I
The two young menвБ†вАФthey were of the English public official classвБ†вАФsat in the perfectly appointed railway carriage. The leather straps to the windows were of virgin newness; the mirrors beneath the new luggage racks immaculate as if they had reflected very little; the bulging upholstery in its luxuriant, regulated curves was scarlet and yellow in an intricate, minute dragon pattern, the design of a geometrician in Cologne. The compartment smelt faintly, hygienically of admirable varnishвБ†вАФthe train ran as smoothlyвБ†вАФTietjens remembered thinkingвБ†вАФas British gilt-edged securities. It travelled fast; yet had it swayed or jolted over the rail joints, except at the curve before Tonbridge or over the points at Ashford where these eccentricities are expected and allowed for, Macmaster, Tietjens felt certain, would have written to the company. Perhaps he would even have written to the Times.
Their class administered the world, not merely the newly-created Imperial Department of Statistics under Sir Reginald Ingleby. If they saw policemen misbehave, railway porters lack civility, an insufficiency of street lamps, defects in public services or in foreign countries, they saw to it, either with nonchalant Balliol voices, or with letters to the Times, asking in regretful indignation: вАЬHas the British This or That come to this!вАЭ Or they wrote, in the serious reviews of which so many still survived, articles taking under their care, manners, the Arts, diplomacy, inter-Imperial trade or the personal reputations of deceased statesmen and men of letters.
Macmaster, that is to say, would do all that: of himself Tietjens was not so certain. There sat Macmaster; smallish; Whig; with a trimmed, pointed black beard, such as a smallish man might wear to enhance his already germinated distinction; black hair of a stubborn fibre, drilled down with hard metal brushes; a sharp nose; strong, level teeth; a white, butterfly collar of the smoothness of porcelain; a tie confined by a gold ring, steel-blue speckled with blackвБ†вАФto match his eyes, as Tietjens knew.
Tietjens, on the other hand, could not remember what coloured tie he had on. He had taken a cab from the office to their rooms, had got himself into a loose, tailored coat and trousers, and a soft shirt, had packed, quickly, but still methodically, a great number of things in an immense two-handled kit-bag, which you could throw into a guardвАЩs van if need be. He disliked letting that вАЬmanвАЭ touch his things; he had disliked letting his wifeвАЩs maid pack for him. He even disliked letting porters carry his kit-bag. He was a ToryвБ†вАФand as he disliked changing his clothes, there he sat, on the journey, already in large, brown, hugely-welted and nailed golf boots, leaning forward on the edge of the cushion, his legs apart, on each knee an immense white handвБ†вАФand thinking vaguely.
Macmaster, on the other hand, was leaning back, reading some small, unbound printed sheets, rather stiff, frowning a little. Tietjens knew that this was, for Macmaster, an impressive moment. He was correcting the proofs of his first book.
To this affair, as Tietjens knew, there attached themselves many fine shades. If, for instance, you had asked Macmaster whether he were a writer, he would have replied with the merest suggestion of a deprecatory shrug.
вАЬNo, dear lady!вАЭ for of course no man would ask the question of anyone so obviously a man of the world. And he would continue with a smile: вАЬNothing so fine! A mere trifler at odd moments. A critic, perhaps. Yes! A little of a critic.вАЭ
Nevertheless Macmaster moved in drawing-rooms that, with long curtains, blue china plates, large-patterned wallpapers and large, quiet mirrors, sheltered the long-haired of the Arts. And, as near as possible to the dear ladies who gave the At Homes, Macmaster could keep up the talkвБ†вАФa little magisterially. He liked to be listened to with respect when he spoke of Botticelli, Rossetti, and those early Italian artists whom he called вАЬThe Primitives.вАЭ Tietjens had seen him there. And he didnвАЩt disapprove.
For, if they werenвАЩt, these gatherings, Society, they formed a stage on the long and careful road to a career in a first-class Government office. And, utterly careless as Tietjens imagined himself of careers or offices, he was, if sardonically, quite sympathetic towards his friendвАЩs ambitiousnesses. It was an odd friendship, but the oddnesses of friendships are a frequent guarantee of their lasting texture.
The youngest son of a Yorkshire country gentleman, Tietjens himself was entitled to the bestвБ†вАФthe best that first-class public offices and first-class people could afford. He was without ambition, but these things would come to him as they do in England. So he could afford to be negligent of his attire, of the company he kept, of the opinions he uttered. He had a little private income under his motherвАЩs settlement; a little income from the Imperial Department of Statistics; he had married a woman of means, and he was, in the Tory manner, sufficiently a master of flouts and jeers to be listened to when he spoke. He was twenty-six; but, very big, in a fair, untidy, Yorkshire way, he carried more weight than his age warranted. His chief, Sir Reginald Ingleby, when Tietjens chose to talk of public tendencies which influenced statistics, would listen with attention. Sometimes Sir Reginald would say: вАЬYouвАЩre a perfect encyclop√¶dia of exact material knowledge, Tietjens,вАЭ and Tietjens thought that that was his due, and he would accept the tribute in silence.
At a word from Sir Reginald, Macmaster, on the other hand, would murmur: вАЬYouвАЩre very good, Sir Reginald!вАЭ and Tietjens thought that perfectly proper.
Macmaster was a little the senior in the service as he was probably a little the senior in age. For, as to his roommateвАЩs years, or as to his exact origins, there was a certain blank in TietjensвАЩ knowledge. Macmaster was obviously Scotch by birth, and you accepted him as what was called a вАЬson of the manse.вАЭ No doubt he was really the son of a grocer in Cupar or a railway porter in Edinburgh. It does not matter with the Scotch, and as he was very properly reticent as to his ancestry, having accepted him, you didnвАЩt, even mentally, make any enquiries.
Tietjens always had accepted MacmasterвБ†вАФat Clifton, at Cambridge, in Chancery Lane and in their rooms at GrayвАЩs Inn. So for Macmaster he had a very deep affectionвБ†вАФeven a gratitude. And Macmaster might be considered as returning these feelings. Certainly he had always done his best to be of service to Tietjens. Already at the Treasury and attached as private secretary to Sir Reginald Ingleby, whilst Tietjens was still at Cambridge, Macmaster had brought to the notice of Sir Reginald TietjensвАЩ many great natural gifts, and Sir Reginald, being on the lookout for young men for his ewe lamb, his newly-founded department, had very readily accepted Tietjens as his third in command. On the other hand, it had been TietjensвАЩ father who had recommended Macmaster to the notice of Sir Thomas Block at the Treasury itself. And, indeed, the TietjensвАЩ family had provided a little moneyвБ†вАФthat was TietjensвАЩ mother reallyвБ†вАФto get Macmaster through Cambridge and install him in Town. He had repaid the small sumвБ†вАФpaying it partly by finding room in his chambers for Tietjens when in turn he came to Town.
With a Scots young man such a position had been perfectly possible. Tietjens had been able to go to his fair, ample, saintly mother in her morning-room and say:
вАЬLook here, mother, that fellow Macmaster! HeвАЩll need a little money to get through the University,вАЭ and his mother would answer:
вАЬYes, my dear. How much?вАЭ
With an English young man of the lower orders that would have left a sense of class obligation. With Macmaster it just didnвАЩt.
During TietjensвАЩ late troubleвБ†вАФfor four months before TietjensвАЩ wife had left him to go abroad with another manвБ†вАФMacmaster had filled a place that no other man could have filled. For the basis of Christopher TietjensвАЩ emotional existence was a complete taciturnityвБ†вАФat any rate as to his emotions. As Tietjens saw the world, you didnвАЩt вАЬtalk.вАЭ Perhaps you didnвАЩt even think about how you felt.
And, indeed, his wifeвАЩs flight had left him almost completely without emotions that he could realise, and he had not spoken more than twenty words at most about the event. Those had been mostly to his father, who, very tall, very largely built, silver-haired and erect, had drifted, as it were, into MacmasterвАЩs drawing-room in GrayвАЩs Inn, and after five minutes of silence had said:
вАЬYou will divorce?вАЭ
Christopher had answered:
вАЬNo! No one but a blackguard would ever submit a woman to the ordeal of divorce.вАЭ
Mr. Tietjens had digested that, and after an interval had asked:
вАЬYou will permit her to divorce you?вАЭ
He had answered:
вАЬIf she wishes it. ThereвАЩs the child to be considered.вАЭ
Mr. Tietjens said:
вАЬYou will get her settlement transferred to the child?вАЭ
Christopher answered:
вАЬIf it can be done without friction.вАЭ
Mr. Tietjens had commented only:
вАЬAh!вАЭ Some minutes later he had said:
вАЬYour motherвАЩs very well.вАЭ Then: вАЬThat motor-plough didnвАЩt answer,вАЭ and then: вАЬI shall be dining at the club.вАЭ
Christopher said:
вАЬMay I bring Macmaster in, sir? You said you would put him up.вАЭ
Mr. Tietjens answered:
вАЬYes, do. Old General Ffolliott will be there. HeвАЩll second him. HeвАЩd better make his acquaintance.вАЭ He had gone away.
Tietjens considered that his relationship with his father was an almost perfect one. They were like two men in the clubвБ†вАФthe only club; thinking so alike that there was no need to talk. His father had spent a great deal of time abroad before succeeding to the estate. When, over the moors, he went into the industrial town that he owned, he drove always in a coach-and-four. Tobacco smoke had never been known inside Groby Hall: Mr.¬†Tietjens had twelve pipes filled every morning by his head gardener and placed in rose bushes down the drive. These he smoked during the day. He farmed a good deal of his own land; had sat for Holdernesse from 1876 to 1881, but had not presented himself for election after the redistribution of seats; he was patron of eleven livings; rode to hounds every now and then, and shot fairly regularly. He had three other sons and two daughters, and was now sixty-one.
To his sister Effie, on the day after his wifeвАЩs elopement, Christopher had said over the telephone:
вАЬWill you take Tommie for an indefinite period? Marchant will come with him. She offers to take charge of your two youngest as well, so youвАЩll save a maid, and IвАЩll pay their board and a bit over.вАЭ
The voice of his sisterвБ†вАФfrom YorkshireвБ†вАФhad answered:
вАЬCertainly, Christopher.вАЭ She was the wife of a vicar, near Groby, and she had several children.
To Macmaster Tietjens had said:
вАЬSylvia has left me with that fellow Perowne.вАЭ
Macmaster had answered only: вАЬAh!вАЭ
Tietjens had continued:
вАЬIвАЩm letting the house and warehousing the furniture. Tommie is going to my sister Effie. Marchant is going with him.вАЭ
Macmaster had said:
вАЬThen youвАЩll be wanting your old rooms.вАЭ Macmaster occupied a very large storey of the GrayвАЩs Inn buildings. After Tietjens had left him on his marriage he had continued to enjoy solitude, except that his man had moved down from the attic to the bedroom formerly occupied by Tietjens.
Tietjens said:
вАЬIвАЩll come in tomorrow night if I may. That will give Ferens time to get back into his attic.вАЭ
That morning, at breakfast, four months having passed, Tietjens had received a letter from his wife. She asked, without any contrition at all, to be taken back. She was fed-up with Perowne and Brittany.
Tietjens looked up at Macmaster. Macmaster was already half out of his chair, looking at him with enlarged, steel-blue eyes, his beard quivering. By the time Tietjens spoke Macmaster had his hand on the neck of the cut-glass brandy decanter in the brown wood tantalus.
Tietjens said:
вАЬSylvia asks me to take her back.вАЭ
Macmaster said:
вАЬHave a little of this!вАЭ
Tietjens was about to say: вАЬNo,вАЭ automatically. He changed that to:
вАЬYes. Perhaps. A liqueur glass.вАЭ
He noticed that the lip of the decanter agitated, tinkling on the glass. Macmaster must be trembling.
Macmaster, with his back still turned, said:
вАЬShall you take her back?вАЭ
Tietjens answered:
вАЬI imagine so.вАЭ The brandy warmed his chest in its descent. Macmaster said:
вАЬBetter have another.вАЭ
Tietjens answered:
вАЬYes. Thanks.вАЭ
Macmaster went on with his breakfast and his letters. So did Tietjens. Ferens came in, removed the bacon plates and set on the table a silver water-heated dish that contained poached eggs and haddock. A long time afterwards Tietjens said:
вАЬYes, in principle IвАЩm determined to. But I shall take three days to think out the details.вАЭ
He seemed to have no feelings about the matter. Certain insolent phrases in SylviaвАЩs letter hung in his mind. He preferred a letter like that. The brandy made no difference to his mentality, but it seemed to keep him from shivering.
Macmaster said:
вАЬSuppose we go down to Rye by the 11:40. We could get a round after tea now the days are long. I want to call on a parson near there. He has helped me with my book.вАЭ
Tietjens said:
вАЬDid your poet know parsons? But of course he did. Duchemin is the name, isnвАЩt it?вАЭ
Macmaster said:
вАЬWe could call about two-thirty. That will be all right in the country. We stay till four with a cab outside. We can be on the first tee at five. If we like the course weвАЩll stay next day: then Tuesday at Hythe and Wednesday at Sandwich. Or we could stay at Rye all your three days.вАЭ
вАЬIt will probably suit me better to keep moving,вАЭ Tietjens said. вАЬThere are those British Columbia figures of yours. If we took a cab now I could finish them for you in an hour and twelve minutes. Then British North America can go to the printers. ItвАЩs only 8:30 now.вАЭ
Macmaster said, with some concern:
вАЬOh, but you couldnвАЩt. I can make our going all right with Sir Reginald.вАЭ Tietjens said:
вАЬOh, yes I can. Ingleby will be pleased if you tell him theyвАЩre finished. IвАЩll have them ready for you to give him when he comes at ten.вАЭ
Macmaster said:
вАЬWhat an extraordinary fellow you are, Chrissie. Almost a genius!вАЭ
вАЬOh,вАЭ Tietjens answered. вАЬI was looking at your papers yesterday after youвАЩd left and IвАЩve got most of the totals in my head. I was thinking about them before I went to sleep. I think you make a mistake in overestimating the pull of Klondyke this year on the population. The passes are open, but relatively no one is going through. IвАЩll add a note to that effect.вАЭ
In the cab he said:
вАЬIвАЩm sorry to bother you with my beastly affairs. But how will it affect you and the office?вАЭ
вАЬThe office,вАЭ Macmaster said, вАЬnot at all. It is supposed that Sylvia is nursing Mrs.¬†Satterthwaite abroad. As for me, I wish.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶вАЭвБ†вАФhe closed his small, strong teethвБ†вАФвАЬI wish you would drag the woman through the mud. By God I do! Why should she mangle you for the rest of your life? SheвАЩs done enough!вАЭ
Tietjens gazed out over the flap of the cab.
That explained a question. Some days before, a young man, a friend of his wifeвАЩs rather than of his own, had approached him in the club and had said that he hoped Mrs.¬†SatterthwaiteвБ†вАФhis wifeвАЩs motherвБ†вАФwas better. He said now:
вАЬI see. Mrs.¬†Satterthwaite has probably gone abroad to cover up SylviaвАЩs retreat. SheвАЩs a sensible woman, if a bitch.вАЭ
The hansom ran through nearly empty streets, it being very early for the public official quarters. The hoofs of the horse clattered precipitately. Tietjens preferred a hansom, horses being made for gentlefolk. He had known nothing of how his fellows had viewed his affairs. It was breaking up a great, numb inertia to enquire.
During the last few months he had employed himself in tabulating from memory the errors in the Encyclop√¶dia Britannica, of which a new edition had lately appeared. He had even written an article for a dull monthly on the subject. It had been so caustic as to miss its mark, rather. He despised people who used works of reference; but the point of view had been so unfamiliar that his article had galled no oneвАЩs withers, except possibly MacmasterвАЩs. Actually it had pleased Sir Reginald Ingleby, who had been glad to think that he had under him a young man with a memory so tenacious and so encyclop√¶dic a knowledge.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶
That had been a congenial occupation, like a long drowse. Now he had to make enquiries. He said:
вАЬAnd my breaking up the establishment at twenty-nine? HowвАЩs that viewed? IвАЩm not going to have a house again.вАЭ
вАЬItвАЩs considered,вАЭ Macmaster answered, вАЬthat Lowndes Street did not agree with Mrs.¬†Satterthwaite. That accounted for her illness. Drains wrong. I may say that Sir Reginald entirelyвБ†вАФexpressly approves. He does not think that young married men in Government offices should keep up expensive establishments in the S.W. district.вАЭ
Tietjens said:
вАЬDamn him.вАЭ He added: вАЬHeвАЩs probably right though.вАЭ He then said: вАЬThanks. ThatвАЩs all I want to know. A certain discredit has always attached to cuckolds. Very properly. A man ought to be able to keep his wife.вАЭ
Macmaster exclaimed anxiously:
вАЬNo! No! Chrissie.вАЭ
Tietjens continued:
вАЬAnd a first-class public office is very like a public school. It might very well object to having a man whose wife had bolted amongst its members. I remember Clifton hated it when the Governors decided to admit the first Jew and the first nigger.вАЭ
Macmaster said:
вАЬI wish you wouldnвАЩt go on.вАЭ
вАЬThere was a fellow,вАЭ Tietjens continued, вАЬwhose land was next to ours. Conder his name was. His wife was habitually unfaithful to him. She used to retire with some fellow for three months out of every year. Conder never moved a finger. But we felt Groby and the neighbourhood were unsafe. It was awkward introducing himвБ†вАФnot to mention herвБ†вАФin your drawing-room. All sorts of awkwardnesses. Everyone knew the younger children werenвАЩt ConderвАЩs. A fellow married the youngest daughter and took over the hounds. And not a soul called on her. It wasnвАЩt rational or just. But thatвАЩs why society distrusts the cuckold, really. It never knows when it maynвАЩt be driven into something irrational and unjust.вАЭ
вАЬBut you arenвАЩt,вАЭ Macmaster said with real anguish, вАЬgoing to let Sylvia behave like that.вАЭ
вАЬI donвАЩt know,вАЭ Tietjens said. вАЬHow am I to stop it? Mind you, I think Conder was quite right. Such calamities are the will of God. A gentleman accepts them. If the woman wonвАЩt divorce, he must accept them, and it gets talked about. You seem to have made it all right this time. You and, I suppose, Mrs.¬†Satterthwaite between you. But you wonвАЩt be always there. Or I might come across another woman.вАЭ
Macmaster said:
вАЬAh!вАЭ and after a moment:
вАЬWhat then?вАЭ
Tietjens said:
вАЬGod knows.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ ThereвАЩs that poor little beggar to be considered. Marchant says heвАЩs beginning to talk broad Yorkshire already.вАЭ
Macmaster said:
вАЬIf it wasnвАЩt for that.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ That would be a solution.вАЭ
Tietjens said: вАЬAh!вАЭ
When he paid the cabman, in front of a grey cement portal with a gabled arch, reaching up, he said:
вАЬYouвАЩve been giving the mare less licorice in her mash. I told you sheвАЩd go better.вАЭ
The cabman, with a scarlet, varnished face, a shiny hat, a drab box-cloth coat and a gardenia in his buttonhole, said:
вАЬAh! Trust you to remember, sir.вАЭ
In the train, from beneath his pile of polished dressing and despatch casesвБ†вАФTietjens had thrown his immense kit-bag with his own hands into the guardвАЩs vanвБ†вАФMacmaster looked across at his friend. It was, for him, a great day. Across his face were the proof-sheets of his first, small, delicate-looking volume.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ A small page, the type black and still odorous! He had the agreeable smell of the printerвАЩs ink in his nostrils; the fresh paper was still a little damp. In his white, rather spatulate, always slightly cold fingers, was the pressure of the small, flat, gold pencil he had purchased especially for these corrections. He had found none to make.
He had expected a wallowing of pleasureвБ†вАФalmost the only sensuous pleasure he had allowed himself for many months. Keeping up the appearances of an English gentleman on an exiguous income was no mean task. But to wallow in your own phrases, to be rejoiced by the savour of your own shrewd pawkinesses, to feel your rhythm balanced and yet soberвБ†вАФthat is a pleasure beyond most, and an inexpensive one at that. He had had it from mere вАЬarticlesвАЭвБ†вАФon the philosophies and domestic lives of such great figures as Carlyle and Mill, or on the expansion of inter-colonial trade. This was a book.
He relied upon it to consolidate his position. In the office they were mostly вАЬborn,вАЭ and not vastly sympathetic. There was a sprinkling, tooвБ†вАФit was beginning to be a large oneвБ†вАФof young men who had obtained their entry by merit or by sheer industry. These watched promotions jealously, discerning nepotic increases of increment and clamouring amongst themselves at favouritisms.
To these he had been able to turn a cold shoulder. His intimacy with Tietjens permitted him to be rather on the вАЬbornвАЭ side of the institution, his agreeablenessвБ†вАФhe knew he was agreeable and useful!вБ†вАФto Sir Reginald Ingleby, protecting him in the main from unpleasantness. His вАЬarticlesвАЭ had given him a certain right to an austerity of demeanour; his book he trusted to let him adopt an almost judicial attitude. He would then be the Mr.¬†Macmaster, the critic, the authority. And the first-class departments are not adverse from having distinguished men as ornaments to their company; at any rate the promotion of the distinguished is not objected to. So Macmaster sawвБ†вАФalmost physicallyвБ†вАФSir Reginald Ingleby perceiving the empressement with which his valued subordinate was treated in the drawing-rooms of Mrs.¬†Leamington, Mrs.¬†Cressy, the Hon.¬†Mrs.¬†de Limoux; Sir Reginald would perceive that, for he was not a reader himself of much else than Government publications, and he would feel fairly safe in making easy the path of his critically-gifted and austere young helper. The son of a very poor shipping clerk in an obscure Scotch harbour town, Macmaster had very early decided on the career that he would make. As between the heroes of Mr.¬†Smiles, an author enormously popular in MacmasterвАЩs boyhood, and the more distinctly intellectual achievements open to the very poor Scot, Macmaster had had no difficulty in choosing. A pit lad may rise to be a mine owner; a hard, gifted, unsleeping Scots youth, pursuing unobtrusively and unobjectionably a course of study and of public usefulness will certainly achieve distinction, security and the quiet admiration of those around him. It was the difference between the may and the will, and Macmaster had had no difficulty in making his choice. He saw himself by now almost certain of a career that should give him at fifty a knighthood, and long before that a competence, a drawing-room of his own and a lady who should contribute to his unobtrusive fame, she moving about, in that room, amongst the best of the intellects of the day, gracious, devoted, a tribute at once to his discernment and his achievements. Without some disaster he was sure of himself. Disasters come to men through drink, bankruptcy and women. Against the first two he knew himself immune, though his expenses had a tendency to outrun his income, and he was always a little in debt to Tietjens. Tietjens fortunately had means. As to the third, he was not so certain. His life had necessarily been starved of women, and, arrived at a stage when the female element might, even with due respect to caution, be considered as a legitimate feature of his life, he had to fear a rashness of choice due to that very starvation. The type of woman he needed he knew to exactitude: tall, graceful, dark, loose-gowned, passionate yet circumspect, oval-featured, deliberative, gracious to everyone around her. He could almost hear the very rustle of her garments.
And yetвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ He had had passages when a sort of blind unreason had attracted him almost to speechlessness towards girls of the most giggling, behind-the-counter order, big-bosomed, scarlet-cheeked. It was only Tietjens who had saved him from the most questionable entanglements.
вАЬHang it,вАЭ Tietjens would say, вАЬdonвАЩt get messing round that trollop. All you could do with her would be to set her up in a tobacco shop, and she would be tearing your beard out inside the quarter. Let alone you canвАЩt afford it.вАЭ
And Macmaster, who would have sentimentalised the plump girl to the tune of вАЬHighland Mary,вАЭ would for a day damn Tietjens up and down for a coarse brute. But at the moment he thanked God for Tietjens. There he sat, near to thirty, without an entanglement, a blemish on his health, or a worry with regard to any woman.
With deep affection and concern he looked across at his brilliant junior, who hadnвАЩt saved himself. Tietjens had fallen into the most barefaced snare, into the cruellest snare, of the worst woman that could be imagined.
And Macmaster suddenly realised that he wasnвАЩt wallowing, as he had imagined that he would, in the sensuous current of his prose. He had begun spiritedly with the first neat square of a paragraph.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ Certainly his publishers had done well by him in the matter of print:
вАЬWhether we consider him as the imaginer of mysterious, sensuous and exact plastic beauty; as the manipulator of sonorous, rolling and full-mouthed lines; of words as full of colour as were his canvases; or whether we regard him as the deep philosopher, elucidating and drawing his illumination from the arcana of a mystic hardly greater than himself, to Gabriel Charles Dante Rossetti, the subject of this little monograph, must be accorded the name of one who has profoundly influenced the outward aspects, the human contacts, and all those things that go to make up the life of our higher civilisation as we live it today.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶вАЭ
Macmaster realised that he had only got thus far with his prose, and had got thus far without any of the relish that he had expected, and that then he had turned to the middle paragraph of page threeвБ†вАФafter the end of his exordium. His eyes wandered desultorily along the line:
вАЬThe subject of these pages was born in the western central district of the metropolis in the yearвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶вАЭ
The words conveyed nothing to him at all. He understood that that was because he hadnвАЩt got over that morning. He had looked up from his coffee-cupвБ†вАФover the rimвБ†вАФand had taken in a blue-grey sheet of notepaper in TietjensвАЩ fingers, shaking, inscribed in the large, broad-nibbed writing of that detestable harridan. And Tietjens had been staringвБ†вАФstaring with the intentness of a maddened horseвБ†вАФat his, MacmasterвАЩs, face! And grey! Shapeless! The nose like a pallid triangle on a bladder of lard! That was TietjensвАЩ face.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶
He could still feel the blow, physical, in the pit of his stomach! He had thought Tietjens was going mad: that he was mad. It had passed. Tietjens had assumed the mask of his indolent, insolent self. At the office, but later, he had delivered an extraordinarily forcefulвБ†вАФand quite rudeвБ†вАФlecture to Sir Reginald on his reasons for differing from the official figures of population movements in the western territories. Sir Reginald had been much impressed. The figures were wanted for a speech of the Colonial MinisterвБ†вАФor an answer to a questionвБ†вАФand Sir Reginald had promised to put TietjensвАЩ views before the great man. That was the sort of thing to do a young fellow goodвБ†вАФbecause it got kudos for the office. They had to work on figures provided by the Colonial Governments, and if they could correct those fellows by sheer brain workвБ†вАФthat scored.
But there sat Tietjens, in his grey tweeds, his legs apart, lumpish, clumsy, his tallowy, intelligent-looking hands drooping inert between his legs, his eyes gazing at a coloured photograph of the port of Boulogne beside the mirror beneath the luggage rack. Blonde, high-coloured, vacant apparently, you couldnвАЩt tell what in the world he was thinking of. The mathematical theory of waves, very likely, or slips in someoneвАЩs article on Arminianism. For, absurd as it seemed, Macmaster knew that he knew next to nothing of his friendвАЩs feelings. As to them, practically no confidences had passed between them. Just two:
On the night before his starting for his wedding in Paris Tietjens had said to him:
вАЬVinny, old fellow, itвАЩs a back door way out of it. SheвАЩs bitched me.вАЭ
And once, rather lately, he had said:
вАЬDamn it! I donвАЩt even know if the childвАЩs my own!вАЭ
This last confidence had shocked Macmaster so irremediablyвБ†вАФthe child had been a seven monthsвАЩ child, rather ailing, and TietjensвАЩ clumsy tenderness towards it had been so marked that, even without this nightmare, Macmaster had been affected by the sight of them togetherвБ†вАФthat confidence then had pained Macmaster so frightfully, it was so appalling, that Macmaster had regarded it almost as an insult. It was the sort of confidence a man didnвАЩt make to his equal, but only to solicitors, doctors, or the clergy who are not quite men. Or, at any rate, such confidences are not made between men without appeals for sympathy, and Tietjens had made no appeal for sympathy. He had just added sardonically:
вАЬShe gives me the benefit of the agreeable doubt. And sheвАЩs as good as said as much to MarchantвАЭвБ†вАФMarchant had been TietjensвАЩ old nurse.
SuddenlyвБ†вАФand as if in a sort of unconscious losing of his headвБ†вАФMacmaster remarked:
вАЬYou canвАЩt say the man wasnвАЩt a poet!вАЭ
The remark had been, as it were, torn from him, because he had observed, in the strong light of the compartment, that half of TietjensвАЩ forelock and a roundish patch behind it was silvery white. That might have been going on for weeks: you live beside a man and notice his changes very little. Yorkshire men of fresh colour and blondish often go speckled with white very young; Tietjens had had a white hair or two at the age of fourteen, very noticeable in the sunlight when he had taken his cap off to bowl.
But MacmasterвАЩs mind, taking appalled change, had felt assured that Tietjens had gone white with the shock of his wifeвАЩs letter: in four hours! That meant that terrible things must be going on within him; his thoughts, at all costs, must be distracted. The mental process in Macmaster had been quite subconscious. He would not, advisedly, have introduced the painter-poet as a topic.
Tietjens said:
вАЬI havenвАЩt said anything at all that I can remember.вАЭ
The obstinacy of his hard race awakened in Macmaster:
вАЬвАКвАШSince,вАЩвАКвАЭ he quoted, вАЬвАКвАШwhen we stand side by side
вАЬвАКвАШOnly hands may meet,
Better half this weary world
Lay between us, sweet!
Better far though hearts may break
Bid farewell for aye!
Lest thy sad eyes, meeting mine,
Tempt my soul away!вАЩ
вАЬYou canвАЩt,вАЭ he continued, вАЬsay that that isnвАЩt poetry! Great poetry.вАЭ
вАЬI canвАЩt say,вАЭ Tietjens answered contemptuously. вАЬI donвАЩt read poetry except Byron. But itвАЩs a filthy picture.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶вАЭ
Macmaster said uncertainly:
вАЬI donвАЩt know that I know the picture. Is it in Chicago?вАЭ
вАЬIt isnвАЩt painted!вАЭ Tietjens said. вАЬBut itвАЩs there!вАЭ
He continued with sudden fury:
вАЬDamn it. WhatвАЩs the sense of all these attempts to justify fornication? EnglandвАЩs mad about it. Well, youвАЩve got your John Stuart Mills and your George Eliots for the high-class thing. Leave the furniture out! Or leave me out at least. I tell you it revolts me to think of that obese, oily man who never took a bath, in a grease-spotted dressing-gown and the underclothes heвАЩs slept in, standing beside a five shilling model with crimped hair, or some Mrs.¬†W. Three Stars, gazing into a mirror that reflects their fetid selves and gilt sunfish and drop chandeliers and plates sickening with cold bacon fat and gurgling about passion.вАЭ
Macmaster had gone chalk white, his short beard bristling:
вАЬYou darenвАЩtвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ you darenвАЩt talk like that,вАЭ he stuttered.
вАЬI dare!вАЭ Tietjens answered; вАЬbut I oughtnвАЩt toвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ to you! I admit that. But you oughtnвАЩt, almost as much, to talk about that stuff to me, either. ItвАЩs an insult to my intelligence.вАЭ
вАЬCertainly,вАЭ Macmaster said stiffly, вАЬthe moment was not opportune.вАЭ
вАЬI donвАЩt understand what you mean,вАЭ Tietjens answered. вАЬThe moment can never be opportune. LetвАЩs agree that making a career is a dirty businessвБ†вАФfor me as for you! But decent augurs grin behind their masks. They never preach to each other.вАЭ
вАЬYouвАЩre getting esoteric,вАЭ Macmaster said faintly.
вАЬIвАЩll underline,вАЭ Tietjens went on. вАЬI quite understand that the favour of Mrs.¬†Cressy and Mrs.¬†de Limoux is essential to you! They have the ear of that old don Ingleby.вАЭ
Macmaster said:
вАЬDamn!вАЭ
вАЬI quite agree,вАЭ Tietjens continued, вАЬI quite approve. ItвАЩs the game as it has always been played. ItвАЩs the tradition, so itвАЩs right. ItвАЩs been sanctioned since the days of the Pr√©cieuses Ridicules.вАЭ
вАЬYouвАЩve a way of putting things,вАЭ Macmaster said.
вАЬI havenвАЩt,вАЭ Tietjens answered. вАЬItвАЩs just because I havenвАЩt that what I do say sticks out in the minds of fellows like you who are always fiddling about after literary expression. But what I do say is this: I stand for monogamy.вАЭ
Macmaster uttered a вАЬYou!вАЭ of amazement.
Tietjens answered with a negligent вАЬI!вАЭ He continued:
вАЬI stand for monogamy and chastity. And for no talking about it. Of course, if a man whoвАЩs a man wants to have a woman he has her. And again, no talking about it. HeвАЩd no doubt be in the end better, and better off, if he didnвАЩt. Just as it would probably be better for him if he didnвАЩt have the second glass of whisky and soda.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶вАЭ
вАЬYou call that monogamy and chastity!вАЭ Macmaster interjected.
вАЬI do,вАЭ Tietjens answered. вАЬAnd it probably is, at any rate itвАЩs clean. What is loathesome is all your fumbling in placket-holes and polysyllabic Justification by Love. You stand for lachrymose polygamy. ThatвАЩs all right if you can get your club to change its rules.вАЭ
вАЬYouвАЩre out of my depth,вАЭ Macmaster said. вАЬAnd being very disagreeable. You appear to be justifying promiscuity. I donвАЩt like it.вАЭ
вАЬIвАЩm probably being disagreeable,вАЭ Tietjens said. вАЬJeremiahs usually are. But there ought to be a twenty yearsвАЩ close time for discussions of sham sexual morality. Your Paolo and FrancescaвБ†вАФand DanteвАЩsвБ†вАФwent, very properly, to Hell, and no bones about it. You donвАЩt get Dante justifying them. But your fellow whines about creeping into Heaven.вАЭ
вАЬHe doesnвАЩt,вАЭ Macmaster exclaimed. Tietjens continued with equanimity:
вАЬNow your novelist who writes a book to justify his every tenth or fifth seduction of a commonplace young woman in the name of the rights of shop boysвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶вАЭ
вАЬIвАЩll admit,вАЭ Macmaster coincided, вАЬthat Briggs is going too far. I told him only last Thursday at Mrs.¬†LimouxвАЩs.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶вАЭ
вАЬIвАЩm not talking of anyone in particular,вАЭ Tietjens said. вАЬI donвАЩt read novels. IвАЩm supposing a case. And itвАЩs a cleaner case than that of your pre-Raphaelite horrors! No! I donвАЩt read novels, but I follow tendencies. And if a fellow chooses to justify his seductions of uninteresting and viewy young females along the lines of freedom and the rights of man, itвАЩs relatively respectable. It would be better just to boast about his conquests in a straightforward and exultant way. ButвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶вАЭ
вАЬYou carry joking too far sometimes,вАЭ Macmaster said. вАЬIвАЩve warned you about it.вАЭ
вАЬIвАЩm as solemn as an owl!вАЭ Tietjens rejoined. вАЬThe lower classes are becoming vocal. Why shouldnвАЩt they? TheyвАЩre the only people in this country who are sound in wind and limb. TheyвАЩll save the country if the countryвАЩs to be saved.вАЭ
вАЬAnd you call yourself a Tory!вАЭ Macmaster said.
вАЬThe lower classes,вАЭ Tietjens continued equably, вАЬsuch of them as get through the secondary schools, want irregular and very transitory unions. During holidays they go together on personally-conducted tours to Switzerland and such places. Wet afternoons they pass in their tiled bathrooms, slapping each other hilariously on the backs and splashing white enamel paint about.вАЭ
вАЬYou say you donвАЩt read novels,вАЭ Macmaster said, вАЬbut I recognise the quotation.вАЭ
вАЬI donвАЩt read novels,вАЭ Tietjens answered. вАЬI know whatвАЩs in вАЩem. There has been nothing worth reading written in England since the eighteenth century except by a woman.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ But itвАЩs natural for your enamel splashers to want to see themselves in a bright and variegated literature. Why shouldnвАЩt they? ItвАЩs a healthy, human desire, and now that printing and paper are cheap they get it satisfied. ItвАЩs healthy, I tell you. Infinitely healthier than.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶вАЭ He paused.
вАЬThan what?вАЭ Macmaster asked.
вАЬIвАЩm thinking,вАЭ Tietjens said, вАЬthinking how not to be too rude.вАЭ
вАЬYou want to be rude,вАЭ Macmaster said bitterly, вАЬto people who lead the contemplativeвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ the circumspect life.вАЭ
вАЬItвАЩs precisely that,вАЭ Tietjens said. He quoted:
вАЬвАКвАШShe walks the lady of my delight,
A shepherdess of sheep;
She is so circumspect and right:
She has her thoughts to keep.вАЩвАКвАЭ
Macmaster said:
вАЬConfound you, Chrissie. You know everything.вАЭ
вАЬWell, yes,вАЭ Tietjens said musingly. вАЬI think I should want to be rude to her. I donвАЩt say I should be. Certainly I shouldnвАЩt if she were good looking. Or if she were your soulвАЩs affinity. You can rely on that.вАЭ
Macmaster had a sudden vision of TietjensвАЩ large and clumsy form walking beside the lady of his, MacmasterвАЩs, delight, when ultimately she was foundвБ†вАФwalking along the top of a cliff amongst tall grass and poppies and making himself extremely agreeable with talk of Tasso and Cimabue. All the same, Macmaster imagined, the lady wouldnвАЩt like Tietjens. Women didnвАЩt as a rule. His looks and his silences alarmed them. Or they hated him.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ Or they liked him very much indeed. And Macmaster said conciliatorily:
вАЬYes, I think I could rely on that!вАЭ He added: вАЬAll the same I donвАЩt wonder thatвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶вАЭ
He had been about to say:
вАЬI donвАЩt wonder that Sylvia calls you immoral.вАЭ For TietjensвАЩ wife alleged that Tietjens was detestable. He bored her, she said, by his silences; when he did speak she hated him for the immorality of his views.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ But he did not finish his sentence, and Tietjens went on:
вАЬAll the same when the war comes it will be these little snobs who will save England, because theyвАЩve the courage to know what they want and to say so.вАЭ
Macmaster said loftily:
вАЬYouвАЩre extraordinarily old-fashioned at times, Chrissie. You ought to know as well as I do that a war is impossibleвБ†вАФat any rate with this country in it. Simply becauseвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶вАЭ He hesitated and then emboldened himself: вАЬWeвБ†вАФthe circumspectвБ†вАФyes, the circumspect classes, will pilot the nation through the tight places.вАЭ
вАЬWar, my good fellow,вАЭ Tietjens saidвБ†вАФthe train was slowing down preparatorily to running into AshfordвБ†вАФвАЬis inevitable, and with this country plumb center in the middle of it. Simply because you fellows are such damn hypocrites. ThereвАЩs not a country in the world that trusts us. WeвАЩre always, as it were, committing adulteryвБ†вАФlike your fellow!вБ†вАФwith the name of Heaven on our lips.вАЭ He was jibing again at the subject of MacmasterвАЩs monograph.
вАЬHe never!вАЭ Macmaster said in almost a stutter. вАЬHe never whined about Heaven.вАЭ
вАЬHe did,вАЭ Tietjens said: вАЬThe beastly poem you quoted ends:
вАЬвАКвАШBetter far though hearts may break,
Since we dare not love,
Part till we once more may meet
In a Heaven above.вАЩвАКвАЭ
And Macmaster, who had been dreading that shotвБ†вАФfor he never knew how much or how little of any given poem his friend would have by heartвБ†вАФMacmaster collapsed, as it were, into fussily getting down his dressing-cases and clubs from the rack, a task he usually left to a porter. Tietjens who, however much a train might be running into a station he was bound for, sat like a rock until it was dead-still, said:
вАЬYes, a war is inevitable. Firstly, thereвАЩs you fellows who canвАЩt be trusted. And then thereвАЩs the multitude who mean to have bathrooms and white enamel. Millions of them; all over the world. Not merely here. And there arenвАЩt enough bathrooms and white enamel in the world to go round. ItвАЩs like you polygamists with women. There arenвАЩt enough women in the world to go round to satisfy your insatiable appetites. And there arenвАЩt enough men in the world to give each woman one. And most women want several. So you have divorce cases. I suppose you wonвАЩt say that because youвАЩre so circumspect and right there shall be no more divorce? Well, war is as inevitable as divorce.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶вАЭ
Macmaster had his head out of the carriage window and was calling for a porter.
On the platform a number of women in lovely sable cloaks, with purple or red jewel cases, with diaphanous silky scarves flying from motor hoods, were drifting towards the branch train for Rye, under the shepherding of erect, burdened footmen. Two of them nodded to Tietjens.
Macmaster considered that he was perfectly right to be tidy in his dress; you never knew whom you mightnвАЩt meet on a railway journey. This confirmed him as against Tietjens, who preferred to look like a navvy.
A tall, white-haired, white-moustached, red-cheeked fellow limped after Tietjens, who was getting his immense bag out of the guardвАЩs van. He clapped the young man on the shoulder and said:
вАЬHullo! HowвАЩs your mother-in-law? Lady Claude wants to know. She says come up and pick a bone tonight if youвАЩre going to Rye.вАЭ He had extraordinarily blue, innocent eyes.
Tietjens said:
вАЬHullo, General,вАЭ and added: вАЬI believe sheвАЩs much better. Quite restored. This is Macmaster. I think I shall be going over to bring my wife back in a day or two. TheyвАЩre both at LobscheidвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ a German spa.вАЭ
The General said:
вАЬQuite right. It isnвАЩt good for a young man to be alone. Kiss SylviaвАЩs fingertips for me. SheвАЩs the real thing, you lucky beggar.вАЭ He added, a little anxiously: вАЬWhat about a foursome tomorrow? Paul Sandbach is down. HeвАЩs as crooked as me. We canвАЩt do a full round at singles.вАЭ
вАЬItвАЩs your own fault,вАЭ Tietjens said. вАЬYou ought to have gone to my bonesetter. Settle it with Macmaster, will you?вАЭ He jumped into the twilight of the guardвАЩs van.
The General looked at Macmaster, a quick, penetrating scrutiny:
вАЬYouвАЩre the Macmaster,вАЭ he said. вАЬYou would be if youвАЩre with Chrissie.вАЭ
A high voice called:
вАЬGeneral! General!вАЭ
вАЬI want a word with you,вАЭ the General said, вАЬabout the figures in that article you wrote about Pondoland. Figures are all right. But we shall lose the beastly country ifвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ But weвАЩll talk about it after dinner tonight. YouвАЩll come up to Lady ClaudineвАЩsвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶вАЭ
Macmaster congratulated himself again on his appearance. It was all very well for Tietjens to look like a sweep; he was of these people. He, Macmaster, wasnвАЩt. He had, if anything, to be an authority, and authorities wear gold tie-rings and broadcloth. General Lord Edward Campion had a son, a permanent head of the Treasury department that regulated increases of salaries and promotions in all the public offices. Tietjens only caught the Rye train by running alongside it, pitching his enormous kit-bag through the carriage window and swinging on the footboard. Macmaster reflected that if he had done that half the station would have been yelling, вАЬStand away there.вАЭ
As it was Tietjens a stationmaster was galloping after him to open the carriage door and grinningly to part:
вАЬWell caught, sir!вАЭ for it was a cricketing county.
вАЬTruly,вАЭ Macmaster quoted to himself,
вАЬвАКвАШThe gods to each ascribe a differing lot:
Some enter at the portal. Some do not!вАЩвАКвАЭ