The Old Adam: A Story of Adventure

by Arnold Bennett

  II.

  Within ten minutes, within less than ten minutes, Alderman Edward HenryMachin's supper-party at Wilkins's was so wonderfully changed for thebetter that Edward Henry might have been excused for not recognising itas his own.

  The service at Wilkins's, where they profoundly understood human nature,was very intelligent. Somewhere in a central bureau at Wilkins's sat apsychologist who knew, for example, that a supper commanded on the spurof the moment must be produced instantly if it is to be enjoyed. Delayin these capricious cases impairs the ecstasy, and therefore lessens thechance of other similar meals being commanded at the same establishment.Hence, no sooner had the gentleman in waiting disappeared with theorder, than certain esquires appeared with the limbs and body of a tablewhich they set up in Edward Henry's drawing-room; and they covered theboard with a damask cloth and half covered the damask cloth withflowers, glasses, and plates, and laid a special private wire from theskirting-board near the hearth to a spot on the table beneath EdwardHenry's left hand, so that he could summon courtiers on the slightestprovocation with the minimum of exertion. Then immediately brown breadand butter and lemons and red-pepper came, followed by oysters, followedby bottles of pale wine, both still and sparkling. Thus, before theprincipal dishes had even begun to frizzle in the distant kitchens, therevellers were under the illusion that the entire supper was waitingjust outside the door.

  Yes, they were revellers now! For the advent of her young men hadtransformed Rose Euclid, and Rose Euclid had transformed the generalsituation. At the table, Edward Henry occupied one side of it, Mr. SevenSachs occupied the side opposite, Mr. Marrier, the very, very talentedyoung manager, occupied the side to Edward Henry's left, and Rose Euclidand Carlo Trent together occupied the side to his right.

  Trent and Marrier were each about thirty years of age. Trent, with adeep voice, had extremely lustrous eyes, which eyes continually dwelt onRose Euclid in admiration. Apparently, all she needed in this valleywas oysters and admiration, and she now had both in unlimitedquantities.

  "Oysters are darlings," she said, as she swallowed the first.

  Carlo Trent kissed her hand respectfully--for she was old enough to behis mother.

  "And you are the greatest tragic actress in the world, Ra-ose!" said hein the Kensingtonian bass.

  A few moments earlier Rose Euclid had whispered to Edward Henry thatCarlo Trent was the greatest dramatic poet in the world. She flowerednow beneath the sun of those dark lustrous eyes and the soft rain ofthat admiration from the greatest dramatic poet in the world. It reallydid seem to Edward Henry that she grew younger. Assuredly she grew moregirlish, and her voice improved. And then the bottles began to pop, andit was as though the action of uncorking wine automatically uncorkedhearts also. Mr. Seven Sachs, sitting square and upright, smiled gailyat Edward Henry across the gleaming table, and raised a glass. LittleMarrier, who at nearly all times had a most enthusiastic smile, did thesame. In the result, five glasses met over the central bed ofchrysanthemums. Edward Henry was happy. Surrounded by enigmas,--for hehad no conception whatever why Rose Euclid had brought any of the threemen to his table,--he was nevertheless uplifted.

  As he looked about him, at the rich table, and at the glitteringchandelier overhead (albeit the lamps thereof were inferior to his own),and at the expanses of soft carpet, and at the silken-textured walls,and at the voluptuous curtains, and at the couple of impeccablegentlemen in waiting, and at Joseph who knew his place behind hismaster's chair,--he came to the justifiable conclusion that money was amarvellous thing, and the workings of commerce mysterious and beautiful.He had invented the Five Towns Thrift Club; working men and their wivesin the Five Towns were paying their two-pences, and sixpences, andshillings weekly into his Club, and finding the transaction a realconvenience--and lo! he was entertaining celebrities at Wilkins's.

  For, mind you, they were celebrities. He knew Seven Sachs was acelebrity because he had verily seen him act--and act very well--in hisown play, and because his name in letters a foot high had dominated allthe hoardings of the Five Towns. As for Rose Euclid, could there be agreater celebrity? Such was the strange power of the popular legendconcerning her, that even now, despite the first fearful shock ofdisappointment, Edward Henry could not call her by her name, withoutself-consciously stumbling over it, without a curious thrill. Andfurther, he was revising his judgment of her, as well as lowering herage slightly. On coming into the room she had doubtless been almost asstartled as himself, and her constrained muteness had been probably dueto a guilty feeling in the matter of passing too open remarks to afriend about a perfect stranger's manner of eating artichokes. Thewhich, supposition flattered him. (By the way, he wished she hadbrought the young friend who had shared her amusement over hisartichoke.) With regard to the other two men, he was quite ready tobelieve that Carlo Trent was the world's greatest poet, and to admit theexceeding talent of Mr. Marrier as a theatrical manager.... In fact,unmistakable celebrities, one and all! He himself was a celebrity. Acertain quality in the attitude of each of his guests showed clearlythat they considered him a celebrity, and not only a celebrity, but acard,--Bryany must have been talking,--and the conviction of thisrendered him happy. His magnificent hunger rendered him still happier.And the reflection that Brindley owed him half a crown put a top on hisbliss!

  "I like your dressing-gown, Mr. Machin," said Carlo Trent suddenly,after his first spoonful of soup.

  "Then I needn't apologise for it!" Edward Henry replied.

  "It is the dressing-gown of my dreams," Carlo Trent went on.

  "Well," said Edward Henry, "as we're on the subject, I like yourshirt-front."

  Carlo Trent was wearing a soft shirt. The other three shirts were allrigidly starched. Hitherto Edward Henry had imagined that a fashionableevening shirt should be, before aught else, bullet-proof. He nowappreciated the distinction of a frilled and gently flowing breastplate,especially when a broad purple eye-glass ribbon wandered across it.Rose Euclid gazed in modest transport at Carlo's chest.

  "The colour," Carlo proceeded, ignoring Edward Henry's compliment, "thecolour is inspiring. So is the texture. I have a woman's delight intextures. I could certainly produce better hexameters in such adressing-gown."

  Although Edward Henry, owing to an unfortunate hiatus in his education,did not know what a hexameter might be, he was artist enough tocomprehend the effect of attire on creative work, for he had noticedthat he himself could make more money in one necktie than in another,and he would instinctively take particular care in the morning choice ofa cravat on days when he meditated a great coup.

  "Why don't you get one?" Marrier suggested.

  "Do you really think I could?" asked Carlo Trent, as if the possibilitywere shimmering far out of his reach like a rainbow.

  "Rather!" smiled Marrier. "I don't mind laying a fiver that Mr.Machin's dressing-gown came from Drook's in Old Bond Street." Butinstead of saying "old" he said "ehoold."

  "It did," Edward Henry admitted.

  Mr. Marrier beamed with satisfaction.

  "Drook's, you say?" murmured Carlo Trent. "Old Bond Street?" and wrotedown the information on his shirt-cuff.

  Rose Euclid watched him write.

  "Yes, Carlo," said she. "But don't you think we'd better begin to talkabout the theatre? You haven't told me yet if you got hold of Longay onthe 'phone."

  "Of course we got hold of him," said Marrier. "He agrees with me that'The Intellectual' is a better name for it."

  Rose Euclid clapped her hands.

  "I'm so glad!" she cried. "Now what do you think of it as a name, Mr.Machin,--'The Intellectual Theatre?' You see it's most important weshould settle on the name, isn't it?"

  It is no exaggeration to say that Edward Henry felt a wave of cold inthe small of his back, and also a sinking away of the nevertheless quitesolid chair on which he sat. He had more than the typical Englishman'ssane distrust of that morbid word "Intellectual." His attitude to
wardsit amounted to active dislike. If ever he used it, he would on noaccount use it alone; he would say, "Intellectual, and all that sort ofthing!" with an air of pushing violently away from him everything thatthe phrase implied. The notion of baptising a theatre with the fearsomeword horrified him. Still he had to maintain his nerve and his repute.So he drank some champagne, and smiled nonchalantly as the imperturbableduellist smiles while the pistols are being examined.

  "Well--" he murmured.

  "You see," Marrier broke in, with the smile ecstatic, almost dancing onhis chair. "There's no use in compromise. Compromise is and always hasbeen the curse of this country. The unintellectual drahma isdead--dead. Naoobody can deny that. All the box-offices in the West areproclaiming it."

  "Should you call your play intellectual, Mr. Sachs?" Edward Henryinquired across the table.

  "I scarcely know," said Mr. Seven Sachs calmly. "I know I've played itmyself fifteen hundred and two times, and that's saying nothing of mythree subsidiary companies on the road."

  "What is Mr. Sach's play?" asked Carlo Trent fretfully.

  "Don't you know, Carlo?" Rose Euclid patted him. "'Overheard.'"

  "Oh! I've never seen it."

  "But it was on all the hoardings!"

  "I never read the hoardings," said Carlo. "Is it in verse?"

  "No, it isn't," Mr. Seven Sachs briefly responded. "But I've made oversix hundred thousand dollars out of it."

  "Then of course it's intellectual!" asserted Mr. Marrier positively."That proves it. I'm very sorry I've not seen it either; but it must beintellectual. The day of the unintellectual drama is over. The peoplewon't have it. We must have faith in the people, and we can't show ourfaith better than by calling our theatre by its proper name--'TheIntellectual Theatre!'"

  ("_His_ theatre!" thought Edward Henry. "What's he got to do with it?")

  "I don't know that I'm so much in love with your 'Intellectual,'"muttered Carlo Trent.

  "_Aren't_ you?" protested Rose Euclid, shocked.

  "Of course I'm not," said Carlo. "I told you before, and I tell younow, that there's only one name for the theatre--'The Muses' Theatre!'"

  "Perhaps you're right!" Rose agreed, as if a swift revelation had cometo her. "Yes, you're right."

  ("She'll make a cheerful sort of partner for a fellow," thought EdwardHenry, "if she's in the habit of changing her mind like that everythirty seconds." His appetite had gone. He could only drink.)

  "Naturally, I'm right! Aren't we going to open with my play, and isn'tmy play in verse? ... I'm sure you'll agree with me, Mr. Machin, thatthere is no real drama except the poetical drama."

  Edward Henry was entirely at a loss. Indeed, he was drowning in hisdressing-gown, so favourable to the composition of hexameters.

  "Poetry..." he vaguely breathed.

  "Yes, sir," said Carlo Trent. "Poetry."

  "I've never read any poetry in my life," said Edward Henry, like adesperate criminal. "Not a line."

  Whereupon Carlo Trent rose up from his seat, and his eye-glasses dangledin front of him.

  "Mr. Machin," said he with the utmost benevolence. "This is the mostinteresting thing I've ever come across. Do you know, you're preciselythe man I've always been wanting to meet? ... The virgin mind. Theclean slate.... Do you know, you're precisely the man that it's myambition to write for?"

  "It's very kind of you," said Edward Henry feebly, beaten, andconsciously beaten.

  (He thought miserably: "What would Nellie think if she saw me in thisgang?")

  Carlo Trent went on, turning to Rose Euclid:

  "Rose, will you recite those lines of Nashe?"

  Rose Euclid began to blush.

  "That bit you taught me the day before yesterday?"

  "Only the three lines! No more! They are the very essence ofpoetry--poetry at its purest. We'll see the effect of them on Mr.Machin. We'll just see. It's the ideal opportunity to test my theory.Now, there's a good girl!"

  "Oh! I can't. I'm too nervous," stammered Rose.

  "You can, and you must," said Carlo, gazing at her in homage. "Nobodyin the world can say them as well as you can. Now!"

  Rose Euclid stood up.

  "One moment," Carlo stopped her. "There's too much light. We can't dowith all this light. Mr. Machin--do you mind?"

  A wave of the hand, and all the lights were extinguished, save a lamp onthe mantelpiece, and in the disconcertingly darkened room Rose Euclidturned her face towards the ray from this solitary silk-shaded globe.

  Her hand groped out behind her, found the table-cloth and began toscratch it agitatedly. She lifted her head. She was the actress,impressive and subjugating, and Edward Henry felt her power. Then sheintoned:

  "_Brightness falls from the air;_ _Queens have died young and fair;_ _Dust hath closed Helen's eye._"

  And she ceased and sat down. There was a silence.

  "_Bravo!_" murmured Carlo Trent.

  "_Bravo!_" murmured Mr. Marrier.

  Edward Henry in the gloom caught Mr. Seven Sachs's unalterable observantsmile across the table.

  "Well, Mr. Machin?" said Carlo Trent.

  Edward Henry had felt a tremor at the vibrations of Rose Euclid's voice.But the words she uttered had set up no clear image in his mind, unlessit might be of some solid body falling from the air, or of a young womannamed Helen walking along Trafalgar Road, Bursley, on a dusty day, andgetting the dust in her eyes. He knew not what to answer.

  "Is that all there is of it?" he asked at length.

  Carlo Trent said:

  "It's from Thomas Nashe's 'Song in Time of Pestilence.' The closinglines of the verse are:

  "_I am sick, I must die--_ _Lord, have mercy on me!_"

  "Well," said Edward Henry, recovering, "I rather like the end. I thinkthe end's very appropriate."

  Mr. Seven Sachs choked over his wine, and kept on choking.