‘I could tell ’em somethin’,’ said Jenny, ‘couldn’t I?’
‘No, Jenny. I’m serious. I’m goin’ to write a book one day. You don’t understand. I know ever such a lot about it.’
‘Do you, Bob?’
‘Yes. I’m goin’ to write a novel.’
‘Are you? An’ I ’spect you’ll make me your heroine, won’t you?’
She was vulgar, ignorant, detestable. And vain into the bargain. He could kill her.
No, no. He was merely maddened. She was artless, innocuous, innocent. ‘You’ll make me your heroine.’ A charming and tentative observation. She supposed, because he loved her, that he would make her his ‘heroine.’ After all, what right had he to expect any intelligence from her?
‘They don’t have “heroines” in books, nowadays, Jenny.’
‘Yes they do,’ said Jenny. (She was perfectly secure on the point.) ‘An’ they have heroes, too.’
‘No, they don’t, Jenny. “Heroines” are out of date.’
‘Don’t be so silly, Bob. ’Course they have heroines. You got to have a girl, what goes through it all, haven’t you?’
‘Yes, but you don’t make them “heroines” any longer.’
‘Don’t be silly, Bob. ’Course you do.’
‘But you don’t, Jenny.’
‘All right, then. You don’t. You know more about it than me.’
‘You might have protagonists,’ compromised Bob. . . .
‘Prowhattonists?’
‘Protagonists.’
‘Well,’ said Jenny, ‘that’s a good thing.’ But she was speaking satirically.
At this point they had reached Oxford Street, and were opposite Mudie’s. Their way to Doughty Street lay to the right. With a vague hope of fooling her into prolonging the walk, he tried to lead her up in the direction of the Museum. But she would have none of it. ‘No, this way, dear,’ she said. The snow was already settling on the ground.
‘You and your old pro Whatsiznames,’ she said. . . They walked on in silence. She began to hum.
‘An author gave me a book of his once,’ she said. . . .
An author! His blood ran cold. This was too much. She had been to Paris. A languishing husband loved her hopelessly. Now authors gave her books. Authors. She had smitten him where he could bear it least.
‘Oh – how’s that?’
‘Oh, he met me one night, an’ took me back to his flat. There wasn’t nothing in it. He gave me a drink, an’ asked me to tell him my story.’
‘Did you?’
‘Oh, yes. I told him something. He said I was so young he wanted to know how I got started. Then he gave me his book, and said I’d find myself in it – or somethin’ like that. It was only me, under another name, he said. . . .’
‘What a damned fool,’ said Bob.
‘He wasn’t a damned fool at all,’ she said. ‘He was very nice.’ (He had offended her now, Heaven help him.)
‘I am sorry. Perhaps he wasn’t.’
‘I think you’re jealous, aren’t you?’
‘Yes. I am. Some people get all the best of it.’
‘Well, you needn’t be jealous of him, ’cos he wasn’t interested in me.’
‘Oh, Jenny, I love you too much. That’s what’s the matter.’
‘Well, don’t be so silly.’ And she pressed his hand again forgivingly.
And how could he complain? Languishing husbands might love her to distraction; authors might give her books. She might go to Paris. But she was here now, forgiving him with little pressures – his ‘girl.’ She had said she loved him.
‘Oh, Jenny, dear. Won’t you get a job?’
‘Yes. I’ll get a job – if you can find me one. ’S’matter of fact I’m after one now.’
‘Oh – what’s that?’
‘It’s as a dancing instructress. I’m quite good at dancin’. I’ve been in a chorus, you know.’
‘Have you?’
He had now to deal with an actress. Would it ever end?
‘Yes. Well, this job’s as a dancin’ instructress in a place in Soho. I got it through my friend. I got a letter saying Will you please come along next Tuesday in evening dress, an’ we will give you your instructions. That’s what they said. That looks as though I got it, don’t it?’
‘Yes. It looks like it.’
They had now entered Theobald’s Road, and were not far from their destination.
‘Only I haven’t got an evening dress. That’s the trouble.’ ‘How much is an evening dress?’
‘Oh – I could get one down Berwick Street for three guineas, I expect.’
‘Do you think you’ll get the job?’
‘Oh yes. I think I’ll get it all right. My friend says I’ve got it already, for sure.’
‘I’ll give it you.’
‘What – will you give me an evening dress?’
‘Yes. I’ll bring the money next time.’
She assumed a simple-hearted detachment.
‘Well, I’ll tell you what. That ain’t such a bad idea as it sounds. I wouldn’t take it – not in the ordinary way —’
(She would never, he perceived, under any circumstances take anything; and she never, under any circumstances, failed to take everything.)
‘. . . Not in the ordinary way I wouldn’t. But this would be an Investment. Wouldn’t it? It’s like an Investment – ain’t it?’
‘I’ll bring it along next time,’ he said.
‘No. It would be an investment, wouldn’t it?’ But her voice was insecure with inward glee.
‘I hope so, Jenny. I only want you to get a job, that’s all.’
She snuggled up to him.
‘You ain’t half good, Bob, ain’t you? An’ I’ll wear it when we go away together, shall I?’
She intertwined her fingers in his. ‘I’ll wear it for my Bob. How’s that?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I’ll be kissin’ you in the street one of these days, Bob, you know – jes’ by accident.’
A more perfect demonstration of cupboard love he could not have imagined possible. She was flagrant, intemperate.
‘Accidents will happen,’ he said, wearily.
‘They will,’ she said. . . .
‘Hullo, here we are,’ he said. ‘Here’s your Doughty Street.’
‘Yes. Here we are. My word. Ain’t it just snowin’!’
It was snowing in Doughty Street, and the remaining moments with the woman he loved might be counted. The pavement was already covered with a white carpet, glistening and sound-deadening.
‘Did you know you lived in the same Street as Dickens, Jenny?’
‘What – do I?’
‘Yes. That’s his house over the way.’
‘Was that where he lived, then?’
‘Yes.’
‘I guess he was a silly old man – wasn’t he, Bob?’
‘Was he?’
‘Yes,’ said Jenny. She was secure on this point too. ‘He was a silly old man with a beard.’
They walked on in silence.
‘Well, when am I goin’ to see you again, Jenny?’
‘Whenever you like, darling.’
‘Oh – I must give you that pound.’ He gave it her. ‘And I’ll bring those three guineas along next time.’
‘Thanks ever so much, dear.’ She pressed his hand, still intertwined with her own. ‘And then we’ll go away, after Christmas, shall we?’
‘Yes, dear. . . . Well, when shall I see you? I can’t have any more evenings off till next Thursday. I had to make up stories to get this one.’
‘What – did you make up stories?’
‘Yes. I think it’d be better if we gave it a rest for a bit. How about next Monday?’
‘Do you want a rest from me, then, Bob?’
‘Yes. You’re better in small doses, Jenny.’
And it was true. She had worn him out. He was, in a manner, dead weary of her.
‘Well – this is me, dear,’
she said, and smiled and stopped. He retained her hand.
‘What a fine house, Jenny. Which is your room?’
‘Oh. Your poor little Jenny’s right up at the top.’
‘Well – what about Monday, Jenny – 3.30 – same place?’
‘Monday, 3.30? Right you are, dear. I’ll be there.’
‘You’re sure you’ll be there, Jenny?’
‘Yes. I promise I will.’
‘Promise solemnly?’
‘Yes. I promise solemnly. Look. I promise on my Mother’s Life. There.’
What was this? Her Mother’s Life? Was this a greater concession than her Liberty? Her Mother’s Life. Perhaps he had stumbled upon a formula. It was worth looking into.
‘But your Mother’s dead,’ he said, ‘isn’t she?’
‘Well. I promise on my Mother’s Grave, then. I wouldn’t do that, would I?’
Her Mother’s Grave. It sounded almost as if it would do the trick. ‘Well, go on. Promise.’
‘I promise on my Mother’s Grave,’ said Jenny, ‘that I’ll meet you.’
(At any rate she is promising me, thought Bob, on her Evening Dress, that she will meet me.)
‘And name the time,’ he demanded.
‘I promise on my Mother’s Grave,’ said Jenny, ‘that I’ll meet you at 2.30.’
‘Three-thirty! Three-thirty!’
Her inconsequence was awful. Her Mother’s Grave would have been wasted on thin air.
‘Sorry,’ said Jenny, ‘I promise on my — ’
‘All right, dear, all right. 3.30 – same place.’
‘Right you are, dear.’
‘Good-bye, Jenny.’
‘Good-bye, Bob.’
She put up her face so that he might kiss her. He kissed her. He put his arms around her, and surrounded his desires. The snow fell. His own Jenny. From her mouth he accepted intimations of her tender relenting being along his own. In love, he was her invalid: she was sustenance, assuagement, calm. Briefly he was clinging to violets and paradise. It was over.
‘Good-bye, dear,’ she said.
‘Good-bye.’ He clung to her hand as she moved away. ‘Oh, Jenny – Don’t go! Kiss me again.’
‘Very well, dear.’
The assuagement was renewed. She soothed, she appeased, she intoxicated. She cured. She inspired with sweetness his remotest nerves. She was Jenny, that was all – Jenny – his only draught to summon the gardens of forgetfulness. And she was giving him her best. . . .
‘There,’ she said. . . .
‘Oh, Jenny, I do want you so. I’m dyin’ for you. I am!’
‘Well, Bob – you can’t say I am not Nice to you, can you?’
‘No.’
‘Well – good-bye, dear.’
‘Good-bye.’
He watched her, broken-hearted, as she let herself in with a key. She waved and smiled at him. The door closed: she was gone to her secrets.
He was trudging up Doughty Street again in the snow. It snowed, in heavy, luscious, rapid, even flakes.
CHAPTER XXXVI
THERE WAS A great deal of freakishness and fantasia in the world next morning.
To begin with, it was colder than you could ever remember it having been in the course of your life. Ella, making up the sandwiches for the bar, accidentally spilt some mustard on to her fingers. She drew her hand away as though she had been burnt. It was as cold as that.
Then the snow, which had apparently not ceased falling through the night, was thick upon the ground and the roofs, and was still falling. If you looked out of the window, and watched it falling, you could hypnotically and giddily imagine that you were going up, up, up – as though in some universal elevator. . . . Fantastic enough in itself. Then there was the unfamiliar light. Ella, with her usual unconscious genius, described it perfectly: ‘It ain’t half a bad light, ain’t it?’ she said. It was bad. It was evil. It weighed on the soul, and played every kind of trick. Things that you thought were clean, were dirty, and things that you thought were white were not. Sugar was a despondent grey, and bread was the colour of mud.
Then, when the house opened, you could hear nothing of the first few arrivals until the door creaked open and they were in with you. Their arrival was in itself an achievement, which they emanated in white steam. Also they left brittle cakes and oddments of muddy snow on the floor – messes which Bob would have to clear away.
He and Ella were a little reserved with each other. He had been absent last night and she must have heard the story of his stepmother. You could not hope to fool Ella (that dexterous interpreter of his soul) with stepmothers. She said nothing, but you could see what she thought. ‘You and your stepmothers!’ But she said nothing, because she could not take the risk. By some impossible fluke Bob might actually have had a stepmother who was ill. If that was so, then it was a question of family relationships. And, in Ella’s unquestioning mentality, any sort of family relationship involved, axiomatically and unhesitatingly, Love. Therefore, if by any chance she was mistaken, to make fun of it would not be ‘kind.’ From love and kindness her good soul was constructed.
Her nose, this morning, was dreadfully red. She did not know it was red: Bob did not object to it being red: but it was. Why, in the cold weather, were plain women’s noses always red, while beautiful women’s weren’t? You would have thought the atmosphere would have afflicted them all alike. But no: it was a law of nature. Unto those who have, it shall be given: unto those who have not, it shall be taken away. Ella was born plain, so her nose went red when it was chilly.
As for Bob, this morning, his mind was diverted in a curious way. He had suddenly decided to buy himself a dark blue suit, and literally could think of nothing else.
Jenny was too much for him. At the moment, what he required (he believed) was morale. There was no morale so great as that conferred by a good suit. He was going to get the real article this time. He would surprise himself and Jenny with it. He would astonish Ella with it. He would appal ‘The Midnight Bell’ with it. He was going to Moss’s for it.
Of the last five pounds he had drawn, he had three pounds ten left. That had to go for her evening dress. He would draw another ten pounds. Six on the suit, and four to spend on Jenny. . . . Only sixty pounds left. He had eighty once. Was he going to the devil? Damn it, there was precisely one thing now which could provide him with tangible pleasure in life. A suit. He would go this afternoon and she would see him wearing it on Monday. Life had its compensations.
CHAPTER XXXVII
THE CASHIER DID not so much as glance at Bob as he slipped across the ten pounds that afternoon. Bob wondered whether the cashier had any idea of what was happening. Twenty pounds in little over two weeks was heavy going.
He walked down to Moss’s. It was well to be out in the streets. The snow still fell thickly, and on the ground it was frozen. It had been cleared away from the main thoroughfares, but in the side streets it was shocking. You continually found yourself walking without advancing and making an exhibition of yourself. This was in direct contrast to all the little children abroad in the streets, whose sole pleasure it was to run like the devil in order to experience, for one brief instant, the joys of advancing without walking.
Wonderful transitions befell London. Bob felt that this snow was an interlude. Life could not be properly resumed, as it were, until it thawed.
The premises of Messrs. Moss are at the top of Bedford Street. He walked down Bedford Street a little way. He was a bit scared. After all, it was a swell place. Swell. He mustn’t use words like that, even in thought. They betrayed his commonness. To the true swell, nothing was swell. Besides, Moss’s was not a swell place. By the highest standards, certainly not. It was merely swell to him.
He entered. The atmosphere was dark. There were mounds of cloth, and one or two assistants. The latter took no notice of him. The astonishing fancy that they knew he was a waiter, and were going to have nothing to do with him at all, flashed across his mind. He went up to one of them. br />
‘Yes, sir?’
‘I want a suit.’
It sounded so inadequate and bald. But what, in like circumstance, would your true swell have said?
‘(Yes, sir.) Here!’
Assistant called to assistant. Moss’s was set in motion for him. ‘This way, sir,’ said another assistant.
He was led down some stairs, and found himself in a little cubicle surrounded by mirrors. The assistant deserted him. Other people were being Tried On each side of him. He could hear them talking, and grunting into their trousers.
He examined his profile. He was rottenly dressed. But he wasn’t bad looking, if you gave him a chance. He wasn’t half bad looking really. Half. There you were again. As bad as ‘swell.’
Another assistant entered, and attacked the matter in a brighter spirit.
‘Yes, sir. What kind of suit would you like, sir?’
‘Well, I want a blue one, really. Double breasted.’
Why had he said he wanted one ‘really’? Why had he apologized for wanting a suit?
‘Yes, sir.’
The assistant vanished. He returned, a few minutes later, with three blue suits. Without comment he helped Bob on with the coat of one of them. It was horrible – about the same blue that you see in the sky. Was this suit business, after all, going to be a failure? Bob looked at himself.
‘No,’ said Bob. ‘I don’t think I quite like that pattern . . .’
‘Very well, sir,’ said the assistant, but Bob was afraid he was wounded.
On went the next. The assistant was wasting no time. Bob looked at himself. The assistant looked at him.
‘M’m . . . .’ said Bob.
‘That’s beautiful across the shoulders, sir,’ said the assistant.
‘Let’s have a look at the other,’ said Bob.
Another lightning change. The assistant caressed Bob’s back.
‘Ah – that’s your suit, sir,’ he said tenderly.
And, indeed, it appeared to be.
‘Yes. . . .’ said Bob. And looked at himself.
Now the tragedy and evil of buying a ready-made suit is this – that it ends, just like that, in ‘Yes. . . .’ You think it would be a good idea if you bought a suit; you delightedly resolve to buy a suit; you work yourself up into a heavenly climax about a suit – and then suddenly it is all over and you are merely saying ‘Yes. . . .’ You stare at it. You pat the pockets; you turn round and look at yourself sideways; you see what it would look like if it wasn’t buttoned. But whatever you do, there is nothing else to be said. ‘Yes. . . .’ You look at the cuffs – but they’re no help to you – they’re excellent. You examine the lining – it couldn’t be better. Perhaps it is too tight under the arms. But it is not. It is no good. You are faced by the depressing fact that you are going to buy it.