And she was taken out a good deal by Mr. Tom Rocket and Mr. Merril Marsden.
Mr. Tom Rocket was a slightly competent young comedian of thirty, who played a small part (that of a clergyman) in “Little Girl,” and who had, at a quite early stage of the tour, betrayed a preference for Jackie. He was a young man with an ill face, thwarted aspirations, a common manner, but a character of strong sentiment and principle. Indeed he had first been drawn towards Jackie on account of her moral integrity and as one in possession of what he termed her sex’s Most Precious Jewel — to wit, chastity, which he took for granted (by the way) on quite insufficient evidence.
He had, in fact, conceived a slow admiration for her which had become daily more obvious and had at last culminated in his confessing his love for her. Upon which a flood-gate of metaphor had been loosed upon the situation, the principal and most recurrent comparison being that of Jackie’s to God’s Snows — which she was (he said) as White as — if not as Cold — (which he sometimes thought her). He also sometimes made more particularized references to Mont Blanc, which foreign summit he had not personally visited, but credited with the utmost detachment, purity, and chill.
Jackie, who had from the first assumed a passive, and if possible dampening rôle in this affair, at once said (according to a stale formula) that she was Very Sorry. She apologized, in fact, for being as White as God’s Snows, but made it clear how difficult it was for her…. There was really no solution to the situation. He, however (and perhaps sympathizing with her difficulty), laid no blame upon her shoulders, and was not exacting. Further to being as White as God’s Snows nothing was expected of her.
A kind of mutual agreement therefore arose, that she should go out to lunch, take walks, or visit the pictures with him — merely Being, within the time allotted, as White as God’s Snows, and considering her part of the business fulfilled. What satisfaction to either party there was in this, she left to him; but he appeared to be perfectly satisfied. The two facts — first, that he had a wife in London (understood to be of a far from Alpine nature) — second, that he himself was a confirmed drunkard — while leading Mr. Rocket into constant metaphorical beatings of the breast and declarations that he was not Good Enough for her, and could Never Come to her with Clean Hands — never succeeded in striking him as adequate causes for breaking the attachment. And when Jackie begged (as she so often did) that he would forget the matter and say no more, the instant threats, on his part, not only of self-destruction, but of Going Berserk (which was obviously much worse) caused her to conciliate him with the promise to remain that Something Worth Living For which he so emphatically declared she was. For although Jackie had been threatened with the self-destruction of her suitors ever since the age of thirteen, the whole manifestations of their devotions to her had been so utterly incomprehensible to her, that she still had a lurking fear that her imagination was lacking somewhere, and that they might. Also in this case there was a question of drink, wherein she thought, perhaps, she should not fail him.
All this did not pass by unnoticed by the company of “Little Girl,” even while yet on tour; and soon the two names were coupled and it was rumoured around on all sides that the key to the situation was to be found in whether Mr. Tom Rocket could, or whether Mr. Tom Rocket could not, Keep off the Whisky. An opportunity for highmindedness being immediately scented out, as well as for reconciliation and disinterested altruism, the thing grew at an intensive rate, until at last it came back to Jackie, who was told, quietly but firmly one night, by a mutual acquaintance, that Mr. Rocket was the best fellow in the world, but what Jackie had to do was to Keep Mr. Rocket off the Whisky. Now in so far as Jackie had not entered the theatrical business (as was partially suggested) to keep her associates off the Whisky, and in so far as she sincerely felt that Mr. Rocket’s Whisky was, fundamentally, his own problem, she took some offence at this friendly caution. She was also angered by the coupling of her name with Mr. Rocket, and decided in future to treat him with greater coolness. This, however, in face of his too subservient infatuation, not to say further threats of Norse behaviour, she was not able properly to do, and the thing dragged on until they came to London.
Here, however, and on the third night of the show, he succumbed entirely to liquor, and passing Jackie in a passage, assumed a misty kind of appraising attitude, and affirmed, in a thick voice, not that Jackie was as White as God’s Snows, but Wizegossnose — which was an ill-timed, if not definitely frivolous abbreviation of the familiar sentiment. Jackie passed by with an unfeigned look of disgust, and the next evening, intending not to speak to him again, very obviously avoided him and hoped that the thing was now at an end.
But shortly after the interval she was arrested in a corner of the stage by one Mr. Phillip Genaro, a young Italian singer who had a number to himself and was as highminded as any, who asked her what she had been Doing with Poor Tom.
Having expressed complete innocence, she was informed that the gentleman was at that very moment having to be Held Down, and kept away at all costs from dressing-room Razors, which he was glancing at in a sinister fashion. Jackie again expressed innocence and indifference, but Mr. Genaro, taking this to be mere hauteur, recommended tolerance as a motto in life, and begged that they would Patch it Up. This presumption of a relationship again angered Jackie extremely; but seeing Mr. Rocket, a few minutes later, gazing at her from a corner in apparently genuine desolation, dutifully went over to him and reinstated the old conditions.
It was thus that apart from her work at the theatre she was seeing something of Mr. Rocket at this time: and she was also seeing something of Mr. Merril Marsden, the gentleman who had spoken to her at the dinner in Manchester. Mr. Marsden, in fact, was by now in the habit of asking her to lunch at least once every week, and that with apparently disinterested motives. She attended these meals solely in her capacity of First Intellectual Chorus Girl, and no reference was made either to her character or beauty. Indeed, the purely scholastic atmosphere obtaining on these occasions would have tired Jackie a great deal, had she not been alive to the compliment of his invitations: for whereas, in her dealings with Mr. Tom Rocket, the sole topic of absorbing interest was Jackie herself, in her dealings with Mr. Marsden the sole topic of absorbing interest was Mr. Marsden himself. Mr. Marsden was interested in himself to a degree far beyond spasmodic egotism. He had reached, rather, a phase wherein he could (and did without cessation) treat himself academically, being quite willing to have new lights thrown upon him, fresh data collected about him, or unusual schools of thoughts rising about him; and remaining admirably broadminded, even if, in the last resort, dogmatic concerning himself. In fact Jackie’s meetings with him (in which he did nearly all the talking) at last resolved themselves into little else but laboured and sober debates upon himself.
From the first few meetings the thing was detached, and a First Intellectual Chorus Girl’s interest in the matter implicit. “Of course, I happen to be born that way,” Mr. Marsden would explain in these early stages. Or, “Of course, That is Me (all over).” Or, “Of course, I can’t help it, but that Simply Happens to be My Way of Looking at things.” Or, “I have no doubt I may be wrong, but I simply cannot help it.” There was but the lightest disparagement of differently disposed individuals: he was merely giving Jackie an elementary schooling in the mysteries of his character. Later he became more detailed, and a quantity of other axioms and immutable laws of his personality transpired. It transpired, for instance, that Mr. Marsden was not Easily Roused, but when so, an implacable and even dangerous opponent. It transpired that Mr. Marsden was Extremely Sensitive, though he showed (for such was his character) Little of this. It transpired that Mr. Marsden was (though he said it himself) an Artist to his Finger Tips. It transpired that Mr. Marsden was of course (and this perhaps was his most significant characteristic) Incurably Frivolous. It transpired that he was Very Sorry for this, but it could not be helped. He was, in fact, Cursed with a Sense of Humour. At least Mr. Marsden said tha
t he was cursed by this. But as he also spent a great part of his time Thanking God that he had been Blessed with a Sense of Humour (at least), one didn’t quite know where one was. Also one waited for manifestations of his affliction (or good fortune) without result.
With this Sense of Humour — and in the same way as Mr. Rocket had taken Jackie’s spotlessness for granted — Mr. Marsden immediately credited Jackie. Indeed this was where, he explained, they were in such sympathy; and their lunches together generally ended in their sitting dreamily over their coffee rather morosely thanking God that they had been cursed with a sense of Humour.
Jackie, to whom all this meant little, and whose sincere secret conviction was that Mr. Marsden was a damned fool, nevertheless entered, in an apparently whole-hearted spirit, into these debates; and was always ready at hand to come up and consider his character in a new light. And apart from the compliment he paid her by seeking her suggestions, he invariably gave her what appeared to her to be an extremely good lunch, promised her his paternal protection, and (what was of graver import) spoke of a play in which he was interested, and in which there was a part, he said, suited to her, which he might get for her. He also promised her many introductions to influential persons without keeping his promise.
CHAPTER X
THE THREE WEEKS
I
THUS it was, with “Little Girl,” and Mr. Rocket, and Mr. Marsden, and Mrs. Lover at West Kensington, and a ticket at Mudie’s, that Jackie occupied herself throughout the winter. And “Little Girl” moved to two different theatres, and the cast and various numbers were altered, and it still did steady business.
And one morning, suddenly, the sun was yellow and quiet in a hushed Talgarth Road, West Kensington, and the spring had come….
And with that yellowness and quietness, and that poignantly frail air upon everything, that puzzling sad hopefulness which made itself felt even in this distressed neighbourhood, Jackie’s heart, which had numbed itself throughout the winter with a dull sense of loss and unhappiness, now responded seekingly and achingly to the promise of the season.
She had heard from Richard, as she now called him, only once since that night in Sheffield. He had written from Brittany, telling her something about himself, but talking of no further meeting when he returned to England.
At times Jackie could not help wondering — and Jackie, being what she was, conceived herself at such moments as one verging on abysses of thought — she could not help wondering why Richard was now away in Brittany and the whole thing was so out of the question. She put this to herself as a thing which she would not allow to enter her calculations, but at times she was enormously interested in it hypothetically.
Jackie, indeed (but this only at sleepless midnight, when the great moral tide of her twenty years was at its lowest ebb), could really not see why people couldn’t get Divorces…. She did not know much about these things, had never dreamed of them as anything ever touching herself, and the mere word had a sort of base practicality about it which chilled her. But, for all that, when people were really unhappy …
But, of course, in that case, people would have to be absolutely terribly in love with people….
Well, she could do that all right, on her side….
II
And then, suddenly, and again by telegram, he announced that he had returned, and was coming to see her. And he arrived one evening, two hours before the show, she meeting him at the station on a hot, crowded, dizzying summer’s day.
And he saw her round to the show, and had supper with her afterwards, at Lines’. And he told her that he had come to London about his book, and was going to stay in London for about three weeks.
And sitting there, after the show, in the warm pink-shaded lights, at half-past eleven — but with the night, somehow, still young, and wild, and soft, and mysterious — it seemed to Jackie as though a sudden paradise had been opened before her eyes — as though another reprieve had come — yet another — and she could glory in it. And they talked and talked. And as they talked, and the black bent waiters hovered about, as though in half-leering but eagerly conspiratorial possession of their secret, she looked at his warm yet clear-cut face, which was now so infinitely dear to her, and let her whole soul recline upon the three weeks ahead.
*
And those three weeks contained no disappointment for Jackie. Indeed they ever afterwards stood out as perhaps the most precious weeks in her existence. They were days of dustiness and blazing London sunshine; and he met her every day, and took her everywhere. And every evening, when the skies were red, behind London house-tops, and the air was cool, he was softly escorting her round to the theatre. That one moment of departure was as dear to her as any other, with its sweet surety of return. She never forgot those red cool skies, and those soft escortings to the stage-door….
And the days themselves, and the trips they had…. Hampstead — Maidenhead — Richmond — Cookham — Shepperton — Hindhead — Virginia Water…. And sunshine always, and green and cool places, and water…. And lunches…. Innumerable lunches…. And teas … teas by the river … languorous but cool teas by the river, with cress and bread and butter…. And the railway … always by railway … first-class — alone … or with unknowing and foolish people of whom fun might be made…. And always the fear of being late for the theatre … and always the taxi just in time … and always the red, cool sky at the end. The red cool sky, behind the house-tops, after the full green joyous day.
And nothing ever said, nothing ever admitted. And sometimes, because of this, a sadness and melancholy on Jackie’s part, in so far as it was possible to be sad, so long as he was there….
And the whole thing so manifest and very simple…. Jackie, on the one hand, a normal human being, striving frailly and unprotectedly to live to the full, to spread herself emotionally, and fulfill her instincts. And seeing in him her chance to do so, her chance to throw down all barriers, to devote herself to one sufficient and beauteous object, to have and give protection, and warm herself for ever….
And he, on the other hand, a less normal and more aggressive and knowledgeable individual — but recognizing in her that warm, transparent, inner life of hers — that inner life working itself out behind her grave, clear, foolish, and to him extraordinarily beautiful face. And yearning to deliver and console that inner life; and knowing, with too great a conviction, of his power to do so….
That inner spiritual life which Jackie always carried about with her, like a burden … that inner life only to be caught at work occasionally, and unawares, in a thoughtful, unconscious glance … that contemplative, optimistic, puzzled, striving and never confessed inner life … to which everything he might say was quietly referred, for sober meditation, and from which all her speech sprung automatically, and all her too artless tones and self-betraying looks….
The charm of Jackie, indeed, was overwhelming.
And because the whole thing was so obvious and ingenuous, it hardly needed confession, and they knew this. It was simply with them…. It was with them in the roar and tumult of London traffic, with only five minutes to get there, as much as it was with them on the quiet lawn of Skindle’s, with the river calm below, and the quiet, cushioned, vulgar punts floating lazily by…. It was with them as much in the tender invitation of the Waldorf band (with which they sometimes supped), as it was with them on the summit of the Sussex Downs, with nothing but the sky and the wind, and the brown sunlight scudding over a hazed and map-like county beneath. It was with them at all stations — at journey’s end or journey’s beginning, that is — either at the rural and earnest quietude of the Hassocks halting-place, or under the gaunt blackened roof, and sense of fear and hurry, of the Victoria terminus. And what was going to be done about it neither of them had any idea, and (quite genuinely) neither of them cared.
And nothing was done about it. One week slipped by, and she still had two weeks to recline upon — two weeks slipped by and she still had one week to recline
upon — and the last week slipped by (and there was never any suggestion that the time should be prolonged) until there were but two days left. And then there was a last, sad, brilliant day; followed by a pale, nervous, anti-climactic morning, upon which the senseless sun blazed as brightly as ever. And she had lunch with him, and spent the afternoon with him, and had tea with him, and at last saw him off at the station to Brighton. He was going there to stay with his brother.
It was a swift moment, that of the parting — under the clock. A vast engine was hissing near by, and they were shouting at each other like sailors giving orders before being submerged in a sea of noise: and at one moment he was there, and at the next he was gone, and she was looking vaguely at the three-and-sixpenny novels on the bookstall….
It was always at Stations, wasn’t it, she thought, as she walked away….
And having nothing to do, and nowhere to go, she walked across Green Park, where she sat down for a little by the water, in mute contemplation: and on to Piccadilly, from whence she walked up and down Regent Street for some time: and then she went into Shaftesbury Avenue, and turning up a side street, unescorted, entered the theatre. Here the stage was wrapped in complete darkness and deathly silence, and she appeared to be the first to have arrived.
And she went up the stairs, and entered the deserted dressing-room. And the casement window of this looked out upon a crowded Soho back-street, and the same, always the same, red, cool sky. And everything was very unfamiliar in the dying light of day, since she had never before seen a dressing-room other than in a blaze of light and noise.
And she sat down in the dusk, amid the lifeless glimmer of cast-off clothes, the lurid smear of greasepaint and carmine, the towels and littered cosmetics of the virile and absent feminine; and she looked out of the window at the red, cool sky — the red, cool, unknowing, incurious sky — and she wondered where he was now.
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