publicists of all kinds. One newspaper sent this -reply-paid telegram to Old Mole: - - - _Please send thirty-six words on Wherry._ - - -Having no other use for the printed form, Old Mole filled it in thus: - - - _He sold sugar.--Beenham._ - - -His tribute was not printed. - -There arose a mighty quarrel as to whether or no Wherry should be -buried in Westminster Abbey. The Poets' Corner was crowded. Only an -indubitable immortal should have the privilege of resting his bones -there. The voices of the nation stormed in argument. Were the works of -Wherry literature? Men of acknowledged greatness had found -(comparatively) obscure graves. Was there not a risk? . . . There was -no risk, said the other side. The heart of the nation had been moved -by Wherry, the life of the Empire had been made sweeter because Wherry -had lived and written. - -Lady Wherry was consulted. A picture of her appeared, with a -black-edged handkerchief in front of her face, in the illustrated -morning papers. And under it was printed her historic reply: - -"Bury him by all means----" - -Emotion cut short her words. - -The argument was finally taken for decision to high places. Those in -them had read the works of Wherry and, like the smallest servant in a -suburban garret, had been moved to tears by them. - -It was arranged. The Dean and Chapter bowed to the decision. - -There was to be a procession. All the celebrities were invited, and, -as one of them, Old Mole was included. None was omitted. Never a man -who had so much as thrust his nose into the limelight was left out. - -In the music-halls it was announced on the kinematograph screens that -special films would be presented of the funeral of Sir Robert Wherry, -and the audiences applauded. - -Old Mole was in the forty-fifth carriage, with Sir Henry Butcher and -the actress who had created "Lossie," now an actress-manageress. There -were kinematograph operators at every street corner, and Tipton Mudde, -the aviator, had received a special dispensation from the Home -Secretary allowing him to fly to and fro above the procession and to -drop black rosettes into the streets. - -It was a wet day. - -In the Abbey Old Mole was placed in the north transept, and he sat -gazing up into the high, mysterious roof where the music of the great -organ rolled and muttered. Chopin's Dead March was played and Sir -Henry Butcher muttered: - -"There comes the bloody heart-tear." - -An anthem was sung. Wherry's (and Gladstone's) favorite hymn, "O God, -our help in ages past." Apparently there was some delay, for another -hymn was sung before the pallbearers and the private mourners came -creeping up the nave. - -There was silence. The Psalms were sung. - -Old Mole heard a reedy, pleasant voice: - -". . . For this corruptible must put on incorruption and this mortal -shall put on immortality: then shall be brought to pass the saying -that is written: Death is swallowed up in victory. O death, where is -thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory? . . ." - -Behind him he heard a droning voice: - -". . . A solemn and impressive ceremony. There'll be sermons preached -on it on Sunday. We have offered a prize for the best sermon in my -paper, 'People and Books.' It was in 'People and Books' that Robert -Wherry was first discovered to be a great man. We printed his first -serial. I never thought he would reach the heights he did. . . ." - -The reedy voice was raised in a toasty fullness: - -"Man that is born of woman hath but a short time to live and is full -of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down, as a flower: he fleeth as it -were a shadow and never continueth in one stay." - -Through the words came the droning voice: - -"He was slow in the beginning. He had doubts and was fool enough to -want to plague the public with them. The public wants certainties. It -wants winners. I told him that he might have doubts, but they were his -own private affair and that it was foolish to commit them to writing. -I had ado to make him heed me, but he did heed me, and he got so that -he couldn't fail. It wasn't in him to fail. He could think just the -exact nothing that the public thinks a month or two before they begin -to think it themselves. He was fine for religion and home life and -young love and all that, but you had to keep him off any serious -subject. He knew that, after a time. He knew himself very well, and he -would take infinite trouble. He had no real sense of humor, but he -learned how to make jokes,--little, sly jokes they were, shy things as -though they were never sure of being quite funny enough. It took him -years to do it, but he could do it. There've been a million and a half -of his books sold. We'll sell fifty thousand this week. . . . Man! I -tell ye, I've had a hard fight for it. I've had thirty press agents up -and down the country, working day and night, sending in stuff from the -moment he was ill. I was with him when he ate the oysters. I had sick -moments when I thought the newspapers weren't going to take it up. I -put the proposition to the kinematograph people and their interest -carried it through. It was a near thing. The Dean hadn't read the -man's works. I had to find some one above the Dean who had. . . . I -helped to make Robert Wherry what he was. I couldn't, in decency, fail -to give my services to his fame and procure him the crowning glory of -. . ." - -Old Mole, straining forward, heard the reedy voice: - -". . . We give Thee hearty thanks for that it hath pleased Thee to -deliver this our brother out of the miseries of this sinful world. -. . ." - -Sick at heart, Old Mole edged into the aisle and crept out into the -air, gratefully drawing in great breaths of it, and thanking the Lord -for His mercy in leaving the sky above London and suffering the winds -to blow through it and the rain to fall upon it. - - - -In his chambers he found a thin brown man, grave and dignified and -dried by the sun. - -"You don't know me, Mr. Beenham?" he said. - -Old Mole scanned him. - -"No. I can't say I do." - -"Cuthbert Jones. You may remember. . . ." - -Carlton Timmis! - -"Sit down, sit down," said Old Mole. "I _am_ glad to see you. I wrote -to you, wired to you at a place called Crown Imperial." - -"A dirty hole." - -"You heard about your play?" - -"Only six weeks ago. In Shanghai. I picked up an old illustrated -paper. There was a portrait of Miss Burn in it. I hear she is a -success. . . . I was told there is a company touring the China coast -with the play." - -"It is still being performed," said Old Mole. "It has been translated -into German, French, Italian, Russian, Hungarian, Dutch, Japanese. -. . ." - -"Not into Chinese, I hope." - -"Why not?" - -"Because I live in China." - -"You haven't come back, then?" - -"To see my father, that is all. As soon as he heard I was thousands of -miles away nothing would satisfy him but I must come and see him. He -is very ill, I believe, and as I grow older I find that I like to -think of him and am, indeed, fond of him. I want to hear him talk -Edinburgh philosophy again." - -"Your play, up to date, has made sixty-four thousand pounds." - -The brown man sat up in his chair and laughed. - -"It has all been carefully invested and will very soon have grown into -seventy thousand. I have had the use of it for two years. I propose -now that we go over to the bank and execute a transfer." - -"No, thank you." - -"No? You must. You must." - -"No, thank you. I have brought home three hundred pounds to support my -father in his old age. I require nothing for myself. I am perfectly -happy. I am a teacher of English in a Chinese government school two -hundred miles from the railway, with no telegraph or telephone. I have -a wife, a Chinese, who is a marvelous housekeeper, a most admirable -mother, as stupid as a cow, and she resolutely refuses to learn -English. I have not been able altogether to shake off my interest in -the theater, but the traveling Children of the Pear-tree Garden give -me greater pleasure than I ever had from any English company in or out -of the West End. They are sincere. They are rascals, but they love -their work. . . ." - -"But the play, and the----" - -". . . Money. . . . If I were you, Mr. Mole, I should drop it over -Waterloo Bridge. I came today to return you your fifty pounds, for -which I can never be sufficiently grateful. I am glad--and sorry--that -you have been repaid so plentifully." - -He could not be prevailed on to take a penny, and presently they -stopped arguing about it, and Timmis instructed Old Mole in the ways -of the Chinese, how they were a wise people who prized leisure above -all things, and so ordered their lives as to preserve the simplicity -of the soul, without which, it is clear, the brain must be overwrought -and dislocated through its vain efforts to do the work of the mind. He -drew such a charming picture of Chinese life that Old Mole, with the -folly of London etched upon his brain, could not but applaud his -decision to return. They talked of many things and wagged their heads -over the strange chances of life, and they parted the richer by each -other's respect and admiration and friendly wishes. - - - -And Old Mole returned to the strain of his existence. Impossible, he -thought, to stay in London. Equally impossible to retain so huge a sum -of money. It would go on swelling like a tumor, and, like a tumor, it -would create a stoppage either in his own life or in someone's else. -Had it not already done so? Had it not played its part in the -tragi-comedy that was not yet come to its climax? Had it not raised -him to an absurd height, blown him out into a caricature of himself, -pulled out his nose, goggled his eyes, given him a hunch back and a -pot belly, forced him into overfeeding, overdrinking, over-talking, -into writing a ridiculous, pontifical, instructive book, choked his -humor and played the very devil with his imagination? He pondered this -question of the money and at last he had an inspiration. He went down -over Blackfriars Bridge and into the slums of Southwark. In a foul -street he called at a house and asked how many people there might be -living in it. He was told twenty-three: four families. In another -there were thirty-one. In another he was asked in by the woman, and -there was a corpse on the bed, and there were three children eating -bread and jam for their dinner on the table only a yard from it, and -the woman was clearly going to have another child. He asked the name -of the landlord of that house, and next day sought him out. He bought -the house: he went on buying until he had the whole row, then the -whole street, then the next street and the next, and the next, until -his money was all gone but ten thousand pounds. Then he gave orders -for all the foul houses to be pulled down and a garden to be made. -. . . He was told that it would be impossible--that he would have to -get permission from the Borough Council, and the County Council, and -Parliament. - -"Can't I do what I like with my own?" he said. - -"It's a question," said the rent collector who had taken him under his -wing, "whether the Council can afford to do without the rates. If you -pull the houses down, sir, you'll only make the overcrowding worse, -because they must live somewhere, sir, and, bless you, they don't mind -it. They're born in it and they die in it. You and I, sir, don't like -the smell, but they don't never notice it." - -But Old Mole stuck to it and the houses were pulled down and a garden -was made, and he said not a word about it to a soul. It was only a -very little garden because, though he had bought many houses, he could -not buy the land on which all of them were built because it was very -dear. - -Almost best of all he liked the destructive part of the undertaking. -Pulling down houses was in his mood and sorted with his circumstances. -From his own house he had set his face. - -He had received a letter from Panoukian: - - -"DEAR SIR,--You have eyes in your head and must have seen what I have -been at no pains to conceal from you. I have lived through weeks of -torture now and would live through many more if there were anything to -be gained. I have been led to write this by the enclosed letter, which -I can show you, I think, without betrayal. _Ich kann nicht mehr._ -. . . This may be a shock to you, no doubt it will cause you much -pain, but I believe you have the humanity to attempt to understand and -to believe me when I say that I was never, in my heart, more your -friend than I am now. I think it is for you to help in so much -suffering." - - -The enclosed letter was from Matilda. Old Mole's eye clouded as he -read it: - - -"My dear, I can't let you go. I can't, I can't. I've tried so hard, I -have. It isn't wrong to love like that. I can think of nothing else. -He's been so kind, too. But I'm spoiling your life. I can love you, my -dear, but I'm not the woman you ought to have. I can love you, my -dear, but I'm not young and sweet like you ought to have. All this -thinking and suffering has made me hard in my heart, I think. There's -such a lot between me and you, my dear. I could fight through it with -you, but that would be so hard on you. It's not as if he was a bad -man, but he's so kind. He always understands, but not like you, my -darling: he only understands with his mind. I've tried not to write to -you and to make it easy for you, but I can't not write to you now. I -must, even if it's for the last time. I love you." - - -It was an untidy, blotched scrawl. Never had Old Mole seen such a long -letter from Matilda. Very carefully he folded it up and placed it in -his pocketbook. - -He went down to her room, and, as he knew he would, found her boxes -packed, her wardrobe, her drawers, empty. The puppy, now a tolerable -dog, was gazing ruefully at her trunks, ominous of departure. - -She came in, was startled to see him, recovered herself, and smiled at -him. - -"Will you come with me?" he said. - -She followed him upstairs. - -"I have something to show you." - -He led her to his room. On the floor were his bags, hatbox, rug, -packed, strapped and labeled. - -"I am going," he said. "The puppy will not mind my going." - - - - -VII - -APPENDIX - -A LETTER FROM H. J. BEENHAM TO A. Z. PANOUKIAN, M.P. - -_"For two years it was the fashion among the English to cut out the -appendix; but the fashion died and appendices are now retained."_ - -OBSERVATIONS AMONG THE ENGLISH, BY C. L. HUNG (BRETZELFRESSER COMPANY, -HONG KONG AND NEW YORK). - - - -VII - -APPENDIX - -CAPRAIA. - -MY DEAR PANOUKIAN, - -So you have become a politician! I had hoped for better things. - -It is ten years now since I left England, so that I can write to you -without the prickly heat of moral prejudice. It is a year since I saw -you in Venice, you and her. She had her arm in yours and you did not -see me. You saw nothing but her, and she saw nothing but you, and it -was clear to me that you were enjoying your tenth honeymoon, which is, -surely, a far greater thing than the first, if only you can get to it. -You came out of St. Mark's, you and she, and I was so close that I -could have touched you. I shrank into the shadow and watched you feed -the pigeons, and then you had tea on the sunlit side of the Piazza and -then you strolled toward the Rialto. I took a gondola to the station -and fled to Verona, for I could have no room in your tenth Eden. -Verona is the very place for a bachelor, which, I there discovered, I -have never ceased to be. Verona belongs to Romeo and Juliet, and no -other lovers may do more than pass the day there, salute and speed on -to Venice. But a bachelor may stay there many days: he will find an -excellent local wine, good cigars built round straws, passable food, -and the swift-flowing Adige wherein to cast his thoughts. This I did, -with a blessing or two to be conveyed to you in Venice. I hope you -received them. The Adige bears thoughts and blessings and sewage with -equal zest to his goal, as I would all men might do. - -I stayed for a month in Verona and I remember little of it but some -delicious plums I bought in the marketplace and ate in the -amphitheater, spitting the stones down into the arena with a dexterity -I have only seen equaled by Matilda in the days of my first -acquaintance with her. That is far back now, but there is not a moment -of it all that I do not like to remember, and there in the -amphitheater I told myself the whole adventure as a story from which I -was detached. It moved me more than the house of Juliet, more than all -the sorrows of the Scaligers, for it is a modern story and, as Molière -said, _"Les anciens sont les anciens et nous sommes les gens -d'aujourd'hui."_ - -_Aujourd'hui!_ To-day! That is the marvel, that out of the swiftly -moving, ever changing vapor which is life we should achieve anything -so positive. To-day never goes. There is a thing called yesterday, but -that is only the dust-bin at the door into which we cast our refuse, -our failures, our worn-out souls. There is a thing called to-morrow, -but that is the storehouse of to-day, bursting with far better things, -emotions, loves, hopes, than those we have discarded. But into to-day -the whole passionate force of the universe is poured, through us, -through all things, and therefore to-day is marvelous. - -Here in Italy there is some worship of to-day. There are times and -times when it is enough to be alive; and there are times when the -light glows magically and the whole body and being of a man melt into -it, thrill in worship, and then, however old he be, however burdened -with Time's tricks of the flesh, in his heart there are songs and -dancing. - -In England we cling to the past, we never know to-day, we never dare -open the storehouse of tomorrow, for we are all trained in the house -of Mother Hubbard. I have loved England dearly since I have lived away -from her. I can begin, I think, to understand. She is weary, maybe; -she has many hours of boredom. She is, alas, a country where grapes -grow under glass, where, I sometimes think, men do not grow at all. -She is a country of adolescents; her sons seem never to be troubled by -the difficulties which beset the adult mind; they rush ahead, careless -of danger because they never see it; their lives hang upon a -precarious luck: they are impelled, not, I believe, as other nations -fancy, by greed or conceit, but by that furious energy which attends -upon the adolescent hatred of being left out of things. A grown man -can tolerably gauge his capacity, but the desires of a youth are -constantly excited by the desires of others; he must acquire lest -others obtain; he must love every maiden and yield to none; he must be -forever donning new habits to persuade himself that he is more a man -than the grown men among whom enviously he moves. He is filled with a -fevered curiosity about himself, but never dares stay to satisfy it, -lest he should miss an opportunity of bidding for the admiration and -praise of others which he would far rather have than their sympathy. -Sympathy he dreads, for it forces him back upon himself, brings him -too near to seeing himself without excitement. . . . So far, my -observations, carefully selected, take me. - -There have been grown men in England, wonderful men, men all strength -and sympathy and love, with powers far surpassing the intelligence of -other races: but mark how the English treat them. They set them on a -pinnacle, give them the admiration they despised, take none of their -sympathy, raise horrible statues to their memory, and, to protect -themselves against their thought, the mighty force of truth in their -souls, breed dwarfish imitations of them, whom they adore and love as -men can only love those of their own moral race. No other country less -deserves to have great men, and no other country has gotten greater. -This astonishing phenomenon has produced that complacency which is the -only check on the fury of England's adolescent energy. Without it, -without the Brummagem dignity in which such complacency takes form, -she would long ago have rushed to her destruction. With it she has a -political solidity to which graver and more intelligent nations can -never aspire. - -But I should not talk politics to a politician. Nothing, I think you -will agree, can reconcile conceptions bred in the House of Commons -with those begot outside it. It has never yet been accomplished, and I -gather, from the few English journals I see, that the attempt to do so -is all but abandoned. - -I am writing to you to-day because I wished to do so in Verona, but -was there too deep in an emotional flux to be able to write anything -but bad poetry or a crude expression of sympathy, which, as it would -have been gratuitous, must have been offensive. To-day, in Livorno -(which our sailors have chewed with their tobacco into Leghorn), I -found among my papers a letter written to you by Matilda nearly twelve -years ago. It belongs to you and I send it. - -Yesterday in Livorno I found a marionette show and that set me -thinking of England and the theater and many other subjects which used -to absorb me during the hectic years of my life when I dwelt in Gray's -Inn. And I wished to communicate with England and could find no one to -whom I am so nearly attached as you. I was engaged to visit Elba, and -was there this morning, but was so distressed with the thought of the -extreme youthfulness of England's treatment of the great Napoleon that -I left my party and crossed over to Capraia, which you will find on -the map, and here, under the hot sun, with a green umbrella over my -bald head, I am writing. I can see Elba. With my mind's eye I can see -England, and, indeed, when soberly I turn the matter over, I conclude -that her treatment of Napoleon has not been nearly so shameful as her -treatment of Shelley or Shakespeare. Shelley wrote one play; it has -never openly been acted. Shakespeare wrote many plays; they have been -Butchered, reduced from the dramatic to the theatrical. - -The marionettes stirred me greatly. The drama they played was -familiar--husband, wife, and lover--the treatment conventional, though -the dialogue had the freshness of improvisation. It was often bald as -my head, and in the more passionate moments almost heartbreakingly -inarticulate. It was a tragedy; the husband slew the lover, the wife -stabbed herself, the husband went mad, and they lay together in a limp -heap, while from the street outside--where, I felt sure, there were -gay puppets carelessly strolling--came the most comic, derisive little -tune played upon a reed. (It must have been a reed, for it was most -certainly puppet and no human music, and, for that, only the more -stirring.) The whole scene is as living to my mind as any experience -of my own, and, indeed, my own adventures in this life have been -illuminated by it. In the English theater I have never seen a -performance that did not thicken and obscure my consciousness. I could -not but contrast the two, and you find me sitting on an island -striving to explain it. - -In the first place the performance of these marionettes compelled my -whole-hearted interest because the play was detached from life, was -not palpably unreal under the artificial light, and therefore could -begin to reflect and be a comment upon life in a degree of success -dependent, of course, upon the mind behind it. It was a common but a -simple mind, skilled in the uses of the tiny theater, versed in its -tradition, and always nice in its perception of the degrees of emotion -proper to be loosed for the building up of the dramatic scenes. It was -not truly an imaginative mind, not a genuinely dramatic mind, but it -was thoroughly loyal to the imagination which has created and -developed the theater of the marionettes. Except that the showman had -a marked preference for the doll who played the husband, the balance -of the play was excellently maintained, and the marionettes did -exactly as they were bid. Thus between the controlling mind of the -theater, the mind in its tradition, and my own there was set up a -continuous and unbroken communication, and my brain was kept most -exaltingly busy drawing on those forces and passions, those powers of -selection and criticism which make of man a reasoning and then a -dramatic animal. You may be sure that I fed the drama on the stage -with that other drama, through which you and I floundered so many -years ago. I longed to cry out to the husband that he should think -less of himself and what the neighbors would say and more of his wife, -who, being between two men, enamored of one and dedicated to the -other, was in a far worse plight than himself, who was torn only -between his affection and his pride. But tradition and convention and -his own brainless subservience to his passion were too strong for him, -and he killed the lover; would have killed the woman, too, but she was -too quick for him. I wept, I assure you. I was sorrowful. Judge, then, -of my relief and delight when the curtain rose again and those same -three puppets, with others, played the merriest burlesque, a -starveling descendant, I fancy, of the _commedia dell' arte._ Where -before they had surrendered to their passions, now my three puppets -played with them at nimble knucklebones. The passion was no less -genuine, but this time they were its masters, not its slaves, they had -it casked and bunged and could draw on it at will. My lady puppet -coquetted with the two gentlemen, set them wrangling for her, -wagering, dicing, singing, dancing, vying with each other in -mischievous tricks upon the town, and at last, owing, I suspect, to -the showman's partiality, she sank into the husband puppet's arms and -the lover puppet was propelled by force of leg through the window. -(Pray, my dear Panoukian, admire the euphemism to spare both our -feelings.) And now I laughed as healthily and heartily as before I -wept. . . . Now, said I to myself, in England I should have been -tormented with a picture, cut up by the insincerity of the actors into -"effective" scenes and episodes, of three eminently respectable -persons shaking themselves to bits with a passion they had never had; -or, for comedy, there would have been the ribaldry of equally -respectable persons twisting themselves into knots in their attempts -to frustrate the discovery of a mis-spent night. Now, thought I, this -brings me near the heart of the mystery. There are few men and women -born without the kernel of passion. There are forty millions of men -and women in the British Isles; what do they do with their passion? -What, indeed--let us be frank--had I done with my own? - -Now do you perceive why I am writing to you? - -First of all, let us agree that boyhood is the least zestful part of a -man's life. His existence is not then truly his own, he is a -spectator; he is absorbed in gazing upon the great world which at a -seemingly remote period he is to enter. Then he is apprenticed, -initiated by the brutal test of a swift growth and physical change; -easily he learns the ways, the manners, the pursuits of men; the -conduct of the material world, the common life, is all arranged; he -has but to slip into it. That is easy. But his own individual life, -that is not so easy. He soon perceives, confusedly and mistily, that -into that he can only enter through his passion, through its -spontaneous and inevitable expression. He knows that; you know it. I -know it. They are a miserable few who do not know it. But in England -he can find none to share his knowledge. He is left alone with his -dread, with so much sick hope thrust back in him, for want of a -generous salute from those who have gone before, that it rots away in -him and eats into his natural faith. He asks for a vision of manhood -and is given a dull imitation of man, strong, silent, brutal, and -indifferent. He must admire it, for on all sides it is admired. As a -child he has been taught to babble of gentle Jesus; as a youth he -finds that same Jesus turned--by the distorting English -atmosphere--into a hard Pharisee, blessing the money changers. His -passion racks his bones and blisters his soul. His inmost self yearns -to get out and away, to spend itself, to find its due share in the -ever-creating love. He dare not so much as whisper his need, for none -but shameful words are given him to express it. "All's well with the -world," he is told. "All's wrong with myself," he begins to think. In -other men, older men, he can find no trace of passion, only temper and -lewdness, with a swagger to both. They bear both easily. His passion -becomes hateful to him; he begins to chafe against it, to spurn it, to -live gaily enough in the common life, to choke the vision of his own -life. So it has been with you, with me, with all of us. - -There are works of art, it is true. Grown men understand them; -adolescents hate them, for works of art reveal always the fulfilment -of passion; they begin to flower at the point to which passion has -raised the soul; they are the record and the landmarks of its -after-journeyings, its own free traveling. To the soul in bondage all -that is but babble and foolish talk, just as, to the adolescent, the -simplicity of the grown man is folly. That a man should believe in -human nature--as he must if he believes in himself--is, in adolescent -eyes, suspect. . . . Have you not heard intelligent Englishmen say -contemptuously of a man that he is an idealist, as who should say -idiot? - -Passion leads to idealism, to belief that there is a wisdom greater -than the wisdom of men, a knowledge of which the knowledge of men is -but a part, a pulse in the universe by which they may set the beat of -their own. - -What do the English do with their passion? They strangle it. - -What did I do with my own? I let it ooze and trickle away. I accepted -my part in the common life, and of my own life preserved only certain -mild delights and dull passive joys, which became milder and duller as -the years went by. I was engaged in educating the young. I shudder to -think of it now. When I think of the effect those years, and that -curriculum, had upon my own mind I turn sick to imagine the harm it -must have done to the young, eager minds--(the dullest child's mind is -eager)--entrusted to my care by their confiding, worthy, and -adolescent parents. It is a horror to me to look back on it, and I -look back as little as may be. - -But to-day, in the security of glorious weather, the impregnable peace -of my island slung between blue sea and sky, I can look back with -amused curiosity, setting my infallible puppets against the blustering -half-men whom I remember to have inhabited those portions of England -that I knew. I do not count myself a freeman, but one who has escaped -from prison and still bears the marks of it in his mind; it is to rid -myself of those marks that I am thus wrapt in criticism, and not to -condemn the lives of those who are left incarcerated. Impossible to -condemn without self-condemnation. No doubt they are making the best -of it. . . . I find that I cannot now think of anything in the world -as separate from myself; the world embraces all things, and so must I; -but to do so comfortably I must first understand everything that is -sufficiently imaged to be within the range of my apprehension. Neither -more nor less can I attempt. If more, then I am plunged in error and -confusion; if less, then am I the captive of my own indolence, and -such for the greater part of my life I have been. - -When I look back on my experience in London I cannot but see that I -never became a part of it, never truly lived in its life. That may -have been only because a quarter of a century spent as an autocrat -among small boys is not perhaps the ideal preparation for living in a -crowd, a herd without a leader, in which there is no rule of manners -but: Be servile when you must, insolent when you can. Possibly the -majority are so bred and trained that such a flurry and scurry seem to -them normal and inevitable. I am sure very many are convinced that -without intrigue and wirepulling they cannot get their bread, or the -position which will ensure a continued supply. There they certainly -are; wriggling and squirming and pushing; they like it; they make no -move to get out of it; their existence is bound up in it and they -fight to preserve it without looking further. They will tell you that -they are assisting "movements," but they are only following fashions. -. . . What movement are you in? - -Matilda, I gather, is a fashion. I never knew her follow anything but -her own desire, and as her desires are human and reasonable she has -risen by the law of gravity above the rout, above the difficulties of -her own nature, above any incongruities that arise between her -individuality and the conventions of the common life of England. And -of course she rises above the work she has to do, the idiotic songs -written for her, the meaningless dances devised to sort with the -pointless tunes. And when she suffers from the emptiness of it all, -she has you, and she has the memory of myself to guard her against the -filthy welter from which she sprang. She used me--(you will let her -read this)--and I am proud to have served her. - -There are many people like Matilda, comedians and entertainers, who -develop a certain strength of personality in their revolt against the -conditions of their breeding. It is impossible to educate them. Their -intentions are too direct. . . . Not all of them succeed, or have the -luck to become the fashion. You are one of them yourself, my dear -Panoukian, and in the days when I was living with you two I used -excitedly to think that there was a whole generation of them; that the -young men and women of England were at last insisting on growing out -of adolescence. Sometimes I felt very sure of it, but I was too -sanguine. Life does not act like that; there are no sudden general -growths. There are violent reactions, but they are soon swallowed up -in the great forward flow. - -"Comedians and entertainers" I said just now. You are all that, all -you public characters. You depend upon the crowd, you are too near -them. You are in dread of falling back, and also you are aware that -the size of a man can only be gauged at a distance, and you have to -contend with the charlatan. A better comedian you may be, but he has -not your scruples, your sensitiveness, and is therefore more dexterous -at drawing the crowd's attention. . . . Again I turn with relief to my -puppets; they have no temptation to insincerity; they obey the -strings, play their parts, and are put back into their boxes. They -need no bread for body or mind. They have no life except the common -life of the stage, no individuality and no torturing need of -fulfilling it. - -But you comedians--writers, actors, politicians, divines--are raised -above the common life by the degree in which you have developed your -individual lives, including your talents, by work, by energy, -sometimes deplorably by luck. The validity of your claims is tested by -your ability to break with the common life, and pass on to creation -and discovery which shall bring back into the common life power to -make it more efficient. - -I must define. By the common life I mean the pooling of energy which -shall provide all members of the community with food, clothing, house -room, transport, the necessaries of existence, and such luxuries as -they require. Its concern is entirely material. Where it governs -moral, ethical, and spiritual affairs it is an injurious infringement, -and cannot but engender hypocrisy. How can you pool religion, or -morality, without degrading compromise? The world has discarded -kingcraft and priestcraft and come to mobcraft. That will have its -day. Mobcraft is and cannot but be theatrical. In a community of human -beings who are neither puppets nor men there is a perpetual shuffling -of values among which to live securely there is in all relations an -unhealthy amount of play-acting;--take any husband and wife, father -and son, mother and daughter, lover and lover, or, Panoukian, -schoolmaster and pupil. Life is then too like the theater for the -theater to claim an independent existence. And that, I think, is why -there is no drama in England. That is why the play-actors have columns -and columns in the newspapers devoted to their doings, their portraits -in shops and thoroughfares, their private histories (where presentable -or in accordance with the public morality of the common life) laid -bare. - -That view of English life so freezes me that I lie back under my -umbrella and thank God for the Italian sun. - - - -Has it always been so in England? I think not. Garrick was a -self-respecting, if a conceited, individual. He believed in his work -and he had some dramatic sense. The theater had no credit then; even -his genius could not raise it to the level of English institutions. -But his genius made him independent, and still the theater was -parasitic upon the Court. Subsequently the English Court, which, never -since Charles II, had taken any genuine interest in it, repudiated the -theater which then had healthily to struggle for its existence. I -fancy that in Copas--(Matilda's uncle)--I found the last genuine -survivor of the race of mummers of which Henry Irving was the last -triumphant example. They strangled the theater with their own -personalities, for only by the strength of their personalities could -they force themselves upon the attention of an England huddled away in -dark houses, grimly, tragically, in secrecy, play-acting. With every -house a playhouse, how can the theater be taken seriously? With so -much engrossing pretence in their homes, men have no need of -professional mummers; with a fully developed Nonconformist conscience, -an Englishman can be his own playwright, mummer, and audience. He -grudges the money paid to professional actors, despises any -contrivance they can show him, spurns the whole affair as a light -thing, wantonness, a dangerous toy that may upset the valuations by -which he arrives at his own theatrical effect. - -There was a time when the Englishman's home was his theater. My own -home was like that: year in, year out there was a tremendous groveling -before God, and a sweaty wrestling with the Devil, and a barometrical -record of prowess in both was kept. Human relations sneaked in when no -one was looking, took the stage when the curtain was down; I was -lucky, and on the whole had a good time in spite of the show, which, I -am bound to say, I thoroughly enjoyed. My father was a very fine man -at the groveling and the wrestling (and knew it), but in his human -relations he was awkward, heavy, and blundering in the very genuine -tenderness which he could not always escape;--and I think he knew -that, too, poor wretch. - -There must be fewer such homes now, but still an enormous number. God -and Devil are not so potent, but the habit of posturing remains, has -been handed down and carried over into human relations--(at least God -and Devil did protect us from that!)--so that there is not one, not -the most intimate and sacred, but is made subtly the occasion of -self-indulgence, easy, complacent, and devastating; the epidemic -disease consequent on the airless years from the Reform Bill to the -South African War--(you will remember the histrionics before, during -and after that tragedy of two nations). The old English -home--theatrical and oleographic--has been destroyed by it, and I -rejoice as I rejoice to hear that the Chinese women are abandoning the -folly of stunting their feet. We used to stunt the soul, the -affections, human passions. Unbind the China woman's feet and she -suffers agonies, so that she cannot walk. Thus it has been with us; we -have suffered mortal agonies; we have been saved from madness by the -inherited theatrical habit, by which we have shuffled through the -human relationships enforced by our natural necessities and the -inconsiderate insistence upon being born of the next generation. We -have shuffled through them, I say, and we have made them charming, but -we have not yet--shall we ever?--made them beautiful. There has been -no true song in our hearts, only songs without words _à la_ -Mendelssohn, nor yet a full music in our blood. We have imitated these -things, from bad models, drawn crude sketches of them. I, for -instance, play-acted myself into marriage; when it came to getting out -of it, play-acting was of no avail, though even for that emergency, as -you know, the English game has its rules. . . . I could not conform to -them, and in that I believe I shared in the general experience of the -race. I was pitchforked out of the old theatricality into the new and -found it ineffective. That must be happening every day, in thousands, -perhaps in millions, of cases. . . . I feel hopeful, and yet unhappy, -too, for my experience came to me too late. I have been able to -discard; but, for the new life--_vita nuova_--I have not wherewith to -grasp, to take into myself, to make my own. Even here on this island, -in this country of light, I do not seem to myself to be fully alive, -but am an outsider, a spectator, even as I was when a small boy, and I -shall go down into this warm earth hardly riper than I was when I was -born, nurtured only by one genuine experience and that negative. But -for that I am thankful. It has made it possible for me to ruminate, if -not to act, to rejoice in the possession of my uncomely and unwieldy -body, to be content with that small fragment of my soul which I have -mastered. - -(It is really delightful to be writing to you again. It brings you -before me, as a boy, a little piping boy; as a posturing and conceited -youth--do you remember the cruel snub inflicted on you by Tallien, the -French master? I had sent you to him with a message, and he said: -"Tell Mr. Beenham I will take no message from his conceited puppy." -You! A prefect!--as a heated and quite too Stendhalian young man. It -is charming.) - -But I am rueful when I reflect that I solved my difficulty, which, -after all, was a portion of the English difficulty, by leaving -England. I should have stayed; fought it out; wrestled through with it -until the three of us were properly and in all eyes established in -that new relation to which inevitably we should have come. I was too -old. I was too much under the habit of thinking of consequences; too -English, too theatrical to believe that life does not deal in neat and -finished endings. I could see nothing before me but the ugly -conventional way of throwing mud at the woman and bringing you to an -unjust and undeserved ruin, or the way most pleasing to my -sentimentality, of withdrawing from the scene and leaving you to make -the best of it; as, no doubt, you have done, since you are both -successful personages and well in the limelight, and able to go -triumphantly from honeymoon to honeymoon. - -Are there children? I hope there are children! - -And there begins my real difficulty. Not that I care about legitimacy. -No reasonable child will ask more than to be conceived in a healthy -body, born in a clean atmosphere, and bred in a decently ordered home. -But if there are children you should not be separated. Perhaps you are -not. Perhaps I have been long enough absent for your world to forget -my existence. But I have my doubts. I too much dread the English -atmosphere not to feel that it must have been too strong for you, and -you will have accepted your parts in the play. - -But, if there are children, there should be no play-acting in their -immediate surroundings, in the love that brought them into being. - -How I wish you could have seen my marionettes! We should then have an -emotional meeting point. As it is, I seem to be dancing round and -round you almost as agilely as though I were with you in England, in -the thick of polite London. That surely is what you need, on your -thickly populated island, a point at which the lower streams of -thought can converge, so that your existence may more resemble a noble -estuary than a swampy delta. - -You will see that I am sane enough to be thinking more of your -(possibly non-existent) children than of you. There are two clear -ideas in my head, and they desire each other in marriage--the idea of -children and the idea of the theater. But, alas! I fear it is beyond -me to bring them together. I cannot reach beyond my marionettes, which -are, after all, only the working models of the theater I should like -to conceive, and, having conceived, to create and set down in England -as a reproach to the clumsy sentimental play-acting of English life. -That would, I believe, more powerfully than any other instrument, -quell the disease. If you had a theater which was a place of art it -would lead you on to life, and you would presently discard the sham -morals, imitation art, false emotions, and tortuous thoughts with -which you now defend yourselves against it. - -I have written much under my umbrella. I hope I have said something. -At least, with this, I shake you by the hand and we three puppets -dance on through the merry burlesque which our modern life will seem -to be to the wiser and healthier generations who shall come after us. - -The old are supposed to be in a position to advise the young. I have -learned through you, and yet I may give you this counsel: "If ever you -find yourself faced with a risk, take it." Love, I conclude, is a -voyager, and it is our privilege to travel with him; but, if we stay -too long in the inn of habit, we lose his company and are undone. - -Yours affectionately, - - H. J. BEENHAM. - - - - -Transcriber's Note - -Images of the source text used in this transcription are available -through the Internet Archive. See: - -archive.org/details/oldmolebeingsurp00cannrich - -The British first edition published by Martin Secker was used to -confirm specific readings (e.g., hyphenation) of the source text. -Images of this edition are also available through the Internet -Archive. See: - -archive.org/details/oldmolebeingsurp00canniala - -The following change was noted: - --- p. 207: or a parasite, or a tyrant;--A closing quotation mark was -inserted between "tyrant" and the semicolon. - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Old Mole, by Gilbert Cannan - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OLD MOLE *** - -***** This file should be named 43423-8.txt or 43423-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/3/4/2/43423/ - -Produced by Paul Haxo from page images generously made -available by the Internet Archive and the University of -California Berkeley Library. - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, -set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to -copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to -protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project -Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you -charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you -do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the -rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose -such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and -research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do -practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is -subject to the trademark license, especially commercial -redistribution. - - - -*** START: FULL LICENSE *** - -THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE -PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK - -To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free -distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work -(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project -Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project -Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at -http://gutenberg.org/license). - - -Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works - -1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to -and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property -(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all -the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy -all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. -If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the -terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or -entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. - -1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be -used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who -agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few -things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works -even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See -paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement -and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic -works. See paragraph 1.E below. - -1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation" -or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the -collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an -individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are -located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from -copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative -works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg -are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project -Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by -freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of -this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with -the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by -keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project -Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. - -1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern -what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in -a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check -the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement -before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or -creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project -Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning -the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United -States. - -1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: - -1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate -access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently -whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the -phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project -Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, -copied or distributed: - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - -1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived -from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is -posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied -and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees -or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work -with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the -work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 -through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the -Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or -1.E.9. - -1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted -with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution -must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional -terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked -to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the -permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. - -1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm -License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this -work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. - -1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this -electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without -prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with -active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project -Gutenberg-tm License. - -1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, -compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any -word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or -distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than -"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version -posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), -you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a -copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon -request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other -form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm -License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. - -1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, -performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works -unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. - -1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing -access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided -that - -- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from - the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method - you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is - owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he - has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the - Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments - must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you - prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax - returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and - sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the - address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to - the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." - -- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies - you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he - does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm - License. You must require such a user to return or - destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium - and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of - Project Gutenberg-tm works. - -- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any - money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the - electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days - of receipt of the work. - -- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free - distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. - -1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set -forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from -both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael -Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the -Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. - -1.F. - -1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable -effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread -public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm -collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic -works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain -"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or -corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual -property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a -computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by -your equipment. - -1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right -of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project -Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all -liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal -fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT -LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE -PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE -TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE -LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR -INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH -DAMAGE. - -1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a -defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can -receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a -written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you -received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with -your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with -the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a -refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity -providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to -receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy -is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further -opportunities to fix the problem. - -1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth -in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER -WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO -WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. - -1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied -warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. -If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the -law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be -interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by -the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any -provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. - -1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the -trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone -providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance -with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, -promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, -harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, -that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do -or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm -work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any -Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. - - -Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm - -Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of -electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers -including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists -because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from -people in all walks of life. - -Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the -assistance they need, are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's -goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will -remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure -and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. -To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation -and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 -and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org. - - -Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive -Foundation - -The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit -501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the -state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal -Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification -number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at -http://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg -Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent -permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. - -The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. -Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered -throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at -809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email -business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact -information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official -page at http://pglaf.org - -For additional contact information: - Dr. Gregory B. Newby - Chief Executive and Director - gbnewby@pglaf.org - - -Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg -Literary Archive Foundation - -Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide -spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of -increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be -freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest -array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations -($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt -status with the IRS. - -The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating -charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United -States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a -considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up -with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations -where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To -SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any -particular state visit http://pglaf.org - -While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we -have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition -against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who -approach us with offers to donate. - -International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make -any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from -outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. - -Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation -methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other -ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. -To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate - - -Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic -works. - -Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm -concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared -with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project -Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. - - -Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed -editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. -unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily -keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. - - -Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: - - http://www.gutenberg.org - -This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. |