Crazy Pavements

by Beverley Nichols

  ‘I love you. Isn’t it dreadful that one can write those words so easily, so glibly? Love ought to be a word that could only be carved with a sword, or painted with one’s own blood. It should be something difficult, that called for strong sacrifice from the singer, that could only be pleaded in pain – it should not be so easy. I love you. I write it again and again, because it does my heart good, dearest, to write to you.

  ‘Remember, only a little bit of me. Only this aspect of me that comes out, like a ghost, in the small hours. I am loving you now because I have stepped out of myself. Julia is lying in wait for me somewhere. She’s lying in the shadows, laughing at me, sneering at me, telling me I am a fool. That is why I am writing so quickly, beloved, because at any moment she may come and stay my hand.’

  There was a sound outside the door – a whisper and a scuffle, and at the same time the heavy curtain, caught in a draught, billowed slowly and massively forward, paused, and sank back again with a hiss. She caught in its movement the tarnished glitter of a mandarin’s robe, the embroidered smile of a Chinese grandee. Then all was still again.

  Guiltily she had laid down her pen. Guiltily? Julia was writing a love-letter. She was writing from her heart. It was, perhaps, the only thing which she had ever done from her heart, and for this precise reason she was ashamed of it. And thus she put her feelings into words:

  ‘I am ashamed, and yet proud, of every word I write. I am ashamed because it is so ridiculously “ordinary,” and I hate to believe that I’m an “ordinary” creature. I hate (or rather, the traditional part of me hates) to believe that I can fall in love in the same way that people love in penny novelettes and popular songs. I had theories of love – cheap, pseudo-intellectual, if you like, perhaps even a sort of bastard Anatole France – but still, they were, in form if not in quality, a little higher than my present feeling. My pres­ent feeling is purely vulgar. It’s in harmony with all the cheap ballads, all the silly little stories in magazines that one glances at and puts under the seat when one is travelling in a train. It makes me want to walk with you in the moonlight, and kiss you, and give you roses, and read notes from you – oh, how second-rate it all is.

  ‘And yet, I’m proud of it all. Or rather, this little part of me that emerges towards the dawn is proud. Because I feel – (don’t think that even for a moment I’m forgetting that I am being ridiculous) – because I feel that in loving you like this, this purely primitive, selfless, absurd way, I am in some vague way putting myself in harmony with the rest of Nature. A tiresome thing to do, one might say, but in these small hours, when I am feeling like this, it is only wonderful and fine.

  ‘Even now I feel the other Julia stepping towards me, bringing me back, cooling my adjectives, checking my pen. Oh, darling, if only I could wait! If only life would slow down – even for a moment. If only we could stop dancing and drinking and being amusing, and let ourselves be plain and bored and real. You would say, if you could read this, that I am merely expressing the obvious emotions of a rather spoilt girl who has been burning the candles at both ends and needs only to go and vegetate in Scotland for a month or so.

  ‘But it means more than that. This life we’re all leading – (and you, poor darling, are dancing into it so gaily too) – this life is killing us. I’m not weak or stupid. I’m not merely a bored fool who goes on and on because there is nothing else to do. I merely know that one has to go on, that we are all caught in a trap, that we must dance till we drop, and that there is no alternative. You will never know, dearest, that I have written this letter to you. You’ll never realize. I shan’t let you. When the morning comes, I may read it again, and laugh, and think myself a silly fool, think that this fine prose is merely the aftermath of a few cocktails. But I shan’t tear it up. Something will prevent me doing that. Something that may be overlaid and stifled, snubbed and ignored, but something that is yet stronger than myself . . .’

  Suddenly she stopped writing. Behind the heavy curtains there was a tinge of grey which told her that dawn was already here. She got up, went to the fire, and fitfully kicked a log with her green slipper. A shower of sparks fled up the chimney.

  She had been writing? Oh yes. A sentimental mood. How amusingly temperamental one was! Should one tear it up? She walked to the desk again and saw a pile of paper, covered with a quick, scrawling hand. Had she written that? She? That was terribly funny. One’s moods! Where mightn’t they lead one next? With cold fingers she stretched out for the manuscript. Better to throw it in the fire. The paper crumpled beneath her hand.

  And then she stopped. She stayed very still. Slowly her eyelids drooped, and for a moment she stood there with eyes closed tight. In the grey and cruel light her face looked haggard and old. With eyes still shut, she folded the manuscript and laid it on the table. Then she went to the window and looked out into the begin­ning of another day.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Lord William Motley was exceedingly interested in disease. In his Louis XIII library in Queen Anne Street were long shelves of books dealing with the more picturesque maladies of the body. His taste in such matters was catholic. He took as much pleasure in the latest theory of influenza as in the prettiest example of elephantiasis, and would trace the pranks of a recalcitrant pituitary gland with as arduous an interest as he studied the works of Mr. Havelock Ellis (which, one understands, are to be found in the desks of every right-thinking schoolboy).

  The convalescence of Brian Elme was therefore a matter which he took as a personal responsibility. Brian was an ideal convalescent, because he was sure to be grateful for anything that one could do for him and would probably submit to the most exciting treatments. Most of one’s friends, Lord William had discovered, were otherwise inclined. They refused to be benefited. He had never recovered from the disappointing recep­tion which they had given to his young Russian osteo­path, whose habit it was to sing strange and fiery Russian folk-songs while he continued to crack one’s bones. They had all been frightened of him ever since he dislocated Mrs. Grindhaven’s back. But then, that woman never possessed any ear for music.

  Nor had they shown any true interest in the little gymnasium which he had caused to be erected on the top floor of his house, where every form of exercise could be obtained merely by sitting still. There were chairs which bumped one up and down, and sofas with electric rollers for massaging the back, and rapidly-working pistons, padded at the end, which percussed the stomach. These devices seemed to fill his friends with alarm. But that was possibly due to the unfortu­nate circumstance that one night, after dinner, some­body who had drunk too much champagne had strapped Lady Hardcastle on to the artificial camel, and had left her to rock furiously backwards and forwards in the dark until she had been rescued in a state of exhaustion by an astonished butler, who had imagined that a cat-burglar was having fits in the attic.

  He decided to begin Brian’s convalescence with a little artificial sunlight. As he imagined, Brian proved eminently tractable. A party was therefore arranged, consisting of Brian, Lord William and Maurice, at which they lunched at Claridge’s, and afterwards departed to their destination in a taxi, for reasons which will immediately become apparent.

  Maurice was a champion ‘Fumbler.’ Whenever he rode in a taxi in company with others, his conversation took on a fierce vivacity towards the end of the drive and, on arrival at the destination, developed into a breathless succession of anecdotes. This habit gave him many excuses for gesticulating on the pavement while his friends were feeling in their pockets, allowing him even to look slightly pained that they should concern themselves with such mundane things as fares while he was telling them stories.

  On this occasion he was quite determined that Lord William should pay for his bath-ticket, while Lord William was equally determined that he should pay for it himself. A grim smile illumined his lordship’s face as they drew up at the door of the hotel where the sunlight baths were situated. Maurice, by ingenious physical contortions, had managed to be the last out of t
he car, and, as usual, had dropped his handkerchief on the seat, so that he had to return for it while the others were crossing the pavement. This was a subterfuge that Lord William knew of old. He determined to go one better.

  ‘We won’t wait for Maurice,’ he said. ‘Let’s get into the lift.’

  Two footmen were waiting for them at the top.

  ‘Violet rays, sir?’

  ‘Please. Two tickets.’

  Brian could not understand what the hurry was about. Lord William had almost leapt from the lift, he had his money ready in his hand, and he kept on glancing back over his shoulder as though pursued by fiends.

  ‘Come on. Take off your shoes.’

  His elaborate suède shoes were already scattered on the floor. He stood tapping a large cobweb-socked foot. The lift bell rang impatiently from downstairs.

  ‘That’s Maurice. We’ll go straight to the changing room.’

  He grabbed Brian by the arm, precipitated him down a corridor, into a long white room containing six beds.

  This haven reached, Lord William sank into a chair.

  ‘Why this tearing hurry?’

  He kicked his heels in the air.

  ‘Maurice will have to pay for his ticket. I’ve never been so thrilled.’

  Brian stared in polite astonishment.

  ‘Of course, he’s my greatest friend. But he is so terribly mean. If he dared, he’d take the pennies out of a blind beggar’s cap, but he’s such a cynic that he wouldn’t even believe the beggar was blind.’

  ‘But he’s got pots of money, hasn’t he?’

  ‘Not pots.’ Lord William shook his head. ‘But three thousand a year. And he’s never paid for any­thing – ever. That’s why he has such odd friends. There’s a terrible wine merchant with only one eye who’s always at the studio, simply because Maurice gets free champagne out of him. He tells him that he’s going to get it drunk by the King, or something equally weird. Then there’s that dreadful Miss Garside who writes all about actresses’ clothes. He almost smothers her with affection, and she gives him seats for first nights. Ssh! Here he is.’

  To Maurice: ‘Where have you been?’

  Maurice looked pale but determined. ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ he said, ‘but I entirely forgot to bring any money.’

  Lord William paused in the act of taking off his trousers.

  ‘Well?’

  Maurice sighed. ‘I asked them to put it down to you.’

  Lord William turned an outraged face to Brian. ‘You see. . . .’

  ‘Oh really. What difference does it make? I’ll send you a cheque to-night.’

  Lord William was not looking at him. ‘One day,’ he said, ‘I shall write a ballad to those words and send it to Maurice. “I’ll send you a cheque to-night.” He’ll be able to make it sound so improper.’

  The arrival of the attendant interrupted this passage of arms. He was a fat man, of a worm-like body, with large kind eyes. He commented on the rain and said that his garden was not doing at all well. Lord William and Maurice appeared to be bored with him, but Brian would have liked to carry the conversation farther. However, he concentrated on the problem of undressing.

  Up till now he had always considered his under­clothes adequate, if unpretentious. His shirt was of plain blue cotton, his vest was of the sort known as ‘cellular,’ and he wore no pants. But as he observed the elaborate disrobing of Lord William and Maurice he began to have his doubts. Both had shirts of the purest silk, with open-work monograms embroidered on the sleeve. Instead of putting these garments over their heads, with a consequent ruffling of the coiffure, they undid them, in the manner of jackets, and grace­fully slipped them from their shoulders.

  Beneath each shirt was revealed a vest, again of silk, again heavily monogrammed. Brian could not help thinking that if either of them were to fall into the Thames identification would be a matter of a few moments only. Even the pants were monogrammed.

  At length they were ready, draped in towels. Lord William and Maurice both shivered with joy as the attendant opened a door, through which one could see the lights and shadows cast by three great arc lamps.

  ‘Marvellous. Sunshine. Let’s leap into it.’

  The attendant put out an officious arm. ‘You just put on your glasses first, sir. There’s a danger of conjunctivitis.’

  ‘I knew.’ Lord William’s voice was hoarse with excitement. ‘I knew we were all going to risk our lives.’

  ‘Oh to be in England

  Now that April’s here . . .’

  Ridiculously, inconsequently, the lines flitted through Brian’s head. Analyses of mental states are often tire­some, but Brian’s was so unusual that it is worthy of note. Here he was, a healthy young Englishman, standing clad in a bath towel before one of the latest triumphs of civilization. His companions seemed, apart from a forced hilarity, to take it all for granted. They cared not that outside the building the rain was slashing down in torrents. They cared not that they, human animals, were about to precipitate themselves before two glass bulbs, thereby transforming them­selves, in essence, if not in fact, to the Sahara desert. They were merely enjoying a ‘stunt.’ To him it was more than a ‘stunt’; it was a marvel. The fact that he was here at all was sufficiently extraordinary. But the fact that he was about to bask in a man-made sun was more extraordinary still. He felt as though he were participating in some savage rite. To be perfect, there should be the sound of tom-toms in the air, and a whirling sweating chorus of those who had scarred themselves in the service of this unnatural god.

  However, he quelled those feelings. One must be blasé. One must not be amused. He controlled his features. He even tried to yawn.

  Maurice was putting on the thick, fur-rimmed glasses. He glared in front of him.

  ‘I feel like an American in hell,’ he said.

  Lord William put on the glasses also. ‘This is more than delicious. I’d adore to have a bathroom done in this shade. Doesn’t Brian look marvellous? Like a war-memorial. Do put on your glasses.’

  Brian did so. He felt in some queer way that the action was symbolical, as though at this moment he were definitely renouncing the real for the sake of the false. It is true that the English climate affords every excuse for such renunciations.

  As soon as his glasses were fixed, the attendant moved the disc from the face of the lamp and the room was flooded with mimic sunlight. The faces of his com­panions appeared suddenly chilled and sinister. He forgot what they were saying, reflecting that in some such light must dwell the people of the moon, moving with greenish limbs in a world of monstrous shadows.

  ‘Now, gentlemen. Lie down on your faces, if you please.’

  They disposed themselves on the beds. A faint sickly scent of ozone assailed the nostrils.

  Brian felt he must at all costs play the part of the hardened roué.

  ‘I feel like something that has been washed up on Brighton beach,’ he said. ‘But,’ he added, ‘I think something is biting my back.’

  Maurice pouted. ‘You always get all the sensations. Nothing’s biting me.’

  The attendant put his hand on his forehead. ‘You’ll feel it soon, sir. You must wait till your lymphatics are stimulated.’

  ‘I don’t believe he’s got any lymphatics,’ crooned Lord William.

  The attendant assured his lordship that all men have lymphatics.

  Maurice became petulant. ‘I’m sure I’ve got dozens,’ he said. ‘What I want to know is, when shall I be sunburnt?’

  ‘Not till after the sixth or seventh treatment, sir.’

  Maurice raised himself indignantly on his elbow. Six more treatments meant another three guineas, and since Lord William was so disgustingly mean . . . ‘Can’t I be sunburnt now?’ he asked plaintively.

  ‘No, sir. We can’t over-stimulate the lymphatics.’

  ‘Damn my lymphatics. I really think it’s absurd. Why can’t I be sunburnt now?’

  Lord William was delighting in this conversation. ‘My
dear, you’d go mad,’ he assured him. ‘You’d rush out of the room quite naked, one mass of lymphatics, and you’d dart away to call on Anne Hardcastle. And that would be dreadful, because it’s exactly what she’s been wanting you to do for years.’

  Brian felt a slight burning on the back of his neck. ‘I think I’m getting sunstroke,’ he said.

  The attendant slightly moved the lamp. ‘Will all you gentlemen please turn over on your backs?’

  With groans they did so. Maurice peered across the room. ‘You look exactly like an earlier work by Picasso,’ he screamed to Brian. ‘All mottled and speckly.’

  ‘Well, what do you expect me to look like? Venus?’

  Maurice screamed again. ‘Oh, my dear! My knee’s turning pink. I swear it.’

  ‘Probably dirt,’ muttered Brian.

  ‘Your conversation has a schoolboy freshness which suggests years of practice,’ sighed Lord William, who had overheard this remark. ‘How you manage to keep it up in this atmosphere, I can’t imagine.’

  ‘It is rather hellish, isn’t it?’ Brian could no longer pretend that this situation was anything but singular. ‘Like something out of Poe. I feel this must be exactly the same as a premature burial. To wake up with a droning noise in one’s ears, to see this greenish light, which seems as if it were creeping down through wet earth, and to find one’s body almost phosphorescent. . . .’

  ‘You’re hideously morbid for a schoolboy.’ Maurice was becoming more and more jealous of Brian’s ‘schoolboy’ reputation. He had so long enjoyed a similar reputation himself that he bitterly resented anybody poaching on his preserves.

  Lord William, still malicious, realized the significance of Maurice’s remark, and quickly added:

  ‘Yes – isn’t he? Exactly like a schoolboy. All schoolboys are morbid in England. They believe in nothing. That is why they grow up into strong silent Empire builders. In Germany they believe fiercely in heaven. And so they all commit suicide.’