by George Moore
I don’t think that anyone suffered more than I did in those days. It seems all very silly now when I look back upon it, but it was very real then. It does seem silly to tell that I used to lie awake all night thinking to myself that Mr Congreve was an elegant gentleman and I but a poor serving girl whom he could never look upon as anybody, except one to go to the cellar for coal or to the kitchen to fetch his breakfast. I don’t think I ever hoped he’d fall in love with me. It wasn’t as bad as that. It was the hopelessness of it that set the tears streaming down my cheeks over my pillow, and I used to stuff the sheet into my mouth to keep back the sobs lest my old nurse should hear me; it wouldn’t do to keep her awake for she was very ill at that time; and soon afterwards she died, and then I was left alone, without a friend in the world. The only people I knew were the charwomen that lived in Temple Lane, and the bugler, who began to bully me, saying that I must continue to give him the same money he had had from my old nurse. He caught me on the stair once and twisted my arm till I thought he’d broken it. The month after my old nurse’s death till I went to earn my living as a waiter was the hardest time of all, and Mr Congreve’s kindness seemed to hurt me more than anything. If he’d only spared me his kind words, and not spoken about the extra money he was going to give me for my attendance on his lady, I shouldn’t have felt so much that they had lain side by side in the bed that I was making. She brought a dressing gown to the chambers and some slippers, and then more luggage came along; and I think she must have guessed I was in love with Mr Congreve, for I heard them quarrelling — my name was mentioned; and I said: I can’t put up with it any longer, whatever the next life may be like it can’t be worse than this one for me at least, and as I went to and fro between Temple Lane and the Chambers in Temple Gardens I began to think how I might make away with myself. I don’t know if you know London, Hubert? Yes, he said; I’m a Londoner, but I come here to work every year. Then if you know the Temple, you know that the windows of Temple Gardens overlooked the river. I used to stand at those windows watching the big brown river flowing through its bridges, thinking all the while of the sea into which it went, and that I must plunge into the river and be borne away down to the sea, or be picked up before I got there. It didn’t matter which, for my trouble would be over, and that was all I could think about, making an end to my trouble.
I couldn’t get the Frenchwoman out of my thoughts, she and Mr Congreve sitting together; and her suspicions that I cared for him made her harder on me than she need have been — always coming the missis over me. It was her airs and graces that stiffened my back more than anything else. I’m sure if it hadn’t been that I met Bessie Lawrence I should have done away with myself. She was the woman that used to look after the chambers under Mr Congreve’s. We stopped talking outside the gateway by King’s Bench Walk, if you know the Temple you know where I mean. Bessie kept talking, but I wasn’t listening, only catching a word here and there, not waking up from the dream how to make away with myself till I heard the words: if I had a figure like yours. As nobody had ever spoken about my figure before, I said: now what has my figure got to do with it? You haven’t been listening to me, she said, and I answered that I had only missed the last few words. Just missed the last few words, she said testily: you didn’t hear me telling you there is a big dinner at the Freemason’s Tavern to-night, and they’re short of waiters. But what has that got to do with my figure? I asked. That shows, she rapped out, that you haven’t been listening to me. Didn’t I say that if it wasn’t for my hips and bosom I’d very soon be into a suit of evening clothes and getting ten shillings for the job. But what has that got to do with my figure? I repeated. Your figure is just the one for a waiter’s. Oh, I’d never thought of that, says I, and we said no more. But after leaving her the words kept on in my head: so my figure is just the one for a waiter’s, till my eyes caught sight of a bundle of old clothes that Mr Congreve had given me to sell. A suit of evening clothes was in it. You see Mr Congreve and myself were about the same height and build. The trousers will want a bit of shortening, I said to myself; and I set to work, and at six o’clock I was in them and down at the Freemason’s Tavern answering questions, saying that I had been accustomed to waiting at table.
All the waiting I had done was bringing in Mr Congreve’s dinner from the kitchen to the sitting-room; a roast chicken or a chop, and in my fancy it seemed to me that the waiting at the Freemason’s Tavern would be much the same. The head waiter looked me over a bit doubtfully and asked if I had had experience with public dinners: I thought he was going to turn me down, but they were short-handed so I was taken on, and it was a mess that I made of it, getting in everybody’s way; but my awkwardness was taken in good part and I received ten shillings, which was good money for the sort of work I did that night. But what stood to me was not so much the ten shillings that I earned as the bit I had learned. It was only a bit, not much bigger than a threepenny bit; but I had worked round a table a big dinner, and feeling certain that I could learn what I didn’t know, I asked for another job. I suppose the head waiter could see that there was the making of a waiter in me, for on coming out of the Freemason’s Tavern he stopped me to ask if I was going back to private service as soon as I could get a place. The food I’d had and the excitement of the dinner, the guests, the lights, the talk stood to me, and things seemed clearer than they had ever seemed before. My feet were of the same mind, for they wouldn’t walk towards the Temple, and I answered the head waiter that I’d be glad of another job. Well, said he, you don’t know much about the work, but you’re an honest lad, I think, so I’ll see what I can do for you, and at the moment a thought struck him. Just take this letter, said he, to the Holborn Restaurant. There’s a dinner there and I’ve had word that they’re short of a waiter or two. Be off as fast as you can.
And away I went as fast as my legs could carry me, and they took me there in good time, in front, by a few seconds, of two other fellows who were after the job. I got it. Another job came along, and another and another. Each of them jobs was worth ten shillings to me, to say nothing of the learning of the trade, and having, as I’ve said, the making of a waiter in me, it didn’t take more than about three months for me to be as quick and as smart and as watchful as the best of them, and without them qualities no one will succeed in waiting. I have worked round the tables in the biggest places in London and all over England in all the big towns, in Manchester, in Liverpool and Birmingham; I am well known at the old Hen and Chickens, at the Queen’s and the Plough and Harrow in Birmingham. It was seven years ago that I came here, and here it would seem that I’ve come to be looked on as a fixture, for the Bakers are good people to work for and I didn’t like to leave them when, three years ago, a good place was offered to me, so kind were they to me in my illness. I suppose one never remains always in the same place, but I may as well be here as elsewhere.
Seven years working in Morrison’s Hotel, Page said, and on the second floor? Yes, the second floor is the best in the hotel, the money is better than in the Coffee Room,. and that is why the Bakers have put me here, Albert replied. I wouldn’t care to leave them; they’ve often said they don’t know what they’d do without me. Seven years, Hubert repeated, the same work up the stairs and down the stairs, banging into the kitchen and out again. There’s more variety in the work than you think for, Hubert, Albert answered. Every family is different, and so you’re always learning. Seven years, Page repeated, neither man nor woman, just a perhapser. He spoke these words more to himself than to Nobbs, but feeling he had expressed himself incautiously he raised his eyes and read on Albert’s face that the words had gone home, and that this outcast from both sexes felt her loneliness perhaps more keenly than before. As Hubert was thinking what words he might use to conciliate Albert with her lot, Albert repeated the words: neither man nor woman, yet nobody ever suspected, she muttered, and never would have suspected me till the day of my death if it hadn’t been for that flea that you brought in with you. But what harm did th
e flea do? I’m bitten all over, said Albert, scratching her thighs. Never mind the bites, said Hubert, we wouldn’t have had this talk if it hadn’t been for the fleas and I shouldn’t have heard your story.
Tears trembled on Albert’s eyelids; she tried to keep them back, but they overflowed the lids and were soon running quickly down her cheeks. You’ve heard my story, she said. I thought nobody would ever hear it, and I thought I should never cry again, and Hubert watched the gaunt woman shaking with sobs under a coarse nightshirt. It’s all much sadder than I thought it was, and if I’d known how sad it was I shouldn’t have been able to live through it. But I’ve jostled along somehow, she said, always merry and bright, with never anyone to speak to, not really to speak to, only to ask for plates and dishes, for knives and forks and such like, tablecloths and napkins, cursing betimes the life one has been through, for the feeling cannot help coming over us, perhaps over the biggest as over the smallest, that all our trouble is for nothing and can end in nothing. It might have been better if I had taken the plunge. But why am I thinking these things? It’s you that has set me thinking, Hubert.
I’m sorry if — Oh, it’s no use being sorry, and I’m a great silly to cry like this. I thought that regrets had passed away with the petticoats. But you’ve awakened the woman in me. You’ve brought it all up again. But I mustn’t let on like this; it’s very foolish of an old perhapser like me, neither man nor woman! But I can’t help it.
She began to sob again, and in the midst of her grief the word loneliness was uttered, and when the paroxysm was over, Hubert said: lonely, yes, I suppose it is lonely, and he put his hand out towards Albert. You’re very good, Mr Page, and I’m sure you’ll keep my secret, though indeed I don’t care very much whether you do or not. Now, don’t let on like that again, Hubert said. Let us have a little chat and try to understand each other. I’m sure it’s lonely for you to live without man or without woman, thinking like a man and feeling like a woman. You seem to know all about it, Hubert.
I hadn’t thought of it like that before myself, but when you speak the words I feel you have spoken the truth. I suppose I was wrong to put off my petticoats and step into those trousers. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that, Hubert answered, and the words were so unexpected that Albert forgot her grief for a moment and said: why do you say that, Hubert? Well, because I was thinking, he replied, that you might marry. But I was never a success as a girl. Men didn’t look at me then so I’m sure they wouldn’t now I’m a middle-aged woman. Marriage! whom should I marry? No, there’s no marriage for me in the world, I must go on being a man. But you won’t tell on me, you’ve promised, Hubert. Of course I won’t tell, but I don’t see why you shouldn’t marry. What do you mean, Hubert? You aren’t putting a joke upon me, are you? If you are it’s very unkind. A joke upon you? no, Hubert answered. I didn’t mean that you should marry a man but you might marry a girl. Marry a girl? Albert repeated, her eyes wide open and staring. A girl? Well, anyway, that’s what I’ve done, Hubert replied. But you’re a young man and a very handsome young man too. Any girl would like to have you, and I daresay they were all after you before you met the right girl. I’m not a young man, I’m a woman, Hubert replied. Now I know for certain, cried Albert, you’re putting a joke upon me. A woman! Yes, a woman, you can feel for yourself if you don’t believe me. Put your hand under my shirt; you’ll find nothing there. Albert moved away instinctively, her modesty having been shocked. You see I offered myself like that feeling you couldn’t take my word for it. It isn’t a thing there can be any doubt about. Oh, I believe you, Albert replied. And now that that matter is settled, Hubert began, perhaps you’d like to hear my story, and without waiting for an answer she related the story of her unhappy marriage: her husband, a house-painter, had changed towards her altogether after the birth of her second child, leaving her without money for food and selling up the home twice. At last I decided to have another cut at it, Hubert went on, and catching sight of my husband’s working clothes one day I said to myself: he’s often made me put these on and go out and help him with his job, why shouldn’t I put them on for myself and go away for good? I didn’t like leaving the children, but I couldn’t remain with him. But the marriage? Albert asked. It was lonely going home to an empty room: I was as lonely as you, and one day, meeting a girl as lonely as myself, I said: come along, and we arranged to live together, each paying our share. She had her work and I had mine, and between us we made a fair living, and this I can say with truth that we haven’t known an unhappy hour since we married. People began to talk so we had to. I’d like you to see our home. I always return to my home after a job is finished with a light heart and leave it with a heavy one. But I don’t understand, Albert said. What don’t you understand? Hubert asked. Whatever Albert’s thoughts were, they faded from her, and her eyelids dropped over her eyes. You’re falling asleep, Hubert said, and I’m doing the same. It must be three o’clock in the morning and I’ve to catch the five-o’clock train. I can’t think now of what I was going to ask you, Albert muttered, but you’ll tell me in the morning, and turning over, she made a place for Hubert.
CHAPTER 48.
WHAT HAS BECOME of him? Albert said, rousing herself, and then, remembering that Hubert’s intention was to catch the early train, she began to remember. His train, she said, started from Amiens Street at — I must have slept heavily for him — for her not to have awakened me or she must have stolen away very quietly. But, lord amassy, what time is it? And seeing she had overslept herself a full hour, she began to dress herself, muttering all the while: such a thing never happened to me before. And the hotel as full as it can hold. Why didn’t they send for me? The missis had a thought of my bed-fellow, mayhap, and let me sleep it out. I told her I shouldn’t close an eye till she left me. But I mustn’t fall into the habit of sheing him. Lord, if the missis knew everything! But I’ve overslept myself a full hour, and if nobody has been up before somebody soon will be. The greater the haste the less speed. All the same, despite the difficulty of finding her clothes, Albert was at work on her landing some twenty minutes after, running up and down the stairs, preparing for the different breakfasts in the half-dozen sitting-rooms given to her charge, driving everybody before her, saying: we’re late to-day, and the house full of visitors. How is it that 54 isn’t turned out? Has 35 rung his bell? Lord, Albert, said a housemaid, I wouldn’t worry my fat because I was down late, once in a way don’t hurt. And sitting up half the night talking to Mr Page, said another maid, and then rounding on us. Half the night talking, Albert repeated. My bed-fellow! Where is Mr Page? I didn’t hear him go away; he may have missed his train for aught I know. But do you be getting on with your work, and let me be getting on with mine. You’re very cross this morning, Albert, the maid-servant muttered, and retired to chatter with two other maids who were looking over the banisters at the time.
Well, Mr Nobbs — the head porter began, when Albert came running downstairs to see some visitors off, and to receive his tips: well, Mr Nobbs, how did you find your bed-fellow? Oh, he was all right, but I’m not used to bed-fellows, and he brought a flea with him, and it kept me awake; and when I did fall asleep, I slept so heavily that I was an hour late. I hope he caught his train. But what is all this pother about bed-fellows? Albert asked himself, as she returned to her landing. Page hasn’t said anything, no, she’s said nothing, for we’re both in the same boat, and to tell on me would be to tell on herself. I’d never have believed if —— Albert’s modesty prevented her from finishing the sentence. She’s a woman right enough. But the cheek of it, to marry an innocent girl! Did she let the girl into the secret, or leave her to find it out when —
This was a question one might ponder on, and by luncheon time Albert was inclined to believe that Hubert told her wife before — She couldn’t have had the cheek to wed her, Albert said, without warning her that things might not turn out as she fancied. Mayhap, Albert continued, she didn’t tell her before they wedded and mayhap she did, and being one
of them like myself that isn’t always hankering after a man, she was glad to live with Hubert for companionship. Albert tried to remember the exact words that Hubert had used. It seemed to her that Hubert had said that she lived with a girl first, and wedded her to put a stop to people’s scandal. Of course they could hardly live together except as man and wife. She remembered Hubert saying that she always returned home with a light heart and never left it without a heavy one. So it would seem that this marriage was as successful as any, and a great deal more than the majority.
At that moment 35 rang his bell. Albert hurried to answer it, and several hours wore away before a moment propitious to reverie occurred again.
It was late in the evening, between nine and ten o’clock, when the guests were away at the theatres and concerts, and nobody was about but two maids; it was when these had ceased to trouble her with chatter that Albert, with her napkin over her shoulder, dozed and meditated on the advice that Hubert had given her. She should marry, Hubert had said; Hubert had married. Of course it wasn’t a real marriage, it couldn’t be that, but a very happy one it would seem. But the girl must have understood that she was not marrying a man. Did Hubert tell her before marriage or after marriage, and what were the words? It seemed to her she would give a great deal to know the exact words. After all I’ve worked hard, she said, and her thoughts melted away into a long meditation of what her life had been for the last five and twenty years, a mere drifting, it seemed to her to have been, from one hotel to another, without friends; meeting, it is true, sometimes men and women who seemed willing to be friendly. But her secret had forced her to live apart from both sexes; the clothes she wore smothered the woman within her; she no longer thought and felt as she used to when she was a woman, and she didn’t think and feel like a man; a mere appearance, nothing more; no wonder she was lonely. But Hubert had put off her sex, so she said, and the suspicion that she had put a joke upon her rose up in her mind and died away into a long dream of what Hubert’s home was like. Why had she not asked for particulars?
