Part 12

His aunt’s dance! His first white waistcoat, bought _ad hoc_, from the local tailor, his tie laboriously imitating the hero--Captain MacKay’s. All came back with such freshness in the quiet of the warren--the expectancy, the humble shy excitement, the breathless asking for a dance, the writing ‘Mrs. Monteith’ twice on his little gilt-edged programme with its tiny tasselled white pencil; her slow-moving fan, her smile. And the first dance when it came; what infinite care not to tread on her white satin toes; what a thrill when her arm pressed his in the crush--such holy rapture, about all the first part of that evening, with yet another dance to come! If only he could have twirled her and ‘reversed’ like his pattern, Captain MacKay! Then delirium growing as the second dance came near, making him cut his partner--the cool grass-scented air out on the dark terrace, with the chafers booming by, and in the starshine the poplars wondrously tall, the careful adjustment of his tie and waistcoat, the careful polishing of his hot face! A long breath then, and into the house to find her! Ballroom, supper-room, stairs, library, billiard-room, all drawn blank--‘Estudiantina’ going on and on, and he a wandering, white-waistcoated young ghost. Ah! The conservatory--and the hurrying there! And then the moment which had always been, was even now, such a blurred, confused impression. Smothered voices from between a clump of flowers: “I saw her.” “Who was the man?” A glimpse, gone past in a flash, of an ivory face, a black moustache! And then her voice: “Hubert;” and her hot hand clasping his, drawing him to her; her scent, her face smiling, very set! A rustling behind the flowers, those people spying; and suddenly her lips on his cheek, the kiss sounding in his ears, her voice saying, very softly: “Hubert, dear boy!” The rustle receded, ceased. What a long, silent minute, then, among the ferns and blossoms in the dusk with her face close to his, pale, perturbed, before she led him out into the light, while he was slowly realising that she had made use of him to shelter her. A boy--not old enough to be her lover, but old enough to save her name and that of Captain Mackay! Her kiss--the last of many. Oh, no! not upon _his_ lips, _his_ cheeks! Hard work realising that! A boy--of no account--a boy, who in a day would be at school again, kissed that _he_ and _she_ might renew their intrigue unsuspected!

How had he behaved the rest of that evening of romance bedrabbled? He hardly knew. Betrayed with a kiss! Two idols in the dust! And did they care what he was feeling? Not they! All they cared for was to cover up their tracks with him! But somehow--somehow--he had never shown her that he knew. Only, when their dance was over, and someone came and took her for the next, he escaped up to his little room, tore off his gloves, his waistcoat; lay on his bed, thought bitter thoughts. A boy! There he had stayed, with the thrum of the music in his ears, till at last it died away for good and the carriages were gone, and the night was quiet.

Squatting on the warren grass, still warm and dewless, Marsland rubbed his knees. Nothing like boys for generosity! And, with a little smile, he thought of his aunt next morning, half-arch and half-concerned: “It isn’t nice, dear, to sit out in dark corners, and--well, perhaps, it wasn’t your fault, but still, it isn’t nice--not--quite----” and of how suddenly she had stopped, looking in his face, where his lips were curling in his first ironic laugh. She had never forgiven him that laugh--thinking him a cynical young Lothario? And Marsland thought: ‘Live and learn! Wonder what became of those two? Victorian Age! Hatches were battened down in those days! But, innocent--my hat!’

Ah! The sun was off, dew falling! He got up, rubbing his knees to take the stiffness out of them. Pigeons in the wood beyond were calling. A window in his uncle’s old home blazed like a jewel in the sun’s last rays between the poplar trees. Heh! dear--a little long-ago affair!

1922.

ACME

In these days no man of genius need starve. The following story of my friend Bruce may be taken as proof of this assertion. Nearly sixty when I first knew him, he must have written already some fifteen books, which had earned him the reputation of ‘a genius’ with the few who know. He used to live in York Street, Adelphi, where he had two rooms up the very shaky staircase of a house chiefly remarkable for the fact that its front door seemed always open. I suppose there never was a writer more indifferent to what people thought of him. He profoundly neglected the Press--not with one of those neglects which grow on writers from reading reviews of their own works--he seemed never to read criticism, but with the basic neglect of ‘an original,’ a nomadic spirit, a stranger in modern civilisation, who would leave his attics for long months of wandering and come back there to hibernate and write a book. He was a tall, thin man, with a face rather like Mark Twain’s, black eyebrows which bristled and shot up, a bitten, drooping grey moustache, and fuzzy grey hair; but his eyes were like owl’s eyes, piercing, melancholy, dark brown, and gave to his rugged face the extraordinary expression of a spirit remote from the flesh which had captured it. He was a bachelor, who seemed to avoid women; perhaps they had ‘learned’ him that; for he must have been very attractive to them.

The year of which I write had been to my friend Bruce the devil, monetarily speaking. With his passion for writing that for which his age had no taste--what could he expect? His last book had been a complete frost. He had undergone, too, an operation which had cost him much money and left him very weak. When I went to see him that October I found him stretched out on two chairs, smoking the Brazilian cigarettes which he affected--and which always affected me, so black and strong they were, in their yellow maize-leaf coverings. He had a writing-pad on his knee, and sheets of paper scattered all around. The room had a very meagre look. I had not seen him for a year and more, but he looked up at me as if I’d been in yesterday.

“Hallo!” he said. “I went into a thing they call a cinema last night. Have you ever been?”

“Ever been? Do you know how long the cinema has been going? Since about 1900.”

“Well! What a _thing_! I’m writing a skit on it!”

“How--a skit?”

“Parody--wildest yarn you ever read.”

He took up a sheet of paper and began chuckling to himself.

“My heroine,” he said, “is an Octoroon. Her eyes swim, and her lovely bosom heaves. Everybody wants her, and she’s more virtuous than words can say. The situations she doesn’t succumb to would freeze your blood; they’d roast your marrow. She has a perfect devil of a brother, with whom she was brought up, and who knows her deep dark secret and wants to trade her off to a millionaire who also has a deep dark secret. Altogether there are four deep dark secrets in my yarn. It’s a corker.”

“What a waste of your time!” I said.

“My time!” he answered fiercely. “What’s the use of my time? Nobody buys my books.”

“Who’s attending you?”

“Doctors! They take your money, that’s all. I’ve got no money. Don’t talk about me!” Again he took up a sheet of manuscript; and chuckled.

“Last night--at that place--they had--good God!--a race between a train and a motor-car. Well, I’ve got one between a train, a motor-car, a flying machine, and a horse.”

I sat up.

“May I have a look at your skit,” I said, “when you’ve finished it?”

“It _is_ finished. Wrote it straight off. D’you think I could stop and then go on again with a thing like that?” He gathered the sheets and held them out to me. “Take the thing--it’s amused me to do it. The heroine’s secret is that she isn’t an Octoroon at all; she’s a De La Casse--purest Creole blood of the South; and her villainous brother isn’t her brother; and the bad millionaire isn’t a millionaire; and her penniless lover is. It’s rich, I tell you!”

“Thanks,” I said dryly, and took the sheets.

I went away concerned about my friend, his illness and his poverty, especially his poverty, for I saw no end to it.

After dinner that evening I began languidly to read his skit. I had not read two pages of the thirty-five before I started up, sat down again, and feverishly read on. Skit! By George! He had written a perfect scenario--or, rather, that which wanted the merest professional touching-up to be perfect. I was excited. It was a little gold-mine if properly handled. Any good film company, I felt convinced, would catch at it. Yes! But how to handle it? Bruce was such an unaccountable creature, such a wild old bird! Imagine his having only just realised the cinema! If I told him his skit was a serious film, he would say: “Good God!” and put it in the fire, priceless though it was. And yet, how could I market it without _carte blanche_, and how get _carte blanche_ without giving my discovery away? I was deathly keen on getting some money for him; and this thing, properly worked, might almost make him independent. I felt as if I had a priceless museum piece which a single stumble might shatter to fragments. The tone of his voice when he spoke of the cinema--“What a _thing_!”--kept coming back to me. He was prickly proud, too--very difficult about money. Could I work it without telling him anything? I knew he never looked at a newspaper. But should I be justified in taking advantage of that--in getting the thing accepted and produced without his knowing? I revolved the question for hours, and went to see him again next day.

He was reading.

“Hallo! You again? What do you think of this theory--that the Egyptians derive from a Saharan civilisation?”

“I don’t think,” I said.

“It’s nonsense. This fellow----”

I interrupted him.

“Do you want that skit back, or can I keep it?”

“Skit? What skit?”

“The thing you gave me yesterday.”

“That! Light your fire with it. This fellow----”

“Yes,” I said; “I’ll light a fire with it. I see you’re busy.”

“Oh, no! I’m not,” he said. “I’ve nothing to do. What’s the good of my writing? I earn less and less with every book that comes out. I’m dying of poverty.”

“That’s because you won’t consider the Public.”

“How can I consider the Public when I don’t know what they want?”

“Because you won’t take the trouble to find out. If I suggested a way to you of pleasing the Public and making money you’d kick me out of the room.”

And the words, “For instance, I’ve got a little gold-mine of yours in my pocket,” were on the tip of my tongue, but I choked them back. ‘Daren’t risk it!’ I thought. ‘He’s given you the thing. _Carte blanche--cartes serrés!_’

I took the gold-mine away and promptly rough-shaped it for the film. It was perfectly easy, without any alteration of the story. Then I was faced with the temptation to put his name to it. The point was this: If I took it to a film company as an authorless scenario I should only get authorless terms; whereas, if I put his name to it, with a little talking I could double the terms at least. The film public didn’t know his name, of course, but the inner literary public did, and it’s wonderful how you can impress the market with the word ‘genius’ judiciously used. It was too dangerous, however; and at last I hit on a middle course. I would take it to them with no name attached, but tell them it was by ‘a genius,’ and suggest that they could make capital out of the incognito. I knew they would feel it _was_ by a genius.

I took it to an excellent company next day with a covering note saying: “The author, a man of recognised literary genius, for certain reasons prefers to remain unknown.” They took a fortnight in which to rise, but they rose. They had to. The thing was too good in itself. For a week I played them over terms. Twice I delivered an ultimatum--twice they surrendered: they knew too well what they had got. I could have made a contract with two thousand pounds down which would have brought at least another two thousand pounds before the contract term closed; but I compounded for one that gave me three thousand pounds down as likely to lead to less difficulty with Bruce. The terms were not a whit too good for what was really the ‘acme’ of scenarios. If I could have been quite open I could certainly have done better. Finally, however, I signed the contract, delivered the manuscript, and received a cheque for the price. I was elated, and at the same time knew that my troubles were just beginning. With Bruce’s feeling about the film how the deuce should I get him to take the money? Could I go to his publishers and conspire with them to trickle it out to him gradually as if it came from his books? That meant letting them into the secret; besides, he was too used to receiving practically nothing from his books; it would lead him to make enquiry, and the secret was bound to come out. Could I get a lawyer to spring an inheritance on him? That would mean no end of lying and elaboration, even if a lawyer would consent. Should I send him the money in Bank of England notes with the words: ‘From a lifelong admirer of your genius?’ I was afraid he would suspect a trick, or stolen notes, and go to the police to trace them. Or should I just go, put the cheque on the table and tell him the truth?

The question worried me terribly, for I didn’t feel entitled to consult others who knew him. It was the sort of thing that, if talked over, would certainly leak out. It was not desirable, however, to delay cashing a big cheque like that. Besides, they had started on the production. It happened to be a slack time, with a dearth of good films, so that they were rushing it on. And in the meantime there was Bruce--starved of everything he wanted, unable to get away for want of money, depressed about his health and his future. And yet so completely had he always seemed to me different, strange, superior to this civilisation of ours, that the idea of going to him and saying simply: “This is yours, for the film you wrote,” scared me. I could hear his: “I? Write for the cinema? What do you mean?”

When I came to think of it, I had surely taken an extravagant liberty in marketing the thing without consulting him. I felt he would never forgive that, and my feeling towards him was so affectionate, even reverential, that I simply hated the idea of being wiped out of his good books. At last I hit on a way that by introducing my own interest might break my fall. I cashed the cheque, lodged the money at my bank, drew my own cheque on it for the full amount, and, armed with that and the contract, went to see him.

He was lying on two chairs smoking his Brazilians and playing with a stray cat which had attached itself to him. He seemed rather less prickly than usual, and, after beating about the bushes of his health and other matters, I began:

“I’ve got a confession to make, Bruce.”

“Confession!” he said. “What confession?”

“You remember that skit on the film you wrote and gave me about six weeks ago?”

“No.”

“Yes, you do--about an Octoroon.”

He chuckled. “Oh! ah! That!”

I took a deep breath, and went on:

“Well, I sold it; and the price of course belongs to you.”

“What? Who’d print a thing like that?”

“It isn’t printed. It’s been made into a film--super-film, they call it.”

His hand came to a pause on the cat’s back, and he glared at me. I hastened on:

“I ought to have told you what I was doing, but you’re so prickly, and you’ve got such confounded superior notions. I thought if I did you’d be biting off your nose to spite your own face. The fact is it made a marvellous scenario. Here’s the contract, and here’s a cheque on my bank for the price--three thousand pounds. If you like to treat me as your agent, you owe me three hundred pounds. I don’t expect it, but I’m not proud like you, and I shan’t sneeze.”

“Good God!” he said.

“Yes, I know. But it’s all nonsense, Bruce. You can carry scruples to altogether too great length. Tainted source! Everything’s tainted, if you come to that. The film’s a quite justified expression of modern civilisation--a natural outcome of the age. It gives amusement; it affords pleasure. It may be vulgar, it may be cheap, but we _are_ vulgar, and we _are_ cheap, and it’s no use pretending we’re not--not you, of course, Bruce, but people at large. A vulgar age wants vulgar amusement, and if we can give it that amusement we ought to; life’s not too cheery, anyway.”

The glare in his eyes was almost paralysing me, but I managed to stammer on:

“You live out of the world--you don’t realise what humdrum people want; something to balance the greyness, the--the banality of their lives. They want blood, thrill, sensation of all sorts. You didn’t mean to give it them, but you have, you’ve done them a benefit, whether you wish to or not, and the money’s yours and you’ve got to take it.”

The cat suddenly jumped down. I waited for the storm to burst.

“I know,” I dashed on, “that you hate and despise the film----”

Suddenly his voice boomed out:

“Bosh! What are you talking about? Film! I go there every other night.”

It was my turn to say “Good God!” And ramming contract and cheque into his empty hand, I bolted, closely followed by the cat.

1923.

LATE--299

I

1 §

It was disconcerting to the Governor. The man’s smile was so peculiar. Of course, these educated prisoners--doctors, solicitors, parsons--one could never say good-bye to them quite without awkwardness; couldn’t dismiss them with the usual “Shake hands! Hope you’ll keep straight and have luck.” No! With the finish of his sentence a gentleman resumed a kind of equality, ceased to be a number, ceased even being a name without a prefix, to which the law and the newspapers with their unfailing sense of what was proper at once reduced a prisoner on, or even before, his conviction. No. 299 was once more Dr. Philip Raider, in a suit of dark-grey tweeds, lean and limber, with grey hair grown again in readiness for the outer world, with deep-set, shining eyes, and that peculiar smile--a difficult subject. The Governor decided suddenly to say only: “Well, good-bye, Dr. Raider”; and, holding out his hand, he found it remain in contact with nothing.

So the fellow was going out in defiant mood--was he! The Governor felt it rather hard after more than two years; and his mind retraced his recollections of this prisoner. An illegal operation case! Not a good ‘mixer’--not that his prisoners were allowed to mix; still, always reassuring to know that they would if not strenuously prevented! Record--Exemplary. Chaplain’s report--Nothing doing (or words to that effect). Work--Bookbinding. Quite! But--chief memory--that of a long loose figure loping round at exercise, rather like a wolf. And there he stood! The tall Governor felt at the moment oddly short. He raised his hand from its posture of not too splendid isolation, and put the closure with a gesture. No. 299’s lips moved:

“Is that all?”

Accustomed to being ‘sirred’ to the last, the Governor reddened. But the accent was so refined that he decided not to mention it.

“Yes, that’s all.”

“Thank you. Good-morning.”

The eyes shone from under the brows, the smile curled the lips under the long, fine, slightly hooked nose; the man loped easily to the door. He carried his hands well. He made no noise going out. Damn! The fellow had looked so exactly as if he had been thinking, ‘You poor devil!’ The Governor gazed round his office. Highly specialised life, no doubt! The windows had bars; it was here that he saw refractory prisoners in the morning, early. And, thrusting his hands into his pockets, he frowned....

Outside, the head warder, straight, blue-clothed, grizzled, walked ahead, with a bunch of keys.

“All in order,” he said to the blue-clothed janitor. “No. 299--going out. Anyone waiting for him?”

“No, sir.”

“Right. Open!”

The door clanged under the key.

“Good-day to you,” said the head warder.

The released prisoner turned his smiling face and nodded; turned it to the janitor, nodded again, and walked out between them, putting on a grey felt hat. The door clanged under the key.

“Smiling!” remarked the janitor.

“Ah! Cool customer,” said the head warder. “Clever man, though, I’m told.”

His voice sounded resentful, a little surprised, as if he had missed the last word by saying it....

Hands in pockets, the released prisoner walked at leisure in the centre of the pavement. An October day of misty sunshine, and the streets full of people seeking the midday meal. And if they chanced to glance at this passer-by their eyes would fly away at once, as a finger flies from a too hot iron....

2 §

On the platform the prison chaplain, who had a day off and was going up to town, saw a face under a grey hat which seemed vaguely familiar.

“Yes,” said a voice. “Late--299. Raider.”

The chaplain felt surprise.

“Oh, ah!” he stammered. “You went out to-day, I think. I hope you----”

“Don’t mention it!”

The train came clattering in. The chaplain entered a third-class compartment; Late--299 followed. The chaplain experienced something of a shock. Extremely unlike a prisoner! And this prisoner, out of whom he had, so to speak, had no change whatever these two years past, had always made him feel uncomfortable. There he sat opposite, turning his paper, smoking a cigarette, as if on terms of perfect equality. Lowering his own journal, the chaplain looked out of the window, trying to select a course of conduct; then, conscious that he was being stared at, he took a flying look at his _vis-à-vis_. The man’s face seemed saying: “Feel a bit awkward, don’t you? But don’t worry. I’ve no ill feeling. You have a devilish poor time.”

Unable to find the proper reply to this look, the chaplain remarked:

“Nice day. Country’s looking beautiful.”

Late--299 turned those shining eyes of his towards the landscape. The man had a hungry face in spite of his smile; and the chaplain asked:

“Will you have a sandwich?”

“Thanks....”

“Forgive my enquiring,” said the chaplain presently, blowing crumbs off his knees, “but what will you do now? I hope you’re going to----” How could he put it? ‘Turn over a new leaf?’ ‘Make good?’ ‘Get going?’ He could not put it; and instead took the cigarette which Late--299 was offering him. The man was speaking too; his words seemed to come slowly through the smoke, as if not yet used to a tongue.

“These last two years have been priceless.”

“Ah!” said the chaplain hopefully.

“I feel right on top.”

The chaplain’s spirit drooped.

“Do you mean,” he said, “that you don’t regret--that you aren’t--er----?”

“Priceless!”

The man’s face had a lamentable look--steely, strangely smiling. No humility in it at all. He would find Society did not tolerate such an attitude. No, indeed! He would soon discover his place.

“I’m afraid,” he said kindly, “that you’ll find Society very unforgiving. Have you a family?”

“Wife, son, and daughter.”

“How will they receive you?”

“Don’t know, I’m sure.”

“And your friends? I only want to prepare you a little.”

“Fortunately I have private means.”

The chaplain stared. What a piece of luck, or was it--a misfortune?

“If I’d been breakable, your prison would have broken me all right. Have another cigarette?”

“No, thank you.”

The chaplain felt too sad. He had always said nothing could be done with them so long as their will-power was unbroken. Distressing to see a man who had received this great lesson still so stiff-necked; so far from profiting by it. And, lifting his journal, he tried to read. But those eyes seemed boring through the print. It was most uncomfortable. Most!...

II

1 §

In the withdrawing-room of a small house near Kew Gardens, Mrs. Philip Raider was gazing at a piece of pinkish paper in her hand, as if it had been one of those spiders of which she had so constitutional a horror. Opposite her chair her son had risen; and against the wall her daughter had ceased suddenly to play Brahms’ Variations on a theme by Haydn.