by Unknown
"That isn't good enough," said Olive.
"Very well," said George at last. "I'll promise not to let it go by default. It will happen in time, of course."
"We want to see it happen," said Olive. Her eyes were bright and penetrating while she thought only of George. Now they clouded.
" George," she said, "I want you to give me some advice."
"Yes."
"You heard what I said to Jack. Things at home aren't getting any easier. Possibly I ought to give up the next two or three years to my father. But you know all about it. I just want an answer to this question--ought I to clear out at any price?"
"This is a bit complicated," said George. "You know I don't approve of your parents. We'll take that for granted. If you could bring yourself to get away, I think you would be happier. What exactly are you thinking of doing?"
"I might get a better job," she said, "and live away from home. Or I might get married soon."
George stayed silent for a moment. A good-natured smile had settled on his face. He said: "Getting a job to make yourself really independent wouldn't be as easy as you imagine. Everyone knows what I think of your capabilities, but the fact is, girls of your class aren't trained to be much use in the world."
"You're right," said Olive.
"You're given less chance than anybody. It's a scandal, but it's true. To be honest, I don't think it would happen if women weren't in the main destined for their biological purpose. I dare say you could live on your present job. But living in abject poverty isn't much fun. Anyone who's ever tried would have to tell you that. I'm afraid you might begin to be willing--to get wrapped in your family again."
Everyone was struck by the caution and the moderate tone of his advice: in fact, George, who could take up any other free idea under heaven, never had an illusion about the position of women. Olive inclined her head.
"I'm glad you're speaking out," she said. "And marriage?"
George said slowly: "Escaping even from a family like yours is no reason for marriage. The only reason for marriage is that you are certain that you're completely in love."
"Perhaps so," said Olive, "perhaps so. I don't know." She sat silently for an instant. Then she smiled at him. "Anyway, it's more important for you to get established," she said, as though there was a link between them.
George did not reply, and Olive fell into silence. The windows rattled in the wind. Rachel sighed opulently, and said: "We've never had a night here quite like this. George, don't you think we ought to remember this Saturday? We ought to make it a festival, and come over here to keep it in October every year."
The sentiment welled from her heart; and she gave the rest of us an excuse to be sentimental.
A few moments later I said: "Some of us are starting. Where we shall have got to, after a few of Rachel's festivals-----"
"Good God alive," George burst into triumphant laughter, "you don't expect me to choose this day of all days to lose faith in the future, do you?"
The next night, after supper, George and I were alone in the room. The others had gone into the town by the last bus: George was staying another night in order to call at the Melton office in the morning, and I could stretch myself in my new liberty.
We made another pot of tea. "There's something I should like to show you," George said suddenly, with a friendly but secret smile. "I want you to inspect my exhibit. Just to round off the week-end. It is exactly the right night for that."
He put a small suitcase on the table; this he unlocked and produced a dozen thick folios, held together in a clip-back case.
"You've heard me mention this," he said. "I'm going to let you read a few entries about Jack Cotery's affairs. I assume you'll keep them to yourself, naturally."
It was his diary, which he had kept for years.
He searched through one of the folios, detached pages and handed them to me. At another, more important, moment in George's life, I was to read much of the diary. The appearance of the pages, years later, altered little from when he began it at eighteen. They were all in his clerkly and legible hand; in a wide left-hand margin he printed in capitals (sometimes after the entries were made, usually when a folio was completed) a sort of sectional heading, and another at the top of the page. Thus: COMFORT WITH THE GROUP FRIDAY, AUG .23 I could not let today pass by without writing. It was a day of hard work in the office; Eden listened to my summary and is well and truly launched on the co-operative case. I screwed myself up to spend a couple of hours at Martineau's this evening; it is not long since I left him and, as so often, felt stronger by his influence. But, above all, I passed a memorable evening with my friends.... PLEASURES OF ONE DAY.
"That entry is just to acclimatize you," said George. In fact, there were pages of rhapsody over the group; rhapsody in a florid, elaborate and youthful style, which nevertheless could not keep one from believing his enthusiasm; and mixed with the rhapsody, more self-reproach and doubt than his friends would have expected then.
At first sight much of it seemed unfamiliar; for it was bringing home (what we can seldom see directly in another) some of the ways in which he appeared to himself. I read: For I feel these people (these protégés of mine, if they will let me call them that) are gradually renewing their grip on my affections, my thought, my visions, although I have only visited them occasionally. The last week-end was full of drunken nights, of decrepit nights. I went to Nottingham, finding money drip away as usual... I was still on the hunt and finished at Connie's, as in duty bound. Then I realized once again that no other girl of the past year is fit to take her place. I just had time for a huzzlecoo; then I went back on the last train.
It left me in a mood of headache and despair....
And another day: I felt very depressed this evening. I arrived at one of those moods when the world seemed useless--when effort seemed in vain; the impossibility of moving mountains had overwhelmed me with my little faith. A chance remark by Olive on the purposelessness of the group had suddenly awakened me to their lack of response, to the lack of response of all of them; to their utter remoteness from me.... THEY ARE REMOTE.
Then there was another entry over which I thought a good deal in the next few months.
Morcom AND MY WORLD
TUESDAY, SEP .3
To-day Morcom entertained me to lunch. He was charming and considerate--the perfect host. He has so much that I fear I shall never acquire, taste and polish and savoir faire, while I am still uncultivated except in my one or two narrow special regions. If only he would abandon his negative attitude and join my attempts! Morcom RAISES A PROFOUND QUESTION: WHAT SHOULD THE GROUP MEAN?
He and I would be the natural alliance, and there is no limit to what we could achieve among the Philistines in this town. He with his strength and command and certainty. I with my burning hopes. When he went out of his way to be pleasant today and issued this invitation, I could scarcely contain my hopes that he was about to throw in his weight on my side. Yet apparently, if ever he possessed it, he withdrew from any such intention, and, indeed, he dropped one or two hints which made me examine myself anew, distressed me profoundly, and caused me, as before, to distrust his influence on some of my closest friends.
Morcom had criticized, sensibly and much as Olive did later, George's devotion to our group. He had said, in short, that it was not close enough to the earth to satisfy a man of power for long. On paper George answered the criticisms, so elaborately that he showed his own misgivings: and finished: And what else lies in my powers? The gift of creation, worse luck, was not bestowed on me: except, I dare sometimes think, in the chance to help my protégés, besides whom all the artistic masterpieces of the world seem like bloodless artifices of men who have never discovered what it is to live. I must concentrate on the little world: I shall not get esteem, except the esteem which I value more than any public praise; I shall get no fame, except some gratitude which will soon be forgotten; I shall get no power at all. But I shall do what with all your gifts, Morcom, you ma
y never do: I shall enjoy every moment of every day, and I shall gain my own soul.
In the first pages he showed me, Jack played very little part; there was a word in August: I am still enjoying the fruitful association with Jack Cotery as much as ever. I have never been so lucky in my friends as I am now.
Then the idea of helping Jack came into the forefront of the diary, and continued there for weeks. There were descriptions of days which I remembered from another side: our first telling him the news, his attack on the committee (written with curious modesty), the visit to Nottingham, his resolve to find money for Jack.
Jack himself is easily disposed of. He is obviously the most gifted person I have a chance of helping. It is a risk, he may fall by the wayside, but it is less risky than with any other of the unfortunates. Morcom mustn't think he is the only person to spot talent. We mustn't forget that I first discovered that in spite of his humorous, lively warmth, there is a keen and accomplished edge to Jack's mind. ISSUES OF JACK Jack's flattery, however, he mentioned, to my surprise: We must perhaps remember that Jack is not completely impartial just now, though I should repudiate the suggestion if it were made....
And the opposition by his mother, he described a little oddly: There have been little visible signs of misunderstanding or incompatibility, but one or two needless scenes. QUIET EVENINGS AT HOME, WITH INTERMISSIONS.
But there was one astonishing thing. I knew that he had been angry at Jack preferring to experiment in business instead of accepting George's scheme of the law. Until I read George's entries, though, I could not have realized how he felt deserted, how deeply he had taken it to heart.
Cotery wantonly destroyed all my schemes for him... after destroying his feeble case for this fatuous project, I went away to consider closely the reasons for this outburst. It is fairly clear that he is not such a strong character as I tried to imagine. He may have been subject to underhand influences. I must not blind myself so that; and no doubt he is reacting to his complete acceptance of all I stand for. But, though understandable, such liability to influence and reaction are the signs of a weak character; and it is abundantly certain that I shall have to revise parts of my opinion of him. He will never seem the same again.... Cotery REVEALS FEET OF CLAY.
Then a week later, there came the last entry he showed me that night: I REACH EQUILIBRIUM ON THE Cotery BUSINESS FRIDAY, SEP .28 I have settled the difficulty about Cotery at last. I do not withdraw a word of my criticism, either of the wisdom of his course or the causes behind it. In a long and, on the whole, profitable conversation with Morcom, I forced him to admit that I had been unfairly treated. Morcom is, no doubt, regretful of using his influence without either thought or knowledge. Apart from that, Jack seems, in short, to be handicapping himself at the outset because of an unworthy reaction against me. But that doesn't dispose of my share in his adventure. I have decided that I owe it to myself to maintain my offer... he must be helped, as though he were acting more sanely.... I talk about freedom, about helping people to become themselves; I must show the scoffers that I mean what I say, I must show that I want life that functions on its own and not in my hothouse. I have got to learn to help people on their terms. I wish I could come to it more easily. PROPER ATTITUDE UNAFFECTED.
KERNEL OF COTERY'S BEHAVIOUR
As for the money, I shall cease worrying and hope that finance will arrange itself in the long run. I shall carry through this offer to Jack Cotery; then I shall wait and see, and, somehow, pay. THE PRACTICAL PROBLEM.
II
THE FIRM OF EDEN AND MARTINEAU
NINE
THE ECHO OF A QUARREL
The winter was eventful for several of us. Olive, as she had foreshadowed that Saturday night at the Farm, told Morcom that she could not marry him; she began to spend most of her time at home, looking after her father. Morcom tried to hide his unhappiness; often, he was so lonely that he fetched me out of my room and we walked for hours on a winter night; but he never talked of his own state. He also tried to conceal something else which tormented him: his jealousy for Jack Cotery. It was the true jealousy of his kind of love; it was irrational, he felt degraded by it, yet it was sharp and unarguable as a disease. Walking through the streets on those bitter nights, he could not keep from fearing that Jack might that very moment be at the Calverts' house.
Meanwhile, Jack himself had plunged into his business. One bright idea had come off: another, a gamble that people would soon be buying a cheap type of valve set, engrossed him all the winter and by spring still seemed to hang on the turn of a card.
But George remained cheerful and content, in the middle of his friends' concerns. He was sometimes harassed by Jack's business, but no one found it easier to put such doubts aside; the group occupied him more and more; he spent extra hours, outside the School, coaching me for my first examination; he was increasingly busy at Eden and Martineau's.
The rest of us had never envied him so much. He was sure of his roots, and wanted no others, at this time when we were all in flux. It was not until the spring that we realized he too could be threatened by a change.
On the Friday night after Easter, I was late in arriving at Martineau's. Looking at the window as I crossed the road, I was startled by a voice from within. I went in; suddenly the voice stopped, as my feet sounded in the hall. Martineau and George were alone in the drawing-room; George, whose voice I had heard, was deeply flushed.
Martineau welcomed me, smiling.
"I'm glad you've come, Lewis," he said, after a moment in which we exchanged a little news. George stayed silent.
"Everyone's deserting me," Martineau smiled. "Everyone's giving me up."
"That's not fair, Mr. Martineau," George said, with a staccato laugh.
Martineau walked a few steps backwards and forwards behind the sofa, a curious, restless mannerism of his. "Oh yes, you are," Martineau's face had a look at once mischievous and gentle. "Oh yes, you are, George. You're all deciding I'm a useless old man with bees in his bonnet who's only a nuisance to his friends."
"That simply is not true," George burst out.
"Some of my friends haven't joined us on Friday for a long time, you know."
"That's nothing to do with it," said George. "I thought I'd made that clear."
"Still," Martineau added inconsequently, "my brother said he might drop in tonight. And I'm hoping the others won't give us the 'go-by' for ever." He always produced his slang with great gusto; it happened often to be slightly out-moded.
The Canon did not come, but Eden did. He stayed fairly late. George and I left not long afterwards. In the hall George said: "That was sheer waste of time."
As we went down the path, I looked back and saw the chink of light through the curtains, darkened for an instant by Martineau crossing the room. I burst out: "What was happening with Martineau before anyone came in? What's the matter?"
George stared ahead.
"Nothing particular," he said.
"You're sure? Come on-----"
"We were talking over a professional problem," said George. "I'm afraid I can't tell you anything else."
Outside the park, under a lamp which gilded the chestnuttrees, I saw George's chin thrust out: he was swinging his stick as he walked. A warm wind, smelling of rain and the spring earth, blew in our faces. I was angry, young enough to be ashamed of the snub, still on edge with curiosity.
We walked on silently up to the road where we usually parted. He stopped at the corner, and I could see, just as I was going to say an ill-tempered "Good night," that his face was anxious and excited. "Can't you come to my place?" he said abruptly. "I know it's a bit late."
Warmed by the awkward invitation, I crossed the road with him. George broke into a gust of laughter, good-humoured and exuberant. "Late be damned!" he cried. "I've got a case that's going to keep me busy, and I want you to help. It'll be a good deal later before you get home tonight."
When we arrived in his room, the fire contained only a few dull red embers. George
, who was now in the highest of spirits after his truculence at Martineau's, hummed to himself, as, clumsily, breathing hard, he held a newspaper across the fireplace; then, as the flames began to roar, he turned his head: "There's something I've got to impress on you before we begin."
He was kneeling, he had flung off his overcoat, one or two fair hairs caught the light on the shoulders of his blue jacket; his tone, as whenever he had to go through a formal act, was a trifle sententious and constrained (though he often liked performing them).
"What are you going to tell me?" I said, settling myself in the arm-chair at the other side of the fire. There was a smell of charring; George's face was tinged with heat as he crumpled the paper in the grate.
"That I'm relying on you to keep this strictly confidential," he said, putting on a kettle. "I'm laying you under that definite obligation. It's a friendly contract and it's got to be kept. Because I'm being irregular in telling you this at all."
I nodded. This was not the first of the firm's cases I had heard discussed, for George was not always rigid on professional etiquette; and indeed his demand for secrecy tonight served as much to show me the magnitude of the case as to make sure that I should not speak. It was their biggest job for some time, apart from the routine of conveyancy and so on in a provincial town. A trade union, through one of its members, was prosecuting an employer under the Truck Act.
Eden had apparently realized that the case would call out all George's fervour. It was its meaning as well as its intricacy that gave George this rush of enthusiasm. It set his eyes alight and sent him rocking with laughter at the slightest joke.
