Nevertheless, when I made the arrangement I did not know that Constance and Dewey were to meet last night, and I certainly did not know that Constance would ask him to dinner this evening. That makes me more anxious than ever. Dewey may be a flamboyant vulgarian, but in the present state of stress he is more likely than not to find that useful if he is in pursuit of Constance. Constance would not have to worry about his feelings, whereas I must get on her nerves atrociously most of the time. If Constance and I were both like Dewey we should never have got into this trouble at all. As it is, I am tortured with anxiety in case Constance is as worried about things as I am. And I would give a great deal to know what I shall be writing in this book after Dewey has gone this evening.
Perhaps this is some sort of poetic revenge on me. Often and often in my books have I worked up to some carefully concealed dénouement, keeping my readers in suspense (as well as I was able) and delighting in the thought that they might be worrying about what was going to happen. Now it is I who is worrying about the dénouement; and it is hardly fair, for a man reading a book, if the worst comes to the worst and he can not bear the suspense, can always turn over and read the last chapter—and I can not, Besides, annoying though it is, I can not stop my author’s instinct from exerting itself, and from trying to work out what would be the most artistic ending. There might be the same happy ending, suitable for weekly magazines, wherein all the troubles blow over and Constance receives me happily into her arms. Or there could be the caveman soft of ending—a pitched battle between Dewey and myself, in which the better man wins, and after which Constance comes obediently to the call of the victor. The victor might either be Dewey or myself. Conveniently, I would be the victor, because (I suppose) I am the hero of this diary. At any rate, I am the only man who appears continuously in its pages. But the convention is dying out; artistically, it would not be a bad ending for Dewey to strike me down, and to bear Constance away with him, leaving me blinded and heart-broken—very deserving, of course, but unsuccessful—writhing on the floor of the flat. Constance would look at me with momentary pity, but Dewey’s iron hand would be on her arm, and she would be carried away by his triumphant passion, out of my life, and with hardly a thought or a regret for the poor devil left behind.
Not a bad ending, but that would be precious poor consolation for me.
To come back to hard facts, a battle between Dewey and myself might be well worth seeing. He can give me an inch in height, and maybe a stone in weight, but I doubt if he is in good condition, and his brute strength would probably leave him early in the fray. And I think my mad rage would aid my skill, instead of discounting it. I have only to think of the struggle to feel within me that cold violence which carried me through the day at Paschendaele, for instance, when the finest division in the British army was torn to bloody rags on the uncut wire, and when the bayonets of the hundred survivors of my battalion ran red to the rifle muzzles. We took no prisoners that day; that is how I feel toward Dewey at the moment. Nine years have not altered me, it seems; yet I was barely nineteen when I took a platoon into action at Paschendaele, and brought seven men out.
I suppose it is typical of an author to plan a way out of his own difficulties by brute force. For his own job a particular dexterity and finesse and low cunning are called for; he has to get his characters into situations and out of them; he has to make love vicariously to all sorts and conditions of women; he has to play upon passion like a violinist upon a violin. Above all, he must be able to use words; his effects entirely depend upon the choice and order of words. Yet no sooner does he find himself in a mess than he is hopeless. The words which flow luxuriously from his fountain pen dry up inconsequently on his tongue; the delicate tact and incredible sympathy with which he treats his heroine vanish utterly when he approaches his wife. With pen and paper before him he is a man of the world, marvelously omniscient, able to deal with any situation which arises, an authority on medicine and the law as well as on the petty complications of the human soul, but take that author and put him in face of the most ordinary and commonplace situation in real life and he degenerates promptly into a frightened child whose only resource is to kick and struggle. I can only hope that if it comes to struggling I shall struggle to good purpose against Dewey.
I realize, of course, that I am frightened to death; maybe it is only by bogies. The serenity which I always try to wear through life has vanished utterly. It must always have been a sham. Yet it has deceived even me all these years. When my manuscripts first began to go out to the publishers—and to come back again with heartrending persistence, I refused to allow myself to be troubled. When I received my first acceptance, and signed my first agreement, I hardly felt elated. When, after all my high hopes, I opened my publisher’s letter and read the amount of my first check—eleven pounds fifteen for six months’ work—I hardly felt depressed. When Mary-round-the-Corner was a success, and I found myself treated with deference in the literary world, and unknown people began inviting me to lunch, and Bond Street photographers began to write to me imploring me to come and have my photograph taken free of all expense, and a publisher allowed me to lunch with him and even to pay the bill, and a new note began to creep into the voices even of people who had known me from childhood, I found myself saying to myself, in puzzled fashion—“Is this success? Oughtn’t I to feel bucked to the teeth about it? Why in hell don’t I?”
Success and failure have never worried me. Women? I don’t think successes and failures even there mattered much to me—and I have known both intimately. I simply have not cared one way or the other. Except, of course, with Constance. With her I care enormously. I care so much that I have written all this chapter without having had anything at all to write about, just to keep myself from thinking about things.
And now there is some one ringing at the front door bell. That must be Dewey, exactly on time. I shall soon know what the next chapter is to be about.
Chapter XV
Constance was very chaming at dinner time. She came into the hall as I opened the door to Dewey, and welcomed him gracefully, although it seemed to me that she was a little reserved, or it may have been shy. Then she thrust us both into the drawing-room, after Dewey had hung up his hat and coat, while she went off to finish getting dinner ready. Dewey threw himself into an arm-chair and gazed about him.
“Not a bad little place you’ve got here, old man,” he said.
“I’m glad you like it,” I answered.
“Wish I could live in town like this,” he went on, “but I’m only a poor blinking clerk, and that means the suburbs for me, of course. Think I’ll write a few books. That brings in the shekels, to all appearances.”
“It doesn’t go much beyond appearances, for all that.”
“That’s what you say,” said Dewey with a wink. “I’ve met you before, you sly old devil, Trevor. Nothing like having two sources of income, I’ll bet Connie doesn’t know how much you have to spend each week.”
I think Constance’s entrance into the room at this point saved Dewey’s life.
“Come along,” said Constance. “It’s all ready.”
Dewey heaved himself out of his chair and pranced across to her. Ceremoniously he drew her arm through his (I felt as though I was being flayed alive as I saw his big hand take her wrist) and struck an attitude.
“Lead me to it,” he declaimed. “Forward the Light Brigade! I care not what perils lie before me, if only you’re at my side, fair lady.”
Constance had declined any help from me when I had come home, and as we entered the dining-room I had my first sight of the result of her preparations. The table looked delightful in the light of the single shaded lamp, the dark oak and the white napkins and the bright silver and the golden tulips blending together perfectly.
“Did you make this soup, Connie?” asked Dewey, two minutes later.
“Of course, I did.”
“Oh, well, I won’t say what I was going to say about it, then. Don’t want t
o make you too puffed up.”
Dewey and Constance did most of the talking during dinner. At least Dewey did nearly all the talking; Constance made polite replies at intervals—I said little, Even if I had wanted to talk I would have had hardly any chance to do so. Most of the time I spent disliking Dewey more every moment.
I could see the good points about him. I could hardly fail there; I think Dewey knew them better than any casual acquaintance could, and displayed them with the dexterity of long practise. He had large hands, well cared for, tanned to a fine shade of brown which was set off by the half-inch of white shirt cuff appearing beyond his sleeve. Those hands were constantly in the picture, and he had a trick of contemplating his nails for a moment and then flashing them away with a gesture which made certain you had not missed them. His well-shaped head was set off by his thick, carefully cut, curly hair. And this head turned steadily from side to side as he addressed his remarks to Constance and myself; profile and full face were made the most of, one even felt that he was conscious and anxious to call attention to the neat back of his head and the close-cropped tanned nape of his neck. And his voice, well modulated, pitched at the right tone, with the hint of head note which marks the singer! It left the listener in no doubt that the surest way to Dewey’s heart would be to tell him what a nice voice he had. And the profile and the hands and the hair and the voice—especially the voice—were given no rest at all.
I could not help marveling at Constance’s wishing to see him again so soon after her experience at the dance yesterday. One would have thought that she would have been surfeited. To me nothing seemed so easy as to grow surfeited of Dewey. But if Constance did not, it made him all the more dangerous. I hated Dewey with a hatred which was almost unrestrainable.
There was only one time when Dewey roused a flash of interest in me.
“I suppose you like this bare table idea,” he said. “And having your meals in a nearly dark room. Some people do, I suppose. But I don’t.”
“Really?” said Constance. As far as I could see she was awed by this sweeping condemnation.
“No,” went on Dewey. “Give me a decent white cloth, every time, and light to see what I’m eating and who I’m talking to.”
“And a band as well?” I said. I could not resist it.
“Yes, a band as well. If you want to enjoy yourself, of course, you must have lights and colors and bands and things. I just don’t believe people when they say they like—this sort of thing.”
“No?”
“No. You can say what you like, but just try to explain to me why the Populars are always full.”
That was what interested me. I had never before been able to talk to any one who thought Populars in good taste.
“You like Populars, then?”
“Of course, I do. There’s always something doin’ there. You can go there as dull as dishwater, but as soon as you see all those nice white tables and pretty girls and the gilding up the walls and on the ceiling and the marble pillars, and you hear the band going like billio, well, damn it—you can’t help but enjoy yourself.”
That settled it, to my mind, for the time being. If Constance ever wanted to elope with this young man, I should let her, gladly. I wouldn’t want her if that was all the taste she had. She could go and spend the rest of her life at Populars with Dewey. But I was perfectly certain that she had better taste than that. I sat back, relieved and satisfied. Dewey did not notice any change in the atmosphere, however. He just said:
“I’ll have a bit more of this, if I may. It’s a jolly good effort on your part, Connie.”
Confound Dewey and his continual “Connie!”
As we finished dinner and lighted our cigarettes over our coffee Dewey looked at his watch.
“Mustn’t keep me too late here,” he said, “I’m not one of your plutocrats who live in town you know. Mustn’t miss my last train from Victoria.”
“What time is that?” asked Constance.
“Eleven-fifteen.—Last night was different. I stopped with young Freddie Burns.”
“I’ll remember all right,” said Constance. There was something different about her tone, however. I noticed the difference, although I could not account for it. At the moment I was too appalled at the prospect of another two hours of Dewey’s society.
Constance murmured something and slipped away to the drawing-room. I bore Dewey without her support for five full minutes, and then I could bear him no longer. I think the culminating point was when he proceeded to offer me gratis criticism on my etchings on the wall. I took him into the drawing-room. I could just bear him if Constance was there as well. When we entered the room Constance seemed to jump guiltily. She was standing by the curb in front of the fire, but I could not see what was the reason for her jumping. I could not see at all, and in a moment I was too busy regretting bringing Dewey into the drawing-room to spend much time in consideration of the problem.
For Dewey with no more ado marched up to the piano. He opened it and ran his fingers up and down the keys; he turned over the music on the stand; he went to the music cabinet and began to look through the music there. Dewey is something of a pianist, and more than something of a singer. I knew that already; what upset me was the certain knowledge that I am nothing of either. I have never been able to give Constance the music she loves, and I have a voice like a crow’s. By labor and effort I have learned something of the vocabulary, so that at a pinch I can display some sort of knowledge of music, but I know from experience that when Constance wants to talk music she finds some one other than myself to talk to, while Constance at the piano, wandering softly through realms whither I can not possibly follow her, is a Constance lost to me for the time being. Yet Dewey would be able to follow her!
“Going to sing something?” said Dewey to Constance.
“If you like.”
They were started. It was Dewey who chose the song, and Dewey who sat down at the piano and ran gaily through the introduction. Strangely enough, Dewey was a more than competent accompanist—quite astonishing in so flamboyant an egotist. But, I realized, as I sat biting my nails in the corner of the room, he must be used to accompanying Constance. They used to sing a good deal together when—when they were betrothed. Constance’s sweet little voice fluttered through the song, voice and music dying away together perfectly at the close. There was a great deal of, impressement in Dewey’s voice as he said, “Thank you.” Constance turned and looked across the room to me. There was a light in her eyes and a smile on her lips. The smile could not have been for me—I am no fellow-musician. I tried to smile back at her, but I am afraid my face was bleak and gray.
“Aren’t you going to sing, Trevor?” asked Dewey.
Confounded impudence on his part, constituting himself Grand Master of Ceremonies and Hereditary Lord High Director of Music in my flat in this fashion! Contance interposed on my behalf.
“It takes an awful lot to persuade him to sing,” she said. “You sing something instead.”
It did not take a great deal to persuade Dewey to sing.
Dewey has a beautiful tenor voice which has been well trained, and he makes good use of it. But any one could tell the sort of man he is, and the trend his thoughts were taking, by the ballads he sang. The Devoted Lover and Araby. Nevertheless, Constance checked him when he showed signs of wanting to sing Parted, and I was amazingly grateful to her. I don’t think I could have borne with Dewey’s sentimental tenor proclaiming “Dearest, our day is over,’ and “You must go back to your life, I must go back to mine.”
“I loathe that song,” said Constance, hastily, “don’t let’s have that one.”
Dewey did not mind; there were lots of others in his repertoire, and he would sing something else instead, invited or uninvited. He sang Because, and he sang it in a fashion which wrung every last cloying drop of sweetness out of it. Yet some good angel inspired him to sing the French words of the last verse. Dewey’s French accent is rather deplorable. “Et pwee tu viang
s ά moi—” Doubtless Dewey thought it was rather beautiful, but, gazing anxiously across at Constance, I could see that she was not of the same opinion. My relief was enormous.
For all that, they were well started. They gabbled happily together at the piano, exchanging views, comparing experiences, and illustrating their arguments with brilliant little interludes on the piano. I would have been bored if I had not been so anxious, as I sat there twisting my thumbs, and gazing anxiously at the clock. How slowly the hands seemed to move! Not until a quarter to eleven could I hope to see Dewey show signs of departure. I caught Constance, more than once, gazing anxiously at the clock, too. But with those bright eyes and flushed cheeks she must be thinking that the hands were moving fast, not slowly. She must be sorry Dewey was to leave so early. Ten o’clock. Three-quarters of an hour more, at least.
“You know, I’m sure your voice has improved since—since I heard it last,” said Constance hastily, with an air of stepping into the breach.
“Thank you, fair lady,” said Dewey. “As a matter of fact, it’s not quite up to the mark tonight. If you hadn’t given me such a dashed good dinner I might do better.”
“Sorry I didn’t burn the cutlets, then,” said Constance. “What are you going to sing now?”
Of all the loathsome specimens I have come across, I think Dewey is the most loathsome. Yet he can sing. Beyond all doubt he can sing—his ability to sing nearly equals his readiness to display his ability. He coaxed her into singing a duet with him, arranging the accompaniment extempore with facile ease.