The making of an Englishman

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THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

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CONSTABLE'S SHILLING SERIES

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The Authors represented in this Series
include —

MARIE CORELLI

GEORGE DU MAURIER

MARY JOHNSTON

ROBERT W. CHAMBERS

GEORGE GISSING

H. G. WELLS

BERNARD SHAW

MAUD DIVER

MRS. GEORGE WEMYSS

HENRY SYDNOR HARRISON

SIR OWEN SEAMAN

HAROLD BEGBIE

EDWARD NOBLE

HI LAI RE BELLOO

G. S. STREET

AND

* GEORGE MEREDITH

Complete List of Titles supplied
on application.

THE MAKING
OF AN ENGLISHMAN

BY

W. L. GEORGE

AUTHOR OF

'«H« CITY OF LIGHT," "ISRAEL KALISCH," " THE SECOND

■LOOMING," "A BED OF ROSES," ETC.

LONDON
CONSTABLE AND COMPANY

LIMITED

Firtt publithed January 1914.
Reprinted February, March, 1914.
Publithed in ConttabU't Shilling
Library 1917.

TO

THE SMALL FRENCH BOY

WHO IN 1894 FIRST CALLED ME

JOHN BULL

AND TO

THE YOUNG ENGLISHMAN

WHO IN 1902 FIRST ADDRESSED ME AS

FROGGY

I DEDICATE THIS BOOK

50728:

%

CONTENTS

PART I

CHAP.

I RULE, BRITANNIA »

II HAIL ! FRANCE, AND FAREWELL

III INTRODUCTIONS

IV MISS MAUD HOOPER
V BARBEZAN AND CO.

VI THE HEART OF ENGLAND

I'ACJE
1

12
40
58
72
106

PART II

I EDITH LAWTON

II HAMBURY ....

Ill BETROTHED TO AN ENGLISH GIRL

139

174
210

PART III

I THE ENCOUNTER WITH THE SPIRIT .

II HIE ENCOUNTER WITH THE BROTHER

III THE ENCOUNTER WITH THE FATHER

IV THE ENCOUNTER WITH THE BETROTHED
V AFTER THE ENCOUNTERS

221

252
270
279
289

viii CONTENTS

PA-RT IV

CHAF-

I STANLEY, CADORESSE AND CO. ... 333

II RECONSTRUCTION ..... 352

III THE LAST LAP 3g9

IV AN ENGLISHMAN'S HOME 390

#

THE MAKING OF AN
ENGLISHMAN

PART I
CHAPTER I

RULE BRITANNIA

The dark young man who had just come out of Holy-
well Street, a little uncertain, as if he had lost his way,
crossed the Strand with hesitation. He drew back as
some hansoms came careering towards him, made as if
to return to the pavement, then ran across to St. Clement
Dane's. He paused awhile on the island, looked at the
faintly red sky over the Cecil. There was dubiousness
in his movements, the dubiousness of the stranger in
a large town, who is anxious to find his way and because
of liis pride reluctant to ask it; there was interest too,
the stranger's revealing interest in houses with unfamiliar
faces, in the traffic which in foreign lands so perversely
clings to the wrong side of the street. At last he seemed
ulster resolution as he turned eastwards.
Some minutes had elapsed since the booming of the
quarter from the bells of the nearest church, and as the
young man stopped again to look at the Griffin, he seemed
to the endless confirmation of the surrounding
chimes. They came muffled and faint after their long
from St. Paul's and Westminster, shrill from
Mnstan's and the Chapel Royal; the chimes seemed
and aloof, detached in aristocratic fashion from
limbic of the omnibuses and the sharper clip-trop-

2 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

trop of t horses. The dark young man walked

slowly, his eyes and e*y aware of all this un-

familiarity and its intimations of unpenetrated mysteries.
There were church bells and horses in his own country,
but these had an undefinable personality of their own,
not to be gauged by a difference in the casting of the metal
or in the hands that controlled the beasts. And there
were other sounds too, in this not over busy Fleet Street
of the night, sounds which bore witness to the transitory
importance of something that hung over the town.

There were no crowds. Indeed, the omnibuses rolled
westwards, empty inside, and but half-loaded on the
top. But every street corner had its newsboy, aggressive
and raucous, shouting incomprehensible extracts from the
Echo and the Star under the dim gas-lamp. And the
newsboys, bent double under their loads of rosy papers,
fleeted past with an air of urgency. There was excite-
ment in the air, a little fever, as if everybody wrere
thinking of something that had just happened and of
its reactions upon something infinitely more important
which might happen soon. And because every Londoner
was thus oppressed his town was oppressed; all these
people, hurrying or strolling, those screaming boys,
fixed, statue-like policemen, those few whose cookshops
and public-houses were still open, carried, closely wedded
with their cares and their merriment, a common pre-
occupation.

The dark young man was influenced by this atmosphere
and knew its causes. He must needs have been blind and
deaf not to have felt some excitement in this town,
where all day he had seen men and women buy the same
papers three times over in the hope of finding news
which would bear out or give the lie to the dirty placard
he now stared at. The placard roughly stuck on the
stones at the corner of Fetter Lane bore the words :

FALL OF MAFEKING

The newsvendor had long deserted his afternoon pitch,
gone back to the office to bring the false promises

RULE BRITANNIA 8

of fresh quires, but the placard remained as a dirty
memento of disaster, to be trodden on by angry
boots, dumbly stared at by passers-by as they tried
to believe it was not true. All through that Friday
afternoon the stranger had listened to the wild rumour
of the streets, the march of Plumer, his defeat, the
death of Baden-Powell, the suicide of Eloff, all those
mad untruths which rise from the battlefield like dis-
turbed crows. He was stirred, he could hear in spirit
those guns that roared and rumbled so many thousands
of miles away, and he could smell the smell of battle,
dust, sweat and hot rifle grease. A stranger and un-
linked with this England, he could not drive from his
mind the familiar photographs of those long, mud-coloured
lines of young men, face upon the ground in the shallow
trenches.

He thought with pleasure of the brown lines, thrilled,
choking a little as a man chokes when moved to an
exultation in which are pity and some fear. For him
the Boer enemy was the shadowy foe of the Kriegspiel,
not real as the brothers of those real men among whom he
walked. He had no interest in the struggle but he had to
share in it, as he could not have watched a brown dog
fight a white one without favouring one of the two
colours. Though detached he was a partisan, and because
he had eaten bread in England and heard her men speak,
perhaps because England was quietly folding him in her
clumsy, good-natured arms, he was for England and
against the vicrldeur. He wondered why he did not,
for the sake of his own republican tricolour, desire the
victory of the vicrldeur : that question he could not solve ;
he merely thought of the thin brown line and stood dumb
with those English in front of the dirty placard on the
stones.

II

The young man reached Ludgate Hill, looked awhile
at the railway bridge, at St. Paul's, dazzling white in the

4 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

moonlight and split in two by the black spire of St.
Martin Ludgate. He turned back, and, as again he
approached the Griffin, a premature clock chimed half-
past nine. The stranger stopped. On the opposite
pavement he could see three men and a girl, who looked
up to the upper windows of a building. That moment
had an undefinable quality of hush, as if the world were
an audience waiting for the curtain to rise on a play
the title of which they did not know. There was nothing
to arrest these people's attention, nothing to make them
stop, save, perhaps, the secret influence of some event
which winged towards them as they waited. The silence
grew heavier, then broke. From far down one of the
lanes the mouths of which frame the emptiness over the
river, the stranger heard a sound. The other watchers
heard it too, turned about, strained towards it, as if they
could hardly believe in its reality. But the seconds
passed, and they knew that this was real. They heard
it, the faint voice : " Hip — hip — hip — hurrah 1 "

The four watchers suddenly became a little knot of
people. The sound rose up again, and now unmistakable
as if it were the voice not of three or four men but of
many scores. " Hip — hip — hip — " roared the phantom
in the lane, " — hurrah ! " And then the silence died.
As if some magician had struck into life the very stones,
they seemed to spurt men and women in solid black
lumps, from every porch, from every lane, from the lit-up
warmth of every public-house. A hundred windows
burst into brilliance and as suddenly were obscured by
clusters of men and girls. The phantom in the lane
roared again, rival roars rose up ; then the shouts merged
in one steady, throbbing sound. It was the sound of
cheering, and it grew as the news spread rapid as a
stain of oil from their centre in Fleet Street to the
farthest suburbs, the sound of cheering without rhythm
or measure, of cheering so uncontrollable that the
" hurrahs " of it covered the preliminary " hips," the
sound of rival songs, of " Rule Britannia " and of " God
save the Queen," and of all the things in London fit to

RULE BRITANNIA 5

make a noise — pianos, horns, trays and kettles far away,
of whistles too. As the youth leaned back against the
wall, wedged in among a shouting, incomprehensible
crowd, he could discern in the roar the sharp quality of
those whistles.

At the upper windows of a newspaper office appeared
two men who carried a white linen band. It was un-
rolled, and the roar grew yet more massive as the crowd
read three words, roughly scrawled :

MAFEKING RELIEVED

Official

London had quickened. The desert of Fleet Street
seemed to have sucked in all who were within the periphery
of its voice, as swiftly and as invincibly as an electro-
magnet collects iron filings when the current passes.
As minutes piled on minutes, tense and fleet as seconds,
London emptied itself into the streets from drawing-
room, theatre and kitchen ; the ever-new miracle of the
Press repeated itself, as if the editors had foreseen the
event, for already the tricolour poster of the Evening News
war edition was in the hands of boys, who could be seen
fighting their way out of the lanes among the greedy
crowd. While some snatched at and stole the precious
sheets, others thrust silver into the boys' hands. The
crowd swayed, unable to move, crushed itself against
the other crowds that had formed as magically at the
ion House and Charing Cross. Here and there,
cd among the people, was a four-wheeler or an
omnibus, whose horses were too listless to take fright.
. but unperceived; London had forgotten
anted only to sing, to cheer, to embrace. But a
<>se must have formed, a restlessness have come,
he crowds suddenly felt the desire to move. It was
re of panic, the desire that dictates fright,
. if exultant desire to do solemn, triumphant
to line up and as soldiers to march to nowhere,

6 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

just to march and to feel the earth tremble under the
trample of rhythmic steps. The Fleet Street crowd,
bound together by the alternation of the national s
and of " The Absent-Minded Beggar," began to move
towards the West, and I . . ,

III

Yes, I ! I, who sit at a square knee-hole desk as I
write these lines, one of those English desks the Americans
have invented, it was an incredible other I who marched
with those Englishmen to that Trafalgar Square ... to
Trafalgar Square where stands the monument of the
admiral who crushed my countrymen. It was not then
incredible, but it is now incredible that I can have been
what I was, that there was a roll in the " r's " of Trafalgar.
For I have lost the " r's," and the feeling of Trafalgar,
lost the feeling of Waterloo, lost them so completely
that like a born Londoner I have forgotten the blood
and smoke that soil those rich names and that they
awake in my mind no idea save " open space " and
" railway station."

On the table is a top-hat. It is an ordinary top-hat,
and that is extraordinary : it is absolutely impersonal,
unoriginal, affords no key to the one who wears it; its
brim is neither very curly nor very flat, its crown neither
very high nor very low ; it is the sort of top-hat everybody
wears, the sort of top-hat which has a steady thousand
brothers between Piccadilly Circus and Hyde Park
Corner. I would not know it in a crowd, and I am glad,
because — well, that would never do !

It is positively an English top-hat !

And because it is an English top-hat, and because
everything in this room into which has crept a faint ness
of London fog is English, so English that it is old English,
because I see English papers, English chintz, and English
books, and English china, and an English typewriter
(made in America) on a Sheraton table (made in Germany),

RULE BRITANNIA 7

I am glad that all this is English, so English that even
rica and Germany are succeeding in being English,
just as I, the Frenchman, am English.

I am glad, and when I think of the young man who

marched to Trafalgar Square, with a swollen, bounding

heart under the waistcoat he had bought in the Boulevard

Imartre, I am amazed. It is I, yes, I am sure of it

when I look at his photograph. Or it was I. It was a

young man of twenty, dark, with black eyes and rather

d eyebrows, hair that ought to have been shorter,

!l-cut mouth enough, shaded by a long but rather

thin black moustache. Other documentary evidence,

my military book, tells me that he had an " ordinary "

forehead, an " average " chin, that he had no " stigmata."

And my present figure leads me to believe that he stood

about five feet nine in his boots, never having been

measured otherwise, that he was fairly broad and that

his hands and feet were rather small.

A fair portrait tins, but no work of art. It lacks life,

inspiration, and I suspect that no effort of mine will

endow it with either, for I don't know him any more.

lands in a world I have left behind; he is my ghost

and he wears the surprising clothes that ghosts wear;

(where do they get them?). I understand him perfectly

and I don't sympathise with him, for I can't feel as he

I see him; he walks, smiles, speaks; he makes

jokes and he makes love; he has political ideas, and

lards of honour, and habits, and nasty envies, and

bubbling generosities. He is quite the most wonderful

m the world, but he is not I.

land has poured him into another man.

I have called him " the stranger," and I have done

. for he is a stranger even to me. I know well

enough why those Englishmen impressed him, but it is

ordinary that they no longer impress me. I gather

if he could rise again it is I, the Englishman, would

impress him, and that I would cast over him the critical,

I look of the Englishman. The roast beef

of old England has done its work well !

8 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

IV

As we marched towards the West I bought a whistle
for a shilling. And from Wellington Street onwards I
blew it to exhaustion, blew it with a fine sense of martial
demonstration, tossing the squeal of it into the slaty
night in honour of the great race which had produced
Gladstone, Cromwell and Shakespeare. I remember
those who walked to the right and left of me; there
was a working-man of some sort, who maintained upon
me the stare of a squinting eye and exhaled one of those
subtle, penetrating trade smells which blend so curiously
with the aroma of beer; the other was an elegant old
gentleman with the clipped white moustache and the
brick-coloured cheeks of the retired soldier. Neatly
pinned across his shoulders was a tricolour newspaper
placard. And the backs and heads in front ! how high
were the heads held, and how square the shoulders !
One back seemed to own no head, for it was humped,
and so bowed that I could not see beyond it. But a
hand belonging to that body held up on a stick a bowler
decorated with strawberry leaves. The English hunch-
back, carrying his ducal headgear, had his share in the
glory of the night.

We marched onwards, and I could not hear a word
spoken, though mouths opened towards ears, for the
roar of us, and our whistling and blowing of horns,
and the tramping of our feet engulfed anything that
we might personally feel. There was no I, and as we
reached Trafalgar Square, where I linked arms with
the odorous working-man and the elegant old gentleman,
there 'was no They. There was nothing save an enormous
exultant We, a We too big for classes and nationalities,
a hurrying, intoxicated We, bursting with relief and
self-complacency.

Round and round Trafalgar Square, where the tide of
us had swept the corners clear and swallowed up those
people who projected from the pavement, almost in step
as we sang—

RULE BRITANNIA 9

" And when they ask us how it's done,
Wo proudly point to every one
Of England's soldiers of the Queen. . ."

Round and round Trafalgar Square, past the National
Gallery, the black windows of which confessed that the
dians were shamefully in bed, past the two hotels,
their windows blocked with people assembled to cheer
id to wave Union Jacks, past the full mouth of
Whitehall, down the hill of which I could see whole
fleets of omnibuses, stalled, helpless and loaded, with
i lowing clusters of men and women.
Round and round Trafalgar Square, with throats full
of ridges choked by dust, and with sweat upon our very
eyelashes. Upon the parapet of the Square sat half-a-
dozen girls together, who wore all of them dusty black
coats ; as I passed I could see they were singing, for their
mouths all worked together, and they swayed together
from right to left and back. For us they waved their
dirty handkerchiefs, and then they were dragged from the
pet and patriotically kissed,
ind and round Trafalgar Square. The working-man,
who still maintained upon me the stare of his squinting
eye, dumbly pointed to a four-wheeler, stranded in Pall
Mall East, among the seethe of our overflow. On the roof
stood a man in evening clothes with a woman in a low
. Hands in hands and face to face, they danced
a furious dance, leaping up and down like puppets on
a wire; the man's white tie had flown loose, and as the
woman danced her earrings left behind them little striae
of light. Some of her fair hair had escaped, the man had
lost his hat ; they danced in abandoned joy.

And round and round Trafalgar Square. And round
and round again.

met some mounted police and split upon them like

i a breakwater. We streamed north, up Charing

o came, those who faced us turned

1 was still linked with the old gentleman,

:ri nncd inanely now and hung wearily upon my arm,

I the working-man. In front I could still see

10 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

the hunchback : his stick had bored a hole in his bowler;
he carried the hat with the strawberry leaves upon the
crook and had decorated it further by sticking into the
hole his Kruger-headed pipe.

As we passed I could hear the singing better, thanks
to the echo of the wails. And, drunkenly excited, I too
sang to them that Britons never, never would be sla
From the windows of the Alhambra peered clusters of
girls' heads, for all the ballet was there — golden curls,
and black curls, and red curls, and gorgeous loose manes ;
I had a vision of the Alhambra as an extraordinary
animal with two flashing eyes of incandescent burners
and a hundred white arms outstretched. From the
roof of one of the theatres they were firing a toy cannon
as fast as they could load it.

At Shaftesbury Avenue we were stopped by a cube
of policemen, and, before we could break down their
puny resistance, we heard the fifes and drums. We heard
them faintly from the north, and suddenly they .burst
in upon us, leading the Endell Street Boys' Brigade.
Fife and drum in front, the boys marched past as if
truly British Grenadiers; they resolved themselves into
bright, smiling faces, glittering buttons and neat dummy
rifles.

" Whene'er we are commanded

To 8torm.the palisades,
Our leaders march with fusees,

And we with hand-grenades ;
We throw them from the glacia,

About the foemen's ears
Sing tow, row, row, row, row, row, row,

To the British Grenadiers."

The boys vanished, were seized and hoisted on
shoulders ; as we poured on towards the north I could
hear the determined band struggling to play on as the
crowd bore it aloft.

And so through the Carnival of Friday night and of
the next day. Carnival ! I carry for ever in my memory
the vision of the Union Jacks on long bamboo poles, of

RULE - BRITANNIA 11

the paper hats, the B.P. buttons and the patriotic
handkerchiefs. Did I not act my part in all of it?
Defend an English girl in Piccadilly from the patriotic
ticklers ? and see near Marble Arch a great and patriotic
fight outside a public-house? And I raised my hat to
Kirk, the butcher, who waved his sheets from his bedroom
window because he had nothing else to wave.

For two days they fought and made love and drank,
and rode decorated bicycles, and mobbed Volunteers
in so friendly a spirit that these took to riding in cabs.

I have confused memories of two nights when I could
hardly sleep, for they were rioting in Oxford Street and
letting off fireworks; for they were rioting in the soul of
me, the Frenchman, as I lay in bed all a-throb with the
triumph of these English, trying to sleep and too tired to
do so, too excited to do aught but thrill at the animal
splendour of them, unable to repress my habituated lips
as they hummed :

M And when they ask us how it's done,
Wo proudly point to every one
Of England's soldiers of tiio Queen. . "

CHAPTER II

HAIL! FRANCE, AND FAREWELL

There has always been an England for me, and though
I am or was a Frenchman, I have always been as con-
scious of England as of France. For, all through my
childhood, I heard the words Angleterre and Anglais
occur often in my father's conversation; no doubt I
heard him alternately revile and belaud those English,
who mattered so very much to the Bordeaux shipbroker
he was. If every port in the world is somewhat English,
then Bordeaux is almost a colony of the new Carthaginians,
those Carthaginians who are Romans too; there is an
atmosphere of England about the names of many who
sell stores and sails and coal, and caulk the bottoms
of the ships, which affects the old, while the young are
subject to football and Charles Dickens. We are com-
plex, we Bordelais, for we are dark, vivid, noisy ; we twist
our moustaches before we have any to twist, and strut
every one like a Cyrano de Bergerac in mufti : yet, and
perhaps because our city would decay if an earthquake
were to lift it from the waters, we have the greedy spirit
of commercial England, her vigour and her obstinacy.
We like the rough games of the North ; we drink spirits
as readily as wine; we cash the sovereign at sight and
make a profit on the deal.

It is this peculiar atmosphere created an England in
my mind, an England represented in early days by a
Consul who, said my father, was a cochon. That Consul 1
I never saw him, never knew his name, but I felt him
to be the grey eminence behind that cardinal of ours,

12

HAIL! FRANCE, AND FAREWELL 18

the harbour-master; he did not mean anything precise,
for he did not mean soldiers, and it is difficult to realise
who is who if he does not mean soldiers when you are
a very little boy. He was just an influence, something
solemn and potential with which you could do anything
you chose if you owned it, something like a tableful of
money. I have never seen a tableful of money, and
I suppose I never shall, for I have little use for money,
being so much fonder of those things which money buys ;
why then the British Consul was always associated in
my mind with a table covered with coins from edge to
edge is a little mysterious, unless there be in the very
far back of my brain some phrases now forgotten which
have marked its lobes, phrases in which " Consul," and
" francs," played equal parts. It is certain that this
secret power must have meant money, and that England
must have shared its glory. As I grew up, England very
much meant money, and now I, an Englishman of sorts,
still find it very difficult to prevent the golden sovereign
from eclipsing the pale sun of the isle.

In those early days I became aware of England as of
something that was partly real : not so real, of course,
as the housemaid, Eulalie, or as the dog, a black, golli-
woggy dog, or as the Chinese box with the eight corners

hich chocolate seemed mysteriously to grow by
night. No, England was real to me in the sense that
God and the wood of the Sleeping Beauty are real to
a small boy; it was an undefined country, but it was
emphatically somewhere. I once asked my father where

ind was. I must have been about six years old.
d by his side in a black velvet suit with a lace collar

hich I was very proud, for it was one of the first

Lof Fontlroi ever seen in Bordeaux; besides,

ir said that the Parisians, those people of Olympus,

not the like. I watched the bii^ ships steam down
de towards the sea, and while my father talked,
iinnally did, I thoughl that the big ships were

the fat, painted ducks which Eulalie set afloat to

e me in the flooded kitchen sink. " U Angletcrre I >

14 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

shouted ir^r father. I remember nothing else. I see
him, not as he was then but as he was in late years,
and set that older figure upon the wharf. It is a tall,
corpulent man, still darker than I am, who wears a silk
hat upon massive black curls; he has choleric dark
eyes, his nose is aggressive; his mouth and chin are
hidden in a thick mat of hair that runs up to his brown
ears. Through the lobe of each ear a fine gold circlet
has been drawn. I shut my eyes and I see my father,
arm outstretched towards the North, pointing with his
stubby brown finger across the Girondc to the opposite
shore. He talks, he talks, he shouts, he glares at me
kindly; by periphrase and crackling Gascon adjective
he tries to enlighten me, and I listen to him unmoved,
well accustomed to the roaring of the metallic Southern
throats. For I feel beyond that stubby finger the
unknown country : it is distant, for the half mile of
Gironde water is my ocean. But I feel the mysterious
country, and because it is beyond the water it is a
romantic land. The rest of the episode is foggy, but
memories of a white garden-wall enable me to reconstruct
it. I feel that I looked at the wall anxiously, for it was
very high, not less than six feet, and wondered whether,
if I stood on the top, I should see the country to which
went the ships. I have also an impression of opera
glasses, delicate things studded with red and green stars,
which usually reposed in the sacred drawer with my
mother's black silk dress, her Indian multi-coloured
shawl and the little dancing shoes with the high heels,
shoes so small that, when I once stole in and put them on,
I found they were not much too large for me.

I think Little Lor1 Fontlroi stood on the wall, and with
the jewelled opera glasses vainly swept the northern
horizon. The last impression of the adventure is one
of physical pain, of maternal brutality no doubt, for my
mother's hand is narrow and long; its fingers are delicate
as the limbs of a decrhound, but they must have been
very hard.

HAIL! FRANCE, AND FAREWELL 15

II

Some years elapsed before I knew that I was a French-
man, a subject of the Republic, for there was a dis-
tinguishing quality about this English dream, a dream
made up of fantastic anticipations; it was a quality ol
romantic realism : I saw England not as she was, but
as she might be. I have said that England was to my
mind the toy that my model railway was to my hands,
for the unconsidered fragments of conversation which
fall into the greedy ears of a little boy impress him
indirectly. They do not evoke definite pictures, but
they lay trains of thought ; the word " unconstitu-
tional," used by my father when I was eleven, never
meant anything to me, but it lodged in some part of
me, irritated me into questions to Eulalie which yielded
no intelligible answers, into profound reflections which
perpetually oscillated between England, the moral
inkiness of lies and the existence of a Divine Spirit.
Likewise, in earlier days, England set me thinking and
making cosmic pictures with ships, fogs, elephants and
plum-pudding. This was not, after all, so bad a synthesis
of England; I have always been synthetic rather than
analytic; I have always wanted to construct, and if I
analysed at all it is because I wanted elements with
which to create the lovely imaginative.

The imaginative ! I have loved it as much as the

logical. It was my French mother, the thin girl who

came from Tours in the early days of the Third Republic

to marry that noisy southerner, my father, gave me the

1 . She came, prim, narrow, economical, dutiful

;>ious, with a neat little ordered mind, a mind very

a bookcase. On one shelf she kept family history,

>ns and customs; another, a large one, con-

ed devotional works, which were not exactly religious

the other shelves were crammed with books <>f

/ he Care of the Child, How to I
. Home Finance. I think I understand my
mother fairly well— .-is well, that is, as a man can under-

16 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

stand a woman —and I have never felt there was on the
shelves of her brain, one romance or one book of verse.
And yet, sometimes, when I bubble with emotion, 1
myself whether there was not, is not (for my mother
lives) just one book, a bold, sinful, delicious book of
passion, which she pulls out guiltily at night, to read a
few pages. If there be such a book in her library, I am
sure she craftily hides it behind the others; it must be
her own and beautiful secret, which would cease to be
beautiful if I set eyes on it.

I like to remember her as she was in the 'nineties :
demure, cruelly neat. She invariably wore black, much
to my father's annoyance, save on orgiastic da)'s,
when a wedding, a christening, or a visit to the theatre
demanded grey or dark blue. I am sure that she was
very unhappy in grey, that she thought she looked like
a cockatoo. She was quiet, hard and incredibly efficient :
Eulalie, a half negroid Bordelaise, might roar in the
kitchen, stamp, vow that she would leave rather than
reduce in the stew the percentage of oil, but my mother's
thin pipe pierced through Eulalie's coppery clamour,
and in the end the percentage of oil was reduced. If,
in her rage, Eulalie smashed a dish, my mother would
deduct the cost of it from her wages and solemnly hand
her, with the balance of the money, the hardware
merchant's receipt.

I owe you such shrewdness as I have, maman, and I
have always loved you more than my father, even though
he did jog me up and down on his enormous knee, take
me to the wharf and teach me to tell which ships were
loading for the Brazils and which were about to beat round
the Horn or the Cape to the China seas. Not even the
ten-franc piece he gave me on my twelfth birthday can
outweigh the subtle atmosphere of your love — and of
mine, for are you not maman? The mysterious French
ma-man who had so much love left to give her little boy
because she took to herself a stranger when she took
a husband.

If, with love, my mother gave me the logical my

HAIL! FRANCE, AND FAREWELL 17

father, with love, gave me the imaginative. He had
brought it ashore from the phosphorescent seas which
swell below the Line; as a seaman he began, and as a
seaman he ended, though he tried very hard to be a ship-
broker. Everybody knew it, and nobody called him
Monsieur Cadoresse : they called him le capitaine. He
was, says a dirty old piece of paper in my dispatch-box,
born in Bordeaux in 1838. Another dirty paper records
that in 1879 he married Marie Lutand; others show
that I was born in 1880, that four years later my sister
Jeanne came into the world.

My father vanishes with the last paper, for he was
drowned in 1893. He merely passed through my life,
and I shall have little more to say of him, for his burly
ghost never disturbs me; this means that he never

s me, for my father's ghost would not slink by in
the unobtrusive English way : his ghost would come on
a high wind, shout like the spirit of Pantagruel and borrow
all the chains in purgatory for the pleasure of rattling
them. He was probably a happy enough man, for he
managed to be so busy as not to have time to think.
A sea-captain at thirty, he impulsively bought up the

ying ship-broking firm of Barbezan & Co., and
ebulliently boomed it into such prosperity that he was
able, at the age of forty-one, to abandon his loves, his
gambles, his fights and his drinking companions for the
sake of his slim Marie. I have not been told the story
of those heroic days, and therefore can do no more than
guess at them, for the London agency of Barbezan & Co.
founded with " young Lawton " a few months

re I was born. I am conscious of the growth of the

Ion agency, a little of the decay of the Bordeaux

firm. My father must have been failing, or "young

Lawton " must have been too strong for his old French

now that the activities of my father did not

I the firm, and he too knew it, for, in the last year
was being taken from him by

e bold young English hands, the sea began to call

18 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

It called Him, and then it took him. On a sunny May
morning I went with my mother and little Jeanne to
see the quondam shipbroker sail on a great four-master.
The twenty-five years of his inaction had unfitted him
for command, but the young skipper was kind; he
understood that old Capitaine Cadoresse must be allowed
to stand by his side on the bridge and to shout a few
orders to the monkey-like sailors.

I shall never forget his peculiar figure, as the little
busy tug contemptuously towed out the big ship which
was taking rolling-stock to La Martinique. I suppose
he was ridiculous, for he refused to wear the blue serge of
the Englishman ; he stood, legs wide apart, his frock-coat
flapping about him, his silk hat on the back of Ins curly
black hair; a streak of red silk under his waistcoat
showed that he wore a sash. He sailed out with his
ship, a replica of one of those fat Marseilles sea-captains
who helped Napoleon in the 'sixties to vie with England
in the Levantine seas. He went down with the great
four-master probably on an uncharted rock.

Ill

And so away with my father. He fell like a leaf in
my path, and like a leaf blew away. He did not leave us
poor, for my mother was bought out by " young Lawton "
for a lump sum and an annuity. " Young Lawton "
came from England, and that was an exciting affair. I
was called into the drawing-room, which always made me
feel nervous and respectful because it had a strange smell,
the smell of rooms which are seldom opened.

I remember it — a sweet, faintly-scented smell, with a
touch of rot in it. When I walked into the drawing-room
on that June morning, the sun was streaming on the stiff
Empire sideboard and couch, on the prim garnet cushions,
the arranged footstools ; but a morbid fancy seized me :
my mother sat on the couch, dressed in black, and
" young Lawton " stood with his shoulders against

HAIL! FRANCE, AND FAREWELL 19

the black marble mantelpiece, dressed in black too; my
sister Jeanne and I paused inside the door, two small
figures in new mourning. It was then the smell seized
me and I was sure that it was the smell of a fresh grave.
So deeply did this strike me that I hardly answered
when Mr. Lawton spoke to me. It was some minutes
before I realised him as a tall, slim man, who was not
at all young as I understood the word; he was then
thirty-eight. But soon he interested me, and I tried
not to laugh (feeling that I ought not to laugh until my
father had been dead at least a month) though his
French was rather bad. " Well, young man," he said
gravely, " and what do they teach you at school ? "
I did not know what to say, so replied : " Everything."

Lawton laughed, and one look at my mother's shocked
face made me realise that these English had no heart.
Or no manners. But I liked his amazing face, for it was
regular, clean-shaven and kindly; of course his was
a secretive, economical laugh, not the good roar of the
South. Still — it was friendly, and I liked to think that
he might laugh louder. I vaguely admired his reserve.
And I liked his smooth, fair hair, like the coat of a well-
groomed horse, his slim build, his calm blue eyes. Also I
had never seen such brilliancy of polish on any French
collar.

" Everything," he repeated after me ; " well, that's
r than nothing, which is what they teach us in
nd."

I looked at him suspiciously. Surely he would not
say that if it were true. Then, being my mother's son,
I cut the knot :

" Don't you know anything, then ? " I asked,
miled. " No, not much."

surprised me. This could not be true. But
•f knowing things and not letting people
see it? " Don't you want to know things? " I asked.

doing things that matters, not knowing
how to do them."

I pondered this for some time; it was an interesting

20 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

idea, an idea quite outside the curriculum. But there
was a flaw :

" If knowing things doesn't matter, why do you say
it is better for me to learn everything than nothing, as
they do in England ? "

My experience of thirteen years told me that at this
stage my father, or any ordinary human being, would
have struck the table with his fist, shouted at me, told
me to hold my tongue. But Mr. Lawton did not move a
ringer, nor raise his voice ; he looked at my mother and said:

" This child is amazing."

Then my mother gave us the ancient French hint to go
away by telling us to go into the kitchen and see whether
she was there. I was not to see Mr. Lawton again for
many years, but I believe that I thought of him all
the time. He was just the incredible Englishman, a
creature of stone, incapable of anger or satisfaction.
His extraordinary ideas did not appeal to me, for he
contradicted one sentence by another; how did England
get rich if she did not know what she thought? To do,
instead of to know: that was interesting, but do what?
Mr Lawton had drawn an impressionist picture of England.
In half-a-dozen sentences he had shown me the viscera
of his country: self-confidence, contempt for learning,
muddle-headedness and the habit of infinite success.
Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, some of the
blanks were filled in later by Dickens, Walter Scott,
Kipling and Conan Doyle.

IV

They came later, these English writers, as I worked
my way up at the Lycee. I have little to say of my
schooldays : I learned, and then again I learned. Later
on I took degrees. To this day I am faintly surprised
when an Englishman talks of his school, as if it were the
only school, for I am quite sure that there is as little
difference between the Lycee ?t Bordeaux and the Lycee

HAIL! FRANCE, AND FAREWELL 21

at Lille as there is between the workhouse at Dover and
the workhouse at York. My school treated me as if
I were a goose doomed to produce pdte de foie gras. The
games which seem to make English schools illustrious
and competitive, we played them, but we played them
after school : we did not, as they do in England, steal
the school time from the games.

When I read the memoirs of other men I find it difficult
to understand how it is they remember so, well the faces
and the sayings of every master and of eveiy boy; there
is a minuteness in their evocation which makes me
suspicious, for those years at school, between the ages
of ten and fourteen, seem to me so futile, are indeed so
futile, that I can hardly see them. Or I lack the mental
telescope. I was a prize boy and, every year, I staggered
down the red cloth of the platform stairs, with half-a-
dozen books on my arm, and several crowns of laurel
drooping over my nose. I cannot sketch those prize-
giving days : I might say that the head master had a
beard, that old Gargaillc was fat, but that is all — and
I might say that I learned things, but I have forgotten
ii, I have forgotten even the curriculum.

The truth is that school was an unemotional affair

because my memory enabled me to learn readily and to

recite facts with parrot-like facility. I did not know the

thrill of rivalry, the agony of defeat. I remember very

much better a magnolia in the park, which flowered every

year and far into the autumn. Every morning I passed

that tree. It was loaded with blossoms so large that

my two hands could not cover one of them. Thoy were

white, flushed with pink, and rufllcd like the short

hers of a swan's rump. One day, when no keeper

was about, I drew one bloom down, very tenderly so as

not to hurt it : the sun had warmed it, and it felt soft

and firm like a woman's cheek. I buried my lips in it,

and it softly breathed into my lungs its insidious, heady

Q times I think I kissed that heavy blossom,

[] I, when the winter came and the tree

1 stark naked, this caress of my first love.

22 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

It was emotion called me then, emotion about to sing
its swan-song when Chaverac died. Chaverac 1 Perhaps
I have never loved anybody as I loved Chaverac. I so
openly worsliipped him, and he so obviously accepted my
homage, that our form ceased to call us Cadoresse and
Chaverac, but invented for us the joint name of Chavor-
esse. I cannot even now believe that he was an ordinary
person, this boy, one year my senior, for I could not
have so loved.him and hated him unless he had had some
quality. Or I am too fatuous to think so : to this day
I am sure that every woman I have looked on with
favour possessed some charm which no other woman had,
and I am almost as assured of Chaverac's matchlessness.

Chaverac was, when I first saw him, fourteen years
old, short, dark, curly-headed, like any Gascon, or rather,
he would have been curly-headed if his hair had not
been close clipped. Set in his brown skin, his red lips
seemed dark; they smiled over splendid white teeth,
but it was his eyes held me — deep, greenish eyes with
brown specks. I liked to think that his eyes were like
pools of water in the sun and that the specks were the
shadows of the leaves of overhanging branches.

We had become friends simply, fatally. In those
days I had lost the asscrtiveness of earlier years, I was
shy, unpopular, and therefore became shyer and more
unpopular. One morning I had been bullied by three or
four big boys and stood smarting, too proud to cry,
against the brick wall of the play-yard. I wanted to
cry, not so much because I had been pinched, because
my arms had been wrenched, or because I had been jeered
at, as because my unready tongue had cloven to my palate.
I was logical then, not ebullient. Now they had gone,
and a flood of gorgeous invective was rising in me. How
great it would have been if it had burst at the right
moment 1 Chaverac, who had never before spoken to
me, came close, examined me and said :

" You've got a funny face."

That is how one offers comfort when one is fourteen.
But Chaverac had helped me, relieved the congestion :

HAIL! FRANCE, AND FAREWELL 23

my pent-up invective burst from me. Chaverac listened
to the end and said placidly :
" Those fellows are pigs."

That was just like Chaverac. He understood then
as he always did, and it is not wonderful that I could
always talk to him. With me he always smiled, remained
unrufllcd ; he was willing to be worshipped and willing
to be hated ; he was critical, always interested and never
fired. At the age of fourteen he was a Laodicean, a man
of the world, and as such he drew from me naught save
what suited him : calm, light and debonair, he was
the elective affinity of my impulsive roughness. We
were French both of us, but in those days I had all the
passion and he all the acumen of our race.

I need not dilate upon the adventures of that year,
for nothing of any kind befell us. Ours was the in-
articulate companionship of boys ; I do not think he
wanted to confide to me anytliingof his hopes, and certainly
I did not know how to do so myself. Chaverac lived
within himself, liked well enough to see me kneeling at
Iirine, but was content to hear me talk of Gargaille,
of the merits of Dunlop or Clincher tyres, of Lawton the
amazing Englishman. He did not feel the need to do
more than stimulate my conversation. I still think that
: i joyed the sense of mastery it gave him to know
he was the only person to whom I talked freely.
My intercourse with Chaverac was therefore made up
of vast outpourings of facts, of small ambitions, and
imate desires. If it was magic to meet him on the
1, to take tea (that is bread, fruit and sweet
;-) in Madame Chaverac's cold flat near the Quin-
to tell him in the play-yard how I had got full
:• composition, it must have been because I was
arching for love. Having no idol, I had to
:e one. But I could make no heroism, and Chaverac
would no doubt bo to-day almost forgotten of mc if his
'1 not worked in me a mental revolution.
W ih keen cyelists, and I think I must with-

draw, unsay Hi i i could ever have forgotten this com-

24 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

panion of my leisure. For who save Chaverac could
scorch so hard as to catch up with a passing motor-i
And who save Chaverac could sit in the sun and mend
a puncture without complaining? And who save
Chaverac would have romantically refused to carry a
lamp, but decorated his handle-bars with Chinese
lanterns? It interested him to be romantic, I bcl
Yet I might have forgotten if he had not died, for his
death became horribly intermingled with my happiness.

One Sunday morning we had cycled some ten n
south, along the Garonne. It was hot, and we had stopped
on the crest of a hill, while Chaverac wiped his forehead.

" Hot," he said.

" Yes, hot," I replied.

It was good to think that we should both be hot. We
looked down upon the river as it glistened between the
meadows like a stream of hot metal and, as we looked,
I wondered what Chaverac thought. He did not seem
much concerned with the sweep of the river or the purple
vineyards, which rippled down terrace after terrace
from our feet to the water's edge. He was not for nature,
Chaverac, he was for me and for what nature meant to
me; he was content to make me his aesthetic vicar.
So, while he still placidly wiped his round, dark head,
I looked my fill of the ruly river, its little burden of
barges, pleasure boats ; I looked at the excursion steamer,
which seemed no larger than a launch, and was crowded
with a thousand black, ant-like things.

Beyond the vineyards and the Garonne were the
meadows, the tall poplars, the atrocious villas which the
builder was beginning to shoot forth into the country.
Beyond curtains of trees, in the north-west, was the
denseness, the shadow that concealed Bordeaux. A smoke-
stack was sharply outlined in* the clear air, and thus
graceful. I enjoyed a sense of peace and of attainment,
for we had painfully climbed this hill, pushing our
bicycles; below us lay the broad white road that circled
round it : I could see two bends in it, far below. We
stood side by side, saying nothing but content, for we were

HAIL! FRANCE, AND FAREWELL 25

alone, as two can be on a peak, and by knowing each
other knowing all.

It was because his eyes covered and warmed me with
their definite look of understanding that I knew Chaverac
to be my good companion, the being who for me alone
had emerged from chaos. Up the other side of the hill
a cyclist was coming towards us. I could see him grow
as he rose, his cap ridiculously fore-shortened and his
attenuated feet almost invisible. I watched him a little
resentfully, for he was intruding, coming uncalled into a
world which I could share with none other than Chaverac ;
he grew and I saw him, an absurd figure with a cap
that was too small, squat calves which no benevolent
trousers hid. He had, and I saw it as he raised his face
ids me, the general air of roughness of men who
suddenly swerve across the path of bewildered old ladies,
race motor-cars, do all the things we did, but in uglier
fashion. The man stopped by our side, mopping his
forehead, then looked at us as if wondering whether
two boys could help him.

" I say," he asked Chaverac at last, " what's the best
road to La Sauve ? "

" Straight on until you come to the bridge," said
Chaverac, pointing to the hot white road.

** Ah ! There's no short-cut, I suppose ? "

I looked at the man and suddenly felt a queer, insane

hatred of him. I hated his flaccid, white face, his

rosacia-touched cheeks and the straggling black bar of

•loustache. I hated him because he was inadequate

and unconscious of his inadequacy. And his cap, his

!l cap, his squat, stockinged cah

" No, there's no short cut," said Chaverac. He was

polite ; he always was polite, unruflled, even when talk-

I o men of this kind, creatures that should be mocked

I felt I must speak, spit some insult at him.

" Unless," I said, with a savage ring in my voice (and
it surprised me), uunl< >vn there." I pointed

of the hill, through the purple
Uic river. The man looked at me,

26 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

amazed and angry, like a bull which glares at the sun on
leaving the toril; it pleased me to see the angry glow
in his eyes, to feel that a flick of my tongue had done this,
pierced the silly sufficiency which clothed his flaccid,
white face. But I was frightened by it too, as one is
frightened when one has mischievously pushed a lever
and the machine begins to work.

" What ? " said the man. " What do you say ? What
do you mean ? Do you take me for an imbecile ? hein ? '"

I said nothing, but looked at him in a conflict of
emotions. I hated him and his ugliness, the mean,
stupid satisfaction which could not laugh at itself because
too uncertain and weak, but I despised myself because my
joke was feeble. True, I had hurt him, and that was good,
but how weak had been my sling and how despicable my
game. Also I feared him as red rose in his white cheeks.

" Hein ? " he said again, and lashed himself into fury.
44 I ask you a civil question and you — you answer me
as if I were an imbiciU. I am not an imbe'cile" he re-
peated so angrily that I felt intimately that he knew
himself to be one; "it is you the imbecile" He took a
step towards me. " Imbe'cile ! " he muttered again.
And, as his right hand moved I involuntarily stepped
back. I was driven back, I was afraid of him even
though I despised him.

44 Ah ? " he sneered, showing yellow, irregular teeth.
But I had stepped back and, very subtly, his self-esteem
had suddenly regilded him. He did not strike, but
shrugged his shoulders and turned to go down the hill.
Only once did he turn towards the spot where I re-
mained, frozen and horribly humble. " Imbecile ! "
he cried and with unimaginative emphasis : " Sacrt
imbecile I " Soon the white road swallowed him. Then
he reappeared in the first bend, passed through it and was
again swallowed up, reappeared in the last bend. I saw
liim turn his head towards me, his absurd little head,
under the cap that was too small. It was too far to
see his lips, but for me they moved, and the invisible
medium that linked our warring spirits conveyed to me

HAIL! FRANCE, AND FAREWELL 27

his monotonous, inaudible insult: "Imbicilef SacrS
(mbicile t "

Chaverac had not said anything. He had watched
the scene with phlegm. Indeed, there was almost
amusement in his brown-flecked green eyes; he smiled
jovially rather than ironically.

" Chaverac," I faltered. But I stopped, I could say
no more. I was overwhelmed, raging; I knew that my
underlip trembled and that again there was welling up
in me that frightful torrent of abuse which swells in the
breast of the impotent. Oh ! if only the man could
come back — I felt hot at the idea of the words I would
use. I saw myself, too, smashing my fist into that
putty-coloured face, tearing at that straggling black
moustache. I was blood-lusty and Chaverac knew it,
watched me with his queer air of critical pleasure in the
sensations of others, watched me as if he were a vivi-
sectionist observing the effects of a drug.

Then I leapt to my bicycle and threw all my weight
into the pedals, so that they might carry me more swiftly
from the horrid spot.

There was a shadow between Chaverac and me. It
was nothing at first, a trifling obstacle, an awkwardness
such as parts master and dog when the man has trodden
on the dog's foot and it returns, whining and wagging
its tail, protesting while it is caressed that the pain was
nothing. Chaverac had ultimately caught me up on
that fatal day and had tactfully left the subject alone;
he had diverted the conversation to some inoffensive
topic, such as tyres, and Bowdcn brakes, borne with my
sullen silence, made jokes, pushed the memory into some
far corner of his brain. At first I felt grateful, loved him
for it. But he could not wash out the past; he knew
and I knew that I ought to have struck the man, at least
cd him. I ought to have in (lifted on him injury
for injury, and my honour would have been clear, or I

28 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

could have hurt him more than he had hurt me and have
been a hero. Because I had wantonly and stupidly
wounded him I ought to have wounded him again.
I had not done so, and this because I had been afraid,
afraid of gibes and blows, afraid because he was a man
and I a boy. There was no hiding it, I had behaved
like a coward. I knew it. Chaverac, too, knew that I
was a coward. Each knew that the other knew, and it
was intolerable to share the secret.

We made desperate efforts, Chaverac and I, to shoulder
our burden. We struggled so desperately for our old
intimacy that we saturated it with gall. We looked
suspiciously into each other's eyes, suspected traps.
If I wanted, as I did in those days, to talk of Vaillant
and Caserio and the other Anarchists, I held back, and
the sweat of fear rushed to my brow, for Anarchism
meant killing and courage, and I was a coward. I had
had my chance and lost it. And Chaverac, too, suffered,
even though his teeth still flashed in forced smiles ; he
dared no longer ask me to cycle with him, for he knew
what a joint expedition must recall to me. We chose
our subjects; then we spoke less, for now we had to
think before we spoke for fear that we should open a
wound. At -last we hardly spoke at all, but walked
homewards side by side, defensively silent. I no longer
put my hand on his arm, for I uneasily felt that he might
be sullied by my coward's touch.

We had terrible dialogues.

" Good-morning."

" Good-morning."

" Hot, isn't it ? "

" Yes."

That was all we had to say, we who had chattered,
remembered, planned. Everything was going, for every-
thing was poisoned and was withering. It was terrible
to meet, to see in each other's eyes a pity that was turn-
ing into fear. We had to meet, for we could not even
part : the memory held us, it was our secret, the gnawing
thing set canker in our affection. To part, to

HAIL! FRANCE, AND FAREWELL 29

avoid these looks, would have been the heavenly relief
that follows on the amputation of a ruined limb, but
we could not part, because we did not dare; we could
not break the link, for to break it would have been to
confess, either that the one remembered or that the other
understood. We could know, but we could not confess.

How the horror would have ended if time had not
stepped in as a surgeon rather than a healer, I do not
know; in insults, recrimination perhaps, in some ex-
hibition of rancour, when he would have told me that I
was a coward and that he despised me, when perhaps
I would have struck him as I ought to have struck my
enemy, unless — and this was another horror — unless
again I proved myself a coward. I hated him because
d loved him. I could have borne disgrace before
another, I could not bear it before him. But time
helped us and the world helped us. They altered the
hour at which a private tutor expected me; they
developed in the history master an interest in Chavcrac
which kept him back for a few minutes after the lesson,
while I escaped alone; they even strengthened friend-
ships we had both flouted in the days when we were
one. I know that, as I hurried away while Chavcrac
6poke to the history master, the voice of the past screamed
to me that I should wait, but I hurried away with Adam's
averted face, for I had fallen.

Strengthened by accident, our parting grew more
tc. We missed each other, mistook places of meet-
ing, discovered urgent engagements on Thursday after-
noons and Sunday mornings. Our fellows observed the
difference, taunted us, asked whether " Chavoresse "
I. Ah ! that was the true suffering, this public
exhibition of our distress. The steadfast cruelty of the
boy scented out at once that something was amiss,
us with quips and questions, hunted us from
:se we feared its jeers. We were
oute; use we were butts, and yet we could not

w<> Ishmaelites madly
Qg from one another in the desert. Even our families

30 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

tortured us, tortured us with questions, surmises as to
absurd quarrels, made barbarous attempts to bring to-
gether two boys who could only sit face to face, tongue-
tied, full of hostility.

Time passed, and with it some of the pain, for the boys
grew tired of their game and our parents forgot our
tragedy. There was nothing left save an awful emptiness
where there was not yet room for hatred, nothing but
strangling constraint. All had gone — pleasure, peace and
interests. I skulked where I had walked merrily. Later
only did the past goad me yet further, when Chaverac
had become so intimately associated with it that he bore
some of the blame, when I began to hate him, to grow hot
with rage when I saw him, to shiver with passion when
I thought of what he had seen. My mother had forgotten.
She knew only that I was moody and fierce-tempered.
The doctor ordered me a sedative. I lay under my cope
of lead.

One Thursday evening when I had been out alone,
my mother took me into the drawing-room. The smell
of the grave was in it still; formal and black-clad, she
was a worthy messenger.

" I have something to tell you," she said.

*' Ah I " I said listlessly, though her tone was grave.

14 You must be prepared — it is dreadful "

41 What is it ? " I asked in a choked voice. I knew —
I knew — Chaverac

44 He was cycling — he slipped — he slipped under a
dray."

44 Is he dead ? " I can still hear my flat voice.

44 Yes — oh ! — oh ! — what is the matter ? What is the
matter with you ? "

I see my mother's face now as I write, the fear and
surprise in her eyes; I see her outstretched hands with
spread fingers. She was pale, almost grey, but I know
that warm blood had rushed to my cheeks, that relief
had burst from me in a great sigh. I was free — free —
alone in possession of my shameful secret. How lights
must have danced in my eyes 1

HAIL! FRANCE, AND FAREWELL 31

VI

I do not shrink from this confession. That which is,
is. My story shows how singularly the materialistic
child of twelve had evolved into the morbid, intro-
spective boy of fourteen. But that boy had yet to grow
into a youth and into a man, to undergo other shocks,
change again as swiftly as the wind, gain and lose con-
victions, adopt attitudes and be moulded by those atti-
tudes until they became part of his character.

The death of Chaverac meant more to me than relief
from an obsession. It snapped the links that bound me
to my fellow man, it made love, emotion, detestable.
His death restored to the throne logic and materialism.
I had given my soul and, circumstance aiding, my gift
had been flung back to me, soiled and unknowable,

I had done with the soul. When I was sixteen I had
done with faith. I was thrown back upon my brain,
and sudden interest in my work rose up ; unfettered by
emotion I turned to the intellect. I decided to be rich,
powerful, hard. I decided these things in the abstract,
I hen looked for a peg on which to hang them : that
peg turned out to be England.

VII

I have said that I never forgot Lawton; indeed,
irilliancc of his linen collar hung for years before my
dazzled eyes. That white collar meant England, very
much as the magnolia meant France. It meant more,
f*>r it was one thing to try and be intellectual and hard,
her to be like Lawton; I had the young gener-
osity of the South, and if it could not out in friendship
ist out in admiration for something, in an ideal,
years between fifteen and eighteen were crowded
tudy, by the dull memorising of facts; I gained
nothing from my education save information and, if
;is had not helped me, I should have been
an intolerable prig. But they helped me, in the indirect

32 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

way in which youths help one another, by support
mixed with chaff, for they were not all unsympathetic
to my ever more vivid English dream.

I remember three of them especially, at the financial
school. We were then all four seventeen, keen, com-
bative, different in some way known to none save our-
selves from the hundred others who mean nothing to me
now. Those others have mostly vanished; some have
left behind them names without faces, Dubourg, Arbeillan,
Valaze; and some have faces without names, dark,
southern faces mostly; and yet others are nothing save
a brown suit or a white hat. But the chosen three will
never quite die for me ; there was Luzan, a well of intelli-
gent and bubbling gaiety, who thought argument was a
sort of mental catch-as-catch-can. Luzan writes to me
once a year or so to this day, and tells me that my views
are idiotic ; whenever I change them they are still idiotic.
There was Lavalette, the best dressed young man in
Bordeaux : he is now the best dressed man in Paris, but
he is not a mere fop ; he has a discriminating if desultory
appreciation of the arts and (this endears him) an un-
discriminating but sedulous love for England. As for
Gobot — I have lost sight of fat, jolly Gobot, with the
round, pink face, the piggy, intelligent eyes, and the
booming voice. Ours was a heterogeneous company, for
Luzan was the mocker, the puck, the miniature Anatole
France — Lavalette was the old French grace blended
with the new French chic — Gobot embodied all the
solidities, stupidities and shrewdnesses of the bourgeois.
And I ? I was the hot, restless spirit who felt quite sure
that he was cold and judicial.

Of course, we never played games, we had a better thing
to do, and that was to talk. I do not suppose we over-
looked anything in those two years, neither faith, nor
woman, nor politics, nor the histories of our families,
. their weddings and their scandals. We were perfectly
frank and perfectly unashamed ; we were not cribbed nor
shy — indeed, we affected more liberty of view than we
possessed. We were atrociously bad form and it was

HAIL I FRANCE, AND FAREWELL 33

splendid. One conversation, especially, I remember, at
the end of my second year, when we finally settled la
question anglaise, as we called it in pompous imitation of
the diplomatic jargon.

" Those English," said Gobot, " are nothing but land-
grabbers. That Fashoda affair — why, if we'd had a decent
fleet we'd have sailed up the Thames and bombarded
London instead of letting Marchand die in a swamp."

"Which swamp," said Luzan, maliciously, "takes the
form of promotion, the Ligion d'Honneur and a triumphant
reception in Paris."

" Marchand morally died in the swamp," said Gobot
stodgily, " killed by the Englishmen. He'll never be a
general, the Government wouldn't dare. Our Govern-
ment never has the insolence of the English ; the English
have that one quality and it's useful to them."

" Oh I " I protested, " the English aren't so bad "

" Who stole Egypt ? " cried Gobot.
44 And who let the Germans crush Napoleon III ? "
asked Luzan. He smiled wickedly, and I knew he was
g with the sincere Gobot.
" You're right, Luzan, and who killed the other
.leon? shut him up in an island? and who set
>pe on him and never fought at all ? "
" Pardon, Gobot," said Lavalette, smoothly, " there was
Waterloo."

44 Waterloo 1 " roared Gobot. His fat, pink face became

red, and his piggy eyes began to flash. " Speak of

it ! why it was the Prussians won Waterloo, the English

sent hardly anybody with their Wellignetonne. England

r fights, she sends money to hire armies, just as she

men for her own, and then she swindles everybody

i the war's over. Who stole India? the English.

who stole Canada? the English. And who talked

Iping the Balkan Christians and let the Turk have

English. Land of Liberty, you say, Cador-

esse? Did the English help Poland? No 1 we helped

bile the English were filling their pocket with

ucrica. And wasn't it the English fought China

34 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

to keep up the opium trade? the poison trade? And
wasn't it the English who taught the Indians to drink
themselves to death ? Hypocrites, liars, bible-mongers,"
roared Gobot. " They don't send out missionaries, they
send out commercial travellers. And all the women drink."

We were silent as Gobot suddenly laid before us the
result of the elaborate history we are taught ; as his voice
rose I felt a foreigner in my own country, for I had no
share in this smouldering fury of the French, who have
always found in their way a rich island nation, a nation
grabbing islands merely to prevent other nations from
travelling freely, a people always ready to lend money to
their enemies, to side, in the holy name of splendid isola-
tion, with anybody whom they could exploit. As Gobot
went on, raucous, and therefore weakly absurd, I suddenly
saw him as small, thought of him as one of Kipling's
monkeys whom the other animals would not notice.

" All the same," said Lavalette, patting his perfectly
oiled head, " they are the only people who know what a
gentleman is."

We discussed the gentleman, as expounded by me ; he
was a queer creature, as I took him from my reading,
mainly a person who hunted the fox, and told lies to save
the honour of women. We discussed Protestantism and
whether it was better than the Catholicism we all of us
practised, but did not believe in. Gobot was still raging
historically, for Luzan had him well in hand and was
drawing him back and back, from treaty to treaty and
defeat to defeat; they had got to Blenheim, and by and
by would get to Agincourt, to Crecy. Meanwhile, as we
all four walked slowly round and round the little park,
Lavalette and I were better employed on English litera-
ture, which we could both read in the text.

" Those two," said Lavalette, tolerantly, " they don't
understand ; what's the use of talking to people who read
Walter Scott in French? "

I looked approvingly at Lavalette. I do not think
anybody else had ever so wholly satisfied my aesthetic
tastes. He was then nearly six feet tall, very slim, and,

HAIL! FRANCE, AND FAREWELL 35

because narrow-chested, graceful as a reed. His long
neck carried a well-poised and very long head ; his mouth
was small and rather full-lipped : it made me think of a
tulip. Rut better than his glossy black hair, his delicate
hands, which he exquisitely manicured, I remember the
sorrowful gaze of his grey eyes. Immense eyes with the
opalescent whites ! how kindly you appraised and dis-
counted my crudities !

" They do not know," said Lavalette, " and that's
why they talk. Why, the way they hate the English
shows they don't understand them; also it shows that
they are inferior to them, for one never hates an equal,
one respects him."

" That's true," I said ; " boxers shake hands before they
fight."

" They do. That's the English way. You find it in
all the books, in Kipling, in Conan Doyle; you find
phrases like * playing the game ' and ' not hitting a man
when he's down.' "

" You don't find it in Dickens," I said.

A long pause ensued while we thought this out.

"No," said Lavalette at last, "you don't. And I've
read him through, almost. That's curious."

" What's curious ? " asked Gobot from behind.

We told him. He did not know Dickens well, having
only David Copperficld in French, but pointed out
perhaps Dickens did not play games.

hat's why," Luzan suggested ; " games make
a difference."

Then we all four spoke together, Gobot because he
always talked and Luzan because he always contradicted;
but 1 and I had got hold of something and were

" That's the answer," I said at last; " the Englishman
liar animal I his temperament has been

altervrl by games, lie thinks life is like football."
" With rules and rights — " said Lavalette.

ant in the playing field — " said Luzan,
with a sniff.

86 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

44 A Protestant everywhere," I said, as if illumined.
" He's always ruled by something, by a code, a habit.
That's why he had a Parliament first, that's why he docs
not fight duels — "

" He wants to save his skin," growled Gobot.

44 Are duels dangerous ? " Luzan asked, thus diverting
Gobot from the attack.

Lavalette and I walked on, full of Vnew realisation ;
this idea of the rule of games being made the rule of life
was fascinating ; one felt one had suddenly come upon the
meaning of this cold, restrained English life. Of course,
it was restrained, for the people respected the rules.

I think we discussed England for the rest of the after-
noon ; Lavalette persisted in being literary, in comparing
Walter Scott with Dumas. 4t No fire," he said, 44 except
in Ivanhoe, but elegance. Now Dumas brawls in taverns.
His cardinals are braggarts and his kings are merely
vulgar. Of course, Walter Scott is a bore, but such a
gentlemanly bore."

I think we understood Walter Scott pretty well, the
severity of his courts and the highfalutin sexlessness of
his historical romances ; and Conan Doyle, too, we under-
stood. His Englishman was Sherlock Holmes, the cold,
hard, shrewd and brave man, and Watson — how English
was this splendid, stupid Watson who could listen and do
what he was told. Dickens we suspected as an oddity
and a sentimentalist, but he made London seem romantic
and very comfortable. As for Kipling, Lavalette and I
almost gave him up, or rather we gave up his passionate,
poetic side, tried to draw from him a picture of another
Englishman, the calm Anglo-Indian, so haughty, so
efficient, and so brave.

We created an Englishman from anything that came
handy. It was, on the whole, a fairly good lay-figure.

VIII

And so, through these early years, when the world was
dawning, I saw life as a map divided up into diverse

HAIL! FRANCE, AND FAREWELL 37

countries ; one was the land of art, another the home of
business, a third was marked " love." The first interested
me in rather stereotyped fashion : my affection for the
arts rested upon my rebellion against our graveyard
drawing-room; the second drew me a little more, for it
mixed up with England : commerce and liberalism
in ideas made up for me the soul of the island. As for
love — well, I am French, so I did not suppose there was
more to know about it than I did know when I was
eighteen. Love had not stolen upon me softly like spring
into an English hedge; it had come flaunting, brazen
and mercenary in the train of the senior rowdies of the
school. If I suspected now and then, when I thought of
Agnes and David Copperfield, that it had some fugitive
charms not to be found in Bordeaux, I thrust back the
idea. Intellect was the real thing, woman^ was the
pastime. I knew all about her and all about love. I
knew nothing about either, and I might never have known
if I had not come to these islands where love burns with
a clear, white flame, a flamo which docs not scorch as does
that of the French brazier, but beautifully and intimately
warms.

IX

Then Mafeking. But I have told Mafeking.

" Land-grabbing again," said Gobot when I came back;
" cochons." I smiled in an exasperating and superior
manner. I knew.

X

Unroll again, film of my life, and show me my dead self

ht. you show me a young man in a white

smock, sweeping the barrack-yard : the army. Then

g man in a small room at Montauban, in red

belt and bayonet lie on the bed; his lips

lish irregular verbs: "throw,

... blow, blew, blown — ": idealism. The

. in full regimentals, with half-a-dozen

38 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

more of his kind; they are at the brasserie, have had a
little too much to drink; the young man holds upon his
knee the tolerant singing girl who goes round with the
plate : seeing life.

......

We sat in the drawing-room, my mother on the right
of the black marble mantelpiece, Jeanne on the left, I
by the table. I noticed that our three chairs marked the
three angles of an equilateral triangle. The magic of the
prim room seemed to compel geometry in attitudes.
It possessed the one fender on which I had never put my
boots, and I had never smoked in it. I tried, that
morning, for the regiment had given me assurance, but
there was no zest in the performance, or the damp air of
the room had affected the saltpetre. I looked at my
mother, slim, pretty and black-clad ; at my beetle-browed
sister, realised our group as a family council, a dry,
loveless thing, fitly held by the stiff Empire couch and
the garnet-coloured footstools. The room smelled of
death, and suddenly I knew how glad I was to say good-
bye to this hardness and formality, to go to England, free,
living England.

" And so you are going to-morrow, Lucien," said my
mother. " I hope it is for the best."

" Oui, maman" I said, thinking of the morrow.

" Your father always wanted you to go into the branch.
I had hoped you might stay here and go into the house ;
still "

My mother paused ; she had never been able to realise
the change, to accept that " the house " was in London,
that the Bordeaux firm was the branch. For her, the
Bordeaux firm was still august, dominant, as in the days
of my father and his frock-coats.

" Still I suppose Monsieur Lawton knows best. You'll
write to me, Lucien."

" Oui, maman."

I knew I ought to have said more, but life and adventure
waited.

" You will get on, of course. Your father always hoped

HAIL! FRANCE, AND FAREWELL 39

to leave you the house. Monsieur Lawton knows that it
understood; so you must work hard, Lucien. You
are very fortunate, for we are not dependent on you :
Jeanne will have a little money, and we shall marry her
soon."

I glanced at Jeanne, who sat playing with her fingers.
She was rather a pretty girl, small and thin like my mother,
demure, but she had under heavy black brows my father's
splendid eyes. She did not move when my mother calmly
announced her intention to " place her " with some man.

" There's no hurry about that," my mother resumed.
" Jeanne's only eighteen. Have you packed ? No ?
Well, you must do it to-day. And mind you take brandy
for the crossing. Your thick socks will come home to-
night."

I was going to thank her formally when she suddenly
did something she had never done before : she sighed,
and allowed one large tear to roll down her cheek.

" Maman ! " I cried. And before I could hesitate I

had broken the coldness, I had thrown my arms round her

we were both crying, while Jeanne sobbed as she

knelt by my mother's side and held my hand. I was

ty-two, " an old soldier," and I wept. But, even as

I pt and promised my mother to write every week and

ra every summer, I could hear the roar of the English

nd.

XI

The cliffs of Folkestone stood up, white and green,

ly like the French cliffs, yet unlike.
The wet, green country, the oast-houses and the hop-
fields were left behind. Townlet after townlet, deceiving
promising London, then dwindling into fields again.
. smokestacks, building plots. The
mist had thickened, was becoming yellow.
1 ' in their gardens, then the bronze

in the moist, yellow air, the Houses of Parlia-
mding out like black bluffs against the pale

CHAPTER III

INTRODUCTIONS

" This is it, Mr. Cadoresse," said Mrs. Hooper.

She had preceded me and now stood in the middle of
the room, while I remained on the threshold. I had a
moment's hesitation, for this was the first time I had seen
an English bedroom ; the hotel at which I stayed during
Mafeking week and the semi-public rooms of the Lawtons'
house had not prepared me for the homely feeling of
this sleeping place. For a reason I shall always feel
and never quite understand there is a difference between
a bedroom in an English house and one in a French
flat ; if the Englishman's house is his castle, his bedroom
is his keep. But Mrs. Hooper was talking again in
gentle tones :

" I hope you'll be quite comfortable, Mr. Cadoresse.
Anything you want — there's the bell near the bed. I
suppose you'll be wanting to get ready for dinner, so
I'll leave you if you've got everything."

" Thank you," I said. " I don't want anything. A
fire, perhaps."

It was October and I felt chilly. When I left Bordeaux
the magnolias were loaded with blooms. Here the air
was misty and raw.

" If you like, Mr. Cadoresse, though we don't generally
light fires before November."

" Oh ! it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter," I said.
I felt reproved. I had broken some law. I wanted to
apologise, to explain abundantly, but I found that Mrs.
Hooper had gone, quietly, without adding another word ;

40

INTRODUCTIONS 41

she impressed me by her negativeness. She wore no
notable clothes : a dark blouse and skirt, so far as I re-
member; she dressed her grey hair neither very tight
nor very fancifully; she did not gesticulate, nor welcome
me warmly, nor appear churlish; she did not call me
"Sir" in propitiating manner, nor was she familiar;
she was neither servant nor hostess. I have met many
Englishwomen like her : the number of things Mrs.
Hooper was not and did not was amazing. But I did
not think about her very long : my room interested me.
My room had an air of permanence, for I would then
have been embarrassed to find other quarters in a private
house, A stranger, I was like a shipwrecked sailor for
whom the desert island becomes home. Against the wall
furthest from the window was a black and brass bed;
before the window stood a small table, covered with an
old red cloth and bearing a swivel-mirror; a marble-
topped washstand with a yellow-tiled splasher, a mahogany
chest of drawers at the foot of the bed, and three mahogany
chairs made up,' with a brown-painted hanging cupboard,
the furniture of the room. All these pieces of furniture
struck me as too small, too compact ; they left the room
bare, save for thin red curtains at the window ; the room
felt too light, too airy. I missed the heavy canopy which
shut me in when I slept in my French home, the blue
eiderdown, the darkness, the comfortable thickness of
the stuffs.

And yet Mrs. Hooper had not attained the sanitary

>r of modern English houses; I was spared the

urn that chills the feet and the distempered walls

chill the heart. At least she had laid down an old

ad-brown carpet, which was probably not very well

>t; on the yellowish rosebud-decorated wall she had

hung three engravings: "The Peacemaker," "In the

:n of Eden," and " The Jubilee Procession," while

!, blue and gold text tried to induce me to remember

that the Lord was my Shepherd and that I should not

however, I did not dislike the room,

C 2

42 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

and I was introspective enough to realise that I would
get used to it, that the dog can, after a while, sleep well
in the cat's basket. It was nearly seven. I began to
unpack my clothes, to lay them out on the bed, hurriedly,
for my evening clothes, my smoking as I still called them,
seemed scattered among the others, while my shirts,
French laundered, had mostly had a bad time on the
journey. When, at last, I was ready, I realised that I
somehow fell short of the Lawton ideal. I was a neat,
dark, slim youth, not ill-looking, but my ready-made
black tie did not content me ; my shoes were well enough,
but I had that day seen a fashion-plate in a newspaper
which proved that on these occasions Englishmen wore
pumps; and, in some undefinable way, my linen did
not reach the Lawton standard. It never did quite
reach it until four years had elapsed, when a sympathetic
man told me that I should send it to a French laundry.
Incredible !

At last I stood in front of the mirror, in the midst of
the quantity of clothing two small trunks can discharge,
critically considering the candidate for the English
quality. I found I had not greatly changed since that
historic night when I marched down Shaftesbury Avenue
with a thrilled heart, while (and I reminiscently hummed
the refrain) the Englishmen sang :

** And when they ask us how it's done,
We proudly point to every one
Of England's soldiers of the Queen."

" Pas raaZ," I said aloud to the figure. I liked the arch
of my eyebrows and the increasing thickness of my mous-
tache. Good dark eyes, too, but I suddenly determined
to get my hair cut the very next day. Still, the hair
would have to pass for that evening, so I opened the door
and, as half-past seyen struck, followed a pungent smell
of cooking to the ground floor.

I passed between the red-papered walls to" the hall,
which was decorated with a pair of buffalo horns, a gaunt
hatstand and a print of the Ileenan v. Sayers fight. Then

INTRODUCTIONS 43

I hesitated in front of the doors, for nothing told me
which was the dining-room. To open the wrong door
would be annoying, because it would make me look a
fool. I should not have been in the least bashful if, on
opening the wrong door I had found Mrs. Hooper in a
bath, but I could not have borne being made ridiculous.

Suddenly I heard muffled peals of laughter; a door
opened, the laughter became shrill, and a young girl,
running out, nearly rushed into my arms. I do not
think I shall forget that first picture. She came, light,
bounding, and she is fixed in my mind upon one foot, a
Diana Belvedere ; she was laughing still, and I could see
the quiver of the light on her brown curls, the white
glitter of her teeth, and the sparkle of her dark eyes.
But, as I looked, her expression and her attitude changed.
The eyes were cast down, long lashes lay on full, faintly
blushing cheeks ; the mouth smiled no more, and I saw
nothing now but the very pretty and very prim English
miss. We stood face to face for two seconds, while I
searched my brain for a suitable English sentence and
some qualification of the rule that in England you must
be introduced, and as I searched I thought I had never
seen anything so delightful. But the English miss, eased
the strain, threw me a glance which took me in from
forehead to shoe, smiled and, with much dignity, passed
me by.

As she went she murmured : " Good evening, Mon-
sieur " (alas ! she pronounced it approximately " Mersser ")
and, with persistent dignity, climbed the first three or
four steps of the stairs. Then dignity seemed to desert
her, and she ran upstairs, on sole and heel, loud and
y as a boy. This did not kill the charm but intensi-
t by making its elements incongruous. I had no time
to think more of her, for the room she had come out of
was i a bedroom; at least I could see a bed in

i I boldly turned the handle of the other door.

Three people looked at me with extreme calm. I

lit of the calm of fish. One of them was Mrs.

as I had seen her half-an-hour before; the other

44 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

was a girl, younger than the other, not at all pretty, but
still worthy of a glance, for she had flaxen hair, china-blue
eyes and a milk-white skin; the third, an elderly man, I
judged to be Mr. Hooper. He was a small, thin person,
as undecided in colouring as his wife; his mild eyes
made me think at once of the younger girl, obviously
his daughter; he stood leaning against the mantelpiece
where burned no fire (of course, not in October), in a black
frock-coat the silk lapels of which were not very fresh.
Mr. Hooper was rather bald, looked about fifty; he
seemed so mild, so genial, so unruffled, that I wondered
whether an immense aggressiveness lay under his mask.

I had not time to analyse further, for I was struggling
with an internal rage. I, Lucien Cadoresse, was wearing
the wrong clothes, was being ridiculous. I thought of
running from the room, of putting on my tweed suit again,
but then I should have been more ridiculous. It was a
ghastly situation and I nerved myself to bear the chorus
of protest. But there was no chorus; Mrs. Hooper
said :

" Allow me to introduce you to my husband, Mr.
Cadoresse, and to my daughter Louise."

Mr. Hooper said : " Glad to have the pleasure " ;

Louise, or Lulu as she was called in ordinary circum-
stances, mumbled and blushed. Then the girl I had met
in the hall came in, now quite demure, was introduced to
me as " My daughter Maud." Fully mustered, the family
was doubtless going to protest against my clothes. But
Mr. Hooper said :

" Very cold for the time of year," and rubbed his
hands.

41 Much colder than in Bordeaux," I replied, expecting
this to lead up to an allusion to my bare shirt front.

But Mr. Hooper began to question me on " the meteoro-
logical conditions in the South of France," as he called
them. I satisfied him as well as I could, which cannot
have been completely, for Mr. Hooper had one of those
thirsts for miscellaneous information found mainly in
the City of London and in the North Country, which

INTRODUCTIONS 45

nothing can ever assuage. Of indifferent health, too
poor to indulge in games, bound to daily labour which
he was not vigorous enough to realise as uncongenial,
Mr. Hooper had developed a desultory acquaintance
with every branch of knowledge, from Sanskrit to wood-
carving; he knew some French, a little more than no
German; he could quote six Latin tags and one Greek
one, but he couldn't spell that one; he was fond of
history, that is history a Vanglatie, as it is expounded in
A Favourite of Henry XXIX, and the like ; he knew where
was Taganrog, for he had had to look it up, but could
not at once locate Moscow on the map ; he liked to know
how many dollars went to the pound and was quite
content not to know how many gulden went to the pound.
Mr. Hooper's mind was an unlimited patchwork quilt
of ideas and facts; occasionally the ideas clashed and
the facts did not dovetail, but those little imperfections
did not interfere with the progress of the quilt. He
never looked for a piece with which to fill a hole when the
facts did not accord : a new piece always went end-on
to the others and the mental quilt grew larger and larger ;
it would have smothered him in time if he had not con-
tinually lost bits of it, which made it majaa^cable.

Mr. Hooper loved a fact. In later days I repeated to

him the joke in Tlie Man from Blankley's, to the effect

that the area of the Great Pyramid is exactly equal to that

of Trafalgar Square. He did not laugh, but with great

f he fact to the quilt.

While, that evening, Mr. Hooper entertained me with a
schedule of compared temperatures which showed that
isotherms had escaped his attention, I examined the
room and its inhabitants. The dining-room was em-
phatically an English room; it had red paper, well
covered with inferior oil-paintings of still life and steel
s of British regiments holding the pass or the
it be. Opposite the window was a large
1'board, awkwardly carved, on which stood
a cheap tantalus, some siphons and the bread platter;
there was also a bottle of ready-made dressing. The

46 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

mantelpiece carried an elaborate oak overmantel, on
which were accumulated brass ash-trays, little china
pigs, and some Goss, two bronze candlesticks which did
not match, some prospectuses and letters. Into the
looking-glass were pushed two or three cards, one of
them an invitation to a Conservative meeting at a titled
lady's house. This I know, for it stayed there many
weeks. Yet the room did not displease me; it was cold,
the chairs were ugly, the carpet felt thin and the table
appointments seemed common, the plate dirty under the
glaring gas, but it was comfortable, it was untidy. I
had left formality in France, and I knew it when those
people spoke to me so quietly, without trying to enter-
tain me, when they refrained from commenting on my
evening clothes.

Mr. Hooper said : " The dinner is late, my dear."
Mrs. Hooper said : " The girl will bring it up in a
minute, Alfred."

I looked at Lulu, who at once blushed, then at Maud.
Maud's eyes met mine with a boldness that suggested
either absolute innocence or deliberate challenge; I
found out later that it contained a little of each : that
mixed quality is an English monopoly. I looked her full
in the eyes, which I could now see were dark-brown,
analysed her in detail ; she stood the test very well, and
it was singular to find her almost a woman and so much
of a boy, for her figure was slim and straight, and yet
I foresaw that within two or three years it would show
all the gracious curves of maturity. Under my cool
inspection, which took in the thin brown stuff of her
blouse and the low dressing of her hair, she remained
composed, but at last she smiled at me from the corners
of her mouth, and looked down at her feet. My heart
was beating a little when the gong was struck in the hall
and the little maid entered, carrying the soup.

T regret we cannot offer you hordoovers," said Mr.
Hooper archly, " but radishes are not in season. We
might have had some sardines, though ; Ethel, where are
those sardines you opened for breakfast on Tuesday ? "

INTRODUCTIONS 47

" You know you had the last of those this morning.
Alfred," said Mrs. Hooper. " Besides, sardines don't
keep when the tin's open."
">Ielon," said Mr. Hooper.
" How can you, Alfred ! Melon in October ! Mr.
Cadoresse will have to live as the English live," said
Mrs. Hooper, " and of course we can't expect him to like
our cooking."

" Oh, I'm sure it is excellent," I said, as I tasted the
soup. It seemed excellent, for I had never before tasted
clear soup devoid of grease; this particular soup was
just oily water, but it was strange, and therefore good.
" I want everything that is English."

" You shall have it," said Mr. Hooper. " I flatter

If we are a true British household, though of course

we are not prejudiced people. Oh, no, we are quite

cosmopolitan, Mr. Cadoresse. I remember once, when I

in France "

I listened while Mr. Hooper gave me in detail the list
of the dishes he had partaken of at the " IIoteMc France,"
at Ncuchatel in 1896. Meanwhile the two girls were
carrying on an animated conversation in low tones.

" Yes," said Lulu, " there she was, Mother, with the
pink hat on she wore on Sunday."
" Orange, you mean," said Maud.
" When I say pink I mean pink," Lulu replied.

\ nd when you mean orange you say pink," said Maud,
sprightly if a little acid.

I'ink," said Lulu. Her china-blue eyes were bovine
ir obstinacy.
" S'pose you think I can't tell pink from orange," said
Maud.

And you wouldn't believe it, the whole thing only

cost two francs," said Mr. Hooper. " Now in Soho it's

. but I don't care for those places. I always

is are not quite nice."

kc the last won! n inverted commas;

ued dutifully and I joined in, feeling it

I tunc to do.

48 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

When the roast leg of mutton was brought in, on a dish
that was too large and flooded with warm brown water,
Mr. Hooper carved, remarking V

" Mutton thick, beef thin."

The girls were still wrangling.

" Fathead," Lulu muttered.

Maud looked at me with a faint smile that clearly said :
" See how I suffer " and replied : " Think I'm colour-
blind?"

I thought I should take the opportunity and said :

" The brilliance of your eyes, Mademoiselle, demon-
strates that there is no justification for the accusation."

There was a pause, during which Lulu blushed at the
compliment addressed to her sister, but Maud did not
blush : she made a bread pill and gave me a little smile.
Mrs. Hooper said :

" Now, Mr. Cadoresse, no French compliments. You
will turn my young ladies' heads."

" My head's all right, Ma," said Maud.

" May be it is, and may be it isn't," said Mrs. Hooper,
fondly gazing at the curly brown head, which I judged to
be unruly. I was helped to baked potatoes, caked with
grease, to nameless green food, which had apparently
been moulded and then cut into slabs. The water jug
was handed me without question, and I missed the usual
wine.

" How did you leave your dear mother, Mr. Cadoresse ? "
asked Mrs. Hooper. " Mr. Lawton said she was very
sorry to part with you."

" Oh, very," I said.

" She's not thinking of coming over to England ? "

" No, I don't think so," I replied.

" Well, I'm not surprised. It seems so easy travelling,
sitting in a railway carriage and doing nothing, but it
does tire one so. Why, I remember when I went to Paris
with your pa, girls, I was that tired I had to lie in bed for
two days, and you'll never believe it, butyyour pa had gone
along to the bathroom the first morning when I heard a
knock at the door. I thought it was bim and said, ' Come

INTRODUCTIONS 49

in,' and in came the waiter with my breakfast. I don't
think that's usual, is it, Mr. Cadoresse ? "

" Oh, quite," I replied. " He would come to the bath-
room if you rang."

There was a short silence which showed me that I
had gone too far, and the position was not eased by Maud,
who suddenly burst into a fit of giggles, which recurred
at frequent intervals.

" Stop it, Maud," said Mrs. Hooper; " silly."

" Can't, Ma," the girl gasped.

" Well, if you can't," said Mrs. Hooper, resignedly,

" we'd better change the subject. Yes, I was that

, Mr. Cadoresse, I couldn't even go and see that

church ; you know — the church they call the little cakes

after "

" The Madeleine ? " I said at random, for I do not
know Paris well.

44 Yes, Madeline. But I went to the shops."

" Ah ! " said Lulu softly. 44 I'd love to go to Paris and
see the shops."

44 They are lovely shops, aren'J they, Mr. Cadoresse ? "
said Maud, who was recovering. 44 Oh 1 I'd love to go
to Paris."

44 You must wait for your honeymoon," said Mr.
;>er, facetiously.

44 Don't see why," said Mrs. Hooper. 44 They're no
better than White-ley's, I'll be bound."

While stewed apples and custard were being served, a

<ily debate on the merits of French and English shops

took place between the father and mother, but Maud and

I exchanged frequent friendly glances and covert smiles.

Lulu had lapsed into sulky silence, and steadily ate.

II

P was a singular atmosphere, made up of the contest

ambient dullness and the sparkle of Maud. It

rhapf too much to say 44 dullness," for my first im-

one of sobriety, sedateness; the conver-

50 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

sation was absolutely stupid, but then it was exactly the
conversation that would have been held at a French
bourgeois table where — and I have never so far convinced
the English that I speak the truth — the arts and scandals
are passed over. All the forcignness of it lay in the
Hoopers' abstention from inquiries which would have
struck me as normal enough : not only had they not
mentioned my unsuitable clothes, but they had not
asked what my father was, whether he was alive, how
much he earned a year ; they had not asked me whether
my sister was marriageable and whether she had a dot;
they had not even tried to find out what I thought of them
and their city.

Those English people, did they care ?

I realised that these were peiits bourgeois, that Mr.
Hooper could hardly be worth more than six or seven
thousand francs a year, and yet their manners were
excellent. As they ate, they dropped no food. Yet
classes did not mix in England : therefore they must have .
copied. I considered Mrs. Hooper faded, dowdy, stupid,
yet perfectly dignified;, and Mr. Hooper limited and
dull, yet bound by some code not to trouble his guest
with questions. They were copying, those two; they
must be copying, or I was drawing incorrect conclusions
from my abundant English reading. In those days I had
not discovered gentility and the tests by means of which
the genteel man is distinguished from the gentleman. I
felt almost humble in presence of these self-effacing people,
and I rather resented their lack of interest in me.

But those English people, did they care ?

Lulu I dismissed as a stupid girl of sixteen, and I was
right. She was a very English type, and an ordinary one,
for most English girls are stupid, and that is why they
are so seductive. They are not hard, purposeful, as are
our women ; they do not know anything, and therefore
they are grateful when anything is told them. They are
the perfect slaves we love; they are seductive because
they are innocent.

Lulu, however, was not seductive that night ; she might

INTRODUCTIONS 51

have been in my eyes, for she was so unaccustomedly pink
and white and flaxen-haired, but there was Maud. Lulu

born to be overshadowed by Maud, and, I suppose,
knew it. While I analysed the Hoopers I looked at Maud ;
often our eyes met, and I fancy she did not try to escape
my gaze; indeed, on finding that I looked at her small
hands as she made bread pills, I am sure that she became
yet more industrious at the game. Little hands, I have
not forgotten you ; you were broad in the middle, but
you tapered to a point, and small white fingers too, you
tapered, you blushed at the knuckles and joints, and you
glowed into coral at the tips. Small, delicate hands, with
the girlish roughness that made me think of cripe de
chine, you were warm and animate; folding upon my

i, you were tender as the wings of a fledgling bird.

Ill

We passed upstairs. More of England was revealed
to me, for the entire first floor was made into a drawing-
room ; the folding doors had been removed and, as the gas
brackets gave but little light, the room seemed very large.
It was the glory of the house, it was as glorious as our
own drawing-room, and it claimed brotherhood with it ;
nothing was missing except the smell of the graveyard,
and I realised that whatever may differ from country to
country some things are not national, but human. The
drawing-room was white and gold, the paint was rather
dirty and the gold tarnished, but still it was white and
gold. Ti a large settee, covered with tapestry;

armchairs and a number of small ones, either gilt or
[> mahogany, were dotted about. On a shelved black
bracket stood an elaborate tea-set, which was never
s, on the mantelpiece, an imitation
Sevres clock, out of ord< t, 1>< Iwcen two tall blue jars filled

the walls were framed photo-
graph Burne-Jones, also portraits of the
a. In th< " i 11 " stood the cottage piano, the back
d in a piece of Japanese printed cotton. I was

52 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

chilled by the rigidity of it ; while Mrs. Hooper sat down
by the mantelpiece and began to embroider a table-
cloth, the two girls nudged and whispered on the settee.
I was very uncomfortable, for I had had no coffee ; it
the first time in my life I had had no coffee after dinner.
Perhaps because of that I moved restlessly about the room,
went to a table in a corner on which were heaped albums
and books. I opened some of them at random, looked at
photographs of ugly old people whom I did not know ;
albums and books were dusty, as if seldom opened, but
they interested me, and I noted titles, unknown authors.
I found Ships that Pass in the Night, and Under Two
Flags, some sixpenny editions of Merriman.

Mr. Hooper came in, said good-night. This, he re-
gretted to say, was the Debating Club night. He was
expected to move the vote of thanks after the debate.
Quite an important paper : " Machiavelli."

I promised to come on another occasion. Mrs. Hooper
embroidered steadily, I dared not smoke, I heard the girls
whisper mysteriously :

" Of course, I wasn't taking any," Maud confided.

Mumble from Lulu.

M No fear ! " vigorously from Maud.

" Maud, my dear," said Mrs. Hooper, " won't you show
Mr. Cadoresse your picture postcards ? "

Maud did not seem unwilling. She took from the small
cabinet under the shelved bracket a large cloth-bound
album, laid it on the book-table after pushing away the
"dusty literature, and sat down. . I came and stood beside
her while she began with pretty demureness to make me
look at every card.

" That's from Gib," she said, '* and here's another from*
Malta. I put 'em all together cos they/came from my
cousin Tom. He's in the navy."

I detected some pride in her speech and became absurdly
jealous of Tom.

" We always thought he'd go for a soldier," she added,
" but he didn't. There's another he sent from Bombay
with a nigger on it. Old Funny-hat I call him.'!

INTRODUCTIONS 53

There was an interval during which " old Funny-hat "
and " going for a soldier " were explained. My English
irood, but it wasn't exactly English, and it did not
de this kind of phrase. Indeed, my early inter-
course with Maud was one long (and usually inadequate)
_ iish lesson.
44 Here are some from France. Oh, I get a lot of those

from pa's friends — Paris, Dieppe, Troovil "

I was not listening to her. Leaning over as she turned
the pages, I looked at the delicate white neck on which
clustered the brown curls, at the small hand which pointed
at the cards. She must have known, for she chattered
on, giving me no opportunity to speak, and from time
to time she looked up at me, with a faint smile on her
lips and a soft but arch look in her humid brown eyes.
Because she was a stranger she was adorable. Then I

:ht of coffee.
44 I get 'em from everywhere. You could have sent
me one from Border if I'd known you before you

came "

44 You silly kid," said Lulu, looking up from the pink
evening paper; "you couldn't know him before he came,
could you ? "
f 44 One has to mind one's P's and Q's with Miss Clever,
Mr. Cadoresse," said Maud to me. Angry, she was
.hie, for she flushed.
41 Don't bother Mr. Cadoresse, dear," said Mrs. Hooper,
who still embroidered; 44 perhaps he's seen enough."

44 Oh," I protested, 44 it's very interesting. Show me
some of Spain, Miss Hooper. I've been there."

ud looked up at me; there was in her eyes appeal,

triumph and gratitude. 44 Here's one of Saint Sebasting,"

ud. And as she pointed with the right hand she laid

her left hand on the tabic, as if by inadvertence, so near

that I, could feel the warmth of it. The minutest

d them. Yet it was a distance, and

hands do not touch it matters very little whether

hem a yard or the tenth of an inch. I

r to look at the card.

54 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

" Bullfights," I said with an effort. And, as I moved,
our hands touched. They touched very softly, but
definitely. The whole side of her hand was against mint-,
and this was very wonderful. We did not move. For
some seconds we were silent while each could feel the
beating of the other's blood.

" I shouldn't care to see a bullfight," said Maud,
smoothly. "Jlorrid, messy things. And it's so cruel
to the horses. We wouldn't have 'em in England. Our
Dumb Friends, S.P.C.A., all that sort of thing, you know."

She chattered on while I stood by her side, quite
unable to speak, my throat dry and my cruel desire for
coffee quite forgotten. She chattered as if she were
perfectly cool, while my hand felt numb and rigid. And
still she did not take away her own.

These English girls, do they know when men touch
their hands ?

Suddenly she shook her brown curls, moved her hand ;
the spell was broken. She laughed, and I gave a heavy
sigh.

" You're not saying anything. Penny ? "

"Penny?"

Explanations. Then Mrs. Hooper suggested that Maud
should sing. She went to the piano. She played a rollick-
ing, rhythmic tune, a tune of the " Waiting at the
Church " type ; not one word did I understand, but I
knew that I wanted to beat time while I watched the
white throat swell and the brown curls dance staccato.

" Very pretty," said Mrs. Hooper, after Maud had sung
in an unexpected fit of sentimentalism, "Good Bye";
" very pretty. Lulu, you might run upstairs and find me
my other reel of red cotton."

Maud began to improvise a melody of her own — a gay,
splashy thing, very much like the first tune she had
played.

" How long that girl is," Mrs. Hooper murmured.

Maud broke down in her impromptu, began again in
another key. Mrs. Hooper went to the door.

" Can't you find it, Lulu ? " she called up the staircase.

INTRODUCTIONS 55

Then, after a pause : " It's in the top drawer — oh, never
mind, I know where it is "

Mrs. Hooper had gone. I was alone with Maud, alone
with a young girl. It was impossible. How could one
be alone roth a young girl — but then I remembered
English liberty. Of course. Maud looked at me round the
corner of the piano. In the bad light I could see her
smile.

" Baby can't see. Baby blind," she said in another
and a different language. "Baby go quite blind
if Frenchman don't light other candle."

I leaped rather than walked to the piano, but my
hand shook so that the match missed the wick.

" Shaky hand. Late nights, naughty, naughty," said
d.

I looked down at her, and she smiled at me. I bent
towards her, and still she smiled without moving. My
hand went out, groped on the keys of the piano, found
her fingers and grasped them.

" Ouch," she murmured; "you're hurting."

But her smile had not vanished, and a very faint,
pleasant scent came from her hair. Without a word I
slipped my arm round her shoulders and kissed her,
trembling a little, clumsily, half on the lips and half on
the cheek.

She remained passive for a second, then drew back.
low then, saucy," she said, but she was still smiling.

When Mrs. returned with Lulu and the red

>n, the two candles were lit and Maud was banging
at a noisy tune.

IV

I found sleep difficult. I had stood a long time at the

looking into the desolate little garden. The fog

. and under the rays of the moon I could see

'he wall the dim shadow of a faded rose, while

• f Michael mas daisies reared up, straggling

gaunt, in the si tered llower bed. Many

I not forgotten that I had had

56 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

no coffee, and now that my excitement was past the desire
seized me again. Indeed, I am not sure that my memory
of the epic kiss was not tainted with the gnawing need.
When I think of coffee I feel like an opium-eater. If ever
I am sent to gaol I shall go mad.

I did not at once think of the kiss, for I am a sybarite ;
I like to recreate my impressions one by one and as they
formed, and I like to give them climaxes followed by flat
periods ; I like them to pass through my mind like a well-
ordered play. And I want my climaxes to be larger
and larger and more significant, so that I may ring down
the curtain upon my dream-play, while I bow with actor
and author and clap my hands in the royal box. So I
resolutely thought about the old Hoopers. I had not,
I felt, analysed them very well, and how could I? I
had none of the English measures with which to appraise
them, I could estimate them only according to French
values. But the prestige of England clung to them ; I
was enormously impressed by their calm, by their dis-
regard of my views and their regard for my comfort.
I was paying twenty-seven and six for board and
lodging, and it seemed as if I were paying my money
for hospitality.

Mr. Hooper was more evident than his wife; I was
surprised by the generality of his interests, by his spare-
ness and his youth. In a rigid, unimaginative way he
was still studying politics, he took trouble to know some-
thing of my people, he was seeking. True, when he
captured an idea he slew it and embalmed it. Butterfly
hunter ! But still, he was inquiring, he wanted to know,
and there was romance even in the despair of his dry
quest. His wife troubled me more ; I saw her as gentle,
refined, courteous ; I gathered that she had no power of
action, but much power of resistance. Nothing would
break Mrs. Hooper : if an earthquake had precipitated
Westminster Abbey into the Thames I felt she would
have remarked : " What extraordinary weather we're
having — I wonder where I put that bodkin." Obviously
she could control Lulu, who had left no impression on me

INTRODUCTIONS 57

at all, except that she was sulky, but could make nothing
of Maud ; I could see that she loved Maud, thought her
an infant prodigy, that Maud's singing was more than
an elegant accomplishment, that it was a family rite.
While I watched Maud's full white throat swell, I had also
noticed Mrs. Hooper's head nod in time, and seen her
smile at me when the songs ended. " There ! what do
you say to that ? " was in every smile.

But evidently Mrs. Hooper did not greatly care whether
she controlled Maud or not. The girl could do no wrong,
and — perhaps this English aloofness extended to the
family circle. Perhaps they let each other alone, just as
they let the stranger alone. The whole evening seemed
to be a lesson in non-intervention. Mr. Hooper had gone
without explaining in great detail where he was going
to, when he would be back; Lulu had read a novelette
without being asked what it was and whether it was
interesting; and when Maud could not cease giggling
because I had made an undesirable joke, Mrs. Hooper had
said, " If you can't stop, we'd better change the sub-
' It was so amazing that I hesitated to conclude
that the English do not care what happens.

One thing, though, I felt assured of : Mrs. Hooper

would certainly care if anything happened to Maud.

liberty of theirs must be limited by some custom

or rule, and I felt sure that she would not condone the

intrigue into which I was entering. Of course, this was

trigue. .

" You haven't done badly," I remarked to the elegant

figure in the looking-glass ; " you've started a love affair,

ly got to go on."

I felt certain that I had nothing to do but go on. Of

itful and hot-blooded ; I shouldn't

much trouble with a girl like that, for she was ready

iy man's arms, and if she wasn't — I laughed

new all about women and their ways.

:L,r I did not have, and that was one of hesitation

i eh men are not made like

CHAPTER IV

MISS MAUD HOOPER
I

If there were in London no Oxford Street it would
have to be invented, for without it straying groups of
foreigners would prove a perpetual nuisance to Streatham
and Hornsey. I was introduced to Oxford Street by the
inside of a hat, which advertised the fact that it had been
bought there; in later years the street became definite,
thanks to a chromo taken from a Christmas number.
That grateful chromo showed " Oxford Circus on Christ-
mas Eve," a wonderful vision of carriages, splendid horses
driven by liveried coachmen, enormous policemen, and
gay young women with rosy cheeks, mostly dressed in
furs, followed by dandies who did not disdain to carry
parcels. There was a fox-terrier, too, for fox-terriers were
fashionable in those days, and " bits of blood " in the
shafts of hansoms ; burly Pickwickian coachmen obviously
made jokes (of course, bus-drivers did). There radiated
from this early product of the three-colour process a
jollity, an irresponsible love of food, drink, light. Indeed,
I was a little disappointed because London did not turn
out to be as like a Christmas card as I expected : but I
was not very disappointed, for it had another magic.

It had the magic of Oxford Street. It was not that
Oxford Street was so very broad, for it would be lost
in the Champs-Elysees, or so very beautiful : it was for
me more than a fine street — it was an English person.
The Americans had not yet got hold of it, smirched it
with facades of new brick and stucco, or Portland stone;
its houses were not very high, and they were houses, not
warehouses. I liked the shops and their poor show of

53

MISS MAUD HOOPER 59

plate-glass, the crude display of their wares; it was
interesting to compare our idea of showing off boots,
which is to put three patent-leather pairs in a nest of
green velvet, with the hundreds of boots, the festoons of
boots, the bewildering array of shoes for the road and
shoes for the bed, of slippers and top-boots, of dandified
pumps, and rough, spiked hoofcases for the golfer and the
football-player; I could stand and gloat over this kind
of show ; it was enormous, Falstaffian ; it suggested large
appetites, needs and the fulfilment of needs. Oxford
Street was more English than Bond Street because it was
not modish ; it did not receive the clothes of the French
and Viennese, the enamel of the Russians, the promiscuous
patents of America; beyond a little Italian glass and
some Indian goods, the latter pardonable, after all be-
cause colonial, its wares were English. They were rather
dear, neither beautiful nor ugly; they were abundant,
and most of them would last for ever. For ever ! that
feeling still clings to Oxford Street, to those undefiled
portions which threaten to crash down into the road, and
it is incredible that they will ever so crash. They have
always been there, those shops which intrude into the
houses, and I guess their intimacies, their corridors, the
clumsy steps which join house with house until an em-
porium arises. Above the drapers are the ghosts of dead
kitchens, of the parlours and the best bedrooms; and
are doorsteps on which once stood grave merchants,
\ng the Morning Post, to know what they should
think of Mr. Pitt.

I still have, as I walk that street, the sense of the

illimitable which is bound up in the streets that run from

On one side I can feel the rich places, their

'»ke Poges and its churchyard, "Wiltshire, rolling

I and the open sea; on the other I wind

with Oxford Street, through business and slum, to

locks, the Thames that is like the tongue of the sea,

.. with, upon its breast, the big ships

■ dian spices, and furs,

and bales of wool. Over all and, as it flaps, making in

60 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

the wind sharp sounds like the slam of a loose door, is the
Union Jack.

Eternal England, that no revolutions ruffle, who return
to regimes discarded because you never discard that
spirit of order and power which lies under the regimes,
you are like Oxford Street. You are indirect, you do not
drive through international life as did the bolder Rome;
while Rome built those roads which despise rivers and
mountain, you built Oxford Street and its vassals from the
Bank to Shepherd's Bush, tortuous, broken by angles,
here wide and there narrow, inconvenient but per-
sistent ; you give way to the obstacle — then surround it ;
you fight no battles with the soil, and yet you conquer
it, indomitably driving your road, quite careless of beauty
and content if the road can serve, unwilling to take a
path other than that of least resistance. You erect no
monument, you are too busy being a monument. Con-
scious of ancestors, you do not strive to have ancestors,
and because you are too big to be conscious you are
ancestral.

II

Almost every day I walked along Oxford Street, from
my home with the Hoopers in St. Mary's Terrace, along
the Edgware Road, until I reached Fenchurch Street, the
bewildering City which housed Barbezan & Co. So much
did it bewilder me that I confided my impressions to the
not very sympathetic Maud. But she was not entirely un-
sympathetic, indeed, she was,,for an English girl, strangely
curious of my affairs; I would not have talked of them
with her if she had readily responded to more amorous
moods, but I was ready enough to share with her the
impressions I accumulated so rapidly that they hurt :
not to talk is always dreadful for a southerner, and I
think I would rather talk about anything than not talk
at all. For Maud was proving a puzzle to me. When I
went to my room and acted the dream-play, which ended
in the adventurous kiss, I thought I saw quite clearly
the sequelae of the deed. I thought of other kisses, less

MISS MAUD HOOPER 61

rapid, more reciprocal; I imagined responses, had no
difficulty in conjuring up a softer and yet mysteriously
aggressive Maud, who would tell me that she loved me,
that I had but to ask to be given.

I had no doubts at all : a girl who so openly attacked
me the first evening could not be difficult to win. I was
not in love with her; if she occupied my mind at all, she
was merely one of my comforts. She was the woman
sent by the kindly Providence of Lovers to fill, for the
time being, a certain part of my life. She was charming,
provoking and — convenient. It was thus with a degree
of confidence that I threw one arm round her shoulders
when, the next evening, I met her on the first floor land-
ing, outside the bathroom where she had washed her
hands. Just before I did it she was smiling; she looked
deliciously demure, for her eyes were half-closed, and her
attitude, as she rubbed against each other her still moist
palms, was almost quakerish. But as I touched her, her
expression changed. She put out both hands against my
shoulders, pushed me away :

" Now then, Mr. Frenchman, none of your monkey
tricks."

I laughed, tried to break her resistance. Coquetry, of
course. But there was something else in the coquetry —
nacy, I supposed, for we fought silently on the
landing for some moments. I was the stronger, drew her
to me, but she bent her head down, pushed the curls into
my face. I kissed the warm brown hair, and, as I did so,
she half freed herself, and I saw this was not coquetry,
for she was flushed and the pretty mouth had set in a
ht line.

M Let me go," she whispered ; " leave go, can't you ? I
i think I want you messing me
about? No fear ! "

She wrenched herself free, and I looked at her in
amazem-

"Crumpling my blouse," she grumbled, as she patted
it. "Wl i take me for? Rag doll? or what?"

" But, Maud " I faltered.

62 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

" Not so much of your Mauds, Mr. Frenchman. Have
a shave and try Miss Hooper."

I was puzzled by the seemingly irrelevant advice to
M have a shave," and, while I thought, took her hand.
She did not withdraw it, looked at me with a faint smile.

" Sorry you spoke, aren't you ? Well, you needn't
look sulky about it."

" I am not sulky," I said.

" Yes, you are. Cross old bear. Baby quite frightened."

I understood that I was forgiven, but I knew better
than to accept forgiveness : the only way to gain absolute
forgiveness from a woman is at once to offend again. So,
without another word, I pulled Maud towards me ; there
was a slight show of resistance, soon vanquished. But,
before I could kiss her, her lips rested a second on my
cheek, firm and cool, and she escaped :

" No more, Mr. Frenchman," she said, with some
dignity; " I'm not out for choe'lates, just had grapes."

She ran down the stairs, laughing, and I went to my
room. I had something to think about : Why had she
repulsed me ? Then kissed me ? then repulsed me again ?
Coquetry I had met before, but not this kind of coquetry ;
I knew the methods practised by my own countrywomen,
by which man is encouraged, discouraged, then heartened,
and the French rack is no kinder than the English : but
in those cases there had been no prefacing caress. With
the first kiss came the downfall of the defence, the acquies-
cent rout and capture of the defender. It was not so
here : apparently an English girl, or at least English
Maud, could with impunity hold the hand of the man who
attracted her, even clasp him in her arms ; she could rely
on her own powers of resistance.

Strictly speaking, I did not " learn about women from
*er " ; I learned about her from other and later women.
I understood her much better after parting from her and
was surprised to find her different from her old self when
I met her again. Maud was a very ordinary English type,
a type to be found in none save Anglo-Saxon countries;
she was unawakened in the passionate sense, and I do not

MISS MAUD HOOPER 68

think that the kiss of Prince Charming himself could have
roused her from her sleep. She could attain a passionate
stage, to maintain the metaphor, akin to somnambulism,
but she was never awake. She was made up of two
strands, one positive and the other negative. The first
was the strand of interest, money, adornment, cheap
excitement, eager vanity, and there are many splendid
mates, English, Latin and Slav, who have such a strand
in their composition : la Dame aux Camelias was so
made, and Cleopatra somewhat. But it was Maud's
negative strain made her different from any Latin, Teu-
tonic or Slav woman I have ever met. Her capacity for
resisting caresses, for showing that she did not want them,
her ability to live without love, without emotion, her
self-contained and neutral attitude, I have met these
traits again and again and believe in their reality only
because of their recurrence.

Paradoxically enough, Maud, or I will say the Maud-
type, is aggressive. It prepares for seduction by clothing
itself as little as it may, by using the powder, the rouge,
and the scent of the man-huntress; it ogles, it rustles,
it drops its voice to tender murmurs, it invites, it clamours
for capture — no, not capture, pursuit. For the array for
seduction is not the prelude of desired defeat : the in-
•on is to restrict to a sham fight the reality of the
^ement. The Maud-type is the exact counterpart
of the fowler, the man whom victory bores when it is in
Bight — victory, that is, in the accepted sense. The victory
of the Maud-type consists in instigating attack, defeating
it and instigating it again ; if the victim shows signs of
ust be cajoled, and minor privileges may be
If it be clear that he is almost disgusted, that
11 not attack the main position, an outpost is suddenly
evacuated ; he occupies it, surprised, advances and is at
once I, as if he had been ambushed. But the

■»e never intends him to win : the struggle is real,
and if the victim suddenly perceives that he is being
tricked and retires in anger he is immediately forgotten
lurry presents itself. My intercourse with

64 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

Maud was made up of these continual strategic advances
and retreats. So determined was she to hold me, for
purposes she hardly defined to herself, that I was often
surprised by the extent of the concessions she would make
to achieve her object. She had moods in which minor
surrenders and acquiescences were so many that my
triumph seemed assured — but were they moods or
policies? I do not pretend that such girls are entirely
devoid of emotional feelings, but these are buried very
deep; there is gold in some abysses of the sea, and it is
therefore untrue to say that there is no gold there : but
nobody has ever been able to dive deep enough to secure
it. There were days when Maud would of herself take my
arm in a quiet street, others when she spontaneously
offered caresses; she seemed to yield, but she never
yielded. I do not think she wanted to, and I am not
sure that she could. She had a fierce dislike of love in
its robe of red and flame ; she understood it solely in the
flirtatious pink and tinsel of musical comedy. She was
afraid of it, because she felt it to be brutal, big, and
earnest. She did not want anything to be earnest, she
wanted things gay, comic. But she would make con-
cessions to me so that I might continue to flatter her by
pursuing her, so that I should pay. The Maud-type knows
one thing very well — that man must pay, and pay for
nothing save exasperation. It does not consider, as does
its analogue in America, that man is bound by chivalry
and disinterested courtesy to supply candies, novels, ice-
cream and seats at the theatre ; but it does consider that
man must supply the English equivalents of those things
on a limited pleasure contract. It wants them so desper-
ately that it sometimes gives more than it intended, and
in later life it often takes for granted that it must give
everything for greater delights, such as the use of a
motor-car, fine clothes, and Brighton holidays, but
throughout it does not want to give. It wants to take.
If it can take everything for nothing, good; if every-
thing for something, unfortunate; if it must take some-
thing for everything, it docs so resignedly. Between

MISS MAUD HOOPER 65

Maud and me there was an ever open contract which
we never signed ; she never taught me to bargain, for I
am of those who give heartily and take greedily, asking
no questions : she was all implicit bargain.

Ill

In the name of English liberty. Maud was sent with me .
on the eve of my entry into Barbezan & Co., so that I
might find in romantic Oxford Street the shops I needed.
"Funny sort of shirt you've got on," said Maud;
4t stew 'em in tea in Border, don't they? "

ired her we did not stew shirts in tea.
" Well, I only asked. And, of course, you've got to
j our cuffs sewn on. No, you can't get a ready-
made tie here. Can't tie it ? Don't be silly, I'll show
you, Frenchy; anybody can see you aren't sailors over
there."

44 My father was a sea-captain," I said, rather curtly,
for this annoyed me.

" Well, he might have taught you to make knots. My
cousin Tom — he*s in the navy, you know — he taught me.
Of course, your hat's too small."

44 Perhaps that is because my hair is too thick," I

ted, with an attempt at sarcasm.

u 1 get a haircut," said Maud, wTho did not

lve the irony; '4 but even then it's sizes too small.

Boots, too ; you don't want a point to them, if you

t going to pick your teeth with them, and you're

just bursting out of your glov<

you," I said, for the criticism was galling.
Now you're being nasty. Well, do what you like.
I don't mind if you look like a picture postcard. You're
ffs, one of the kid-gloved Dandy Fifth, I
don*t thii

kick on mc, began to gaze intently into

I a window full of bead necklaces. I was still angry, but
her irritation killed mine, and I could sec under the>
cluster of hex brown curls a gleam of white neck which

66 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

moved me to repentance. I took her by the elbow and
made her .turn towards me. She smiled a little.

44 Now you're sorry, aren't you ? Leave go of my arm
and say so."

I apologised, and being humbled was forgiven. But
I was also subjugated, the outfit was taken out of my
hands.

" He wants a couple of blue ties," she explained to the
shopman.

44 Excuse me," I said, 44 as I am dark "

44 That's all right. You put' him up those two in
poplin. . . . Oh, no, don't trouble, he's a Frenchman,
he doesn't know. And now you just run along to the
linen department, tea-caddy."

Tea-caddy ! I, Cadoresse, for her 4* caddy " and then
44 tea-caddy."

44 You know what I told you : ju^t as tight. round the
neck as you can stick it, and cuffs sewn on, and five and
six's the price, with a bob off for six. You can get half-a-
dozen coloured ones while you're about it, and mind you
don't get mauve, 'cos it washes out third time."

44 1 don't like coloured shirts," I said.

44 Well, you've got to like 'em. I'm not going about
with a blooming mute." . r

This was Maud in her element, enjoying the new and
amusing sensation of dressing a young man. The occu-
pation did not show her up at her worst, for she had
somehow learned how a man should dress; at least she
had the instinct which, left to itself, makes for flashiness,
but, when educated, ends in correctness. She had, for
men, the sharp ideas of fashion which she derived from
the rapt contemplation of popular actors; they in-
fluenced her enormously. She could not have said
whether trousers should be pegtop, whether collars should
be double or Wing, but she responded to influence so well
that she spontaneously rejeeted-the thing that was not
the thing of the day : when it became the thing of the
,£ay she as spontaneously suggested that I should adopt
it. The triumph of clothes was attained when she could
say of a passing man : 44 This is It.v'

MISS MAUD HOOPER' 67

I was difficult to fit at the hatter's.

" Xo wonder. I often think, you're barmy on the

ipet," Maud commented, who had then known me

for a week. " S'pose they were clearing a job line the

day you got your head. Still, you aren't worse than pa,

with the bald bit at the back under the brim."

I found her good company, this cheerful, energetic
girl ; she was less managing than adventurous ; amused
by the " spree," she threw all her energy into an occu-
pation which she would have voted a nuisance if it had
i habitual. She was so pleased because she was
doing something new that she did not reprove me when
icezed /her hand behind the liftman's back. She
even pouted at me the imitation of a kiss. While charm-
ing, she remained competent, or rather voracious ; she
was bent on extracting rebates for quantities ; she asked
iiop-soiled goods, as if she were a thrifty French house-
wife. But thrift was not the motive ; she displayed the
street-arab acuteness of those who systematically make
a show on small means.

At last I was equipped. I had been in four shops, and
an undoubtedly English wardrobe was travelling towards
<>om. I suggested lunch.
'•• Wbat'll ma say?" said Maud, doubtfully. Then:
'• Who cans ? We'll say we waited while they wondered
what it was 'd blown in. An' if she doesn't like it she
can lump it."
"Lump it?"
"1 her thing."

I accepted the unintelligible explanation, and we

luneh at. It was past one o'clock.

lighl of November made the grey pave-

fly opal< stent \\ i Iks of nocturnal mois-

D was not shining, but I could feel

it was shining behind the colourless haze, and though

(1 for a moment whether, in Bordeaux, it was

j on the red and purple leaves of the

I did Dpi fed homesick. Pot was this not pulsating,

land; jolly, warm i ? A green Atlas

i!y trotting ; the omnibus

68 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

rolled as it went, like a big, fat forester, or some enormous
bloated scarab. Busy, sturdy England, and pretty,
white-necked English girl, I . . .

" Penny," said Maud as usual.

" I was thinking of restaurants" I lied, having learned
her laiYguage.

"Oh, we don't want a ristorang; too nobby; you
come along."

Maud led me to one of those shops where people have
tea at one o'clock and fried eggs at four. Four or five
companies maintain many hundreds of them, and I re-
member that it struck me as splendid that there should
be hundreds of these shops ; it was ,& large idea, it con-
veyed a notion of national appetite ; and the uniformity
of the arrangement, the levelling of Bond Street and
Chiswick, held a suggestion of democracy. The more
uniform things are, the more they arc part of a civilisation.

"You better have a Kate and Sidney," said Maud;
" it's English, quite English you know. Hi ! Miss."

The black-clad, slim Miss responded sulkily to the
shrill cry, smiled when I looked at her. English girls
still smile when I look at them, even when I hardly notice
them : my e}fe has habits.

" You needn't keep a glowing orb on her," said Maud,
as the girl left, charged to bring us a " steak and kidney
pudding, with boiled, and half a veal an' ham pie, and
two coffees." " I didn't bring you here to make goo-goo
eyes . . . codfish."

" Oh ! but she was so pretty, Maud," I said, innocently.
" All the English girls are pretty. She had hair like the
sunshine — not like yours, of course; that is like the nuts
in September."

" Been kissing the Blarney Stone, Frenchy. But you
don't come it over me like that, even if I haven't got hair
like the moonshine or whatever you call it. Pretty !
It's a lot you know about it ; why she's just a job lot of
broomsticks. And you should give up that habit, looking
at girls with that ' take me away and bury me near
mother ' look of yours."

MISS MAUD HOOPER 69

" Look at that one with the green eyes and red hair,"
I said, mischievously.

w Carrots t" ^

And those two, the dark ones. They can't be

; ish "

" S'pose I'm not English," Maud snapped. She was

angry, provoked by my open admiration for the others.

leaned her elbows on the table, propped her face

upon her hands ; two dimples appeared in the rosy cheeks.

I bent across the table.

" You're the Rose of England," I said ; " not the Rose of
England I thought I would find, you know, the White
Rose. You're the beautiful warm red rose, and your
eyes are like brown crystals, your hair is like mahogany,
and it shines like it, and your mouth is like red velvet
round two rows of pearls."

"My!" said Maud, smiling; " you can tell the tale,

Where did you learn English ? "
" I've always been learning English, I knew we should

(."
M Tell me another."
M I really did."

km't say ' I really did,' you dummy, say * honest.'
I tell you what, Caddy, you talk too well, you give your-
self away."

It was true; it was the grammatical excellence of my

d my foreignness : it has cost me years of

at labour to learn to speak as badly as the English.

I began to eat my first steak and kidney pudding : I

do not think I have ever tasted anything so delicious as

that first pudding; 1 rem* -ml >er the tender consistency of

net, the solid quality of the gravy, and the thrill

thai expected steak suddenly discovered

And I suppose that, after the oil of my fathers,

ligation of potatoes flavoured with nothing

but warm water. While Maud daintily pecked at the

and ham pie, Dibbling like a bird, she talked in-
intly, just then of her people.
" Oh, pa," to a question; " the

70 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

dad's all right. He's a dignified old cock, but you
mustn't mind him, even if he will go on about his talky-
talkies. You just tell him a little bit out of Answers
once a week and he'll be happy like the larks in May."

" What does he do ? "

" He's in the City, like you ; the same sort pi job ;
that's how he got hold of you from a fellow in Barbezan.
We've been wanting a lodger. Oh, but don't let mother
catch you saying that : you're a paying guest, you know ;
ma's so genteel "

Maud began to laugh, and I laughed too when she ex-
plained the distinction. I liked this-'brusque, laughing girl",
for I saw she had no snobbery ; at least she never showed
signs of it except when she met the " skivvy " in the hall
on best hat days. Then Maud was " quite the lady."

" They're all right," she summed up, " but they're a
bit full of themselves. Lor', you wouldn't believe the
row there was when I said I'd go to the 'Cademy last
spring. It wasn't genteel. I'm going to be an actress,
you know."

" Is there a conservatory here ? " I asked, translating
at random,

" I don't know what you mean by a conservatory. I
go to Madame Tinman's — Mother Tinman they call her in
the profesh ! You've heard of her. What ! not heard
of Mother Tinman ? What did they teach you in Border?
Anyhow, I go there four times a week. Singing and
dancing's my line ; » singing's what I like :

" Oh, mother dear, sing mc to ileep

And beg the angels my soul keep . . ."

she humme^. " What d'you say to stewed fruit next?"
While we ate the stewed fruit she expatiated on her
work at Mother Tinman's, and I wondered at her small
appetite, for she had left half her pie; few French girls
would have done that. She seemed enthusiastic, and I
dimly realised that to this peculiar education of hers was
due the difference which existed between her and her
parents, and stodgy Lulu. Taken at sixteen from the

MISS MAUD HOOPER 71

rigid gentility of Mrs. Hooper's home, from the limita-
of a budget of some two hundred and fifty a year,
she had been plunged into the artificial atmosphere of the
outer stage. At Mother Tinman's, I found out by degrees,
singing lessons were given by professionals who were
resting, and while voice production of a kind was taught
towthe voiceless as well as to the gifted, the pupils were
well fitted to earn money.

" You should hear old Bella Billion," said Maud :
" ' Never you mind if you can't go up to D,Vshe says,
1 you just keep your eye on the man in the stage box.
One wink for him and a nice goo-goo for the gallery^boy.
Twirl your sunshade, twirl away, tooraloo, and never
you mind the words so long, as you've the limelight on
your pearlies; the chorus's the thing, my gal; you sing
it to the gallery boy until he shouts it back at you. And
let him know you've got a knee^and frillies that weren't
washeti in printer's ink. Up and down, me dear, an'
round an' round, goo-goo, tooraloo, that's how you do
the trick, my gal.' Lor', it's enough to give you a fit on
the mat."

P don't think that for many months I understood

Maud and the jolly looseness of her talk, but there is

no' forgetting that extraordinary language of hers; its

>ulary is not very large. Bella Billion and her

the talk of cars and of trips to Maidenhead, of

f a hundred a week and the indiscretions of peers,

all this had created in Maud's pretty head an amazing

confusion. Gentility, propriety, all the English starch

had already been taken out of her by coarse English

< visibility. But, and this was amazing, personal

(I. I laid my hand upon hers, pressed

pointed finders.

(1 as she snatched her hand away.

Why did we go so freely ? I wondered. Matchmaking ?

no doubt, since marriage leads to love, they say, more

rarely than love 1<> m And English Utterly too.

ish liberty, how difficult it was to understand you

ice.

CHAPTER V

BARBEZAN AND CO.
I

The old firm received me well enough. The office
was large and rich; it occupied a whole floor in a new
Fenchurch Street skyscraper, and conveyed an impression
of well-oiled machinery. Letters were numbered and
sorted by the office boy into baskets, one of which was
known as the basket because it stood on Mr. "Lawton's
clesk; after Mr. Lawton had dealt with them they were
distributed by Mr. Hugh, mechanically acknowledged in
polite, stiff letters which began by " Sir " and ended
" yours obediently." I never heard of one unacknow-
ledged letter. They passed into obscurer baskets, were
collected by a junior clerk, who checked their numbers,
traced any that Mr. Lawton had held up in defiance of
his own rules. At last they went to the card-index, an
innovation which rather clashed with our formality, to
the files. We never lost a letter, forgot one entry. We
were never short of brown paper and string.

The extraordinary part of it was that this caused no
fuss. How things got done in that noiseless, swift way,
between ten and five, I can explain only by saying that
we never talked about work. We talked of other things,
and accordingly these grew confused, but work was done
in silence and seemed to demand no conferences. I
believe silence is England1 . and I bore many a

snub before I acquired the habit. I had not been in
Barbezan a week before I began to learn that I, the foreign
correspondent, must do my own jobs,

" What is the address ? " I asked Mr. Hugh Lawton, who
72

BARBEZAN AND CO. 73

had handed me a slip bearing, with the notes for a letter,
the name ' Marillot.' " And the whole name ? "
M You must look it up."

" Yes — but do those ships dock at Pauillac? "
" I cannot tell you."

I was minded to ask whether the tons referred to were
" short " or "long," but refrained, for Mr. Hugh had
already turned away and, in his cold, precise voice, was
telling Purkis he would need supplementary bills of lading
for the Florabel shipment. I realised, as I watched the
smooth back of his head, that I had been thrown into the
water, that nobody wanted to know whether I could swim,
that I would have to find all this out. I might drown —
but then, if I struggled I would not drown; such is
the English way of teaching people to swim.

Magic English business, when I think of you to-day,
I have my boyish impression of England as wealth;
your wheels revolve silent and steady, grinding out gold,
without waste of material or time; you pass from father
to son, you endure for ever, and you are a concern so
sacred that you must be shielded from the prying eyes
of woman. There are three kinds of Englishmen who
• fit rust no secrets to their wives: Cabinet Ministers,
nasons and business men, and as the latter are more
numerous than the other two classes they set the tone
for tip ir rare. The English business man is most interest-
confronted with a new appliance or a new idea;
he sniffs it like a dog who is offered a piece, let us say, of
wild boar, or some other outlandish food; he feels it
hut novel ; it must be looked at, smcllcd,
! in the air to see whether it falls properly
: and hai At List it may be nibbled, then

lily eaten. Then the two, dog and Englishman, sit
id declare each in his own way that he has hungered

for tin, tor years, that he has made special efforts to

procure it and that he is not in the least afraid of

!fy.

'Hi -w Phi!,! i| the calculator. Purkis,

when I lirst knew him, was elderly : I met him in Moor-

I) 2

74 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

gate Street last week and he is as elderly as ever, but not
a day older though ten years have elapsed. On the calcu-
lator occasion he appeared to me as a short man, with a
square face and sparse brown hair in which ran some silver
streaks. Small and very delicate* hands contrasted with
his bulky body, especially in his familiar attitude, when
he leaned his shoulders against the mantelpiece and crossed
his hands upon his rather aggressive paunch. Purkis
looked so broad, then, that I had to think of a frog.

That was the attitude he adopted when a new idea
arrived in Fenchurch Street. Purkis would examine
it with suspicious grey eyes, clench his little hands upon
his large stomach and say :

" What are we coming to next ? " or "I don't know
anything about it."

The first formula meant that Purkis was willing to
tolerate the intruder; the second that he didn't want to
know anything about it. Remove the bauble. Purkis
had said " I don't know anything about it "to the German
canvasser who now stood in front of him, amiably blink-
ing behind his gold-rimmed glasses and quite unaware
that Purkis had pronounced sentence, that all he had to do
was to take the calculator out and hang it.

" Ver' goot thing," he * remarked, genially. "It will
do all calculations."

The German turned from the impassive Purkis to me,
in whom he divined interest : " You say figures. I
multiply."

I made up a terrific sum, a multiplication of five or six
figures by five or six more, behind which trailed treacherous
decimals, the sort of multiplication I hope never to have to
effect. The Grerman threw me a gratified glance : "Ver'
simple, ver' simple," he muttered. deftly seized

lever after lever, pulled each one down to the indicator
figure while my fantastic multiplicand appeared in the
upper frame, lie smiled at the machine from under his
yellow moustache, seized the lever; hall a dozen rasping
sounds, click, moi another click, rasp, rasp, rasp.

The German drew ,back, pointed triumphantly at the

BARBEZAN AND CO. 75

machine ; he evidently looked upon the product as a work
of art.

" So ! " he said, triumphantly.

" How do\you know it's right ? " asked the calm voice
of Mr. Hugh, who had come in.

The German drew himself up, as if tempted to hand the
questioner a card and a cartel, then decided to clear the
machine's reputation.

" I prove it now," he said. He looked at Purkis
defiantly, solemnly handed me a slip on which he had
written the multiplicand. A quick shift of the levers, the
product became a dividend, the multiplier a divisor; the
lever was rotated towards the operator and, preceded by a
tornado of clicks, the quotient suddenly showed the
figures of the written multiplicand. It was exactly like
a conjuring trick.

" Ver' simple," he declared, as a cherubic smile illumined
his rosy face.

" That's rather ingenious," said Mr. Hugh, and began
to linger the levers. " It might be handy for those
long statements of gross weights. What do you think,
Purkis?"

" J don't know anything about it, Sir."

" Oh, I egsplain — £' the German protected.

" No, I understand. How much docs it cost? "

M Twenty-six pounds — "

Ml right. Send in the bill."

While the German wreaked his ve~ngeance on Purkis

tplaining to him everything that might be done with

a calculator, 1 was able to meditate on the swollen rash-

• business methods. Twenty-six pounds!

ish mini ich, but — I found this out later,

do not like small i ; if the German had

wanted twenty-ox shillings he would have had no order;

would have been nothing tmpressive in his new

I don't know anythiu it," said Purkis iu>

t ii (, rmaf] i !'; t h • oili"<'. He did
• thai h i ii \ tiling about it,

76 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

and he never will ; he will do the gross weights state-
ments himself with a pencil, but he will not touch the
calculator; no junior has ever used it in his presence
without being told to take the damned thing into the
waiting-room. The calculator may grow old and decayed ;
it may even get out of order and thus become thoroughly
respectable, but Purkis will never recognise it : in his own
phrase, " that would never do."

Certainly Hugh Lawton was of a different type. He
had recently come down from Oxford (in those days I
said " up ") with a pass degree and, though he has never
told me so, I now know from a chance reference to
" notions " that he had been through Winchester. Hugh
Lawton was then twenty-three or four, and so very much
of a young Roman that some uninformed girls called him
" The Greek God." Six feet tall, broad-shouldered,
slim-hipped, with a high, white forehead, calm, blue eyes,
a nose on the bridge of which there was but little thick-
ness of skin, he attracted attention even in this England,
whose sons are the sons of Apollo; he had a long, thin-
lipped mouth, a resolute chin; his large white hands
were always in good condition, though never manicured.
Upon his loose limbs clothes hung so easily that I was re-
minded again of a Roman statue whose toga and limbs
are hewn of one piece. Indeed, it was pathetic to see
him stand next to Purkis : there was such sharp contrast
between their trouser knees.

I do not want to dwell upon Hugh Lawton's clothes,
though they were a bitterness to me in those early days ;
he had his father's recipe for white collars, and his ties,
always faint in shade, must have been specially made
for him, as I never managed to match them. But his
clothes were significant because they expressed him, very
much, I suppose, as mine revealed my own individuality.
It is not enough to say that Hugh never appeared with
a red tie or a purple shirt: 'it was impossible for him
to do so; it could not have occurred to him to buy such
things. The things he did buy were so neutral tli;it they
were, in a sense, a negation rather than an assertion of

BARBEZAN AND CO. 77

attire; like most Englishmen of his class he was dressed,
while I was got up. He could do nothing so positive
as get himself up. I have never yet seen signs of his doing
anything positive.

The strength of Hugh Lawton lay in his abstentions.
He did not speak much, he did not gossip, he did not
plead or urge ; * twice only in his intercourse with me did
he lay down views, and they turned out to be those of
bis class. But if he did not obtrude himself he did not
draw back ; he stood, as his nation has stood in every part
of the world, until the world, tired of wondering whether
it would go away, let it stay. In the more familiar atmo-
sphere of his father's house he laid down views from time
to time, and this does not go counter to what I have said
of his silence and the two breaks that took place in it :
the dinner-table and drawing-room remarks were hardly
views, they were statements, and ex parte statements only
in so far as they were repetitions of equally motiveless
statements taken from his newspaper. Though a Liberal
is no Liberal partisan: he was a Liberal because
his father supported the Liberals, a Liberal by right of
birth.

How Hugh Lawton came to tolerate Liberalism I do
not yet. know, unless he tolerated it because he accepted
conditions as they were. His indifference was foreign
to tli spirit of rank-and-file Liberalism*; I never

frit that he approved of the Liberal creed, but I am
quite sun- that lie did not disapprove of it; certainly
he had not attained acceptance of his party's theories
lint of scepticism. Certainly! I do not know that

I dai for Hugh Lawton must have

had lifr; he must have had, hreause I never

found that he had a public one; I never knew him to

his admiration for a movement not comprised

Within tin- party Creed; he had many friends but I do

not know whether he eared for them; I have never been

re thai he fell in love, though he paid moderate

impartial attentions to many friends of his sisters.

II earn: M neutral; some mental modesty

78 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

must have concealed — what? And when I speculate
on this problem I am carried away by my prejudices;
I think of another Hugh Lawton, out for adventure^ in
the shining armour of idealism, and of yet another, with
flushed face and glowing eyes, intent upon the pursuit
of some base passion. What did he do ? Secretly drink ?
Smoke opium or gamble near Tottenham Court Road?
Pursue some strange loves ? I don't know. I shall never
know; it is impossible that there was nothing behind
that rigid face — no desire, no hope, no lust. But how is
one to find out ?

His tastes were not evidence, for they were not definite.
He saw, I believe, most plays as they came out, one night
the latest " Girl," the other some gloomy importation
from Sweden; if a play was produced at, say, the Hay-
market, he went ; if it was produced at the Court he did not.
It did not matter what the play was, it mattered what the
theatre was, who the players were/ I think he read a few
books, not many, but the contrasts wtere amazing; he
shrank neither from the Life of Gladstone nor from paper-
backed novels which were finally stolen and enjoyed by
the housemaid. He liked games : that is, he played them,
but he displayed no enthusiasm. He neither ate much nor
drank much, nor smoked much, but he did not openly dis-
approve of teetotallers and non-smokers. Infrequently he
swore, but without conviction. I believe he did not swear
because he was irritated, but because most men swore;.

The mystery of Hugh Lawton is the mystery of England,
and it is insoluble; no steps are taken to guard it, but
I suspect it is guarded by the immense inarticulate
of the English. They do not feel the need to explain
themselves; if others explain them they do not protest.
Perhaps they do not understand, and perhaps they do
not care. But in those days I felt this English mystery
as a reserve of power; I knew that Hugh Lawton would
never give himself away, never lav himself open to attack ;
he was the tortoise, typical of his race, able to hear all
blows on its shell and resolved on one thing^only : that
it would never, never, never put out its head.

BARBEZAN AND CO. 79

I admired, and I still admire Hugh Lawton. I admire
him impersonally as a statue, an opera or a principle,
a thing the appeal of which is inherent to itself and not
dependent on clamorous expression. Though I do not
completely understand him, I feel him to be fixed. He
is permanent, he is like the Oxford turf, mown, watered,
and rolled for three hundred years ; a western civilisation
has made of him a finished product, and it may be that
his existence is a presage of defeat : breeding cannot
go higher, but it can go lower. Too much he towers
over the underman, and too unconscious is he to be the
overman ; he is the finest product of the average of his

. the apogee of the commonplace, and with him

land stands in apotheosis.

i
II

Hugh Lawton stood as a banner, dignifying Barbezan

. ; his commercial training was less than mine, but
he had common sense : that is to say he was so afraid
of committing himself that he was never likely to do Nthe
wrong thing : whether he was likely to do the right one

•pen to quesl ion. lie was, at^hat time, head of the

here I suspect Barker did the work,

witli lit 1 1 < - Merton, the junior, while I took over the cor-

indence in French and German under the kindly
rule of old Purkis. (They called him old Purkis when

tttered t he office at the age of twenty-five.) Old

Puikis, who loved only one thing in (he world, his garden

at Pcnge (he really did live at Penge though he called it

bad mad' friend of Farr, his second,

be too loved, in order, his garden at Hornsey,

then his nan. then his wife, who was the most

leifll] woman in the world. Fait was about thirty;
h< bad a round, v with two black currants stuck

in fol Msc in the world. I think

I disliked him at first rigfaJ because black hairs grew
perpendicularly from his wide nostrils. Then Farr saw
men If, and that J found hard to forgive,

80 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

as hard as it had been to forgive Chaverac, the witness of
my cowardice.

After I had been a month in the office Farr saw me,
one afternoon, putting on my hat. I forget where I was
going to. He called me back. " Oh, Cadoresse," he
said with hesitation, " as you're going out, do you mind
paying this cheque in ? It's five to four and the sergeant's
out, while Lord knows where Tyler is. You don't mind,
do you? "

I hesitated, for it did not seem to me right that the
foreign correspondent should do commissionaire's work.
One must preserve one's dignity. Still, I took the cheque
without a word and went out with an air of erectness
intended to convey that I was condescending. When I
reached the bank I looked at the cheque, a large one,
for over two thousand pounds and, though I knew that a
cheque already endorsed and crossed with the name of
the bank was of no use to me, it pleased me to be handling
even the dummy of so large a sum. I pushed the cheque
and paying-in book under the cashier's little railing; he
glanced at the cheque, turned it over, made a tick on
the foil as he tore out the slip, and pushed the book back
with a mumbled " all right."

I waited. A liveried commissionaire gently pushed me
to show that he had his business to do. At last the
cashier looked up.

" Yes ? " he said.

" I am waiting for a receipt."

"Receipt?" He had blue eyes, and they bulged
under his raised white eyebrows.

" Yes, a receipt for this cheque." I showed the paying-
in book.

" We don't give receipts."

« But " I faltered.

rry up," the commissionaire remarked.

" Hanks don't give receipts/' said the old man sulkily.
'" Here." II<- held out his hand for the book the com-
missionaire was putting through the bars. The push
became harder. I found myself being edged along

BARBEZAN AND CO. 81

the counter. I remember protesting again, being pushed
still further away, for two clerks had hurried in as four
was about to strike.

I left the bank more dismayed than angry, for I had
not seen the commissionaire leave, with or without a
receipt; besides, nothing showed that he had paid in
cheques ; while I did my own short business I remember
the oppression of the affair; I wondered whether this
were serious, what Barbezan & Co. would say; at any
rate I could swear I had paid the cheque in. I rehearsed
my speech to be delivered in the witness-box; it was a
fine, manly speech ; I squared my shoulders as I delivered
it. When I returned to the office my heart was beating,
and I laid the book in front of Farr, pale but determined.

44 They did not give me a receipt," I faltered.

14 \ receipt? What do you want a receipt for? "

" Is it not right we should have a receipt ? "

44 What do 'you want a receipt for? "

The stupid repetition angered me. I hated the white
hoe and the rigid black hair.

44 We fill up a form in France and we always have a
pt," I said, obstinately.

44 Well, we aren't in France."

44 It is a curious way to do business," I persevered.

44 Oh, don't be a silly fool."

In the moment of silence that followed I felt my cheeks
grow very hot. He had insulted me! And in that
moment the whole of the scene on the hill, so many years
unrolled on the film that obscured my eyes. Never
Main ! At least this time I would be no coward. Vyhile,
with extreme dignity, I took out my card-case, I had a
vision of this low fellow neatly spitted on my sword.
The point. I f<lt certain, would slick out between his
ihoulder-blad

*• Lord ! "* i 1 as he took up my card; 44 what's

this

•• You have insulted me. You will receive my seconds
to-morrow."

me larger than I had ever

82 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

seen them before; his open mouth showed irregular
pointed teeth. . Suddenly he threw himself back in his
chair, and roar after roar of laughter came from him,
while I looked at him severely, my right hand on my hip.
Barker, who was at that time consulting a reference
book on the corner table, looked up.

" What's the joke ? " he asked.

Young Tyler came up to us, as if by accident, and framed
in the door I saw Merton.

" He — Cadoresse " Farr gasped, pointing a stubby,

white finger at me. Then he collapsed again, waving my
card.

A group formed about us.

" Take his, collar off," said Barker.
■ " Give the gentleman air," Merton suggested.

44 No, no," Farr wheezed ; then he recovered. 4' Cador-
esse has challenged me. I'm in for a bloomin5
duel."

Then they all laughed, and I could hardly understand
them, for they talked all together, and Purkis, who came1
in to ask what the noise was about, exploded into feeble
titters.

44 At your disposal, Mr. Shivaleer," said Farr, bowing,
with his hands on his chest ; 44 but I choose the weapons.
What do you say to safety pins ? "

44 A gentleman fights with the weapons of gentlemen,"
I said, but I was no longer secure1 in my dignity.

I was overwhelmed with pleasantries ; Barker sug-
gested squirts ; Merton asked whether we would all go
to B'long for the week-end and would I show them the
sights after honour had been satisfied. Even Tyler,
my despised junior, ventured to ask whether breastplates
were barred.

I turned away, I twirled my little black moustache
as I went to my desk. I ought to have known better
than mix myself up in a brawl with my inferiors.

44 I don't know anything about it," Purkis summed up
as he left the room.

Of course not. ilis sort didn't.

BARBEZAN AND CO. 83

III

I suppose I was a silly young man. Perhaps I was
morbidly sensitive rather than silly ; I resented anything
tli tt displeased me in England, less because it displeased
me than because I could not bear to think there was
anything displeasing in England. The duel represented
one of the gaps in my knowledge of the English; I had
not read enough modern literature to understand that
Walter Seott was properly dead. I found myself famous
in the office; the word " shivaleer " clove to me, or
I was called " the Knight," and " Cyrano," for Coquelin
had recently come to London. I was subjected to chaff,
the chaff I have found so difficult to grow accustomed to;
I had to get used to being asked how many frx>gs I had
had for breakfast, to be hailed with " Hullo, socialism,"
if I wore my favourite red tie, to be told not to go for
my landlady with a fork if the peas were hard.

ff ! Amazing island in English reserve, right to

1 and reciprocal insult. Englishmen could not

ate that which they do if they were not phlegmatic,

•hatic. I have not yet found out why an Englishman

who will not venture to ask you how much you earn a

will address \<>n as " gold bug " if you buy a

sixpenny paper. We Frenchmen don't chaff: we dare

did, we should be fighting all day. I do

not like chaff now — it makes me a little uncomfortable,

quite sure that I know the ring of it; but

I have accepted that the duel is

! noilgh for me that the Engjjsh should chaff

their difft hould be settled by list or writ :

c;ni do no «TOng, So determined was I already in

this thai 1 ed to the detested Fair,

ation did qtol ; it spread over the

BBoe and entertained it for weeks, it

bed Hugh Lawton, who dded to the end

of a letter I. :

"I it duel, I '. It's not done,

• n't done."

84 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

Well, if it wasn't done I wouldn't do it. I might not,
in Rome, do as the Romans did, but in London I would
certainly do as the English did. Was I not going to be
an Englishman ? a real, beef-eating, beer-drinking, sport-
ing Englishman ? A fury of Anglicisation came over me.
I watched Barker furtively as he worked, for he was very
well dressed/ and as I was still far too proud to ask for
the address of his tailor, I covertly examined his coat when
he went out to wash. The result was not quite a success,
for I chose an aggressive Donegal tweed, and, as I felt my
clothes were too tight, had it made several sizes too large.
It fitted me as a sack does a potato. I was nicknamed the
teddy-bear. Then I had my hair cut very short.

" 'Ello, Dartmoor," said Maud, playfully, when I came
home. I realised that I talked too much : I became
wooden. I even thought of shaving off my little black
moustache, but Maud would not hear of it. I was going to
be English, one of these splendid calm people, whose temper
was so easy that insult could rebound from them ; I was
going to be silent, self-reliant, purposeful, in brief Olympian.
And I was going to speak English like an Englishman.

In those days I overdid it, for I was not content with
continually noting idioms, looking up new words and
grammatical rules : I wanted to obliterate from English
the intruding Latin, I was as enthusiastic as the German
who substituted " Fernsprecher " for " telephone." You
v/ill picture me, then, at six o'clock, in a deserted office
and quite unmindful of Maud ; I have a French dictionary
and an etymological dictionary and I translate from a
newspaper :

" Our constitution, derived from the customs of
ancient England, is a monument which no Cabinet
will venture to destroy — "

Latin ! good enough for the English, but not for a would-

be Englishman. I remember my patriotic translation :

" Our laws, which have come down to us from our

fathers, are a tower that no henchman of the King

will dare to cast down — "

BAR]3EZAN AND CO. 85

The word " tower " was a great trouble to me ; " hench-
men of the King " was, I felt, a subterfuge made necessary
by the non-delegation of the powers of the moot; yet
it could pass, while tower could not. But there seemed
to be no Anglo-Saxon idea of monument, and the Eliza-
bethans were so woefully foreign. The Elizabethans were
not good enough for me, and I had not yet discovered
Miles Coverdale.

My enthusiasm was damped by another of those little
incidents which make up the history of my first months
with Barbezan.

I had come to London well primed with commercial
phrases, my tongue glib with " yours to hand of the 8th
inst.," and " as per contra," and the other barbarisms,
but I began to rebel. I did not like these sentences,
which could be translated almost word for word into
any one of the atrocities the world chooses to call business
forms. I decided to redeem the unliterary City, and I
decided to be original.

It is digressing to tell what I suffered because I was not

allowed to be original or distinguished, but I digress as

docs a sheep in a new and succulent pasturage, where it

town ids a tender shoot before it has munched the

a just bitten off ; they are too rich, those English

fields.. I suffered from obscurity because I had never

Jmown it before ; as a child I had recited fables to admir-

B a boy I had stacked my prizes in the draw-

room and exacted tribute whenever the graveyard was

(1 ; and then it had been youth, more academic

modish clothes, minor prowess in athletics.

I do not think I had ever hit a tennis ball over the net

without looking whether the performance was

• vtd. Jr J. as Hugh Lawton said, this was

n<»t done. And though the avarice of this country when

d of it, galled me, 1 accepted it as a harsh

but beneficent tome ; was it not the custom of this

northern Rome to give no credit, to recognise naught

duty done?
But I had to swallow my tonic, and it was nasty. If

86 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

the draught contained in the duel was unpleasant, oti
as bad and worse, had to be swallowed too. The famous
Saxon business letter was one of those. I have forgotten
the bulk of it, but I believe that in my enthusiasm I
began by telling our correspondent, who had asked for
ar-rebate on Barbezan's commission, that " We begged to
acknowledge his writing of the fourth of last month " ;
I then went on to " We must say, in answer, that we cannot
grant that our share in the yield of the business is over
great — " I assured him at the. end, having been in-
structed to say that our " charges were so inadequate as
barely to balance our working expenses," that " our
share was so small as to be less than our need."

I was called into Mr. Lawton's private room. He sat
at a large knee-hole desk — a handsome man, then close
on fifty and very like Hugh. In front of him was my
remarkable screed.

" Qu'est-ce que e'est qy,e cela, Cadoresse ? " he asked,
taking it up.

" That is the letter to Burland & Co.," I said.

"Yes," he said after a pause; "that's all very well.
But why ' our share in the yield of the business is not over
great ? ' Why not 4 the commission is in ' accordance
with current practice ' ? "

This did not sound like a very good phrase, even in
City Latin English. But I ignored that, fell back on
my main defence :

" Mine," I said, carefully choosing my words, " is
written in Saxon, in Gothic alone."

" In Gothic alone," gasped Mr. Lawton. Then he
began to laugh, while I stood in front of the desk, very
mortified and rather angry. " But what do you want to
write Gothic for? You'll be making up charter-parties
in black-letter by and by."

" Gothic, or Saxon," I said, and paused reverently,
" is a wonderful tongue, Mr. Lawton, it is so full of mean-
ing, so concise — "

" Concise," said Mr. Lawton, wickedly, " is not Saxon.
You are falling from grace."

BARBEZAN AND CO. 87

But I was too excited to feel his shaft. I wanted to tell
him how much I loved the word " craft " and hated
"art," how inferior " remarkable " was to "wonder-
ful " j I was making a bad case, I was carried away by
analogy; in my mistaken philological zeal I branded as
Low Latin honest Prankish words which had strayed
into French. I buttressed my view with Shakespeare,
the Bible and Fletcher (whom I had never read); I
stuttered in vain <*f forts readily to find Saxon equivalents
of " psychology " and " retrograde." I tried to make him
feel my craving to be English, historically English.

He listened up to the end, without interrupting me,
holding his chin in his left hand. Then he looked up at
me with amusement in his eyes.

" So you're going to be the John Bright of Fenchurch
Street ? I'm sorry for you, Cadoresse, you'll have a rotten
1 1 1 j t< -. But, really, are you only a silly ass or are you
pulling my leg? What are you doing? "

I blushed and confessed that I had noted the idiom in*
my pocket-book, for inquiry.

" Well, you're trying, anyhow," he said, laughing again.
" But you'd better not go too far. I'm afraid you're
plus anglais que les Anglais, Cadoresse."

Th«* lett< r was r« written. But, a week later, I received
an invitation to dine at Lancaster Gate, of which I shall
have something to say; that was a very good ending to
the affair; at hast it seemed good until Muriel Lawton
quietly asked me whether I was the " Girondin Ancient
m."

«:

IV

I had reprcssscd my desire to talk of Maud, though

tonally arch about a certain Dora whom

iroured for lunch, while Tyler and Merton frequently

exchanged within my hearing views, on women where

biblical BUbftantivefl and Stuart adjectives curiously

with modern Cockney. Prudence or reserve pre-

ed me from doing lik . nothing is, after all,

88 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

so interesting to talk about as women, especially con-
quered women. But then I had not conquered Maud.
Three months had elapsed, and I did not seem to have
advanced much beyond the /stage I attained the first
evening, though our opportunities were many, while
the tolerance that surrounded us was almost incompre-
hensible. Lulu did not trouble us, any more than she
troubled anybody else; the sulky flaxen-haired girl
had not in three months exchanged with me more than
a dozen sentences beyond daily salutations. Lulu seemed
to live in a dream, and I realised that this was a dream
of romance induced by her fierce appetite for novelettes.
If I met Lulu in the hall she was either coming in or going
out with Bella's Millions or Daisy and the Duke; some-
times she was coming in with a bundle of these things,
which she bought in the Edgware Road at the rate of
seven for sixpence ; and though they evidently served her
as a drug, she was not ashamed of them. Perhaps they
were a habit rather than a drug, and they bred in me
another habit, that of thinking of her (infrequently)
in her studious attitude : china-blue eyes and mouth
open, absolute inexprcssiveness ; she seldom laughed or
wept; she read. And then she forgot. This I know,
for Lulu left novelettes behind her like a trail ; I found
them on the dining-room sideboard, in the drawing-
room, in other places the most remarkable of which was
not the bath-room. So I ventured to experiment, to
steal a novelette from the new set she had left on a chair
and substitute an old one, which happened to be clean.
I told Maud, but she remained unmoved.
" Bless you," she said, " she'll never know."
Certainly she showed no sign of knowing, for she read
the old novelette right through. Maud was not afflicted
with the same disease : her reading, in addition to the
Daily Graphic (discarded a few months later for the
Mirror) was made up mainly of the Era, which she went
through from title to printer's name and of the Sporting
and Dramatic, in which sin- held a sixth share with "five
other members of the Tinman Academy.

BARBEZAN AND CO. 89

M We draw for it once a week," she confided to me;
" comes in handy for cutting out ; got Sarer Bernard
out of it this time, stuck her in the looking-glass."

I found out that Maud had plastered the wall-paper
in her corner of the bedroom with pictures of a number of
actors and actresses and especially of comedians. One
picture postcard, too valuable to be put in the album,
was signed " Yours sincerely, Dan Leno."

" He did 'em for the lot of us this summer, when old
Tinman took us to his special."

This is hearsay, for I had never entered the bedroom
Maud shared with Lulu, and I never entered it to the end.
I once caught Maud on the threshold before dinner,
but as I moved she slammed the door in my face and did
not speak to me that evening. Truly Mr. and Mrs. Hooper
were justified in their trust ; the}' accepted that Maud and
1 were great friends, could afford to let us wrangle and talk
all the evening in the dining-room. The family never
assembled in the drawing-room after the first evening.

" You don't mind, Mr. Cadoresse, do you ? " said Mrs.

Hooper. " I think the dining-room's so much more homey."

I agreed, and for my part, never put my evening clothes

on again to dine at St. Mary's Terrace. We settled very

comfortably in the dining-room, where Mrs. Hooper

on working tea-cloths and table-centres, to be given

away in due course on birthdays and Christmases ; Lulu

lly read of peers, honest maidens and motor-car

elopements (1 wonder whether they elope in aeroplanes

in the modern novelette); Mr. Hooper was out three

■ < i !;. <i. hating, or attending Masonic meetings :

on other nights he often engaged me in conversation

M Tin history and customs of foreign peoples " or

his substitute for the Bible, Fyfe's Five Thousand

and Fancies. Meanwhile I worked with grammar

and dictionary until Maud; jealous of my absorption in

anything but herself, though she did not seem particularly

nit my attentions, suddenly threw a newspaper or

of cotton on my open book.

threw, and an expression in hei eyes told

90 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

me when she was about to do so ; it was her instinct : in
a. Swiss hotel she would have thrown bread by the pound.

" Maud, my dear, how can you ? " Mrs. Hooper would
say, with a look of reproach in her mild eyes. But Maud
could, and her mother had given up serious interference.
Sometimes we made too much noise, disturbed Mr. Hooper
in his study of Five Thousand Facts and Fancies ; on
one of these occasions he raised his head and remarked :

" Since you've got to make so much noise, Maud, you'd
better go up to the drawing-room and try the piano."

" Talk of bright ideas !" Maud cried; "you take the
biscuit, Pa."

" I wish you wouldn't talk like that, Maud," said Mrs.
Hooper, helpless but admiring. " Don't turn all the gas
on, dear."

" 1 won't .turn any gas on at all. You can listen, and
hear me read you off the Dead March in Saul, as sung by
Mr. Dutch Daly, Esquire, all done by kindness and by the
light of my glowing orb. Come along and be the stalls,
old coffee-pot."

" I wish you wouldn't call Mr. Cadoresse " coffee-pot,"
moaned Mrs. Hooper.

" Well, he is a coffee-pot, aren't you ? Or is it the Red
Lion you slip round to every night on the Q. T. ? "

" It's only coffee," I said as I opened the door' for her.
" Honest Injun."

" That's right, we'll make a John Bull of you by and
by, I don't think."

It was not the first time I had been allowed to accompany
Maud to the icy drawing-room, where she tortured the
old piano into songs in which were weepings and wailings
and the gnashing of wires. It no longer struck me as
extraordinary to be alone with her; I was contented,
having hadmy coffee at a dreadful little Italian restaurant
in the Harrow Road; I was in the after-dinner gallant
mood.

" Stop it," said Maud, freeing herself from my sudden
grasp as we entered the dark room. " Stop it, I say.
I won't have my hair pulled."

BARBEZAN AND CO. 91

I kissed her at random on neck and cheek, seeking her
lips.

" Oh ! do behave," she protested, weakly ; then she
pushed me away. " If you don't stop it I'll go downstairs
again.". I released her. "There. That's better. You
be good." She kissed me lightly on the cheek, murmured
" sauce-box," and eluded me in the dark.

I lit the candles for her, as I had learned that she must
not be coerced; she had to be irritated by indifference
or handled as lightly as a butterfly.

" You dare," she said warningly, and began one of her

noisy tunes. She smiled, rolled her brown eyes and shook

her curls. Smiling all the time, she sang a tune I had heard

iy at some hall. It was incongruous to hear this

pretty girl declare that :

It ain't all 'oney and it ain't all jam,

Wheelin' round the 'ouses a three -wheeled pram . . .

And it was delightful that this dainty creature should
sing of slums, babies, pubs, lodgers, sausages and cheese ;
18 unexpected; she was the ilower on a dunghill.
I laughed as she san<r, and she smiled more broadly.
roguishly, and I went to her side, gently
stroked tin- back of her firm neck; she seemed indifferent
to ti it on with her song :

... I 'aven't any money, I go nuffin' to eat,

I'm walkin' round tho 'ouses on mo poor ole feet . . .

I leaned down and softly kissed her neck, first on the left
tie further, and then again, surrounding her
plump neck with a ring of kisses. She continued to sing
with king to appreciate tin- can

lie know I w;is k:
" Oo," she said at last, M you're tieklit
But still she wenl on singing, and she did not strike
a single wrong note though I went on caressing her neck,
playing with her soft brown curls. And even when I

1 herein] ed her mouth,

02 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

she showed no anger : as soon as I released her she burst
out with :

Good-bye, oh, rose of summer's sowing,
Good-bye, oh, flower-scented wind . . .

" Oh, do give over," she protested angrily, for I had
put my arm round her waist, lifted her off the piano stool ;
I crushed her against my chest, covered her face with
greedy kisses; a thin film hung over my eyes, so that,
round a candle, I could see a zone of purple.

" Maud, Maud, my darling, my angel, I love you,
I adore you," I murmured thickly into her hair. She
did not struggle, she seemed frightened as I grew bolder.
And for a moment she seemed to respond to my passion ;
she coiled one arm round my neck, and as our lips met I
had the terrible thrill of victory.

" Do you love me ? " I asked.

" Oh, go on."

" You do."

" Well, perhaps I do."

"Say it."

" Say it," I repeated fiercely, and I think that in my
anger I savagely shook her.

" I do love you."

And with that I had to be content ; never did she say
pimply ancj splendidly, the te I love you " for which I
waited. She seemed to respond, she did not rebel against
my- caresses, but she had her fixed limits and, if I grew
over-bold, would repulse me without showing offence
or content.

" Now then, that'll do," she said at last that night ;
"stop it. What d'you take me for? Bit o' butter*
scotch?"

She sat down at the piano, leaving me angry and per-
plexed, and began again :

Good-bye, oh, rose of summer's sowing,
Good-bye, oh, flower-scented wind . . .

I looked at her meekly, full of dim realisations. And

BARBEZAN AND CO. 93

yet she smiled as she sang, practised her stage tricks,
languished. first to the right and then to the left, and looked
up towards a gallery crowded by her imagination with
" boys " to whom she winked. I saw Her as everybody's
thing and wondered why she could be nobody's thing;
I questioned whether she loved me, liked me or preferred
my attentions to none ; it was very difficult to make her
out.

" Well, sulky," she said, as she finished her third song.
The jocularity of the address did not seem to clash in
her mind with the last words of her lyric :

. . . We'll meet again in heaven blue.

I did not reply, still looked at her, sunken in my ugly
mood.

" Look here," she said brightly. " I'll have to give
you a good old talking-to if you go on like this." She
stood up, leaned an elbow on the piano and rested her
i on her hand. " I didn't say I wanted to spoon.
No fear. Why don't you wait till you're asked ? 'Stead
of sitting there with a face like yesterday. You take
my tip and don't make so free."

" I didn't make free with you," I -said, acidly.
■ Well, if that's what you call not making free, I'd
rather not know what you do call making free."

I stood tip, went to the wall and vacantly gazed at

be Queen, while Maud sat down with a thump

on the piano stool and thundered out another music-hall

1 thought bitterly that she was playing it very

badly, that anger could make her miss notes, while caresses

1 1 not. At that moment I hated her, and half resolved

<> to my room. But Maud, on finishing the noisy

i, banging an accompaniment to a monotone

of her own composition :

I don't care, I don't care.
Let him go to I air,

it care, I don't care.
Let him go to Parcc-Mayfair.

ne two minutes I bore with this nonsense, which

94 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

V

grew louder and louder and more purposeful. I knew it
as half-defiance, half-signal. It made me tingle; I felt
like a bull that becomes angrier with every thrust of the
banderillas.

" Stop it," I shouted as I strode to the piano.

The laughing eyes were fixed upon me, the red mouth
was open, and I could see the 'white throat swell as she
screamed her idiotic refrain. And her gibe was so subtly
aphrodisiac that I did not know how much her youth
and grace drew me. I hated her, despised her ; I wanted
to seize and twist her firm neck, shake her, kick her;
and a sense of degradation mixed with my delight as I
clasped both arms round her, lifted her off the stool :

I don't care, I xlon't care,
*** Let him go to Paree-Mayfair . . ' .

Maud screamed as I carried her to the sofa. And then,
for some moments, there was silence while I caressed her
with a ferocity born of my baulked hunger for her. She
laughed on a high note; she did not struggle though I
knew I was painfully crushing the hand I held, though
a heavy curl fell across my face as I bent to kiss her.
^She did not return the kisses I pressed upon her eyelids,
her neck, her lips ; she remained quiescent in 'my grasp,
as if aware tn*at she would struggle in A^ain, as if conscious
that the brute must dominate awhile until fluting reason
can be heard. But as I held her I was revengeful rather
than joyous, for I knew that hers was but a partial
surrender, that she was paying in small favours for
attentions and pleasures, that I would never break the
steely barrier of her coldness, that on my exceeding the
limits formulated by her sex-policy I would be repulsed
and dismissed. Oh, in her own language, she wouldn't
give herself away.

She sat on my knees, one arm round my neck, limp and
half-smiling; she seemed tired, as if some content had
come to her out of the wooing my prudence had rest raim <1.
But there was no heat of excitement in the hand I held :
it was firm, cool, able no doubt to carry without tremor a

BARBEZAN AND CO. 95

•

glass brimful of water. She would not spill a drop. And
I knew bitterly that my eyelids were moist, as if something
inside me had cried out with pain and had tried very
hard to weep.

She sat up and away from me at last, pushed up her
flying hair. " My ! " she said; " you're a bit of all right,
you are." - A very little grudging admiration filtered to
me through the phrase, but she eluded me as I tried to
clasp her again.

" No," she said, firmly. " Never no more again, Mister.
One might think you were barmy on the crumpet the way
you go on, pulling a girl aboiic like a rag doll. If that's
the way they do it in Border I'm not surprised you got the
hoof. No," she added, a note of anger in her voice
d her hand ; " it's closing time, house full. Keep
off the grass, I tell you," she cried as she stood up, " and

talk sensibly or "

W '.- talked sensibly. I tried to tell Maud what I did
at the office; I described old Purkis, Farr and the per-
pendicular hairs. "Don't be dirty," was her comment
on my description of Farr; Tyler and Barker gained^*o
appreciation, but she seemed interested in Hugh Lawton.
" Sounds like a bit of a toff."

Oh, Maud, if I had met you ten years later would you
!i >t have said Hugh Lawton was a k'nut !
She pestered me with questions. How old was lie?
s Ik- like? But exactly? Yes, she did like 'em
fair. Was lie his father's partner? Would he be?
Id I? SI iih rested in everything that was

did not know that there was anything
rial. She did i j she spooned. She-

She could not feel
f hat sltt had put her foot in it.
Shedidnol believe in God; she could fear hell.

II'- a shadow on her mental

i' his ties in the
>n Arcadt\ while I bought mine in Cheapside,

bo i he young m«-n who houghs th<ir

it ion, prospects —

96 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

she could understand all that, but I could make her under-
stand nothing else. I tried to explain the Saxon business
letter.

" Oh, German, you mean," she said vaguely.

I gave it up. I tried to make her see what it meant to
be an Englishman, to feel, to think like one.

" Oh, yes, I know," she said ; " didn't you say you could
get out of camp, or whatever it is, if you naturalise? "

We could talk only of facts ; we could hardly talk of
love. For her love was a subject with two compartments ;
in the first sne put questionable jokes, which I now realise
she did not quite understand ; in the second was a singular
cloying composition : hand-holding on the Front at1
Brighton, moon-gazing on the River, ultimate marriages
involving nightly attendances at the halls or theatres;
there was a strain of melancholy in it : the young lover
was quite as pleasant dead as alive, for one laid flowers
on his grave, and one was " true " to him ; later on
one was comforted by an older man, whom one met by
" mother's grave." One married the older man, and
somehow, after lying in one's own grave, one might meet
the first love in heaven. There were love-letters too,
but she called them " silly talk."

All this mixture of mental sensuality and sentiment
rested on a paradoxic foundation of ignorant purity.
Maud was cold, or rather una wakened. She had not been
told : she had heard, at Tinman's, in the street, but she
had not been marked by her knowledge; she had not
connected the fragments of enlightenment which had
come her way. Essentially JCnglish, she had few curiosi-
ties and did not devote to the theoretic side of pa
the thought and research hardly a French girl neglects;
the subject did not interest, did not attract her; she
knew " in a sort of way," and did not want to know any
more. Indeed, she often repulsed me with a sharp
" Stop it," when I tried to correlate in her mind the im-
pressions I found there.

You were pure in your own way, little flower of the
London gutter.

in

BARBEZAN AND CO. » 9T

Of course, the Hoopers were trying to entrap me into
marriage. I found that out later, with some stirprise, for,
in my own opinion, I was not a bon parti, and I did not
realise that a young man with a salary of a hundred and
twenty a year could be appreciated by the genteel Hoopers.
I did not, for years, grasp that an English girl can leave her
father's Kensington house, his brougham and her skating
club to control a suburban brick box and a twelve pound
" general." Nor did I understand that. Mrs. Hooper
would have been quite satisfied to see Maud installed with
me in an upper part in the Harrow Road, that she accepted
her husband's view : " Young people must not expect
to begin where their parents left off." Besides, Maud had
not the dowry usual in civilised countries, I think, and,
even now I am a little uneasy when the English girl
plunges for love and nothing a year.

They are too hard on the dot, those sentimental English,

who. by the way, shrink from dots and insist upon marriage

settlements. I like to think that a girl does not come

iless into her husband's house, that she has the option

between maintaining her financial independence and,

therefore, conjugal affection, or helping her husband in

his career, or keeping her money to educate her children.

In spite of my own record I still distrust those matches

in hot blood, without regard for class, suitability,

monetary chanc< .-s. And I don't like to think of all

those BngHsh girls sold m marriage to the first bidder,

no second. We sell to the best bidder,

the English to the first. And they do sell, for what

can a penniless woman do in presence of a hated but

1 ? Love ! yes, there's love — but after

all. fray man

[fat oi marriage with naud. I wanted

tarry an English girl some tic I I would love, but

fast set in my mind. I could

have introduced .Maud t<nmy mother if my mother

lish girls. And I wanted a girj

98 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

with some money : I was not going to hunt money,
but one must have money. I looked upon my affair
with Maud as an adventure, just as she looked upon it
as a flirtation ; I still hoped to bring it to a satisfactory
end, and until that time could not brag of it at the office,
but of Lottie I could brag and did.

For I was not faithful to Maud. There was no reason
why I should have been, as faithfulness is, after all, no
more than acquired insensitiveness ; also faithfulness
cuts one off from experience. In this respect only did
I make exceptions to the British code I was adopting;
I could not bring myself to find other eyes dull because
those of Klaiid were bright. They were not dull, and they
were rewarding, for there are not two looks alike, two
smiles as witching, and the tender break in a woman's
voice when she murmurs and laughs low is never twice
quite the same. Those soft low laughs are all of a family,
but different. Appetite for adventure, for an excite-
ment that was mainly mental, drove me into perpetual
conflict with women. I had to look into the eyes of the
waitress when I ordered my chop, and if I made her blush
it was a success : I took this blush back to the office
and hung it up like a rosy curtain across the Fenchurch
Street window. In the Underground, in the streets, on
the top of jolting horse-buses, where propinquity com-
bines with the excitement of release from work to saturate
the air with aphrodisiac vapours, I had eyes for all those
fair heads and curly brown heads, and clear blue eyes and
bold black eyes, tokens of some fiery southern ancestry.
To this day I cannot walk the streets without disquiet,
so treacherously soft and treacherously pure are these
English girls.

For they are pure, and I was not very successful.
Indeed, if I had not had the persistency of the spider
[would not have continued my pursuit of them in the
face of the snubs which I received. They were afraid
of me, tiie foreigner, for jthe cold mantle of their purity
let through disquiet when I drew near; I have been told,
and have no reason to doubt it, that there is no banter in

BARBEZAN AND QO. 99

my black eyes. I have never looked upon a woman,
old or young, without there being a caress in my glance,
however casual; I have no talent for banter, I never
flirt, I am always dangerous. They knew it, and if they
did not snub me, soon they gave me short answers, were
" surprised at me " or " wouldn't have thought it of me."
One of them, at Earl's Court, I think, threw me a frightened
glance and ran away. But even if I had never succeeded,
I would still have tried, for I had in my life the young
bachelor's demon, loneliness. Often Maud was out
with a "pal," or "studying" at the halls; then, after
a while, I looked up from my books, gazed at Mrs. Hooper,
knitting or embroidering, at Mr. Hooper, deep-buried in
Science Siftings, or Tit-Bits. A placid air of content hung
over them, while Lulu, in an armchair, read at extreme
speed some tale of dairymaid and duke. The atmosphere
was — stuffy, and there was about the very gas an air of
finality : it would, never, never turn into electric light.
I would make an effort, mumble out : " . . . but worship
and humbug are exceptions ; though the accent be on the
first syllable the final consonant is redoubled." Then
I would memorise the double ps and gs, contrast the
words with "refer," — worship, worshipping; refer,
referring — until the rule began to slip away and I ceased
to know whether the typical word was pronounced
" refer " or " reffer."

Up to my room on those nights. First a vicious casting

of my body upon the bed, accompanied by an internal

cry :" " What shall I do? what shall I do? " Then a

aze at the text, "The Lord is my Shepherd, I

shall QOl want." In the had light I had to guess at the

I English ch A muttered curse on all

mult from my Jacobin temper. There w;is

not}, . I wanted to do nothing. I leaped off the

bed, walked round tie room, I xamining each article,

her, old red doth, swivel mirror; the

1 il " Peacemaker*"

-play love 1 pah I Then "In the Garden of

rk and a typist, in nineteenth-century fig-

100 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

leaves. The Jubilee procession troubled me on those
nights ; it always seemed to think me emotional, hysteri-
cal, un-English.

But at last I had looked at everything, felt mental
nausea in front of my books, looked into the garden, then
sodden with winter rains. I would stand for some .
moments in the middle of the room, slowly walk to the
window, stare into the blackness, walk back to the bed,
then back to the window. Pause. Then I would begin
to go round the room, slowly, hands in pockets, head down.
As I passed, the dirty carpet lost all its pattern. I
began to walk faster, round and round, half -conscious
of impressions, black window, empty grate, dirty boots.
Faster and faster still, like a convict in his cell or a beast
at the Zoo. I went round and round the room, which
seemed to grow smaller all the time ; I was like a squirrel
in its wheel with a night's turning in front of it. And,
as I turned and turned, one thought speared my loneli-
ness : what shall I do ? what shall I do ? And again
and again it came, ebbing and flowing, like successive
waves beating upon a shore. °

At last \ would seize my hat, rush out of the house,
' slamming the front door to get some noise into my life.
Sometimes I would walk aimlessly on, eyes towards' the
ground, as fast as I could, contemptuous of traffic and
butting into passers-by, ikntil I stopped quite suddenly at
Hendon or Shepherd's Bush, just tired and dulled enough
to want my bed. And on other nights I would climb into
the gallery of a music-hall and stare at the backs of the J
people in front of me, or drink whisky on the top of stout
in a public-house, just to exchange a word with a barmaid
or find interest in a " drunk." Or I would engage in long,
aimless pursuits of women who had caught my fancy.
Once I ran after a cab laden with luggage and offered
my breathless services after a two-mile sprint. One mu^t
do something, one must.

It was on one such night I met Lottie. I had walked
a long way, far beyond Notting Hill, when I caught her,
up — a slim fair girl. The obvious shopgirl, badly dressed,

BARBEZAN AND CX). 101

with cheap lace sticking out. of her old, modish grey coat
and two visible brooches. I found out a little later that
she wore two more — also a pendant and a necklace of
sham pearls.

" Are you going far? " I asked.

" Just about as far as turn-back," said the girl. I saw,
as she looked at me, that she must be twenty-five. Fair
hair, blue eyes, pale face : five more years of good looks
and she would be old.

" May I go with you ? " I asked.

*; Xo, thanks," she said; " not out for chocolates, just
had grap

But this is only the smarl change of London gallantry.
Soon I was walking by Lottie's side, holding her arm,
univbuked.

She did not mind, she ^prattled of her " people " in

Norfolk, of her situation at a stationer's, of Kew and

Carl's Court, and didn't I think those railway bridges

a lot of money to build ? She did not mind my going

with her, she did not mind when I kissed her in a silent

f of villas, she^did not mind kisses, fervid or tepid.

Lottie did not want anything or object to anything; she

had never develop- d ; even her taste -for pleasure was

faint : she did not long for Sunday afternoon River trips,

sh<- merely liked them. I took her for a misty walk in

Kiehmond Park, three days later, and she never took my

I, nor drew hers away when I grasped it. She never

1 me my name, thua never knew it : I was a " fellow,''

and when f<.r a few brief hours I was a lover, a " fellow M

d. Not for a moment did any enthusiasm leap

up Jo meet mine, and when I dropped out of her life, out

B, I do not suppose she suffered. She

I not f 'Inner to remember;

douh; I lew " to a " fellow."

The ignominy ol it lay heavy upon me sometimes,
and ■ .1 not e\ ,imd and

round in my l wld drive me to this. But it did :

what can one do? what can one do? Ignominious as
was this adventure, the Brsi of many, it was, however,

"l\)2 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

an adventure, and I had to brag of it. I began by-
throwing out hints to Barker ; I would in any case have
done so, but he began by talking of Dora.

" She s a little bit of all right, is Dora. And I rather
think yours truly is a bit of afavourite with her."

" How can you tell ? "

" Oh, I go late — perhaps that's my little plan, and
there's never more than two or three at her tables at half-
past two. So she comes and sits down and gasses away
about this, that and the other, and we have a fine old
&me. Blime ! if I wasn't a married man "

" What does that matter ? "

" Now then, now then. None of your continental ways
here. They won't wash. Besides, Cadoresse, you don't
understand English girls ; they're not after you like flies
round a honey-pot."

Memories of Maud collided with memories of Lottie
and others, and I looked inimically at this handsome,
well-brushed young man who stood before me like Don
Juan lecturing Casanova. It was absurd, I reflected,
that a suburban puritan should masquerade as^ a gay
dog, and more absurd that so attractive a young man
should be a puritan. For Barker looked very.srnart in
his soft, dark grey tweed ; he managed to buy good clothes
in Poultry for three guineas, while I failed in Sackville
Street for five. He had an agreeable, -open face, tanned
once a week on the golf course, fine grey eyes, a small,
beautifully-cut mouth; but for a small chin and a very
slight narrowness of forehead he would have been as hand-
some as Hugh Lawton, He exasperated me, therefore,
for two reasons.

"Aren't they?" I said, at length. "Well, they're

not so farouche as you think, Barker. There's " I

was going to say " my landlady's daughter," but
honesty twisted the phrase : " Many of them are quite
easy. Why, you can talk to English girls in the street."

" Oh, you can," said Farr, who had come in as we
talked ; " but everybody knows that sort, they don't
count."

BARBEZAN AND CO. 103

I suddenly*understood an English attitude : two kinds
of women, the accessible undesirable and the inaccessible
desirable.

" I cannot tell whether they count," I said, " but "

I told them the story of my meeting with Lottie,

of my subsequent meetings, fully state d her in terms of

conquest. I enlarged upon the adventure : Lottie's

shimmered like gold, her pale eyes became as deep,

blue, sunlit pools ; in my story she was fervid, passionate ;

she became the Golden Girl; a lovely romantic light

with the fires of passion) flowed over Notting Hill.

44 Go on with you," said Barker at last ; " you rotten

dog." i

44 And what did she say to that ? " Farr asked. There
a glow in his ugly little eyes, and the black hairs
moved as his nostrils twitched.

All, this man liked my story; puritan Englishman,
what is there under your black coat? I elaborated the
\\ filled it with response, made it dramatic ; a histrion,
I liked to play upon'Farr.

44 Well," he said at length, exhaling a puff of breath

from his white cheek?, 4' she's a "

How can men say such things? or such words? I
am not yet used to the English vocabulary. And to
apply sueh words to love !

For it is love, it is always love. Even inarticulate, even

al, even cold, it is love and always love, and because

it is love it is wonderful. I am injove with love. It makes

DM happy to know there are lovers, thousands, millions

of lovers, and it makes me miserable to think I shall die,

then 1 shall no longer know love. It made me

shudder when he suddenly dragged from my "poor little

coat of many colours. But Basker was not

he had none of l"arr*s hateful sensuous

which, among his like, expresses itself
in words from the t is h market. He lectured me :

44 You know, ( , it sounds very nice and

romantic, .'11 that, but what about the girl? Have you
ht of what it means for h< r ? "

104 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

" It means for her what it means for me.*'

" No, you silly old josser ; you're all like that
abroad. You don't understand women; you think
they're just like you. Well, they aren't : they feel
disgraced and lose their self-respect. Why, there's
no knowing what harm you may have done the .girl;
you may have ruined her life for all you know."

I suggested that as Lottie was not my first adventure
I might be deemed not to be her first either.

" That's got nothing to do with it," said Barker,
severely; "it's your -responsibility all the same. Pufc
yourself in her shoes, and perhaps you'll see she can't
hold her head up again; she feels dishonoured, she may
break her heart over it, refuse to marry somebody
else."

"Oh, stuff," I said.

They laughed : that was not the word I ought to have
used, but I could not bear to use their word.

Barker went on with his reprimand. As an enlightened
chapel-goer he had to turn me from the path of sin, and as
he talked I understood the Englishman better, understood
the depth of his illusion about women. Barker saw woman
as a calm„ passionless, charming creature, anxious, in his
own words, " to marry to have someone to take care of."
He was not mercenary, and could not believe that woman
was mercenary ; he could not believe that a woman could
want anything her husband did not want; he credited
her with no initiatives, with desiring nothing save dresses
and babies. Barker thought that women did not mind,
at thirty, being spinsters in their fathers' houses, if those
homes were comfortable. If in those days there had
been militant suffragettes he would have fold them to go
home and mind the baby. He loved his wife, who repre-
sented woman ; he looked upon her as an ideal and as
a type : religious, domesticated, obedient, gay, loyal and
respectably romantic. He would have given her to-
drink his last drop of blood but would not have spared
h< r a penny for a newspaper, lie thought she was perfect,
that woman was perfect, that woman was so noble and

BARBEZAN AND CO. - 105

beautiful that she must be set on a pedestal and wor-
shipped : but she was never to get off the pedestal and do
what she liked. According to Barker it was the husband
knew what his wife liked, and her tastes conformed
singularly with his own.

I began that day to see why Englishwomen are so
bored.

At the end of the lecture Farr abruptly said :
" Heard that limerick, Barker, about the young lady
of Turin ? "

The limerick was recited. Disgusting. Then came
two jokes out of one of the weeklies, where wit was absent
and foulness abundant. Barker laughed uproariously.

M Heard that story about "?

A very pretty actress was dragged through the gutter.
Tyler came in, contributed his quota to the conversation,
and little Morton drew near, sniggering and squirming;
a nasty, hot blush climbed up his rosy cheeks. Clearly
this abominable talk bore no relation to actual fact; it
just talk : they never connected those stories with
living men and women.

These Englishmen ! They keep their ideas apart, like

each in one kennel, lest they should fight, I suppose.

0, the process is less conscious; they have their

lards and their lists of points, with which to classify

the dogs. One kind of dog goes under "spaniels,''

another under "retri* md so on, and there are

K for mongrels and kennels for curs, and kennels

for pariah dogs, and there is a big, secure pen for "foreign

They padlock thai one and put barbed wire round

it for fear they 1 1 ii lt h t themselves go too close and be

Utten. One tiling they never do, and that is conneet

the mongrd and the spaniel and say : " Both are dogs."

<1. pun women, and " bad lots " — thai is all they see.

It is saying that convent ion can make the first

out of dullards, or that romance can lift the second upon

id carry them up aloft: that would interfere

with the classification.

CHAPTER VI

THE HEART OF ENGLAND

I have not done what I set out to do. I have been
too critical, allowed later and more judicial impressions
to fog the sharp, partisan views I took of England in
those early days, and to clear the chaos created in my
mind by their conflict. I cannot, now that I speak
English so well that people ask me whether I am Scotch
or Welsh, now that I conform to English conventions and
believe in a few of them, restore the freshness of the
mind I brought from France. I figure the past as one
may trace out on some very old Italian fresco a faint
design over which an economical iconoclast painted
another picture. I could not see England for the English.

I gave them all more or less heroic qualities (except
Farr, whom I endowed with undeservedly villainous
traits), because I understood them only in flashes. They
always came out with strong, high lights. A flash, and
I saw Barker, for instance, as the moderate, sober, honest
man, a little narrow but perfectly calm, irrepressibly
calm — and then I saw him no more. I have sai$ that I
thought him limited, uninformed on the woman question,
but I excused him to myself. I was always the advocate
of the English; if they injured me and advocacy became
impossible, I refused to prosecute. Thus, silly old Purkis
d as the rock of security, Tyler, Morton as energetic,
intelligent young men, finely pure (as a rule) and in-
capable of playing anybody a dirty trick. Hugh Lawton
represented for me in the flesh what the young wrestlers
on the Embankment represent in bronze. Oh, Olympian

106

THE HEART OF ENGLAND 107

Hugh, where is the laurel-wreath that sat sq well on your
currycombed head ?

It is because I saw no more than the main lines that I
understood the English : it takes a foreigner to do that.
If an Englishman struck me as pure-minded, he was
Galahad ; if strong, he was Hercules ; if bad, he was Jack
the Ripper. Nowadays I judge men, perhaps better,
perhaps with more regard for shades of temperament,
but not so surely ; I do not so readily part the lions from
the unicorns. I judged violently, in a prejudiced spirit,
and I almost invariably approved. If I had hesitations
as to the genteel Hoopers, as to the clerks of Barbezan, I
think I had none about the Lawtons after the august
dinner. It took place in January. Invited because my

n business letter had amused Mrs. Lawton and
because my status was, thanks to my name, not quite
that of a clerk, I found myself, at half-past seven (for the
dinner hour had not yet travelled to a quarter-past eight)
inwardly a little shy and outwardly very bold, seated at
a large round table between Mrs. Lawton, a sprightly,

-looking matron, and a delicate fair-haired girl,

Edith, her daughter. I have no very clear memory of

lap <>f t lie conversation, for the preoccupation of

clothes, after all these years, still hangs stifling over the

ion. I was again wearing the wrong clothes. I

always was, and to this day I am never safe in this country

wearing of the black is governed half by rules

and hall by intuitions; whether I choose tails or dinner

tie and waistcoat or White, I am never sure

I shall be in the majority. Now clothes is the one

in the world in which 0 Frenchman who is trying

i Englishman docs not want to be original.

,\Vh< : ol trying to become an Englishman, he does

•niial, and I have vivid memories of a white

ir, now unfortunately lost, before I

red at it bewildered, as if

they were Hottentoti confronted with a motor-car. But,

that night, my trouble was not confined to my tie,

which was blark. One seat away was Kdwanl Kent, a

108 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

short, fair young man, who looked as if he shaved three
times a day; his tailcoat was moulded into him, his tie
and waistcoat sat, precise and intolerably white, on his
plump body; Mr. Lawton too, wore tails, but for mysteri-
ous reasons a black waistcoat, while Hugh, to make
my unease complete, had dared a dinner jacket with a
white waistcoat' and tie. I judged this to be modish,
but remained cheerless, for one thing was quite clear : I
was not white enough. When, in later days, I tried to be
white enough, I was generally too white ; I could never
grade entertainments, gauge the difference between
dinners " Class A (family and two intimates)," and dinners
" Class B (four strangers)," and dinners " Class C (un-
limited ostentation)." Nor could I distinguish between
the livery of the master of the house, that of youth, that
of the guest— between the livery for food, the livery for
song, the livery for the dance. In Hugh's 'Varsity phrase,
I managed to dress either as a " cad " or as a " bounder."
He never said this of or to me, as that would not have been
like Hugh, but such was his classification ; for Hugh there
were only the dressed, the underdressed, the over-
dressed. It took me four years of labour to enter the
" dressed " class frequently : English syntax was much
easier. But, that night, as I rolled anxious eyes from
the chattering Mrs. Lawton to the shy Edith, when
" cad " and " bounder " were unknown terms, I felt like
a waiter or a mute. I hardly knew what I said, as I
glared at the opposition clothes, though little seemed to
be expected of me save to listen. Mrs. Lawton had
nothing to say, but she said it very prettily ; in my per-
turbation her gossip was very comforting.

" You must dislike this weather very much," she said,
" after the South. I know what it's like, for I simply
can't stand London after the middle of January. I simply
have to go to the Rivi<

"Riviera?" I said blanklf, quite unable to connect
this word with the Cote d'Azur.

" Yes, the Riviera. I generally go to Cannes, or
Men tone, though that's getting impossible now the

THE. HEART OF ENGLAND 109

Germans have found it out. Of course, there's Monte
Casio, but there's too much noise, too many people;

what I want is a quiet place, just to sit in the sun "

Mrs. Lawton developed at immense length her idea of
a quiet life ; I smiled as much as I could, I tried to smile
with my ear,* I suppose, and I do not remember what she
took to be a quiet life. I have a vague feeling that its
quietude was rather eventful. Meanwhile I inspected
the guests, Hugh and Mr. Lawton, who were as rigid and
polite outside as inside the office, and then my cheerful

il)our. Mrs. Lawton was pleasing enough. She
looked about thirty-seven or eight, but at the time was
actually forty-three, for she had the Englishwomen's

•t of looking much less than their age, probably be-
cause they do not grow up ; she was dark-haired, buxom,
and her colour, though a little ruddy over the cheek-
bones, was agreeable. I i^iled to find upon her face a
trace of powder or rouge, and regretted it a little, for the
loveliest features in the world are set off by the subtle
wickedness of these artifices; yet I liked her, her gaiety,
and her triangular eyes. It was Mrs. Lawton's eyes made
one look at her twice ; to say they were triangular is the
only way of saying that the eyelids drew close together
at the outer corners of the sockets, while they parted a
littlr wider near tli This gave the grey-green pupils

an astonished, batten-like air. Mrs. Lawton's eyes were

well-bred to ask questions, but they always seemed a

littlr surprised when information was volunteered. She

had given those eyes to her daughter Muriel, who now

Iniost opposite to me, and Showed exactly what her

mother had been twenty years before. Indeed, had

1 net been the taller, and had not her shoulders
been rather thin, she could well have passed for her

mot ter.

Muriel did not return my scrutiny, for she leaned
ham< dly t ..wards Edward Kent, who now sat stroking

his little fat chin, while his inanieiired hand played with

•_,dass of hock. 1 could hear his thin, piping voice,
the conversation whicl 1 him invitations to dinner.

110 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

" I really am, I really am,*' he protested. " You
think I never do anything, Miss Lawton, because I never
have anything to do. Now that's where you're wrong. It
is the lazy people are the busy people because they are so
unused to work that what they must do takes an awful
long time."

" Paradoxes," said Muriel, raising a pretty, thin
shoulder.

" That is to say, truths. Truth, you see, lives in a well,
and you don't know that when you see the well. It's the
same with paradox : you find truth in it, but you must
haul her out."

" Mr. Kent," said Muriel, " you are tiring me out."

" You should take more exercise, then "

" Oh, spare us, Mr. Kent," said Mrs. Lawton, suddenly
forgetting me and the Riviera and leaning over towards
the entertainer, " and tell us what happened at
Caux."

For several minutes I was left out ; while I ate the thin
slices of saddle of mutton and found out I liked it with
red currant jelly, I saw that Louisa Kent was fiirting
with Hugh. She was very pretty, I thought, with her
dark hair, her rosy colour; she had her brother's little
fat chin, but on her it was charming instead of being
faintly ridiculous. She was talking quickly, in tones too
low for me to understand what she said ; perhaps she did
not want to be overheard, though there was nothing in
the placid smile which flickered about Hugh's beautiful
lips to show that he cared. It was extraordinary, but
evidently Muriel and Louisa were " making up " to the
men, and these did not even swell as conquerors, they
basked in the sunshine that was their due.

Indeed, no man seemed to think of the women, except
Mr. Lawton, whom I could hear gently talking to Edith
about Brussels, which he seemed to know well.

" Oh, you must ask Mr. Cadoresse," he suddenly said,
with a laugh.

I turned in time to catch the faint smile and the quick,
shy look of the girl.

THE HEART OF ENGLAND 111

" Yes ? " I said. " Can I be of service to Mademoi-
selle

« Oh " She paused, blushed. " It's only father.

He says that it's not Bwar der lar Camber. He wants me
to roll my r's like — like "

" Like me," I said.

Edith blushed so hotly that her neck and shoulders
grew pink, and I thought her pretty. Insignificant, of
course, as blue eyes and fair hair make a girl, but pretty.

" Oh — I didn't mean — I didn't say that — I really
didn't."

Her eyes were downcast and I wondered whether there
were tears in them. I felt I had been clumsy, that I had
trodden on a little flower.

" Cambrrr," I said, reassuringly.

She looked up at me, smiled, shook her head.

" Try," I suggested. " Cambrrr."

But she would not try. She sat smiling and blushing,
nervously tapped on a fork with thin, white fingers that
trembled.

M My little girl mustn't be shy," murmured Mr. Lawton.
There was a new gentleness in the eyes that were rathe?
like 1

" I'm not shy, father," she murmured, but again
blushed.

" No ? Then will the little girl say Cambrrr to her
fath.i-V "

y laughed together. Her father ! Her grand
father rather. I looked across to Muriel, who was still
wrapped up in Edward Kent. That was a girl ! and
nlv I thought of Maud, her bold brown eyes. I
wished she could see me then, "among the upper ten,"
as she would have s;iid. and I felt a little disappointed
people spoke slowly, in modulated voices.
They b ty, not ragging.

. Lawton again turned to me. Did I like London?

O oottrse I had seen all the sights, the To wer ? N<>! that

been to the Tower, she owned. Did I like"

the 1 1 replied. I had plenty to say, but I could

112 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

not talk of the things I cared for, the office, my schooling,
my home, the Hoopers. Mrs. Lawton made no com-
ments, and her questions were not indiscreet ; she seemed
to want to know only what I thought in general, not what
I thought in particular. I wanted her to lay hands on
my private life. I invited her to do so.

" I am quite happy in my rooms," I said, irrelevantly;
" the people are very nice to me, and it is amusing because
there are two young girls in the house."

" Oh, yes," said Mrs. Lawton, " and it's very handy for
the Underground. Don't you think it's easy to get about
in London ? "

" Very easy," I said. " Yes, I like it very much ; and
the City too. I like the men I meet. There is one of
the clerks, Mrs. Lawton, whose clothes are an education,
they are so good, though he does buy them in the City;
he "

" Ah," said Mrs. Lawton, " the City is a wonderful
place. Have you seen the Lord Mayor's coach ? "

The conversation went on in that way, I struggling to
figure my own life, Mrs. Lawton inertly bent on com-
pelling me to sink it in the life of the crowd. I wanted
her to tear at my personality — but that isn't done : she
didn't do it. I was angry because I was baulked, I sulked,
allowed Mrs. Lawton to say what she liked, interposing a
minimum of " yeses " and " noes." She did not mind.
She was there to talk to me from half -past seven to nine ;
if I was silent she would talk a great deal ; if I had a great
deal to say, she would gracefully listen ; if I made unusual
or improper remarks she would misunderstand them and
suavely lead me back to the safeties of the Royal Family
or the London police. While she talked 1 examined the
furniture. The dining-room was what is called hand-
some, for there was a red paper over a white dado, a
Bplendid mahogany sideboard; I could feel a thick Turkey
carpet under my feet and see expensive-looking oils on
the walls. But — the revelation came suddenly — it was
the Hoopers' dining-room; the wallpaper was the same,
except that it had probably cost four and sixpence a piece

THE HEART OF ENGLAND 113

instead of two shillings, and the sideboard was the same.
True, there were no cruets nor salad-dressing bottles on it,
but there was the tantalus. And the oils ! There were
bad oils on the Hoopers' red walls ! I seemed to under-
stand the Lawtons, the Lawton breed, the " Terraces "
and " Places " and " Gardens " and " Gates " which
are full of Lawtons, Lawtons all alike, who buy the same
things at different prices. As I looked at this furniture
and those who sat among it I understood : they had tried
to be like everybody else, and they had brought it off.
That was why they were Good People.

44 In the house I live in," I tactlessly said, " they have
red paper in the dining-room."

" They say brown is coming in," replied Mrs. Lawton.
44 I have seen it up at Egerton Jones'. What do you
think of our big shops ? "

I told Iter vaguely, and as I did so, listened to the

conversation of the others. Kent was telling the story

I have since heard in many forms, of the judge who was

rude to the counsel for the defence and at last pointed to

r, remarking :

" It doesn't matter what you say, it goes in here and
comes out on the ot her side."

44 No doubt, my Lord," Kent narrated smoothly ; 44 there
is nothing to stop it."

If the circle began to laugh, and before the laughter

subsided Kent was talking mixed hockey; he did not

spoil his effect, I heard Muriel protest against a charge

of whacking tin men's shins, Mr. Lawton gravely remon-

i. for whom the Steinway wasn't good

M I couldn't eital in that lit tie

e of having studied with Marsay if

i »8 7 "

I t il pianis!

I to beeoine m; Mr>. Lawton had turned

. I addressed Edith.
•■ 1 - e I aid.

"Oh, \ (1 Edith; 44 she's been

114 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

to Dresden and she's studied in Paris under Marsay.
Now she's going to give her first recital and I'm sure she'll
be a success, though she says nobody cares for the piano.
She looks so well, too, on the platform ; don't you think
she's very pretty ? "

" Very," I said. " And you, do you play the piano ? "

" A little— oh, it's nothing."

Edith had blushed and stammered. Curious, she
coidd chatter of Louisa Kent without a trace of shyness.
but a single reference to her own affairs deprived her of
all self-possession. I went on talking to her, gently, as
to a child, and little by little she became able to speak to
me, not freely but adequately.

" I like it in Brussels," she confided. " I'm going to
stay at least two years, to be finished as they say."

" Well, I hope they will not finish you completely, as
you are only just commenced — begun I mean."

" Begun ! " Muriel almost screamed across the table,
and then exploded into giggles. " What did I tell you
about the Ancient Briton, Edith ? "

" Muriel, my dear," said Mrs. Lawton reproachfully,
but she smiled.

Mr. Lawton laughed.

" Your laurel -wreath as a student of Gothic is on your*
head, Cadoresse."

"Mr. Kent," said Muriel, faintly; "never say fork
again — say prong."

" I will say prong — I will say ' Je prong ' to please you."

I glared fiercely at the red paper, which was no redder
than my ears. They were laughing at me, all of them,
English pigs, because they couldn't speak their own
language. I did not reply to Mrs. Lawton 's gentle apolo-
gies and requests tint I should not mind chaff. Chaff !
they call insults chaff ! Under that calm, that decorum,
lies a desire to wound ; hypocrites, they never lose their
self-control save when the foreigner gives them an opening.
I ate my ice angrily, barely replying when Mrs. Lawton
asked me questions; Hugh had smiled, and Louisa had
giggled when Mr. Lawton explained the joke.

THE HEART OF ENGLAND 115

" I think" it's rather a shame," said Edith's gentle voice,
but I did not warm to her. I hated them all.

I had barely regained my composure when Mrs. Lawton
rose; there was a scuffle of chairs, a rustling of skirts as
the conversation suddenly ebbed away. As I thrust my
chair aside I had the mortification of seeing Kent dart
past me and open the door, next to which he stood with
bent head while the ladies filed out. I was gloomily
conscious that I, who was nearest to the door, should
have done this, but the realisation did not prey upon me,
for I was too interested in Kent's sudden act of courtesy,
following as it did upon his indifference to the women
during dinner. But then door-opening is done.

We drew together at the table ; we were already drinking
port when the coffee came, and after the coffee we returned
to port. The conversation was languid. Mr. Lawton
asked me whether I was getting used to London; this
question was beginning to be wearisome but I took it
up.

44 Yes," I said. " I don't feel a stranger. Everything
i easy here, for you don't have to know people long,
and the fog is so amusing."

44 Oh, I say, that's a bit thick," said Kent.

44 Kent ! Another one of those and I throw you out,"
said Hugh.

I went on, unaware of Kent's detestable pun. I said
that London in the fog was romantic, that the buildings
lifted up in it until they looked like Laputa floating
in tin clouds.

44 You're a | id Mr. Lawton. 44 This'll never do

in Fenchureh Street, Cadoresse; you'll be seeing romance
in a bill of lading if you go on. Now a real Englishman
lik<- yon OUghl t<> like nothing but hard fact, know facts,

thousands of them "

I iv< thousand," I cried. And after I had laughed
I told Mr. Lawton about Mr. Hooper and Five Thousand
Facts and Fancies. He listened to me, faintly smiling,
no doubt because I had laughed ; lie did not seem to think
Hooper so very odd.

116 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

" Oh, well," he summed up ; " you don't know whether
h«" facts won't come in handy one day."

I suggested that Hooper would be better off reading
the paper and acquiring political views. This did not
displease Mr. Lawton, and soon he was talking suavely of
the Conservative Government, to which he was opposed.
At first he did npt interest me much, and I listened with
one ear to Kent and Hugh, who discussed with gravity the
correct strapping of skis. What their difference of opinion
was I do not know, but they seemed full of intensity.

44 Of course, no one can tell how long this will go on,"
said Mr. Lawton. "A Government which comes in in
the middle of a war may do anything it likes when the
war's over ..."

Hugh and Kent were still engrossed, disagreeing as to
the respective merits of Norwegian and Swiss ski-running,
but I did not hear the end of their debate, for Mr. Lawton
had gripped my attention.

"This Education Bill, for instance. Well, I don't
mind religious education, far from it; but I don't think
it fair that the Nonconformists should share the cost of
keeping up Church schools."

I asked for an explanation and received it. It was
a clear, moderate exposition; without a gesture, without
^raising his voice, Mr. Lawton figured for me the dual
system of English education, the Church schools and the
Board schools, made me understand the grievance of the
Dissenters.

" So you see, that is all the trouble. I think it wrong
that people should pay to have taught a creed they do
not practice. And I can say it, I think, as I am a Church-
man myself."

" What ! " I cried. I could hardly believe him ! How
could a man who professed a creed grant that other creeds
had rights?

" Yes," said Mr. Lawton. " I am a Churchman, and
I am re^ady to pay for Church teaching, but I cunix
that Nonconformists should pay for it too. They are
free to believe what they choo

THE HEART OF ENGLAND 117

" Should not your religion dominate ? Why don't you
burn them ? "

"" We did, once upon a time," said Mr. Lawton gently,
" but we're wiser now. And we never burned them
enthusiastically. After all, a man may believe what he
chooses."

" I can hardly understand it."

" You couldn't, you're French. I suppose you're a
Roman Catholic and "

" I'm an atheist," I said, roughly.

44 Oh ... of course, you're free to believe what you
>se (the fetish phrase !). There are lots of agnostics
in this country."

True, in moderate England the atheists are all agnostic.
Mr. Lawton continued mildly to dilate on religious free-
dom. I was amazed ; he seemed so ready to allow people
i ve their own souls ; he seemed so devoid of rancour.
He was certain of nothing except that men should be free.
I did not, before I met him, understand that for the English
■veral ways of reaching heaven. And he
could discuss politics without excitement; he did not
interrupt me when I opposed him, he did not anticipate
my questions, or shout, or call anybody a traitor or a
hireling. Hugh and Edward Kent heard us, no doubt, hut
did not seem to want to thrust their views upon us; they
talked indolently now of the hotels of Vermala and Caux.

•• Have some more port, Cadoresse," said Mr. Lawton.

I m out another glassful, then returned

the deeaiiter to him.

., no — not that way — jpyc it to me, Cadoresse."

a shout. The three men had burst into

animated protests; they were almost excited. I looked

at them, dumbfounded, th< decanter in my hand. Hugh

1 1, while Kent, with outstretched hand,

Seemed taut with excitement. And there was a Hush
on Mr. La wt on's I

v>i that pray, nol Ilia' .id in a loud voice.

J5ut what had I done, what had I done? AH three

explained together, interrupted one another, offered

118 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

explanations, seemed ready to consult history books to
seek out the origin of the tradition.

44 The way of the sun, the way of the sun," said Mr.
Lawton ; cVgive it to Kent."

As we rose to go to the drawing-room I was still trying
to understand : politics, religion, these things could be
viewed temperately, but there might be a riot if the port
went from right to left instead of left to right. (I am
not yet quite sure which way it does go.) And these are
the sons of John Hampden !

We lingered in the hall, looked at the hunting pictures.
Kent asked Mr. Lawton where he had picked them up,
while Hugh offered to show him the two new ones he had
temporarily hung in the morning-room. I was impatient,
for I wanted to join the ladies. But we lingered again
on the stairs, and Hugh resumed his argument with Kent
as to the Swiss hotels. At last we sauntered into the
drawing-room, as if we were indifferent to the women.
The three men certainly seemed careless ; they smiled but
faintly as each one moved towards an empty seat, idly
sat down; it was cruelly significant that Muriel and
Louisa Kent should both have in their eyes a gleam of
interest for Kent and Hugh who so languidly came to
them. And it was, perhaps, their languor partnered me
for a while with Muriel, while Louisa succeeded in capturing
Hugh. Mr. Lawton had deliberately chosen Edith, and
soon I could hear Mrs. Lawton laugh at Kent's jokes?
Were they jokes? or was it some artificial quality?
I exclaimed as I sat down, for the seat was very low.

44 Did I leave a needle there? " Muriel asked.

44 Oh, no, but this chair is so low. But it's quite
comfortable, very soft."

44 Don't you have soft chairs in France? "

44 No, hardly ever. Fine straight chairs — Louis XV,
Louis XVI, Empire — you know wii.it I mean."

44 I don't," said Muriel. 44 I'm awfully ignorant." She
laughed again, and I had to admire her dark hair, her
white skin, her extraordinary triangular eyes. ".Tell me
what a French drawing-room is like."

THE HEART OF ENGLAND 119

I described our graveyard, Empire sideboard, garnet
footstools and all.

" It doesn't sound comfortable," said Muriel. " Don't
you like this better? " She nodded towards the chintz-
covered settee, now occupied by Kent and Mrs. Lawton.
I examined the detail of the room and found it singular.
With the exception of three mahogany chairs, Chippendale
I believe, there was not a piece of furniture into which
one could not sink. The settee looked like a swollen bed
red with pink-flowered chintz; Mr. Lawton half dis-
appeared in a similarly covered grandfather, while the
others lounged on padded tapestry. Under my feet I
could feel a thick carpet; I could guess that the green
velvet curtains were very soft. But I liked the room,
white walls, the water colours, the small gilt mirror
over the mantelpiece, the flowered cushions. I liked it
and 5 Iiy of it.

I said, " much better, but . . ."
it?"
" Hut ... a drawing-room, you know . . ."
" Oh, it's hardly a drawing-room ; we sit in it half the
day."

.Veil, that's it," I blurted out; " it doesn't feel official.
Now if you had white and gold walls . . ."

tad kept it neat?" said Muriel, and smiled rather
wickedly.

I found my eyes straying to a little stool on which was

a piece of unfinished fancy work, to the brass fender

ing papers had fallen in a pink and

i heap. Muriel followed the direction of my looks,

.'. herself back in her chair j her slim white shoulders

shook as she laughed.

" M aid in a loud voice. " Mr. Cadoresse

itidy. He lays we leave the papers about

ash on the Moor; he says "

M I " I eried in iuueh distress. " I assure you,

■
"I you didn't," Mr- Lawton interposed. " T

Muriel, and no more will you if you're wise."

120 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

I recovered my ground, apologised for nothing, quite
honestly reviled the French gilt chairs, our stiffness and
stuffiness. I warmed, I converted myself, I felt almost
sure that a drawing-room need not be a holy. I tried
not to be angry with Muriel, to remember that the English
chaff, and succeeded, for she was charming now, though
her eyes often roved towards Kent.

" I am bored with the theatre," said Kent ; " it's so
uniform. If only the frivolous plays were deep and the
serious plays were skittish I'd go and see one every night."

" Don't you think Mr. Kent very clever? " said Muriel.

" Very amusing," I said, observing that this was the
first personality I had heard that evening, and wondering
what it implied. " What does he do ? "

" He's a barrister. It's a pity. I'm sure he would have
preferred a fellowship at Cambridge."

I obtained a vague idea of the meaning of " fellow,"
gathered that Kent's capacities were mainly academic.
It was intolerable that this pretty girl should praise
another man to me. So I spoke of my own career, of my
course in economics, political finance, international law.

" How very clever of you," said Muriel, respectfully.

" You must have been a swat," said Hugh.

"A swat?"

" A mugger. A hard worker."

" I suppose so. I was seventh of my year." I pre-
tended to be modest, but I happened to know this
formula; I was very proud of the achievement.

" Good for you," said Kent ; " when I was at Harrow
I only wanted to be a blood."

" Out of two hundred and eighty-five," I added, without
even feigned modesty.

There was a short pause during which everybody
seemed to be looking at me. Then Hugh laughed a little
shrilly.

" Lord ! I was sent down."

" Hugh ! How can you ? "

Tli' chorus of protests through which I gathered

that Hugh had not been sent down, that he had come down

THE HEART .OF ENGLAND 121

with an adequate degree. I wondered why he should
belittle himself. I did not do so. While Muriel continued
to talk, of a play I think, I remember that a very distant
memory came to me, a memory of a handsome middle-
aged man who stood in a Bordeaux drawing-room in front
of a small black-clad boy, and told him that in England
people didn't know anything. He, too, had belittled
himself, and I threw side-glances at Mr. Lawton, the
open-minded advocate of popular rights, wondered why
he, too, hid his merits.

Muriel refused a cigarette from Kent, with an osten-

is " Not in public."
" Do you smoke in private ? " I asked.
M Rather. Then father hasn't got to know."
"But he does know? "
" Oh, of course, but he's not supposed to."
T<> know and not to know. Well, I suppose it made
life easier. Muriel vowed it did, pleaded for peace against
clarity. I was ready enough to be convinced.

;id, of course, I always have my whisky and soda
in bed."

I looked at her, shocked; I could not believe that she
:s, thai her lovely lips were soiled with spirits
and tobacco : but the inner Frenchman -in me spoke :
" Y- . II.: sh ladies all drink."

It was too late to call if back, My remark was retailed
all round, and at intervals 1 was made the butt of the
evejii d if I drank to my fiancie only with mine

by Muriel to drain a bumper of wassail with
tilery, told by Mrs. Lawton that she adored
methylated spirits.

d nul Buffer as mueli as usual. I was getting hard-
tnng to understand the English; I

H a black eye or anything
I

Mn: loWTJ ;it the piano, played some Henry VIII

ces, while Hi . I. nrton I >ld me what plays I ought

to s< ■ I disdain of the music, assured me

that "blast men scored, for they expected so little that

122 TPIE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

everything amused them." I talked to Hugh, exclusively
of myself and uninterrupted. It was getting late when, ,
at last, Edith was pushed to the piano by her father,
made in my honour to sing a French song.

It was the pretty little lay of a conscript's bride, tripping,
sentimental, where village rhymed with courage, amour
with retour. She was like a shepherdess of Dresden china.
Her blue eyes were misty and as she sang her neck swelled
towards me, a little as that of a slow-moving swan. I
looked at Muriel, at her slim shoulders, her strange eyes.

II

I walked home slowly along Oxford Terrace towards
Edgware Road. The dull light of the gas lamps was
reflected in the black varnish of the wet pavement. As
I walked, undisturbed, save when a cab splashed through
the puddles, I tried in vain to relate these people \o one
another, to analyse them and of their elements to make
a whole. They were all different, as half a dozen
French people would have been different, and yet had
that something common for which the French group
would have had a national equivalent.; Kent's bland
brilliance, Hugh's calm, the frankness and liberalism of
Lawton . . . discords, and yet over all, a concordance
of behaviour, manners, therefore morals. The men were
linked to the women, to the garrulous and discreet Mrs.
Lawton, to shy Edith, to g$y, audacious Muriel.

I thought most of the things I could not see, of their
reticences. Yes, that was the link : they all held back.

At the corner of a side street I stopped to let a four-
wheeler pass. The old driver, who looked in the night
like a bundle of rugs, pulled up in front of me.

"Got a light, mister? "

I handed him my matchbox, and as he lit his pipe,
observed :

" It has been raining, has it not? "3

" Mum," he grumbled, " yes. Not much in it for me.
Ain't a night for old ladies."

THE HEART OF ENGLAND 123

I made a polite sound. The old cabman puffed at his
pipe, declared that times weren't wfyat they had been,
wondered what they would be soon.

" I suppose you're going home," I said, as he did not
whip up.

" Shouldn't be hanging about if I wasn't. Been out
since ten this morning."

He paused. Then : " Well, mustn't keep the missus
wailing, or she'll have the poker ready for me." He
clucked, shook the reins, and as the old horse leisurely
strained at the harness, added humorously, " No, it
wouldn't do; mustn't let the turtle soup get cold."

He, too, was an Englisliman. But was he ? And as I
thought of the old cabman I felt less certain of his nation-
ality. Heat and cold, money, food, a wife, those were his
thoughts ; was there anything to show that his moral
outlook, his standard of art, his hopes for a future of
ease and peace, differed from those of any cabman who at
thai time sat on his box in Bordeaux, Naples or Berlin?
Those classes are all alike, can know nothing but the
primitive : they have no time; they must eat, love, die,
and that is a big business. Some may be gay and others
dour, some bait the bull in the plaza and others back cocks
for a WBger, but the varnish upon their souls is very thin.
And . the intellectuals, the artists, they are

linked by the fineness of mental tilings as the lower folk
arc linked by the material ; it is a Swinburne for a Baude-
Spinoza for a Descartes, a Dostoievsky for a
StendhaL They, too, are alike, think alike.

□ the highest and the lowest lies the nation.
The nation is made up of those who have leisure and
mon< h to think not too much of material things,

and yet no spirit to transcend these. The. nation lies
! he plebeian and the intellectual patrician. As
I walked away towards the Kdgware Road, where the
poor were making merry in as cheap and ron<rh a way
as they do in Belleville, I knew that behind me. in Lan-
castr- lifl tic- hrarl of Kngland,

g very regularly, very slowly and for all time. .

124 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

III

In the months that followed I found that the Lawtons
bred in ftfaud a feeling of disquiet. She took in them an
interest which she did not share with the other inhabi-
tants of the house, who, I soon discovered, viewed my new
intimacy with satisfaction. One evening Mrs. Hooper
stood at the foot of the stairs, watching me while I teased
my tie into a proper set in front of the hallstand mirror.

" You won't make too much noise when you come in,
will you ? " she said, confidentially, for familiarity had
grown a little between us.

"No," I promised; " besides, I shall not be late. I'm
going to Mrs. Lawton's."

" Ah ! ■* Mrs. Hooper paused ; curbed by her manners,
she repressed a question and released a comment. " I
like to see' a gentleman in evening clothes, Mr. Cadoresse."

^ Yes," I said ; " besides, one has to wear them."

" Of course, of course, when there's company. We're
quite homely here, but it's different at Mr. Lawton's."

I pondered for a moment on the curious sex-difference
which made me think of Lancaster Gate as " Mrs.
Lawton's," while Mrs. Hooper saw it as " Mr. Lawton's " ;
then :

" They always dress, I think, for I've been there when
they were alone."

" Quite right too. So shall we . . . when our ship
comes home?"

She smiled rather sadly and I thought of her and her
snobbish innocence, of the gradations, the people who
didn't wash before food, those who washed, those who
" changed," the great who " dressed." The Royal
Family on the iop — not that it had anything to do with
clothes, but whatever it was Mrs. Hooper classified, the
Royal Family somehow always came to the top.

" I used to think I'd like it too. when I first married,"
she said, reflectively; "but Mr. lloopcr thought in our
position it wouldn't look well. Of course," she hurriedly
remarked, " it's different for young gentlemen."

THE HEART OF ENGLAND 125

She threw me a glance of approval, rather a fond glance,'
which made me wonder whether Mrs. Hooper regrett'ed
that she had no son, whether she would have .exchanged
Lulu for me; yet she would not have parted with Maud,
the artist, the infant prodigy. Maud was the centre of
the house.

I had begun to understand Maud, her emptiness and
the nature of her charm; very reluctantly I was coming
to see that she would resist me to the end, not because
she had anything to protect, but because she had nothing
to give. Our conversations were seldom of love, infallible
that there was no love; we spoke (I by compulsion)
of the new musical comedy, of the new star on the halls,
of record railway runs, the cost of London buildings.
We also spoke a good deal of the Lawtons, or rather
Maud questioned me as to their habits. She had none
df the reserve I choose to think English.

" I 'spect they're pretty oofy ? Does she have a car-
? No footman? Well, I don't think much of
that, having to get out and ring the bell herself. How
much do you think they've got a year? "

" I don't know."

" What's the good of your being in the business if you
don't know ? Ten thousand ? "

" 1 shouldn't think so much."

"Hive, then?"

M I don't know."

" Well, there's not much in it unless it's five thousand,
it of the house?"

W .dking in the Park that Saturday afternoon,

and as I had just arrived from the City it was still before

Maud, intent on the Law ton rental, insisted on

calling on a house agent and pretending to want a house

in I. .II booked at us with suspicion, as

id not seem the sort of young couple likely to set

up there, but his book, being too old in his trade

\ly.

" I r 90a. Two hundred and fifty a year," he

said, gloomily.

126 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

Maud had the audacity to say that was just a little
too much. We left with an order to view a mere hundred
and forty pounder in Connaught Square. We said we
would lefriiim know. The estate agent smiled cheerlessly
and did not open the door for us ; he knew life.

The episode was vulgar, and a bitterness crept into my
reward,' which consisted in viewing the house in Con-
naught Square ; Maud viewed it magnificently.

" Why is there no electric light ? " she asked fiercely
of the haggard caretaker.

" 1 couldn't say, Miss. P'raps Marstons "

"Pooh! Marstons don't know anything. And that
panel's cracked."

Maud examined the whole house, scowling at the care-
taker, and, behind her back, grinning at me. At last I
entered into the joke. By Maud's instruction I loudly
addressed her as Lady Grace. The caretaker collapsed
completely; her earlier remarks were replaced by half
inaudible " Yes, your Ladyships " and " No, your Lady-
ships." ; *

"There aren't enough cupboards," said Maud; then,
angrily : " Where do you suppose the second housemaid
will keep the brooms ? "

The caretaker's attitude intimated that she didn't
know what a second housemaid was. Maud pranced and
fumed, asked me to remember Ascot, Hurlingham and
(a slip) the Tivoli; she abused the bedrooms, swore her
maid wouldn't stand the second floor back, declared that
her " husband " must have a bath fitted in his dressing-
room. While the caretaker shuffled to the basement to
fetch a candle, so that Maud could inspect the inside of
a hanging cupboard, we both laughed, and I loved her for
her gay insolence, her cheek, and I kissed her, still laughing,
while the old woman slowly climbed the stairs.

But not all our talks were enlivened by such pranks.
Often Maud commented bitterly on Lawtoniana.

M They're only a set of prigs. There they are, all over
starch and you'd think the butter wouldn't melt, talking
about Eton and the different kinds of port, and thinking
al! the time of us, Mother Tinman's little girls who'll

THE HEART OF ENGLAND 127

be at the Gaiety in another two years. I know the
sort."

Not far wrong as an impression. But could it be that
the Hugfa Lawtons of London nursed far-back thoughts
of the Mauds ?

" See 'em hanging about when we come out," Maud
summed up. " But I'm not taking any. No fear."

For Maud the "toffs " were a race apart, whom she
hated and admired because she knew that, in this land of
caste, she would not be accepted of them save by chance
of marriage. Though English, she understood them little
better than I did, for she knew nothing but their external
habits, the addresses of their tailors, the restaurants and
clubs they frequented, the location of their winter and
summer pleasures. She admired their good looks and
ct clothes, the easy, cold manners which she angrily
affected to despise.

" I'll be the Honourable Mrs. before I've done," she

confided to me one day ; " anybody could do it now that

y Bell has got the old earl."

Then she would recite the list of the latestprizes captured

by the privateers of the stage, and towards the stage her

talk would drift . Hers was a double instinct : she wanted

1 i"i i 1 >< < ■ausc she would like to have it to humiliate

Id associates, to rise, and she probably nursed a dim

equivalent of lex talionis. To marry a " toff " would be

When she said, "Ain't I good enough? "

poke with the voice of all the girls of her class whom

aristocrat yed on, and almost said, "An eye

for an eye, a tooth tor a tooth." I could not protest, for

: Id riot off : I eouKl only say :

darling, I love you," and she, " You can tell the

ire thai the Lawton girls made

up tl . and Bhe was darkly jealous of the adniira-

nad convicted me of feeling for Muriel and her

triangular ey

out," she said ; M triangular you call it, as

if a gl I'd have an eye like that. Shape of a d;,

il, anyhow, so you look out."
Then she would i ere protests that she

128 THE MAKING -'OF AN ENGLISHMAN

i

was much prettier, repulse my .advances, later woo me
back and, when successful, repulse me again. She feared
Muriel, for she had to confess she " sounded all right,"
but laid no stress on Edith. She knew the sort : been sent
to the cleaners too often, like Lulu, and got all the colour
washed out.

Maud annoyed me when she attacked the Lawton girls.
I was not in love with either, but they were apart from
Maud as fremi me, and when she sneeered at their " quite
the lardy " manners I felt like a devout Catholic who
sees an irreverent tourist try to enter a mosque with his
boots on.

IV

Maud had matter for her questions. As the months
passed and the English summer shyly- sidled into the
country, I went more often to the Lawtons, on Sunday
afternoons, on Mrs. Lawton's at-home day, not then
abolished by fashion, a little to the houses of their friends.
For I was still a curiosity and, as such, well received.

" One never knows what you'll say next," said Mrs.
Raleigh, the comfortable wife of Colonel Raleigh. " When
you begin to talk, Mr. Cadoresse, I'm always afraid that
it's going to be quite dreadful."

" Do you mind it's being dreadful ? " I asked, audaciously,
for I resisted Mrs. Raleigh no more than I resisted any
other woman. I must, loving them all, suggest to all
women that I love them. Audacity is the path to love.

" Well . . . no," said Mrs. Raleigh, " perhaps I don't.
It's refreshing to hear you talk of the latest society
divorce as if it were an everyday sort of affair, but you
oughtn't to."

"Why?" d

" qh, how can I tell you ? ... We don't do it. Of
course, we know these things happen, but "

" But you think they only happen in the papers? "

" You're too sharp for me, Mr. Cadoresse," said Mrs.
Raleigh, with a mock sigh. She leaned back in her chair,

THE HEART OF ENGLAND 129

smiling at me with her very good teeth; she was forty-
five, but her wavy brown hair, her fine skin and bright
blue eyes were still attractive. If only she had worn
proper stays ! But those Englishwomen are always
unconsciously insuring against temptation.

" Still," she added, " you oughtn't to talk like that.
It's silly of you to say we think those things only happen
in the papers. We know all about them, but we don't
think it necessary to discuss them ; there are lots of things
wc don't discuss "

" For instance ? "

" If you think you're going to entrap me into discussing
things with you by telling you which are the ones I won't
you're wrong, Mr. Cadoresse; I'm not to be
caught like that. No, there just are things we don't dis-
cuss publicly — we don't see why we should ; they're quite
unnecessary. Why should, we trouble about the un-
ant things ? They do none of us any good and they
do harm, while there are so many pleasant ones."

My conversations with Mrs. Raleigh generally ended
in this way. She was not narrow, she was almost racy
sometimes, but there were things she liked to have illusions
about. This led me to talk seriously to her, which generally
made her laugh and say, " Oh, of course, you're a French-
man, you can't understand." That phrase always
exasperated me. I didn't want to be a Frenchman, so
I tried to understand ; it was not easy, even with faith
to help me. On those occasions I generally lost my head
and shouted. If'Colonel Raleigh and Gladys were present
I ma ber ridiculous, for my careful pronuncia-

tion failed me. On one occasion Colonel Raleigh tactfully
inter 1 tried to change the subject by making me

talk of th her I si ill had friends

there, and in my excitement I managed i<> tell him that I
' t al Tours, in a regiment of dragons."
Leigh left the room, declaring that if he
art would . Raleigh and

lys apologised. 1 quite unnerved, and that

was the day I referr d to the ik tablecarpet." Tiny did

F

130 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

not chaff me mercilessly, and indeed Gladys, whose
precise, pale face and quiet manner had designed her for
a schoolmistress, promised to drill me in the mysteries
of the words which end in " ough." I think they liked
my absurdity, the occasional incongruity of my frock-
coats and brown boots, my unexpected accents and the
general strangeness of my point of view. And yet I did
not want to be strange ; I had done everything I could
to be an Englishman; I knew London well, had even
explored several suburbs; I had learned to like English
beer, to open the door for a lady, to say that Fiona (the
Lawton's Scotch terrier) "ought to be shown at Cruft's.
I had even- begged a morning to see the Boat Race, which
was very dull, and had taken part in Boat Race Night,
which was very mild.

I was an oddity, outside them. " You are not one of
us," said every lineament of Colonel Raleigh. I admired
the old soldier, knew the tale of the fort he had held near
Chitral, knew that he could not cheat at cards, or give
a woman away, or wear the wrong hat : but I could not
connect him with my own old colonel, who was fat, took
snuff, and whose amorous adventures were the talk of
our regiment. Colonel Raleigh was not very human,
or rather he was no longer human. He was an officer
and a gentleman.

There were others, too : Bessie Surtces, dark and
madonna-like, except when she was in Switzerland and
purposely fell into the snow when a curate or a school-
master were near enough to pick her up. And Dicky
Bell, tall, upright, bird-like, who was ashamed of his
grammar school, and Archie Neville, who dressed on
nothing a year. They whirled about me, all of them,
amiable, dignified, and well- washed, asking me general
questions . about French customs and tolerating the
answers, revealing themselves but slowly and reluctantly.
Chaos still reigned in my mind.

It was many months before I knew that Bessie Surtees
was trying to make me propose to her because this was
one of her habits, and that she had a brother in the army

THE HEART OF ENGLAND 131

for whose sake her father had mortgaged his life insurance.
They refused themselves, and even Dicky Bell, who talked,
gave me little more than a hint of severely regulated
affairs of the heart. They wanted to talk of theatres,
games, politics (a little), France, but not of themselves
and me.

And yet I loved them, because, in their own word,
they were " decent." I might inwardly rage and long
to ask questions, though I knew they would evade them,
but I knew that Bessie Surtees never told a lie, while
Dicky Bell spent half his evenings drilling boys at a settle-
ment for the fun of the thing. And Archie Neville, who
was not sure that twenty-five francs went to the pound,
was poor because he had shouldered a dead father's debts.
Simple and simply fine, they were hard to themselves,
these Romans.

These people made me think of their own houses, houses*,
of the Queen's Gate type. No man can live in those
houses unless he has five thousand a year, and yet no man
gilds his door, which he could well afford to do. They take
it coolly, all of them, and never talk about it. That
sort of thing gives one the measure of the English quality.

V

Into the midst of England fell, every week, a letter

from my mother, a letter she wrote every Friday and will

write every Friday until one of us dies.^ It was written

in the fine sloping hand the French call English and the

English Italian, with violet ink on cheap white paper.

lwavs filled foul I o more, no less, as if she

kept on those shelves which I like to put up in her brain,

rv marked " News for Lucicn," and every week

took out just enough notes to make up- my ration. Her

letters followed a Ian : 1. Hopes that my health

was good. 2. Her health and Jeanne's. 8. Hopes that

I was doing well in business, feOC and warnings

IKm, at k and loud clothes).

! my Saint's

132 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

day the four sections were reduced owing to pressure on
space, for congratulations were included. At Easter I
received a flaming heart, or chromolithographed angels.
On the anniversary of my father's death came the yearly
reference to him, a hope that all was well with his soul,
and this formula : "I shall go and lay flowers upon
his grave to-morrow. As this is the month of May, the
flowers are beautiful."

Dear mother, I know you bargain with the flower-seller
for those flowers, try to make her abate her price by
telling her that they are for the dead ; you loved my father
economically, but you loved him dutifully, for he was
your husband and could not do quite wrong, as you love
me cautiously, for I am your son and cannot do quite
right. Your letters are written in another planet, where
people do extraordinary things, where Jeanne goes up
for her Brevet Ele?ne?itaire, where the vine has bad years
and M. de Pouvonac stands as a Catholic Republican for
the Bordeaux Town Council. In those days you were
incredibly remote by the side of this English knowledge
I had so greedily been sucking in; I began to see you
and the things that surrounded you as toys with which
little foreign children played. For the English held me
by maintaining me in the middle of their whirlpool. Their
faces flash past me as I think of them, and I cannot
remember where I saw them, these people ; some of them
are dead, some gone, some merely older and friendly;
one of them will endure for ever, and for ever beautiful
and young. Among them is even the black face of a
dog. It is the face of Fiona, the Aberdeen whom I saw
for the first time as she sat on the mat outside the dining-
room door when 1 entered the house of the Law!
As I took off my coat she surveyed me with unemotional
calm, as befitted her staid portliness; she winked round
brown eyes at me from under her shaggy eyebrows; she
did not growl, or stand up; she moved so little as she
watched me that the dull sheen on her coat seemed
fixed. Fiona was Scotch, therefore more closely allied
to the true English than the soft people of the South.

THE HEART OF ENGLAND 133

She seldom hurried ; when she wanted a door opened she
scratched it with indomitable obstinacy; if she required
sugar she sat up and monotonously waved her front
paws. She never barked except for a purpose. She
never loved anybody nor hated anybody, but she could
show her liking by a small wriggle of her twisted tail.
Amiable, self-centred, resolute, limited, brave enough to
three cats together, Fiona was an English dog.
Other scenes and people too, dinner-parties, Sunday
afternoon calls, Saturdays at Ranelagh, the River, all
splotched with white, and pink, and blue, the Strangers'
Gallery, and restaurants and English taverns, the Horse
Guards, the meet of the Four-In-Hand Club, the inside
of the Stock Exchange (a dangerous expedition), the ritual
fish lunch at Simpson's — these things rise up and all
blur together into chaotic early impressions of slow,
steady men, youths with all the purpose of their lives
in their strong arms and legs, and girls with lily-petal
skins. I love them; I like to think of them because they
can live without care for age or fate, because for them
life is so like cricket that an ugly deed is " not cricket."
Cricket ! I was bent on being English and mastered
the rules of the game; I grew so enthusiastic that I ran
out of the oflice on certain afternoons to buy a paper
and see what was the state of the score at Lord's. I
watched football matches, sagely preferred Rugby to
Association (at the beginning; later I thought more of
soccer than rugger). I found with melancholy that I
!d to take up the game, was by Muriel tactfully
directed towards tennis.

Oik tennis-party, a very early one, I remember best.

and the Ral longed to a club near

Souj they p! atatiously on

They rejoiced in the sin until a little guilt

<1 as a guest, I figure

myself, lookir • rkin my white garments, collarless*.

unfortn! in blue silk. Partnered by Muriel,

I pj od Glad igh, rather badly. I

think ii and I were a study in contrasts, for he seemed

134 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

slow, almost lazy, struck swift and very low balls towards
the bottom of the court, while I leapt into the air, struck
wildly and savagely, aiming straight at Hugh's feet or
at Gladys's left. I am sure I would have fouled if one
could foul at tennis, for I wanted to win, to extract
admiration from the little crowd, Colonel and Mrs. Raleigh,
Eorth, Mrs. Lawton, who seemed amused by the per-
formance. With them was a girl I have never seen again,
a Miss Fox-Kerr.

But the game was going against us. Having led off
by winning my service and Gladys's we began to lose
ground, were beaten four times in succession. Muriel
ran in vain, begging me at times not to hit all the balls
into the neighbours' court. I recovered a little, made a
few lucky shots, looking every time towards the spectators
to see whether I was watched. I felt angry because the
relaxed look on Miss Fox-Kerr's long face told me that
her attention was fleeting. But she was watching me all
the same, for she smiled, said something to Edith which
made her giggle. My wounded pride translated itself
into wilder hitting, while Hugh's long arm worked like a
machine. At last came the crucial ball of the last game,
a swift return from Hugh. ... I heard a cry of " Back I "
from Muriel. ... I struck, heard the sharp " splack "
of the baft against the net ribbon. I also heard a con-
temptuous " Pff " come from Miss Fox-Kerr, saw her
lips purse up. I said nothing in reply to the cry of " Game
and," for my soul was full of hatred, I could not trust
myself to speak in presence of this girl. I have learned
to be a sportsman now, to take my beatings and my chaff,
to win without strutting, but I think I hate her still, this
dim girl, before whom I was a fool, who knew I was a
fool and did not conceal it. She is in my little museum,
by the side of Chaverac who saw me exposed as a coward.

And alf goes fleeting : Edith, who in those days appeared
only three or four times a year when the Brussels finislnng
school made holiday; Muriel, with whom I had a timid
flirtation, who good-humouredly accepted innocent kisses
when Edward Kent's superior fascination palled on her.

THE HEART OF ENGLAND 135

Maud even, that continual irritant, is less vivid, for her
attractiveness wore a little thin as I grew accustomed to
the exasperation her presence and her inaccessibility-
provoked in me. Besides, a new feeling was born in me,
a curious feeling towards women which had no roots in
my Latin temperament. Very slowly I had ceased to.
look upon women as toys; England was beginning my
sentimental education. I had been prepared for my
evolution by Barkers lecture on good women and bad, by
his analogous but less strict division of men into good
and bad. He had not shaken me at the moment, but he
had sown in my mind the seed of a new flower called
purity, which blooms more readily under the pale English
sky than in our own fierce sun. He did not influence my
conduct, but he made it possible for my conduct to
change ; I was ready to modify my standards, then,
when Hugh suddenly opened to me.

We sometimes, in search of exercise, walked westwards
from Fen church Street to Marble Arch, an incongruous
and not unfriendly couple. I liked Hugh, and though we
never had much to say to each other when we had ex-
hausted skysigns, the play, and the contents of the evening
r, it pleased me to walk with this handsome figure.
evening, as we jostled through the press in Cheapside,
1 broke off in a sentence to exchange smiles with a young
furl as sli us; I even turned to look back at her :

it was harmless, even from the English point of view,
for nil I wanted was to gratify my own vanity, to see
he, too, looked back. But, after this, I had for
some minutes the conversation to myself; Hugh did not
say a word until we reached Holborn, when he suddenly
<1 my comments on The Chinese Honeymoon*

44 Look heie, C aid, haltingly; "you

know, you oughtn't to do that."

44 Do* what !

rls in the street. I wish you wouldn't."
'I threw him a quick | The admonition had

disphascd me, but il ontenoe had surpi

and moved me a little, for Hugh had never before con-

136 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

nectcd himself with me, and now he was trying to express
personal interest, to drag himself out of his unemotional
Enstfishness.

"Why?" I asked, gently.

" It's jiot done. But it's not that only," he added,
hurriedly, as if dimly aware that this reason was not
enough ; " it's not what a decent sort of chap does. You
see, that kind of thing's rather cheap ; if you get snubbed
you feel very small, and if you don't, well, you ought to."

" But how is one to know people one wants to if one
can't get introduced ? "

" Oh, you know I don't mean that," said Hugh, rather
acidly. " Those aren't the people you might get intro-
duced to; I don't set up for a saint, but a man's got to
keep away as much as he can from that sort of thing.
He wants to forget all about it, keep his head clear for
the things that matter. He can't be big unless he's
straight."

" Galahad," I said, ironically.

M Who's Galahad ? "

" A man in a book." Hugh was Galahad sans le
savoir, then. " Never mind, go on."

44 Oh, I'm not going in for pi -jaw, but believe me,
Cadoresse, I'm right and you're wrong, even if you are
cleverer than mc."

I protested, though I did think myself cleverer than
this fine fellow, whose clear blue eyes seldom held the
animation of an idea. But he did not pursue this side
issue, for he apparently knew that he was not very clever
and accepted the fact without demur, while he was bent
on reforming me.

44 That sort of thing," he began again after some minutes
of silence, during whicli I waited anxiously for what he
would say; 44it's all right for . . . well, ail sorts of people
. . . the fellows at the office. . . . They do that sort of
thing on the pier at Hastings ... by the bandstand,
all that. But somehow a fellow like you can't. Of
course, I know you're French and it makes a difference,
but you're in England and you've got to choose . . ."

THE HEART OF ENGLAND 137

We walked along Oxford Street and I said very little
wliile he floundered, trying to say what he thought,
drawing back because he was afraid of preaching,* and
sometimes quite unable to express himself because he so
seldom did express an idea. But his lecture came down to

THE CREED OF A PUBLIC SCHOOL BOY

4i I believe in the gentlemen of England. I believe
that I must shave every morning and every morning
take a bath, have my clothes made to order, in
such wise that no man shall look at them twice. I
believe in the Church, the Army, the Navy, the Law,
and faithfully hold it to be my duty to maintain
myself in my caste if Fate has called me to a walk
in life other than these. I believe that I must
have a decent club. I believe that I must not
drink to excess, nor be a teetotaller. I believe in
my father's politics. I believe that I must not tell
lies, nor cheat at cards, nor apply the letter of the
law in games. I believe that I must perjure myself
to save a woman's reputation, even if she has none,
respect all women, except those who are not respect-
able, for they are outlawed ; I believe that I must

!d my passions in check, feci shame when they
me and yield only in secret, because I am a
gentleman of England. And, above all, that which
I believe I must never tell."

It moved me very much to hear Hugh telling, violating

for my sake the canons of his reserve, compelling himself

terfere, because it m straight thing," "the

handsome thing." When he had done I was silent for

g time, so long that we did not exchange a word until

M Arch, where our roads diverged. Then

h suddenly spoke again :

"• You know ... I don't want you to think . . . well,

I of thiir '1 believe it if

yon tti 1" . . . p i ni wrong. I can't be

• right, only I've always taken all that for

-

138 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

granted ... so I don't want you to feel . . . hurt . . .
or anything . . ."

I shook hands with him, hard.

" That's all right, Lawton ; I understand. It's very
good of you ; I feel ..."

" Good-night, good-night," he said, hurriedly, and
walked away from me.

He could not bear my thanks, for they made him see
that he had " given himself away " ; he disliked the idea
of preaching, disliked the half-apology his heart had
dictated, disliked my quick, over-emotional response.
He walked away, very fast, as if he were escaping from
some menace. Perhaps he was afraid that I was going
to kiss him outside the Tube Station. Unaccountably,
much of his spirit entered into me ; the samurai began in
my heart to struggle with the voluptuary; I saw more
grace, less seduction, I saw grounds for respect, and self-
respect, decencies, 7knightlinesses, all kinds of lofty but
appealing fetishes. The samurai did not triumph, and
has not yet triumphed, perhaps, but he fought hard for
the dignity of my soul; he was often beaten, on those
nights when I paced my little room, avoiding the sickening
sight of " In the Garden of Eden " and " The Jubilee
Procession," on others when a sudden gentleness came
over Maud and she was all allure.

But I tried, for you can be a Frenchman and just be
a Frenchman, a German, and that is enough ; but what's
the good of being an Englishman unless you can be an
English gentleman too ?

PART II

CHAPTER I ,

E D I T il LA\fTON

Suddenly I became aware of Edith., I had been in
England just two years. Across the dissolving view of
my impressions she had flitted from time to time, a fair,
gracious tittle figure. Flitted ! Hardly; while bolder
actors held the stage she had stood in the wings, watching
the play, shyly peeping from behind the scenery, showing
in the shadow her pale golden head, her tender blue eyes.
And if ever I looked at the figure it blushed, soon with-
draw, as a dryad might shrink away from the gaze of a
sat yr.

I had seen her only during the short holidays of the

an school, at that first dinner, then again at the tennis

., some afternoons at her mother's house, not ten

in all. She had never math red; she had been

, like the white walls and tin- flowered cushions

of the drawing-room; she had talked to me a little more

readily after the tennis-party, tor site had resented the

inptuous " Pff " with which tyiss Fox-Kerr branded

me. I knew this, for we had exchanged a few words

ernoon.

■' I lay badly/1 I loomily watching

mortified and
hunched-up in in; the colours of which I was not

led to use,
M 5Ton d y badly." said Edith; " you only want

practice."

130

140 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

" No doubt," I replied. I was curt, for that was not the
remark I wanted.

44 You play quite as well as Miss Fox-Kerr, anyhow."

I threw Edith a side-glance. Why had she picked out
the girl who had insulted me ? But Edith's reply to my
next sentence made her attitude clear.

" She does not seem to think so," I suggested.

There was a pause. Then Edith said, inconsequently :
" I think it's rather a shame." I made no comment, but
I understood her; I looked at the slim white fingers that
grasped the racket, thought I "should like to kiss them, to
kiss them not so much because I wanted to kiss them, as
because such a gesture would express my gratitude. But
one does not in public kiss the hands of shy English girls ;
I said nothing, because I should have said something
emotional, and I knew already this was not done. Bufe*^
when Edith returned to Brussels, and whenever she came
back, I did not forget. Now and then, when I sat in my
room alone, Hecate sent me a graceful empusa. The
ghost always said the same thing : " It's rather a shame."

I must not exaggerate : I did not so very often think
of Edith while she was at school, for the claims of new
common things, of England, of my business, of Maud, of
others, of Muriel, tended to fill my mind. My relation to
Muriel was peculiar, for the girl did not set out to fascinate
me, being more drawn towards Edward Kent and, in his
absence, to others amongst whom I did not greatly count.
Yet she was friendly, and, while treating me as a friend,
treated me as a man : that is, as a creature susceptible of
becoming a lover. She did not admit me as a lover, but
she did not consider it impossible I might become one,
for she was light enough and, so far, untouched enough
by love to make no emphatic distinctions between men.
Ours was a comradeship, an amittt amoureuse.

"Hello! what's to-day's tie? Valenciennes? Poirt
d'Alencon ? "

44 It isn't lace," I said, roughly.

41 It looks rather like it. Now Mr. Cadoressc, if I were
you I'd go in for Irish; it's more solid, more manly."

EDITH LAWTON 141

" You know quite well I never wore a lace tie. A little

insertion "

44 I'll be fair. It isn't lace to-day. It's more like the
Mediterranean."

11 Do you want me to wear black? "
k" X". of course not." Muriel grew serious, ceased to
chaff me. "Don't be obstinate; go to any place you
like in Jermyn Street and ask them to sell you the tie
they've sold most of during the past month, and you'll be
all right."

It was Muriel, in her kindliness, anglicised my clothes
as soon as she became friendly enough to criticise me to
my face. She also gravely taught me the things to do.

" You've got to be smart," she said. "A man's got
no right not to be smart. It's the only way he has of
looking pretty. Now he mustn't look like a mute, and
he mustn't overdo it. You did overdo it with that suit

of yours, the teddy-bear, Hugh called it "

'" Well, I saw it in the window," I said, flushing.
44 If a suit is exposed for sale, the buyer is exposed to
ridict

44 I will bet that sentence is one of Kent's."
" What if it is? " Muriel threw me a rather spiteful
glance, then relented, not displeased by my suggestion
Kent condescended to be brilliant for her sake.
44 It's true. Now listen, Mr. Cadoresse. . . ."

I owe a great deal of my education to Muriel; she was

fundamentally dashing; she classed people by their

unes and places of residence. In her own words,

1 no use for people whose fare to the City was

ice Mj the did pise these people : she

DOied t hem. It was Muriel explained to me that

»urt wasn't right; bui that the Welcome Club

l> oo1 to go to the seaside on Sunday League

hilling for tea in Bond

dthout, thai I bad better pave no club than

join one v, bich had no waiting I

14 And d v off," she said. 44 It isn't done. You

tell people how well yon did «>i or what a

142 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

lady-killer you arc, or that you can pull twenty miles
without feeling it."

" Well, I can," I said, sulkily, as I thought of a wonderful
Sunday with Maud between Hampton Court and Staines.

" There you go again. Don't say it."

" I suppose you think I'm a bounder."

" If I did, I wouldn't say so. I wouldn't talk to
you."

I unbent. I even took her hand, told her she was very
sweet to me, tried to kiss her; she resisted me at first,
but soon surrendered, with a serene indifference which
ought to have told me .she valued me no more than the
others. Like most English girls Muriel did not care vety
much whether one man or another made advances to her ;
if she invited his attentions it was to satisfy her vanity.
She liked me, was amused by my Frenchness, the un-
certain temper she so often had to soothe; she found an
obscure maternal pleasure in training me. She was not
in love with me, and I could not fall in love with her
because I knew she did not care.

Thus my heart was free when Edith returned for good.
This was in October. I had not seen her for six montlis,
for the Lawtons had settled at Ostend in August, and she
suddenly struck me as new. She was eighteen and had
grown a good deal ; this I judged early, for I did not know
I would find her as I entered the drawing-room on a
Sunday afternoon, when the air was still warm and
glowing. She stood at the open window, and had evi-
dently not heard the maid announce mc, for she had one
hand upon the window bolt and was looking out towards
the Gardens. As I came in and stood watching her,
Fiona turned, came towards me, faintly wagging her tail,
stopped a yard away and, lying on her back, gazed at me
with unebullient friendliness. I could see Edith's profile,
the pale gold of her h;iir, now " up " and dressed in soft
coils, the low forehead, the small, straight nose, the little
pink mouth with the serious air. Upon the boll. Kay her
slender, white hand; as she stooped I observed, detached
as if I looked at a statue, the* long curves of her arms and

EDITH XAWTON 143

shoulders, the noble straight line of her back. Upon the
carpet Fiona lay and rubbed herself, grunting a little with
content ; very lightly her tail went " swish, swish '*
•across the pile.

>th turned round, saw me. But she did not blush
bright as I expected ; a faint flush, no more, rose to her
ks. She smiled, came towards me, her hand frankly
outstretched.

" How do you do, Mr. Cadoresse ? I didn't hear you
come in."

" How do you do ? "

I released her hand, which I had held just that fraction

of time which expresses significant instead of emotional

salutation. She did not seem disturbed, sat down on the

e, indicated a chair with a movement so gracious

that it chilled me a little, until I realised, which I did

within a lew minutes, that Edith the child had become a

woman. She was a woman, though but eighteen, having

forced towards maturity by association with the

bolder Belgian and German girls. She was conscious

■ d self-conscious,

M What were you looking at? " I asked, as I bent down

a behind the ear.

■ 1 don't know. The motors, and the people in the

Gardens. They're sitting down, some of them, as if it

midsummer.*1

"As if it v. ed upon me. How those English

glish ! But I resisted the impulse to correct and

:

M I boo," I said, "like looking at people. They're all
so difiVn :

" ^ ! Edith, softly, "they're all different. All

mething different, wanting something different,"

I Watched h< r. This interest of hers in people, it w;is

t . Edith was not prici
as Maud would I which Muriel

could not help doing. T: a gentle reflective

in hex preoccupation.

" S tin y have lives ? " I suggested ; " that

144 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

they're not ready-made goods produced by the hundred
million?"

"Of course." She laughed. "I like to think they
have wonderful lives, arid some of them dreadful lives — "
She paused abruptly. " Oh, well, it's none of my busi-
ness. Mother '11 be down in a minute."

I think she had broken the spell with intent, for she
seemed embarrassed, hurried. You too, Edith, you were
afraid in that first minute of " giving yourself away."
Or instinct watched over you.

Mrs. Lawton dicf not come down for some time, as I
was an early caller and she was not ready. So I went on
talking to Edith and scratching Fiona's ear. Edith had
become a little aloof after she had expressed a little more
of her soul than she intended, and now I did most of the
talking; at times she interjected a leading question.

" I suppose you had a good time this summer ? "
' As it happened I had been to Pontaillac, where my
mother had taken a small Villa for the season. I described
Pontaillac, the haunts of the Bordeaux smart set, the
little woods, the vine-clad hills.

" And you see the Gironde," I said. " It's lighter than
the sea ; it looks grey, while the sea is green. Across the
estuary you can see the cliffs, and it is so hot that some-
times there is a mirage and another line of cliffs seems to
sit upside down on the top of the rea^ones."

" How lovely ! " said Edith, without excitement. She
induced me to talk of the open cafes, the petits chex-aur,
which had not in those days been superseded by la boule ;
of the extraordinary clothes, notably the red trousers the
Bordelais like to wear at the seaside. She said it
rather like Ostend, asked whether I did not think all
seaside places were alike.

" Hardly," I said. " There's nothing like the English
. nothing so dull. Worthing, for instance." Then
I plunged, looked her straight in the eyes and said, " I've
, to Worthing, on a Sunday League trip."

" How jolly ! " said Edith. And her smile meant that
she thought it jolly.

EDITH LAWTON 145

It amused and pleased me that she did not snub me as
Muriel had done when I mentioned this inexpensive
pleasure.

The keynotes of this and of other conversations I had
with Edith were always the same : frankness and fresh-
ness, mixed with sudden reserves. She was the young
girl, who is modest and bold, not la jeune frile, who is
curious and furtive. She was afraid of the. things she did
not understand, and became shy and silent whenever I
spoke of anything that verged on the " naughty," as the
English say. Naughty ! you have to be English to be
" naughty "; if you are French and " naughty " you are
bad.

II

I talked a good deal with Edith during the next few

months. Ours was a paradoxic relation : absolute but

limited frankness; that is to say, the things we could

discuss we discussed without reserves, while we ignored

I hers. She frequently fell to my share, for Hugh was

being more and more closely hemmed in by Louisa Kent

and watched by Bessie Surtees, while Muriel, who was

not jealous, was quite equal to enjoying simultaneously

Dicky Bell and Neville or any men she could

ich from Gladys Raleigh. Muriel made no piratical

efforts : she was an Autolycus — she gathered rather than

stole. So very often I found that I talked to Edith for

an hour at a time, and there was about her a fragrance of

h which slowly began to charm me. I did not love

but I ft 1 i pleasure in h< r society, a gentle,

pleasure As We talked I found myself

nt ally as w< 11 as physically, realising

and hn r toy-like daintiness. But I suspected

that under the toy-like exterior was some strength, not

that noble strength ol action which is ^ven to so few

women, but the strength of uncomplaining endurance.

She almost I xprrssrd it oner when I asked her whether
i not bore her to drive in t he Park with Mrs. Lawton's
mother.

146 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

" Well," she said, " it's not very amusing; she's funny,
she's always losing her spectacles, or her handkerchief.
Or she wants to stop and look at the children feeding the
ducks, or playing. She made me get out yesterday and
tackle five dirty li^le boys who were picnicking "

" Picnicking ! "^1 cried; "in December."

" Yes. Small boys will do that sort of thing. They
had a sham camp fire and a sentry to watch for the park-
keeper — anyhow, Grannie made me ask them all their
names and whether they were Hurons or Iroquois, which,
of course, they didn't know, and give them a penny each
to buy rifles. We had quite a little crowd before I had
done. I felt "

" Silly ? " I suggested out of mere mischief.

" Of course I felt silly," said Edith, with sweet severity.
" One does hate to be looked at. Still, she likes it, and
what does it matter? "

I gave vent to a little Nietzscheanism. '

" Well, perhaps you're right, but one has to bear a few
things in life, hasn't one? " Edith looked at me with so
soft an expression in her blue eyes that I wanted to agree
with her, but as I did not reply she went on : " It wouldn't
be good for one, would it, to do everything one liked ? "

" It would be very pleasant."

" Yes, I suppose it would be nice. But if one always
did what one liked one would become so selfish, one
wouldn't remember how to do anything for anybody.
Perhaps it isn't good for one to be too happy."

" Puritan," I said.

" I wonder whether I am ? " Edith looked reflectively
at her slim hands. " I don't think so, though; I like to
enjoy myself, only I want other people to enjoy themselves
too."

Edith was not telling the truth : at heart she dis-
trusted pleasure; she loved it, but she was never sure
that it was not sinful. Ten generations of Protestant
ancestors had given her an attitude almost incompre-
hensible to a Roman Catholic, that is a Pagan, such as I.
But the gentle severity of it. her rectitude and sim-

EDITH LAWTON 147

plicity, appealed to me as the pretty Quaker maidens have
ever appealed to the most hardened adventurers. And I
was far from being hardened; I had loved often and
lightly, but seldom grossly ; that is, I had always managed
to introduce into the most commonplace adventures a
strain of romantic idealism.

I wondered, after this conversation, whether Edith
were more capable of idealism than of enthusiasm. I
was not sure, for it is not often a human creature can feel
intensely in one way only; I ought to have known her
better, to have understood hdw fettered and canalised
is the English faculty for romance. I ought to have
guessed that' Edith sometimes thought of love and
marriage, if never of love alone; that she had visions of
a very respectful lover, very strong and very gentle, very
brave, very generous, upright, God-fearing, and reason-
ably addicted to the virile habits of tobacco, oaths and
drink. A sort of Launcelot, this, not Hugh's Galahad;
a Launcelot with a commission in the Guards.

It is true that Edith did not help me much. She was
all implications; she never revealed herself, never tore
body off to show me her soul. But that is not the
way of the soulful. Besides, I had not often the oppor-
tunities I needed to cross-examine hery to drive her by
syllogism and inference into positions which would compel
bet to conf< bs; though we talked long we seldom talked
alone : rival coin intruded upon ours or throat-

; to do so, so that I could not produce the atmosphere
in w I and women tell one another the things that

malt iotisly enough, in those days I never won-

I whether ti anything to be drawn from

b ; already, no doubt, I suspected thai Edith must
be as other an extraordinary field where grew

Bowers oi imp* ision, desire and r : I must have

suspected that sfa n things t <ly,

Done th< l(lv because- dumbly. Edith,

ii< in nay thoughts, for I still put-
id with the hopeless obstinacy a man can ex-
hibit only if lie li\e in the same house as the one he

148 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

favours. I had then as a somewhat cynical motto that
there were many good fish in the sea, and I would have
forgotten Maud when another woman crossed my path
if I had not seen her every day. She had not altered much.
On the night of my arrival, when she granted me that
bold but deceptive kiss, she had been young for seventeen.
Two years later she was young for nineeten. Her training
was finished : she never would have had any training if
the Hoopers had not faintly hoped that by wasting time
they could gain time, prevent her from going on the stage
and safely marry her off. They would gladly have
married her off to me.

" Yes, she's getting a big girl now," Mrs. Hooper said,
ruminati vely ; "she oughtn't to be on the shelf long.
Not," she added with compunction, " that I want to lose
my little Maudie, though — " (proudly) " — with all her
education — ■'well, well, I suppose it'll always be the same ;
young gentlemen are already paying her attentions;
there's Mr. Saunders, he's doing well in the Estate office.
And Mr. Colley — though a dancing master, Mr. Cadoresse
—well ■"

"Exactly," I said, my masculine pride being exasperated
by any idea of rivals.

" Yes, that's just what I think. Still — of course, it's
not like Lulu."

Mrs. Hooper sighed, for Lulu at seventeen had fulfilled
the promise of being plain which she made at fifteen.
She had maintained her one characteristic of reading
penny novels, and acquired no others. I think I saw
Lulu the other day (she must be twenty-five now); she
was stouter and wore good, dowdy clothes : some paper-
backs were sticking out of her muff.

" You've never thought of getting married, Mr.
Cadoresse ? "

I parried, alleged youth and lack of moix y.

" Oh, well," said Mrs. Hooper, encoui. : M young

people can't expeet to begin where their parents left
off."

Mrs. Hooper began to enlarge once more on her

EDITH LAWTON 149

daughter's accomplishments, her dancing, her singing.
" Comes in so handy in society," she said. Evidently
she thought that the teaching of Mother Tinman could be
made into a refined asset, that in da}'s to come Maud
would, thanks to Mother Tinman, shine in, say, Kensal
Green circles. Perhaps charity concerts — or graciously
political socials.

Maud was franker.
• " Oh, I let the old dear talk. I know what I'm after.
You don't think I swallowed old Bella Billion neat and
her tooraloo and keeping the limelight on your pearlies.
I wasn't going to start up as a third line girl on a quid a
week and work up to the first and wait ten years for a
line : Np ! I'll start up in the flies, old dear, give you my
solemn ! "

She had changed, I suppose, though she seemed young
for nineteen. The vernacular of the stage had gained
on the cockney. But she remained hard, invincible,
ready to play me off against Saunders or Mr. Colley.
Their cause advanced no more than mine.

" Of course ma sits dreaming (dreams of love and

ms of you) — every time she thinks she's spotted a

winner. Why, the old dear can't say rice, or slipper,

without making a goo-goo sort of eye at me — you know,

you my cheeild,' sort of eye. But I'm not

taking any, I can tell You. Don't say I wouldn't look

at a Duke if there's one going cheap, or even an Earl, but

ked a wrong 'un if she thinks I'm going to warm

| >j>( i s for him or prance round with the grocer

for the s.'ikc of the Signor."

1 laughed, for Maud had gauged "Signor" Colley's

. but tin- subtle quality of "spotting a winner"

g un' " tended to show that Saunders, the

h adway. I was not indifferent,

'1 I chafed, for the brown eyes had never been so

bright . the small pointed h rm and cool, but I had

. dared not be called sulky, as Maud

applied sulkiness in return and always beal me at the

game. If I did oof allow myself to be wooed back after

150 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

having been practically insulted she sometimes refused
to speak to me for several days.

" Such a spirited girl," said Mrs". Hooper, fondly.

When this happened I fell back on Mr. Hooper, who
had completely failed to educate me in the tenets of
Conservatism, though he had taken me to his club, in a
back street off the Harrow Road, to be properly grounded
by his fellow members and occasional speakers from the
headquarters of Unionist, naval and military societies.
I had no precise politics in those days, I had nothing but
an unappeasable thirst for information which made me
read, in the Tube, at lunch and in the intervals of work,
indigestible chunks of oratory, emasculated Liberal
ideas in the Tory papers, and garbled Conservatism in the
Radical press. For two years I had every day been
reading the paper, skipping sports, murders and law
reports; I had abandoned foreign affairs, for was I not
going to be an Englishman? Tariff Reform and Free
Trade pamphlets, booklets on the land question, licensing,
the iniquities and virtues of the House of Lords, the
rights of Chinamen, all this jostled in my head, slowly
ordering itself, mixed with the history politicians use,
tags about Magna Charta, Cromwell, Burke, Phoenix
Park, Gladstone and the paper duty, Disraeli and prim-
roses. I suppose I knew as much about politics as the
ordinary man, perhaps more, for I wanted to know, while
he merely had to. But Mr. Hooper failed to move me,
no doubt because the Lawtons were Liberals ; if Lawton,
Hugh and their women had been repellent to me I should
have been a Tory Democrat, which is the rough equivalent
of the FrenVch Radical I was. But the Lawtons were the
great English and conkl do no wrong.

I did not, however, despise the Conservatives, for they
too were English and could not be quite wrong. Thus
Mr. Hooper retained hopes of saving my political soul.
Sometimes, at the club, he spoke. I can see him, a thin,
bald little figure, with a melancholy blue eye. He stands
upon the low platform, holding tight the lapels of his
frock- coat :

EDITH LAWTON 151

14 — The Free Traders are always saying — er — that the
tariff would raise prices. Now, gentlemen, I don't think
anybody can say what will happen — er — under — under
the new system. Of course they might, the prices I' mean
— but then if we were getting more for our work it wouldn't
matter. Of course, there are all sorts of ways, like Layshell
Mobil "

Then Mr. Hooper would throw back his mind to Five
Thousand Facts and Fancies, or some other book of the
kind, and expound L'fichelle Mobile, that cunning re-
ciprocal scale of prices and duties, becoming eloquent an<J
secure as soon as he abandoned ideas for the firm ground of
fact. But at last he would tail off again into references
to " Joe " (for whom there was a large cheer and a faint
Unionist Free Trade hiss), beg the audience to give the
tariff a fair trial. A fair trial ! that is what impressed
me in the dingy little club, which had as a president an
undertaker and as members some fifty shopkeepers,
workmen and clerks. Even here, in a dusty back room,
which always smelled of pipes, the tendency was to
nine the new idea suspiciously and yet to try it. I
r heard anybody talk wildly of high protection, or
call the Opposition leader a liar, a traitor or a hireling in
Germany's pay. Tin- members seldom interrupted : if
did the undertaker stroked his grey whiskers and
said M Gentlemen ! " with an air of shocked mournfulness,
: 1 , which at once restored peace. They
they believed in the decencies of
debate. Perhaps they were too sane. Often I longed
to jump up, and though I was nominally a Liberal, roar :
M Down with the little Englanders ! " I wanted to wake
the little elul) up, but 1 felt dimly that it would not wake
up. The chib I her awake nor asleep, it was sleep-r

walking. If I had Bhouted I should not have been thrown
interrupter ought to be thrown; the

OUld have Said : " (Questions will he allowed
later." Still.it was good to think that tempers could be
so well k( pt — if tie

152 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

III

But my political days were only dawning. They were
near, but Edith was nearer, and as I turned away from
the glare of Maud's footlights I began to see the soft
glimmer of Edith. One startling fact stood out : I had
not kissed Edith under the mistletoe. I was a guest at
the dignified Christmas dinner, on which followed a dim
rowdiness of games ; I had dragged Muriel, Bessie Surtces
and laughing Gladys Raleigh under the iconoclastic berry
and publicly kissed them; I had seen Edith kissed by
almost every one of the men, from the collected Edward
Kent to the self-doubting Neville. But I had not kissed
her ; I could have done so and, for one moment, I wanted
to ; then I hesitated and knew that I was not lost. Some
unexplained impulse prevented me from treating in
sportive wise the Dresden Shepherdess, something tremu-
lous that made my heart beat. I was not in love with
her, I told myself, but I could not bear to think that I
would have to wrench her slim shoulders round and force
upon her a caress which she would not permit if the
idiotic licence of Christmas did not compel her to do so.

It was a long time before I knew that I wanted Edith's
lips consenting, and not conventional.

But soon accident was to intervene and to drive us
further towards intimacy. I had not seen Edith for a
fortnight when, one Saturday afternoon, as I walked down
Bond Street, where on that day I liked to shopgaze
though most of the showcases were sealed by iron shutters
or holland blinds, I saw her slowly coming up the hill.
I knew her at once, by her long measured stride, the
rigidity of her carriage and the un-English steadiness of
her arms.

Almost tall in her tight blue coat and skirt. Her little
feet shone in patent leather. Upon the high, boned,
neck of her plain white blouse, the (lower of her winter-
stung face, crowned with a small blue velvet hat, round
which circled a light blue feather. Gently she came
with downcast eyes, easy, slow-moving and slim, like a

EDITH LAWTON 153

fi>l ling-smack under little sail. She saw me, stopped,
and as she smiled I mumbled of the fineness of the day,
for I was stirred by the surprise of the meeting. I,
Cadoresse, man of the world, hero of thirty affairs of the
heart, stood almost abashed because a Dresden Shep-
herdess was prettily smiling. She said she had been lunch-
ing with two girls who had that morning been examined
at Burlington House, and now she was going home. I
detained her, talked quickly and idly, of Hugh, the big
poulterer opposite, Fiona, anything that came to me, so
that I might think how to prolong a meeting which Edith
lly but firmly trying to cut short.
Then an idea struck me.

" Look here," I said ; " I suppose you are in no hurry.
Have you seen the Claude Moncts? "
" No — you mean the painter? "

" Yes, Monet, the impressionist. They are showing
him just there." I indicated with a nod a gallery over
the way. " You must come. He's wonderful."

" I'd love to, but "

" The show will be closed in three days," I lied ; " now

have nothing to do, have you ? "

'.<>, but — " Edith paused. Evidently she wanted

<me, and evidently she was afraid. But it would not

do, I knew, to let her see that I knew. I grew fervid,

onal value, the dullness of Saturday; then

inspired to say :

. I want to go myself, and I hate going alone."

" Very w< 11, then," said Edith, moved by this argu-

in the cause of human charity she followed me

b th< road, and I glowed with my victory, for was I

inganew >n : ta king one of the house

n to a public spectacle? This was not like the

ling, amu-in-arm si roll, with Maud, for we

b other, dignified, careful that our

elbon i -h. It was a cold companionship,

ii.it of a king and queen who sit on a common

throne, but 01 but, after all, we were only

iit y.

154 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

It was a small show, the series of twelve (or is it
twenty?) rustic bridges spanning the reed -grown rivulet.
I have forgotten the details, remember only the atmo-
sphere of the pictures, for all represent an absolutely
similar subject, and all differ in lighting and weather.
Their colour, though, I remember well, their faintnesi
and suggestion of transience and the baldness of that
suggestion : for in those days, when Post-Impressionists
had not yet slain Sisley, when Futurism was swathed in
the veils of the future, the Impressionists were still im-
pressive. We stoppepl in front of the third. There the
bridge stood in the grey morning, a black shadow on a
sky which, a few minutes earlier, had been as black.
The reeds hung dejected and damp in the whitish mist
that rose from the river.

44 What do you think of it ? " I asked.

Edith did not reply for a moment, then said : " It
looks very cold, doesn't it ? "

" Yes, but do you like it ? "

" Yes, I suppose I do, because it makes me feel cold —
melancholy."

I listened with a mixed feeling. This was not exactly
stereotyped art criticism, which of course interested me,
but it was, I thought, too subjective.

" But don't you think it beautiful ? "

44 1 don't know. Yes. It is pretty."^-

" I think it beautiful," I repeated, emphasising the
adjective. 44 Why, look at the light, so pale and so
watery. I've seen it like that, very early, when I was
mounting guard on the fortifications."

44 You mean when you were on sentry-go," Edith
corrected. 44 Of course, I've never been up so early, but
that doesn't matter, does it ? If it makes me feel it must
be like that ? "

44 1 suspect, Miss Lawton," I said, after another re-
flective pause, 4t that you know a good deal about
pictur

44 Oh, no, no, I don't," cried Edith, with an air of distress.
44 When we were at Brussels they took us to the Wiertz

EDITH LAWTON 155

now and then, but I don't really know anything. I
really don't. Only, I want to feel something."

wrangled amicably over the next two. I had an
expert air, I liked to use the words " background," " fore-
ground," " masses ; " I liked to hear myself say " tclair-
age." Suddenly I saw myself as I was and said (to myself):
" Prig." Edith, I felt, was the truer apprcciator of us two,
for she wanted to feel, not to judge. She did not measure
pictures by a standard of quality, as do the men who
cannot understand them ; while they have for them a set
of units, equivalents of pints and yards, such women as
Edith, who know nothing and understand everything,
have a standard of emotion.

" That one," she said ; " it's lovely."

" Yes," I replied. " It looks as if it were painted with
crushed opals and with the powder of those mauve
pebbles, like old, dull glass, that you find on the sea-

r
ith said nothing, and I went on criticising the picture,
enthusiastically, for it held all the flush of a wet dawn.
I was literary, a little artificial, but at the bottom of the
artifice was some truth, and I wondered whether Edith
lacked artifice because no admiration was in her to in-
it. I doubted her < suddenly, she

" Muri< I just like that."

WP< chape b the picture," I spitefully

suggested.

"j(»ii, do, Muriel wouldn't come here." Edith gave a
frank laugh and, as I joined in, my chilled feeling pc

<• in the domain of the very little
th'n h matter so much. Accomplices.

at she artistic?"
11 No, I shouldn't say so. Her dressmaker's rather

smaker is your si Ivation."

Edith 1' the next picture a:, she spoke the two

curt wor< turned away from me a very little,

156 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

a significant couple of inches, and a slight rigidity had
come into the set of her shoulders. I felt I had said the
wrong thing. I still had to learn what family loyalty
means, but at that moment I began to realise dimly that
Edith could have said " Muriel is a beast," while, if I
had said " Muriel is a beast," Edith would have replied :
" How dare you speak of My sister like that ? " Con-
scious of the snub, I talked more briskly, compelled her to
stop in front of the other studies, delicate phantasies in
blue, and others, full of twilight, where the leaf was heavy
and green. Little by little Edith seemed to forgive ; she
answered me, and, at last, when we stood before the last
picture, we were once more side by side.

" That's the best," she said, decisively. " I like all that
colour; it's sunshine. It's pretty — " Then, her eyes
twinkled as she added : " Beautiful, as you say."

" It is beautiful," I said, aggressively. " But why don't
you say ' beautiful ' ? "

" I don't know — it seems "

"What?"

44 Well, you know — exaggerated. We say things are
pretty, or lovely "

44 Or nice ? "

" Yes — nice — I mean, at school we used to say ' nice '
a lot, but they say I mustn't now. Like 4 horrid.' "

44 But do they say you mustn't say 4 beautiful ' ? "

44 One mustn't exaggerate," said Edith, with an air of
gentle obstinacy. And further than that I could not
draw her.

Apparently " beautiful," save when it was used by a
long-haired pianist, was the word of a gushing schoolgirl
which womanly Edith ought not to be. I was inclined
to pursue the subject, to get to the bottom of this modesty
of Edith's ears.

44 I know what you mean," I said; 44 it was like that at
my school. If anybody tried to recite poetry properly
everybody laughed at him."

44 One mustn't show off. Still — I don't mean one
ought not to recite properly."

EDITH LAWTON 157

" But not like an actor ? "

M No, of course not. That would be showing off."

" But do good actors show off ? No, of course not.
Then oughtn't one to recite Shakespeare like an actor ? "

" There's something between," said Edith.

I knew what she meant, something between Kean and
a gabbling child, something moderate, English. And J
therefore felt that she was right. We were still standing
in front of the sunlit picture ; there were only four people
in the gallery just then : another young couple, who
whispered in a corner, so near the picture that they cer-
tainly could not see it, an old gentleman who pains-
takingly looked at each study through a handglass held
in front of his spectacles, and a quick, angular woman
with a notebook. SJie was too busy to notice us ; a
journalist probably, making notes for an article. We were
not looking at the picture, but covertly at each other.

" Yes," I said, reflectively, " that did bother me at
school. But, of course, you remember better; you
:'t left it so long ago."

• No," said Edith. " I liked it, you know,"- She

began speaking of the Belgian school, some girls, Caroline

de Wocsten, a certain Henrictte, who recurred. " We

I to see the Prince, riding in the Avenue Louise, in

t .orning."

M Did*ou smile at him? "

" Of c< did, all of us, he was so handsome.

< line bought a picture postcard of him and hid it in
did get into trouble when Madame Bcaujour
d it, with a poem on the back. It began :

ice Albert je vous adoro,
la vio et pour la mort. . ."

W i 1 :. d 1 : Sdith looked almost

melai though hex head, thrown back, showed a

white tli elled with laughter, as she thought

Id tini( s ! not so very old.

Th< \ weren'1 good verse, were they? But then
s only a I \teen now."

158 THE MAKING GF AN ENGLISHMAN

" Well," I said, " you're not much older."

"I'm eighteen," said Edith, very staid. " And what
about you ? "

I paused before I replied, for the question pleased and
surprised me. " Not quite twenty-five."

" I suppose that does feel old," said Edith.

We were silent for some moments. Then we heard
the chimes of St. George's Church. A quarter past four.

" I must go," said Edith, hurriedly.

" Yes," I said, " but not yet. It is time to go and have
tea."

" Oh, no, I couldn't— I really couldn't."

" Well, you might ask me to go back to Lancaster Gate
to have it."

" You can if you like. Do come."

" But do you know if anybody else will be at home ? "

" No, I don't think so. Still " '

"Well, then, you may as well come with me to the
Carlton."

" Oh, no, no ; not the Carlton."

Edith seemed frightened, as I expected, and I watched
the success of my ruse, for I guessed that, by giving her
the shock of the Carlton, I could make any other place
appear innocent.

" No," I said, smilingly machiavellian ; "we'll go to Mrs.
Robertson's. Come along."

I think I took her elbow for a moment to urge her on,
and at once released it so as not to frighten her. She was
blushing a little and did not speak much as we went
through Mrs. Robertson's passage and up the stairs, but
^he seemed unnaturally self-possessed when she sat down,
so self-possessed that I realised she was nervous. I could
see her, as I ordered tea, look quickly to the right and left
in case some one should know her. But the week-end
calm already hung pver the dignified tea-shop, which has
now followed many Victorian dignities into the grave;
there was nothing to disturb her, for one couple had so
arranged their seats as to turn their backs upon us, while
the family up from the country seemed too busy with

EDITH LAWTON . 159

topics of its own to trouble about its. A tall, melancholic
voung man, who was evidently waiting" for somebody,
broke the tedium of his watch over the door by frequent,
if discreet glances at Edith, but on the whole we were
unobserved; besides, I made some business of ordering
the tea, complications of toasted scones and their degree
of toasting, so as to give Edith time to settle thoroughly
into the faintly compromising slough. And then, as we
rather silently drank our tea, I looked at her, established
in the large chintz-covered armchair.

She sat up very straight. The blue hat and the pale
golden hair stood out against a green curtain. The moon
of her face looked like a delicate rose, soft by the side of
those vivid roses which sprawled over the chintz. Her
open coat showed her plain white blouse, revealed by the
slimness of her that the child had not long been expelled
and the woman installed. One ungloved hand lay upon
the table, and the rosy finger-tips played idly with the
lace edge of the teacloth. She looked up, and suddenly
was mischievous :

" I shan't be able to tell anybody I came here, you

•v."

"Of course not," I said, smoothly; "though I don't
know wh;

" You do know why, Mr. Cadoresse," she said, and I
vere. " You of all people, a Frenchman.
rich girls don't even go out alone."

1 the French system, was all for
Edith did not differ from me; she, too, thought
it silly that girls should be watched.

: it then, perhaps the French know what they're
ed. "They may be right and we

liberalism charmed mc, and I repressed the desire

to teH her thai she had not faced the question, that

:i girls could not be allowed En
liberties, lacking English innocence. We spoke guardedly
of chaperonage, of marriage in France, and Edith showed
some indignation when I told her that my sister Jeanne

160 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

had but poor chances because her dot was only fifty
thousand francs.

44 Two thousand pounds,'/ she said. " It seems a lot —
but don't you think it dreadful ? One doesn't want to
marry for money."

I agreed, though in my heart I differed. I did not state
the case for the French marriage, the restf ulness of it,
its ease and secureness. I did not want to oppose Edith,
to shock her, annoy or frighten her; she was with me so
simple and so frank that I did not want to lay hard hands
upon her dreams. And, thanking my star for so much
good fortune, I did not try to detain her when she rose
to go. We parted at Bond Street Station.

" Good-bye," she said, as we shook hands ; " thank you
for a very pleasant afternoon." My spirit rebelled
against the conventional phrase, but again came the
mischief : "I don't know what I shall say at home if
they're back."

I still had in mine the hard-impressed illusion of her
firm, gloved hand. And in my mind was the conscious-
ness that we shared a secret, she and I. A guilty one.
I carried with me the feeling that I had had an adventure
by the side of which coarse realities did not seem real, for
visions are sometimes keener than concrete things; a
dream may be more vivid than a material object which the
eye can overlook. t She had been so simple, had confided
in me as readily as her reserve would let her; she had
become a significant figure in my life. She was imprinted
upon my brain no longer as the younger Miss Lawton,
but as Edith.

In her home she was not the .same ; she did not avoid
me, but she did not deliver herself into my hands ; she
was, like Muriel, my good comrade. As I grew familiar
with the house and its tenants I accepted this comradeship
so foreign to my nature. Before three years had passed
I was then so angUcised that I was able to look upon
women less as women than as human beings. My thoughts
no longer leapt so quickly to their pretty faces; I found
in their society the mixed and purely English feeling

EDITH LAWTON 161

-
which makes of girls and boys gathered together a large
family. I could still admire Muriel, her challenging eyes,
and Louisa Kent's rosy skin ; I meant what I said when I
told Bessie Surtees she looked like an Italian Madonna,
but an element had been obscured in my imagination;
I was less disturbed, less preoccupied by these young
women than I would have been in earlier days. I came
to England ready to pursue even a Lulu Hooper, to accept
her ridiculous taste for novelettes, unable to look upon
any woman, young or old, beautiful or ugly, without keen
consciousness of her womanhood. But now some strange
scales had grown upon my eyes, for I could chaff and bear
chaff from the graceful and the fair without being pro-
voked by conflict ; I could let Muriel re-tie my black bow
into a more modish shape without leaning forward to
breathe the suavity of her dark hair.

They were comrades, all of them. It was comrade
Muriel pushing past me into the drawing-room, butting
me with her shoulder as she passed and telling* me good-
humouredly to get out of the way; and comrade Gladys
(though precise) fearlessly touching my hand as she helped
me to set up a ping-pong net ; it was comrade Bessie with
the deep eyes, comrade Edith too. There were no
roughnesses of contact between us, for I feared to touch
her, just as if she actually were a Dresden Shepherdess,
so much that, at a Cinderella, she had to beg* me not to
hold her as if she were a meringue. ' There was comrade-
ship even between me and Maud, when there was not
sulkiness or fierce allure, an incomprehensible capacity
for wrangling, contradicting each other, for throwing
small objects at each other under the meek, protesting
;>er.
I he English fog getting into my blood?

I carried with me no disquiet as I went to my work,
which I did well enough, inspired by the comparatively
speedy rise of my salary to a hundred and sixty a year.
I was still foreign correspondent, but I was now framing
my letters and submitting them to Mr. Lawton instead
of merely taking his instructions. I enjoyed a hearing

162 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

when I had something to say. Merton and Tyler no
longer presumed to chaff me, and sometimes I lunched
with Barker in the chop-houses I affected because they
had bills of fare and not menus. It was in the chop-
houses, and especially in the Meccas and Caros where I
drank my necessary coffee, that Barker criticised my
criticisms of England.

" You silly old josser," served him usually as a begin-
ning. " You don't know what you're talking 'about.
You're always gassing about our .being cold and never
letting ourselves go ; one might think you never read the
police news, or that you'd never seen anybody tight.
You should come down our way, you should; I'd show
you something when they turn 'em out of the pubs.
They come out like a lot o' sheep, laughing and singing
like — jackasses, and kissing and going on anyhow; there's
always a fight going on round the corner, all about
nothing, only to let off steam, which you say we haven't
got. And if you like to come on a bit further I'll show
you Clapham Common about eleven; that'll open your
eye, Froggy; you haven't got a monopoly of that sort
of thing in gay Paree. Now I'll tell you something.
One night I was walking home across the Common -"

Handsome, gay Englishmen like Barker always end
by telling one stories in which they have figured as
frightful dogs. The stories are too disgusting to be true.
Englishmen so much' dislike bragging that they can brag
only of the things they have not done. I put up par-
ticular instances of English coldness.

" Well, what about it? " Barker commented. " What
do you want old Purkis to Do? Want him to run round
shrugging his shoulders and singing Mon Dew ? . And
what about it if he does work in the garden ? "

I tried to put into words the immense contempt I felt
for gardens, for this sordid growing of smutty flowers;
it was difficult to express, for I did not know how to say
without seeming a prig that men should keep their brains
busier than their muscles. The innocent priggishness
of the early days was smothered in self-consciousness.

EDITH LAWTON 163

44 Dunno what you're driving at," said Barker at last.
"I like a bit of a garden; / indulge in geoponics," he
added, playfully. " You talk of old Purkis ! Why, his
place at Penge "

44 Sydenham," I suggested.

"Bit of swank, Sydenham. It's Penge, I tell you;
but what was I talking about? Oh, yes, old Purkis's
garden. You should see it in the summer time, it's lovely."

44 But oh, in the winter time, in the winter time," I
quoted from Maud.

44 Never you mind the winter time. In the summer
it's all over honeysuckle, and sweet peas and crimson
ramblers. Why, he's got a pergola . . ."

Barker talked on inexhaustibly of gardens and garden-
ing, for which he had early acquired a taste by working
in his landlady's flower-beds. When 44 Mrs. Right came
along"- he was not found unready. He bought a dog
and began to satiate, on a space ten yards by twenty, his
English passion for the land. Barker was the raisonneur
of the English play; he explained old Purkis, his crabbed
of his garden; he mitigated Farr by representing
him as a decent man, fond also of his garden, sound in his
ics and proud of his son. He had a broad tolerance
for the futile 44 sprees " of Merton and Tyler, their shilling
poplin ties and their shock-socks.

lk Dunno what you want," was his continual grumble.
h£ would expound the creed of the plain man living
beyond the four-mile radius :

THE CREED OF A MIDDLE-CLASS MAN

44 I believe in the suburbs of London. I believe
they are enough for me. I believe that I must shave
nd take a bath every morning, unless
I have overslept myself, Wear dark suits as is seemly
in the City. I believe in drawing-rooms for the use
of calL rs, semi-d< t ached villas, nasturtiums in season
and with aristocratic, if distant relatives. I

believe that public-school bo rsitymen (who

must not be called Varsity men), and commissioned

164 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

officers are snobs. I believe that the West End is a
gilded haunt of vice. I believe in sober worship
once a week, regular payments to the clergy. I
believe in temperance, saving an occasional bust, a
spree, a night on the tiles (when the wife is in the
country), but even 'then ^1 believe I mustn't go too
far. I believe in a bit of fun with a lady now and
r then, being a dog and all that, so long as there's no
harm in it. I believe that I am a gentleman and
must be genteel, not too toney though, for it must
not be said that I swank. And I believe enough to
be saved with. I believe that my wife loves me and
that I must reward her by insuring my life ; ' I believe
that my sons should be clerks and that my daughters
should wait until clerks marry them. I believe that,
when I die, the neighbours must approve of my
funereal pageant. I believe tfiat I must be honest,
that I must not swear in mixed company, that I must
visit the upper classes whom I despise. I balieve
that I am the backbone of England. I am a middle-
class man."

Barker loved to expound his creed. It seemed ridi-
culous that this well-groomed young fellow with the
delicate mouth and the fine grey eyes should be a Puritan,
but the blood of the Covenanters still flows through the
English veins : that is really blood, not water. Still,
there were impulses in him upon which I played; he
liked to hear me brag of and unveH my conquests, invent
adventures for his benefit* this exercise filled him with
subtle, sinful delight.

" Shut up," he would say at last. But Barker's
41 shut up " meant very little more than a woman's
" don't"

Sometimes, not often, I talked. to him of the Lawtons,
for whom, as represented by Mr. Law ion, Hugh and
shadowy " young ladies," he harboured mixed feelings :
envy, admiration and hatred. A sort of mental sandwich.
But I never spoke of Edith.

EDITH LAWTON 165

IV

For Edith was stealing upon me, gently, softly, as the
dawn steals up into the wet English skies, so subtle that
one hardly knows it has come until one realises suddenly
that the sun has risen. She came a little nearer when
Hugh's engagement leaked out, for love is contagious
among the young. If this engagement of Hugh's were
love, of course, for I say advisedly that it leaked out;
it was not proclaimed by an interested family, nor did
it burst forth outrageously and irresistibly like a water-
spout from the sea. Murie^told me, between an appre-
ciation of the art of George Alexander and her plans for
r on the South Coast. When I ventured to ask
•when Hugh wouldfcmarry Louisa Kent, Muriel said :
" I don't know. Year or two."

Evidently nobody had made any plans; those two
had not been affianced, they had " got engaged." The
Lawtons did not seem much more moved than if Hugh
kad contracted the measles : measles and engagements
gave a little trouble in the house, but in due course, as
mild have been cured by lying in bed, the-
nt would be remedied by marriage. I did not
li much more emotional.
" I hear I aril to congratulate you," I said.
"Thanks, awfully." lie paused, then added, shame-
• Don't let it out at the office."
1 could promise a discretion which seemed
king of his father's chances at Ham-
bury, whieli I Liberal interest. As
Liked, I « ! her he eared for Louisa, when
and where he had proposed to her. \\r had alwa\

r< (1 wi! n Bhe was in Hie house.

eli ; lie must, be, for Mrs.

t's house in Thurloe Plat I comfort, not

wealth. 1 priced nee at a hundred

t flrn — what was this love,

■ n? I should

have expected from Hugh some splenetic fits, some

166 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

attitudes of devotion, some rages. But no. If a post-
man knocked at the door when I Was there, Hugh did
not start up. He was attentive to Louisa, but he seemed
equally attentive to Gladys Raleigh or to any other girl.
And Louisa? A shade more triumphant, perhaps; she
was a trifle more proprietorial in her attitudes, more
secure in her " I say, Hugh " than she had been in her
" What do you think, Mr. Lawton ? " I wondered
whether she had proposed to him. As I looked at the
steady brown eyes, the firm-set rosy lips, I grew almost
sure that she had not felt the cost of the first step.

I soon had an opportunity of finding out. For now
Edith was beginning to haunt me. Her picture did not
obtrude itself upon me, as did sometimes the dashing
figure of Maud ; I did not walk with an ache in my heart,
but I was disturbed by " something " that was about
me, a vague, enveloping atmosphere, like an undefinable
scent I might, have brought with me in my clothes and
suddenly perceived when the wind blew towards me,
then forgotten, then noticed again. The Dresden Shep-
herdess did not follow me, but I could never be sure that,
when I looked up from my desk, rested my pen, I would
not see her slim figure before me. I might, at immense
pains, be explaining to a French merchant that the
bottomry bond he held on the brig Augustine-ThSrese was
irrecoverable, the unfortunate ship having gone down
with all hands off Vigo, when the slim figure would appear.
I would lean back, look unseeing at the grey frontages
of Fenchurch Street, evoke her, dressed in light blue or
faint pink . . . with little knots of roses frilling the skirt
... a palely pink face, tender blue eyes, smooth hair
of very old, worn silvergilt. I would try to dispel the
vision, mutter fiercely " bottomry . . . bottomry . . .
nous regrettons. . . ." But my thoughts would wander.
I found myself saying, writing, " barratry " instead of
" bottomry," thinking of her gentle presence, until it
so insisted that I surrendered, gave myself up to an
undefinable day-dream. Little Dresden Shepherdess,
your hands hung idly by your sides, long and lax as sprays

EDITH LAWTON 167

of fern, and when you smiled the bud of your mouth
bloomed so sweetly as to be sad. Your eyes were like
the mist in melancholy, when the sun is about to pierce
it in merriment.

My heart did not compel me to seek her, but I wanted
to find her, and soon it was not enough to speak to her
while Louisa played. Bach to soothe her ridiculous brother
and the indifferent Hugh, or while Muriel threw spells
over Bell or Archie Neville ; I wanted Edith alone, to speak
to her of herself. I surprised myself in a big Oxford
t shop, at six, throwing quick glances at every fair
girl — on the chance; I began to walk home along the
water Road, which meant a quarter of an hour's
delay — on the chance, but I never met her. I grew
exasperated ; I began to be angrily conscious that my office
hours, ten to five-thirty, cut me off from the possibilities
of intercourse. At last Edith precipitated the crisis ; in
reply to a question she said :

11, I don't think women as good as men."
"Why? "I asked.

" I'll tell you some other time," she said. And I could
drive her no further, for Muriel, Hugh and Louisa came
to claim me, to make me play bridge, a new accomplish-
ment of mine. When I was dummy I looked at Edith :
d upon a large cushion she looked up at her father,
i her in low tones. Her blue eyes were full
of sv I decided to make an opportunity

'me closer to h< sr, to haunt the neighbourhood until
Id force my society iipon her.

• a familiar of Lancaster Gate and the

Bayswatcr Road, on weekdays between half-past six

and t unlay afternoons, at odd times on

Sundays. Waiting lH>red me, but racked my nerves, for

I to be O it !hc corner of the street

ild be seen by other members of the household ;

I saw Hugh or Mr. Lawton come home, or

i stop at the door and disgorge Mrs. Lawton

with Edith, but her mother or her

t accompanied her. I became naturalised to the

168 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

district, knew the mews, the public-house; I expected
the postman, the boys who deliver the late editions of
the papers ; the servants of other families seemed like old
friends, and one housemaid began to look forward to my
appearance, to smile up from the basement with an in-
viting air. ' And if the policeman had not often been
changed I should certainly have been cautioned against
loitering with intent to steal. I was ready for him,
however, with a confession and half-a-crown. I had
hardened, and though I hardly knew what I wanted, I
was determined to have it if I had to wait for weeks.

I did not have to watch for more than ten days. I
knew I should not have to, for Easter had come ; thus I
could watch for two and a half days, during which Edith
would certainly come out alone, for the family had not
left for the South Coast ; Muriel, had gone on a visit in
the country, while Hugh and his father went out early
to goljL Edith would riot always be with her mother.
I was not wrong. At ten o'clock on Easter Monday the
familiar door opened and Fiona came bounding down
the steps, leaping at sparrows and barking as the sharp
air sizzled through her coat. Behind her came Edith;
she paused on the step, and I could feel my heart beating.
The presence of Fiona meant that her mistress intended
to walk in the Park; I felt exultant, as a poacher who,
approaching his trap, hears an animal rattle it. She turned
to the right ; I followed cautiously, allowed her to cross
into the Gardens, which she did slowly, for she carried
Fiona across the road by the scruff of her neck. I ran
a hundred yards westwards, entered the Gardens by the
little gate, doubled back. For one deadening moment
I thought I had lost her. Then, suddenly, I saw her,
coming towards me, who sauntered on as coolly as I
could.

" Hullo, Fiona," I said, bending down to the little
beast, who snuffed my trousers and burrowed at my hand
with her wet nose. Then, successfully affecting sur-
prise : " Good morning, Miss Lawton."

" Oh, good morning. Isn't it fine ? "

EDITH LAWTON 169

" Very. And so cold ! I don't appreciate it as much
as Fiona does."

"Oh, she's Scotch; she likes it."

I talked of the habits of Aberdeens, and, having turned
by degrees until I faced westwards, moved step by step,
drawing Edith on. By imperceptible gradations we began
to walk side by side, slowly, then quickly, as if we had
set out together. Edith, realising her entanglement,
but finding nothing to urge against it, was embarrassed
and rather silent.

" Tell me," I said suddenly, " what did you mean the
other night, when you said that men were better than
women ? "

" Oh, I hardly know," she reflected. " It's so difficult
to find words. I feel somehow that we're so small, so
busy doing nothing, that it's men who are making the
roads in India, and .fighting, and inventing things, and
writing books, while we ... we sit at home and wait."
A slight weariness was in her young voice.

44 That does not make them better," I said.

" Oh, yes, it does. They're doing things."

44 Working in offices, ten to five-thirty."

44 WeD, even that. I couldn't. Father wouldn't
have me as a typist, would he? I'd make too many
takes."

We laughed together, and I wanted to say that it would

it In t white fingers with copying

ink, but I knew better than to pay compliments, even

I understood her attitude; it was

achieveni' nl admi]

I with life ? " 1 asked, bluntly.

"What funny questions you ask! No, noi exactly

boxed, 1 ;i ' to do; I skate and read a lot,

and ut. Still . . ."

"Still? "

44 Wf\ good of it .-,11?"

14 1 Uitabfc in youth,'1 I said, rather senten-

tious! v. u \\ hat do y< to do? "

44 I don't know. Something different from what I do."

170 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

" Fall in love ? " I said suddenly. I had not planned
that remark.

Edith flushed, called Fiona, who came to us, bright-
brown-eyed, quivering with excitement as she guessed
that her mistress was going to throw a stone. The stone
was thrown into the rough grass, and Fiona went search-
ing ; as she nuzzled among the crisp blades her tail wagged
rhythmically, upright, as if translating all the excitement
of her little black body. I watched Edith covertly, for
the loss of the stone had defeated her object. The flush
was not yet dead on her cheeks.

" What else is there to do but fall in love ? " I said.

"I don't know. Well, I suppose I shall get married
some day."

" Married 1 " I cried. " But that's not love."

Edith began to laugh, at her ease again now that I
seemed absurd.

" Of course it is. Oh, you are odd, you Frenchmen ;
you have such complicated ideas. We fall in love here
and we get married, and there you are."

" And there you are ! " I said, a little bitterly. " Yes,
and there we are in France. Of course, I don't' say one
shouldn't get married, but marriage is only — well, regis-
tration of a fact. While love "

I think that for several minutes I spoke of love, and I
spoke of it as never before ; the old, gross shell had fallen
away, and I seemed to know love as the angels «iay know
it. I painted for her love so fine that the lover could
hardly bear it ; I said it was not good unless it was for-
bidden; that it was shy, mysterious, secret, that it (led
if grasped too hard.

" It comes . . . like a shadow, and it lies across your
path . . . and if you obscure the sun it is gone. . . .
You do not know that it is there, until it is, and if you
have seen it once you never forget it. Love is the only
thing that matters : we make money to gain the one we
love, we want fame so that she may be proud, and we are
pure so that she may have peace."

" Peace," said Edith, softly.

EDITH LAWTON 171

44 Love is not the bird that rides in the storm — I do
not know its name — the bird that flies over the waves.
It is more like the beautiful peacock in the garden
that struts and flaunts its tail. It does not lose its feathers
if they are real and not placed upon a jay. It is the only
thing that lasts and makes things last. . . . For you may
have everything, and yet you have nothing if you have
no one to whom to giw ■."

" One docs want to give," said Edith. " I always feel
with my mother ..."

But I would not be turned, I let my speech blaze into
rhetoric, I said of love things I do not believe, but they
seemed true in that quiet avenue, as the wind hissed in
hare branches. We walked slowly, she silent and I
stirred. The people that passed were not people, but
shapes ; young couples and old couples, and family parties,
a few soldiers with their girls, they went by as unobtru-
sively as the scenery round the revolving stage at Drury
. As if by common accord we stopped near the
Dutch garden, where a shower of almond blossom had
fallen into the grass amon^fhe crocuses.

The crocuses stood erect, white, yellow and purple,

jangled wreaths of iridescent tears. I bent down,

ae of the fallen almond blossoms, gave them

to Edith. She looked at the soft, almost fleshy flowers

as they nestled in her grey-gloved hand. I was not to

hem again for many long years, and then they were

dry, crumpled, as if they had been crushed, and I thought

;i faint scent of suede glove. Silently

walked towards Kensington, then to the Achilles

hen Edith tried bravely to talk of some friends

staying at the Hyde Park Hotel. Hut

her v rambling, her sentences disconnected, as

We had nod spoken of ourselves,

•i of immortal filings, and we could not

• nsciousness of the

unspoken, which perhaps we could not have expressed,

stood rating and linking us, a little ironic

olution never to ide. And, strangely

172 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

enough, there ran through my embarrassed ravishment
a strain of anger; I called myself a sentimental fool,
told myself that I had been inflated, rhetorical ; I threw
glances at Edith, who did not raise her eyes, and hated
her because she made me idealistic, romantic, because
she made me slough gross tastes, gross desires, filled me
with a religious worship for abstract loveliness. Ah, if
it had been her loveliness, it would have been different :
but her influence upon me was not to draw me to her;
she inflamed me for what she represented rather than
for what she was.

And then I wondered whether I had been clumsy,
frightened her by the sudden violence of my impersonal
romanticism. I tried to talk, and as we walked towards
Marble Arch we almost succeeded in discussing whether
Mayfair were not stuffy.

" All those mews . . ." said Edith.

" Yes," I said, " mews . . . everywhere."

We had nothing else to say, for we dared not talk of
the only thing we could talk of. We separately patted
Fiona, disturbing her in Her* favourite occupation of
snuffing the soil, we looked at watches, we commented
on the cold. But I think neither of us was unhappy when,
on reaching Marble Arch, we parted. The phrase I had
in my mind would not come.

" Good-bye," said Edith. She raised to mine blue
eyes in which was no anger, but a shyness new to me.
And in my own, I think there was shyness too.

That night in my room I looked at " In the Garden
of Eden," clerk and typist in the Park. I tried to scoff
at myself, but my sense of humour failed me.

I spoke the phrase a month later, driven to it by my
obsession of her, by my certainty .that I must see her,
if only to be sure that I wanted to.

" Will you meet me to-morrow at three ? " I said in
a low voice.

She did not reply. Louisa played a minuet, a minuet
for the Dresden Shepherdess. I repeated my question.

" I can't," she whispered. And 1 saw fear in her eyes.

EDITH LAWTON 173

" You're not engaged. Are you ? "

" M>— but "

" To-morrow — three o'clock — at Prince's main en-
trance— nobody ever goes there on Saturdays."

She did not reply. I saw her fingers tremble.

"Don't you want to? " And it was I trembled, for
-lie might say " No."

She looked at me, still with frightened eyes, as if saying :
u \Vhy do you- torture me — frighten me ? I am such a
little girl, please, please don't." But I was in no mood
for mercy : indeed, I began to understand it was her help-
lessness, her delicate weakness made to me this incredible
appeal. I hardened my gaze, suggested, commanded
now with a harsh voice that sued no more.

" To-morrow," I said, assured of victory.

Edith looked down rather than nodded, as if I had
laid a yoke upon her neck.

CHAPTER II

HAMBURY

Even aliens felt it coming, and I sooner than my
fellows, for I longed to shed my alienage, this election the
result of which everybody foresaw. Even the Germans
who, in the City, paint their brains with khaki, knew that
the Liberals would win, and went loudly boasting, but
conscious that they would have to eat the leek and the
thistle and the shamrock too, while^the rose wilted by the
side of the primrose. And I am sure that my Liberalism
was enhanced by the knowledge that my side would win ;
had the result been in doubt I do not suppose that, at
twenty-five, I could have taken a judicial view. I should
have been for armies, for Imperial Preference, because
it was imperial. The Englishman of my dreams was not
the Radical with whom I began to mix ; I distrusted his
whiskers, or his smooth legal cheeks, his fondness for
oppressed nationalities and his taste for ginger ale; I
did not feel that the real Englishman could care much
about Chinamen, and I was sure that the last thing he
would do would be to close the public-houses.

My wonderful Englishman was short, stout, ruddy;
he had plenty of grey hair, a Roman nose, stubby hands
and a fierce look in his blue eyes, when it was not a tender
one. He insisted, this phantom, on wearing a low, glossy
top-hat with a curly brim, comfort able for driving,
breeches and top-boots, a riding coat and, over his
capacious paunch, a red vest. He never said much at a
time, and then it was " Bless my soul ! " or " Tally ho ! "
or " Damnation," In those days he often said : " The

174

HAMBURY 175

country's going to the dogs." He ate enormously, beef,
boiled potatoes and Yorkshire pudding, also " greens M
(said to be vegetable); he drank beer in imperial pints,
and plenty of crusted port, which was bad for his toe and
impelled it towards niggers, Germans, reform feeders,
revivalists and artists in general. He was ruined every
year by bad crops, but rode to hounds; he denounced
the local authorities if they suggested he should be rated
five shillings to feed school children, but sent two guineas
and a tear to free-meal clubs. He suspected halfpenny
papers and read them, believing every word they said, and
grew very angry in a general, bullish way.

Bullish ! it was John Bull I was in love with, and no
wonder, for he was the most absurd and charming person
I had ever met. I delighted in his gross joviality, his
childish glee, his irrepressible brutality and his shamefaced
emotion. He seemed, in that crucial year, to have waked
up and to be trying to get into the skin of the English,
to remind them that Falstaff was not dead : he was
having a bad time. For old John Bull had been asleep
for many years, and he could not believe these were
his grown-up sons : Bullenstein, on the Stock Exchange,
and Mr. Bull-Bull, K.C., who had taken a hyphen with
silk; and he particularly disliked General Cannon Bull
because the warrior was always hanging about and shout-
" Hullo, Bull ! wake up. Can't you hear the bugle?
You're wanted in the barrack square."

John Bull had gone to sleep comfortably in 1886, a Tory.

later he found that the prodigy of Rip

Winkle had been " speeded up " by his Americanised

rs and that he was a mere Unionist. He also dis-

red t hal he Owed two hundred and fifty millions, which

piled up v while he snored, that he hadn't

got much in exchange if all those tales about Chinamen

in gold mines were true; to make confusion complete

he b actually going to introduce tariffs,

i hich mighl interfere with his trade.

I >hn Hull's blood boHj its boiling point is

not low, but when it boils it seldoms stops until the hunt-

176 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

ing-crop has been broken on somebody; if the hunting-
crop acts as a boomerang, recoils on John Bull's nose,
he growls and strikes again. His trade ! He wanted to
protect his navy, his religion and his women, in order,
and to keep cool about it, but he wasn't going to have them
monkeying with his trade.

So John Bull threw savage glances at Bullenstein, Bull-
Bull, K.C., and General Cannon Bull, flung them a few
Elizabethan adjectives and substantives and looked about
him for a body in which to materialise. He had to materi-
alise if he wanted to vote, and he passionately believed
that there was a vast difference between blue ballot-papers
and buff. I think he glanced at the Socialists and Labour
men, but made few remarks ; indeed, nothing is recorded
of these save scattered words : " Sharing out — loafers —
sandals and nut-sandwiches — free-love — " He had then
but one place on which to lay his bullet head, for elimina-
tion left only the Liberals. Elimination was his way of
deciding; he picked out and discarded the worst, then
the bad, then the inferior, and developed enormous
enthusiasm for the survivors. This is what John Bull
called " compromise " or " making the best of a bad job."
He was not getting what he wanted, though he never
asked for more than he wanted, and was quite willing
to take less if allowed to grumble ; the Liberals were not
giving him his desire, and he hated them, but they were
riot trying to give him what he did not want, and he
began to love , them. He discovered in Edwardian
Liberalism the creed he was longing for, the great creed
which is called Letting Well Alone. The Liberals were
Not going to interfere with Free Trade ; they were going
to put back education where it Was when he went to sleep ;
they promised also to restore in South Africa labour
conditions as they Had Been. " Not 1 Was 1 Had
Been ! " said John Bull, cheerfully ; " I like those words."
He had heard rumours he did not care for : " Home
Rule," which aroused troublesome memories, and " Land,*'
which always made him very angry, but these words were
only whispered, while the roar of " Not I Was I Had

HAMBURY 177

Been ! " filled his ears. As he liked' the roar very much
he did not trouble about the whispers and beamed upon
those who roared, his youngest sons, Ebenezer Holyoake
Bull, and Bull (of the Watermeadows) ; he told Macbull
that he had always thought him a clever fellow, O'Bull
that he had a sense of humour, and went so far as to shake
hands with Llewellyn Bull, after buttoning up his pockets
as a matter of habit. He went over to the Whigs. It
is true that there were no Whigs, but something of their
subtle essence hung about the Liberals, an essence which,
snuffed by John Bull's broad nostrils, reminded him of
Cromwell, Hampden, ship-money, democratic arson at
Bristol ; he had been fond of the Whigs once upon a time,
of their way of letting well and ill alone, of their factories,
counting-houses and (a long time ago) public-houses.
Their tricks in* Egypt, South Africa and Ireland had an-
noyed him, but he was so afraid of the Tories, because they
n minded him of sheep suffering from the rabies, that he
said : " I'm for the Whigs." When told there were no
Whigs he flung himself into a terrific passion and declared,
characteristically enough, that even if there were no Whigs
he'd vote for them all the same. He wasn't going to argue
about it, lie was for the people who were going to let things
he Whigs, and he was going over to the Whigs.
d I with him. I did not take them quite as he did,
for 1 was a Frenchman and believed that people intended
when they said they were going to do them;
to lei bad things alone, nor, for the matter
of tli ad I had rooted in my mind that,

as anything that was must be bad, one could not go
wrong if one broke up institutions. I was for the new
law l I was the new law; I would have accepted

ion if it had b ated as progress. Thus Tariff

rm did not seduce me because I had been used to it
'K' : 1 been born under Free Trade, thus

hipped it ; had 1 natural born Englishman

ght have shouted "Down with it!" but I was a

! peal to me, for I was
a crude revolutionary. I wanted to smash, not to build.

178 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

It was not the cry of " Not ! Was ! Had Been ! "
which appealed to me then. While John Bull folded
the Liberals to his arms because he took them for the
Conservatives, I hailed them as the iconoclasts. I read
the pamphlets which poured upon me when i became a
subscriber to their official publications ; I chuckled over
cartoons where Cabinet Ministers appeared as foxes,
rabbits and mad hatters. The Liberals were the people
for me : they were going to " give one " to the capitalists,
and another to the Church (d has les calotins /), to take
votes from the powerful — and there was a rumble in their
machine, a rumble I could just hear; in those days the
rumble sounded faintly like : " Down with the Lords ! "
I did not know that the rumble would eventually develop
into a mighty roar, that I would stand on a cart near
Peckham Rye and be cheered while I referred to the Lords
as " the gilded scum of the earth, titled ruffians, hangers-
.on of the chorus — " as is our political way down South,
but even as a rumble it thrilled me.

The Liberals had a bold air of activity which pleased
me; they were against abuses, they did not dislike
foreigners, they were going to turn the country upside
down and make of it a better place : I honestly wanted
it to be a better place, and as it could be made such by
smashing all the old things I decided to be a Liberal.
I wanted votes,, land, houses for everybody, but I mainly
wanted to take the votes, the land and the houses from
somebody. It was, I felt, going to be a great big rag.
Besides, Air. Lawton and Hugh were Liberals. And Edith
was a Liberal. I had to be loyal.

II

I joined a Liberal Club, which proved a temporary
cause of estrangement between Mr. Hooper and me.
He made no remark when I aggressively told him that I
had abandoned the primrose ; he sighed, as if to say that
good grain often fell on stony places. Sometimes, when

HAMBURY 179

he returned from his own and purer political association,
he found me obstinately reading The Life of Gladstone, or
a booklet on land taxation : then he would sit down in
the armchair by the grate, and do nothing for a while,
as if this sight took the strength out of him. If I looked
up I found his mild blue eye fixed upon me and un-
mistakably signalling: "The pity of it." This filled
me with malignant joy, and I went so far as to murmur
44 hear, hear," and 44 good " as I read the poisonous
gospels. Soon I provoked him sufficiently to make him
•k me.

44 All that sort of thing," he said generally, " it's all
talk. You People, you only want to upset things ; and
don't want to do what the country's crying out for.
Why, look at the unemployed ! How arc you going to
find work for them ? With all our home market swamped ?
and everybody leaving the land because they can't make
hing out of it. No wonder they emigrate, all the best
of them; they're not going to stay here and starve.
There's much too many of us, that's what it is, but we've
got to feed them somehow."

Mr. Hooper rubbed the bald part of his head with his
I kerchief, peeping at me from under it, and I was struck
by the pathos ol his attitude; here he was with a whole
handle of problems : trade, agriculture, overcrowding,
and the conflict was so complete that he regretted in the
same breath < in mi at ion and the increase in the population.

44 Well," I said, "tariff reform won't settle all that,
will it do

44 Work for all," said Mr. Hooper, delivering a swift blow,

I quoted Austrian and Italian figures of appalling un-

1 h, we don't count tJiem" said Mr. Hooper, airily.
"What about Germany?" He quoted most reassuring
figur< unemployment.

Then I quoted absolutely enormous figures of American
unemployment, calmly picking out a period during which

brike and confining myself to
lilding t

180 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

Mr. Hooper, shaken for a moment, retorted, " What
about tinplates ? "

" Well, what about tinplates ? " I asked, angrily.

" Going," said Mr. Hooper, gloomily.

" Oh ? Cotton is going too, I suppose ? and wool is
gone ? "

" Yes," said Mr. Hooper, with ghoulish delight.

Then there was a rumble of figures and I grew excited,
Mr. Hooper talkative.

" It's all been stolen from under our noses, and the
foreigner's coming in and taking our markets. Now I
was talking to a man I know, he's a traveller in brasswork,
he is, fenders and fire-irons, that sort of thing. Do you
know what he said ? Well, he said that in half the places
he used to book orders they said there was nothing doing,
that they were buying in Germany — cheaper ! " cried
Mr. Hooper, with restrained, passion in his voice.
" Cheaper ! do you hear ? And there's all your Liberal
lot going round and saying that if we have Tariff Reform
everything '11 cost more. It's a shame, that's what it is."

" But how do they manage to make them cheaper in
Germany ? "

" Sweating," said Mr. Hooper, with infinite contempt.
« Why "

" Then Tariff Reform means sweating ? "

" It means nothing of the kind. In America a brick-
layer gets a pound a day."

" In France he gets three shillings."

" I'm not talking of France," said Mr. Hooper, with a
stately air.

" No, you were talking about Germany, where you
say there's Tariff Reform sweating "

" I did not, Mr. Cadoresse."

" Now, Mrs. Hooper, I appeal to you," I said.

" Oh, don't ask me," said Mrs. Hooper, without raising
her eyes from her fancy work; " I don't understand
politics. You tell Mr. Cadoresse, Alfred."

We " told " each other with increasing energy, we feinted
when cornered, we found figures and we tortured facts.

HAMBURY 181

We proved Spanish theory by German practice. We
whirled in the midst of tariffs, Socialism and credit; we
completely tied each other up in the payment for imports
by exports ; our talk became simultaneous, expanded,
sucked in the waste of money on drink, housing, the hiring
of barristers by the poor, tramps, betting — we touched
peers, skimmed the divorce court — we slung heavy names
at each other. I shouted " Gladstone," Mr. Hooper
fluted " Disraeli." I laughed as I observed Lulu, a
novelette in her lap, and her mouth so wide open that I
could see her palate.

\\ C grew silent suddenly, and I saw Mr. Hooper wipe
his head again, very carefully, as if he had sworn to leave
none of it unwiped. I pictured him again, pathetic, like
a wretched little cork tossed on a stormy sea, rather a
in spate ; nothing was so near our debate as a turgid
river, flinging refuse into the air. Mr. Hooper took
thought, then closed the discussion :

" All that sort of thing," he said, generally; "it's all

talk. You People, you only want to upset things ; and

you don't want to do what the country's crying out for."

d an exact replica of his opening speech !

We had argued in a circle, then. And for one moment

I wondered whether I, too, had argued in a circle. But

this did not trouble me long, for I felt sure I could break

f any circle, however charmed.

I f. It strong primed by the literal ure issued at my club.

Th. library we owed to a pious founder, Clogg, sometime a

Borough Councillor. The aged pensioner who kept it,

d " fought under William Kwart," prac-

ai8 shelves an extraordinary religion, Clogg-

ch he \v;is high priest and sole adept. He

ii took a i without coni iring sotto voce with

Mr. (Hogg's spirit. When j id told him I

wanted b Q,hesmi] tie, thin-lipped

; under his white eyebrows 1 sparkled.

d to the young generation,

then with a rapid f tone : " What would you like

»n, sir?" And! e a suggestion,

182 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

he murmured : " No, Mr. Clogg, really no, we can't start
a boy like that on Progress and Poverty — now, come, Mr.
Clogg, really — well, if you think so, Mr. Clogg "

He interrupted his conversation with the ghost and
offered me a disreputable-looking copy of Progress and
Poverty. Evidently the shade of the Borough Councillor
had prevailed. The old librarian's name was Smith,
but the club called him Cloggie behind his back ; he was
well over seventy and would have been very tall if his
back had not been bent as a boW; his stoop compelled
him to thrust his brownish face forward as he talked,
which he always did at some length, for he had the rapid,
yet mellifluous flow of the practised speaker. But, alas,
Cloggie was no longer as lucid as on that great day in
1882, when he had stood at the back of the orchestra
in the Grand Theatre (which he sometimes located in
Birmingham and sometimes in Wolverhampton) and held
Gladstone's hat and overcoat.

" There I stood," said Cloggie, " for one hour and a
half, and I could hear Him rolling away like a trombone,
and I couldn't hear what He said 'cos they were cheering
every five minutes, but it was splendid, I can tell you —
and I couldn't feel my legs any more, what with standing
up and what with the excitement, and people shoving
me to see Him. And then the cheering at the end. I
couldn't hear myself shout, though I could fetch a good
howl then, being a bit of a boy. And then He came along,
quick, you know, with His eyes all alight, and His chin
waggling up and down in that collar of His, and laughing
because they were all crowding round Him, all Birmingham,
and trying to get hold of His hand. * Where's my coat ? '
He shouts, and I can tell you I was proud when I stepped
along with it, saying ' by your leave,' and seeing them make
way for me as if I were the King's messenger. And then,
when I was putting it on Him, trembling all over I was,
He turns and looks me in 1h<* eye — looking like an eagle.
He says to me : ' What's your name ? ' He asks. * Smith,
sir,' I said (and I nearly said Your Majesty). ' Smith ? *
says William Ewart; 'that's a good name. Go and tell

HAMBURY 183

all the Smiths of Wolverhampton to hammer privilege
on the anvil of democracy.' You should have heard
them shout when He said that."

The old man stopped, choked with emotion.

" Yes," I said, " that must have been fine."

" Fine ! Why, Mr. Clogg and I used to talk about Him
for hours and hours. Don't believe me if you like,
but Mr. Clogg knew Him." Yes, he had dinner with Him
in 1887 — " Cloggie worked his psychic switch, and
suddenly I heard him wrangle respectfully with the dead :
" I remember quite well, Mr. Clogg — it was 1887 — when
you were standing for St. Anne's Ward — oh — um — well,
in the spring of 1886 — well, perhaps you're
right, Mr. Clogg." Cloggie switched Mr. Clogg off and
announced, with an air of relief : " 1886, I mean."

The adorable Cloggie did, however, more than amuse

me; he liked my being a boy, that is under sixty, for

he was himself always "a bit of a boy" in any story

anterior to 1890 or so; he decided to educate me, so

I often forsook the smoke-filled clubroom to go and

sit with Cloggie, and be catechised. Cloggie was bent

on my being thorough; it was he lent me Morley's Life

speeches of John Bright, Mill on Libmty.

. to his great chagrin, to make me take away the

four volumes of Sir Spencer Walpole's History of Twenty"

five Years. I was, said Cloggie, wilful and would do

no good. But the blue eyes, that twinkled under the

aid he didn't mean that, and that the

old man, wl; ly was either dead or in distant

colonies, had found in me a sort of grandson. So he let

me browse in the succulent p I:. Clogg had left

d him, nibble at Bagehot, Adam Smith and Mazzini

(who was almost erjual to Hun); and he forgave my

Might horn Walpole when I appeared with a compact but

ilox J. \{. Green. And sometimes he would press

mysteriously, a very old pamphlet.

"Read that,*1 he whispered. "It's grand, grand."

It was usually some contemporary of the Repeal of the

r Duty. But Cloggie felt it would strengthen my

184 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

faith. He was not wrong, for I read with fierce enthusiasm
in the Tube, at home, when Maud was out, while I dressed,
in the street as I walked. I could not read while I shaved,
but soapmarks on my Life of John Lord Russell show
that I read while I lathered my face. And sometimes
Cloggie would emerge from his book-lined bunk and sit
in the clubroom, cheerfully blinking, while his wonderchild
hurled the principles of Liberalism, in almost faultless
English marred by a fairly strong foreign accent, at an
unoffending speaker who had come from Headquarters
to expound Franchise or Poor Law Reform.

- Ill

And that is how it came about that I contested Ham-
bury. That is, I soon began to feel that it was I, and not
Mr. Lawton, who was going to stand for that shapeless
slice of country where the old merchant suburbs of London,
the villas of the clerks, workmen's dwellings and a few
scattered farms have made an evolving little world of
their own. Hambury, which I could reach from Euston
in twenty minutes, began in the south by being urban,
grew neo-urban a little further, then died in the fields ;
here and there it burst into smoke-stacks, while a pest of
building plots, sown with sardine tins and old boots,
had spread to every corner ; even the elms, judging from
the notice boards, were to be let on lease. And, not far
from brooks and hedges, when one stood on a hillock,
one could see companies of navvies breaking the roads
so that the tramways, whose terminus was still in the
south, could crawl nearer to the fields and strangle them
with snaky steel tracks. It was on such a hillock that we
stood, Edith and I, on a Saturday afternoon in November,
for we were both of us " nursing " the constituency. We
were not nursing it very loyally that afternoon, for I had
not called at the office of the Liberal Association, while
Edith had pleaded a second engagement and escaped from
Mrs. Murchison's garden party in time to reach, by devious

HAMBURY* 185

ways, this place where there were no votes and therefore
no risks.

It was warm, for the Indian summer still lingered,
as if reluctant to forsake the peaceful fields; the sun,
veiled by faint mists, coloured tenderly the western sky,
and there still was heat in its oblique rays. Indeed,
something of the gladness of summer enfolded us, though
the heavy dews had risen, blunted the sharpf outlines of
the branches; a faint but pungent smell of dead leaves
was carried on the light wind, and, in a hedge, I could see
a large spider, moving very slowly in its web, spiritless
as if it knew that winter and death were coming. But
we were alive, full of that quiet life which sometimes
assures us of an immortality of which we are not aware
in our more hectic turbulences. We stood, very content
with each other, for I knew that everything of £dith,
• date grace, and the repose of her small gloved hands,
filled me with a sense of rest : she stroked my soul,
and it purred. And I had begun to gather as she looked
at me, now a little more eloquent, that my dark face, my
alert black eyes, my moustache and its audacity suggested
to her something lurid which my words did not belie;
for her I was the unexpected, the danger, the creature
without rules or canons, who was exploring her world and
daring to question it. She was, I felt, deliciously afraid
of me. I liked to lei J she was afraid of me, and to think
njoyed hex f

" Isn't it. jolly? " she said.

M I n't it?"

We remained silent for some moments, registering
imp! and I wondered whether in h< t mind I

with the landscape as much as she did in mn

M You know," ! iily, " I like you better

I haO in London."
•Thanks." She smiled rather archly. "Am I so
dful in town |

M You're charming. Bat here, you're different because
th<- ! nt. You're sensitive, you see, life

chameleon. 5 ir of the place. And I like

186 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

this colour better than that of London. It's all so restful
and so simple; life seems so easy ; I think of milkmaids,
and calling the cattle home. Listen — that's a cow bell."

" I'm sorry," said Edith, resolutely; " it's a tram."

" Tush ! " I was angry. " How can you talk of trams ?
Trams ! They murder the world — they and the railways.
It isn't like sedan chairs, and chaises, and hansoms;
even motor-cars and motor-buses are better; all those
things don't leave a trail of steel lines and posts and
signals to remind you what a beastly world we're making.
Trams ! If I go to hell when I die and they want to do
their worst, they'll put me in an L.C.C. garage. Oh,
you laugh — but don't look that way, Edith, where there
are men. Look there, towards the skyline, where the
sky's blushing and making the cows look black."

I took her by the arm, and she yielded, turned towards
the west. On the crest of the long, low hill, a cow stood
outlined, snuffing towards the sunset with her raised
snout. She was flat and, though dun-coloured probably,
black against ^emptiness.

" She's lovely," Edith murmured. " What is she
doing, I wonder ; do you think she's saying her prayers ?
Perhaps she is, saying : * Oh, sunshine — send me green
fields and let the hay smell sweet — and let my baby calf
grow up until it's too late for him to become veal — oh,
sunshine, give him long life, so that he may be beef.' "

We both laughed together, but grew serious again,
and I held her arm closer, moving my fingers slowly,
taking in with all my hand its delicate, but firm outline.

" That's not the end," I said. " She's also praying :
' Oh, sunshine, let my hide be golden and glossy, my eye
deep as a pool and my muzzle soft as velvet — so that the
black bull with a gaze like hot coals, who paws the ground
and throws steam from his nostrils, shall look at me while
I stumble by — and make me shiver and yet draw nearer
;;sl pass ' "

Edith drew her arm away with a jerk.

" You are silly. And I've already told you not to call
me Edith."

HAMBURY 187

" Why not ? You can call me Lucien if you like.
You did, once."

" That was an accident. And then you laughed at
me because I pronounced it Loosian."

" Call me Loosian. I love it, please, Edith."
M No," said Edith, firmly. " It's wrong. What would
people think, if I called you Lucien? And I don't
want to call you Lucien."

I managed just in time not to tell her that she liked
calling me " Lucien," that she had done it twice in her
entence, for the pleasure of it. For I was not sure
of her, I was not quite sure that I wanted to be sure of her.
44 NObody would know," I murmured. " Any more than
they know we're here." .

" But if they did ? " Edith looked at me with appealing
eyes. " Wouldn't it be dreadful ! I know I oughtn't to
vou here — if father knew he'd be so angry."
" But he doesn't know."

" lie dorsn't. But don't you see that because I know

■ uldn't like it I can't feel it's right. A thing doesn't

become right because it isn't found out, does it? "

I was compelled to own that it didn't, then turned on her.

44 But you wouldn't like him to know, would you,

if it made him unhappy? You'd hide rather than hurt

him."

41 1 suppose 1 would," said Edith. " Of course I couldn't
hurt him. I sec what that means; I mustn't meet you
again."

" Edith," I said, reproachfully, again laying my hand
n hex arm; 44 but then you'd be hurting me."

am I to do ? " she cried out, and there was
i y in hex voice. 4t If I go <>n meeting you like
; B pig — and if I 1 1 11, they won't Le1 na-

if I don't come you say you'll be miserable."

ili could n. ,t bejftl to hurt her father or me, and it

to hex mind th.it hex father might not care

or that I might not. suffer. She took us as we seemed,

and in this, I think, was h< r attraction : she simply

red in what, she saw; unflinchingly honest, she

188 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

believed others were honest, and now she suffered because
her life was no longer without a secret. I tried to comfort
her, for I had at every meeting to dispel her scruples
and her fears ; I reminded her that we did not often come
together.

" Why should you worry ? We've only met four times,
by arrangement I mean; once at Prince's, and twice in
Battersea Park, and once at Kew."

" And once on Primrose Hill — five times," she said

softly; "you've forgotten, and " She stopped

abruptly, and we looked at each other. She blushed, and
at once we knew that the quality of our relation had
changed : it was she, not I, who had remembered, and
she had unguardedly acknowledged that those meetings —
mattered. We began to talk feverishly, both together;
she interrupted my protestations with commonplaces,
and the forced tone in her voice told me that she was hold-
ing back an emotional impulse. And I, Cadoresse the
adventurer, was afraid. I helped her, and soon we were
talking of Mrs. Murchison, and Chike, the progressive
grocer. We laughed ; I even recited a limerick. The
strain ceased, and quite gravely we were able to discuss
my rdle in the election.

" Father's awfully pleased with you," Edith confided.
" He says you're frightfully keen ; he hasn't told you,
I suppose, but he's going to ask you to come down and
help for ten days when the election comes. You'll come,
won't you ? "

" Will you ? "

" Of course I will."

" Then, of course," I said, significantly.

" Oh, I don't w^nt you to put it like that. You really
are keen, are/i't you ? "

" Of course I'm keen. I don't say I believe in the
programme, the whole of it, but I think on the whole
it's the best."

"I'm so glad," said Edith, "I wouldn't like you
to do it because — because — on account of me. I want
things put right, you know."

HAMBURY 189

Edith became sociological. The end, not the means,
interested her; she wanted everybody happy, sober,
working, each man in his little house, with a garden and
some flowers in front.

44 I'd give anything for that," she murmured, and as I
looked at her pure, rosy face, I knew she was speaking
the truth. We had left the hillock and walked through
a field, then into a straggling wood. We climbed the
low hill and looked over the crest where the cow had
stood, towards the clustering villas of Hamburyville,
the new suburb o£ the old town. Little streamlets of
bluish smoke rose from the chimneys. A mile away we
could_see the tiny station and its model engine, and dots
on the high road : the return of the Stock Exchange.

44 They're coming home," she said ; 44 it's getting late."

** Oh, not yet, not yet," I murmured. I drew her
away, made her walk homewards by a devious way.
It was half-past five, and the sun had set. We hardly
spoke, but slowly, reluctantly went towards Hambury.
We stopped for a long time, leaning on some palings,
while invisible cows in the valley sent towards us, as
I hey shambled towards their stable, the music of their bells,
,11 VI said. "I was right. There still are cowbells."
, which has now engulfed Hambury, had not yet
stamped them out. And so, softly, as we waited, the
tinkled, some crystalline and gay, and others mourn-
ful, and yet others deep and portentous. I looked at
the slim giri, her seriou cd on the sky; I imagined

her dream of imp le hope for all those poor and

d, who had soiled their lives with cupidities and
envies. And there was such wist fulness in those eyes,
such undefined, greedy loi I those creatures that

breathed, that I Leaned forward, with words upon my
• I, made my mouth twitch. But Edith

** Come," she said, t4 we must go, for the night is

'•(.ming."

Wt i pari vvhere a few lights shone in

the wind'.

190 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

" You will come again," I said.

" I oughtn't to."

" But you will ? You will, Edith— little Edith, you
will?"

" ^Perhaps." The eyes were veiled under the delicate,
veined lids.

" Say 4 I will write next time.' "

She laughed nervously. " Oh, I couldn't -write."

" Then how shall I know? How shall we meet? "

She was silent. Then at length, very low, as if
frightened :

" Very well."

I took her hand. " Good-bye, Edith."

" Good-bjfe."

" No, not good-bye. ' Good-bye, Lucien \"

She looked towards the ground, obstinately silent.

" Good-bye, Lucien," I repeated.

She shook her head. " No." I held her hand, pressed
it without speaking. At last she looked up, and I saw
her lips tremble, form "No" — But, quite suddenly
and spontaneously, I think, I heard her blurred, hoarse
" Good-bye, Lucien " ; her slim fingers pressed mine,
while I bent down, and with my lips touched the glove
on her unresisting hand.

IV

I had two whole months to think of Edith, to define
my intentions to myself, for I heard, ten days later,
that she had caught a chill and was in bed, then that
she had been sent to Brighton for a month, in charge
of an old aunt, for the Liberals had come into temporary
power and the election was upon us : her niother could
not be spared. Mrs. Lawton and Muriel were almost
every day in Hambury, canvassing, smiling and making
friends by means of. condescensions and expensive furs.
But I think I knew that I wanted my slim English girl
only when I thought of her as ill, of her golden hair
flowing on the pillow, of her little listless hands. My

HAMBURY 191

pity kindled my love, for Edith had not the strong
body which arouses contempt when it is sick; so like a
flowering white convolvulus was she that I loved her
first in her greatest weakness, as I might tenderly have
raised the fallen plant and helped it to cling once more
to the more robust ivy.

I loved her. I loved her in spite of myself, for love
of Edith involved marriage, and my old tradition held
me enough to urge that a Frenchman does riot marry
at twenty-five; also it reminded me that Edith would
have no dot, that my income was a hundred and sixty
a year : it laughed at me. But I laughed at it, for
England had breathed her spirit in me, wiped out some
of my grossness, some of my mercenary spirit. I was
ready to take Edith poor and weak, to be poor and weak
with her, to bow before her, the beautiful and pure, if
only she would take my humble forehead between her
smooth white hands. If I had thought of her, in the
very early days, when she ceased to be a figment and
became a woman, as the road I might follow to a partner-
ship in Barbezan & Co., I had now forgotten such
imaginings. My quest of the Golden Girl was at end,
y, delicious quest during which the knight upon
the mad meets such as Maud, Lottie and their like, and
knightly speeds on. While the months oozed away,
my love crept back upon itself, for I could not see Edith,
or write to h'er, and dared but seldom question Hugh;
1 to such expedients as to alternate between
h^r father, mother, sister and brother, so that my interest
might not arouse suspicion, to question casually even
Loui . who stung me with the remark that Edith

little thing."
I think I hfl

I suffered that madness oi isolation which always

lieu I have lost the treasure I had or

do not yet see the treasure to come. I fastened on the

ided me, all of them tOO busy with

<>f Barbezan were

Christmas holidays and had no eye for the

192 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

alien; and Maud preferred to me, to Saunders, the
auctioneer, and to " Signor " Colley, a new friend, " a
real gent who'd been introduced to her at Tinman's,"
a certain Bert Burge. I had not seen Bert Burge, but
I knew he had something to do with the halls : as Maud
was " on him like a bird," while he was " gone on her,"
she found a reason to be out of the house nearly every
evening.

" So high-spirited," said Mrs. Hooper, with her air
of mournful prjde.

I was thrown back on Hambury, for now four weeks
only separated us from the test. I had conceived a
passion for Hambury, and, ten days before Christmas,
I solemnly informed Mr. Lawton that I intended to
devote myself to " The Cause," to give Hambury every
night and every Saturday.

" Thank you," he said ; " it's very decent of you."

Bare thanks ! English thanks, or rather recognition
of my sense of duty. I wanted more, and I wanted
tribute. I did not have tribute, but a more precious
gift was waiting for me that night : it was a letter in an
unknown hand, addressed in good round writing, almost
childish in its carefulness. The Brighton postmark
made my heart pound against my side, and I could feel
it still as I read, feel it long after I had nnishea learning
the words :

" Dear Mr. Cadoresse,

" I thought you would like to know that I am
much better. I suppose you know I have been ill. Only
a chill, but I had a high temperature. I oughtn't to
write to you but — (several words scratched out)^— I
didn't want you to think I had forgotten to write before
we met again. 1 do want to come back, but they won't
let me until next month, or they won't let me canvass —
-and I do want to canvass ; it'll be such fun. You would
like Brighton (but how silly of me, you know it), for
the sea is so blue, it's like turquoise ;• you'd think of
something much prettier to compare it with, but I feel

HAMBURY 193

stupid. How is Mr. Chike and have you converted
Mrs. Chike ?

" Yours sincerely,

" Edith Lawton.
" P.S. — Of course you mustn't write to me. It isn't
safer

I went to my room to read the letter again. I read
it five or six times ; the letter was Edith, shy, affectionate ;
it tried to say what she meant and shrank from at the
last moment. It thrilled me, its spontaneity and the
fact that it was spontaneous; I kissed the letter and
rejoiced because it carried no scent. The innocent
underlining, the literary timidity which made her eschew
similes, all this was Edith. It was all she, the boyish
anticipation of the election rag, the mild scoff at the
progressive grocer, the fear lest her silence should have
hurt me; that was Edith, and exquisite, but more
precious to me was the Edith in relation to me implied
in the scratched-out words, which I made out with a
dfying-glass to be " I wanted to." She had wanted
to write to me, and she had dared to do it, but she had
not dared to wanted to — just as her postscript

implied that she wanted me to reply, though she dared
not let me. Sweet fugitive, I knew what you meant,
h you did not say it, and I, who ever loved the
loved your shrinkings. And I thought of her by
the turquoise sea.

nst the western wind she stands upon the

whit- ! 1 for whom the blast is too rude.

Is muffled in white wool, she rules the straying gold

of her hair, and the wind furls her skirts about her,

js to and its soft, cold bosom.

The wind kisses into vividness the roses of her cheeks

and tints with purple her mouth that pouts as a split.

ny, and a Might her eyes arc dim with One

'ie turqu and it is jealous

of her eyes' blue dept

B

194 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

And on again to the comedy of elections which so re-
calls the fights of dirty little boys who roll in the London
gutter; to meetings, canvassings, lies, proofs and smart
retorts ; to charges of unfairness and appeals for the play-
ing of the game ; to fine prejudice too, to noble fanaticism,
to generosities and unselfish hopes; to impracticable
cures for evils, to truthful promises and self-abnegation ;
to all that incoherence and turbidness of purpose out
of which comes, after all, stumbling and halting, some
mercy and a little justice.

Every night at half-past six, I reported at the central,
committee-room. I came out with a bundle of canvass
cards, sometimes alone and sometimes' as escort of Muriel
or Mrs. Lawton, when they had to visit certain quarters
of the old town reputed to be " dangerous." For Hambury
was getting on in the world : the merchants had deserted
the old houses for modern detached residences, so that
Hambury had had to turn the early- Victorian homes,
among which was occasionally a fine, square Georgian house,
into tenements. It was among these tenements I had to
take ^tfuriel, who wrinkled her nose at the smell of man —
food — washing, to stand by her side and look confidently
at the big, truculent navvies who were laying the tram-
lines towards the blessed fields, while she recorded their
opinions, and said the weather would improve if the
Liberals got in.

We were splendidly efficient; we wasted no time on
argument, for Hambury was unmanageable : since the
redistribution its electorate had grown from about eight
thousand to twenty-seven thousand. Thus all the can-
vassers could do was to ascertain where was the strength,
so that it might be polled.

" It's simple enough," said Muriel ; " we found that out
when father stood for Bowley. In these big divisions
it's not worth while arguing : poll your strength and
you win; at Bowley we polled seventy-nine per cent.,
which was jolly bad; if we'd polled eighty-five we'd

HAMBURY 195

have got home. You don't want to turn a vote. Just
poll your own."

\Yhether this was or was not democratic government
did not seem to trouble Muriel much; I remember her
during that month as a completely cynical girl, intent
only on winning; her dash had been transmuted into a
ceaseless and businesslike activity, her talk of theatres
and dances into a rhapsody of half-a-dozen words : " doubt-
ful— removed — ours — theirs — meeting — canvass." We
raced each other along opposite sides of a street, waving
ironically across the road when we had gained a couple
of canvassed houses; we learned to work at top-speed
with a blunt pencil, slippery canvass cards and uncertain
electric lamps ; we talked only of elections, and we never
kissed. Tacitly Muriel had abandoned me to Edith,
and I, being now so little of a Frenchman, accepted her
attitude.

Hambury was a centre of chaos, for I seemed not only
to be always canvassing, always rushing into the com-
mittee-rooms for further supplies of cards, to find there
a buzzing group of women, who checked lists of voters,
addressed envelopes, scrapped the dead, always catching
trains and omnibuses to lose myself in Balham or Rich-
mond while I tracked removals, or stewarding at meetings,
or whirling in a motor-car in an aimless, distraught way,
going to a place I didn't know, with a message I didn't
understand, to meet a man who did not appear. The
fog of the election was like the fog of war, and I, a
private, did not know what I was doing. But one thing
ild feel : the splendid English organisation. The
professional showed amazing mastery of the

f the Corrupt Practices Act, and of the
topography of Hambury; the constituency was covered,
area by area; cai allotted and marshalled;

meet Id in si at a time, speakers

. men imported from London,

:^n<[ at scheduled points,

emptied (A ti and whisked off again by other

to do service twenty miles away. Our colours

196 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

were everywhere; our cars, decked with red ribbons,
and posters, let their engines race and roar in the market-
place, so that Hambury should know we were there,
mob us, stand open-mouthed and mentally promise
votes to the authors of the fine to-do.

And figures crowd about me : Hepson, the agent,
who, on being informed that one of our cars had killed
an old woman at Broughton remarked : " That's all
right. Broughton 's a quarter of a mile over the bound-
ary " — and Mrs. NMill, a sweet-faced old piano-teacher,
a Roman Catholic, who burned a candle every morning
at the shrine of her favourite saint while praying for
our triumph — and Wing, his friend Mayne, both Young
Liberals, who 'ad a bit on ole Lawton and 'ud give three
to one agin the other blighter. They crowd, some of
them just names — Rennie, Morrison. Miss Festing — and
some nameless faces, ascetic faces of old men with side-
whiskers, and the sly, fat muzzle of a publican who saw
the point of being the one Radical innkeeper, and very
young, boyish and girlish faces, rosy, blue-eyed; faces
of children who wept for favours and occasionally
paraded with our poster pinned on their backs. And
others : Lady Bondon, the wife of Sir Thomas Bondon,
our opponent, a large, red lady, with an enormous black
silk bust and a voice which Sir Thomas must have learned
to respect in his — no, her own house.

There is Hugh lecturing me because I had called Sir
Thomas a blackguard.^.

" He's not that — he's on the other side, but "

" If we're right the other side must be blackguards."

" Oh, no — he's entitled to think as he likes, and one
mustn't mind. You know, Cadoresse, in England
political enemies can be personal friends."

" Hypocrisy."

" Not exactly; of course an M.P. may feel a bit sore

when he's being slanged in the House by the chap he

T8 golf with, but he mustn't say so. One's got to

play the game and keep a stiff lip when one gets one

in the ey

HAMBURY 197

It struck me as a little artificial, but the Englishman
always plays the game, and thinks everybody ought to
do so. I think Muriel carried the attitude to its extreme
development when she told me that fox-hunting was all
right because the fox had a chance to get away.

" Not like pigeon shooting," she said, scornfully,
" or hunting carled stags. That's not sport, but the
fox has got a chance — he likes a run."

Well !

And there is Chike, the progressive grocer; five foot
two, or three at most, marvellously active and apologetic,
running like an overgrown rat about the streets, with
his little brown eyes racing towards the point of his long
nose, and a general air of timid, incredibly swift scuttle.

" Hullo, Chikey," screamed the urchins as he ran ;
" look out, 'ere She is."

And then Chike would leap as he ran, and shake wild,
Futile little fists at the boys, for She was Mrs. Chike,
Primrose Dame, thirteen stone in weight, and deter-
mined that her husband should not disgrace himself
with our Low lot. Everybody knew that she thrashed
Chike, that she locked him up as soon as the shop was
closed " to keep him out of trouble." But Chike was
much more than nimble : he developed extraordinary
cunning, once dived right under her vast person, when she
d t he door, and rushed out more like a rat than ever,
like a rut that a cat is chasing. He had his revenges
too.

" I got even with In ,;lay," he excitedly related.

14 I was trackin' removals 'cos I 'ad time, bcin' early

So when I got me first, I scs to meself, 'ere's

a chance, ses I : III telephone the ole gell to cheer 'er

up. So I telephoi hi' you should 'ave 'card Vr.

I telephoned 'er again i 4 Got another, Maria,' says I.

*Whi — ycr dirty tyl 'Ah,

like to kl } I. And I telephoned 'er

when I ,Lr"t another — an' she 'ad to answer, 'cos

ihe couldn't tell it wasn't a customer — so I telephoned

t for luck. Cost me eight pence altogether,

198 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

but it was worth it, but "— Chike rubbed his head
significantly — " she did go on awful when a' got 'ome."

Yet the contest seemed to breed no ugliness. We did
not always tell the truth, but I seemed to miss the
atmosphere of violence in which French politicians
breathe ; I looked in vain for the inspiring red, white and
blue posters which, when Frenchmen are polling, stare
at us from every wall :

LIAR !

Voters ! Do not be deceived by a Candi-
date WHOM I DO NOT CONDESCEND TO NAME,

a Man who has sold to the Jews such
honour as he derives from nis illegitimate
parentage. . . .

or —

I CHALLENGE

That Hireling of the Church to say he
did not suddenly receive elghty thousand
Francs. (Did you say Panama ? Hush!). . .

■>
That is what I called electioneering, and I told Hepson

so, but he merely laughed and said that in* England no
man was a traitor until he was in office. I felt that my
attempts to " ginger up " our leaflets were coldly received.
Reluctantly I decided to help win this election like a
gentleman : our French way is a much bigger rag.

VI

And at last Edith came. In ten days the people of
Hambury would go to the poll. She came, and in the
first handshake she gave me, which lingered a little, she
said : " Here I am.'* And her blush, her quickly averted
glance repeated : " Here I am," added, " What are you
going to do with me ? "

I did not know what I was going to do with her.
Perhaps I did not know what I was going to do with my-

HAMBURY 199

sell, unless I intended to place myself in the hands of
the Providence of Lovers, beg it to make or mar me as
it would. All I knew was that the shy girl thrilled me
because she was no longer so shy with me : I was as
Christopher Columbus landing on the shores of America;
I had not explored a continent, but I had set my foot
within its boundaries.

This inner life of mine was one of storm, for the tender

bordered ever on the businesslike; we perpetually

drifted to the personal while we canvassed, and then

again we would be driven away from the open gates by

preoccupation of an illegible name on a card, the

facetious howl of some small boy, or meetings with other

canvassers. Those other canvassers ! How intolerably^

bright and metallic was the surface with which they

coated their jadedness, their sickness of the whole affair;

made jokes "out of cold feet, lost pencils, electors

removed to another corner of the borough, things that

are quite tragic in January. We met Dicky Bell, his

brown eyes beady with excitement because he had found

a street of seventeen " Fors," one " Against " and one

*' Doubtful." He announced the result at the top of

his voice, shouted " Hooray ! Hoo-blastedray," apolo-

I to Edith with a " Beg pardon, election fever,"

and ran away to the central committee-room for new

An Englishman excited. And sometimes we

saw Neville, patiently plodding from door to door,

lis hat to tii< suspicious wives of the rail waymen,

and gaining p by the sheer pathos of his innocent

B. Neville could suffer rebuffs in silence, cover

curly fair hair, and squaring his weak

chin as well as he could, go on to the next house, humbly,

stod: .still al work on his father's debts.

. palling for cards, 1< ailc,ts, window-

our supporters, notices of meetings, all of them :

Louisa, with Hugh in hex train, and Kent, who had

given op e " when you were polite the

poor knew you were being rude," and Gladys Raleigh,

and Bessie Surtees, and the local enthusiasts, Wing,

200 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

Mayne, all red tie and three-inch collar; Mrs. Mill, always
a little prayerful; the sly, fat Radical innkeeper, and
Chike, scuttling past, with a glance of apprehension for
every big woman. Wc talked, we argued, we contra-
dicted, we told each other the way, we clamoured for
notes to be made that Thompson wouldn't come unless
we sent an electric, that O'Kelly wanted Home Rule
for his vote, and would Mr. Lawton go and blarney
him? that Smith was engaged up to five minutes to
eight, that Emmett could speak and wouldn't, while
Morrison would speak and couldn't — Fog ! And in
the midst was Mr. Lawton, neat, not too smart, in
perpetual conference with Hepson, gravely forbidding
us to give the children pennies, cautioning us against
treating when treated, reminding us that to give favours
was a corrupt practice-t— I see his tired, handsome face as
he sits with Hepson.

" Ward four is very bad, you must double the open-
airs there, Hepson — and I can't speak at the Drill Hall
at eight fifteen if I'm to be at St. Catherine's Schools at
nine — you must recall that poster, it's too thick — the
Burglars' Cabinet, I mean — Lord Wynfleet will lend two
cars for the day "

Fog ! And then Mr. Lawton, in the market-place, on
a dray. He speaks slowly, hands clasped behind him,
without notes, his face lit up by a naphtha flare. I hear
his steady voice :

" And because we are free we intend to remain free.
We will not have to lead us the men who have stolen our
schools, who have placed our women and our children in
the hands of the liquor trade, who have sat upon the
fence when we asked whether they would tax our food,
who have not even had the courage to lie. No, English-
men, you must never again trust them, never allow
them to enslave your trade any more than to enslave
Chinamen "

And I hear the roar that rises from hundreds of faces,
white, ghastly under the flares, stained by the hundred
black holes of their open, roaring throats. The sound

HAMBURY 201

rises, beats upon the four facades of the market-place,
drowns the feeble oratory in the other corner where
Sir Thomas Bondon is being heckled, for Lawton has
hit home. They sing, these open throats :

There is a golden Rand,

Far, far away.
Millionaires say they can't pay

Uore'n a bob a day ;
There Chinese toil all day
And, toiling, sadly say :
Chinee-man ho likee be

Far, far sway.

VII

But one night we were lost, in that fateful ward four.

Having set out with hazy ideas of our destination we

could not find Molton Street; questions to the natives

ised our confusion, for the Hamburyites did not

know their way, they found it by instinct. We were told

to the left for Granby Street while the Granby

■ plate showed opposite in the light of a gas-lamp;

we missed turnings, retraced our steps, sought for villas

in dark little streets where llickered the window lights

of stationers, tobacconists and cheap confectioners, of

• •-houses which Liberals dared not enter. Directed

iare, we suddenly arrived on the banks of

the Ham.

M ! ':u rick of this," I said, stopping. " Aren't you? "
41 Well, I am rather tired, Edith. "Still "

I looked at her, smiling, her eyes blade in the bad light,

I wistfully determined to go on.
M Only one day more-," she said, bravely trying to
»

■\ ! I detected a hoarseness in my

Victory? Yes, for Lawton — but did the word

.in vt hin

II I. up tor I'D minutes, Shall we? I
go al

"All right, M said Edith.

202 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

We walked along the tow-path. The night was dark;
between the gas-lamps we could not see each other's
~~faces. The river flowed very slowly, and, here and there,
where rubbish had accumulated, a film of dust made
sheets of shimmering grey satin. We went silent, and
very close together, elbows touching and intimately
conscious of solitude. Then, near a light, we found an
old stone bench. " Rest in Peace, Wanderer, and in
Peace Depart. 1787," said the inscription. We both
smiled ; Edith traced the letters with her finger.

" Come," I said. " Let us sit down for a little."

Edith did not reply, sat down, and as she did so,
shivered, for the night was cold.

" I'm glad you've come back," I said at last. " It
was a long time since you wrote."

" I ought not to have," she said, in a low voice. Her
face was averted. " But "

" But you wanted to," I suggested.

And so gently had I spoken that, after a while, she
sighed and said :

" I suppose I did." r

" I wanted you to come back, Edith, dreadfully.
Without you it was dark. But now — everything is
different. When I'm with you I feel alive, I want to
be great. Oh, I know, I'm nobody "

" You mustn't say that," replied Edith, " or you'll
never be anything. And I — I want you to be something."

"What?"

" I don't know — I want — oh, I can never talk to
you, Lucien, you — you talk so qucerly — you frighten
me."

She shivered.

" You are cold," I said. And for the first time I laid
my arm across' her shoulders, held her gloved hand.
She did not resist; indeed, I fancied that she rested
against my shoulder, that her slim fingers clasped mine.
And t§iter, as I drew her closer, I found her cheek against
my shoulder, light as a leaf upon a stream. As I looked
down I could see some loose strands of pale hair, the

HAMBURY 203

blunted edge of her foreshortened nose. She was so
near that I could feel her breathe, so near that an inclina-
tion of my head would have brought my lips to her eye-
lids, and the desire of it began to hang behind me, urging
me on, pressing my head down with soft, ghostly hands.
But some other instinct held me back, some obscure
aestheticism which forbade that I should spoil with a
concrete caress this minute most exquisite, because it
was the first.

" What am I doing? " said Edith, at last, to herself
rather than to me. Then : " I ought to be away, out
there, where the lights are "

"No, no," I said thickly; "stay here, stay here.
There is nothing out there. If all Hambury were to
become air we should be here both of us — little Dresden
Shepherdess, that is what I call you; when I hold you like
this I know that life is good."

" Life is good," said Edith. And later :

" I'm not so frightened as I was. I was frightened,
vou know."

" Of what ? "

" I don't know. You're so dark — you seem so fierce

— you look at me with your black eyes. They glow like

— and you're French. I hardly know what you mean

sometimes, when you talk about- pictures — and you're

il. Oik know what you mean."

'• !', it you know," I murmured, holding her now so
uld feel against my side the hurried beating
of her heart.

M I try to Understand. Bat you're not like the other
men I know! they say what I expect." She lau:

. " It's so easy with them, while with you, I'm
."mid that I'll not understand, when you say
; LOUt their heads — or other
things — about ieal thin-

M I never say cynieal things about you."

'* No— you thin! I'm a baby."

'* S u oof feel like a child, as I hold

you so close ? "

204 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

" You oughtn't to," she said, weakly. Then : " Yes
— I suppose I do . . . And I don't mind."

The light grew, for the heavy clouds that shrouded the
moon were slowly drifting towards the east. A white
glow oozed through them where the hidden planet hung.
I released Edith's hand, let my hand glide along her arm,
to the slim shoulder that trembled, until my fingers
touched her cheek. A shiver, a long shiver that shook
her whole body passed through her, and as she pressed
her head on my shoulder, while I caressed her cheek,
soft and smooth as the flesh of an orchid, the cloud
became as a film of grey gauze, let the deathly pale rays
of the moon silver the hair of my beloved. We sat,
thus linked, for a long time, I think, and I was so ravished
that I listened to the chimes of Hambury Church with
such indifference as may feel a prisoner for life, when the
hours ring out. We did not speak, we had nothing to
say, but I knew, as I felt my knees tremble, that every-
thing had been said, that nothing was left for us to do
save to put that everything into words.

" We must go," she said, without moving.

" We must go," I repeated.

But at last the chimes sounded ten o'clock. We
started up.

" Oh— what shall we do ? " cried Edith.

I was holding her hands, drawing her towards me.

" Edith — Edith — my darling " I murmured, in a

voice so thick, so muffled that I could hardly form my
words.

" Oh, we must go — we must go " she whispered.

She let me draw her against me, clasp her close, but she
averted her face, buried it into my coat. As she freed
herself I knelt down and, holding palms upward the
little hands, pressed two kisses into the openings of the
gloves — two long, tremulous kisses upon the scented
suede and the smooth, cold palms. Together we turned
back, and our hands did not unclasp until we saw
before us the glaring naphtha lamps of the market-
square. _

HAMBURY 205

VIII

And the next night I spoke. Canvassing was over,
so I hung near the most eastern of our two Roman Street
platforms, while Edith exchanged dignified and com-
pulsorily democratic pleasantries with Mayne, who was
now giving four to one agin the other blighter. He could
afford to, though we had to pull down a majority of
sixteen hundred and to reckon with a new vote of six
thousand, mainly in Hamburyville ; for our canvass
showed that we ought to win by at least fifteen hundred,
and on this night, the eve of the poll, a jovial, singing,
hear-hearihg crowd was perpetually expanding from our
platforjn into the High Street, then swirling back as the
tramways cleft through it to a fierce accompaniment of
bell-ringing. Twenty yards away a struggling mob was
shout in g down Sir Thomas Bondon's men, and a shrill
crowd of •eliiidi m, decked out in our red favours, screamed
and whist led them into inaudibility.
n't it great? " I said.

" Great/' said Edith, excitedly.

We were against the platform and, over our heads, the

Headquarters man, Federation, I think, boomed out

. eloquent phrases that stimulated the crowd

into cheering, fired off the morning paper's epigrams,

spurted personalities to which the crowd responded.

"The Tories scuttled when we talked Tariffs. Shall
. ? "
roared the crowd.

44 Will you have Hambury boots made by Chinese

"NO, NO— to 'ell with 'cm."

Phrase by phrase the speaker lashed them, striking
.it the ('■ until at last the mob

it into the sottg :

ro is a goldon Rand,
Far, far aw.iy. . .

But something was wrong, for he bent down to the
chairman :

206 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

" I can't go on — voice going," he said, hoarsely.

" Oh, try, sir, try," said the chairman. It was one of
the ascetic-looking, whiskered old men.

" Five minutes," said the speaker; " spoken six times
to-day." He wiped his face with his handkerchief.
I heard the old man muttering, " What's to be done ?
What's to be done ? " Then my heart began to beat,
a little vein to shiver in my left temple. The blood was
thick in my head — I remember imposing my help on
the old man — -and Mayne* advising me to " give 'em
'ell," and Edith, with a mouth that trembled and tried
to smile. And then I was on the platform, speaking
in a raucous vojee that did not belong to me, terrified,
excited — saying things I did not know I knew, to a great,
white sheet of faces full of black mouth-holes — and
when the wind blew the stench of the burning naphtha.
I spoke. I heard a roar of approval. What had I said ?
Ah, yes — I had forgotten the election, plunged into the
future — I had said that dukes were not two a penny,
but certainly two for a fully-paid share — I began to
describe Protection in France, my country — sugar at
fivepence halfpenny a pound — suits cheap at sixty
shillings — bread at twopence a pound — I saw Edith,
deadly white, with three black stains for eyes and mouth
— and Majme, grinning.

" Down with 'em — down with 'em," roared the crowd.

I spoke, and on, and on, growing clearer, calmer now,
smiling back at Edith, pointing an excited finger at her.

" They say that England's going to the dogs — it will,
if we get the tariff, for then we'll EAT the dogs." ( \\< >ar.)

For twenty minutes I spoke, and I saw Edith clap
her hands with the others, though the idd chairman
put up a deprecating hand as I ended on my " rouser."
" I've come all the way from France, boys, a thousand
miles, to tell yqu that England's the place for men —
(cheers) — that England is your privilege and your trust.
(Blank silence.) To. ask you not to let it.be chained
and starved and enslaved by a gang of blackguard
manufacturers allied with drunken squires." (Roar.)

HAMBURY 207

When at last I came down into the crowd, flushed,
mobbed by the friendly, hot bodies, I was glad, if a little
ashamed of my violence, for was not this violence the
only expression I could give to my love for this land of
freedom and silent passions, seldom unleashed ? And
Edith had slipped her bare hand into mine, gripped me
convulsively. I heard her voice :

kt It was splendid — splendid "

Was it splendid? Was this not Darkest England
I saw ? This England of elections where men yawned
vid " Principles of Liberty," and shouted if you
said " Pretty Fanny? " England, must you -wallow in
the mud sometimes, because you are a buffalo? But
I crushed down my suspicions, told myself this great
force could not be fine or gentle ; I pictured the progress
of England as that of some Roman warrior on a chariot,
racing the wind, brutal but conquering, and magnificent,
winning the race, winning. I filled my ears with the
thunder of t^he hoofs. ^

And in tne midst .of chaos we polled. Twelve hours

of terrific noise, the hooting of the cars, the songs, the

bands. For there were bands to bring up the two hundred

s on the blue-decked vans of Hardafort's brewery,

Lead the Liberal reds from the boot-factory,

and the band of tin- Ancient Order of Elephants, doubtful

one; the temperance interest wore red forvthe day;

I flowed to the ward four schools

an orange-decked drum, and interrupted polling for

while they settled the Home Rule

tion with (lie rest of the Irish interest.

One d: nost continuous din, for the tramways

tinning, crammed to the doors with people

who speechified in defiance of bye-laws, a day when

spin bine lit up Ilambury, so that a passing

its (juilt of i i reamers

and favours for the tODC of Harlequin. I seemed to

be running all the tin tiling at the same

e to make sure thai Thomson had polled, or helping

bed-ridden old 1 into a car; also I bundled our

208 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

people into the Bondon cars, having stripped off my favour
and bluffed the Tory chauffeur. I ate standing up in
the central committee-room, beside Edith, who trembled
with excitement, and Hugh who smoked, with splendid
calm, consecutive pipes, while Louisa in vain tried to
hustle him into activity.

Some little things jut out, like church-spires out of
a fog. Cloggie, who came up at six, saying that he had
polled his shrfre, Cloggie, anxious, bright-eyed, whispering
of the Repeal of the Paper Duty and the greatness of the
late Mr. Clogg — and Neville, as resigned and mild as ever,
progressing saintlike in ward four, escorted by twoscore
dirty little boys who threatened to put him in the Ham
— and Chike.

Chike ! I did not see him until ten minutes to eight.
I stood wearily with Edith at the entrance of the schools
in ward three. Only ten minutes more ! There was
nothing more to be clone, for we had either won or lost.

A few yards away, watching the door, was a very big
woman with a red face, over which fell some rumpled
grey hair.

44 Mrs. Chike," I whispered to Edith. 44 Watching for
him."

Edith laughed merrily, then murmured, 44 Poor Mr.
Chike. What a shame ! "

44 He won't poll," I said; 44 she's locked him up in the
coal-eellar, I expect, and she's watching to be sure he
doesn't escape."

We laughed again, both of us, looking into each other's
eyes; I was full of the intimacy of love. And I knew
now that Edith felt that intimacy. Yet I left her,
for I wanted to go into the station and, for the first
time, see the actual voting. An excited crowd surged
in it, mobbed the clerks, snatched the slips and filled them
in at the desks, maintaining the secrecy of their choice
by ostentatious hunchings of their shoulders and squarings
of their elbows. It amused me, this seriousness, and it
enhanced the splendour of hard, steady England.

There was a swirl in the crowd, caused by four big

HAMBURY 209

men and a load. I heard protests, an " All right, guvnor."
In a cleared space lay a large case marked Hardafort
Brewery Company, Ltd.

11 What the devil " said one of the clerks as he

stood up.

There was a breathless moment as the lid slowly rose
and there peeped out the long, ratlike nose and beady
of Chike. Then a roar of laughter and cheers as
the progressive grocer unfolded his little limbs, proudly
strode up to the table and proclaimed : " Chike, Thomas
Albert, 5 Fullerton Street."

" She kept an eye on me, she did — but she didn't
think of looking inside the empties when my pals came
for 'em — she thought I was "in the store-room gettin'
some more when they carried me out. Lor' ! " — he re-
moved some straw from his hair, — " it was 'ot in there."

" It'll be 'otter outside, ole man," said Mayne; "you
bet she saw the van and twigged it — she'd 'ave stopped
it if the police 'adn't been there."

" Lor' ! " said Chike, apprehensively, and peeped out
of the window into the night.

" Any'ow, a've done me little bit for ole Lawton."

" Four to one agin the other blighter," said Mayne,
automatically.

CHAPTER III <*

BETROTHED TO AN ENGLISH GIRI/

I

" Are you going to the count? " said Edith.

I shook my head. " No, they'll only let three people
in. Your father is- taking Hugh and Kent."

" Then there's nothing to do but wait."

" Two hours and a half at least. Where shall we go
to?"

" Oh, we can't go anywhere — I'd better find Muriel
and mother. Mother's at Roman Street, I fnink."

" Edith ! " J drew nearer, spoke in a whisper, though
the voices of the crowd would have allowed of ordinary
speech, in a deliciously guilty whisper. " Don't go-
come with me. We have time; you won't be missed;
everybody's so excited. Come with me — we'll go to the
old bench near the Ham. Look, there are the stars all
over the sky, like silver-headed nails."

" I mustn't," she said, but weakly.

" Go and find your mother," I suddenly commanded.
44 Tell her you want some air, that you're going to find
Bessie and that you'll be back in an hour "

"Rut "

" Rut of course you won't find Ressie. You'll take the
tram to Four Trees Corner; it's quite near the river, and
I'll wait for you there. We can't go together; everybody
knows you. And — if you've got a thick coat, wear it."

Edith looked at me, still hesitating; I drew closer to
her, gripped her hand.

" It may be our last chance for a long time, little
Edith."

I left her before she could reply, and as I sat in the
210

BETROTHED TO AN ENGLISH GIRL 211

tramway among the men who were returning from the
poll, I was barely conscious of their computations of
chances, their stories and oaths; even the obsessing
song :

There is a golden Rand,
Far, far. away. . .

formed but a background to my thoughts. For I knew
that this was the Day.

V

As she looked up at me, with a little fear in her misty
eyes, a tremble in her mouth, I knew that Edith had
come to me — no, that I had snatched up her light frame
and sat it in my heart upon a throne. She would come,
I knew it, she would have to come, for she could not help
it, I wanted her so much that she could not escape. I
ached for her.

Half-an-hour later we sat' together on the stone bench.

She was buried in a thick motor-coat; her head was

hooded but hat less, so that under the rough blue frieze

and the pale hair her face was in a shadow, broken only

by the depths of her darker eyes. I held in mine her

isting hand. We had been sitting in silence for

I, at first linked and peaceful, then restless,

I s at Edith I wanted suddenly to

her, crush her in my arms, mutter into her frightened

ears an avowal so (i-ry as to frighten her more. For I

Knew the quality of this love of mine; it was infinitely

tender and worshipping and yet it was cruel, it wanted

1 to hold. I loved her for her fear of me;

I wanted her to lay upon my altar a broken and contrite

heart so that I, I and no other, should heal it and make

41 I whethej: we've won," she s; ally.

41 Oh " I surprised myseli by the anger in my

44 What does if D What dors . anything

on are here^ you, with me? I've
i everythi you, my sweet." And

now I surpri If by my own gentleness.

212 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

" My sweet, my sweet," I murmured, and without con-
scious intention laid my arm across her shoulders, drew
her closer to me, pillowed her hooded head so that my
cheek rested on the harsh stuff. She did not resist. For
a very long time, I think, we did not speak; both, I feel,
were assured that the irremediable, the delicious irreparable
was achieved. Then again :

'" Edith, my darling — I said it might be our last chance
for a long time. It isn't true, it could not be true. For
you haven't come to me just to go away. Have you, my
sweet? "

The hooded head shook on my shoulder.

" I've found you — you're precious — you're like the
scent of violets- "

Edith raised- her head, looked at me, and our faces
were serious.

" Lucien, I " She faltered, then hurriedly : " Oh,

Lucien, don't look at me like that, I'm afraid — I — I
too "

" Edith," I said, very slowly, detaching the two
syllables, tremulous, wondering.

" Oh — you don't know what you're doing — other men
have said things to me, things — nice things — but you,
Lucien, oh, I don*t know, I don't understand. When you
look at me like that you make me tremble and yet I'm
glad. What am I saying? What am I saying? "

There was a ring of sorrow, shame in her last words.
It stirred me so deeply that I suddenly turned her towards
me, sat almost face to face to her, my hands on her
shoulders, looked into her eyes, and mine, I know, told
my need of her. The hood fell, her upturned face shone
white in the light of th§ moon, and her eyes were
veiled.

" Edith," I said at last ; " my little girl. My beautiful
— I love you."

I saw a little tremor convulse her lips, but she did not
move. .

" I love you," I said hoarsely. " I've loved you for
a year. That day when we stood among the almond

BETROTHED TO AN ENGLISH GIRL 213

blossom, I wanted to ask you whether you'd be my wife
— my darling, my darling."

Still she did not reply. My insistent hands drew her
towards me, and I trembled as she yielded, trembled as
she lay close against my breast. I inclined my head,
laid my cheek upon hers. And my phrases were broken
now by the intensity of my emotion.

" My darling, my love — say you will come to me —
say you'll not leave me — I love you- — I can't be without
you — my Edith, my little girl "

She did not speak, but I felt our faces move, yet^
without parting, as if they clung together, as if they
could not bear to part. Slowly they moved, and I
trembled, as my lips brushed the smooth cheek. Then I
was looking at her lowered eyelids, while my hands
knotted round her and, as if answering, she held up for
my kiss her parted lips.

Soon I had drawn her across me, seated her upon my

knees. And now she lay, nestled in my arms, with her

head upon my shoulder, silent but breathing fast. I

could feel upon my face her warm, fragrant breath. My

s travelled from her forehead, where a few golden

.<ls citing to my lips, to her cheeks, hot and feverish,

li whiteness of her neck, to her tender, yielding

mouth. As I caressed her I could feel her draw closer

to me as if some instinct bade her lose herself in the void

my love had dug in my b<

•Will you, my beloved?" I asked.

Then, at last, si d eyes that seemed immense,

rave were they and as if awed by some incredibly

joyful px li r hands climbed to my shoulders,

trembled against my neck and, as she whispered, she

lightly touched with hers my hungry, dry lips.

II

Nine bundled and eighl ! Market Square was full
from wall to wall. Righl and left, the High Street was

blocked with tramcaTS that rang their bells. There was

214 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

cheering and booing, and some blew tin trumpets, some
played the Chinamen's song on mouth-organs, and those
who had no instruments whistled or shouted. Here, on
the balcony of the Town Hall, was Mr. Lawton, the
victor, smiling broadly as he proposed the vote of thanks
to the returning officer; Sir Thomas Bondon, doing his
best to smile as he seconded ; Lady Bondon, monumental
and smiling sadly as an insulted Juno; Mrs. Lawton,
Muriel, both dead-white with weariness and excitement,
their smiles were wan. I saw them, I heard them, but
they were a Punch and Judy show, a study in smiles,
'not a group of human beings. There was nothing real,
even in the vast crowd about me, save Edith, pressed
against me, save her bare hand gripped in mine.

" You're hurting me," she whispered.

14 Do you mind ? "

" No — I don't mind anything "c

" I adore you."

Ill

Subtle is the air when,Eros flies and tell-tale the beating
of His wings. Maud understood. As I reached the gate
at St. Mary's Terrace she crossed over from Fulham
Place, and I felt a spasm of contempt when I realised
that she had been a half of the couple I saw from a
distance, publicly embracing. .

" Hullo,* Caddy. You're in the nick : I haven't got a
key an' I don't know where I live ! Got yours ? "

" Yes."

" Is that all you've got to say for yourself?" she
asked in the hall, as she pulled the chain of the incan-
descent burner. I looked at her contemptuously. This
girl — this was the girl who had inspired a passion in me !
This bold, aggressive girl with the sulky mouth, the
tumbled, crimped hair, the hat that carried too many
flowers. I read in the loose curls the embrace at' the
corner of the street — I tried, in my unjust revulsion of
feeling, to see the traces of drink on the lovely skin, for

BETROTHED TO AN ENGLISH GIRL 215

I hated her and hated myself for ever having cared for
her. ^

" 'Spose you saw me with Bert," she blurted out.
" Well — and what about it? "

I made no reply, and she lashed herself into anger.

" 'Spose I've got a right to' go about with who I like.
Why, you must be barmy if you think I've got nothing
better to do than hang about until me noble lord pleases.
I'm not so gone on your face as you think, I can tell you."

My eyes strayed about the wall, and I thought how well
vulgarity sat on Maud in tins setting of red-papered wall;
there were dusty hats on the stand ; the buffalo horns were
dirty. And still she raged at me, angry because I was
not angry, because she could not hold me whom she did
not v

M . . . I've had about enough of it, I can tell you,
Mr. Frenchman, what with your airs and graces, and ma
turning up her eyes, and pa trying to get me off with
•nilkman. I've had enough of the whole blooming
shoot and I'm going on the halls. What do you say to
that .

* 1 don't care." w

"Oh, you don't, don't you? Well, it's . Bert who's
going to get me a show. How's that ? "

M 1 don't care whal BerJ does."

" Not so much of your Berts. Mr. Burge, please."

She pushed hair and hat away from her eyes and, for

one moment, looked intoxicated. " Bert may not be

one of your extra-su]>< lline A 1 quality toffs, but he's a

gentleman, he is, and tin re's no flies on him. No, don't

you try that on," she eried, barring the passage with

bed arms as I tried to go upstairs; " you've got

mi me this time I've had enough of your

:. uck, all your 1 ngabQUl star.s, and ffo

and all your beastly goings-on. D'you think I don't

it's what? "

And thin, f terrible mini:' . I aw thai Maud

did !.• bat, thai she knew it with a terrible

clarity which had so far been spared me, that she had

216 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

leapt to the heart of fact while I wandered over London
in my desperate loneliness, that nothing was too pitiful
for her to make it ugly. But — but, what was this ?

" I know all about you, Caddy ; while you've been
messing round me you've made goo-goo eyes at the
Lawton girl. I know her. The one with a face like a
drv-cleaned sheep "

" Silence ! "

I was deafened by my own voice and, trembling, I
stood in front of Maud with a raised, clenched first. And
she stood there too, afraid but laughing, hysterically, as
if she could not stop. Then I heard a mild voice, felt
at last the cold air from the open door, realised that some
of her words and my reply must have reached the ears
of Mr. Hooper, who stood at the door. I heard stirrings
in Lulu's room, and Mrs. Hooper, in a red-flannel dressing-
gown, appeared at the top of the stairs.

" What's this ? " Mr. Hooper was saying. " What's
the meaning of this ? I can't have you quarrelling with
my daughter in the middle of the night."

" Quarrelling ! " screamed Maud. " I'm just telling
him off, the "

" Maud ! " cried Mrs. Hooper, as if she had been
stabbed. " Oh, Mr. Cadoresse, what have you been
doing?"

" Mind your own business, ma," said Maud, savagely.

" I cannot allow you to speak to your mother like
that," said Mr. Hooper.

" I'll say what I like. And if you don't like it you
can do the other thing."

Maud stamped, again gave her hair and hat that
intoxicated shove. The door of her room opened, and,
very cautiously, Lulu put her head out. I saw her
vacant, frightened eyes, discovered that she put her hair
in curlers. And, suddenly, irresistibly, I began to laugh,
and I laughed more as I looked at Mr. Hooper, severe
and shocked, at the tearful figure in the red dressing-gown.

" You seem to be enjoying yourself," said the tragic
Hooper.

%

BETROTHED TO AN ENGLISH GIRL 217

" Oh " I gasped at last, " it's just like one of Lulu's

novelettes."

There was a crash as Lulu slammed the door. Maud
threw me a sulky look.

" Oh — so it's Lulu too, is it? Not even Miss Lulu? "
laud," said Mr. Hooper, with sudden force. " Go
to your room. I'll settle this with Mr. Cadoresse."

44 Shan't."

44 Do you want me to put you there and lock you in ? "

Mr. Hooper took a step forward, and Maud, after throw-
liim a look of defiance, shrugged her shoulders and
walked away. There was another slam.

44 Alfred, Alfred," moaned Mrs. Hooper, " shall I come
down?"

So. Go to bed."

" Very well, Alfred." Then, as he opened the dining-
room door, " You might turn down the light, Alfred, if
you're going to be long,"

But Mr. Hooper was past economy. In silence he lit
hut the door. We stood face to face on either
Ol the table.

14 Now, Mr. Cadoresse, I am waiting for an explanation."

I considered the dining-room, the common sideboard,
bad oils. The only remark I could think of was : " Why
do you keep the salad dressing in a bottle? "

M Well ? "

M There's no explanation."

44 No explanation ? When I find a gentleman quarrelling
in ti. - in the hall, with my daughter— at mid-

night? I heard her say things which, I trust, are not
true "

This little shocked man in the shabby frock-coat, whose
bin. re no longer mild, did not seem ridiculous.

I bad an English imp..

44 I am le such a noise," I said.

41 ^ i.ut why was there a noise? I am entitled

to knov

4* Well/' I s;u'l' botly, 44 if you do want to know, Maud
is jealou

218 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

44 Jealous ? My daughter jealous of you ? May I ask
what your relation is with her, that she should be jealous ?"

44 There's no relation."

"Indeed?"

Mr. Hooper was not ironical. I saw, as he stroked his
bald patch, that he was honestly trying to understand
the mystery. I determined to help him.

44 Look here, Mr. Hooper, here is the truth. When I
first came here, I — I admired your daughter, I told her
so — and -she did not seem to mind. But she did not —
respond "

44 Respond ? You mean that she did not care for
you?"

44 That's it," I said, realising that my original intentions
would never occur to him.

44 All this going on behind my back ! But why is she
jealous if she does not care for you? "

Then I lost control of my tongue. I, Lucien Cadoresse,
betrothed to the perfect Edith, was7 not going to be
catechised by this futile creature. In one breath I gave
him my opinion of Maud, suppressed the details of my
pursuit of her, but painted her as a philanderer, a harpy.

Mr. Hooper did not speak for at least a minute. Then :

44 1 accept your explanation for what it is worth. I
make no inquiries as to my daughter's conduct. Good-
night."

But I was not going to let the matter rest there. If
I had still been a Frenchman I wouldi have spared him
nothing; I would have given him every detail of my vain
but degrading courtship — I would not have let him ignore
the existence of Bert Burge ; I would have flung into his
face my knowledge of his desire that Maud should marry
Saunders, or 44 Signor " Colley, or me, or anybody. Yet,
some new cleanliness, decency invaded me; I had been
French enough to attack Maud generally while defending
myself : that was done, but now I was English enough to
44 play the game " — not to give her away.

44 One moment," I said. 44 You will not be surprised,
Mr. Hooper, if I say that I^nust leave your house."

BETROTHED TO AN ENGLISH GIRL 219

Mr. Hooper looked at me with an expression of mingled
dismay and resignation in his mild eyes. A compromised
daughter and a lost " paying guest " in a quarter of an
hour 1

" Well," he said, reluctantly, " I suppose if you feel "

Then, with an access of dignity : " Perhaps that will be
the best thing to do." A note of genuine regret came
into his voice : " We shall be sorry to lose you."

And I respected him. He had found dignity. This

absurd, elderly clerk, despite his shopman's frock-coat,

his petty mind, found it in that wonderful reserve of the

ish, in their repose. Somehow Mr. Hooper could

the music even when it consisted in such a tune as

venty-seven bob a week."

" I shall pay a full week and leave to-morrow," I said.

W shook hands silently, and I think we were both

sorry that our ease should be broken into by one whom

even her father could not hold blameless. As I went to

my room there intruded into my regret a feeling that I

was not blameless either, that I had not played in the

encounter the part of a Galahad. Borne on the pinions

of my love, I hated m\ -s. If for ever having pursued such

a one- as Maud, and others of her kind. I knotted my

hand rj I felt slf-contempt rather than remorse.

out into the hlaek garden, and as I raised my

Minds I was filled with the thought that comes

idom to men, so often to w< -men when at last they

I mourn the loss of the tot freshness which they

to (lie beloved : " Oh — why was it so ? Why

1 you not he the tot, the only one? Why, my

could you. riot have come before, first of all,

e all, alone of all women, my Edith? "

IV

I ti face down upon my bed. Edith! As

Ice the pillow from which my breath

.ply into my face, the ugliness of the past

half-hour disappeared as a dissolving view. I ceased to

220 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

think of Maud and her harsh vulgarity, of her irrelevant
mother and sister, of Hooper and his dignity. The
Hoopers became as actors on a stage ; the ugliness of their
association receded until, on the blank screen of my mind,
there was room for the ever-better denned figure of the
Dresden Shepherdess.

Little Edith, I saw you in that minute. The acute
clarification of my mind recreated you as you were, your
cheek upon the pillow, your mouth as an open rose, and
your hair spread about you as if a cornfield had been
turned to molten, flowing gold. I felt admitted. I had
penetrated all the arcana of England ; I was as other men
and more, for I loved, was loved. \ Love had pointed the
way. And as I lay in my beatitude I felt something
upon my face, something fine that troubled me, clung to
my eyes and lips; I tried to brush it away, but it clung,
almost defiantly. I seized it at last. It was a hair.
But, as I negligently pulled at it, it seemed very long —
and suddenly I knew whose it was. I leapt from the
bed, gripping the* precious token with two fingers, lit
the gas. I placed the hair upon my outspread black
coat, where it lay, very long, glittering. Oh, wonderful
golden hair, you were She. Fine, pale and yet delicately
brilliant, you were the North, its imagination, its melan-
choly and its shy tenderness. You came to me, to whom
the South had given naught save the crude glare of the
sun and the bibulous ecstasy of passion, you came soft
and grateful as the dew, master of all beauty and wist-
f illness. You were fine as a razor edge, and as a razor
edge you were the bridge over which I, the faithful, would
glide into Paradise.

PART III
CHAPTER I

THE ENCOUNTER WITH THE SPIRIT
I

When I look back upon the early months of my engage-
ment I wonder how it came about that I accepted so calmly
my new condition. These three and a half years of
England must have anglicised me more than I knew : I
had long intended to become an Englishman, to marry
an English girl, and now that I had come closer to the
English ideal the fact of being betrothed to an English
girl was not so extraordinary as I had expected. True,
triumph had come, nay efforts had been successful; I
knew that I was going to do more than marry a daughter
of the greatest race, but the feeling was not baptismal, as
I had expected : it was confirmatory.

I think that several facts militated against the abstract

triumph of England through an English girl. In earlier

. when the I i rl was a hypothetical figure,

: I knew only that she would be fair and pure, the

marrying of her was coldly idealistic; in those days the

merely one part of my broader career,

rentual naturalisation, a partnership — a

in Parliam< rri ; the girl did not exist and was therefore

i Edith came, and she was not the English

the pale pink cheeks,

and the fair hair of the menial picture, but

•ill. She
was not an English girl, sh<- wa just, Edith, whom I
would ha L, I think, if sh<- had been an American

221

222 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

or a Russian, if only she had still been Edith. I forgot
her great English quality because she ceased to be a
representative of her country; she herself assumed the
purple, and it was her I loved.

Moreover, three and a half years of upward strivings,
of intercourse with the English, of attempts to speak,
dress, think like them, of watching their games, reading
their books and courting their votes, had worked a change
in me. Though still a Frenchman with a marked foreign
accent, I had gained repose. I spoke less and not so-loud ;
I had my hair cut shorter, but not too short; I did not
wear a bowler with a morning coat and no longer bought
aggressive " teddy-bear " suits. I was beginning not to
say, not to do : I was becoming English. * Nobody will
ever know how much concentration was required of me
by the English attitude, for I was secretive; my labours
were done in the dark, as I always wanted to emerge
suddenly and surprise the English by my identification
with them : the French frog wanted to swell in the dark
until he became a John Bull.

The frog often thought he would burst in the process
of swelling. I have still a black copy-book which might
have been tear-stained if I had filled it as a small boy, so
impossible did it seem to me to remember the English
said association, not association, that villages had no
mayors, and that St. James and Moses, when possessively
inclined, were St. James's in the former case, Moses' in
the latter. But I clung to my book, my passport to Eden,
read it almost every day as a priest, eager for Paradise,
reads his breviary ; when it grew and threatened to become
as all-pervading as Mr. Hooper's Five Thousand Facts
and Fancies, I found it more precious, more necessary.
For it was the record of my efforts and glowed with mem-
ories, memories of a snub due to my having pronounced
Caius College " Kayus," of triumph when I alone, in a
wide company, had known the statusof a Bishop Suffragan.
The black book was my record, and I was proud to think
that I no longer made everyday entries of new errors.
One week I learned nothing, which was wonderful ; the
following I made one mistake, but I was human enough

THE ENCOUNTER WITH THE SPIRIT 223

to cheat myself and to forget to enter it. I am still
uncomfortable when I remember that occasion, but it
is too late to atone : I have forgotten my blunder and
can do no more than hope that I would not make it
again.

So far did I go in my neophyte fury that I altered my
voice. This had too long been high and, when I was
excited, shrill ; Barker and Merton would, on those occa-
sions, compare it to tin whistles and bicycle bells, not
very good similes, which humiliated and angered me. I
began to study the^ English voice. It is deep, low, and
there is about it a muffled quality, a quality of average-
ness that is national ; it is neither so high, produced from
the anterior palate, as is French, nor so throaty as German.
I determined to lower my pitch, to produce from the
posterior palate with a little " head " influence taken from
Hugh's Oxford voice. A bad cold made the change easy,
/or I emerged from it with a new, low voice, which I
ascribed to " a permanent lesion of. the vocal cords."
The new, low voice had nothing to do with lesions : it
l>een manufactured in seven evenings, after mid-
night, in quiet squares. After I "had guiltily accepted
ympathy of everybody who heard me, I found that
tile new voice was popular; Muriel called it " wood-wind "
and preferred it to my former " brass band," and Edith
said that she didn't care what instrument it recalled so
long as its tune did no! alter.

• Edith was franker than she had been. She no

r feared me so much and could afford to laugh at me

a lit i, as a man plays with his very

big dog; though less articulate than I wished she was

abl- now to say what she meant, to be gracefully arch,

irect and cril It did not hurt me overmuch

i she criticised me, for she had always ready on my

arm an anesthetic hand. But tl re infrequent

Ii'. l'.\c for inc was made up of shynesses

.cious r< and exquisite

reticences; under the Ughl of day it wilted like a violet

<T-fieree sunshine, and it is literal to say that she

(1 the day; for once, when I tried to kiss her behind

224 tup: making of an englishman

a great clump of lilac in the garden of an untenanted
house, she whispered rather than said : " Oh, no — the day
— the cruel day." But she found some sacrcdness in
her love which it was reverent she should hide : once, in
the coffee-room of an inn at Harrow, I came in suddenly
to find her softly caressing the grey felt of my Homburg
hat. As I came up behind her she wheeled about, and
her face was flaming with shame when I took her in my
arms.

Such moments are immortal, and I think that while I
have a body there will be graven on some tablet of my
brain the picture of .the slim girl whose hair the sun
made into his brother, as she caressed the hat which had
covered the head she loved. It was significant of Edith
that she should be bold with the symbol and shy with
the object, for she did not with it have to fear judgment
or response. She loved Love and she feared it. She
was woman, she courted love, longed for it, and yet
withdrew from it, eternally elusive, eternally desirous,
assured of victory in capture, fearing capture and welcom-
ing it in a turmoil of emotion. And along the windings
of the rose-grown path I stumbled, adjusting the rougher
male gait of me^to the tortuous twistings of this woman-
spirit, reading assent in its refusals, certainty into its
doubts, bewildered and ever looking(for a truth of feeling
which could not exist until I created it. And over all
this searching, this analysis and the cold blood thereof,
over the thrust and parry of love-making, the jugglery
of its subterfuges, I threw the golden mantle of Love
itself, the mantle so thick that once under it one cannot
see the world, so thin that the illumined eyes that gaze
through it can see the world and beyond.

I loved her. I needed her. She was of my essence
and should be mine.

II

For I had " intentions." I had not idly slid into the
relation which existed between us. though my intentions
formed after rather than before the night on the banks

THE ENCOUNTER WITH THE SPIRIT 225

of the Ham, when Edith for the first "time offered me her
tremulous lips. The retirement of Escott, the chief
accountant, had resulted in a general post at Barbezan's ;
Barker had been made second in the accountant's office,
while my own duties were Split with a junior typist, so
that I became second in the Exports, immediately under
Hugh, retaining the foreign correspondence. My salary
was raised %o two hundred a year : I had every reason to
expect that the admission of Hugh to partnership when
he married Louisa would result in my becoming head of
the Exports with a salary of three hundred and fifty or
four hundred pounds. Sometimes I encouraged wilder
1 reams of a simultaneous admission to partner-
ship of Hugh and myself, of two weddings in one week;
that was uncertain, but after all I was a Cadoresse, the
son of the old founder, and betrothed to the daughter
of Barbezan's master. Why not?

There ran thus a faintly mercenary trail over my love,
but I do not want to blacken myself : I saw that it was
a good stroke to marry my employer's daughter, but I

never planned to marry her as such. Well aware
that " the little God of Love " cannot " turn the spit,
spit, spit," I knew that to marry Edith I needed money;
determined to make it, but I knew that I loved
Edith, not Lawton's daughter, that I would have taken
her as she was and asked her to share my two hundred

r and my rooms in Cambridge Street. For affluence

led me to gratify my growing desire for comfort.

I had now two rooms on the third floor, from the front

windows of which I could lee the gay little public-house,

1 t }\c sunset ; as I had furnished
I me but twelve shillings a week,

ling nominal attendance andjh-- use o! a modern

room. I . for the furniture,

rl h, was mine, and doubly mine because

h had chosen the chintz for m . my curtains

and my tea set. I think those pure] >ugh1 us closer

than would I, avowal <>r any 01 intimate

are tl iong which one i^ t<> live.

226 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

" I wish I were buying'it for us," I whispered behind
the shopman's unobtrusive back ; " it would tie us up." '

" Tie us up? " said Edith, genuinely puzzled.

14 Yes — I hardly know how to say it, but things like
chintz, which one has chosen together, which one lives
with, which are — the witnesses — you see ? "

" Yes, I see," said Edith, softr^.

" The chintz is not you, and not me, it's We, it becomes
We. It becomes so usual that one can't think of oneself
outside it. It's like an atmosphere which two people
need to breathe. If we had that chintz we could never
part "

" Until it wore out and I went to buy chintz with
somebody else "

" Yes — but never again the same chintz."

"No," said Edith, with sudden gravity*; " never the
same."

And, behold, as I write I see not the pink rosebuds on
white of that very early purchase, but a newer chintz,
green leaves on a black ground. Shall I rejoice or sorrow
because one never buys the same chintz twice?

Edith enjoyed the furnishing even more than I did.
We had grave discussions as to whether we should buy
anew sitting-room table or the second-hand and ponderous
Victorian tripod. The first was cheap, but the second
was in the hands of a diplomatic German Jew who had
drawn blushes into Edith's cheeks by persistently calling
her " Madam." And she calculated cretonne widths for
curtains, achieving unexpected (and invariably incorrect)
results when trying to determine whether foUr-feet width
at three and nine was cheaper for seven-feet curtains than
three-feet width at two and eight. She sat at a table
in a Clapham A.B.C., scribbling upon the back of a letter,
and I laughed as she despairingly pushed the hair away
from her wrinkled forehead. Her one regret was that
she would never see the rooms. When invited to come
alone, or to bring Muriel, Hugh, everybody, she shook
her head.

" No — I couldn't. I couldn't come alone, could I ?

THE ENCOUNTER WITH THE SPIRIT 227

And if I brought the others, they'd think — well, they'd
think it funny of me, they'd suspect. And you don't
want them to do that? " There was a note of appeal
in her voice.

" No, they mustn't, not yet; they shall soon."

" Not yet. Oh, please, not yet." There was appeal in
her eyes now.

I asked " why? ", but I knew. Edith had something to
hide, felt guilty, and she hugged her guilt because of the
romance it carried. Incapable of the dishonest, she
clung to the secret; if questioned she would have con-
fessed, but, unquestioned, she liked to bask in private
knowledge, to feed her imagination with pictures which
her mother could not see. Her mind was in search of
romance ; starving, it seized upon anything that touched
me, gilded it, and, having gilded it, hid it as a magpie
hides a spoon. She hardly knew that she did this; I
had to construct from my own inferences her delicate
mental sensuality. " I don't know why," she said ; " it
wouldn't be the same if they knew.* They mightn't like
it — I couldn't bear that. And if they liked it — - — "

"You'd be glad, darling?"

" Oh-.— glad, glad." The blue eyes shone, but not quite
gaily, and I suddenly felt a fear seize me that they wouldn't
like it, that she knew it, that we were both blinding
ourselves to the truth. " Yes, I'd be glad, but if they
did like it, they'd — talk — make jokes "

I closed my hand upon hers, crushed it, the pencil and
the envelope within my larger fist,

II They shan't know, my sweet, not un£il you choose."
I almost added : M Don't be afraid. I shan't stab the
picture you have painted," but I felt that she would
think th J, that she would be disturbed and

ion whether she were " being silly."

Silly, little Edith," I thought, and, as I thought,

grew old; " you will not always find it easy to be silly."

No, I would tell them later, when my position was better

assured. Should I, by haste, spoil tin- glamour of early

when haJ for hands? No;

228 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

rriy precocious sybaritism told me already that this was
the most wonderful experience in the world, that I must
not urge on love to its fulfilment, for here was the time
when it tried its wings. Rather would I let it perch
upon my wrist, smile at its awkwardness and find it
graceful; I would have everything love can give, its
doubts, its timidities, its half avowals; I would have its
romance, its sentimentality and its languor. When the
time came for love to fulfil itself I would open my arms
to it, but not an emotion should be stolen from me : an
emotion marks for evermore, and comes again nevermore.
I was no Goth to hurry it.

Ill

Reasons other than these rather neurotic delicacies
helped to hold me back from a blazoning forth of my
passion. I saw the Lawtons with new eyes : these people
were not so strange because I could conceive of a time
when they would no longer be strangers, and, as I under-
stood them better, I found points of difference where I
had found, if not similarities, at least an absence of
dissirnilarities. I knew them to be aloof, self-centred,
"islands in an island," but, I had not taken the measure
of the hatred they felt for interference, of the protection
they afforded to the rights of their souls. Muriel, perhaps,
awakened me first from my dreams.

" I like Neville," she said ; " he's a good sort."

" Yes, and rather handsome."

" Handsome ? Well, I suppose he is, in a pocket Adonis
sort of way. Wavy hair, blue eyes and not too much
chin — it's a smart face, rather. But I don't mean that;
he's decent, you know, having taken on his father's debts,
the old rotter ! "

She gave me a full history of the " old rotter," who
was apparently not much worse than his " rotter " an-
cestors. Neville was* the last of his line : great-grandson
of a country gentleman who rode to hounds, diced and
put up a hundred guineas for cricket matches; grandson

THE ENCOUNTER WITH THE SPIRIT 229

of a fashionable Harley Street physician, who would
have his horses and money to pay for his son's Grand
Tour, and son of a commercial agent who lived at Brixton
so as to be able to afford a car, he was on the step of the
social stair below which is the working-class. The last
of his line, loaded with its follies and devoid of the energy,
the life-lust which had made them possible.

"That's just it," Muriel summed up; " they're .going
down, those Nevilles, and Archie's got nothing in him,
except to be decent. He's got no spirit and he wants
to do the handsome thing : that's enough to smash him
up, for he's not strong enough to afford it."

" What will become of him? "

" How do I know ? - He might have a stroke of
luck."

I Fe might get married to a clever woman," I suggested.

" He might. Of course, he'd be easy to manage, he's

a pussy-cat."

The mysteries of feminine classifications were unveiled;

M pussy-cat," meek, kindly and pretty; the

ugly, leering men were " toads," and I fastened the word

re " worms " too, creatures as mild as

"-the pussy cats," but in every case nasty; creeping,

timals.

AMI." I said at last, "why'don't you marry the

hi dun him into a Blue Persian."

The " triangular," grey-green eyes turned away from

riel replied, and her voice; was thin and cold:
"I without any hurry, she began to

l.i it no longi r of the thin ice I had broken.
I bhii her.

I was snub! Hugh where he would

i he married I
'" \v. Mi te for sports I'd live in the country,

if I " I'm sure you would like a ride

in the morning and you could get up from Epsom or

I Hugh.

" Yc> he town, I don't, do you ? "

230 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

" I'm sure I don't know," said Hugh.

" Of course, you'd like some parts better, wouldn't
you ? Kensington ? "

" Got nothing against it," said Hugh. *

" Or Hampstead, though it's far out."

" Perhaps it is," said Hugh.

" But I hear they're going to build a new tube. Have
you heard that ? "

" Can't remember," said Hugh.

I went on at great length, analysed the merits of
Bayswater; " I'll tell you the name of a good agent," I
volunteered, remembering the melancholy man who had
given Maud and me an order to view.

" Thanks," said Hugh.

There was a silence, and I gathered that Muriel was
looking at me coldly, that Mr. Lawton, who leaned
against the mantelpiece, was staring over my head. On
Edith's face I could see a very slight perturbation ; I
knew there was something wrong, but what? And the
Lawtons did not tell me : Mr. Lawton was the first to
speak again, asked me whether I thought the Licensing
Bill went far enough'. I might never have known what
I had done, for the Lawtons never told : it was not for
them to interfere with me by telling me. By degrees
only, and from Edith did I gather what I did.

44 You see — they're like that — if you're interested they
think — well, I hardly like to say, only it feels like inter-
fering." Edith, too, could not tell ; it was only because
she loved me that she hinted. Yet she helped me to see
the English resenting my interest in their affairs, the
influence I wanted to acquire over their course; she
showed me that Hugh might not know where he wanted
to live, but he didn't want me to tell him; he did not
want my help to find a house-agent; he had far rather
make a bad bargain and make it himself than suffer
intrusion into his business. And that remark to Muriel
was dreadful : it was, Edith regretfully confessed, enough
to wreck the chances of the match, for Muriel was going
to marry her man herself, not to be taken by the hand

THE ENCOUNTER WITH THE SPIRIT 231

and given unto him until the wedding-day. Sometimes
Lgrew angry.

" I think they're very conceited," I said.

" No, no, they really aren't," Edith pleaded ; " it's not
that. I hardly understand them myself, but they aren't.
They don't brag, do they? "

I had to agree they did not brag, remembering Hugh's
account of his career at Oxford, but maintained my
position.

" It's not conceit," said Edith, " but they don-'t like

to be corrected, told things. They want to be let alone;

you should hear Hugh sometimes, not often, when he's

alone with me ; he says he's an awful duffer in business.

not, is he ? "

44 Oh — no," I said. Then I found a very slight frigidity
in Edith's voice. I had not been enthusiastic enough :
therefore I had criticised.

" Of course he's not a duffer," she said. " But he
says he is, and he means it ; he doesn't think he's any good."

M Then why won't he be helped? Docs he think I'm
a duffer?"

44 Of course not," said Edith, indignantly; " he thinks
a lot of you. He says you're smart; he's said it several
."
Hut then why won't he let me tell him something
I ? " I asked, and was still in the fog.

44 I don't know. He's like that, perhaps we're all like
that. We want to be let alone — perhaps we don't want
to be improved. Silly, isn't it ? "

\\ '<■ laughed together, and the chill passed away.

"I'll tell you how I see it, Edith," I summed up).

41 The English are always saying, 44 I'm not mtfbh, but,

I ood as you."

ths chief preoccupation, in those days, was that I

:<1 make upon her people so good an impression that,

when the time came, our engagement would be agreed

to. She was always coaching me, at our stolen meetings ■

"NOW, mind, don't tell father that the Liberals ape
bound to break up into Moderates and Radicals. Oh,

232 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

yes, I know it's true, that you've got a dozen parties in
France, and perhaps it's true that we'll have them here
too, but he's — well, I can't tell you," but he doesn't like it."

" Has he said anything? "

** He hasn't; you don't expect him to, do you? "

" How are you to tell if he doesn't say something? "

" Oh, Lucien, how silly you are." Edith squeezed my
arm as we sat together in one of those secluded corners
of Kcw Gardens where lovers go to. " We don't say
things, I suppose, at least not like you."

" I suppose not," I said, rather gloomily, and I realised
that there were portions of the English psychology which
I had not explored. I am not sure that I have even now
explored it all, that I know the subtle reactions of national
upon personal characteristics. In those days I was
haunted by the problem : " How does one become popular
among the English ? "

" Oh, you're doing it very well," said Edith, cheerfully.
" I'm sure they like you ; even if you do rub them up the
wrong way sometimes. You see," she added, with a
sweet, confidential smile, " they know you're French."

" Indeed ? " I was rather angry. " They make allow-
ances for me ? You mean they don't expect me to behave
properly ? "

" Lucien ! "
- " I understand," I said, in a hard voice, "I seem to
remember things — I remember what Muriel said when
I tpld her that I didn't see why one might bet on a soccer
match but not a rugger match. Do you know what she
said? " I went on, more angrily than ever. " She said :
4 Oh, you can't understand, you're French.' That . is to
say, she looks down upon me, she thinks I don't think as
a gentleman "

" She doesn't." There was a shrill note in Edith's
voice, and I felt that I was on the edge of a quarrel, for
the sweet face was inflamed, the lips were compressed.
I had touched sacred things. " She doesn't mean any-
g of the kind. Of course, you can't feel like — being
French, you "

THE ENCOUNTER WITH* THE SPIRIT 233

44 Ah, you too, Edith ! " I laughed bitterly. " You too.
You. feel I'm an intruder, you think I can't see things
properly because I can't see them as you do." I knew
I was hurting her, but I had to go on. 44 What am I,
after all ? I'm a stranger, a foreigner — a dirty foreigner
as they call. us in the City. Do you think I don't take
baths ? I suppose you think I eat frogs — you're looking
for my wooden shoes "

44 Lucien ! "

But the pathetic note in her voice did not move me,
I was too angry to respect the tears in her eyes.

44 What do you want? A flat-brimmed topper? Or
shall I shrug my shoulders and scream 4 Mon Dieu ' ?
Shall I? Yes — look — look,^ watch me shrugging my
.shoulders." , ^

As I write I am two men. The writer is calm, almost
taciturn, owns a bulldog and this morning's Times — but
the other, the dead one, is a dark young Frenchman who
stands in Kew Gardens, near the plantation ; he faces a
slim, golden-haired girl, blue-clad against the grey-blue
sky. And while she clasps her -hands together, while E

roll down her flushed cheeks, he shrugs his shoulders
again and again, waves his hands; he grins, he laughs
maniacally, he is maddened by his sense of injury, by
his sense fk exclusion, he feels like a pariah dog driven
away with stones and sticks from the homes of men.
And all that because he is not an Englishman, because
the BngMsh won't accept him for one.

1. . Lucien," Edith wailed. She put out a trem-

bling hand. My shoulders st ill .work, d convulsively; I
could not stop. I hey shrugged naturally, and I laughed.
I Id not restrain the hysterical ring of my laughter.
I thrust the hah away from my forehead, the movement
of my shoulders beean id suddenly I saw myself

became cool, then conscious that I had done
rrible thing: I had hurl her, for Ihc first time made
her cry.

i i li — I,** I Altered, " [—what have I done?"
hand was still extended. I l<<ok« d round hurriedly;

234 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

there was no one near us. I led Edith towards a group
of chairs ; she followed, still weeping, but quite silently.
There we sat for several minutes, while I held and fondled
the little, quivering hand. At last she ceased to cry,
looked at me with immense, tragic eyes.

" Edith," I said, gravely, " can you forgive me? Can
you ever forget this; care for me again?"

She pressed my hand hard, but did not speak.- A last
sob escaped her.

" I don't know what seized me— I lost my head, I acted

like a cad "

. "Dear, no "

" I did. I lost my temper, and then I lost my head.
I was so angry because the English wouldn't have me —
and I did just the things that make them turn me away."

" I won't ever turn you away," said Edith, in a low
voice. " Never — Lucien."

We looked at each other sadly, rich in experience now,
and I vaguely felt that the hateful incident had united
as much as it parted us, for I had ceased to be the mag-
nificent, romantic Lucien Cadoresse; I had shown myself
as a human and weak thing; because I was weak the
mother in Edith was coming out to fondle and heal me.

" I understand what you feel," she said. Then, gently,
as if she reproved a child : " You mustn't let yourself go,
dear; I know it's hard, but you must be patient, you
must learn. If you want to be like us — I don't know
why you want to — you must be very quiet. You will,
dear, won't you ? "

I pressed the hand. Then :

" I hardly know how to explain. You're the splendid
people of the earth, for me. You're the handsomest
race, you're strong, and yet gentle; you never swerve^
from your purpose, you never know when you're beaten,
and if you are beaten you take it well.* You're truthful,
honourable — I want to be like you "

" I know, dear — I know "

" And I can't quite — I'm excitable, and a sort of
despair seizes me, for I feel I'll never be like you, never
be one of you "

THE ENCOUNTER WITH THE SPIRIT 235

" Never mind, dear, if you don't. But you will, you
will."

I looked long at the lovely rosy cheeks, the glittering
hair, the blue eyes that met mine so indulgently. Then,
after a quick glance to the right and left, I bent down,
pressed my lips to the back of the smooth hand, pressed
them long, humbly, hopefully, as if by the act of worship
I cleansed myself of all those traits which made me an
alien. As if my feeling had passed into her body Edith
softly laid her other hand upon my head. Gently she
stroked my hair, and I was soothed; I wanted her to
take my head upon her breast and, with almost imper-
ceptible caresses, smoothe all my pain away. At last
she spoke.

" Come, dear, don't think about it — let's go and see
.the orchid^.*'

We went into the hothouse. Though the air outside
was warm, here was another warmth. I closed the
double glass doors and, for some moments, stood inhaling,
taking in through the pores of my skin the heavy, hot
moisture. Before my eyes were the palm trees, the
bamboos, the fat, crawling and gliding plants with the
thick leaves that were soft and dank as wet flesh. Climb-
ing about a post was some tropical string hung all over
with fierce, purple blossoms, and there were squat growths
that wanted to burst -out of their own bosoms, so con-
1 were they with their cribbed energy. The yellow
of the waterllowers stared out of the pool.

We itood side by side in the steamy haze, at the foot

of the bamboos that reared up like the gouty fingers of

some Malay giant, and as we breathed our lungs were

filled with the oppressive air, air hot and languorous,

laden with the scents of herb thai rots in the water, of

Dos thai fight for predominance. Winn the doors

: did QOl move: it slunk about

ing our hoes with Ddoist velvet, and as we

walked it gave way like some deep cushion, closing behind

and stifling us. The wildness of the jungle was in the

, of the Sowers, while the swum}) spoke, drawled

out some contemptuous message tlirough the reek of the

236 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

wet earth. It was the most ancient earth, fed of the
dead it had swallowed alive, and the wetness of its giant
tongue lay over its black clots.

We passed a tree all edged with the fire of scarlet cones ;
about the base of another the moss was rising like a
green and never ebbing tide ; there was a mop of streamers
so fine and so pale that no mermaid seen through shallow
water could have trailed behind her as she swam a greener
golden mane. We did not, we could not speak, though
I heard the voices, the Cockney voices of other couples ;
we could not criticise, we had to feel, and the suck of the
jungle was about our feet. At last we stopped in front
of an orchid that stood alone. Upon a thick stalk it
carried green sepals that glittered as paintqd metal,
sepals that opened to hold the pale rose flowers. One
I remember, large as a man's hand ; its edges curled back
to show that the rosiness of the rim melted by incredibly
fine gradations into white absolute; from its heart pro-
truded a long -red pistil.

" Look," I whispered.

Edith gazed at the thing, then I felt her draw back.

" Oh— - — " she murmured. " It's lovely — but — I'm a
fool, I'm afraid of it."

I understood what Edith felt, for I suddenly knew what
this thing was; I remembered what I had read of the
fly-eater. I saw that its lower edge hung like a lip, that
its upper edge was^ without a curl ; I saw that it was not
a flower but a mouth, a white mouth, with a long red
tongue. And as I looked at it I fancied that I saw it move,
move with indomitable deliberation. I put ont my hand,
and, while Edith gave a stifled cry, touched the lower lip.

A faint shudder seemed to pass through the flower,
the red tongue bent towards me, and under my fingers
some movement in the warm, white blossom. Edith
snatched at my arm.

" It's alive, it's alive," she gasped ; " come away, come
away."

But the flower did not, as I half expected, follow my
hand with its devouring white mouth. It sat upon its

THE ENCOUNTER WITH THE SPIRIT 237

green throne like a sultana on a green couch, whose, eyes
do not condescend to consider the creature that must
be her victim.

I would not move. 'The passionate scents oozed into
my brain.

" Look," I murmured ; " this is not England, this is the
earth. I smell the scents of the forests that grow in the
water, and there are snakes in the moss, poisonous insects,
plants which it is death to touch. Look, they're alive,
all of them, fighting for life — r-"

"Lucien!"

"... fighting for life, crawling and struggling and
climbing, and snatching earth and gorging themselves
with water, drinking one another's blood ! .It's India,
Borneo ! And look, how they embrace and roll, how
they kiss as they. kill. You — you're a begum — there's
jasmine in your hair. Where are your brass armlets? "

I. seized her wrist. She stared at me, and her skin
was the colour of cream, all the rose had fled from her
cheeks. My eyes, mechanically watchful, told me that
we were hidden by the bamboos. I threw both arms
about her, and as I drew her to me there was no violence
in my grasp, but a slow, resistless pressure, as if my arms
u, green streamers, cast about some ready prey.
As I kissed her warm, pallid lips, my nostrils were filled
With the steamy scents that rose about us, swathed us
in warm veils. As we kissed the jungle enfolded us,
niotio',1 ss and yet latently, violently alive.

Ih seemed to sway in my arms, did not reply when

I told her to . My bead began to swim, and I

in t face, I saw a white blur like the pale

mouth on the stalk. Then I saw her eyes dark as

th<-<e pools, and I saw them as I bent down to kiss her

i. As we ehmg together I moved, and something

touched my neck. I Leaped aside and, though it

was only a f. I bad brushed me, found that

I . Shuddering.

44 Take me away," Edith whispered. " I'm fainting— I
must go."

238 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

IV

If I could have stayed with Edith in the jungle the
spirit of England could not have touched me. The
jungle would have been too primitive, too insidiously-
sensuous to allow any gross nationalism to thrive. But
we had to struggle, in our delighted fear, away from the
seduction of the universal earth, to go back to roaring
London, to make of the jungle an episode. For I did
not see Edith very often, and then only for a few minutes
alone, or for longer periods under the eyes of those
strangers, her family. Indeed, in that year of our engage-
ment, we only escaped three times into the country, on
Saturday afternoons when Edith came to me, staggering
under the weight of a lie, an Eve driven out of Eden
and carrying her shame. But those few afternoons ex-
plained her to me, her harmony and her variety. For
me Kew had stated together her romanticism and that
of her race.

Edith had been afraid of the hothouse and its silent
inmates, while they woke in me a peculiar appetite ; that
which to me was acrid was to her merely terrifying; she
saw life as a beautiful rolling plain (the life of every day)r
with high blue mountains in the distance (the life of
romance), but she was disturbed if she met angry rocks,
red with the blood they had lost as they forced their
way through the, earth, or torrents that respected not
their banks. She wanted, as I did, adventure, not the
adventure of the wild beast that snuffs its prey and,
panting, hunts it down, but stately adventure, knights
and ladies, sacrifice, heroism, verse, song and tears.
Thus it is not wonderful that there was between us a
clash, for I am not romantic : I am lyrical ; I do not
want beautiful things to make me glow, I want to glow
when I see common things. But Edith's romanticism
was very beautiful to me. It was the romanticism of
Rossetti, or Burne- Jones, the romanticism of Dumas,
Lamartine and Walter Scott. It was cold, but cold as
are snowy mountains because they are high. Edith's
coldness was her purity, and often I lay abased before

THE ENCOUNTER WITH THE SPIRIT 239

that purity — though I loved it as a foreign, an impossible
ideal. For it cleansed me when I touched it; after I
had spoken to her I was absolved. Purity, which is so
seldom informed by charity, so often narrow, ignorant, :
harsh, intolerably cruel, caused her not to turn away
from pitch lest she might be defiled but to assume such
an attitude that she did not know the pitch was there.
Her quality was one of aloofness; it was the thi-ngs she
did not do which mattered, things that were not done
by her people. Edith was Edith first of all, but she
was also the English girl, and like other English girls
she shrank from lies, from deceit, from boasting; she
did not deny her Creator, she respected the things that
are, except those which hurt. For her hands were open
bo the world. She was of her people, calm, sober and
.nt, yet tender and ready to love, because, like them,
she placed love upon a pedestal.

" Why do you love me ? " I asked her.

" How can I tell? " Her happy smile said she did not
want to know.

M I know what I love in you — I've told you."

M Tell me again," she whispered.

" I will— always," I vowed ; " but tell -me too."

M Tc 11 me," she repeated, like an obstinate child.

I bent over her, whispered to her the eternal love poem,

full of the anxious cry of the desirous body, the greedy

<>ur for a blending of souls. But I, too, wanted to

hear her voice raised for me. I wanted my song of songs.

" I don't know wi; . ."" the said at length. " The first
time I saw you I hardly dared talk to you, but I loved

Your black eyes."

"Why?"

glowed—1 was frightened — I'd never seen eyes

•
I :Iy my eyes, thent "
Sh me a shy glance. " No, of course

not. It W8fl the things you said, things one didn't expect.
And you talked about pictures, books — people hadn't
talked to me lik< f hat befon

"I was ctift ? I aid, greedily.

240 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

" Yes, you seemed to care for mc — that was different."
As I closed my hand over hers I think I understood
her and with her all those Englishwomen who are always
seeking for something different. Noble Englishmen, I
love you, and you are not quite unworthy of your women,
but you don't love them enough. You don't tell them
often enough that you love them, you don't tell them
they're beautiful, you don't analyse and appreciate
them' as you do fine horses. Because you don't, inch by
inch, praise them, because you cannot value every colour
in their eyes, every shadow in their skin, because you can't
see that their hands are like sprays of fern, because you
can't even tell them that they are pure, gentle, devoted,
they droop.' The plant of love must be watered with
praise, with flattery. The Englishwoman withers because
you don't love her enough, and then, as Edith, she seeks
romance, the new, the strange : if it does not come to
her she dies without having ever known what she wanted.
Edith, like her sisters, wanted romance : vows that might
be false but were beautiful, high hopes doomed to disaster
and high endeavour to achieve the impossible. Her soul
cried out for wings, and because it thought I had wings
it came to me.

Perhaps I had wings, but I was also of the earth. I
confess without hesitation that the loftiness of my love did
not transmute me into a new being. Though intolerably
ashamed of past adventures, because they lacked the
fineness I had come to know, the very quality of my love
still urged me to the sources of further shame. An obscure
sybaritism drove me towards the coarse, so that I might
have contrast in my mind* when Edith stood before me
in her remoteness from all that is ugly; and on those
heights of undefined idealism the air was rarefied : I had
to come down to earth. If I had not loved Edith I could
have looked at no other woman, and I attempt no paradox
when saying that love inclines the Jieart to universality.
I loved her, was so saturated with her that I radiated
love. She became the intermedium between womankind
and me.

THE ENCOUNTER WITH THE SPIRIT 241

If I loved Edith as a stranger, I loved her more as
she became a familiar thing, as her mind responded to
my efforts. I had guessed at its reserves, and now it
began to unfold, for I had %o win her trust to gain it.
She was not expansive ; her confidences were not akin to
a li<;ht woman, whom any man may approach, but to
some sleeping princess between whom and the knight a
thick forest interposes. And now I began to see her,
for I had ridden through the forest, climbed the castle
stairs. It was July. We sat in the shadow of a hedge
in a field between Harrow and Pinner. The rutty little
path, broken by stiles, ran across the field, so that the
many who passed, working men looking for a place to
sleep in, hurrying daughters of the farmers making for
home from the Harrow shops, and young couples, arm-
in-arm or hand-in-hand, saw us only as a blotch of light
blue and light grey. It was hot, the sun sat high, and
over the hedges I saw that the sky was like a slate, for
was England where a little mist always refines the
brutal brilliancy of the air. So we sat limply, our warm
hands touching but too listless to clasp. I noted details
round me, the ugly railway bridge, a few fields away, and
Jittering snakes of the railway line; the hedges
with flowering blackberry brambles; daisies,
little blue and mauve flowers ^va beetle struggling
ick, and the lighl patches of sunshine in tht
i about us; the patch of light winch gave Edith one
ie red eh
" It is hot," I murmured. " How many miles to
r? "
litfa did not reply at once; she played with a blade
.

v- many miles to Babylon ?
! t<-n.
Can- we get there by candle-light?
Yes, and back again."

I made no comment. It was not the first nonsense

242 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

rhyme I had heard, but it stirred me, for the French have
no nonsense rhymes, and this peculiar English form of
poetry always struck me as wistful; it held the vague
idealism of the North, it meant to me that here was a
soul struggling with a brain. And then I found I was
forgetting Edith, that the North was on me — Andersen
— the red shoes — the North came to me out of the mist,
wooing me with melancholic grey eyes before which my
bold black ones shamedly closed.

" What are you thinking of? " she asked, and now was
smiling. "Do you think that silly? "

"No. It's 'wonderful — it's like rain upon a' loch."

" I don't understand."

"No more do I. But what does it matter ? We feel."

"We feel," said Edith, dreamily.

I took her hand, drew her down ; we lay side by side,
our heads pillowed on a grass -grown hillock at the base
on an oak. When I spoke again I was inconsequent.

" I have done it again," I said, " and I don't care. It's
too hot."

" What have you done again ? " asked Edith.

" Put my feet in the dish. I mean-^oh, of course, you
laugh. I've put my foot in it."

Edith apologised for having laughed. " It was so
French," she said. Then she begged to be told what I
had done with those idiomatic feet of mine.
i " I've offended your family again — I always shall."

" Cheer up. But what did you do, anyway ? They
aren't sulking, so it can't be much."

"Last Sunday your mother was there; she wore a blue
silk dress and a large hat with a curling biue feather.
She looked so pretty with her rosy cheeks and those
triangular eyes — well, you can laugh, they are triangular,
like Muriel's."

" I suppose mine are triangular," said Edith.

" No." I took her chin, turned her face to me. " They
are just sapphires ; you haven't got that narrowness on
one side between the eyelids which makes the triangle.
They're sapphires, my delight — don't be shy, don't hide

THE ENCOUNTER WITH THE SPIRIT 243

them even with lids as delicate as roseleaves." I kissed
her eyes, one after the other, gently, as if afraid to bruise
the roseleaves. But my mind was filled with my mis-
behaviour. " Triangular, yes. But I didn't tell your
mothe'r her eyes were triangular; I don't know what she
would have said if I had. What I did say was, * What a
beautiful frock, >frs. Lawton ! I'm sure you must dress
at Worth's.' "

" Well, what did she say ? " Edith was serious^ She,
too, did not like my remark.

44 She hardly said anything. She said, ' I'm glad you
like it,' and at once talked of something else, the Eton
and Harrow match, I think. She didn't seem displeased,
but then she never does, and I felt — I don't know quite
what I felt, but what Fdo feel with English people — a
sort of draught." ♦

" Oh," said Edith, lightly; "you're making too much
of it. Still "

44 Still what ? " I looked her full in the eyes. " Come,
tell me."

" She mayn't have liked . . ." said Edith, reluctantly,
44 You see, something like this. She may not want to
be criticised."

44 Yes," I grumbled, 44 I suppose I ought to know that
by now."

44 And then you spoke of Worth. Well, she can't afford
Worth, you must know that "

44 I know, but how was I to express what I meant? "

44 She didn't want you to express it. And perhaps she
urht you were making fun of her when you spoke of
Worth."

44 Edith ! " This idea shocked me. Make fun of Mrs.
Lawton I And the attitude was incredible unless I
pted that in Law Ionian circles peaks of conceit rose
up from a morass of humility.

t Edith went od talking, not very lucidly, for she
was trying to defend her people and her family without
attacking me and mine. She tried to translate feelings
into words, failed because English people have no chance

244 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

to practise this art; but I think I understood, because
prepared by experience, the humility that lies behind
English pride, the chronic belief the English hold that
you don't really think much of them. The North ! I
thought of Murchison, one of^Barbezan's clerks, a York-
shireman, of his customary reply when congratulated :
"D'you mean it?" The English soul holds two St.
Pauls, the unregenerate and the converted.

As we lay there side by side and gazed into the hot
heavens, I was just conscious of the burning glow in
Edith's sunlit hair, for I thought of yet another recent
scene. I had been talking to Muriel on the balcony, on
Sunday afternoon. We were friends, we two, for a
sexlessness had come to part us and was joining us as
if we were boys. As she sat on- the parapet she played
with a little black bag, tossing it in the air and catching
it. Once she nearly missed it.

" You'll lose it," I warned her.

" It doesn't matter, it's so old. I must buy another
to-morrow, and I'm as broke as broke."

" How much do they cost ? "

44 I think sixteen and six."

" Sixteen and six ! t know where to get one like that
in the City for ten shillings net."

" Indeed ? that's cheap." Muriel did not seem in-
terested.

44 If I were you I'd come down to the City. It's worth
it."

y There was a silence and I felt guilty, for I had not br( n
able to repress the " If I were you " against which Edith
had warned me.

" Oh, I might. Still, it's too much fag "

" Let me get you one," I volunteered, eagerly.

44 It's very kind of you, but don't trouble "

44 It's no trouble. I'll get you one to-morrow."

44 Oh, it doesn't matter "

'4 That's all right. I'll leave it here for you."

I did buy the bag and it was certainly an excellent
bargain. But when I told Edith, winch at last I did,

THE ENCOUNTER WITH THE SPIRIT 245

while I averted from her my uncertain eyes and gazed
at the blazing brick walls and shimmering spire on Harrow
Hill, she said :

44 I suppose Muriel wanted to buy it herself."
44 But why ? why ? when I could get it at half-price ? "
44 She. wanted to buy it herself," said Edith, obstinately.
I stuck to my point, reminded Edith that there was no
■I ion of choosing a bag, that Muriel wanted one exactly
like the one she had.

44 She didn't want to trouble you." Then, in a rather
rate tone : 44 She wanted to do, — to manage her own
affairs."

^, that was it, I had an impotent little outburst,
fox I was moving in a crazy circle, one day offending
ish pride, and the other disturbing English humility.
Edith did not defend her sister; her attitude was dis-
approving and I knew that she was against me. Truly,
thicker than marmalade. Atjast she said :
l" Don't let's xpiarrcl, darling." She took my hand.
u It's lovely here with you."

The touch of her hand turned my thoughts from bitter

to sweet. I drew her into my arms, kissed her softly on

ilu n. just belrind the car. The spell of her

and her purity acted upon me incomprehensibly

in tl D light. To me, the passionate, the adven-

. like getting drunk on spring water. But

I could not be content, I had to kill the thing I

I aid.

SI) up at me, smiling, but did not move. I

slipped my arms round her so that they were under hers.

•• EpM me — you haven't sine, thai night at Hambury."

I raise (1 my anus so as to lift hers;

d to the movement, though I had to initiate;

lands clasped gently round my neck, and my

kissed, and there was no

: in the i it delicious, calm content. I still

I e in my arms, pillowed against my raised

.

&6 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

. " Why don't you kiss me yourself ? Don't you want
to?"

She blushed. " Yes — I do — but, I'm afraid somehow.
You might think me forward."

" My darling ! " I laughed at the phrase which recalled
the much more equivocal French : * Comme vous allez me
miyriser ! ' " No, I want you to be forward, as you
say — I don't want you to be afraid of anything. Now
you shall do more ; you shall not only kiss me, you shall
ask me to kiss you."

" Oh, Lucien, I couldn't "

" Do you want me to ? "

" Yes, but "

" Then ask."

She hesitated, and my mind flew back to the dingy
room, in St. Mary's Terrace when I had failed to make
Maud say " I love you." But at last Edith closed her
eyes and murmured her request. As I kissed her I knew
the savour of conquest; but she did not understand why
I demanded tribute. What more did I want than her
caress? Why should I wish to hear her say that she
loved me ? Why should I need to know that she wanted
my kisses ? Was it not enough that she should yield ?

Poor little English girls — of course, for too many
centuries your men haven't cared to know whether you
loved them. They wanted you, not your love. They
seldom wondered whether you loved them. Indeed, if
the idea occurred to them, I think they set it aside as
unladylike and repulsive, that they believed with Squire
Western that marriage is well founded on a little aversion.
It was this strange inquisitiveness in me appealed to
Edith while it frightened her, and yet it drew her out,
for she had begun to feel that I would tolerate in her
the things I did not understand. As we slowly walked
towards Pinner, stopping at times to clamber over stiles,
when I averted my eyes so that the exposure of her ankles
might not make her ashamed, she talked. She talked
more than I did, for I was glad to let her bare her
soul. It was broken, this little speech, but precious.

THE ENCOUNTER WITH THE SPIRIT 247

" You know, Lucien, I'm two people, I think. There's
one of them longing for excitement, for things to happen.
You know what I mean, you call it adventure; but then
there's another one, who's clinging to rules and principles,
all that sort of thing. The first Me wants to be bold-
it wouldn't be afraid to say anything, to say — There, I
can't say it."

44 What can't you say, darling ? "

44 I can't say " Edith hesitated, then, with the air

of a diver poising his body on the edge of the plank, " I
can't say * I love you ■ — the first Me wanted to, but the
second was too shy."

44 1 love you both," I murmured. She pressed my hand.

44 I'm afraid ; I've got no courage, no candour — oh, I
won't tell lies; no, I just say nothing. I can't talk.
Even with you, though it's easier. You know it's some-
how more difficult to talk to you than to the others, though
it's easier. What I mean is, you say odd things, and
I'm afraid because you aren't afraid; I'm afraid because
I feel you're so obstinate, inflexible; you don't care for
conventions. I'm like a child with a box of matches."

" My darling, if I asked you to run away with me and
work for your living, you would. Wouldn't you? You
wouldn't mind what they said? "

There was a lon^ pa

44 I couldn't," said Edith, in a very low voice. " I'd

want to, but I couldn't. Oh, Lucien, you won't see it.

\c pain to my people, even if I knew they

wrong. If one of them were ill I'd have to stay at

horn. .,nd be their eyes and ears and arms and legs."

44 What about you — and me? "

44 Tv go1 tO—gOt to "

Got to play the game?"
M Y »erately; "I've got to. Oh, I

want love and beauty as much as anybody, but there's
Duty's the only brave thing to do. It's no use
kicking against the pricks; oik's gol to stand them, and
one does unless one's spoiled. Of course, I know I'm
silly, narrow "

248 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

" My darling, you're wonderful."

I drew her to me, kissed her rather feverish lips, but
she had more to say.

" I care for all the little things. When we marry I'll
be happy, I'll be so glad, but I'll miss father and mother,
and Ilugh and Muriel too — and Fiona "

" I'll buy you a Taulldog."

" A new dog," she said, slowly, " and a new house, and
a new — well, you know what I was going to say, but
there it is. It '11 all be so new, and the past '11 be dead ;
and I did like it, and all the other little things — parties,
birthdays, and Christmas presents. Though it'll be so
good, Lucien; you don't know how unhappy I was before
you came — lonely. In Brussels I used to wish there was
a man in love with me, anywhere, in Canada or China,
even if he never wrote, just to feel some one loved me."

" Yes," I said, gently, " one can be warmed by a distant
love as one is warmed by the incredibly distant sun."

She, pressed my arm, began again. "I was afraid I
wasn't pretty enough — or clever enough. I was so lonely,
I wanted a friend "

" And now you have a lover."

" Yes — it's good — but I wanted a friend above all.
Somebody to encourage me, to listen to me. That's
why I'm so grateful when you make me talk, though
I'm frightened. I know it's weak to tell you things; it
may bore you — yes, it's all very well, but it may, and
it isn't right to unload worries; it's cowardly, selfish.
But yet I'm grateful because you love me, while you
might be amusing yourself, getting on. I wanted it so
badly that Oh, I couldn't tell you."

I pressed her with questions. At last came the stumb-
ling avowal that, when she was sixteen, a Mr. Egerton,
a married man, had kissed her, that loneliness lay so
heavy over her that she had not resisted.

44 Oh, it was dreadful," she said, hurriedly; " it felt so
disloyal — I couldn't help thinking of what his wife would
say, how it would hurt her. Poaching) And now — now
that there's you, it's worse." She squared her shoulders,

THE ENCOUNTER WITH THE SPIRIT 249

raised her head and looked me full in the eyes. " I
thought you ought to know."

Some seconds elapsed before I realised that Edith had
thought she ought to confess this scandalous portion of
her past : the English girl is the lover's surprise packet.
Though nervous, she looked happy; her conscience had
been troubling •her. I managed not to laugh when I
thought of the absurd exaggeration — but then it was no
more absurd to her than would have been to me the
catalogue of my own episodes. Then it seemed pathetic
and I was stirred when I said :

" What does the past matter? Here we are, we two."
As we walked on, silent and glad, I saw Edith more
clearly, her passionate desire for love and friendship,
were for her almost synonymous. Lonely in her
heart and her spirit, she held out her hands, begging that
they might be filled. To love and be loved, two necessi-
ties. But she had never told me this before; she had
not dared, and she was ashamed because she could not
stand alone. Weak, she hated to be weak among the
strong. Taught not to cry out when hurt, she despised
herself because her soul cried out. And thus she was
tortured on two sides, by her desires and the shame they
entailed upon her; the things she wanted she feared: if
she thoiijfht of passion at all she shrank from its effects,
oal and social. Not once during our engagement
we use the word sex : I knew it was not for her cars,
that it would frighten though it delighted her, and that
raid have been cruel to frighten her thus, though
I longed to 'frighten 1 1 some chivalry bade me

:i from using OD her an inlluence whieh she together
<1 and welcOD
When, in r< . taint hint, I confessed

: been other Edith did not say, as

I hoped, as II : " Whit docs it matter? Here we

OH tiling much
more touching:

I»w they mu you left them."

I gripped het hand hard. She should not Buffer, I -,

250 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

swore. And I loved her because she had questioned me;
that had been frank.

Yes, she was frank now. Frank as might be a violet
if it reared its head through moss and then looked round
in horror, saying : " Oh, what have I done ? "

VI

We had tea in a little inn at Pinner, at an oak (table
surrounded by Windsor chairs. There was a grandfather's
clock that ticked against the oak panels ; the white walls
were decorated with copper warming pans, blue willow-
pattern plates. The landlady had smiled discreetly upon
us as she laid down the rough-cut bread and butter, the
jam into which some negligent farmer's daughter had
put more stones than fruit. Then she had shut the door
with much ceremony, after gloating over us : she was
stout, very red-faced, and her crossed arms were enormous ;
she was one large gloat. We laughed when she tried the
door from the outside to prove that it was quite closed,
and we laughed when Edith dipped her finger into the
jam and I insisted on kissing the finger clean. We were
practical, we decided the conduct of the " campaign,"
the " operations " during the holidays, for we were both
fond of military metaphors ; we proposed to " tell " if
it were announced that changes were to take place at
Barbezan's in view of Hugh's marriage in October. But,
though we were practical, the charm of enlightenment
hung over us. I looked at Edith, smiling over the teapot,
so wifely in that attitude, formulated :

THE CREED OF A YOUNG ENGLISH GIRL
" I believe I must tell the truth, obey my parents
and love them. I must conform to the rules of my
caste, hold such ideas as it allows its women ; I must
respect, in order, my father, my eldest brother, my
mother, my sisters ; I must be kind to my grandmother,
to my other relatives, to friends and servants : that
is, be kind to those whom I do not respect. I believe

THE ENCOUNTER WITH THE SPIRIT 251

in the Almighty as stated by the creed I have been
taught to profess. I believe in courtesy, in good
clothes, which must be neither much ahead nor
much behind the fashions, and such as befit my
age. I believe in baths, clean linen. I believe that
false hair, rouge, face powder are sinful. I believe
that I must like, in order, music, books and pictures,
but my liking for them must not be hysterical; also
I must see to it that all my reading be not light. I
believe in love and that, in the name of love, providing
my conscience tells me it is holy, I may transgress
certain of my rules; but I believe that love must
be pure and noble, that it must be steadfast and
true; I believe that it comes but once in life and
that it must be sacrificed if it threatens the eventual
happiness of the loved one. I believe that I must
not tell the loved one that I love him but that I
must wait his pleasure. ' All this I must not tell. I
believe that I must wait for success, for love, for
death, and that I must not complain in the waiting.
I believe that I must listen, not speak; obey, not
command; respond, not exact. I am a pure young
English girl; my life is not my own. I believe thai
my business is to find its master."

CHAPTER II

THE ENCOUNTER WITH THE BROTHER

Working with all those abstract English forces was
another, and curiously enough it was embodied in a man.
I was surprised that this should happen, for I had not of
late years found much use for men. At the higher com-
mercial school three youths, Gobot, Luzan and Lavalette,
had occupied my mind and stirred my emotions, but even
then I knew that they were merely the channels of least
resistance which my mind and emotions followed because
they were the channels of least resistance. Some of our
friendship was made up of youth's passionate desire to
express itself, and thence sprang the antagonism of our
views; we did not in fact differ, but we had to differ in
order to force out of ourselves anything that might be
there ; we shouted, we snatched words from one another's
mouths. It was good, but it was not what I wanted.
Woman alone could give me that : thrilled sympathy,
some admiration and gratitude for my condescending to
think her worth talking to. I loved woman because she
responded, because her mind leapt up to meet mine;
and I hated man because he was my rival, demanded of
me those things which I wanted myself. I tried, and a
little because " it was done " in England, to make friends
among men, and I succeeded in walking with Hugh
Lawton, lunching with Barker; I managed to be interested
in Bell and his slum boys, in Archie Neville, though I
thought him too vapidly good ; I let Mcrton take me to
a football match, I asked Kent to smuggle me into a
moot at Gray's Inn. But nothing availed : I do not like

252

THE ENCOUNTER WITH THE BROTHER 253

men ; there is no thrill in their speech ; no passion lights
their eyes when I speak. I am a Frenchman, I cannot
be parted from women, I love them; I am uneasy when
I love no woman, when no cheeks flush as I enter a room.
Even if she love me not she must be there; I must see
her gracious lines before me, hear the music of her high
voice, the rustle of her skirts. Woman is the ozone of
my atmosphere. <I am a lover. When I am too old to
be a lover I will be friend, confidant, match-maker, so
that I may still be near her. When I die I hope that my
soul will reincarnate into the body of a chocolate pom . . .
or of any beast woman fancies at that time.

And yet the man came. Charles Stanley, one of the

departmental heads of the Chinese and Peruvian Shipping

Company, sat rather rigidly at his desk between glass

walls beyond which I could see the clerks, somejperched

on high stools, some standing to write at their desks. My

business was rather intricate. . We had, acting for a client,

chartered the Company's steamer, Ning-Po, whose

activities were, as a rule, confined to the Chinese seas,

while she lav at Liverpool on an empty bottom, to carry

rolling-stock which she was^to shed at Colombo, Singapore

and Shanghai ; at Shanghai the Ning-Po Was to load

up an arranged consignment of raw silk, land it at San

cisco and terminate her journey at Panama, where

would be delivered to the agents of the Chinese and

i.t'i. It was an admirable plan, for it converted

•Po from a necessary carrier into a speculative

rhile (.Mr clients escaped the risks of tramping.

Unfortunately, on that morning the ship was steaming

north from Singapore and the capiain did not know that

mtaining the raw silk had been burned

did not yet count com-

<>f instructing him to call

UQlla and Canton on the chance of booking American

•f ion threatened t<> end disastrously,

for the Ntflg-Po might have to ! Panama in ballast,

prying of a large cazg

foods, then lying in the Chinese and

254 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

Peruvian's charge, according to our cable advices, at
Yokohama.

I explained so much of the facts as was politic, for it
did not do to reveal, when biddings for freight, that the
ship would probably have to travel in ballast to accom-
plish her journey within the term of the charter-party.
Stanley listened to me to the end, nibbling his penholder.
He was tall, very thin, rather bald; deep-set in his dark
face, every feature of which was irregular, his grey eyes
seemed extraordinarily passionless and acute. He fixed
upon me so concentrated a gaze that I seemed to lose
my nerve, to grow voluble ; my trained bass voice threat-
ened to revert to its high pitch. At last, when I had
finished my long speech, splashed with the sonorous
names of quite irrelevant Eastern ports, he ceased to nibble
the penholder he held in his strong, knubbly brown fingers
•and,' after a pause, said : ,

** \\ Thy do you want us to charter our own ship? "
There' had* been no hesitation. The essential question
had corm * ou^ ano^ I wondered by what devilry this man
had guess* ed our weak point. I began once more my
involved s\ ~>eech, mixing up " Canton . . . possibility
of accommov bating you . . . Yokohama. " I struggled
to keep him in ignorance of our casualty : if he found out
he would offer a freight rate which barely covered our
expenses. But & s soon as I stopped Stanley was on me,
swift as a boxer when his adversary gets up from his
knees.

" You've no freigh *t at Shanghai ? "
" We might . . ." . J faltered.

" The Ning-Po will ti ^ave* to Panama in ballast. That
is so ? "

His question was hardl> r a questi°n 5 Jt was a piece of
information, and the grey t Tes held mine as the magnct
holds iron.

" There may be no cargo," 1 growled, " or not enough."
"Ah. Now we're Well, we haven't fixed

ese cotton goods from Yoko
at twenty-five shillings a ton.5

... un^.
these cotton goods from Yokohatt m* You can havc them

THE ENCOUNTER WITH THE BROTHER 255

I pretended to cry out in despair. It was preposterous^
It would not cover our expenses. It would ... I
shouted, I pleaded for thirty-five shillings, but Stanley'
nibbled on, made not the slightest effort to interrupt me.
When I stopped he said : **•

*' Twenty-five shillings. Or take her into Panama in
: 1 St."

" We can pick up freight at Manila or Canton," I said,
truculently.

Stanley did not reply. He opened The Shipping
Gazette, ran a brown finger down a column.

" Steamer Ning-Po. Sailed from Singapore for
Shanghai 14th. She's not calling at Canton or Manila."
I remained silent.

" You've got no freight at Shanghai. You thought
you had, but now you're not sure. Something's happened
to your cargo."

'* How do you know? " I asked, angrily.

" Oh, something has happened? " A very faint smile

ed the thin lips. ■" What was your cargo? "
" Silk," I snarled. I felt now as a man must feel
who is slowly being dragged from a music-hall by the
chuckers-out.

Silk, was it? Burned? "
lt Yes," I said, wearily. " How did you tell ? "
un no direct reply; then quickly:
Well, take your chance at Shanghai. You may
lit . . . but don't wait too long there. If the
h Panama on the date, it's fifty
nds a day."

I sulkily at my feet. When I looked up, humbly
1 kinder but siill unflinching.
"It's a deal at twenty-five shillings then?" said

M HI t r 1 1 th ,. f cant aceepl myself."

"Right oh. w airily; "and tell them we

put down our price SUCpei r."

It was terrific-; and when I left the office I was over-
whelmed by my defeat at tin hand man who had

256 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

gone straight to the heart of the business. Nine-tenths of
the interview had been taken up by my conversation, my
evasions and verbal nimblenesses, one-tenth by his series
of intuitive stabs. He had guessed everything, our empty
hold, the ju-jitsu lock laid upon us by the fact that we
had to render up the ship on a given date; he had even
guessed that our cargo was burned. I do not know how
it is done ; Stanley says it is elimination, that in the case
of the cargo he saw at once we would not have chartered
the ship unless we knew there was return freight; ergo
the cargo must have disappeared; a shipload of silk
couldn't be stolen; ergo it was fire or water; no floods
in the papers, ergo fire. May be, but -certainly Stanley
eliminates the unlikely as fast as a mechanical drier
expels water.

II

We became friends. Stanley held out his hand to me
the same day, when I returned in the afternoon to agree
abjectly to hfs terms on behalf of our client. Wliile he
telephoned the cable room to make sure that the Yoko-
hama cargo was still open, I studied his face; it was a
monkish countenance, very long and emphasised as to
length by the recession of his dark hair; his bent brow
seemed enormous and was furrowed by a great number
of horizontal lines; there was a break in his nose, a
humorous twist in his thin mouth. His clothes were
very dusty and seemed to have been made for a much
bigger man; he had never been manicured. When he
looked up at me I was again flooded by a sense of clarity
rather than power.

" That's O.K.," he said.

I was dismissed, but something held me back. As he
looked at me I saw at once that he knew it, that he was
analysing . . . eliminating, I suppose. It was intoler-
able ; I was being vivisected.

"Look here," I blurted, "that's all right. But this
morning I tried to bounce you."

" Ti your duty. Besides, you enjoyed it."

THE ENCOUNTER WITH THE BROTHER 257

" I did," I said, rather wondcringly ; " how can you

11 Sheer intellectual pleasure. Just like chess, you
know. Do you play chess ? "

" Yes." I did, not very well, but then in the City one
has to play chess if one hates dominoes.

" Come and have a game with me. What time d'you

get out to lunch ? One ? I go later ; still, I can manage it.

To-morrow at the Graccchurch Street Mecca ? Right oh."

I went and was so nervous that Stanley fool's-mated

me, then beat me in less than twenty-five moves, giving

me pawn and move. There was no sport in those games

which we now played at lunch three or four times a week,

the gravy on our plates clotted into grease, but they

d a good purpose. Stanley confessed this to me. a

little lat

" I like your spirit; you never give in. Of course
you're a silly ass, and you make it a rotten game by
ing to it and exchanging until I get down to king
and rook or something . . ."
M I never give in," I said, sulkily.

•• 11 •:* not? I thought Frenchmen didn't stick."

don't," I said. " But Englishmen do, and that's
why I stick."

e," Stanley persisted, "but then

that's your way. It's like the day you came and tried

the old Ning-Po ; you came at me

with a r ' of words. You said the same thing

tngling and tangling. Yes, you came at mc

witd

MWi ill) a rapier."

rue. Stanley's mind worked like a sword;
1 likr the in-! of tin- retiarius, but I was going

ick " ; the l^i

had they wanted by "sticking."

raliy subtle, I often tried to combine subtlety with

«.i,st lish bull is obstinate. Our relation

contain idox : the Frenchman liked the

lishman for his quick Latin mind; the Englishman

K

258 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

liked the Frenchman for his artificial English grit. The
friendship was anti-natural, but it prospered, for Stanley
did not refuse himself as do most Englishmen; th<
born in Northumberland he was not suspicious; rather
he did not deign to be suspicious, as his Northern pride
told him that his mind was so keen that no despised
Southerner could injure him. Soon, therefore, I discovered
him to be a human being, a rare species of Englishman.
He still played cricket and was generally right when
he gauged the chances of teams; he read enormously,
economics, philosophy, verse, novels and newspapers;
he never liked a very bad book, though his taste was not
quite developed enough to keep him from the second-
rate : he saw, but he did not feel very keenly, and for this
reason could not love the greatest. He was very gentle,,
a little sentimental under the cynical varnish, and
worshipped his absurd little wife.

I was taken down to dine at his small house at Esher.
His wife, whom he overtopped by a foot, leapt at his neck
in the hall. She was fair, plump, round. She had round
wrists, round blue eyes, a one-year-old baby, the roundest
baby boy I had ever seen. Stanley called her delightful
and insulting names : " dumpling," and " toadstool,"
and " roly-poly." Though he had been married two
years he still persisted in asking her whether she had
come in handy at school when the teacher wanted to
illustrate the use of globes.

" Isn't he silly, Mr. Cadoresse ? " she asked (round-
mouthed), " with his dumplings ? You silly old hop-pole !
Do you come in handy as an alpenstock ? You . . . hayfork ! "

She was no fool. Their conversation seemed to touch
everything from religion to the rise of coal prices, and
she was nimble enough, knowing his elimination methods,
to " fox " him when he tried to guess her opinions,

"Ha," she would cry, triumphantly, "1 knew you'd
think I wanted a new bonnet for baby because I said his
was shabby. Well, I don't; he's done with bonnets . . .
he wants a hat. Got you ! "

But Stanley persisted in mental analysis. He even
tried it on the dog, an Irish terrier.

THE ENCOUNTER WITH THE BROTHER 259

" I see your game, Pat," he said, severely. " You're

ng for your dinner because you know the meat

isn't up yet. Therefore you think you'll get a bit of sugar

to keep you quiet. Wrong, Pat, wrong. There is no

sugar."

" It's you who are wrong, Sherlock Holmes,'" said Mrs.
Stanley. " He's begging for the cat who's sitting on the
back of your chair. "

I loved them. Nothing told me that I was going to
need them, but a bridge was being made.

Ill

I was going to need the Stanleys, as I was going to need

wn st refigl h. the power of my optimism and my love.

re the end of that month of July, when Edith unveiled

her soul, an atmosphere which I felt in the making began

to define itself. Mr. Lawton was courteous to me in the

office, but cold ; he seldom now added general conversa-

tion to commercial instructions; he did not tell me, as

'1 done before, where the family was going

i that I might come down for

ad. He did worse: Hugh was going abroad

nth in August and I, as second to him, expected

ave charge of the Exports. Mr. Lawton, however,

d course.

"Oh, Ca(^<>ITss(^', lie s;iid, "I'll attend to things while

!i is aw;.

I replied, and there must have been
thing aggressive in my tone, for Mr. Law

!>: w" I .mi— - do — that." Then, as if a
lit f I ful, v* I'm ii"l too busy."

. but I could read

I aw merely a verj

I fifty, a y unruffled as to hair

And hi ll-cul mouth told me

DOthi i veil hung in front of his

But, in later weeks, my impression was confirmed :

■ l out, bul I v.. 'is not being 1-. I in.

triving a; tnething which did not yield,

something which suggested, though it I .id, "Oh,

260 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

leave this to me, Cadoresse," or " You must ask Mr.
Purkis for instructions." But what was it? what?
suspicion of my relation to Edith ? a hint that I could not
hope for preferment ? Who can tell ... in England ?

And the atmosphere thickened still more in September
when the Lawtons returned. There was a coldness in
the air ; I called but was not asked to call again. Muriel,
when reminded that she was to teach me to play golf,
pleaded vague engagements. Hugh did not again walk
home with me; he had "a man to meet at the Club,"
or he had to go to the tailor's.

It was three months since the last of our queer, intimate
little talks, which were for me rather like a game with a
tortoise : one incautious touch, and in went the head.
We had gone to his club for a drink before dinner and,
very warily, I had drawn Hugh away from memories
of Winchester towards his theory of schools.

" Of course they don't get swished very often," he said
when I attacked corporal punishment, " but one has to
have a cane about. Just for the look of the thing."

" Like the classics ? "

We had a long, formless discussion, Hugh defending
Latin and Greek on the plea that they trained the mind
(which mathematics or English literature couldn't do)
and taught one to understand one's own language (much
better than German, even though English was German
rather than Latin). Hugh was going to^ maintain the
classics, as a sort of introduction to Shakespeare.

" Do you read Shakespeare ? " I asked.

" Well . . ." He hesitated, then, confidentially : " I
do rather -like Shakespeare, but . . . one can't talk about
him, that would never do. . . . Side, you know, all that
sort of thin^."

I delighted in these revelations, and I missed them,
but Edith could tell me nothing, for nothing had been
said; we were afraid, so afraid that we almost decided to
tell, to end the tension.

" There's something up," I said, M somebody suspects.
The maids smile at me when I come . . . your mother,
she's cool. Even Fiona ... oh, laugh if you like, but

THE ENCOUNTER WITH THE BROTHER 261

a few minutes ago, when we sat on the sofa, she came and
sat down between us, looked at us each in turn with that
idiotic, sentimental air of hers. It sounds mad, but
she's been different to me since you and I . . ."

" You're absurd," said Edith irritably. The some-
thing was beginning to tell upon her.

Four days later we were caught at St. Bartholomew's.
We stood hidden by the side of an enormous stone pillar,
hand in hand, very happy. Suddenly I saw Edith
stiffen ; she grasped my hand so hard that her finger-nails
hurt me. Her oilier hand, raised, stopped my exclama-
tion. Two yards off passed a couple, Bessie Surtees and
a middle-aged woman in country tweeds.

" Did they see us ? " Edith whispered, tensely. " I'm
not sure Bessie didn't."

" We Were in the shadow of the pillar," I said.

We made light of it, though I had to hold down in Edith
a terror that struggh d like a weasel in a gin.

" I can't bear it . . . we must tell . . . we must tell.
Oh, if we were caught, it'd be dreadful. It's bad enough
iving them . . . but to be caught. . . ."

I comforted her, kissed her in the dark, silent church,

pointed out that we must wait a few weeks, for Hugh was

married in November, the wedding having been

d, and we needed to know whether he were going

to be made a partner. Edith clung to me, trembled,

but the afternoon was spoiled, for now we knew

thai some accident must happen if we waited; the struggle

Qg to begiu.

Ii began, but not at our own time. On the fourteenth
of October I was asked to dinner; I had not been invited
to II I >r three months and now wondered whether

I ha : 1 the tension or whether the Lawtons

merely doing the decent tiling. By a private
arrangement with Edith I arrived at ten to eight, was

empty drawing-room, into which she
tiptoed, breathlest as I be maid was out of the way.

ran into my arms like a little, frightened animal,
lay, quivering,while I covered with impatient
r mouth, her eheeks, her soft, white neck.

2G2 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN •

" Oh, Lucien, it's been so long, so long ... a fort-
night."

" My darling, my darling, have courage ! Soon we shall
be together, soon. Kiss me. Ah, kiss me again."

I crushed her against my breast. I hurt her, I wa'hted
to hurt her, and she laughed weakly as I relaxed the
pressure but still held her in my arms. For a moment
we remained, eyes gazing into eyes. Then we heard a
sound, parted as suddenly as the strands of a broken
rope. In the doorway stood Hugh.

IV

For three or four seconds the silence was quite per-
ceptible. The air of the room seemed to have acquired
an extraordinary, blanket-like quality. Then there was
a change; I heard with extreme distinctness a motor-car
pass the house and stop a little further up the street, and
the maids in the basement, laughing noisily. But the
sounds, clear though they were, seemed foreign to the
scene, as if they came from another plane, while we three
stood in a plane all our own.

tlugh had closed the door as he came in, stood against
it, his face expressionless, a tall, rigid body. Edith had
retreated to my right and clutched the settee so tight
with both hands that on eveiy one of her finger-nails
I saw a red zone surrounded with white. And her eye-
brows were comically twisted in the middle over her
strained eyes. I knew that my fists were clenched, that
a stream of blood had rushed up into my head, burning
my ears, and pains in my teeth told me that my jaws
were hard jammed so that the bones stood out.

The seconds passed and we did not speak. A stranger
who lived in my brain cried out that this was a stage . . .
the West End stage ... he cast the three characters
without hesitation, picking out well-known actor- managers
and the latest ingenue. . . .

Hugh moved, very slightly. The play producer

bed and a trainer shouted tips at me : " Don't look

at his hands . . . watch his eyes . . . get him on the

point with your left and bring the right over the heart." . . .

THE ENCOUNTER WITH THE BROTHER 263

At last Hugh spoke, and the effect was that of an
unexpected pistol shot, though his voice was absolutely
normal :

M Edith," he said, " you'd better go up to mother for
a bit."

He .opened the door and stood aside to let her pass.

For a moment she had met his gaze, still clutching the

settee, but his rigidity mastered her and she ran past

him. I heard her draw in a great gulp of air as she ran.

Hugh, closing the door, turned towards me, and I

realised that I was a fool, that there would be no fight.

as too cool. I was glad, for I was a little afraid of

tied man who could give me three inches and at

a stone, and I was sorry, for the excitement of the

inter was such that, to allay it, 1 wanted to leap at

tear, bite, scratch. But Hugh, still collected, spoke

tly.

*" Well have to talk this over, Cadoresse. The others'll

be here in less than a minute and we'll want more than

Til find an opportunity after dinner. Is that all

?"

Yes," I said after a pa'
The dr>or opened to let in a laughing couple, Muriel
and Ixuisa.

_\ you two? " asked Louisa.
II lantly at the flushed face, the dimpled

little chin.

liking of golf. Cador it's too much

nk-s and that he's going in for"
I

" J hall have to take you on. Mr. Cadorr a

I didn't keep my pro:
But take us down to her club,

the pton; I have to manage with clay, worse

luck, wh i. Now in October, when

,-t "

I listened with ion to a nKrrifully

expanded as

Iked into it ion on made links, on bunkers,

on hard lines. While I listened and managed an occasional

204 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

appropriate comment on the game, my mind worked
round and round, like a goldfish in an aquarium : " What
was going to happen? What would Hugh do? What
should I do ? No reply. Then, the other way round :
"What should I do? What would Hugh do? What
was going to happen ? " . . .

" Oh, yes," I said in a high voice, " you'd better help
me buy my clubs."

But I felt giddy. More people came in, Mr. Lawton,
Edward Kent, Mrs. Lawton, apologising for being late,
and then Edith, behind her, with two flaming patches on
her cheeks, a metallic gleam in her eyes and a quivering
mouth. I could hardly bear to look at her. And other
people, the two Bennings, and a man with no face, and
a woman who, when she laughed, made a sound like a
cockatoo's screech and . . .

Damnation ... I don't know who came, what they
wore ... I don't know whether the dinner happened
at all. I remember only an atmosphere, paradoxes
somewhere, near Kent I suppose, and the cockatoo laugh,
and Edith, just her face, red and white, not a face at all,
but a painted carnival mask, and my voice, harsh, high . . .
some dogmatic views, some laughing, ah, plenty of that,
and champagne, plenty of that too and the sear of it on
my palate. At last the women gone, and Hugh's voice,
clear as a flute :

" Oh, Cadoresse, you wanted to see that new gun of
mine. Come up to my room and have a look at it."

V

" Well, said Hugh.

Before I answered him I took in a few details. His
was a large room, the third floor front. Rose-bud wall-
paper; good silver fittings on the dressing table; on the
walls prints after Cecil Aldin and Tom Browne; above
the bed a large photograph of a football t< -am ; in a corner
a cricket-bat, golf-stieks. These objects marked my
mind without my knowing it, for I remembered them best
a few days later. My brain was busy with his " Well? "
He had spoken almost lazily, as if the tragedy bored him.

THE ENCOUNTER WITH THE BROTHER 265

Apollo was languid and was evidently doing his duty
because it was the thing to do; evidently too he cared,
or he wouldn't have bothered, but his ease exasperated me.
"Well what?;' I said. "It's for you to talk. Go
on. Tell me what you think of me. Call me a black-
guard. Say I've come behind your father's back to steal
his daughter . . . say I've played you all a dirty trick.
... Go on, don't be afraid."

" I wasn't going to say anything of the kind," said
Bugh. " I wasn't going to say anything. It's for you
hat you're going to do about it."
" What do you want me to do about it? "
M My dear fellow," said Hugh, blandly, " you really
must see that there's only one thing for a man to do when
he's caught kissing a girl."

" Oh ! " His case continued to annoy me, but I did
not understand him at 'once. Then, suddenly I under-
stood : Hugh meant to suggest that I might not intend
to marry Edith, but that now I was caught and must
ask for her hand. That cast such a vileness over the kiss
1 surprised t hat, for a moment, I could not find words-.
Ai last I said, hoarsely : " Do you mean to say that you

I don't want to marry her? Do you dare ? "

*' My dear chap," said Hugh, as he raised a deprecating

te don't say ' do you dare ' ; this isn't the

phi and if isn't done, it really isn't done. You'll

aging me to fighi a duel, like you did Farr . . ."

Ili- I worried.

to drag that up," I replied, 'savagely. " Say
what you have to say."

14 Well," Hugh went on in his tired voice, "it's simple

as if you wire Lr<>ne on Edith, and, mind

lon't sec anything against chat; she's a d

kid. I si 1 1 (o marry her: then

king to <i ;ms willing; you've

got to go to my lather and ask for his consent."

hat I forgot to be annoyed
to my " being gone n on Edith,

"a decent little Edith 1 ... a decent little kid!

I • understand was the co<>'

k 2

266 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

with which he received the fact that I, an unrecognised
suitor, had kissed his sister without having beforehand
gained a right to pay my addresses to her. I knew that
this was the English way, but knowing did not make it
much less wonderful.

" Dp you mean to say you don't mind ? " I asked.

" Mind ? Why should I mind ? Edith's got as good
a right to marry whom she likes as I have."

My mind flew back to his father, the Churchman,
pleading for the rights of the Nonconformists. This tall,
rather commonplace fellow suddenly seemed splendid.

44 1 say," I remarked, rather wonderingly, 44 it's awfully
decent of you. You see, I thought there would be
difficulties; I haven't much of a position "

44 Nothing to do with me," said Hugh. 44 If Edith
wanted to marry the cobbler round the corner I mightn't
like it, but it'd be her look-out."

44 Ah, so you don't like the idea," I cried, my pride at
once scenting insult.

44 Don't be a silly ass-; I wouldn't have you up here if
I minded. But I'm not going to take sides ; if my father
agrees that's good enough for me. You can have her
if you can get her, but things have gone far enough in
a hole-and-corner way; you've got to finish them off fair
and square."

"Well, I will tell him. Of course I'll tell him; I've
wanted to for months."

44 Oood. Let me see, those people won't stay long;
they know there's something up. Oh, yes, they do; the
talk was pretty jerky at dinner; not one of themH stay
later than eleven. Not one. You'll have an o]
tunity then ; I'll see to it."

44 But — but " I gasped, 44 you don't want me to

tell him to-ni^ht? "

44 Why not? "

44 It's so sudden— I "

44 You'r to tell him soon. You may as well

do it to-niglr

Wecros and 1 realised that Hugh, having decided

without much consideration that I was to settle the matter

THE ENCOUNTER WITH THE BROTHER 267

that' night, would not budge. He might know he was
unreasonable but then he was English : he had started
and must go on. Then I reflected that it did not suit me
to speak that night ; it was important that I should know
whether there would be changes in the firm. I thought
of confiding in Hugh, but. prudence held me back; if I
mentioned business he would think me mercenary : the
English know, but never like to think that marriage has
anything to do with money.

" I shan't," I said. " Not to-night. Soon, but not
ht."

"Why? "saicj Hugh.

" I can't tell you. I'll ask him soon, but not to-night."

" 1 can't agree to your putting it off, Cadoresse." Hugh's
voice was jH)lite but a little hard, and some wrinkles
appeared between his eyebrows.

'" 1 shan't do it to-night," I replied.

Tht : a pause during which we measured each

other's powers. Vaguely I knew that the cool one was
winning because he was cool, but I could not regain my
composure.

said Hugh in a low voice.

"I must? Oh ... 1 understand, you mean that if
I.don't go to-night you will, that you'll "

" Chuck it ! " He was angry. I had scored a point

tfo, though; Hugh did not raise his voice much,

• n in it. " I'm not going to give you

away. I'm not a sneak, CadoTesse, though you choose

1m think so. Wha1 I mean is that I can't have a man

hanging round my .sisler and making love to her wit limit

bia having the pluck to do it openly. V to break

way you'll get a run for your m
II, go and ask for her, don't beat
li. dmi'! hide, or squirm when it com.
• the thing out, and if you do get whi
your lid

q and his p . that

quatifica-

iCh lias less h nd in it than fchi re is in a battl-

268 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

" Well, suppose I won't ? " I said.

He ignored my answer.

" You will," he said suavely.

"Willi? How do you know?"

" You will, Cadoresse. You're going to play the game.
Oh, I know, you wouldn't have done it four years ago . . .
and even then I'm not sure, but anyhow, now you've been
here four years you know what I mean. You're going
to bell the cat to-night because it's the thing to do, the
decent thing. I'm not going to give you away, of course ;
I couldn't, but if you don't do it I'll put it into the mater's
head that Edith's looking peaky; I'll have her sent down
to Brighton; I'll set Louisa to keep an eye on her; you
shan't write to her either; I'll grab the letters first post;
and if you do manage to get hold of her again I'll tackle
her and make her tell. . . . It's the decent thing to do."

I listened, less angry now than amazed. Here was a
brother ready to torture his sister, to spy on her, to have
her persecuted by others, briefly to do the rotten thing
because he wanted her to do the decent tiling ! And
apparently it did not matter what Edith suffered provided
nobody sneaked and everybody did the decent thing.
He was for the letter of a gentleman's law.

A spasm of anger stirred me.

"Damn the decent thing !•" I shouted. "Why,
there's no decent tiling, not in love . . . you all say
that * all's fair in love and war.' "

He hesitated, for he trusted proverbs and quotations
as much as he doubted epigrams. He withdrew into
the keep of his obstinacy.

" The decent thing is the decent thing, and you know-
it."

" I don't, I don't pretend to know what's the d<
thing; or at any rate it isn't bullying and persecuting a
young girl and making a man do by threats a thing he
thinks undesirable. Th e decent thing isn't a live thing,
a real thing; it used to be, v.hni it was invented, but yo
let it get out of date. Good heavens, LawtOa, the decent
thing you talk about came in with the Crusaders. It's
. dried up; it's a mummy."

THE ENCOUNTER WITH THE BROTHER 269

" It's all the better for having come in with the
Crusaders," said Hugh; " if it's still going on that shows
there was some good in it."

I had an unwonted attack of Frenchness, raised my hand
in despair. I had touched the rock bottom 'of England,
her conservatism. It was all over, I was beaten, I felt
limp, and I did not mind, for here was a splendour of sorts,
this attitude of narrow purity, senseless honour. I knew
that he had won as he came at me with those simplicities
which stirred me like fine music, those splendid English
views which are as unimaginative as a cask of English
beer and tig :

" Even if you think it may not do the trick, play fair.
I've go nothing against you and I tell you this : there's
only one right way of doing anything; all the others are
wrong. There's the straight road, and a hundred crooked
If you want anything go and ask for it, that's
tho straight road. If you can't get it like that, you've
got to take it, that's the next step on the straight road.
Let it all be fair, honest fighting, with no dodgy ways
and no messing with the rides; let it all be fair and square,
so that if you are licked you may feel you did your best.
And you're going to do that because you're a decent sort
of chap "

II (altered, for his last words made him shy. Then he
went oh. " You will; I'm not going to take sides, and

lier you win or lose I won't take sides, for it isn't

my b It's yours and Edith's and my father's.

But I can put my father up to it before you see him;

1|> you, though, mind you, I shan't take sides

All I'll do is to wish you luck. Shall I

! the cat to-night?"

I b smiling; never had he looked so

handsome, so rably stupid and v< i splendid.

J] right," I said rather gloomily, M I'll bell the trick."
" BeUtl illy fool," Hugh roared as he opened

the door and pushed DM out; and again, as he smacked
me on tlu- shoulder i

14 Not the trick ... the cat ! "

CHAPTER III

THE ENCOUNTER WITH THE FATHER

" What's this I hear about you and Edith ?" a
Mr. Lawton.

Hugh had prepared him, then. I, did not at once
reply. I stood, one hand upon the corner of the dining-
room table, looking past Mr. Lawton's well-brushed head
at the clock which said ten-past eleven; I was nervous,
and, as he leaned against the mantelpiece, the whole
scene of our first meeting in my mother's empire drawing-
room passed through my mind. I saw myself as a small,
bare-legged boy, inquiring and confident, much more
confident than at this moment; and "young Lawton,"
who had not changed so very much. An immense
interval of time seemed to elapse while I looked at him,
described him to myself as a very well-groomed man of
.fifty, with fair, straight hair streaked with grey, regular
features, a firm mouth and eyes as unflinching, as blue
as those of his son. He seemed immensely tall, and
his absolute immobility was impressive. Why did he
not roar at me ? I wondered ; surely the occasion
justified it.

" It's true," I said at length. Then, defiantly, " Quite
true. I'm in love with your daughter Edith."

44 Oh — hem " He was embarrassed ; I guessed

that " in love " Was too stagey for an Englishman,
that I ought to have said : " I want to marry your
daughter Edith."

" Well" he said at length, " what do you expect me
to say to that? You can't expect me to say that I

270

THE ENCOUNTER WITH THE FATHER 271

approve, give my consent to your marrying her. I
suppose that's what you mean."

" Yes, I want to marry her, and I ask for your consent."
Mr. Lawton did not move. Suddenly I wanted to
make him angry; it was proper he should be angry
if he refused his consent.

44 I'm going to marry her," I said, defiantly.
"Oh?"' lie remained perfectly calm. "You say
you are going to marry her ? Without my consent ? "

44 I did not say that," I replied, more cautiously,
addressing the head of the firm.

M You suggested it. Still, I will let that pass, though

I may as well tell you that Edith will refuse to marry

you if I forbid it. Let that be quite clear."

i h; d doubts as to his power, but said nothing.

" I. : it also be perfectly clearthat I do not consent. You

will want to know my reasons. They must be obvious

to y«.!. In the first place I think Edith is too young

pry just yet ; she is only twenty, and she is too young

■ hildish ■"

."'I interrupted. Edith too childish !

"One miii1 allow me to give my , opinion of

I whom I have known rather longer than you have.

h is a child; Bhe is not very strong; she is full of

. and I'm sure that that's why she —

Well, anyhow, 1 understand from what &lgh said

. . . attached to you ..."

■• i - -ri stumbled on for ;i few sentences. Obvi-

<d to talking of love ! he soon
the subject.

-•:<• will g young girl passes through

Hi , kind of affair, so I'm not blaming her. You.

. I blame. You're not very old either, but

I happen to k: 'thing about Frenchmen; a

ichman of twenty-five "

44 T 1.

" V x, is at least as old as an Englishman

272 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

of thirty. The sort of life Frenchmen lead . . . But
I'll let that alone, you know what I mean. Therefore
you must have known perfectly well that as I was not
likely to let you marry Edith you were not entitled to
make — to propose tb fcer."

" I did not know that," I said.

" You did not ? What position have you to offer
her ? "

" It is a rising position."

Mr. Lawton smiled, and I could not help liking lum
because he was so calm in tragic circumstances. He had
not yet taken his hands from his pockets.

"Rather a tall thing to say to the senior partner,
Cadoresse. Still . . . yes, I see what's surprising you ;
it's that I've said senior partner, isn't it ? "

" Well ! " I said.

" This is hardly the place to discuss the matter, but
I want you to understand that I have nothing against
you in general, and for that reason I will tell you, in
confidence, that my son will become a junior partner
next month, before his marriage. As for you, as I have
said, I appreciate your services ; you will take Mr. Hugh's
place, and we're going to raise you to three hundred
a year at Christmas."

" Thank you," I said mechanically. But my mind
at once set aside this good news. Edith alone occupied
me, and I was trying to adjust my ideas as to this man
who could be so judicial, blame my private behaviour,
and yet promote me according to my commercial merits.
English gentlem p !

" That, however, has nothing to do with the business
we're discussing. Wrhat makes you smile ? "

" Nothing," I said. I could not tell him that I was
not English enough yet to look upon our difference as
" business."

" As I say," Mr. Lawton went on, " it's got nothing
to do with it. You cannot marry Edith on three

THE ENCOUNTER WITH THE FATHER 273

hundred a year, nor on four, and there's no idea of giving
you four. You know the life she's been used to ; to
marry her on three hundred a year would be preposterous.
Edith's not the girl to rough it in the suburbs with a
_:rl."
" How much do you want ? " I asked.

"How much 1^— ? What ?" My bluntness

about money disconcerted Mr. Lawton as much as his
awkwardness about love disconcerted me. V You mean
how much do I think you need ? Say a thousand a
year. Eight hundred at least."

BO much as that," I said, but I felt he was
right; I was summoning courage to say boldly: "Make
me a partner then, I'm as good a man as Hugh," but he
interrupted inc.

" Every halfpenny of it. The business can't afford
that — and besides, there are other reasons."

This time there was a long pause. My bold phrase

and receded into the back of my mind, while

jured up the other reasons. Black eyes and blue

nut now with a more dangerous air.

" Other reasons ? " I said, politely ; " would you

" I had much rather not, Cadoresse. It's quite un-
it iy answer; I decline; though,
we nothing against you."

to spare me, to do the tiling
>"w.
I, "you must tell me, Mr. Lawton.

I had chosen my last words with intention. An
. ill do anything if you can make hind believe
r " to do it. I w
• I donM know about it's not being fair, Cador

I don't want you to think ell

unfairly treated, I will tell you. I don't want Edith
to marry a foreigner."

274 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

"Why not?"

" I don't want Edith to marry a foreigner," he re-
peated, obstinately. " If you really want to know why
I'll trjr and tell you. I've got nothing against foreigners,
but they're different, they're fundamentally different,
they're . . .foreign."

" Oh ! " I said, very angry but quite cold, " I under-
stand. Foreigners are foreign, and because they're
foreign they're foreigners."

" Don't be so damnably* logical," said Mr. Lawton,
testy at last. " That's* just it, Cadoresse, that's just
like the foreigner ; you've got to have sentences made like
razor-blades, and you're angry if you cut yourself with
them. There ! I'm making epigrams now ; as if I were
a foreigner myself; it's catching, I suppose. But look
here, just try to understand a little. Here you are,
a Frenchman; you've been four years in England.
That's right, isn't it? You've done pretty well, but
you're still a Frenchman."

" I'm sorry " I began. He interrupted me.

" There's nothing to be sorry about. There's no harm
in being a Frenchman; I've met lots of them — your
father, a very fine fellow, and lots of other intelligent,
honourable, sober people, but they were French. Now
just try and think how different you are from us. They
educate you differently, in a way better; they cram you
with all sorts of things we never hear of, even at the
'Varsity, things like European history, and science
mixed up with translations of the classics. That's
one of the things ; in England we don't go in for mi.\1 1
a man's a classical scholar or he's been on the modern
side. You may not think it matters, just becau
can't be sure of the meaning of the inscription on a coin
though I gave Latin sii^ years- but it docs."

I looked at him. Did it? Perhaps. These people
'•cialise.

"That means that you don't grow up like us; oh,

THE ENCOUNTER WITH THE FATHER 275

I know, plenty of people say we run in a groove, but that
nothing to do with marriage. You may be better
m*.n. but what does matter is that like must marry like.
:e streets ahead of a Kaffir, but you'd make a
;• girl a bad husband." He smiled. " I'm putting
the case rather strongly, but I'm trying to explain;
re too different. Especially, you don't play

games " ^

"Excuse me," I said, "we did, and especially at
Bordeaux. I played tennis when — — "

.is ! " said Mr. Lawton, and his scorn %vas
immense. " Again you give yourself away, Cadoresse.
Tennis doesn't come in at all, except for girls. By games
we mean football and cricket."

play other games," I said aggressively.
" Yes. And we like a man to be handy with an oar,
a racket or a golf-club, but those aren't the real games.
ball and cricket have made us, and again, I want
you to see that we may be nothing much, but we're
diffe illy I thirds games have made us a

;ion. They've taught us courage, discipline,
ci.lly they've taught us to be
a."
" I ; puzzled-

d Rugby and had passed to
anoti with which you were racing to the

. given up your chance to score so that your side
;e — you'd know."

: . I toped his gubject,

though I haken in my determination to gain

Edith, he famed ODOU DM the fact that I was differ
fundamentally. A new misery crept, over me, for I
I 1 loved Edith; It was

• ■iily my education estranged me.

14 'I'ln I her things," said Mr. Lawton. "You

don't dress as we do, even if you try. Your pleasures

i ' rent; you go in for art, not in reason as we do,

276 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

but in a funny way; you won't mind if I call it a
bit neurotic. Your ideas — your standards — they're all
different."

Misery turned to anger.

" Then," I cried, " all this means that you don't think
me good enough, apart from^money."

" I did not " ,

" Would you consent if I had a thousand a year ? "

" Well, that's hardly fair. I might, but I shouldn't
like it."

" Then it is true I'm not good enough. You wouldn't
like it. That is to say that because I'm different I'm inferior.
Oh, yes, it does mean that ; if difference meant superiority
it would not bar me. You despise the foreigner. But —
but what am I to do ? How can I cease to be different ?
I'm more English than I was, for I've tried, I've wanted
to ; you don't know how fond I am of England and the
English, that I want to settle here, to live here, to be an
Englishman." There was a shake in my voice, but
I repressed a desire to weep, which would have been most
un-English. " It isn't right, it isn't fair. You let us
come here, work here, settle here — and then you won't
recognise us as human beings, you won't have us as equals.
You'll eat and drink with us, and play with us, and have
us in your clubs — but you're only tolerating us, looking
down on us all the time. It's horrible, it's making
outcasts of us — pariahs."

I stopped, breathless, wet-eyed now in spite of my
efforts. An idea began to gnaw at me: Edith? Did
she too look down upon me, though carried away by a
passing fancy ? Mr. Lawton was speaking again, beg
me not to exaggerate, pointing out how — foreign that
I hardly listened, in my new misery. Now it
my nominal faith he attacked.

" You're a Roman Catholic," he said, " now "

" I'm an atheist."

" Yes, yes, I know, an agnostic. But still you've been

THE ENCOUNTER WITH THE FATHER 277

brought up as a Roman Catholic ; we're Church people,
and you know very well that I think a man has a right
lieve what he chooses. There are lots of Roman
Catholics in England, and I don't know that I like
mixed marriages, not only on account of the children
but . . . but, I hardly know ..."

Mr. Lawton hardly knew, but, little by little, his tangled
nces managed to convey his meaning to me because
my mind had become as sensitive as a raw wound.
Better than he did himself, I grasped the hidden fear and
•d the Protestant Englishman feels for Rome, the
its, the sumptuousness of the mass. It was a plea
for simplicity, for freedom from theocracy, for demo-
cratic government. Through the mouth of Mr. Lawton
spoke the ancestor, two hundred and fifty years dead
who had shouted " No Popery ! " and marched to New-
bury with the Parliament men, or sailed on the Mayflower
to escape the Stuart — the popish, foreign Stuart. Religion,
nominal, was vital. He believed in the imprint
)ine. lie thought that it must have made me sly,
3 -. He thought it must have filtered into my moral
irds.
" You don't live as we do. Your attitude to women
— well, I don't set up to be a saint, but still you know
what I mean. It's not my business to inquire how you
. but you'll not deny that Frenchmen generally
f entangled, lose respect for women ..."
1 tried miserably to make him sec how my love for
h had opened my eyes to the meaning of purity, the
thing, the decent thing; how I had made
f chivalry and honour, and would uphold them
because I had adopted them at a mature age. He dis-

miv plea; I fell thai he doubted me, suspected

that at bottom he did not believe a foreigner could

'• ' i to tell the truth, to refrain from sharp

oman, to play the game — all kbit

• wa i a foreigner.

278 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

ii

No," he wound up, " you'll see one day I'm doing
you a good turn. You wouldn't be happy."

" What ! " I cried.

" You wouldn't. Edith would displease you because
she's not so keen, so assertive, so . . ■ . showy as the
Frenchwomen. And you'd jar on her, oh, for all sorts
of reasons — your accent — your clothes. If you boasted,
you don't do it often now, but sometimes, she'd shiver —
and there's other things, being faithful — well ! "

I did not reply. It was all over, from his point of view.

" Don't let us say any more about it," said Mr. Lawton,
kindly enough. " I've spoken plainly, but you would
have it, and perhaps it is best to understand one another.
Of course you can't come here for a time. You see that ? "

* Yes."

" Later on, when Edith is more sensible. And don't
let it interfere with business; we're -very pleased with
you there. Now promise me that you will not try to
communicate with Edith in any way."

" I can't do that."

" Oh, you must."

There was a mental tussle ; we were nran against man
for a moment, no longer employer and clerk. Mr.
Lawton was too generous to use his advant;

" No," I said at length, " not unless she says so."

Mr Lawton thought for a moment. Then —

" Very well. I don't mind. I will give'you an oppor-
tunity; I shall tell her I forbid it and she will obey."

I looked defiance at the fathers Oh, I could rely
upon the Dresden Shepherdess; she was not strong,
but armed with my love I trusted her.

"Good-night," said Mr. Lawton; "have some whisky
before you go."

book my head* !i was past midnight. Mr. Lawton
opened the do< the wAll opposite,

rigid, still in her Edith stood, her face

Hushed, her eyes downcast.

CHAPTER IV

THE ENCOUNTER WITH THE BETROTHED

We remained all three as motionless as a tableau
if. I was in the hall, face to face with Edith;
id me, in the doorway, I could feel Mr. Lawton.
ils crowded upon me, Edith, as rigid as if she had
been petrified, in a gown of white muslin, with little
knots of roses circling the hem — the flowered wallpaper
— the big, modern Lowestoft bowl full of visiting-cards.
Then Mr. Lawton spoke.
" Edith ! what are you doing here ? "
She did not reply.

44 Go up to your room at once." Mr. Lawton spoke
in low, hurried tones, and a diabolical pleasure fdled me
as I realised that the fear that the servants had not gone
to bed hung heayy over him. But, then, we were in
; the first thing to do was to avoid a scene,

h was not. on her part, o make a scene cither;

she looked up and said, quite calmly, in a strained wice :
"I wanted on, father, BO 1 came down. All

the others are in \

44 You can Bee me to-morrow morning," said Mr.
!y.
i n I joined in. A sense almost of the theatre
d me to i tter oul a1 6nce.

ecMr, Lawton/' I said, "we both know

lh knew t^-it I was asking ]

to mairy her: down to know your deci
Then iderful in that* Well, I
tell fuses. He does not

think me good enough "

'-

280 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

" I have told you that that is not the point, Cadoresse,
but I'm not going over it again. Now, Edith, go to
your room."

Anger filled me, and I spoke quickly, fearing that
Edith would obey : she might, for most English girls
have been kicked into the gutter by their fathers and told
by their mothers that it is ladylike to sit in it.

" No, Edith, don't go. Let's have it out. Your
father refuses his consent, and I have refused to accept
that as final. I said that I would take my dismissal
only from you. Come, let us both go into the dining-
room — and if you tell me it's over — very well." I
turned to Mr. Lawton, and I think my tone was ironical :
" I promise I won't make a scene."

" Impossible at this time of night," said Mr. Lawton.
" I said I would give you an opportunity, and I will.
Be here to-morrow morning at ten and you shall have it.
Now, good-night. Edith, go to your room."

" Don't go, Edith," I said.

The girl looked at us in turn. Ah, my spirit fainted :
she did not go, but she did not look like a rebel ; her
father's will and mine held her motionless as the hand-
kerchief in the middle of the rope when there is a tug-of-
war. I might win, but, if I won, would I win ?

" Go upstairs, Edith," said Mr. Lawton, rather louder.

" Edith, stay," I murmured, in the low voice of which
I knew the power.

" Don't you defy me, Cadoresse," said Mr. Lawton,
with at last a hint of the theatre.

" I am not defying you, Mr. Lawton. All I say is

this: our engagement has been discovered to-night.

I have had it out with your son. J have had it out with

you. Now I am going to have it out with Edith, and we

! know the. end as well as the beginning. I refuse

I have a right to know. It is not fair . . .

(ah, faint flicker of hesitation, Englishman !) — to con

i Edith and me to a night of . . . well, to suspense.

ENCOUNTER WITH THE BETROTHED 281

We have done no wrong, it is not fair we should suffer.
Now, Mr. Lawton, allow us to go into the dining-room
for half-an-hour. When we come out, if Edith sends me
away for ever, I'll " — (my lips twisted into a wretched,
wriggling smile) — " I'll take it like an Englishman."

Mr. Lawton hesitated for a moment, looked at me so
angrily that I felt he would not have hesitated to throw
me out of the house and to carry Edith upstairs, but
for the probable scene. Then he gave way.

" All right," he said. " Perhaps you're right. Go in,

you two, and I'll sit here and wait. Take your time —

it shan't be said you didn't have your chance, Cadoresse;

put on your coat and take your hat : when^you come

out of that room I don't want to speak to you again

to-night." He stepped away from the door, held it

open after we had entered the dining-room. " Edith,

understand this : I forbid you to marry Mr. Cadoresse.

I forbid the engagement, I forbid you to communicate

with .Mr. Cadoresse ;ifter to-night. I have legal rights

h I will not use, and other weapons which I will

i ther. All I tell you is that I forbid the engage-

(1 order you to break it off at once. Now you

can give Mr. Cadoresse his answer." He closed the door.

r some moments we did not speak. With downcast

1 each other, as if we already knew that we

joined in an incomprehensible battle. And when

at last I up I found in Edith's face a rigidity

which n-.v. !• <1 fear rather than excitement; though my

pl< usurably is when I am going

. . . with Fortune, I tOO was not without fear,

for I was looking upon the girl who loved me, who was

still affianced to me- -end I could not know whether,

in a f<w minutes, she would .still be mine. Perhaps

i did not speak, bade the moment tarry

and. insl at up to her, took her in my arms.

i did ii with a sudden move-

both arms round my neck and clutched

282 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

me to her, silent and trembling, and pressed her body
against me, burying her face upon my shoulder, all taut
with an anxiety that increased my own. As she grasped
me, and as my hands knotted about her, as I felt her
fingers, cold as any stones,*upon my neck, and the burning
of her cheek upon mine, the whole essence of us blended,
and a formless, passionate prayer came out of me that
I might absorb this girl I needed, that we might be made
one, henceforth dwell in the same body. During that
moment I believed in God, threw myself abased before
One who might give me my desire. $,

We stood, close-locked, and our breathing was heavy,
heavy with sobs rather than longing. And, truly enough,
the sobs were very near. Edith's breath came quicker
and quicker; she choked a little, faint sounds rose from
the back of her throat, horrible, repressed little sounds
that tore at me, brought tears to my own eyes, for I
knew she was trying to be brave and finding it difficult,
then impossible. Now she was crying, almost silently,
but as if she would never stop; I could feel her tears
upon my cheek, and, as I half-led and half-carried her to
the big leather armchair, my eyes were dimmed by my
own tears. There I held her upon my knees, until her
weeping became less violent, remembering bitterly that
once before only had I held her upon my knees, that
night when I told her my love. At last her tears ceased
to Bow; with an uncertain hand she made a movement
which showed she wanted her handkerchief; I gently
i her eyes, while she lay in my arms, exhausted,
her head thrown back on my shoulder. When I had done
she gave me a little cheerless smile and said :
" My dear, you must let me go. We must talk.**
" No, no," I murmured, and clasped her closer. In-
stinct told me that if I loosed her I lost her. I was
right, for she struggled to her' fed, and at once the sense
of nearness, of fusion, was no longer there. Without
ict we were not one, but two. Edith also felt it,

ENCOUNTER WITH THE BETROTHED 283

wanted it so, refused me her hand, as if she guessed that,
hand in hand with me, she would not be free. Indeed,
it is hard to reason when hands are linked.
44 Do you still love me ? " I asked.
" Can you ask ? " she replied.

4. made as if to seize her, but she put out her arm ; at
that distance, now that we stood in front of each other,
she already seemed lost.

44 N lid,44 wait, Lucien ; we must talk. We must

hat to do."
But if you love me," I said, 44 there is nothing to
i ! you, I can't do without you

. . . I'll wait for you all my life if I must "

44 i :<lith. softly, '4 I'll wait, Lucien."

"Ah — my darling — yes, we must wait; oh, not long,
I hope. You will tell him you can't give me up, that
you'll marry nobody else — you will tell him you'll wait

for ever "

44 Yes, Lucien," said Edith, gravely, 4' I'll tell him.

-but you know what he said — he won't let us be

— "

" 11<- won't let us be engaged ! Well, what does that

matter? We are 1, we remain engaged until — -

iy (billing, my love, you're not going tb give me up? "

'■ I cm.':." said Edith, weakly, "you've got me. But

ed if father won't let us."

Qh, but v must. You can't be trodden

flown like this, you will be twenty-one in a few months;

then you can marry whom you please. Fou won*! need

You will, my darling, you will?"

44 1 « id Edith, and she shook ho- head.

M f cant defy father. I ean't. I'm not —

oh. i good, bui Pm afraid — I can't."

•" \ if you I.,.

44 Oh, don't hurt me like that, Lucien. I can't —
I ean't ' Qg that will happen if I do that.

284 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

leather will be angry, and mother will be on his side,
Muriel too — she'll say you haven't got enough money "

" I shall, don't be afraid."

" Oh, that's not what I mean. I know it's weak of me,
but I can't think out whether they're right or wrong,
I just can't stand their all being against me — I know
father doesn't understand us, no more does mother,
she's forgotten all about love — and I know Muriel's
hard, and that Hugh doesn't care — but they'd all be
against me, and I can't bear it. I can't live here like
that "

** Don't live here, my darling, come with me. Promise
me you will, and to-morrow I'll leave the firm, find
another billet, marry you. Oh, it won't be long. You
love me, don't you ? you wouldn't want me to earn
much?"

" It's not that, it's not that." Edith shook her head
wearily. " You know I love you, Lucien ; you know
I'd marry you and live in one room, but I can't. Oh,"
she added quickly, " I know what you'll say : if we go
away together soon it won't matter their being against
me, for I shan't live with them, but they'd still be against
me, and I'd know it : it'd be almost the same thing."

I did not reply, for no concrete argument avails against
the imponderable. I was frightened, too, for this
heightened my sense of difference : no French girl could
have thought such a thing, have been . . . mystical.

" You see," Edith went on, " I can't disobey father.
It would be wrong."

" Wrong," I cried, " but, Edith, when one loves ..."

" It would be wrong," she repeated, obstinately.
" Perhaps he doesn't understand, but he's my father.
Besides, he's so fond of me. Oh, Lucien, you don't
know how fond he is of me. When I was at school he
used to write to me every week, to send me extra pocket-
money hidden in the lining of ties, because we weren't
allowed to have much — and it's still me he likes to take

ENCOUNTER WITH THE BETROTHED 285

out alone. He's so fond of me, I couldn't hurt him,
I couldn't ..."

44 He's being cruel to-night."

44 Yes — but he thinks he's doing his best for me . . .
it's because he's so fond of me. Oh, Lucien, don't make
me hurt him."

44 But it's me you're hurting," I cried. I seized her
hands, clasped her against me. " You're hurting me,
don't you see that ? I love you, I want you, my love, I
need you . . . and you want to give me up. Oh, yes, you
do, you wouldn't obey if you didn't. No, it's not true,
forgive me, my darling, forgive me." I pressed kisses
upon her bent neck. 4t No, I know you love me, and
it's only because you're full of the sweetness, the tenderness
I love, that you think of giving me up. But you
mustn't, you mustn't ..."

sping her hard in my arms I covered her face with

es; in broken phrases I begged her to cleave to me,

fy the world for me; I strained to give her some of

my own energy, to exasperate, to inflame her; I was

all artifice and yet all my artifices were spontaneous, for

I was trying every door as may, without much thought,

i who is seeking for an outlet from a burning building.

She lay passive in my arms under the hot stream of my

too weak to cry, to respond to my passion.

Desp 1 me, for I realised the quality of her love

ne. It was absolute, would shrink from no agony

nf waiting, but it had no activity, no courage. It could

rything, but do nothing. It was all yield, devoid

Edith would love me all her life, but,

. by education and tradition, she might be lost

me.
■" \ii, Edith," I murmured, "don't give in. Fight

'• I lit," said Edith, in a low, tired voice.

11 Bui you must, you must. Everybody must fight."
d my hold of her, retaining only her ha

286 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

" You must fight, that's life, or die. Fighting is the
destiny of man, and nothing good ean be had of
unless you fight for it. You are born with everything
against you, the law, your parents, your family,
ventions, fashions; there's the law telling you what you
mustn't do, your parents telling you what to do, your
family asking you to consider their feelings, and con-
ventions saying that they must dominate you because
they are there. Oh, don't, don't," I cried, passionately,
" don't give in. It's nothing but a conspiracy — it's
a fraud — it doesn't exist. You only think it exists,
all that. If you say you won't obey it all falls down.
The world doesn't want to*' give you the good things;
my darling, there aren't enough good things for every-
body, and if you want them you must take them. Oh,
don't give me up ; be bold, be free. Take your happi i
my darling, take it by force. Force is the only way,
force is the only thing that makes you fine. Until you've
fought you're no good, and it's better to have fought and
lost than not to have fought. Fight for me, light for

love, and you'll win, you can, you can "

" I can't fight," said Edith, miserably. " I can't."
There was a long pause. I dropped her hands, looked
with new eyes at her white face, her downcast
round which were appearing shadows which would, on
the morrow, be purple ring.-,. My plea for contest had
excited me, and an impersonal fury seized me when
I thought of the soft people of the world who could not
or would not fight. For 1 am a fighting-cock, and I
se the barn-door fowls; I know that the barn

do not think mueh of me, call me braggart, and

<>f bombast, and <>f brabbles, but that

not trouble me : I know that I am made of h

p stuff. And, as I looked upon myself in hateful

complacency, my impersonal fury l> onal,

for the softness of Edith galled me. Ah, J had wanted

that softness when I was strong; now that victory

ENCOUNTER WITH THE BETROTHED 287

seemed less certain I wanted to find in Edith a useful
hard]

What do we want of women then? Vanity that is
humble, courage with a hint of cowardice, purity soaked
with passion. It is too much to ask. And now I, who
had stretched out hungry lips for honey, raged because
s no vinegar in the precious store. She could
not fight for me. Ah ! then she would not. She did
not love me. I was no lover of hers, but merely a school-
dream. Cadoresse, you strutting gallant, you had
thrown yourself away.

" You can't? " I said in an unexpectedly harsh voice.

n't? Indeed. Then you do not love mc.# . .*.

ih did not reply, but sat down in the armchair

and hid her face in her hands. I was too angry to care;

I wanted to break my Dresden Shepherdess, as a mis-

ms child, untaught by experience, smashes a toy

whether there is anything inside-.

" You do not love me," I repeated. " You have not

got the faculty. You are like the rest of your people,

you do not know what love means. Answer," I cried

ly, after a pause, " but no, I suppose you won't

You're like the rest of the English — you're

not goin^f to defend yourself — you're too afraid of making

a scene. Oh, I know you now, you and all the rest,

and your damned discipline, your damned hypocrisy.

don't feel much, and what you feel you'll hide —

you'll Id what I like, but you'll keep your temper

— you'll hurt rue 1 too proud to speak — and

you'll hurl if because you're toe proud to cry out.

i1 human beings at all, norn: of you — you've

it fogged out of you; y<.u c . and cry

tid bung>
ll gone, .-ill the humanity, .-ill the One beastlin<
man. d-up, mummified. Where's your

l \ ... or did you go to
ter with Hugh

288 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

Edith's hands trembled upon her face.

" I see, you won't speak. I suppose it isn't all pride
and education then. Perhaps it's not worth while?
Perhaps you see, after all, that I'm not good enough —
too different, as your father says. , Perhaps you won't
fight because you don't want to, because I'm not worth
fighting for. I see now — I understand. North is North
and South is South, and never the twain shall meet.
I ought not to have left my country, and the women who
are like my mother "

Edith's hands dropped into her lap, but my anger had
given way to a bitterness so cold that the twist of her lips,
the dilation of her eyes inspired in me no pity. Indeed,
her pain filled me with an incomprehensible delight.
I had hurt her, I must hurt her again.

" I suppose you think I'd better go back to them,"
I sneered. " Perhaps you're right, perhaps you're giving
me good advice. Well, I am going. I am, I am "

Edith's features did not move ; they were set in their
strained lines, but I heard her whisper : " Lucien ! "

" Too late," I said, sombrely. " It's good-bye."

I seized my hat and coat, and, before turning to go,
looked at her again. She did not rise, but held out her
hands :

" If you come back, Lucien," she murmured, and a
knot of furrows formed between her eyebrows ; " if ever
you come back "

" If I come back ! " I cried. " Oh, indeed, if I come
back "

I can hear myself laughing as I opened the door,
laughing as I did not know I could laugh.

,

CHAPTER V

AFTER THE ENCOUNTERS

I do not remember very well what thoughts occupied

me as I went down the steps of the house at Lancaster

. except one : " I shall go home, back to France."

here to do, now that I knew

■lish to be marshalled against me in phalanx?

And though I did not actually go back to France for

time, though I preferred to go to the dovil, the

thought clove to me. For home-sickness insists. In

L »fblt, they would know me, understand me

so weil as to take no notice of me : and I did not

be noticed just tjhen. I wanted to slink away

into a corner where I should see nothing, where noth-

; I did not want to read English

with Englishmen, to interest myself in

: I wanted rest, mental sleep, as if my

1 been exhausted T>y its three terrific bouts. I

for it comes aJl too readily to the young

who lives in furnished rooms ; he has but to abandon

effort him, as a publisher who

circulation fade a*
d me the door of my bedroom,
,11. • :is instiiielivclv as <]•

of r< lief. Th<

i to fee] nay defeat, even to

Edith i 1 was numbed; I pulled off nay clothes,

which f<l< heavy and complicated, threw mv-.eif on the

bed, too tired to | i > pyjamas; I must then have

rled under th<- bedclothes, for, when I

woke up. late next day, I found I had slept in my under-

L 289

290 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

clothes, leaving the light switched on. I made no effort
to go to Barbezan, allowed my landlady to think me
unwell and to bring me my lunch in bed. I was still
torpid, and when I tried to think, while the setting sun
fell on my window, I could not pull together any mental
threads. I was contented, contented as one is when the
surgical operation is over and pain has not yet come.

It was in the night I decided to go back to Barbezan
the next day. I found in myself no hatred for Lawton
and his son ; my work waited and I saw no reason why
I sriould rebel against it. Indeed, I think I surprised my
masters when I returned, coolly excusing my absence
by a plea of illness which they had, tactfully enough,
forestalled on my behalf. Neither commented on the
happenings of the fourteenth. Mr. Lawton handed me
a sheaf of bills of lading, so that I might apportion them
among the available Lisbon boats ; later in the day he
sent for me to reprimand me for having arranged an illegal
deck cargo from London, which should have been taken
at Antwerp; and Hugh began to settle with me the
details of the transfer of his work to me, which was. to be
made at the end of the month. We did not discuss our
private affairs; we did not want to, and I think the
Lawtons were so relieved by my attitude that an unwonted
courtesy born of remorse stole into their speech.

That is all I remember. In the olFice I seem, for a
fortnight, to have gone about my duties as efficiently as
usual, subject to the errors into which my imagination
precipitated me from time to time. Out of the office I
lived my ordinary life : occasional games of chess with
Stanley, long walks at night (purposeless now and proof
against temptation), evenings at theatres or music-halls;
on one of the Sundays I sculled all alone from Hampton
Court to Staines and back; I was so calm, so ordinary
that I deceived Stanley, at whose house I went to dine.
] did not quite deceive him, for he said :

" Don't know what's up with you, Cadoressc ; you're
quieter than you were. I suppose you're turning into
an Englishman after all."

That stab should have roused me, but the time had not

AFTER THE ENCOUNTERS 291

come : my emotional chord had been strained and did not
vibrate. It needed time to recover its sensitiveness, and,
little by little, I found it did, that grief was stealing upon
me, slowly as a cloud across the moon on a light wind.
I did not yet suffer acutely, but I began to feel an atmo-
sphere, a peculiar one, for it affected me in the office.
Perhaps Barker first stimulated me when he asked me,
elaborately casual, whether I'd been to the Lawtons'
lately. I replied by a curt negative, but I was put on
my guard; soon I discovered that I interested the staff,
that Tyler and Merton came to talk to me of "life in
the West End" in a way which suggested impalpable
raillery; Farr, who seldom addressed me, took the trouble

11 me that there was nothing like a decent country
giil. When asked to define "country" he fell back on
tlit- girls "down his way." I managed to hold myself
in, but I realised that all this was not fortuitous, that
they knew something, if not everything, that the facts
of my struggle had leaked out. How? I shall never
know, for facts leak through crevices as small as those
which, on board ship, will let out steam. From Mrs.
I in a friend, from her to some husband in the

rice to his head clerk and on to our own . . .
I was not sure that the clerks knew, but

pected that they did, and I began to hate them,

.r them as a weak thing fears a strong one that may
hurt it, and to hate th< in more because I feared them.
The : . strong alkali which made me

wine- I me; by bating I began to regain my

But, because I did not know.

lish did not boldly come out and laugh

at me, I could not have the rough-and-tumble I needed

tke me active again.
Then the thing came. One morning, as I sat down
at ii, ; found a sheet of paper pinned on nay blotter;

Bfc <>d :

OINQ OO,

ksse, a Knight just so.
But the Enolish Hose said ■ oh, no, no*
To Cadoresse, the Kniuht just so."

292 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

I think I read the doggerel five or six times to make
quite sure of its application to me. I felt my face burn. . . .
Yes, they knew, , not everything, for they evidently
thought it was Edith had refused the Frenchman. A
spasm shook me, a spasm of rage so violent that, had I
not then been alone, I should have fallen on the first
man I saw and tried to tear^out his windpipe. But }t
was early, and I was able to contain myself when Barker
came in, to say nothing to the others, though I covertly
glanced at their faces to surprise in them the irony which
would expose their guilt. They remained impassive, sol
English in their attitude of aloofness that I had to repress j
my desire to go to each one of the staff and suddenly show
him the rhyme, asiing him : " Did you write this? " I,
did not do it, for l was now English enough myself to |
shrink a little from scene's ; to this day I do not know
who the author was, for there was no clue. The doggerel
was typed on one of our machines and on our own paper ;,
it might be the work of any one of the staff of thirty, for
nothing proved that my affairs did not interest those
with whom I did not associate every day.

For several days Hived with the thing; having learned
it by heart I found myself repeating it to myself over
and over again, some other self forcing it upon my sentient
self and repeating it to me, insistently, monotonously,
maddeningly. A little tune composed itself and a demon
began to sing it to me as I walked ; even when I stopped
my ears with both hands and concentrated so hard that
sweat started from my forehead ; sometimes the demon
became fanciful, introduced variations :

* " A FliOGGY WOULD A WOOING QO,
A WOOING GO, A WOOING GO,
A PSOOOY WOULD A WOOING GO,

ilKIGll EO ! SAI!) Kl)IK . . .

A ( a Kmoit just so,

A Knight just so, a Knight just so,'
is not a man quite com ms il i
Quite comms il faut, quite comme il waux . . ."

I could not get rid of it. It rumbled at me from the
wheels as' I rode in the Tube, it tinkled out of barrel-

AFTER THE ENCOUNTERS 293

>rgan tunes, it screamed itself out of the wind . . . and
when I woke in the middle of the night, it came, low and
)bstinate, out of the innermost Me. It was at night I
earned to bite my pillow so that I might not shriek out
I was beginning to believe : " I'm going mad . . .
am mad. . . ."

One effect of the rhyme was notable. My hatred of
he clerks did not fog my brain, but cleared it; I ceased
o see them as magical Englishmen, began to watch and
nalvse them, to find a queer, malignant pleasure in seeing
be Ugly where I had once seen the splendid. Fair gave
ne the first indication by suddenly asking me to come
o Homsey and see his wife, the most wonderful woman
0 the world, his son Norman and the roses of his garden
vhile they were still blooming.

i ouil find it all right," he said, "in the Edgerley

1 Fairfield ' is the name of the house."

I refused, almost rudely, for I suspected that this sudden

outburst of friendliness from my old enemy meant that

i<- wanted to gloat over my downfall or that the most

onderful woman in the world wished to find out all

bout it. lie explained that he had called " Farr-

ield " after himself when the house was new and name-

1 99 him and his class. I watched him and his

<1 them in conversation so that their acci-

1 confidences might swell the total of my hatred;

•.■thing that waa despicable and snobbish in them

heered me, for il convinced me that my race was not,

fter all, inferior to theirs. I know with what delight I

that Barker reproved the new office-boy for

rig two halfpenn} tter instead of a

it look well,'' said Barker. Dull,

r""l . . . as if it mattered to a free spirit!

it was Tyler, who wis about to be married,

while 1 I hat he was going to have

Turkey carpet . . . thai minster Turkey; and a

no . . .an upright grand. I smiled as I pre-
I tailed more broadly as Tyler bo
to be, for the latter was quite the gent,

294 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

a medical student . . . dental. Whether it was Farr
suspecting Mayfair of every vice and kneeling at Hornsey
in idiotic adoration of Regent's Park, or old Purkis
expressing disapproval of a system which paid Harry
Lauder a wage superior to that of the Prime Minister,
but accepting the situation when he found that his wife
appreciated the comedian, I felt surrounded by a hateful
group of snobs, frauds, men of the villa breed. So much
to the good : if I could not be an Englishman, at least I
was no suburban.

But the emptiness grew round me as my aloofness
increased; I paid the penalty of the new status I was;
acquiring in my own mind. Unable to call on the LawtonsJ
shunning the Raleighs, the Kents and their circle, afraid1
to go to Stanley lest he should vivisect me, I fell back
upon myself, upon my bitter loneliness. Neither work,
nor the facile pleasures of the London streets, from which
too often I now returned unsatisfied, availed me. For
I could not drink; the third whisky stupefied instead of
exhilarating me, and I was unwell the next day; and
thejight flirtations of omnibus tops and London parks
had been spoiled for me by my great adventure.

Edith had reconquered me, and now I suffered as I
had never suffered before. Her light, graceful body*
her clear laugh, the soft look of her eyes when they rested
upon me, her voice, suddenly low when it spoke of love,
everything of her rose up before me now that I had lost
her, more precious and rarer than ever before. Too
desperate and too proud to resume in Lancaster Gate
the sentry-go of my early .gallantry, I was not able to
resist looking anxiously into the faces of girls as I p; i
them in the street, hoping a little it would be Edith 1
saw, and fearing that it might be Edith, and hoping too
that something, the arch of an eyebrow or the cur
a lip, would recall her to me. Sometimes I tried to drive
the image away, reasoned with myself and told myself
I was sentimental, neurotic, that I must forget her and
make another life; but I reacted very soon from thosw
moods and, leaning back in some comfortable chain

AFTER THE ENCOUNTERS 295

gave myself up to a day-dream with a delicious sense of
ad guilt. Whether I loved her then, lam
not sure, for so much hatred mingled with my passion,
but certainly she occupied and filled me as she had never
done before, and often she called to me, faintly and wist-
fully; sometimes my mind clothed her in a white pannier
skirt, all flowered with pink roses, dressed her hair high
and powdered it, set a patch upon* her delicate painted
cheek and then bade her curtsey to me as an actual

<len Shepherdess dethroned from her pedestal. In
other moments she was neat and shirt-waisted, in others
yet, all languid, in gold-flecked gauze, upon a bank of
peonies. And often I ended by weeping, by digging my
into my palms be cause I did not want to weep :
for the joy one has not had turns to bitterness ; it may be
that St. Anthony suffered more after than during the
temptation. f

never came to me, a dream of reconquest.
Edith had fled back into the ideal land whence I had

I her to me; no longer Edith, she had rejoined the
phantom I girls among whom I had thought to

my mate. In those days she seemed, in her dream-

. to belong to another world, to live in some Eden
from which I had been driven, never to return, because

g foreign I was unclean. And yet I longed for her,

needed her; deepei and deeper I sank into gloom

and isolation, and I wanted her with a more insistent

me does not heal a wound when both heart

and i : thai is too great a complication. I

. wi II knowing that whosoever hath

drunk shall i be thirsty, but resigned myself to

everlasting thirst.

II

The year was flying. Hut four days before, on Christ-
mas Eve, I had been handed an envelope in which,
ther with B Christmas box, was a typed notice to
.12 " thai his salary was raised to three hundred a year,

296 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

for Barbezan & Co., who wished to allay jealousy among
the staff, concealed from the typists the names of those
fortunates who benefited by rises. And now, gloomily
enough, I was substituting pleasures for happiness; I
had been to the theatre, in the stalls, as I could afford
a stall on three hundred a year, and now sat before some
cold chicken and half a bottle of Moselle in a big Strand
restaurant. I had thought to find there gaiety, and there
gaiety lived indeed, for the air was filled with excited
babble, with the band's impartial selections £rom " La
Boheme " and " The Country Girl." Much light, a red
glow about the velvet seats, glitters on the gildings of
the' walls and about the crystal of the chandeliers. A
general impression of movement, easy and fleeting adven-
ture, and for me a feeling of scparatcness, almost dis-
embodiment. I had not felt my loneliness in the theatre,
but I felt it bitterly in this room where everybody had
come in twos or in groups, where such as came singly
nodded carelessly to friendly suppers-parties and wandered
oh to some appointed table. I had no appointed table,
sat at my own as a dog before its platter, and a sourness
filled me as I looked at the couples, the dozens, the scores
of couples, the parties of four which were only duplicated
couples. Young Englishmen in perfect evening clothes,
with girls who were not of their class, but lovely in their
excitement ; swarthy foreigners showing London to hand-
some London girls and ignorant of the contempt the
English felt for them; middle-aged men^ some with
beaming, some with irritable wives, and some with the
obvious unwed, divided in their allegiance between woman
and wine, I hated them all. I hated their gaiety, their
freedom from care, the security of the English, the ignor-
ance, boldness of the foreigners; I hated them because
they were not alone, because they had at least the illusion
of love, because the bubble of their self-esteem had not
been pricked. And in the horror of my solitude I felt
ready for any expedient, for any ad venture, however low,
if only I might be gulled with pretty speeches, hold some
falsely friendly hand ... if only I could cease to be

AFTER THE ENCOUNTERS 297

alone. . . . And still the double door revolved in its
glass case, hiding and revealing these ghosts that went
in and out endlessly. Ghosts ! yes, they -were ghosts to
me, ghosts whom my touch would dispel. . . .

Two £irls seemed to have forced themselves into one

compartment of the door, for there was laughing and shrill

giggling u£~ they bundled together into the room. I

d at them carelessly, hating them too because they

laughed. But one of them interested me. Her clothes

held my attention, for their fashion had anticipated the

of London, recalled a picture I had seen a day or

two before in a French paper. She was small, slim,

wore a Nattier blue coat and skirt over a white lingerie

blouse which ended in a large jabot; her hat was just

• than anybody else's, and its Nattier blue satin

(1 out like enormous wings ; as she came towards '

Mowed by her friend, who was taller and

ed in more commonplace khaki. I recognised her,

and my heart began to beat as she walked down the aisle

between the marble-topped tables. Just before she

d my table our eyes met and, for a moment, she

incredulously, and I had time to see warm

colour rise in her clucks, her blown eyes sparkle. Then

she took two quick* steps forward and, smiling broadly,

held out her hand.

I. " it's old tea-caddy. Fancy meeting

•

I took her hand, Which was bare and warm and, as I

held it, recognised the familiar breadth of the palm,

the pointed fingers ; the red mouth,

r than in the past, for it v. uHy painted with

Ive, smiled over the perfect teetn, and there was'

,l>ou! the biown hair, now done in a

most defiant, but

• . and as 1 smiled at her

I kn< i ' mo longer alone.

She 1 urned to her

44 Allow me to i unly, " Miss

298 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

Serena P. Huggins, of Chicago, where the pork comes
from . . . Mr. Cadoresse."

44 Pleased to meet you, Mr. CaDOR'ess," said Miss
Huggins.

I smiled as we shook hands, for this was the first time
I heard the American accent, and to be called CaDOR'ess
amused me.

Also Serena was very attractive, much taller than I
had realised at first, slim but absolutely straight; her
perfect tailoring exaggerated her length of bust and limb ;
on her long neck she carried a small, aggressive head,
round which were coiled endless plaits of thick, glittering
black hair. A mat skin, warmed with pink and some
yellow, a thin, defiant mouth, so dark red as to appear
brown, unflinching black eyes and almost straight black
eyebrows, all this was so pronounced, so assertive that I
thought of Diana, the fierce huntress, as I said :

" I too am charmed, Miss Huggins ; indeed, if anything
could increase the pleasure of meeting Miss Hooper again,
it would be making your acquaintance."

44 There ! Serrie, old dear," said Maud. " What did I
tell you? There isn't another can tell the tale like him.
But don'tcher care, Serrie, he told it to me before he told
it you and it's the same ,old talc. Still, I'm not going to
be hard on you, Caddy; you can stand us supper and we'll
kiss and be friends . . . that is, if you're all on your lone-
some."

44 Yes," I said, 44 I'm alone. Sit down, both of you,
and order what you like."

44 What I like ! " said Maud, staring at me. 44 My,
you're up in the flies, Caddy. What'd you say if I made
it fizz?"

44 I should order fizz."

44 Well, I never ! Have they made you a bloomin'
partner ? or what ? "

fore 1 could reply Serena had interposed :

44 Say, Maudie, what's the matter with fizz, anyway?]!
We ain't on the water wagon, either of us. What's the})
good of makin' a poor mouth about it? "

AFTER THE ENCOUNTERS 299

As I called the waiter I swiftly contrasted the humble
attitude of the English girl with the cool, proprietorial
tone of the American. But I had little time for analysis,
as Maud, who seemed to have forgotten the quarrel on
which we parted^ had a great deal to say; having to
explain me to Serena while she gave me some account
of her last year's history her conversation was a little
miM

41 Well, no, I'm not exactly on the halls. I did do a

turn, eccentric dancing and, my word, it wasn't half

eccentric, and I was on the road for a Kit after I gave

Bert the chuck. You remember Bert, don't you, Caddy ?

Oh, don'tcher care, it's all over, absoballylutely. You

soe, Serric, this is my long-lost fiasco and love of my

youth; he got the pip because of Bert, and as I wasn't

Mg any of his old buck we said a tearful farewell, I

don't think. . . . Oh, yes," she replied to my question,

it was pretty rotten, being on the road, but a shop's

a shop and don't you forget it. I got the bird one night

Bud that's what put the lid on it . . . though if you

: to know it was the boss. What d'you think he

night, the. ..." I was enlightened as to the

of managers in general. M Fetched him one

on the koboko," Maud summed tip, "and hoo.ked it.

! am I doing now? Nothing extra, walking on in

cond line; it ain't all 'oney, eh, Serrie? "

a rotten dope," said Serena, fiercely. " Two

. sixteen changes, an' ninety-four steps to

climb each change. I'm goin' on the jag next week.

Look' she added, as Maud protested that drink

wouldn't mend matters, M this show don't go on; do you

know tli* Mr. CaDOR'css ? Ten dollars a week,

an1 tl dollar for the agent, an' a shillin' for the

C€ f«>r the eallboy, an' sixpence for the

do you get me, Steve J "

Mv explanation that my name was not Steve was

with shrieks of Laughter, during which Serena

>f her gri little by little, as I learned to

iris' extraordinary language, I gained

300 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

an idea of Maud's adventures. She had " eloped " with
iiert Burge a week after I left St. Mary's Terrace, and she
did not conceal that the word ** marriage " had never been
pronounced. She had gone on the halls as an eccentric
dancer and singer, had been the partner in a knockabout
with Bert ; then, tiring of him or deserted by him (I never
found out the truth), she had gone on tour with a third-
rate musical comedy company. After the episode of the
bird and the smack on the manager's s koboko, provoked
by. her faithfulness to her temporary companion, the low
com., she had been out of a shop for two months. There
was a little break in her story which I did not try to
bridge. Then she came to London, made friends with
Serenk in a teashop, and was through her engaged in the
variety theatre where a mongrel entertainment, made
up of singing, dancing, acting and parading occupied her
twice a day. Now she was happy enough, could count
on thirty-four shillings a week, and lived in freedom
with Serena at Harewood Avenue. She had come into
the restaurant on the chance of " getting off " with " one
of the boys."

All this came out swiftly, with a metallic rattle of gaiety,
sprinkled and spiced everywhere by the theatre-Cockney
ironies of " tain't so likely " and " never let it be said."
Maud was gay, fiercely, defiantly gay, and fiercely, defiantly,
cynical. Also her language had changed : here was no
longer the mild slang picked up at Mother Tinman's, but
a blend of the vilest Cockney phrases and of theatrical
tugs, sprinkled here and there with oaths; I had yet to
that no words were too foul now, when Maud was
angry : the Mile End streak ran right through her. She
vulgar, and became vulgar, vital, in a way which
clashed with her cynicism, ma$e me think of those sophis-
ticated hot omelettes in whose heart is coin n ice.
That night cynicism was in 1 he ascendant; curls, paint,
the " pussy-cats " of make-up which still stuck in the
corners of her eyes, accorded with her new attitude, her
new name, " Devon." I asked her^why she had
adopted it. .

AFTER THE ENCOUNTERS 301

" Fetches the boys," she said, "least I hope it will;
got a newspaper chap in Dudley to put me in as ' Matidie
D.' It'd be worth twenty quid a week to be Mordedee . . .
and I can't get a line in this show," she added, viciously.

Serena did not speak much. She ate and drank voraci-
ously, replying only by short sentences to the remarks
de to her out of politeness. I wanted to talk to
1, who attracted me now more than ever, perhaps
se the good looks of the girl had turned' into the
brazen beauty of the woman, perhaps because in my
loneliness and misery my heart was as susceptible to
temptation as is a weakened body to disease. And Maud's
frankness, her aggressive boldness, fascinated me; the
nee with which she dropped hints of her various
1 1 ships ; her tierce and open taste for a good time,
all this was so easy after the reticences of another class
that I found myself sliding, and gladly. Maud told me
in plain words that she had gone to the devil because I
didn't care for her, and when I publicly took her hand,
. Apparently she didn't care what happened.
"Say, honey," Serena remarked, yawning as if the
(1 her, " it's twelve-thirty ; we've got to beat it.

DOR'esS, and that's
on '11 drive us 1k.uk- in a taxicab."

tjed as ihey wheedled. In

he Amei • inviting

d. And Maud, I

• that spo< -R-P-H, wph, allowed me

as the full lights

of PiccadUly ( ed into tin- cab*

III

What did 1 fed) I Won the cab took me to

1 .bridge Street. I often a>k<<i myself that question

hip with the tw<» girls grew closer, and

1 it difficult « . »n, lor I had emerged from my

ten ' l)ility without having thoroughly

.icily for introspection: BOme of it, had

a<d to me after t. rhyme, for I had

302 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

been stung, but I was not yet a sentient animal; those
mental chords were still strained. I had a vague idea
that, after Edith, I needed not k lover, but a soul into
which to pour my soul, a woman with whom to mix tears.
And yet I knew that I was glad of the girls' society, that
their curious talk pleased me, and that I could be amused
by stories of what Gwendolen Harcourt said to her boy,
by descriptions of the "bucketing" Tozer gave his
company at rehearsal, and the perpetual spicy stories
which found their way " behind " from Throgmorton
Street. It was easy, for these girls were used to the
foreigner, the rich Brazilian and the German Jew, dis-
tinguished little between the Honourable John Helbert
(the candidate for Serena) and old Mosenberg, who cast
over the whole of the chorus a favourable eye ; here were
no insults for the Frenchman ; so long as he had a decent
coat to his back, money to pay for a supper or a cab, and
was not too dull company, the Frenchman was just a
man.

That was good. I could fall into gallicisms now, and
merely be called a " date " ; there were no more imper-
turbable disapprovals, no more classifications. So, as I
let myself .slide, surrendered myself to Maud's heady
charm, I felt as happy as a criminal who has confessed,
for I was not pretending any more ; I was myself, a lover
in search of facile adventure. It came, for I found that
Maud had preserved something of the faint taste she had
had for me; g&fted on those remains, on the senti-
mentality which inclined her towards me because she
had known me a very long time and in other surroundings,
was the boldness and the looseness which had come to
her as she draggled her way from sordid, mercenary
companionships to complaisances dictated by policy, and
to indulgences in which sensuousness played a lesser j
than indifference.

Maud was a creature born again ; she had seized her
politic morals and hurled tlicm behind her. She was
abandoned, not because she wanted to be such, but
because she didn't care. One evening I was to fetch her

AFTER THE ENCOUNTERS 303

at the stage door at six, to take her to dinner and bring
- her baek in time for the evening show. I waited some
minutes under the porch of the theatre opposite, for fine
rain was falling. With me was a little crowd ; there were
two obvious mothers, elderly, tired and wonderfully
vigilant, as if they feared that their girls would be kid-
napped at the door, several " boys " in fancy waistcoats
and birthday boots ; there was also somebody's girl pal,
h and still powder-flecked. Every time the door
opened, to disclose in a cube of light the doorkeeper, who
sat in his box, and to let out a stage hand or some principal,
i slight stir in the crowd. Hungrily they
watched the theatrical folk, the dressers, members of the
id smart girls who furled their skirts and ran under
the drizzle. But the tenseness of it amused me, showed
me how little I mattered now, for nobody seemed to
with what member of the chorus I might be
entangled; the f was purely individual. There

ody now to criticise me, my morals, manners or
Indeed, the attitude went further than I
thought, for the door was opened suddenly to show me
md spangled bodice, beckoning to me to
com

I crossed the alley, followed by the envious eyes of the

with hesitation the cube of light. It

B dingy little place, no more than a corridor between

e staircases that rose to the right and left.

host ili a look that, in re-

• ink from Maud. I handed him a coin, half-a-

*

"Th. am"! allowed," be grumbled j " 'urry up."

in and drew me two' paces away,
but I did not notice hex fii ces, so striking did she

appear in her full m;ike-np. II. ; s mafcked with

led and lines whieh made her look like

a do th hex upper eyelids were painted deep blue;

she had mo mouth into a bow with thick red

salve, while everyone of hex bed With

black grains at the base, Shi wore pink tights, and a

304 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

close-fitting shell entirely covered with gold crescents and
multicoloured paillettes ; glittering wire and gauze wings
stood out from her shoulders, and smaller wings rose from
her piled brown hair.

" Couldn't let your youthful heart get sick with hope
deferred, old dear," said Maud. " We've had a call to
put a new girl through. * Old Pinky-Gills gave Dora
d'Esterre the sack this afternoon to put in a new girl he
picked up at a night club. That's the third call We've
had this week to please his lordship. You wouldn't
think he was a thing of the past, the "

" Maud, darling ! " I protested, for another couple stood
whispering at the foot of the second staircase.

" Oh, don'tcher care. Anyhow, I can't go out, and I
can't stop."

" Can't you say you're unwell ? "

" Rush of brains to the feet ! Tell that tb old Pinky-
Gills ! No, I'll meet you at the Bank to-morrow, at half-
past twelve, as per use, and you can take me to lunch.
Now don't be sulky." ^

I looked down at Jier, and vividly realised that the
little creature was charming, that she was tovely. The
tights moulded her slim limbs, and the shell, cut very low,
leaving her arms and mobile breast bare, revealed by
suggesting more than it hid. And, curiously enough, she
was gentle. •;

" Must go," she murmured. Her hand was still on my
arm. "Frenehy mustn't be sulky. Baby frightened."
Four yean streamed away as I remembered those words,
spoken before our first kiss. Was there magic in them?
Perhaps, for Maud laughed, threw a glance towards the
doorkeeper's back and the whispering couple, then coiled
a warm, bare arm round my neck and, drawing my head
down, kissed nie swiftly but so violently that the scent
and taste of the grease paint still clung to my lips when I
woke up next day.

" Ta-ta. Be good," she said, and ran up the stairs.

I went out, stood in the drizzle, and observed, im-
personally, that the others still waited, that two llashy,

AFTER THE ENCOUNTERS 805

Jewish-looking men had joined their group, that a motor-
stood at the end of the alley in readiness for the star.
As I walked away I pondered a good many questions,
did she love me? Did I love her? I think in
both o si b I answered " No." She had melted to me, as
she had done a score of times before. And I ? I could not
tell, for one may love and despise; but I knew that I
d not drive her image, from me, her fierce, aggressive
. ;md the fumous intoxication of her. Soon, too,
I was to know myself a little better. Maud did not at
once melt to me again ; when, next day, we lunched at
the stately Great Eastern Hotel, she said that she didn't
know why she had kissed me, and that after she'd done it I
. us if I were going to have a fit on the mat. Her
hard surface had formed once more.

She was still hard over a week later, on Sunday night,
we dined at the Trocadero, anxious only to point out
the well-known of her world, to catch and return smiles and
, to talk loudly to me so as to show that she had a
man. And hard again, when she took me with her to the
r de Lis Club in a small street off Shaftesbury Avenue,
mto which we wei I by the Honourable John, who

with Serena, slowly drinking himself into stupe-
faction. \V' a little party, to which were added
Sterry, .d bro ken umbrella
mare, the immensely long, fair and
against the target into which
I his unerrio b. The Fleur
ly a drinking club, though per-
funcl look place on the
as bul few members wen- allowed to pass into
I BUspept there was also a
fcr, but as the place
led I cannot be sure. Mostly
le sat in . I twelve; newcomers

Oven d without dilliculty
thai man or worn* □ old friend.

al lb li>- it\ table we became isolated,
for .v :ig to say to us; leaning against

806 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

Rhoda's thin, white shoulder he spoke to her in the low,
thrqaty tones that were worth a hundred a week'. Serena
had few words for us. She smiled and said :

" Gee, you're some style in that gown, Mordcdee ; I
wouldn't be seen with her 'cept in a tuxedo, Mr.
CaDOR'ess."

The Honourable John gave me a fishy look, and weakly
ordered the waiter to give me a whisky and soda and to
bring him another. 4

" Listen right here, Jack," said Serena, seizing his arm,
" this show don't go on. You've had four now, and I'm
not stayin' here for you to get a bun on. See ? That's
all there is to it."

" Waiter, another whisky and soda," said the Honour-
able John, ponderously. " I'm all right, Serrie."

" I've a hunch you ain't** said Serena. " Waiter,
you're the cutest thing, you'll bring the gentleman ginger
ale."

And, strangely enough, the Honourable John accepted
the ginger ale, and disconsolately sipped it in spite of the
party's delighted chaff. Serena held him, played with
him; I think he liked to be bullied by her, to find himself
first encouraged to stroke her thin, dark arm while he
told her a story she voted " cunnin'," and then suddenly
to be repulsed, fiercely told to " put a lid on " and assured
he was wrong if he thought he was the goods.

Meanwhile Maud picked out for me the celebrities of
the Fleur de Lis : Walstein, owner of Walstein's Royal
Halls, and Puresco, the Roumanian conductor, whose
friendship with a middle-"agcd duchess was by now too
stale to be worth diseussing in detail. " That's Hopp,"
she said, pointing to a monstrously fat man, who sat
between two shrimps out of some ballet, " and there's
Sarah Mallik; she used to do a Sheeny turn with Sam
Davis, down Mile End way. Now she's rolling. That 's
her man there, just come in, Bobby Mornington, Lord
Mornington's son. D'you know what he said the first
time he saw Sara ? He looked her in the eye for about a
minute and said :

AFTER THE ENCOUNTERS 307

* My name is Bobby Mornington,
So Sara hurry up.
For when I grow Lord Mornington,
Your little game is up.'

Not bad, eh? She was on him . . . like a bird."

All the evening, and it was nearly two before we thought

of leaving, Maud gave me the biographies of the members,

the history of their alliances and .appearances in the

divorce court, also an inventory of the women's jewels.

I had, mixed with disgust, an extraordinary sense of ease

as I surveyed these people, English and foreign, equal,

careless, more or less disreputable; this queer cosmos

inside the cosmos, where the peerage and the wealth of

management drank, jostled and grossly flirted with the

chorus and the aged but skittish stars. One had to shout

to be heard, for forty people were all talking together;

ah, what an easy world, for the quality of the speech didn't

matter; if one shouted one was heard. And we could

do v. hat we liked. Sterry had drawn upon his knees the

!«ss Rhoda Dclamare, and was telling her in a loud

voice a story he could not have told on the stage. Hclbert,

who had outwitted his keeper and was intoxicated, was

laughing the feeble, childish laughter of the sot as Serena,

Oool and hard, but pleased because he had promised "her

a ruby rinu, described for his private information a new

il fun; " with which she was next day going to

t . Maud, too, had ceded to the ambient

back in 1 he crook of my arm and let me kiss

oft neck, merely remarking at intervals : " Stop yer

ticklin', Jock." But as I held her I was pleading with

i by the cast (,f ihe atmosphere, all my

hivalries and purities had slipped away from me.

lid, I didn't care

'■ M ad, my darling," I murmured. I tried to tell her
r, that 1 had always loved her and still

lo\< (1 1;

44 Tell me Booth aid, lazily. But still she let

me e i away by the power of the place,

half aphrodisiac, half drunken. Round us the scene

308 THE^ MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

■

was orgiastic. Helbert, giggling and hiccuping, was
trying to force champagne on Serena, who played on him
the trick of seizing Rhoda round the neck and guiding
the drunken man's hand toward the other girl's mouth.
Rhoda swallowed the champagne as if she were too lazy
to resist, while Helbert glared at the girls and remarked
at intervals : " Funny thing, Serrie . . . you got two
heads . . . ver' funny . . . mus' have had too much.
Sterry laughed so uproariously over this joke that his face
had become purple. I, too, had had too much to drink
for my weak Southern stomach, and it was in a mist I
saw Hopp with the two ballet-shrimps on his knees, and
an enormous crowd, thousands of people, men in tweeds
and evening clothes, and^vomen in red, green, purple low-
cut gowns . . . and smoke, torrents of tobacco smoke.

I gripped Maud by the wrist. " Let's go," I said,
thickly.

She obeyed, carelessly, as if Her brain were soddened
with alcohol and tobacco. In the cab, against the
windows of which the rain spattered and flowed in silvery
sheets, I clasped her to me, desperately, hungrily, and she
did not reply to my rhapsodies, to the heady, broken
phrases that came to me ; but she did not resist me, and
at times laughed. I remember the high ring of her laugh-
ter,'the "Who oares?" of her . . . and the beating of
the rain on my face as I stood on the doorstep at Hare-
wood Avenue . . . the black void of the hall . . . and
then, in a dream, the harsh seduction of the voice as she
said :

"Come in, then, you silly kid."

IV

Riot ! Nobody cared. Not Serena, the immaculate,
the juggler, the mysterious one who could touch pitch
and not be defiled; nor Helbert, vapid when he v.as not
drunk; nor those others, the Sterrys, the IIopps, the
Rhodas, accomplices and partisans of mine; nor Maud;
nor I. Serena stood ns the perpetual goddess of " Who
Cares?" or, as "she put it, of "Don't give a damn."

AFTER THE ENCOUNTERS 309

Fierce and pure, she had the art of giving nothing for

thing, of tempting and exploiting the Helberts vof

her world, and preserving, in the midst of its foulness,

the pride of her own purity. Serena could not fall, for

her insolence held her up,* served her as dignity; the

strangeness of her beauty allowed her to draw behind her

an unending trail of lolloping men-rabbits, for there were

no weaknesses in her mind, no little windows through

which a man might reach at her heart. Serena was on

the make; trained to look upon man as a purveyor of

candies, novels, ice-cream and flowers, she gave nothing

because she had nothing to give. No man 'touched her

because, in her sexlessness, she wanted no man to touch

when she condescended to let Helbert take her

hand, if he tried to kiss her she eluded him, thrust her

hair si raight at his face ; to court Serena was like making

a hedgehog.

So Serena watched unmoved the progress of our

affairs, had DO word of approval' or condemnation when

sh«- found me with Maud at hoars evidently ill-timed for

ena had no views on morals; she tolerv

ftted everything that did not affect her evilly, nothing

did. In her view Maud was my bestest girl, and

; there was to it.

In Maud I found a peculiar sweetness* wayward moods

Id suddenly seize my head with both hands,

and feverishly caress me, and then repulse me, try to

me, while the whole vocabulary of the streets flowed

np to hex lovely lips. And I 'loved my shame, shouted

if down when I asked : " Me that 'avc been wot
i . . . what's going to become of you?" In
i I found something thai responded to mydespe

!. delirious moments when Bhe actually loved me, and

"l allure of inertia; splendid, drunken mo-

;iLr. as we danced, the ditty of the day,

i a great, golden film hung over the world; and

ttul moments of reaction and savagery when we

quarrelled and found word-, thai out, when I shook her

frail body as a t« : d mouthed at her

810 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

insults lately learned, when my fists clenched and my eyes
became blurred by a terrible, seductive picture of her face
when she screamed under my blows. . . .

And all through, for six long weeks, it was riot. My
day was naught but a somnolence, a round of duties
carried out with mechanical efficiency. The hours be-
tween Maud's shows alone counted, when we walked the
streets, or ate and drank, made love and fought at street
corners; and the hours at night clubs, and those others
when we were half lovers, half enemies. She dragged me
behind in her careless course, defiant, head in the air,
into public-houses, into the waiting-rooms of agents, on
Sundays to Brighton and its hotels, into the scented reek
of the week-end trains ... I followed, drugged, narco-
tised, half-intoxicated, for my head was stronger now, and
I knew how to drink without becoming drunk. ... A
pantomime was taken off in the South of London, and
there I was in the syren's wake, at the supper on the
stage, . . . lobster salad, I remember, and cold fowl, and
flat beer . . . the fat chairman, the personification of
a grin, toasting " the lidies, bless their little 'earts," and
breaking down when the career of Walstein's Royals was
alluded to, weeping drunkenly when cheers were given
for yole Bill and 'ole Jim. . . . Faces float up, like a
" movie," as Serena said when I tola* her what they
looked like, a great nosegay of faces, bloated male faces
over the wrong collars, painted, haggard, women's he/ids
with yellow hair in their eyes, and pretty, round, baby
faces with pouting lips. They rise in the mist of alcohol,
and there rises, too, the memory of me, sodden and
resentful, my soul still struggling with me as I repeated
again and again, " Me that 'ave been wot I've been . . ."
but I was too far from the past and the splendour of its
ambition. Cast out by those others, the charm did not
touch me. •

For I hated myself in the degradation of which I was
the more conscious as I plunged deeper. Ten weeks, and

AFTER THE ENCOUNTERS 311

the slough up to "my neck. March, green buds pricking
their sharp points into the freshness of spring, but dull
pains in my head and bones, spots' before my eyes, liver
blotches upon my cheek. The round of drink and dull
orgy amid the coming of spring. Maud held to my lips
no cup of elixir : the draught was either fiery or dulling,
as suited her fancy, but never rich in hope or life. We
lived for the day and by it. For a month she was out of
a shop, as her next engagement, at a North London hall,
did not coincide with the end of the current one, and
during that month I seemed to saturate myself with the
emanation of her gay, base, and harsh personality. She
found in me, the new me, exactly what she wanted, a
shrill, cheerful despair; she liked me when I broke into
the oaths she had taught me, admired me when I found
to tell that made even Sterry uneasy, loved me when,
of nights, at the Fleuf de Lis, with my dank, black
hair plastered over my wild eyes, I could sneer at the
holir:

" Cheer up, we'll soon be dead."

So said ;;11 of us. And I didn't care who knew. Sunken

in my in, I wanted everybody to know I was en-

thralled; I boasted oi Maud at Barbezan's, showed her

photograph to the clerks, so that they might reprove me

and i and despise me, and yet be subtly drawn to

ask d I made her come to the City to lunch,

who always went where somebody else

e out of the theatre,

where I ad on pay-day, in the crowd under

the verand . h are rested upon me the

oi a theatre-paxi 1 and Mrs. Raleigh, Mrs.

Law) ould tell Edith. Well, let

J hem teD in their gu .1 openly took Maud's

: 1 smiled, I strutted, and

bje pain shot through me as I

benl down with my face close to

es of sup rland, for

out. I knew those English; they

812 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

were not a nation, but a caste, and I no longer wanted to
enter it : Brahmins of the West who would not have . me
save as a pariah, I'd not trv to be aught to you. English
who despise Europe, whom3 mistaken Europe envies, I'd
have the luxury of despising you. I knew what your
virtue9owere : English virtues were not virtues but voids ;
instead of fine,, ruddy vices the English had nothing.
Their tolerance was indifference; their fairness was
convention; their calm was coldness, their aloofness,
stupidity. I drew Maud closer, crushing her to me.

" You French devil," she said. But now I minded no
adjectives. The acidity of our love-making served me
well enough, even when Maud refused herself to sweet-
nesses for which my buried self sometimes clamoured.
She was hard. If I wanted to take her home aft^r
dinner, to sit with her for long hours, and to hold her
hand, unconsciously to seek quietude, she did not ! she
wanted to go to a music-hall. Always Maud had to be
active, to laugh, weep, clap or h.iss, to see plays and turns,
to drink, to smoke and to talk. In April I took her up
the river, but%he tired of Shepperton in an hour.

"One-eyed sort of place," she said; "let's go to
Skindlcs." l

And it had to be Skindles, Maidenhead, Boulter's, the
sunny* crowded lock and the transferred blare of the
town. Maud could not dine save among a hundred
others, take her pleasure save with others, talk except
against a restaurant band; hostile to the community,
she needed it, was held by it, as if her envies and her
hatreds linked her with her fellows more closely than
would have her loves.

I was like her, wanted so to be, for now I carried my
insolence, and now the inevitable crisis was coming. I*
had become a hero at Barbezan's, a person to whom
juniors came timidly to 1 ell tales, before whom they stood
light village beaux before Don Juan. Not a word
had been said by Hugh or Mr. Lawton, for no fault had
been found with me . . . or I had been tacitly excused
because of thc.things that had happened. They were not

AFTER THE ENCOUNTERS 313

going to be unfair to me, I think, and for that reason were
. y to be unfairly lenient. They knew in what atmo-
sphere I lived, for I cannot believe that Farr, my enemy,
and the others, my envious friends, omitted to enlighten
them. But nothing was said, and I hated them the more
for their tolerance. " Damn your tolerance," I thought,
much in the spirit of the proud beggar who says : " Curse
your charity." Their tolerance jangled my nerves.

One morning I went into Hugh's room. He looked up
at me, faintly smiling, and for one second I was stirred
by tl. of him, young, beautiful and sp emphatically

Idenly felt an impulse to pour out my flood
of pain and desire before this creature, so splendid and
akin in its motionlessness to a statue of Apollo. But, as
lied, and rage filled my soul, for I was
swift to ' ow, and I had found insult, subtle,

biting insult : Hugh had sniffed.

hat are you sniffing att " I asked, angrily.

I me with a very little surprise in his

*• I suppose you smell scent," I said. " Well, you do . . .

and yj.u know where it comes from. It's not I who use

. it's the company I keep . . . it's Maudie* D.,

a. You know how I stand with her, don't

" [t's ;;<> DU mine " Hugh began!

■■ No business of yours ! " I shouted. "Ah, here it is

our damned tolerance, your damned Liberalism . . .

< . ou don't condescend to care, like the rest

n may go to the dogs, I suppose, if

don't live in your kennel. You're not goinur '-:>

. to help a man '.'

d Hugh.

•• I'm : ng you to do anything/1 I snarled,

though I knew thai I ache^ for somebody who would

thing; " I a condescending help.

I you wanted to, for England's heart

;s in cold i -lings,

mi where f .'. Ii keep their passions,

314 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

yon keep a slide-rule. I don't want help, I don't want
sympathy. I just want you to respect my personality,
I want to be recognised as a man."

" I'm sure I recognise all that," said Hugh.

" You don't. In France we value a man for being
a fine man; in England you value him for being an
Englishman. Oh, I know what that sniff means. You
smell scent, you suggest I use scent, that I'm effeminate,
disreputable — foreign. Why don't you tell me that
I'm on a level with the barber, the waiter, the musician
in the band ? with the rest of the dirty foreigners as you
call them, when you . don't use a stronger a'djective.
Why can't you be frank about it ? why can't you massacre
the giaour, like the Turk ? or torture him as the Chinese
do the foreign devils ? Tolerant Englishmen, you're
only barbarians, xenophobes "

" You do use long words," said Hugh, lazily, as he
inspected his finger-nails. " What do you mean by
xcno . . . what's its name ? "

Then I lost my temper. The original little insult of
the sniff receded, and it was indicative of my state of
mind that such a trifle should raise such a storm — unless
it be*always the trifles that matter. I told Hugh what
I thought of him, his fashion-plate clothes, his superior
Pall Mall club, his futile, brain- wasting golf, his liking
for musical comedy, his sham Liberalism, his stupid
satisfaction with the material world, his suspicion of
art and letters, his dull, smug public-school standard.
As I ranted, I hated him, and I hated myself because
a devil in me made me shout and gesticulate, because I
was a Frenchman, because, like Kipling's big beasts, he
wasn't going to notice the monkey. And I ranted on
when Mr. Lawton came in from the next room to sec what
was the matter. I turned on him, charged him with
being as his son, with having conspired with England to
make his son like him, like his father, like his father's
friends, so that all of them, caste, class and nation, they
might sneer at different men.

" I hate your society of convention and artifice, I

AFTER THE ENCOUNTERS 315

hnte the boat-race, the meet of the Four-in-Hand Club,
tL< Cup-Tie Final, the Academy. I hate your bourgeois
dinners, your salmon, your saddle of mutton and your
port. I hate your big police and your stupid life-

* Is men — we'd have made short work of them, my
nent. I hate youT paid soldiers and your slavish

worship of aristocrats and monarchs. I hate your sham
lair play, which is only a habit. I hate everything that's
English, and I'm going to leave it ; I'm sick of it, sick

ou, sick of your stupid, romantic women and your
dumb, bloodless men; I'm sick of you all, sick of all

think and like, and I'm going back to France, going

• *g°in£ a^ once "

They looked at me with calm, faintly surprised faces.

44 Can't you speak ? " I shouted ; " can't you defend

your country and yourselves? No," I said bitterly,

ou don't condescend to say what you think,

or perhaps, you can't because you've never learned to.

Wi 11. I'm going now."

I turned as I opened the door and said :
44 I give you no notice; you can keep my month's
v. You can have the money: nation of shop-
you understand that.*1
Then I slammed the door.

VI

Hatf-an-hour later I was at Harewood Avenue. Maud

till in bed. She was awake, though^ and reading

a halfpenny picture paper; on the little tabic by her

■ 1 the remains of her breakfast, the skin

of a kipper of which the whole room reeked. But her

brown hair, tumbled DpOfl the pillow, proved that it

f orally, and her skin, devoid of rouge or powder,

-1 warm pink, like the most delicate

y. I Bung myself down on my knees, snatched one

of hei

44 Hulk) ! what's this l,l,,wn in? ' ed.

"Maud, my darling," I said, fervently, 44 I'm going
to take you away with n,

316 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN
\

" Oh, my godfather ! You're going to take me away,
I don't think."

" I am, I'm going to marry you."

" Well ! things were cheap ! But tell us some more ;
let's hear all about this rush o' brains at eleven in £he
morning. Has your long-lost uncle come back from
America, or what ? "

" Maud," I said, solemn now, " you don't understand.
I've had enough of this country, I've had enough of
those people. I want to go back to France, where there
is sunshine, and Howers and wine. I want to go back
because the people there say what they think, and mean
what they say, where it's all simple and easy because
people don't judge you by what you pretend to be, but
by what you are. I want to go back, and I want you to
marry me and come with me, because you're the only
woman in England who has understood me, who has been
kind to me. I want you because I love you — and you,
my little Maud, you love me, you do love me ? Don't you,
darling? It's been the real thing, hasn't it, all these
months ? "

Maud looked at me with distended eyes which -showed
that she did not in the least understand me. Her hand
struggled in mine, for I was crushing her rings into her
fingers. " Ouch, yer hurtin'," she said, and continued
to stare at me. While I went on to explain that I had
left Barbezan, that I was going home, that I would take
her to Bordeaux, or rather to Paris, and make a good
life for her there, I knew that I was struggling for her
sake too, trying to overcome some meanness in her,
because she was the least mean of those English'. I was
clinging to her, pitifully, because she had loved me in
her fashion, and because I could not face the idea of
going back lonely to a place where I would be alone.
I filled my greedy eyes with her beauty, tried to believe
that I loved. her, and that she loved me, for it was neces-
sary we should love; if I had to go alone I thought I
would commit suicide.

" Well, I never \ " she said again. Then, mechanically :
" Do it again, Ikey, I saw dimonds ! "

AFTER THE ENCOUNTERS 817

I restated my case, and Maud took it in. She freed her

up, ravelled her curls and looked at me with an

<>f pity. *

" You are a cough-drop," she said. " Why, you must

barmy, chucking up a good' job like that, and I'm

blowed if I know why. Oh, yes, you needn't go over it

q, you've been chewing the rag long enough. I take.

•u're going home on spec, that you haven't got a

job over there ? No, of course not — and you come along

and ask me to marry you when you may be on your

uppers next month ! Well, 'ere's me love to you, and

it ain't a business proposition, as old Serric' say$."

" Do yon mean that you won't marry me? " I asked,

dulously.

"' Oli, sit on a tack," said Maud.

44 But I love you,* I said, with pathetic obstinacy.

44 Hwrybody loves me . . . nearly," sang Maud. Then,

sly : M Look here, you old tea-caddy. , You've

ong 'mi if you think I'm going to throw in

my little all with you, and walk out .with you * 'and-in-

i nl o the crool 'aid world.1 I didn't ask you to

marry me when I took up with you? No fear, I knew

what I was up to; s'pose I was gone on you, and then

you v iy to give me a good time, but marry you —

tain't so likely. I'm not going to marry anybody. Oh,

I know, ydu say you're going to get on, and all that,

but that's Your version of the part. Take it. from me: I

t in;rrry you, and if you don't like that you can hop it."

1 did not take up the challenge Sung down by her

; I knew now whal 1 had only sus-

'! had never loved me, that she had
uld have into those of any man
who i d time. She I

> BgM .'is not to
I ! oh.
i nut it 1m f. m can eilOO lish

lint I w
nit<(l w; W\ into the sheltering

a unkind. So I took up,
faltering, the tale of my to

318 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

"Oh," cried Maud, at last, " you give me the fair
sick." She glared at me, and suddenly the flood of
truth rushed from her lips. I understood that she had
played with me for her own pleasure, exploited me and
flattered me to keep me in a good temper, that she had
never loved me, looked upon me as aught save a diversion,
that she didn't want me, indeed, that she wanted to be
rid of me, that she was glad I was going, and the sooner
the better.

" Serrie, Serrie," she screamed, " come in and have
a look at this nutty prawn. Serrie, Serrie ! "

Serena came in from the next room, severe and beau-
tiful in black. In a few sentences, broken by spasms
of laughter, Maud explained the position.

" It ain't a business proposition, Mr. CaDORess,"
said Serena.

"What did I say!" cried Maud, triumphantly;
" marvelooze ! "

" Say, honey," Serena remarked to me, " you're a
four-flusher, ain't you You've got no money an'
you've got no job, an' you want to marry Mordedee.
That's getting down to brass tacks, ain't it? Wal,
I figure out she can please herself, but if she says she won't
that ain't enough to start you walking."

" What d'you take me for ? " asked Maud angrily.
" Think I'm going to be your skivvy ? or d'you want
me to keep you ? I'm not so stuck on your face as all
that "

Each in turn the girls shot their arrows at me. First
it was Serena, languid and polite, conveying to me in
that most concentrated form, American sarcasm, that,
equally with Maud, she had no more use for me now that
I was not likely to be able to give any girl a good time.
Then it was Maud, more direct, spatterdashing her speech
with disjointed music-hall Cockneyisms, invigorating it
with adjectives. While Serena leant against the wall
in an attitude which suggested that she would have put
her hands in her pockets if she had had any, Maud leant
forward, resting on her beautiful bare arms, her brown

AFTER THE ENCOUNTERS 319

curls tumbled about her face, her shapely lips spitting
insult at me. The American flicked me with a whip,
the English uirl used a bludgeon. In collaboration they
painted the picture postcard versions of love and marriage.
A man drinking too much beer, a wife sitting with a
poker in front of ajclock set at three a.m., twins howling
in the night, a flirtation with the lodger : marriage.
A dandy girl (according to Serena, a " Fluffy Ruffles "),
sitting at a little table before a bottle of champagne,
a* man " detained by pressing business," with a typist on
his knees, six feet of femininity, firelit, " thinking of you,"
and a couple falling into acquaintanceship on the rink :
love . . .

** No, I'm not taking any," Maud panted, " not if

they make you a bloomin' Duke. So " — she broke off

^and sang : — " so, good-bye, Dolly, I must leave you "

" Say, honey," Serena^egan again, sweetly, " you've got

to take your medicine. I'm just crazed about you myself,

but it's dollars to doughnuts we couldn't get fixed without"

you had the ooftish, as me friend Mordedee says. You

'a nothin' doin' here "

" That's right, Seme," Maud shouted. Then to me :
" Get out. Hook it. I'm fed up with you, fed up with
your French ways and your high and mighty
<-h talk. Hook it. I OX "

A rid flood rose to I .Her trembling hand

fumb For two or three

!y. But she did
not I ife. I tui ;nd too numb

tosuffer. 1 Left the room and walkel? downstairs. For
son.' d in the street, 1 i>stracted, and

a butt for little Cockney boys. Now I was quite alone.

VII

For the next seven days, wh< n I stayed in my sitting*
i, among those pretty chintzes that Fxlith had

. I | I riven out

into :it to thi in seeking variety, society,

that is, the sight of my fellows, as I could not have their

320 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

friendship. I was alone. I ate with extreme regularit)7"
at a restaurant in Soho where I could talk French to
the waiters, bought French papers at the Monicov French
cigarettes in Coventry Street. I did all this without
violence; by natural reaction I was slipping back to
France; with a new coldness, which was only French
cynicism, I even allowed r myself to be drawn into an
ugly, unemotional adventure because the unseductive,
seducing voice addressed me in French.

But these 'pale flickers of France did not warm me.
I was uneasy, rather than suffering, and knew that my
discomfort came from my loneliness. When again I
» began to wander the streets at night, seeking companion-
ship, or to sit long hours in the parks, watching the
children at play, ^and the business of the waterfowl,
I knew that loneliness it was I carried upon my shoulders..
Adventure did not call me : it had lost its thrill ; I
thought of drink, but I had drunk so much during the
past three months that my stomach turned from the
idea. One night I thought of drugs, but the chemists
refused me laudanum, cocaine and veronal : I was not
clever enough to go to a doctor and complain of insomnia,
and thought myself inspired when I decided to have an
orgy on tobacco, to smoke a hundred cigarettes before
I went to sleep.

I did' not do that, but my loneliness appears to me to-day
when I remember what I did : with a crafty smile I
decided to buy my cigarettes at ten different shops in
packets of ten, so that I might talk with ten men.

But the end of that period is marked by something
else, by an uncanny clarity of mind. Now that I was
idle, had hours in which to think, and no woman to occupy
my mind, I saw the English even more distinctly than
I had done in my earlier fury. I saw them dispassion-
ately, which does not mean I did not hate them, but I
hated them calmly, as a judge may hate an atrocious
criminal whom it is his duty to hang in proper legal
form. The deathly London Sunday lay heavy on me
now, for no houses' were open to me, and the streets,
wet or sunny, repelled me because they led me nowhere.

AFTER THE ENCOUNTERS 321

I found the Sabbath out, dissected it into its simple
components : conventional1 worship, Church Parade,
roast beef, sleep, "a large tea, nothing, cold supper,
nothing, then sleep. For the impious, a little bridge.
No billiards anywhere. Public-houses open long enough
for the nation to get drunk. Also sacred concerts and
more love-making than usual.

Drink hung heavy over England. I saw that the rich
drink to kill time, the poor to kill care.

I thought of politics, and suddenly remembered Gobot.
! liow many years ago that was ! when I thought
English so fine. I cc%ld see (Robot's fat, red face,
his loud voice as he shouted : " Who stole Canada ?
lisft Did the. English help Poland? Did the
help the Balkan Christ inns, or did they give
, to the Turk? Did not the English fight China
to maintain the opium traffic ? Hypocrites, liars, Bible-
mongers " Good old Gobot, you were not a fool.

I thought of the splendid figure of John Bull, of whom

I had been so fond at Ifainbury. lie appeared in a

different guise : John Bull became a dull, offensive

! the aggressive bridge of his high nose,

lunch under lu> red waistcoat, his hairy

top-boots, and his general air of lumbering

ii. 1 fell that no idea would ever get into that

1 though there was certainly room enough

inside The - "f the fellow was, I now knew,

: .John Bull was always letting

er — until the lire went out. I hated the

grandiloquent way in which he addressed his colonies,

the i on with whidh he treated them to an army

Imperialism, forsooth I Rather Imperial

out(' r. I think I hated «him deeply beC&Uft 1

had much* ED 1 could nol have felt the

: d in the Dutch song Qucridn quol

the
sli cone ca :

men and children, see them lie,

■lie !
Come, let us spit upon England's name ! "

322 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

My personal rancour vanished, and this song rang in
my ears, expelling the terrible little bit of doggerel which
had told me what I was. No longer was it "A Froggy
Would a- Wooing Go " — held me, screamed out of the
wind or rumbled out of the railway tracks, but this new
song, this four-line summary of English beef-beer-and-
blood-fed savagery. I knew what lay under the coldness
and the polish ; it was sheer, sullen brutality, unredeemed
even by the subtlety of cruel China, the glorious, sunny
ferocity of Spain.

Big counts, little counts, all added to the indictment
of this country where parks had to be closed at sunset
to arrest the grossness of the people, where no man
might drink in the open cair because the skies were of
water and soot, wThere no flowers grew, where no fruit
matured, as though the hateful coldness of the islands
were such that even trees and shrubs acquired nationality.
English daffodils, and English lilac, you bloomed in
vain that April, for I knew the first to be Dutch, the
second to be French. And English women, you flaunted
in vain in the fresh, salt wind, the cream and roses of
your cheeks; I saw your cheeks no more, your red,
smiling lips that had smiled upon me with such tolerance ;
I saw only your imloveliness, your cheap beads, your
machine-made lace, your soiled white gloves, your ill-
cut stays, and the tragic draggling over your boots of
the torn, muddy edges of j/otir petticoats. '

I was going home. In vain Stanley had come to me
with a startling piece of news. I had seen very little
of him during the last five months of misery unci orgy;
instinctively I had shrunk from his inquisitive eyes,
knowing that he would soon discover my secrets, drag
into his mental limelight the story of my love and its
wilting, force me to see as it was my following shame.
I had not been back to the little house to hear the round
wife call him affectionate, abusive names. Now and
then we had played chess, and I had resisted scrutiny
by feigning a new absorption in the game; I must have
deceived him, on the whole, for I did attain such ab-

AFTER THE ENCOUNTERS 323

sorption as to beat him now and then by moves which
he did not think me capable of, but F discovered suddenly
that I had not deceived him throughout. He arrived
at Cambridge Street early one Sunday morning, when
I still lay A in bed. I would have refused to see him if
the landlady had not shown him straight into the sitting-
room. He came in and sat down near my bed.

" In bed at eleven ? " he said, cheerfully. " Had
another thick night? "

" I don't have thick nights," I said, emphasising my
actual su^kin-

" Oh, you'vr reform* d then ? I thought you would."

I threw him an interrogative look, and, as I met the
unflinching grey eyes, knew that, he knew, wondered
whether he knew every detail. I pressed my cheek into
the pillow and let out a faint sound.

" Cheer up," said Stanley, gmvely. " Cheer up. It's
r too late to mend, old chap. I know all about it.
Oh, yes, more than you think." •
•" I don't care," I said. " I'm going back to France."

'ou ? Well Anyhow — listen to me first.

I'm not going to talk about your affairs — it's none of
my "

II Don't say it, don't say it," I m as I started
up; not his business — no Englishman's business— their

1 couldn't bear it. Then s heavy blanket of
indif d inc. " Go on," I said.

•• I wonM say it," Stanley w is he mistook my

1 t. You had a hard time and

you went on the bust. No one can blame you, but it's

all over, and you want to begin again. Don't shake

i : you do. If you didn't you'd have drowned

yourself."

'" I p» I ty ix .uly did."

vou jugt didn't. Hud Old fool Schopenhauer
would tell you tli.it you didn't 1 vou still saw

g in life; still, never mind Schoj

I to say's just this : I'm leaving the C. and
P. end June, because I want to set up for myself; I'm

324 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

thinking of doing some shipbroking and chartering,
same as Barbezan. I've saved a bit of money these ten
years, enough to start the thing properly and run it for a
year or so, and I've got a few pals who'll enable me to
pay" expenses if th<?y give me all the work they promise.
Now will you come in as my partner ? You'll get a good
shalre, bar the capital interest, of course."

I looked at him curiously,, wondering why the oppor-
tunity did not thrill me, but it did not.

" I'm going back to France," I said.

Stanley stuck to his point, said frankly that he, thought
I had push and that the sort of bounce I had tried on
him would often come off. He gave a still better reason
for wanting my help: — namely, that the word Cadoresse
still counted in the Port, and that he had an idea it might
count in Bordeaux too; I was to have is 11 the French
business, and wasn't thatms good as going home*? "

" I'm going back to France," I said. I made no
effort to tell him I was broken and spiritless, that I
wanted only to shake free from England. I was too
broken to explain. In vain did he re-state his scheme,
break through his English reserve and try to make
me see that my wounds might be healed, assure me again
that it was- not too late to mend.

"It's too late," I said. " I'm going back to France."

" Well," he said at last, after an hour had elapsed,
" 1 shan't start for two months, and I shan't ask anybody
else. If you think better of it . . . "

I shook my head.

YIU

The English Channel — oh,, no, not that, but " La
Manche." The Dieppe cliffs and, behold, a lesser green-
ness above them than in the land of everlasting rains;
the billowy fields %of Normandy . that dried into still
paler green as we entered the He de France. All, it
was good, Paris, the clatter of the carts and cabs on the
eobbles, the queer " oaty " smell, but it was better the
next day when the rapide hurled itself towards the South.

n-o

AFTER THE ENCOUNTERS vx 325

For here were Orleans and Tours, and now Poitiers — here
were soldiers wearing my old uniform, and there went
a postman in a linen blouse — of course, it was hot ; this
was not the weak English May, it was French May,
live as English" July. Faster, faster towards the South,
Angouleme and the , cathedral on the hill, and Coutras,
red and white, sun-glowing Coutras — and suddenly the
burnished blaze of th^e Gironde waters — Bordeaux,
my town, the good sweat on my North-paled brow, the
good, heavy sun.

IX

I had a fortnight of happiness. Frigidly received by

my mother, who considered that I had disgraced her as

well as myself by leaving " the house," after proposing

without her consent to a girl who had no dowry, L found

that I was JviLrli-h enough not .to mind very much

whether she disapproved of my behaviour. Besides, we

fettled our new relations on the morning which followed

my arrival. We stood in the drawing-room, which had

:i no part;' five years, I against the black

ce, my mother near the Empire^ couch, her hand

lie spoke her mild-severe

aw that she had not. changed either, thai no

grey appeared in her tight black hair; I

Mint of view had not alter* d, that
She spoke of her disappointment,
blain. (i n* before I left London,'

thai \ had wrecl life, inquired by

I did what I chose. 1 think I would fa

m the i espectfu] English way, but I

• mother, wondering whether.

in the cllest of (h .till Were the little high-

:r the black silk
"f the gfl was the use of < |i i.i mil i U g

With the I I . the full br« ;.<lth

of it — for did not the POOm ugc,

familiar smell of < , d me no

I went to the window, threw it Open and was rebuked.

326 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

But my mother became more precise, wanted to know my
intentions.

" At present, none," I replied, curtly. ** Later on
I will look for a position here. I shall not cost you
anything ; I will pay you a hundred and fifty francs
a month "

" I did not ask for money," said my mother, crossing
her small hands on her black frock.

" I have some. I have saved about two thousand
francs."

My mother did not reply for some time, but she was
impressed, for eighty pounds is a large sum in the South,
and she liked my having been thrifty. What would she
have said if I had told her how much more it might have
been if Maud and I had not sometimes spent ten pounds
in a day and night.

" Very well," said my mother, " since you can afford
it ... " She was plainly relieved to see that the prodigal
son had brought home a calf. Then she requested me
to be secretive as to my affairs, which should be de-
scribed as healthy, so that I might not injure Jeanne.

" We have had difficulties, great difficulties," she said.
" Mademoiselle is, not easy to please^ and she has only
twenty thousand francs. It is not as if she were very
pretty, and she has ideas — excentriques"

I pitied my little sister : it is hard in France when you
are excentrique.

" She has had some good opportunities, and she has
not taken them. There was Monsieur Vachol, the
engineer ; of course he had an old affaire, but that could
have been arrange*. And Monsieur Corzieux, you
remember his son at school "

" Old Corzieux must be fifty," I remarked.

" Oui, out — still, he was very fond of her." My mother
sighed. " She is twenty-three. We must see, we must
really see ..."

Something displeased me in the interview: the drawing-
room in which was no comfortable seat, the formality
of it all. But outside was pure joy; I could look out

AFTER THE ENCOUNTERS 327

o! the dining-room window and see the street that led
to the Quinconces, the sun gleaming on the white tables
of the cafe at the corner. And I liked to hear Jeanne,
in the drawing-room, practising Chopin, Mozart, occasion-
ally breaking out into Lalo or Faure. Jeanne gave me
nothing; we had never had much in common and, as
soon as she found that I would not tell her anything
about " low life in London," of which she had made
a mental picture from Les Mysteres de Londres, she joined
my mother against me. What her wild ideas were I
r found out; I suppose the ideas of English girls
so unmaidenly that I had lost my sense of wildness.
me went alone once a week to a course of French
ature at the Faculte. It may have been that; I had
to drag myself back to the view that young girls should
not go all on their lonesome, as Maud would have said.
. the joy of that first fortnight was outside the house.
There was the sun ever and fiercely glowing; the black
shadows with the purplish penumbra lay across the white
blaze of the paths when I went into the park to see the
magnolia. It was just blooming, and its flowers were
n small ; not one was yet as large as the big, fleshy creature
upon which I had pressed the kiss of a lover. " Wait,"
• said the magnolia. "This is your city and your sky;
i I will bloom, arouse your old, wild passion."
I found some of my old friends. Lavalette had £one
Paris, and was now a barrister, a great success in the
hlif of the town. Gobot I saw only two or three
times, for he lived some twenty miles up the river, on
vine-clad hills; but Luzan, who worked
in a bank, I met every day at half-past five. Together
we sat under the awning of the Cafe de la Regence, in
front of a vermouth, watched the local dandies pass and
smile at the spruce, dark work-girls with the ugly faces
the splendid figures. My old friends did me good,
for ed out of the "Do you rememb

conversation into a review of more actual things; I told

them my story, colouring it up a little, shedding over

If Wertherian glamour (when I spoke of Edith),

328 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

Byronic gloom (when I told the way in which the Englisn
had treated me). And I made up as Don Juan when it
came tcyMaud.

Gobot was kind ; he was stouter and redder than ever;
he was married, had one child, intended to have two,
to drink a good deal of claret, to sell a good deal more,
to become maire of his commune, grow older, yet stouter,
jollier, and to save his soul in the nick of time. Gobot,
you're nothing but Pantagruel r. you jolly brute, I love
you. But Luzan helped me more, for Gobot was not
exactly the listener a broken-hearted young man wanted.
When you are miserable you need to be made still more
miserable ; then you . touch bottom, reboimd and feel
much', better. That is wheTe Luzan came in; he was
now so cynical, so gay a sceptic, so d&void of illusion
as to success, woman and salvation that it was good to
tell him my story. He laughed, vowed that my imagina-
tion would play me the same old trick : that is, I would
love again. He almost made me believe that Edith had
never loved me. His talk seared me, cauterised me.

Edith ... I thought of her when I was, alone, when I
looked favourably upon my bold, broad-liipped country-
women. I swore I would love them, turned away from
the frail ghost of the Dresden Shepherdess. I cursed the
ghost and its gold hair, the gleam of which was in the
sunshine.

I won, for the sun was in my bones. I loafed along
the wharves, smoked immensely, played billiards in the
evening with Luzan, read a number 'of light novels.
I did not look for work. I was settling dov

X

As I have said, the first fortnight was happiness ; then
came a fortnight of disqmet. This was so vague that I
only realised it at the very end, decided that I wanted
occupation, began to seek it. I did* not find a post at
once, though I should have if I hvd not been nonchalant,
as my qualifications were- high; but salaries were lower

AFTER, THE ENCOUNTERS 329

# -

land, and I disliked the idea of living on a
reduced scale ; besides, I had money enough to keep me
for a year : there was no hurry. Yet the disquiet
. and I felt offended; accustojned things grated
upon me : I looked at them again, and found them
normal ; then they worried me again.

I began to look for work more feverishly and found

:ice a post as foreign correspondent in a very good

firm, at the high salary of three hundred and fifty fr.ancs

a month? Enough to marry on, I thought, bitterly.

why not? I added. I began to consider the idea

much as one may consider absolutely painless suicide.

But I was not to commit suicide, nor was I even to

occupy the post of foreign correspondent. I could

mental processes of those two months —

hut what for? It is a chronicle of the dead, or the tale

of t In" slow setting of a broken limb. Rather will I say

r-(l, chafed, and put down the revolution

to accident. The accident was simple. One afternoon,

up the stairs, I crossed Monsieur and Madame

•i, be in a frock-coat and silk hat, she in modisli

:i •velvet. We smiled, exchanged comments on

the f but I guessed by their clothes and Madame

miles, thai they had been on a solemn errand.

.1 she would have tossed me if We had not been

on tl:

I found my mother in her black silk frock, smiling and

ry demure and self-conscious.

i (1 wh.n informed I bat her hand had

• moon been granted to Luzan, more ex.

twenty thousand francs had come together

with a salary of twelve pounds a month, and a parental

allowance «>f forty pounds a yen-. The fortunes having

■ l. it bad been decided thai the young people

id go through tli.- formality of marriage* I con-

dated J< ber and my moth r, went to

my room. The 'affair sickened me; I liked Luzan, hut

be had undeo to bis id that

lie liad an old aft bad never been alone

330 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

with Jeanne. Love her ? absurd. Then I called myself
a fool, an English fool. Then I swung back and decided
to have it out with Jeanne.

I found her calm, cynical even.

" I do not dislike him," she said. " What more do
you want ? "

I mumbled something about love.

"'Oh, well, that would be charmant. Still, one cannot
have everything."

I went on, found she did not think it disgusting that
she should be sold in marriage; all that she could see
was that Luzan was much nicer than Vachol and old
Corzieux. Marriage was a contract, and she was twenty-
three. I looked in vain for sweetness in her small,
dark face, her splendid black eyes ; there might be passion
there, if those heavy eyebrows and the faint down on
the upper lip meant anything at all, but not love. Still
I pleaded.

" Oh, well," Jeanne suddenly spat out at me, " love
played you nice tricks."

For some seconds I could not speak. Once, when
I tried to learn to box, I was hit over the heart : it was
like that. Then a cold rage seized me.

" It did. It will play them on you. I suppose you
intend to marry without love — and to make up for lost
. time after."

We looked at each other with clenched teeth, hating
each other. She was livid, and I suppose I was too.

XI

I saw the French as they were, now, for Jeanne had
torn me out of my dreams ; I saw them, hated them.
With English eyes I saw the big, vulgar sun, the men's
absurd, tight clothes, the mongrel dogs; I saw the
painted) simpering, sensual, lying women; I found the
ach furniture uncomfortable, the French table ap-
pointments fit for a prison. I went now oppressed by
the stuffiness, the closed windows in summer, by the
sensation tliat these people did not take baths.

AFTER THE ENCOUNTERS 331

I went into the park. But near the magnolia tree
were two young men in flashy clothes. They laughed
and talked Very loud. Then one of them ran, leapt
a three-foot railing, alighted with an air of triumph;
him look at the nursemaid he was fascinating by
his nimbleness, at me, to see whether I was admiring
him.

Showing off ! said my English mind.

And France did not pretend she was going to take me
back.

Through the mouth of' a cabman who stopped his
horse in front of the little table^ where I moodily sipped
absinthe and tried to drive out of my head the thought
of whisky and soda, she shouted at me. " Hi, Angliche ! "
cried the cabman, and in broken English offered to drive
me round the town. I smiled bitterly and said'nothing,
while this Frenchman drew conclusions from my clothes
and my silence.

The cabman was not alone in his opinion. My mother
quarrelled with me, because I had sniffed at Jeanne's
conveyance, I mean marriage. It was a mean, pro-
vincial little brawl, when my mother flung at me in lieu
of argument a stranger mixture of French social theory
and financial fact. Stung by my silence, she said at

"Weill Have you nothing to say? .No, I suppose

i do not talk much nowadays. I suppose you

lishman." Quickly she added, as

if sli i interrupt her : " One has only to

von, at your broad boots, that, ridiculous hat

, and to smell your clothes.

Pouahf" !, pointing at my tweed coat; "you

11 like a fin when the wood is damp."

I did not r-ply; I pulled at my pipe and thought that

I h •-■ ed anything s< king as this French

. I am oo1 I iman,

what th< den] am I among all these things that
gall me ? "

in the rtreeta, how you made the old cabs

3S2 THE 31 A KING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

rattle behind the wretched French horses ! Trams, how
you roared ! And people too, how you roared, wrangled
and boasted ! I hated you, hated you — mean, avaricious,
petty, boastful people; overfed, sensual, brutal people —
hated your cynicism and your hedonism, hated you be-
cause you had no illusions and no ideals— I?was rejected
of the French. I rejected them.

Away, away — anywhere — or where the buds are fragile,
the blossoms tremulous, the air blue.

Stanley wrote, asking me to come back. . . .

To England, yes, to England, anywhere, only to get
away.

' XII

I stood at the peak of the steamer. The cliffs of
Dover slowly ro^se upon the skyline, swathed in grey
mist. My face was wet with soft English rain.

PART IV
CHAPTER I

STANLEY, CADORESSE AND CO.

1 leant back in the office chair that swung under my

weight, looked out across Gracechurch Street. January,

rain spattering on the windows, rain, rain, and above

the glistening roof opposite, a blade of yellow-white,

ked sky. Behind me the fire spat and crackled,

and there was a little crunching rumble as the lumps of

coal crushed down the burning wood. I was idle, looked

at the brilliant cuffs that protruded from my well-pressed

i was pleased with myself, with the sleek back

of my head when I stroked it. Still interested in my new

posse 1 looked at my roll-top desk, its choked

ling cabinet against the wall and its

is marked "Forward Shipments," "Outward

freight," "L.C. Private." It was " L.C. Private"

i mc; behind its label was my all-important

11, junior partner in what

Bat id] I not yet. I drew myself

It is a queer little scene. Miss Condon

com* by my desk, very quiet and

..n my mon« . She is

brown b ded over her ten:

know wh<
grey, blue, llow. But noblesse oblige

886 TIIK MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

been carved out of yellow wood, seamed with hundreds
of criss-crossing wrinkles, and a toothless mouth closed
very tight. Alone in the dead face of the old man, who
was, I think, nearly ninety, the eyes lived, luminous and
pale as water.

" So you're young Cadoresse," he said. " Young
Cadoresse." He said this £even or eight times. " I
knew your father very well. Let me see, if he had lived,
he would have been ..." ;

He could not remember, and I tried to help him, but
at once his mind wandered, and he began once more his
aimless " So you're young Cadoresse . . . young Cador-
esse . . ." He lived in .the past ; his stories were of my
father as a shipmaster, and most of the stories were
unrepeatable, for they showed what a " frightful rip "
the old merchant had been ; he had not noticed the Boer
war, but he remembered very well consigning foodstuffs
to Paris after the surrender to the Germans, and his Paris
still had its Emperor, its Taglioni. The luminous old
saw far beyond me, into an England devoid of Board
schools; further yet, beyond even 1832 and the Reform
Bill agination . . . they were still talking of Boney and
rloo when he was a~little boy.
But he gave me business. " I couldn't have refused
your father," he said. "Heavens! how funny he was
ag his ship in a frock-coat and a top-hat — tea-caddy
(I to call him ..." ,

illed with tears. Oh, heredity, that you-

siiould have chosen such an instrument as Maud to brand

. father's son ! The old man introduced me to

ded 'l beys," who treated him a little- rudely,

they knew he did not matter in the office, where he

behind a newspaper and gazed at the wall

ms of the chief clerk.

manufactured and affected nothing,

he old i : them with immense, coi

trated interest, in the midst of respectful silence. This

STANLEY, CADORESSE AND CO. 337

time he decided we should be given a show, and we were,
for his sons liked our methods. ,

This was not very wonderful, for my mind was French ;
that is to say, I was hard, logical, punctual and con-
temptuous of no detail ; I was very sharp and ready to
take advantage- of anybody, to bluff and to lie over a
deal ;• but once the terms were made and my word-given
my quondam antagonist could be sure that I would not
fail him and that I would carry out my contract to the
letter even if I were bound' only by word of mouth. I
despised the kindly 'old merchant, the stupid English
sentimentality that made him promise us a show because
he had known my father, and I respected but little more
who allowed their suspicions to be overcome by
amiability. But that did not concern me; I
took the order and,* by aggressively flaunting before the
African & Asiatic Steamship Company a non-existent
cheap rate quoted by the London and Burmese, which
I knew these careless Englishmen would not trouble to
« cut a rate that we completely captured
Lsiness.
Our rates went up i had caught them, and I

do not think Stanley quite liked my methods.

" Y<m work (ike an American trust," he said. " Biuff,
BOWK a loss, cut it, capture the market — and when

it."
yell? \

•id Stanley, laughing,
that Otranto
f
fefcy w( 11 every ton of coal Morri-

i the
bit if we chance

•• Tir y will find ftley. k' <>m: of l

e not cutting rates so line as

338 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

11 They won't," I said, confidently. " Englishmen are
careless 6i detail ; if I were a merchant I'd put my business
out to tender. But not they; they're English. Lazy
brutes."

Stanley did not mind my abusing the English. " I'm
not English," he sometimes said, " I'm a mathematician."
His attitude was one of indifference to trifles that involved
no philosophic generalisations ; his role was to collect
facts and sift them; he made himself a master of the
movements of ships all over the world; he knew who
sailed in ballast and bluffed that it was timber ; he knew
who quietly took in guns and ammunition for the coast
of Tripoli and Somaliland; he knew what master drank
and what merchant would place an order with a white
man and kick a Bengali clerk down the steps of the
verandah ; who it was could not forget tiny Sariti and her
little paper house at Yokohama, and he knew why
there was a sound Irke broken glass and a strong smell
of spirits when the Emilys Mary had a funeral in Boston
roads and reverently lowered the cofiin while a guileless
American gunboat dipped its 'pennant.

iiiley looked upon the shipping trade as an exercise

in psychology, a game of chess where you played with

men (and a little with women); by that queer, Sashing

procos of deduction of which I had once been the victim

Ik- discovered exactly what a man keenly wanted, but hid

behind a mask and a cigar, and he knew how to

strnl g, to stab jealousies to the quick. It was I,

<^h, generally went out into the offices, to bluff, to

Strut, and kick the weak, to fawn before the

strong. I loved it, I exulted in it. I did not want to

know my man, as did Stanley; I liked to come at him as

•d, to cheat him, to buljy him — until it was all

I; my contract in my pocket, I shook hands with

my ai l and decided to treat him fairly.

" I go in for honour," I said to Stanley; "it pays."

It did, for our eilieiency was terrific, and we Haunted

STANLEY, CADORESSE AND CO. 339

it. I made a practice of never fixing appointments for

41 eleven" or "three"; no, I fixed "ten past eleven"

or " twenty to three." And I was there exactly on time,

for I always arrived a little too early, and waited outside

until I had only thirty seconds to climb the stairs. We

drilled Baring and Miss Condon to make out documents

" while you wait " ; we always, in presence of some mer-

cbant, wanted some undefined (but agreed) paper, so that

og might find it on the card-index in fifteen seconds*

"Fifteen seconds," we would say, proudly, to the impressee.

But if our efficiency was terrific, so was our labour; every

letter and document was checked four times ; wc refused

ke information from the Shipping Gazette, but com-

i it with Lloyd's Weekly Index. We took nothing

on trust ; if we had needed Greenwich time we would have

correlated it with Paris time and cheeked by measuring

the difference in minutes on the map. In seven months

lid not make a single mistake — but for the first three

wc stayed a1 the office every night up to eleven o'clock,.

:>t Sundays, when we were lazy and left at nine.

Once Miss Condon came, on a sweltering August night,

frit faint : I threw her a sovereign and told her

to her machine, " slick." England had a

and all through it we worked, canvassing

terviewing hundreds of people, marketing

ii a little into marine assurance), struggling

for obnoxious trade such as guano and explosives. And

when other men had Hosed th.-ir offices, when some of

them were ill bed, there we sat, the four of us, Stanley

I fed by tin- fury of our young ambition, Baring and

and dole ; there wc were, circularisr

plying insolently for contracts that would have

filled the 1'. & O. fleet, shouting (in English English)

thai wc \\( ■:■■ goods, planning,

It v., wonderful, it was romantic, this fierce crcat
Out: bun: mo wretched child which wc would allow

338 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

41 They won't," I said, confidently. " Englishmen are
careless of detail ; if I were a merchant I'd put my business
out to tender. But not they; they're English. Lazy
brutes."

Stanley did not mind my abusing the English. " I'm
not English," he sometimes said, " I'm a mathematician."
His attitude was one of indifference to trifles that involved
no philosophic generalisations ; his role was to collect
facts and sift them; he made himself a master of the
movements of ships all over the world; he knew who
sailed in ballast and bluffed that it was timber; he knew
who quietly took in guns and ammunition for the coast
of Tripoli and Somaliland; he knew what master drank
and what merchant would place an order with a white
man and kick a Bengali clerk down the steps of the
verandah ; who it was could not forget tiny Sariti and her
little paper house at Yokohama, and he knew why
there was a sound Irke broken glass and a strong smell
of spirits when the Emilys Mary had a funeral in Boston
roads and reverently lowered the coffin while a guileless
American gunboat dipped its 'pennant.

Stanley looked upon the shipping trade as an exercise

in psychology, a game of chess where you played with

men (and a little with women); by that queer, flashing

process of deduction of which I had once been the victim

he discovered exactly what a man keenly wanted, but hid

behind a mask and a cigar, and he knew how to

strol lousies to the quick. It was I,

gh, generally went out into the offices, to bluff, to

strut, to advance and kick the weak, to fawn before the

strong. I loved it, I exulted in it. I did not want to

know my man, as did Stanley; I liked to come at him as

•d, to cheat him, to buljy him — until it was all

i. my contract in my pocket, I shook hands with

my antagonist and decided to treat him fairly.

" I go in for honour," I said to Stanley; "it pays."

It did, for our efficiency was terrific, and we Haunted

STANLEY, CADORESSE AND CO. 339

it. I made a practice of never fixing appointments for

"eleven" or "three"; no, I fixed "ten past eleven"

or " twenty to three." And I was there exactly on time,

for I always arrived a little too early, and waited outside

until I had only thirty seconds to climb the stairs. We

drilled Baring and Miss Condon to make out documents

" while you wait " ; we always, in presence of some mer-

ehant, wanted some undefined (but agreed) paper, so that

og might find it on the card-index in fifteen seconds*

"Fifteen seconds," we would say, proudly, to the impressee.

But if our efficiency was terrific, so was our labour; every

letter and document was checked four times ; we refused

a- information from the Shipping Gazette, but com-

d it with Lloyd's Weekly Index. We took nothing

on trust ; if we had needed Greenwich time we would have

ted it with Paris time and checked by measuring

inference in minutes on the map. In seven months

we did not make a single mistake — but for the first three

we stayed at the office every night up to eleven o'clock,.

;>t Sundays, when we were lazy and left at nine.

Once Miss Condon came, on a sweltering August night,

y she felt faint : Ithrew her a sovereign and told her

to her machine, "slick." England had a

and all through it we worked, canvassing

terviewing hundreds of people, marketing

wl b little into marine assurance), struggling

de such as guano and explosives. And

when other men had closed their offices, when some of

then bed, there we sat, the four of us, Stanley

the fury of our young ambition, Baring and

-id doles : there we were, circularise

insolently f«>r contracts that would hare

filled the 1\ & O. fleet, shouting (in English English)

there with (Ik- goods, planning,

!<rful, it was romantic, this fierce creal

Out \j no wretched child which we would allow

340 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

to grow ; no, we were going to bring it up in the forcing-
house, feed it on some Wellsian " Food of the Gods,"
made out of our brains and bodies. Stanley saw the
romance of it.

"Here we are," he said, " with our fingers at the
throat of the world, shaking it to make it pay up. All
the world . . ." He indicated the big Mercator map on
the wall. " Shanghai, we're sending creosoted sleepers
there on that old tub the Urmiah . . . and Cardiff ; coal —
coal for the Port. It's we who 're handling it, thousands
of tons of it — we'll handle millions of tons — -cranes, baskets
— hear it, Cadoresse? Hear it rattle down the chutes,
millions of tons, to cook the Lord Mayor's dinner and
warm the slippers of Mr. Thirty-Bob- A- Week at Clapham.
And New York City — Bombay — the whole blasted ant-
heap— Good Lord ! " He breathed heavily, as if awed
by the globe enormously spin^jng within our walls.

But I did not see it like that. Enough romance, I
was too old for that silly game. . I was out for money,
revenge. The English wouldn't have me ? That was
O.K., I'd not have a nationality at all, I'd be a cosmo-
politan, Pd drip with gold in every European Hotel
Metropele, I'd have three cars at my door, and cars for
my servants that the English-' peerage couldn't afford;
and I would travel — to the fiords on my yacht, to the
East with my caravan, my armed escort, my camels and
my dancing girls; and if I liked I'd be an Englishman as
a pastime, buy mysdf ten thousand English votes, the
right to make laws for Englishmen, a scat in the Cabinet
if I had to double the party funds. I'd be rich enough
Bull's shirt and turn him, naked, out of his
island . . . And h . in the principality which was

an em] ,1-elad and gloating

trial balance-sheet. "The first six months showed a
profit, capital expenditure entirely written off. It was
not i firm brought (hat off; but that was

hing : lei

STANLEY, CADORESSE AND CO. 341

III

And so we rushed onwards, urging our little business
to b' y week the accord it had established seven

before and succeeding, pound by pound, so deter-
mined were we to win, so ready to ship anything between
a historic mansion for re-erection in New York State and
a halfpenny packet of pins. Between us Stanley and I
-rd a code of daring, a sort of samurai gospel which
bade us shrink from nothing. One morning we were rung
uj) by the Lea Ironworks; they were put through to
Stanley and said :

" Can you "

V Yes," said Stanley, interrupting.

The audacious interruption went the round of the

docks : Stanley, Cadoresse & Co. did not need to know

what it was people wanted them to do, asked no ques-

to place or date, did not care whether there was

yellow fever in every port and a dock strike in the bargain.

No, they just said " Yes." And the joke served us well.

ing into the oflice of Alston Brothers

; a starred A for a new client.

M I cloiKt know you," said the manager. " And I

know your prineipal. Don't care for that sort of

.*'
mas Alston came into the office, a paper in his hand,
at once Che man. . more truculent, so as to

show his chief what a sound man lie was.

growled. " People come. along

y with twopence and think they can do what

iik.' with our boats— mesa up the hold with leaky

ito trouble with half-a-dozen

• tjone.
B6 & Co. play the game," I
quite as truculently.

»li. ifl tli, if who yon arc I Thomas Alston.

>oked at Miked a cunning grey

342 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

eye. " You're the people who always say * Yes,' aren't
Give the babies a chance, Mr. Marston."
We chartered the ship and she made an excellent
voyage. Two months later Thomas Alston rang up
*' the babies " to know whether the^ would like to look
out for freight for his new Tunisian line, in which case
he might break a rule and give them a monopoly.

, .." The babies " boastfully replied that they would charter
the ships themselves, and they filled them every one,
for they went the round of the exporters' representatives
protesting they already had the monopoly : as a result
they got it. Once only did we come down on a rash
speculation, for one of our hired vessels was held up
somewhere in the West Indies, by an accident to the only
crane that could lift our goods, for four days beyond the
lay days. I remember Stanley's anxious face when he
came in with the cable that told us we were already liable
for two days' demurrage at sixpence a register ton. A
hundred pounds ! v

. " Gosh ! " said Stanley. " Ten days '11 all but break us."
Then he impartially damned the authorities, the makers
of the crane and the wretched niggers who had put it out
of gear.

On the third day I sent an expensive cable telling the
dock company we would sue them, for damages, which
was idiotic, as the company had an Act of God and accident
vered it; but the cable relieved me so much
that, on the fourth day, I was almost cheerful when Stanley
and I talked over our pipes of filing our petition and
camping in Carey Street.

The crane was restored on the fourth day and we scraped
siili a fine of two hundred pounds; the money
ted, for it taught us that a young firm must
not speculate. I do not think we chartered a ship again
for two years, except once or twice when we knew that
somebody was in the market, slipped in and re-sold him
the charter-party with a pront of a few pence per ton.

STANLEY, CADORESSE AND CO. 343

We recovered some of our self-esteem over the great
rat case. We had shipped eight cases of Cheddar cheese,
i ned for India, where Englishmen insist on English
fare when the temperature is- 108. Two of the cases were
so badly stowed that the lids worked loose; as a result
rats entered the cases and, when the goods were landed
at Bombay, it was found that every one of the hundred
cheeses had been nibbled. I can see our client now,
cable in hand ; he was a very fat, very red little German,
whose legs were so short and whose voice was so high that
I had to hold down my laughter by force ;he was so exactly
like " the dying pig" in indiarubber that the hawkers
were selling outside for sixpence.

44 Shpoiled ! " he squeaked ; " every plessed cheese
shpoiled. I make you reshponshible. I make de captain
reshponshible. I go to law. I prosecute."

We pointed out that the stevedore

44 Damn dc shit \ c <lore," he screamed, waving the cable.
" Dis is cheek you talk. You shpoil my cheese. You —
you take de biscuit."

The little German burst out of our office some seconds

later, jamming his silk hat on his square head, vowing

he would " prosecute." But we could not stop laughing;

the association of cheese and biscuits was too much for

not liable, being merely agents;

all we risk* (1 \vj,s the 1<>^s of a small client. Still, we had

for our en dits sake to see what could be done; the case

seemed unpleasant, as inquiry showed that the ship had

~carri I had given up hope when Stanley came

i my room Qearfy five weeks later with an expression

on his i that made him look like a monk who

has caught a cai rening.

lkm<: alxjut eats," he said, and Stopped to grin.
44 Cats:
44 i I eheese. You remember?"

41 on

44 Well/' -ligently, 44 I just thought

844 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

about it a bit. Slack lot of cats tsn that boat, don't you
think ? Six cats ought to have watched those two cases."

44 Oh, do say what you mean. This isn't a missing
word competition."

"I thought," repeated 'Stanley. "Then I cabled to
our-pcople : ' Any cats on board ? ' The reply was, * No.' "

k" Xo," I cried, " but they shipped "

" They did. Therefore the cats had vanished. I
waited, met her at Tilbury, went on board, got hold of
the cook "

" Why the cook ? " . -

44 He was likely to be interested in cheese. I told him
a story of a musical cat I used to have — and a story about
how my brother-in-law's dog ran away, suggested canaries,
kept the conversation zoological. By the time I'd done
he was sick of hearing me talk and was just bursting with
animal anecdotes. He told me four, including one about

a pet chimpanzee, and then " The thin, dark face

became as sly as that of a fox. 44 Then — well — the ship
did take six cats at Tilburj', but they all ate some stuff
that disagreed with them or something felinicide happened.
Anyhow, they slung the last of them overboard off Dover,
absolutely dead."

I took it in. The owners were caught and must pay
compensation; of course, they had no chance against a
firm conducted like Scotland Yard.

Great days ! Now we have our own fleet and our own
quite a jolly flag, a white S and a red C on a blue
ind, will) a yellow edge. But we're so great that,
. the days. are not so great.

IV

I do not suppose any better cure could have been found

for my bruised soul than this successful creation of the

firm. When the first of July and flic first .-mniversary

round, I discovered that ;i little of my harshness

had -gone. I was not rich yet, could not hope for much

STANLEY, CADORESSE AND CO. 345

rriGre than two hundred pounds or two hundred and fifty

that year, but I was my own master and, every month,

doing that little better which meant we were

going to do very well. The hard work had saved me,

prevented me from brooding, saved me from dreams

and almost from regrets, for a man does not every night

of thre* months collapse as he gets into bed and yet find

time to think of the girl who passed. After three months

habit does the rest. Edith ! I did not think of her every

day t hen, for my business was my love. When I did think

of her I ached, but the pain was bearable, and soon some

commercial anxiety ousted it; Kdith had become ghostly,

:• the girl Moved but a faint memory, like

the pretty chime of a church bell that one remembers,

or a scent of lavender. I had not seen her once since that

night of encounters; I had seen none of her friends and

was just beginning. to have time for new ones. Once or

twice I had met- Miv Lawton, who nodded distantly; I

ipoken to Hugh In the street and received with cold

kg his good wishes tor our success. Edith had not

mentioned, and oft en 1 liked to tell myself that I

had forgotten her, that I loved hex no more.

A little for that reason, I think, and a little because I

ome freedom when we increased our staff, by

Mortimer, who superseded Baring, and by an office-boy,

pay "Id I ■ ' ; urned to me.

Edity, M.-nal. the others, had

: 1 was hard, and my gaiety, my pleasures

hard. But — I despised myself a little— success was

Ding me; I was doI quite as hard as I had been, I

:i to see once mo* grace of

i hose who 'served my

Id me st. tOoK my name. Once I talked

Shell ion.

I pulUd myself up, told mysell this would nevei do,

melting, melting likeao iceberg that drifts south.

ip Iped me, and its summer girls, but it did

MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

Stanley too, and Mrs. Stanley, were in the conspiracy.
Now I often went to the little house at Esher to dine and
talk. Mrs. Stanley had been given a full account of my
adventures, knew that my engagement had been broken
off and that I had subsequently lost my character; at
first she was a little inclined to treat me like a convalescent,
to receive my remarks on the weather and the London
and South- Western railway with a sympathetic air, to
suggest that I had suffered but should through her be
healed. Soon, however, as she mistook my cynicism for
gaiety, she resumed her inconsequent, clumsy and subtly
delightful airs; she never, and it must have cost her an
effort, alluded to my romantic past, but she took great
pains to show me that she thought none the less well ot
me on account of the scandalousness of that past. She
even discussed free-love in an obtrusive way which
amused me very much.

" I don't think it would work," she said, confidentially.
" You see, it's, all very well when women are young and
pretty, but when you get tired of us what's to become of
us ? I suppose you'd send us to the workhouse."

" You're too subjective in your theory," I said.

" I don't know what that means, but you must look

upon it from the woman's point of view. 'Mind you, I

I it matters a bit if it's going to last; the

i rai and the vicar — after all, they're only details."

nicy and I both laughed, for Mrs; Stanley w&s quietly

pious and a little ashamed of her fondness for a ni

bouring chapel-of-ease : but then a sweet woman will

generally be quite immoral if she is required to cheer a

man up. Her simplicity, her transparence, the bird-like

agility with which she leapt from polities to domesticity

by's teeth, to eugenic segregation*

the broad jollity of her, all contributed to crack wherever

it touched the hard < i my cynicism. When we

STANLEY, CADORESSE AND CO. 349 r

ed together from the City she would rush into the
hall, and while Stanley was being kissed I could hear her
iloquise to him :

" Baby's been very naughty. What d'you think he
did ? lie stole all the tape out of my work-basket, tied
it to Pat's neck and hauled him about the floor, shouting :
Puffer ! And Pat was 1 aking it like an angel, but he's
been sick. That was just before Mrs. Hoskin came in;"
Do you know her brother's going to. put up for the Dis-
trict Council0":' I'm sure I don't know why unless it's
use he's a builder. Which reminds me : Did you

telTBenetfink that "

" I told Benetiink," said Stanley, laughing as he freed
• -If, "and, the other topics are adjourned. New
curtsey to Mr. Cadoressc, if a dumpling can curtsey."

She curtseyed, shook hands as she apologised for not
having seen me, her .eyes round and gay, her mouth
pou' use she was mildly snubbed.-

*• W Mich a lot to talk about, old three-yards

and I." she said.

They did "have a great deal to talk about, this incon-

' tuple, and they sandwiched it with rather startling

leading questions, tactfully designed

out on my own topics; Indeed, the con \

, lion at dinner resembled nothing so much as a shower

of shoot i . so rapidly did subject after subject fall

into our midst : if . Stanley started them pne after

th<- otto i red us by frequent^rushes into side-issues

when the crash of crockery or a wail

from tb hing was happening

in 1 1 Stanley £ ./.< d at her with

I but u; : when he had stared long

f him, usually by in-
flating 1: |OUth and shutting

WcD, is that a good melon for you, you old BO

runner I "

Tlfi: MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

Stanley too, and Mrs. Stanley, were in the conspiracy.
Now I often went to the little houst at Esher to dine and
talk. Mrs. Stanley had been given a full account of my
adventures, knew that my engagement had been broken
off and that I had subsequently lost my character; at
first she was a little inclined to treat me like a convalescent,
to receive my remarks on the weather and the London
and South- Western railway with a sympathetic air, to
suggest that I had suffered but should through her be
healed. Soon, however, as she mistook my cynicism for
gaiety, she resumed her inconsequent, clumsy and subtly
delightful airs; she never, and it must have cost her an
effort, alluded to my romantic past, but she took great
pains to show me that she thought none the less well ot
me on account of the scandalousness of that past. She
even discussed free-love in an obtrusive way which
amused me very much.

" I don't think it would work," she said, confidentially.
" You see, it's, all very well when women are young and
pretty, but when you get tired of us what's to become of
us ? I suppose you'd send us to the workhouse."

" You're too subjective in your theory," I said.

" I don't know what that means, but you must look
upon it from the woman's point of view. 'Mind you, I
that it matters a bit if it's going to last; the
I car and the vicar — after all, they're only details."
nicy and I both laughed, for Mrs-. Stanley was quietly
pious and a little ashamed of her fondness for a neigh-
bouring chapel-of-easc : but then a sweet woman will
generally be quite immoral if she is required to cheer a
man up. Her simplicity, her transparence, the bird-like
agility with which she leapt from politics to domesticity
and then, via the baby's teeth, to eugenk segregation,
the broad Jollity <>f her, all contributed to crack wherever
it touched the hard coating of my cynicism. When we

STANLEY, CADORESSE AND CO. 849

arrived together from the City she would rush into the
hall, and while Stanley was being kissed I could hear her
soliloquise to him :

" Baby's been very naughty. What d'you think he
did ? lie stole all the tape out of my work-basket, tied
it to Pat's neck and hauled him about the floor, shouting :
Puffer ! And Pat was taking it like an angel, but he's
been sick. That was just before Mrs. Hoskin came in;*
Do you know her brother's going to. put up for the Dis-
trict Councif? I'm sure I don't know why unless it's
because he's a builder. Which reminds me : Did you

telT Benetfink that "

" 1 told Benetfink,*1 said Stanley, laughing as he freed

if, " and t the other topics are adjourned. Xfiw

curtsey to Mr. Cadoresse, if a dumpling can curtsey."

She curtseyed, shook hands as she apologised for not

rig seen me, her .eyes round and gay, her mouth

pouting because she was mildly snubbed.-

M \\ ■ have such a lot to talk about, old three-yards
and 1. id.

They did "have a great deal to talk about, this incon-
•uple, and i hey sandwiched it with rather startling
leading questions, tactfully designed
it on my own topics; Indeed, the conversa-
nt dinner resembled nothing so much as a shower
of shooting stars, so rapidly did subject after subject fall

.lev started them one after

the other, nd us by frequent^rushea into side-issues

when the crash of crockery or a wail

Erom th< ag was happening

d at her with
but ui ■ : wheil he had stared long

be would make b face at* him, usually by in-
flating hi OUth and shutting

Well, is that I i for you, you old se.

r>

350 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

They were ridiculous, adorable. Mrs. Stanley's pretti-
ness, her white skin, blue eyes, fair hair, the completeness
with which her body concealed her bones, made to me such
an appeal that my harshness had always gone before the
evening's end. I never thought of making love to her,
which I could have done in her husband's presence, for
he would not havo. understood ; but I don't think she
would have understood either. Besides, her mixture of
simplicity and originality baffled me; sweet, languid
women, and fierce, wild women — I knew how to manage
those, but intellect informed by innocence was beyond me.
lie ides, I was a sort of Englishman now, and the code
of respect weighed heavy upon me.

1 1 think, though, I was happier when alone with Stanley
after dinner. Then, slowly sucking at our pipes, we
could discuss interminably the chances we had of captur-
ing an order from some exporter, consider whether certain
expenses could be cut down or some others profitably
incurred. Or, deciding we must not talk shop, we would
te some political question. I was still a Had i en),
with a touch of the Anarchist, for I detested the organised
Utopia of the Socialists, but Stanley called himself a
Tory Democrat ; that is to say, held a licence to consider
himself more progressive than my own party while
lading the Crown, the Church, the landlord and the
publican. Also he was a vigorous tariff reformer and
converted me regularly once a month, for I fortunately
d from his attacks as I read my morning paper,
lie was very - iingand quite as dishonest as I \

iderablc light was shed upon the value of our argu-
ments when we found that, in one of those interminable
debates on Protection, we had both quoted from the same
table of world wages — only I had selected the countries and
trad. rov.d I'm: Trade England most bountiful,

(1 the wretched condition
of the British working man. I did not care for those
dry economics; but Stanley had his flights.

STANLEY, CADORESSE AND CO. 351

" You know," he said once, pointing at me a knubbly
brown finger, " all this sort of thing, politics, it's a rotten
game. Sort of street row. You shout black, and I
shout white, and it's grey all the time. What we want is
something to chuck all the ideas into until they get mixed ;
a sort of intellectual melting-pot." The piercing eyes
became dreamy as they gazed at the red wall. " All that
talk of sending the L.C.C. kids to Paris for a week, and
having four hundred German boys here . . . showing 'em
Paul's and the chute at Earl's Court % . . rot, all that.
They haven't got any ideas. They only do what Cam-
bridge and Harvard tell them. We've got to mix up the
people who've got a chance to get ideas, not only those
haven't. The Carlton Club ought to swap a hundred
members every year with the Reform — or why shouldn't
the Reichstag let English M.P.'s make a law or two for
the Germans ? Mix it all up, that's the idea. Scotch
for bishops . . . male charwomen . . . Swiss
toreadors . . . give the navy vodka instead of rum."

\v friends, too, came into my life ; Hoskin, the builder,
who filled his fancy waistcoats to bursting, and Mr. Shep-
herd, who thought, probably because I was not an English-
hut merely a Ix-nightcd foreigner, that he ought to
win i from Rome. Their wives, their daughters,

direel people of the tweed and stiff collar type, people
who I ; heard of the Stage Society, but were willing

to play tennis with me or to risk a wetting when I punted,
i found a new England where nobody pretended,
body was busy doing simple, muscular
the women were neither urban nor suburban;
bank, En h. and When an occasional flirtation
involved me, I found a new pleasure in rapid, innocent
which there lingered in my nostrils neither

I was becoming human.

CHAPTER II

RECONSTRUCT! O^k

Early in that year I had rejoined the Liberal Club.
less because politics called me than because I found myself
lonely; I rejoined .in a cynical mood, telling myself that
I didn't care what became of the rotten country, but that
I might have some fun in the rough and tumble. In my
earlier enthusiasm I had been righteously angry when
the Lords rejected the Education Bill, the Plural Voting-
Bill and the Licensing Bill, "though I had little liking for
religious education in any form and was individualist
enough to think a man had a right to be drunk if he chose ;
after my emotional disaster I do not think that for a
year I read a single political speech; the Small Holdings
Act, which should, have fired my imagination, went
unperccived by me through the Upper House, and it
was only later, when human desires and human interests
n once more to grow round me that I realised politics
as likely to amuse me.

- I think it was the new spirit of Liberalism attracted

Within seven or eight months of the general election

1 had sneered at the Liberals because they showed no

inclination to tackle the Lords; I had even, in the face

hocked club, likened Sir Henry Camphell-Bannerman
t<; the celebrated commander who marched his sol:

II and marched them down again. But, in the

1908, I discovered in the Liberal papers

distinct signsof ai hat, faced with so " game*'

ably as the Lords, the Liberals would eventually

RECONSTRUCTION 353

have to do something, if only because a noisy minority
of the rank-and-file wanted something done. I har-
boured no illusions as to the voice of the people ; I had
heard it at Hambury shouting more or less beerily, more*,
or less aitchlessly, and generally talking the most obvious
nonsense ; I knew too that the mandate the people gave
its elect was on the whole to make the other fellows sorry
they spoke, and that the mandate would duly be reversed
when the people thought they would like new bread
and especially new circuses ; I knew that elections were
decided less by alternative convictions than by alternative
regrets : if I had not held the business of politics cheap
I should not again have taken it up, for I wanted an

ement, not a religion. As I saw looming in the near
future a great row with the Bishops and the Lords I
decided to be in it : for a Frenchman loves a row as much
as an Irishman, particularly when the opponents are
prelates and aristocrats.

It was in this contemptuous, defiant and pugnacious
spirit I appeared before Cloggie. The old man held out
both hands to me, and I guested that he would have kissed

f he had been a Frenchman. He looked no older,
for years are nothing after the seventieth; his white hair
was as thick; his blue eyes were as benevolent and bright
under their Bhaggy white eyebrows. "Good boy, good
boy," he remarked a large number of times as he held
my hand. " Thought you'd never come back again,
i been uptol Sowing wild oats? Well, well,
1 been through it too. / know. 'J Cloggie winked at
me as one gay dog meeting another. " Do you kriow,"
he said, confidentially, "they Ufed to call me the Girls1
Own, at Dudley, hack in the 'sixties. That was before

• Him,*' he added, hurrn dly. u He made a newman
oi ma, did William Ewart. Did I ever tcJl you about

night in '74 when He spoke at Bradford and I held'
EBieoat?" \

854 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

I let Cloggie describe the scene again, displaced this
time some dozen years and located in a new town. As
he spoke, telling, I suspect, the plot of a dream, I liked
him more than I cared to think. Old Cloggie stood with
one arm outstretched, imitating the great man, with a
glow in his eyes and something of the tempest of Glad-
stone's phrases in his voice. I understood that his leader
was Cloggie's god, that his speeches were his creed ;
sustained by a sentimental passion the old Whig soared,
was splendid, was a tribune when he roared in William
Ewart's rolling tones the message to all the Smiths in
Wolverhampton. And, as suddenly, he was human
again :

"Do you know," said Cloggie, "I remembered you,
wondered what'd become of you. Once I thought ... no
... I never did, Mr. Clogg ; you're quite wrong, Sir — I
said that these times were funny times, Mr. Clogg; not
a word more."

He communed with the shade of Mr. Clogg and I sighed,
thinking of Hambury and Edith. Then I shook him by
the arm, for the altercation with the ghost was becoming
violent. " I never said he'd gone over to the Tories.

No, Mr. Clogg, you've got no right " I was just in

time to save him from blasphemy, from telling the ghost
of the pious founder of our library that he lied. Cloggie
looked at me with mournful eyes. " I never said you'd
gone over to the Tories," he protested.

" No, no, of course not," I said, soothing the old man.
*l I was busy, making my own business. Down with the
Lords ! "

" Ah," sighed Cloggie, rapturously. Then he glared
at me in a purposeful way, censorious, and a faint North
Country accent crept into his voice. " That's all very
well shouting * Down with the Lords,' lad, but tha must
g»rd up thy loins if tha want'st to light the good fight .
pardon, Sir ? . . . Yes, Mr. Clogg, certainly "

RECONSTRUCTION 355

He conferred with the shade, then solemnly : " What
do you say to Progress and Poverty for a beginning? "
. I pressed one hand upon my heart : the first book in
my political education — Hambury — Edith. . '. . Curse
you, weak heart ! what's this. to start you a-beating?
• Fes," I said weakly, " I'll have that."
I took the dirty old book away. And I was very near
when I found a note on page 8 : " Ward Four
c.r. 6.30." Little dream girl, whom I had loved and won
amid the dust of that election, you suddenly became the
one reality in a dirty room papered with posters, littered
with leaflets, crowded with canvassers, list-checkers,
lope addressers. . . . But I fought the dream and
1 it : away with sentiment, and up with the
struggle for life, the splendid anodyne.

II

Happy in his enterprise is the man free from love.
Unburdened of tin delicious load, his mind occupied by
ht save his ambition, he can march undeflected to-
wards his goal. Because he does not love he spares no
man, and if he no longer hopes to love he stops at nothing;
his brain is elear, he sees without feeling, and because he
nothing he understands everything. Sympathy is
;s draught, but you cannot hold the cup to the
erf others unless you too have drunk; and the potent
pity thai heals another p. rvades you, softens you;
ordained in the priesthood of sorrow your brain struggles
against your heart; you arc drugged, you are beaten.

I was not going to be beaten, for 1 was not going to
thrill. I would make a greal business, love no woman,

iv, and I WOUld make a toy of Parliaments.

ly. then, I chose the Liberals because tin; chances

of the rich City man iter with them than with

:\es; (hat was just a question of numbers.

A] bo I decided to he extreme, a little because I liked

356 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

violent language, a great deal because I saw that the richer
I became the more noble I would seem if I fought against
wealth. I reappeared,, in the Club debates as an amazing
and suspected figure, as elaborately dressed as possible,
never more informally than in a frock-coat ; I wore fancy
waistcoats, scented my handkerchief; sometimes I came
in evening clothes. The little group of tradesmen and
workmen hated me, I think; and my airs, but they could
not withstand the acrid violence of my speeches. I
was happy in their midst because I was playing a part,
strutting- as a fop and mouthing words that would have
satisfied the I.L.P.

Soon I had my party, about ten members out of sixty.
We always occupied the same chairs and ostentatiously
conferred with one another when the chairman stood up
to put a resolution. My party comprised Cloggie, two
railwaymen on the edge of Socialism, a gas-fitter, one of
thtf-most intemperate temperance men I have ever met;
also a secularist elementary school teacher, three "shop-
keepers called Lewis, Evans and Lloyd, and an extra-
ordinary person, Mr. Misling, who had rebelled against
mete Liberalism because the Admiralty refused to try
vegetarianism in the Navy. We were the cranks, the
dangerous people ; we followed our parliamentary favour-
closely, noted their speeches and their votes. 1 had a
fancy for Palissy, the Radical potter; the school teacher
quoted Mr. Beam?' questions with relish. There was
Ponsonby too, we liked him, and the member for Totten-
ham* while Mr. Misling periodically suggested that Mr.
lit rnard Shaw should be asked to contest our division,
mably in the lentil interest. We were absurd, but
I knew what I was doing. I was making the hetero-
geneous homogeneous by harbouring myself all the
oddities and all the discontents; I was extreme so as to
collect Hi*.' extremists, but I was going to use them, not
to serve them* In March I was elected to the Executive

RECONSTRUCTION 357

aud signalised my entry into the governing body by calling
tl\e Prime Minister weak-kneed and a traitor to his
,res.
I think this was a happy period of my life ; I led, I was
followed by the few and viewed with undisguised be-
wilderment by the many. I enjoyed the posturing, the
game, the unreality of the business ; like Stanley I played
psychological chess. I had the keenest sensations of
pleasure when I led my little group to the attack of an
We speaker who had come to us from the Temple
lie was a young barrister with ambitions, who
intended to do everything a gentleman could do to get
the L.C.C. ; he was very round, so shaved and so
lack and so white, so smiling, so bland, so
archly (hiring, that our Radical group had begun to growl
and shift its feet long before he was half through his
I young barrister had come to explain the
Small Holdings Act, a subject calculated to rouse an urban
Liberal Club, for it afforded the townsmen a chance of
that they could interfere with the agriculturalists.
" Vnu s< ••-,"' said the young barrister, " almost insuper-
able difficulties stood in our path. Faced on the one
by the crying needs of the people who were deprived
to the land, on the other by the legitimate claims

of the landowners "

A f Shocked protest of the Chairman;

■'\\r were * compelled t<» progress with moderation
and < ition for the interests involved." The

etly 'it my Hushed faer and at

iiis elega he unrolled his periods,

excu tg, Tory County Councils,

by liniit.it ions had been imposed
on com] illed me for a

mon :' thai urbane youth ns the con-

I I to do as little as might

rd with pledges, to shehei behind a convenient

358 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

syllogism, a dilemma, an anecdote or a joke. " Little fat
brief-fed, I loathe you," I thought. Quite honestly
I wanted a leader with blood in his body as I leapt to my
feet With the group when questions were called for. It
was a queer little scene. The chairman sat framed be-
ii his funereal whiskers, horribly shocked, by the side
of the bland Temple Clubber, who still smiled. The
portraits of Cobden, Sir William Harcourt and the pro-
spective Liberal candidate for our division stared from
the walls at "the little Radical group which had stood up
en bloc.

All together we shouted and shook our fists at the mild
Danier.

" Why don't you nationalise the land ? " roared the
first railwayman.

" Why don't you nationalise the land ? " repeated the
second railwayman.

" Will you provide houses ? " asked Lloyd, who owned
a country cottage.

" Gentlemen ! gentlemen ! " protested the Chairman.

Evans demanded a national loan guaranteed on ducal
estates. The temperance gas-fitter behaved so violently
that some one shouted he was drunk.

Amiable and urbane, the young banister took us up
each in turn, explaining the Act with affected simplicity,
as if addressing a Socialist Sunday School; he assured
the railwayman that one day, by and by, eventually
(and so forth) " the taxation of land-values would operate
in the direction indicated by their remarks "; he assured
Lloyd that rural housing preyed on the governmental
mind; he took quite seriously the vegetarian grievance
of Mr. Mislin^- and assured him that in the Navy a potato
allowance was traditional.

And then I was on my feet, speaking, so hot with rage
that I do n<»t remember exactly what I said. Phrases
remain : " Playing and tinkering with abuses — juggling

RECONSTRUCTION 359

with words — foregoing omelettes to save the eggs — "
I think that I clamoured for revenge, for the break-up
of the ducal estates, for minimum wages and State agri-
cultural banks — I spoke to the music of hisses and cheers,
and as I spoke I had a vision of a new, a wonderful land,
a hotch-potch of Garden City and Merrie England —
bath-rooms all round and maypoles on the village greens.
Sturdy yeomen, farmers' daughters — farmers riding to
hounds (subject to the right to shoot foxes). And big
towns with laboratories, institutes, free libraries (that
banned no novels) — athletics for clerks — morris dances
in the slums, no, ex-slums, for I dropped rent into the
bottomless pit.

I found myself shouting for a new Enclosures Act.

a Enclosures Act ! No more filching of the

land by the rich, but an enclosure of ducal land

with the dukes outside — and then you'll have an island

where it'll be good to live under the Union Jack."

The young barrister glibly congratulated me on my

and assured me that however distant

millennial ideas mighl be the Liberals would embody

of Parliament. I hardly listened to him:

- 1« .oking into my soul. What was this treachery

to myself? Why had I so genuinely glowed when I

ired the great England that would arise, thrilled at

tli.- words k- Union Jack "t Was I going to be false to

my hatred? to my revenge? No, no. But, very faintly,

' bing wins]). :

•• It la Much, Laden Cadoresse. Do you know that
the \ shyly clustering on /the steep, moist banks

in rutted Kn^lish lanes? 1)<> yon nol r< -member the
women with skins of milk? and the young Apollos,
their brothers, with the delicate months and proud,

sh<»?- d, calm, gentle-eyed as a

heifer, and as strong; alien, do you not love her?"

360 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

Ill

Such was the disaster that befell my hatred, came piling
on my success in the City, on Stanley's friendship, on those
balms for my wounds. At first I refused to acknowledge
the mysterious process, told myself that I hated England,
that I would make sport of her customs, butts of her men
and toys of her women. I fought for my foreign air,
availed myself of the summer to accentuate the colours
of my socks, waistcoats and ties; I affected affectations
until affectation seemed to be nature; I tried to be a
Frenchman .because I could not bear to be an English-
man, to feel the suck of the English morass. I did not
want to be cold, reserved and dogged, I wanted to be
ebullient, cynical, gay, outrageous; I wanted to tell
stories that were subtly improper rather than coarse; I
wanted to love and ride away.

But England turned towards me her courteous face,
took no notice of my clothes ^and my airs ; she asked me
to dinner and smiled at my stories ; her women returned
for the aggressive insistence of my glances the beautiful,
tender gaze of the English maiden. It was the general
had captured me and made me accept the particular.

Politics, I think, played the chief part in this new birth,
and 1 associate the political emotions of that year with
the Old Age Pensions Act. Bathos? No, that is not
bathos, for idealism is a god of itself and can live in any
shrim . 1 had laughed at the Bill when it was introduced;
made jokes of the il five bob a week when you're /dead "
kind ; 1 had spoken in its defence at a couple of open-air
tings, rejoicing rather in my contempt for the brief
I held and in tin dexterity with which I parried questions
than in the merits of my case; I liked to fee] master of
my crowd, to cheat it. When a man called out " Rot ! " I
didn't want to make him see it wasn't got; I preferred to
say : " The gentleman is a judge of rot," or " That man

RECONSTRUCTION 361

knows all about rot, he talks it," or give him some such
successful, drivelling answer from the electioneering store.
I wanted to dominate.

But the summer came and I was stung into fury by the
attempt of the Lords to kill the Bill ; I went to Folkestone,
returned charmed, my memory haunted by the gracious
shapes of English girls, by the innocent gaiety of .England
at play. The Bill became an Act, and I joined in the de-
light of my party, perhaps because I wanted something
to delight me, for I was alone. Stanley had gone abroad
with his wife, my few friends were scattered, I had a little
time to think. And I found that I was thinking of this
Act ! Absurd, but a sentimental flood carried me away.
1 had visions of millions of old men and women freed at
from fear and want; in vain I told myself that the
age limit was too high, the allowance too low, that the
reduction of the pension for married couples was mean
and its maintenance at the full scale for irregular alliances
f i limy. I tried to think in detail, and scoff, but I failed :
;an to think in principle.
In principle 1 Something had happened to my view
of English politics. Notwithstanding my experiences
at Bambury, and though I knew that our election was
like a game of poker than a St. Qeorgian contest,
English politics had a material basis,
more than a mean little private wrangle*; I saw
that the 1 unwillingly p< -rhaps, were doing some-

igland was determined they should do
thing. 1 education, control of the

liquor trade, democratic government, all these -were
! with an air of deflnitenesi if not of r< so-
lution ; the I did intend to open up the fallow

make a better country, and it did not matter

h that tli wrong-headed, limited, int olerably

; d, for th more than a quality of move*

im nl : ii . And those others, the Tories,

N 2

362 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

whom I abused so gaily, they too had something to do.
That tariff of theirs, a ridiculous scheme to me who was
born in a protected country and knew that a tariff mattered
about as much in daily life as a speed limit for motor cars,
it was action too. I liked the intensity of conviction
that fired Mr. Chamberlain when I heard him at the
Albert Hall, the stress he laid on the fact that two and
two are four; and the others, the young bloods, Brown
of Wolverhampton, Lord Algernon Cust, fated to die m
.the last ditch, I enjoyed their enjoyment and upon their
resolution sharpened my own energy.

An obstructive veil was drawn away by an unseen hand.
Politics remained a game, yet a game played, not for love
as in my own country, but for high stakes. The French
had not, in my time, done aught save persecute their
Church, had not tried to do anything else, had endlessly
called one another names, made and unmade cabinets
so quickly that not one had been able to realise a plan.
Oh, talk, talk, perpetual French talk ! talk of income-tax,
talk of civil service reformvtalk of industrial assurance,
and nothing done, nothing save stupid reiteration that
the country stood by the immortal principles of 1789.

Revolutionaries ! that's all the French were. They
could break anything an($ could make nothing; they were
noisy drones, and here in. England were the sturdy bees
hiving the honey. Behind the futile marionettes of the
Palais-Bourbon ana of Westminster stood two very
different peoples : the French occupied with love-making,
egotist art and private economy ; the English, determined
that the peasant should have land, the workman wages
and security, the child training. They were buildingj
and at the steady glow of their will I lighted the ever-
ready beacon in my own sou*. Almost at once I saw
the English as I had seen them, saw them better, perhaps,
for I was rid of stupid, old John Bull and his riding-
breeches; I saw the English I had dreamed ten years
before, the English determined to achieve, to make their

RECONSTRUCTION 363

dreams materialise, to establish in every corner of the
globe the Pax Britannica, to cut roads, build bridges ; I
saw England sending out messenger swarms to conquer
the black and the yellow, to guide and illuminate with
splendid common-sense the less steadfast white.

I was intoxicated. Once more I faced London, and

the city showed me its soul under its throbbing body,

tne great business of itself. As I walked its interminable

streets, leagues from east to west, and from north to

south leagues too, and as I watched from the bridges the

[uid history towards the Pool, out towards

the sea and the world, I knew that I was at the hub of

the universe, for here was something more than culture,

than . than art : it was purpose, it was life.

I was drunk with life, born again. And as if England

planned to reconquer me her skies poured clown

i me in those? August days the droughty heat in which

I live best. Swollen were, the flowers in the parks and

luxuriant th< : the women of the orgiastic town

burst into maturity hung their heavy heads upon

nder bodies like peonies over-rich in sap. I

- myself upon London as if I wanted to embrace it.

Of my adventures, common again now, I remember

Her name was Laura Filton, a tall girl whose

slim form, when leaning against the warm wind, seemed

to bend as a blade of grass. Her close, pleated blue dress

and her peekaboo while blouse hid little of the gracious-

"f her; her»lang ck was wearied by

the weight of a head laden with light-brown hair, dn

and in a score of eurls. of her enormous, ll.it, black

trimmed with red roses. I had made friends with

her win-hair near the Hound Pond, and then

with her ;i1 b o, and hei air is archaic? her hat

and pleat* aN of the dead, but Laura niton, idle trades-
man's daughter, stands before me now, calm, sedate and
alluring, with all the grace of England in her long hands.
She was irremediably stupid, and I remember little of

804 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHiMAN

her conversation. We had exhausted the habits of her
dog; she looked at me with calm, blue (yes.

" Have you seen the Salome dance ? " she asked.

I had, and suggested its costume must be delightful in
August.

She laughed, stated she didn't fancy it for herself.

" 1 do," I said boldly. " Come, dance it now — or be
a dryad. Here are the trees of the Gardens to shelter
you."

She looked at me as if wondering whether I was serious,
and the memory has an air of unreality, for about us little
children play the ancient game of diabolo, and I hear a
nursemaid humming the forgotten ditty, " I wouldn't
leave my little wooden hut for you."

" You are silly," she summed up at last.

Laura Filton had nothing to say, gave me no mental
satisfactions, nothing save an ineffectual acceptance of
caresses she did not desire, and yet I have put her among
the great in one of the niches of my heart; she had no
quality, but I gave her the quality of England. The
first to attract me since my re-enchantment, she figures
as the dove of peace flying towards me, ambassadress of
the women of the isles. I think I tried to express to her
something of the delight that was in me, to tell her that
when I loved her I loved her people, her splendid, con-
(jii< ring people, loved her as the daughter of the pioneers.
Sh« Listed d while I ranted of London town and, at last,
said :

" Yes, it's a fine piacc, isn't it? And those new motors,
the taxis, they're the latest. Have you been in one of
them yet ? "

I laughed, pri ssed her slender arm, told her that she

had missed her mark, that these new-fangled carriages

were French. But 1 loved her guileletsneas, would have

had her more innocent still, so that she might be yet more

ie, serene as England the Conquering.

RECONSTRUCTION 365

IV

To Stanley also I showed my new madness, and he
smiled.

\t it again ! I thought you'd find out we weren't
so bad, after all. To tell you the truth I saw it coming
in March when you took up politics again; when you
began abusing my side I knew that in a few months you'd
be falling in love with your own."

" I've fallen in love with both of them."
44 Evidently. You never do things by halves. Tell
you what, Cadoresse, you'll have no peace until you make
an end ol your ambitions and take out your naturalisation

.

I stepped back, stared at this tall, untidy person, who

1 to think me funny because I had lost my heart

nation. In that moment Stanley was more repre-

of his people than ever before; that he was

articulate while they were dumb did not affect my sense

of his Englishness, for here he was, saying tremendous

things and treating them as trifles. Careless of the

piled so heavy upon him by his birth on English

ood, leaning against the mantelpiece, shifting

from one tool to the other. His eyes gleamed wickedly,

as if he were analysing me, observing the emotions that

have been passing over my all-too-expressive

tcnance. This \> ol being .'in Englishman,

ody knows anything about it except the foreigner.

I plunged thai very day and, in the evening,

'• o many times that I ended in know-

1 1 : though they thrilled, they

me a little, to I tnd did not throw herself

at mj 11 alxmt me, all about

my fs i k and my behaviour; trusting me very

little, she wanted tour Englishmen toallirm in a statutory

ration that I was respectable and loyal; and having

366 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

captured me, England hinted that she would never let
me go but wished me to reside in the United Kingdom.

For a whole fortnight I struggled with intolerable
complexities. It seemed as difficult to be born again as
it is to be born actually. I spoiled my memorial on a
Saturday afternoon and languished, in a state of suspended
nationality, until the Monday. Then I had to find a
referee who had known me for five years and had to submit
with as good a grace as I could to a cross-examination
by Barker, whom I asked out to lunch for the purpose.
He consented, but put an unfortunate idea into my head :

" What d'you want to naturalise for, you silly old
josser? You're chucking your five pounds away, any-
how. They won't have you : not respectable enough."

He laughed, and his agreeable face seemed malevolent.
" What about that affair of yours ? That was' a bit of
all right, but if it comes out — what oh ! "

The idea preyed upon me ; long before my papers Went
to the Home Office I realised what a man feels like who is
" loitering with intent to steal." I passed policemen
very fast and stiffly, expecting one of them to come up
to me and say : " Hi, you, the Frenchman. What d'you
think you're up to trying to become a bloomin' Briton ?
What about Maud Hooper? And what's that you said

last year about the old Queen ? And what about ? "

In those moods I mentally ran away without listening
to those other and formidable " what abouts ? " for I knew
there we] t many more, that I had accumulated

a good deal of disloyalty in the year of disillusion. But
I set my nd decided to go on.

The chief statutory declaration was made by Barker,
and others followed from Stanley, Purkis, doggie (I
mean Smith) and Mr. Hoskm. These men shocked me,
for they did no1 seem to realise the importance of the
affai pg, for he delivered a lengthy

speeeli on human brotherhood, ending on an inference

RECONSTRUCTIO N 367

that England was the eldest of the family. But Barker
refused to sign until he had drunk a " small port," the
only intoxicant he allowed himself as a teetotaler; and
old Purkis sent me a jocular message to say that he had
a new rose which he would name the " Cadoresse Britonii,"
while Stanley persecuted me with theories as to the
intuitive qualities of the police.

A fortnight elapsed. These were anxious moments,
for a plain-clothes called at my address and told the
landlady casually that it was " all right at Cambridge
Street " : that meant the creature was taking his business
seriously, that he had called at St. Mary's Terrace too.
What had Mrs. Hooper said ? Perhaps she had laid upon
my not altogether guiltless shoulders her daughter's ruin ?
But I was fervent, I told myself to try to be braye. I
idiotic, and vet the whole affair Mas about as hue
as being converted. Then, one. morning, I found on my
breakfast tray a notice informing me "that my desire
me and requiring me to take the oath of

The commissioner for oaths behaved very badly. He

v dirty little old man whose office smelled like

a du : while I read out, Holy Book in hand, my

i,n pledge of loyalty to th<- King, he persistently

tched the placg where his skull-cap chafed him. While

he remarked : " Half a crown."

ought to have happened in Westminster Abbey.

I had a fancy for red velvet, no. for "imperial " purple

1 "' blue — and there ought somewhere to have

a lion and a unicorn, ai d to play " Rule

... I Oaf as a marriage before

tor the commissioner did not -

wish ■ j happii

i for a niona nt on the •landing, Jpay i

mechanically g the words on the dirty ochre

dte in if'

868 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

Disposal Co. Ltd.," my heart was beating fast and I
was swollen with pride. An Englishman at last — born
again. . . .

I can now guess what a man feels when he has just been
knighted.

*' You are becoming intolerable," said Stanley, good-
humouredly, a fortnight later. " Since you wasted five
pounds you go about as if the place belonged to you "

" I belong to the place," I said, in a fervid voice. " Do
you know, Stanley, it's true; I cant keep it to myself
and it's funny how little it seems to matter to other
people."

" One's affairs never really matter to other peoph .

" No — but such affairs ! I told Gladys, you know,
the red-headed girl at the ' Yemen.' I told her I was a
naturalised Englishman, and all she said was : * Who'd
have thought it ? ' "

" I'm not surprised," said Stanley, " if you will roll
several capital R's in the middle of ' naturalise.' "

For several sorrowful moments I reflected that it was
rather a pity no Pentecostal, naturalising fire could descend
upon my head. But soon I thought : " Anynow, I'm in."
And then : " After all, you need a jolly good R to say

CHAPTER III

THE LAST LAP
I

I walked quickly along Piccadilly, hugging my heavy
coat against my body, for a fierce wind blew in my back
from the east and, at every corner, split itself into eddies
in which danced dust and pieces of paper. I liked the
harsh January day, was conscious of my wind-stung
and of the warmth of wool upon my chest. I was
ore alive than a man, alive as a young horse.
In the sharp air all things seemed unusually definite,
up of angles and lines; and every noise was multi-
clear came the ringing of the bells of the modish
the trample and bit-champings of the horses,
ties and backfirings oi those new-fangled motor-
bove all I heard the tap-tap of the feet,
i distinguish the clatter of a pair of little high-heeled
from the duller, regular sound the big soldier in
lug. Hen and women, all in a
hurry, by the wind, thousands of them, millions

all round them. And the imperious demand for alms
of | Mmd man's stick.

I gl the shops, the pageantry of tics, the high

framing like minarets the brown girl

who rolled th m, the clustering chocolates, the loud

on their dummies, the leather, the gold and

silvr, the perfumes in their bottles, so abundant that

I fancied I could sum 11 them.

Then Devonshire II e behind its prison gates, and
the plunge into dandydom, frock-overcoats and grey-
#

370 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

topped boots. I stopped to look at the Ritz, which
seemed very staring and new, and for a while watched
the midday tides of traffic surge past it, blotting out the
Green Park, all save the empty heaven above, which
suggested vastness, for the gaunt sky-scrapers of
Westminster wore very far away. I saw the scene as
part of my life, felt strong, successful, free ; I was making
money, making power, and this scene would soon be
my setting. A rough balance-sheet told me that I could
depend now, not on two hundred and fifty but on five
hundred pounds in the coming year. Success ! And
freedom : here was I, at two o'clock in the afternoon,
able to walk Piccadilly because such was my mood.
I. had been to see the manager of one of the big Atlantic
companies in Cockspur Street, the Rudyard or the Red
Sun, I forget which, and could afford a walk to Hyde Park
"Corner : you do not know how wonderful is Piccadilly at
two o'clock unless you work in the City from ten to six.

But the icy wind drove me on, past Bath House and up
the hill, towards the clubs and the growing solitudes.
I liked to look at the women, little furry animals with
half-muflled faces, at the men, the ruddy and stout in
check trousers, the indolent clean-shaven, and those
others in rather old clothes whose faces showed the
sunburn of India. All the world was a toy for me, all
its people, and that short, plump young man who stood
Jighting a cigarette, on the step.-, of a club.

i I glanced at him, and at once knew
him. It was Edward Kent, but I did not want to speak
to him, I had done with his pari of my life; to see him
mad Hut Kent did not share this feeling

of mine lie. too, had r nd now .came

ing down the steps. As we shook hands I was
tilled with a sense <<f liis absurdity. I could judge him
better now, understand his irrelevancy in an ordered
scheme. II is jauntiness, his flow of polite platitudes
and mild epigrams ex; - me.

THE LAST LAP 371

" It's ages since I saw you," he said, blandly. " Where
have you been all this time? Making pots of money,
I suppose, from what I hear."

" What have you heard ? " I asked.

But Kent did not answer me, having forgotten his
own remark.

" I've just been in here for a chop — though sometimes
I chop and change. I've been having lunch with
Tortini. the musician; I'm thinking of joining his
quartette. Of course it'll be rather hard on my golf,
not that that's up to much. The other day I went round
in "

I listened, seemed to listen for many minutes, for
had a loose abundance of conversation, a taste for
elegant unreality that maddened his audience. Not
only did he produce a Hood, but he perpetually turned
on and then off taps marked anything between " Latest
Poli* da] " and "^Socks." At last I interrupted

him. said I must hurry on.

"• Where are you off to? I'm going to Burlington
to meet my sister, Mrs. Hugh Lawton, you
remember. Louisa's infected me with a taste for
sociology."

•• \ id, holding out my hand:

K nt on speaking.

Hid Muriel are great pals. Muriel's engaged,
by the wi

M li • d, my hand still outstretched.

" ,\ . got hold of quite a decent chap, a Bap]

. and when he marries Muriel he'll
go over »<» the Lib rail and be almost complete." I

t le with. with him-

I think he hardly realised he Bpoke his next

aloud: "I never thought she'd ^rct man

but I su i ching now that Edith's as good as

accepted that fellow .ae^whn's been dangling

round her for

372 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

I knew that I did not blink, that not a muscle of my
face moved, but I heard my teeth crunch together. I
remained impassive, almost at attention, while Kent
told me the chestnut of the barrister and the pickpocket
who 'ad a bit o' luck in the Strand.

Well done, Lucien Cadoresse, England had at last
given you something of the bulldog.

II

When the ship has gone down she does not suck under
all the little matters she carried ; hen-coops, life-belts,
spars, a litter of domestic furniture float most obviously
upon the waves. As I sat at home, an hour later, an
impersonal self wondered why my eyes were so interested
in trifles, in the row of books and pamphlets upon my
writing-table, notably the flaring red " Liberal Year
Book," in the polished brass inkstand, the woodcuts of
old London upon the green distempered wall, and the
muddy golf -sticks in the corner. But these little things
are not little except against the broad background of
life; when the loves, lusts, hatreds, the ambitions, the
fears and delights have suddenly been shrouded, then
the little things become important : for they survive
disaster, they never die, and sometimes by their perman-
ence they link.

I accomplished a 'number of mechanical acts in the
hours that followed; I trimmed my moustache," made
many idle drawings on my blotter; I sorted my books,
all the red ones together, all the green ones, and so forth;
and I sharpened with great steadfastness a whole packet
of pencils. v

I do not think my mind worked true, during those first
hours; its concentration upon the futile lasks was purely
automatic, self -protective perhaps, and the hollowness of
my purpose showed through my business, for I found
omething else to do as soon as I had
finished with one trifle. While I was idle my brain

THE LAST LAP 373

1 1 in a state of continuous, nervous whirl, in a
condition akin to fitful half-sleep, through which there
perpetually intrudes an undefmable but oppressive
preoccupation. I remember wondering whether I were
going mad.

I expect I was very near it.

Dusk. I had been sitting for a long time in the arm-
chair, rather stupefied now, and therefore more content,
rd the housemaid come in, put a match to the fire,
h on the lights. She asked me whether I wanted
I said, " No," without turning round. Then I
listened to the fire crackling, got up to tend it, for habit,
petrified fruit of instinct, reminded me that the grate
ill-built. But as I knelt in front of the flame,
it to grow by shuttering it with a newspaper,
rid that the sound of a human voice and the perform-
ance of a duty which was not futile had worked some
cleared my brain of fumes. The realisation
lowly that it must have been some time
occupied the whole of me, for I managed to
build up a good fire without killing it. When I at last
Walked to the window. I knew that I was no longer feeling
as an animal, but thinking as a man. For a minute or so
I repeated, " Edith engaged . . • Edith engaged . . . " I
paused, then said it again with an air of finality. I did
not stop to analyse the relation Kent had implied, to
wonder whether ihe wai actually engaged.1 I accepted
the fact. Then I d myself what it meant to me.

At first it meanl nothing at all, nothing more than
Mur one of the eight hundred and

,tv-f<>ur nuts which came about in the

py day.
I I d al my own statistics and, for a while, found

on in m But I was not yet

all conscious, fox to the writing-table,

thfl drawer in whieh 1 kept Edith's
re about thirty I krst of all

8*4 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

written just before the Hambury election, the last, an
appointment on a half sheet; there were two picture
postcards from Fowey; I found also a programme
headed " Empress Rooms," on which my initials figured
seven times, the menu of Mahomed's Hindu restaurant
with an intricate pattern of E.L.'s on the back. No
photograph, not- a lock of hair, or a fan, or a ribbon.
Nothing but these letters, and yet— I had kept the meanest
of them, the most formal, the unsigned commands to be
at a given time at some Underground station. I had
kept everything.

I flung myself back in my chair, my hands on the papers,
and knew that I was sane after all, for here was aching
regret shot with flashes of agony. I bent forward,
ordered the letters as well as I could, began to read them.
The first one, its childish round writing and underlined
words, yes, here was Edith, slim, outlined against the
her fair hair streaming on the wind. Some appoint-
ments to meet at Hambury — in ward four — and I thought
of the young Liberals, of Chike, the progressive grocer,
of Edith when the hood fell from her head. . . .

A pain I had never known before went' right through
me as I remembered the falling of the hood, the fair head
pillowed on my shoulder. . . .

I read all the other letters ; some more appointments, a
picture postcard saying that the weather was -lovely at
Fowey, and that they were going by boat to Land's End ;
a long letter, too, very tender and very shy :

' . . . But how can I write what you ask? I am
not like you, I am afraid to say what I think, it all
seems so strange and so wonderful that you should
care for me at all. That is why I can't tell you how
much 1 love you; I seem cold, I know, but I'm not,
I'm not. Oh, my darling. . . ."

I closed my eyes, gripping the letter. " Go on," said

instinct.

THE LAST LAP 375

"... you must know that I love you, that I've
never loved any one else. I couldn't, and I'll always
love you, always, always, whatever you do, I'll
always love you. . . ."

I read to the end, mastering the grief that rose in me,

thinking to dominate it, to succeed in being a man. But

I was not prepared for the last line; she had signed

lith," and, as a postscript, written : " Is this a good

letter?"

The manliness went out of me. Edith, tender, devoted,
shy, had broken down her reserve, had forced herself
to write a love-letter because I demanded one, and when
it wsts written had suddenly asked for appreciation, for
c, as a child begs for full marks. She had given me
all she could give, then raised towards me the blushing
flower of her face that she might read thankfulness in
mine.

A bitter shame was in me while I wept, uncontrollably,

endli * ; hands elasped over my eyes, I felt myself

shaking all over; for a long time mine were 'terrible, dry

that tore at my throat, vpu lied and jerked my

shoulders ... it was later only the tears came, and then

renched from my eyes . . . and later again

silently, painlessly, until I sank face down

st the table and found that everything about me

growing 'Inn, receding. With every minute ex-

haustion gained upon me. I was vaguely conscious of

the growing cold as night came and the fire went down,

of a i lzing me, pressing down upon me. I slept.

I woke up to hear the clock strike four. I rose to my

and found that I staggered as I walked about the

on my cramped limbs recovered, though I

ted with cold. I went to the sideboard, pdSired out

a third of a tumbler of whisky and swallowed the stuff in
two gulps. Then, as I sat by the side of the cold grate,

876 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

I felt better, stronger; and I was peculiarly lucid, as if
the exhaustion of my body had freed my brain. Indeed,
I hardly felt my body, I had the sensation of severed
limbs that is gained from several doses of absinthe.

For a long time I thought, and it seemed as if some
obscure mental process had taken place within me while
I slept, as if I had gone on thinking during those hours of
torpor. This I knew because I did not awake to weak
misery : I awoke in reaction, physically exhausted, but
mentally calm. I recapitulated the points of the case,
told myself without any passion that I loved Edith, had
always loved her, must have her. I did not doubt that
she still loved me, that she was preparing to marry the
other man only because I had forsaken her. . . .

Yes, I had' forsaken her. I had not understood her,
given her time. For some minutes I bitterly reviled my
own impatience, my intolerance, my sensitiveness, my
precipitancy; I had brutally asked her to choose between
her father and myself, and had not given her many
minutes to make up her mind ; unmoved, I had seen her
tears flow; I had tried to bully her, I had sacrificed her
on the altar of my self-importance ; I had trampled on
her sense of duty, sneered at her delicacy, despised her
scruples; I had seized a butterfly and broken it upon a
wheel. . . .

" Brute . . . brute . . . fool ..." I whispered.

And I found intense pleasure in this vilification of
If. While I once had seen no side other than my own,
I now saw mine no longer; I hated myself and enjoyed
the punishment, as if I were split into judge and criminal,
so that one part of me could rejoice in the retribution
which overtook the other. Testimony of my love, also,
I delighted in my abasement, for the true lover has no
pride, but cries out to his beloved : " Oh, most beautiful,
oh, priceless one, deign only not to avert your eyes. ... I
am worthless, soiled, despicable . . . there is no good
in me save that I love you. So put your heel upon my

THE LAST LAP 377

neck, beloved, and tread, tread hard. . . . Ah, that pain

ret, the pain you give. . . ."

Soon I saw my life as it was, a life of hard, perpetual

contest. I had struggled to become an Englishman,

struggled to become a free, rich man, now I must struggle

to win my woman. Oh, it was struggling did it after all,

less toil,, endless resource, unflagging, dogged energy.

To try, to be beaten, to try again, that was life, after all.

And a fine thing of its kind, adventurous because you

could never tell which way the contest would end, bracing

because you had to take the blows and come on for more,

and come on again, and again, and still come on, until the

enemy Lr<»t tired of hitting, and then you won. . . .

The whisky in my body and the fierce metaphors in my

brain inflamed me, evoked in me a response, made me

grit my teeth together and clench my fists. They

thought they had beaten me, did they? They thought

could keep me out, keep me down. . . . We should

Edith loved me still,. had always loved me, and I'd

r if I had to kidnap her. In that hour

I was strong, much more than inflame d ; I swore that

nothing should keep me from her, that I would call her

back, and if, hardly possible to conceive, she loved me no

n her a w cond time.

It alone in the icy room, wailing for the dawn,

much that is my soul stood forth : a conviction that life has

e in its battles, that it .is a poor thing at best,

thai all its colour and its dignity come out of contest.

I. fe ifl in us only when We fighl ;, fighting makes life

.andifw. >ngh1 we begin to die.

I tree : when growth is arn sted decay begins.
I • i at the window, iii the greyhen the houses

med gho I unfamiliar. Then day

'. to dawn in the i
Their arc no good causes and no had causes. There are
only the causes that win. There is no dignity in en-
deavour, but only in victory.

378 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

Defeat is naught save the prelude to victory.
The dawn touched the roofs with rose and, fervently, I
repeated :

Defeat is naught save the prelude to victory.

Ill

^Vith extreme care I made ready for the struggle. My
face was livid and there were purplish blotches under my
eyes, but my black hair lay very sleek, and my hand,
nerved by my purpose, had not shaken while I shaved.
Resolutely, too, I ate, though my furred tongue revolted
-from food and I wished only to empty the teapot : I was
going to want my strength.

. I stood at the corner of Lancaster Gate, watching from
a convenient point, and the old excitement rose in me.
I recognised the maid. Fiona, older, slower and fatter,
came trundling down the steps to snuff critically in the
gutter. The little dog gave me my first powerful emotion ;
Fiona, waddling cautiously down the steps instead of
clearing them at a bound, four paws outstretched, as the
hound of Artemis, was a horribly eloquent evidence of
passing time. I had left her young, and now, after little
more than two years, she was old. For some seconds my
^throat contracted as I wondered whether Edith, too, had
grown old. At half-past nine Mr. Lawton came out,
walked away towards the Tube station. Still I waited.
She was coining : I knew it.

IV

For. some minutes I walked behind her; though my
heart beat so fast that I thought I must stifle. I was still
sybarite enough to want to look at her before I spoke.
I had not seen her very well as she appeared, for she had
turned sharply to the left and 1 had followed ; I had had
time only to see her hair blaze* vivid in the sunshine, and
now, as I cautiously suited my pace to hers, I found her
unexpectedly the same. She walked as quickly, as

THE LAST LAP 379

springily as ever, and gaily she shook her little bag at

Fiona in the hope of making her leap at it. But Fiona

ild, and peacefully trotted.

If I saw no more than this it was, no doubt, because of

the tumult within me. I was overcome by unexpected

ations, subtle convictions of needs and, oddly*?

grafted thereon, a lust for conquest; I enjoyed this

careful following, was more than the wild beast tracking

od, was also the sportsman enjoying the chase.

But mixed with this feeling that must arise in any man

pursues any woman, after the manner of the male,

a transcendant, swoon-approaching joy, a sense of

fulfilment; she did not see me, but I saw her; I trod in

her footprints, and I had a feeling that was literally

sensuous when my foot crumpled a scrap of paper which

hen had touched. »

iiouslv I followed across the Bayswater Road,

gfa the postern and into the Gardens.' With her I

ed the patli fur the lawns, treading warily lest

the frosted <;rass should eriss under my feet. The wind

had fallen, and now the pale BUD threw upon the ground

the fine shadow-tracery of the branches : as she passed

he thin reflections fell across her, patterning

hex with light grey lines. Suddenly she stopped, seemed

S ke obelisk, and I knew that my hour had

[most alone; far away some nurse-
bulators along a path, and a few

little I men hurried towards the railway stations

and their business. I heard fche faint eraekling of the

he distant whistle of a park-keeper. And

; I was so full of happiness, of redis-

■ irtt I wondered whether I had not better be

= !id turn away. I \ 'lie Oriental

Id to a bowl already full of water. . . .

Tin- I aided a rose-leaf. Hut I shrank,

I shrank ; I was afraid. In spite of my aehute; desire to

! feared what I might see in it. ... I half

380 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

turned. But it was too late : Fiona, slowly trotting in
circles, muzzle upon the ground, drew near me in her
course, stopped, looked at me. She stared at me( and
I wondered whether she hypnotised me, for we did not
move, either of us, but gazed into each other's eyes. I saw
something struggling in the beautiful brown depths,
recognition, doubt; Fiona knew me, was desperately
trying to remember where she had seen me, wanted to
remember. I saw the effort of her little brain.

Then a change came over her.v She cocked her ears,
opened her mouth a little, so as to show her- pink tongue
moving in slight excitement over her white teeth. And
very, very slowly, she came towards me, gazing at me
still, her tail agitated by a nervous quiver. She came
quite close, looked up at -me. and suddenly lay upon her
side, a front paw raised, her tail now beating sharply upon
the ground. ...

, I heard Edith cry out : " Fiona ! Fiona ! " saw her
flit towards me.

Then, quite unaccountably, I was looking at her and she,
one hand upon her breast, was meeting my eyes with hers.

I do not know how long it lasted.

In those moments I saw her collectively, as. an object-
devoid of details. Through the immediate sense -of my
delight ran a streak of terror, and even in that clasp of
s I felt the impulse to fly. But the film dissolved
and, suddenly, I saw Edith.

At first I thought her unchanged. Then I observed
subtle differences, hair dressed lower than before, a

roundness of figure new to me, a suggestion of wo;

But the blue eyes that held mine were tlie same, tilled
with wonder, some fear, some delight perhaps, as I had
so often seen them, and, dark in the pallor of her face,
they suddenly reassured me, told me that here was the
everlasting woman before me that defied the im perma-
nence of th# flesh. I took a quick step forward, holding
out both hands.

THE LAST LAP 381

" Edith," I said, hoarsely.

Swiftly her rigid features relaxed. A heavy blush
stained her face to the forehead, and I saw her lips
tremble and twitch. Something that was hidden away
in me responded to those tremulous lips. I came quite
close, gripped both her hands.

41 Edith," I said again, so hoarsely that the word came
in a whisper.

She did not withdraw her hands, stood facing me, her
eyes meeting mine ; but the continuous quivering of her
hands told me that she too would gladly escape me,
that it was in spite of her disquiet her eyes were able to
meet mine. Our eyes linked us : we couldn't get away. . . .

\\\\h. this knowledge came a thrill of delight : Edith
Edith crying out my name might have pleased
me, but Edith powerless to free her hands from mine, to
lower her lids under a gaze which I knew must be hungry,
aroused in me all the savagery of the conqueror and the
inexpressible emotions of triumph. . , .

dine, mine, mine," t thought, and my love seemed to
increase with every repetition. What was this idea of
winning li»»r back? I had never lost her. And—

Hen . li . hers,*' shouted another voice; I, too, knew
that I could not withdraw my haiids, avert my eyes, t . .
She had never l<>st inc. . . .

I found I was walking with her across the grass, still

holding hex hands, v. »at down on chairs that faced

the polished black water of the Serpentine at the bottom

of the slope, and as I Leant forward I thought I had little

ay.

Edith . . . my darting . . .my,,,, beloved ... I
never thought I'd Bee y«>u again.

i-lv, but looked towards the ground.
a:

li had to come ... in London . . . accidents. . . ."
44 This is not an accident," I said. " I followed you."
threw me a quick glance full of inquiry.

382 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

44 I followed you," I said, in a low voice. " I had to
you again, to tell you . . . because ... oh, Edith,
what's the^good of talking, my dear, my dear? ... I
want you, I want you. ..."

Her look was startled. Her -mouth contracted;
furrows appeared between her eyebrows. .

" Lucien," she faltered.

" Ah," I cried out, all afire with the tenderness of her
voice, " you still love me, you still love me. I've been a
brute, a fool, murdered your happiness and mine, and
you love me, you love me. . . . Say you love me, say you've
forgiven, forgotten . . . say you love me, do you hear ? "

Savagely I crushed her hands, leant towards her so
closo that I could feel her rapid breath upon my face, see
all the gradations of colour in her distended pupils. I
could feel a ring through my gloves and rejoiced to think
that I was grinding it into her fingers.

44 Say you love me," I repeated, In a still harsher voice.
44 I've never forgotten you, I've never loved any other
woman, I've never ..ceased to love you. I went away
from you with all my pride torn and with all my heart
bloody. I didn't understand, I wouldn't understand . . .
but yesterday I heard something that made me under-
stand that I couldn't give you up, that I couldn't let you
go, that I'm all — poisoned with you." I stopped
wondering why I had said " poisoned," then hurried on.
44 I heard there was another man. . . . Is it true ? "

She hesitated, then, with a brave lift of her head :
\o."

44 There could be no other man after me ? "

A long hesitation. A bold meeting of my eyes.

44 There could be no other man after you."

' You will . . ."; about to say 44 marry," my tongue took
a quick, wise turn : 44 . . . let me go to your father? "

44 Yes."

44 1 love you. Do you love me ? "

44 I love you."

THE LAST LAP 383

We did not think of considering whether we were

lied. Together, I think, we bent forward . . . and

her light hair was in my eyes, my mouth upon her mouth.

We did not seem to have to explain. In very few
rices I seemed to tell Edith facts that we both of
us knew to bo unnecessary. I told her that after losing
her I had passed through hell, faced loneliness, privation,
endless labour, and the everlasting need of her; I told
that my business was flourishing, that I could marry
her at once.

" What does it matter ? " she asked. " Isn't it enough

you have come back, that I said I would take you

if you came. I knew I would when ... oh ! Lucien,

how often I have cried "

My darling, my darling, forgive — ■ — "
■ h. no, no." She laughed, and there was a shrillness
of excitement in her voice. " Don't say that. What is
there to forgive now that you've come back — still love

tone," I whispered.
Her face reddened, and she hall turned away. But
n she faced me bravely.

1 must tell you the truth. Mr. Shepstone asked me

his wife. He— he says he is in love with me, and I

him; 1 said I would answer him later. Oh, it was

"

" M I know, I too."

. . So lonely. And I couldn't believe you'd come

1 knew we should meet again, but I thought

.- ould be strangers. Or friends, much later, when we

old. Mr. Shepstone asked me so often . . . and

they said that you . . . that an actress "

44 Ah ? you heard that? It's true. 1 was mad when
I t you. I was ready for anything, anybody. 'I've
lived — abominably. I'm a beast, I'm low "

384 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

" No, no " %

" Yes," I cried, as if anxious to enhance my triumph by-
self-abasement ; "low, despicable — not fit to be touched by
you."

" It's all over," Edith murmured. " What do I care
what you were ? "

I knew that she would not understand, but how splendid
was this disdain of the past. As she spoke the future
expanded, panoramic.

" You never forgot me ? " I whispered.

She smiled. "Never. I could not. I wanted to,
but . . ."

She freed her hands, suddenly pulled at a little gold
chain, drew a locket from her breast, opened it. In it
lay half-a-dozen crumpled white petals.

' As I bent to smell -their faded scent, in which was a
hint of suede leather ; she whispered :

" The first thing you gave me, Lucien — from the almond
tree — you remember? "

VI

Little Dresden^Shepherdess, your eyes are pure as the
mountain torrent ; your hair is golden as honey, you lean
light as thistle-down against the wind. Sweet one and
brave, who has ho reproach for me, naught save gladness,
who will raise me, the iniquitous, the soiled from the
ground on which I throw myself abased, sweet one and
brave, forget my sin against the love you gave me for me
to cast away, destroy the foulness of sense and self-seeking
that has made me hideous, in the fierce, white flame of
your purity; with you, lift me from grossness" into that
region of innocence where you dwell, and let me dwell
there with you. Take my fceart between your slim white
hands, sweet one and brave, and hold it close to the
warmth of yours.

THE LAST LAP 385

VII

I pause awhile before these terminations, so suddenly
do they come, and unlinked with the dragging length
of my older life. There is no detail in them, they come
too swiftly ; as white squalls they overwhelm me. I feel
that there should be gradations in their crises, forebodings,
then prolonged struggles, hopes deferred, marches and
countermarches ; one ought not to win or lose a woman
so simply; much time should elapse and there should be
much skilful play of wits. To stand, as we did, starkly
in front of each other, to avoid explanation, shirk apology
and absolution, it was — inartistic.

But then I was sincere, and there was no time for the

tic dallyings to which I am given when sincerity is
not there and I call upon its wraith. Life is not artistic :
its big adventures appear as you reach some appointed

. and they rush upon you as dragons that have been
lying in ambush, compelling you to fight, and at once,

you be destroyed. There are no slow adventures,
slow victories, slow defeats worthy of the name of adven-

: the deliberate is the dull, and no forlorn hope ever

d as it made for its goal.
Thus, and I remembered it as I decided once more to
try a throw with fortune, I had lost Edith within four
ight o'clock I had held her in my arms,

ed secure kisses upon her lips. By midnight I had

1 in fierce contest with her brother and her father,
family, with English society and tradition, with

i hoi.- phalanx of England, close-packed and ready to
receive the intrude! upon H ... I had lost her in

hours, and now I was going to win her in ten minutes.

•he dining-room at half-pOSt nine, as well-

grooi \ could he, assured that my shirt-front, shone

llliantly as any English shirt -front, that, my hair was
ruly and my jewellery almost invisible; also I was ready

Ir. Lawton, a little surprised at having been admitted

886 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

into the house, and vaguely suspicious that I had been
admitted only to be insulted. , The maid went up to the
drawing-room to hand her master my card, for I had
refused to go upstairs, as I wanted a private interview,
and did not fancy a sensational irruption among the
assembled Lawtons ; I rehearsed the scene that was going
to take place.

Mr. Lawton would glare at me ; he would say : " What
do you want ? " I would say : " Your daughter." He
would tell me to leave the house, and I would reply :
" No, not until I have had my say?' Then, while he
ostentatiously turned aside to examine that most excellent
oil-painting on that most sumptuous red wall-paper, I
would state the position, in Saxon English flavoured with
idioms which would show I was an Englishman, and with
'Varsity slang that would prove me a gentleman. I
would make him see that Edith was mine until death us
do part (slight Adelphi excursion), that I was doing well,
and that I would never, never give in (let loose the
English bulldog). At last he would ungraciously give
his consent, and in a sporting manner I would hold out
my hand. Perhaps my beaten enemy

" Hullo, Cadoresse ! I'm very glad to see you. What
have you been doing all this time ? " *

Ridiculous ! Here was Mr. Lawton smiling at me, with
a friendly look in his blue eyes, and he was actually
holding out his hand. I felt he wa^not playing the game,
playing it as a French father would have, but I took his
hand, muttering that the pushing of a young business

" Oh, yes, I understand," said Mr. Lawton. " I hear
you're doing very well, that you're going to be much
bigger than poor old Barbezan by-and-by."

I had to smile, to protest we intended no harm to the
old firm; his interest in my affairs was frank : he asked
no questions, but received with evident satisfaction the
confidences I felt compelled to make. I struggled, but I
gave way under the pressure of his unobtrusive courtesy.

THE LAST LAP 387

We seemed to talk about business, endlessly. Several
times I tried to close with him by alluding to his family,
as a beginning, but he interrupted me. That was some-
thing, in the land of " Thou shalt not interrupt."

"■ My wife is very well; you must come upstairs and
see her. They'll all be glad to see you."

I ventured to ask whether Muriel ... It seemed that
Muriel, too, would be charmed. ... I opened my mouth

to introduce Edith into the conversation

" You must have a drink," said Mr. Lawton, amiably.

I did not want a drink, I wanted to get to my work, but I

accepted, for Englishmen are always drinking whisky and

soda : one has to live up to one's naturalisation papers. Mr.

Lawton poured out the whisky, asked to be told " when,"

and while he manoeuvred the syphon, managed to make

me tell him that I had taken up politics again, and

promise to come and hear him speak on the Budget later

in the year. But my opportunity arrived ; we both stood

in hand and, as Mr. Lawton touched the liquid with

:ps, I was upon him. As I spoke I was amused, for

I could see his nose through the glass that muzzled him.

Mr. Lawton," I said, quickly, " I've come to ask you

for your consent to my marriage with your daughter

lu"

No tell-tale expression crossed his face as he put down

urlass. Indeed, his voice was almost cordial as he

replied :

dear fellow, we diseussed that two years ago.
know what I said."

. but. things have changed. I am getting on "

" It's not that, you know that perfectly well."
" It makes a difference."

41 > , you know that had nothing to do with

my i

A stream of rhetoric burst from my lips. I begged him

lei that time wa \ that we loved each

other, that his objections had once been well-founded,

388 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

but that I had become a naturalised Englishman, had
acquired the habits, the standards of an Englishman.

" Now don't I behave like an Englishman ? " I asked.

" You've become more English, but you're not English."

I went over the whole field, asked him to acknowledge
that my hair was short, that my clothes were perfectly
unobtrusive; begged to be told whether I was noisy,
boastful "

" You boast about nothing except being an English-
man," said Mr. Lawton, slyly; " and yet you're a French-
man, a Roman Catholic, to the bone."

I went off on the religious question, and we had quite
a spirited little wrangle on the difference between French
and English Roman Catholics when they happened also
to be agnostics. Then I brought the argument back to
its base, and a heavy despair began to stifle me as I
realised that this man had made up his mind in the
English, bullish way, that nothing would move him : I
don't know why an Englishman never moves ; perhaps he
can't.

At last we faced each other, Lawton calm, and I rather
breathless. There was a moment of silence, and I won-
dered whether Edith would stand by me if I threatened
him; she had promised nothing, had merely agreed to
my once more going to her father ; all I could do was to
hope that she would help to carry out my threat.

" So you refuse to let me marry her ? " I said, harshly.

Mr. Lawton looked at me with an air of amazement.

" Refuse ? You did not ask for my consent."

" But — but — " I protested, and I was angry as well as
bewildered by this change of front.

" 1 have no consent to give." And as I stared he went

" Two years ago, or is it two and a half ? you came here
and asked for my leave to marry Edith. I refused, be-
cause it was my duty to refuse. Edith was under age,
and I had to protect her. Now she is twenty-two, she

THE LAST LAP 889

will be twenty-three in April ; the position has changed.
I no longer come in. She must decide for herself."

" Mr. Lawton," I cried, suddenly thrilled, my tongue
thick in my mouth with excitement.

He raised his open hand, and it was the first time I
had ever seen him do anything so histrionic :

" She is free. I neither consent nor refuse. She has
her freedom and she has her responsibility. I will not
interfere, for — it is not my business."

Understanding irradiated my mind. Here was the
Englishman, the beau ideal of his type : his daughter
of age, was free, free to be happy and free to be
ched; the fate of other free individuals was not his
Less. And I wondered whether I loved this sumptu-
ous English freedom or hated its cold aloofness.

" Thank you," I said, unconsciously imitating his
attitude.

He did not reply, but as I turned towards the door, the
sportsman said, detachcdly :

" Don't go yet. Come upstairs and see them ; my wife
Id be sorry to miss you."

CHAPTER IV

AN ENGLISHMAN'S HOME
I

Life has described a circle, as a preliminary, no doubt,
to describing another ; I sit at my knee-hole desk, con-
sider'my regulation silk hat, then gaze awhile through
the window into the misty depths of the trees. Idly I
watch the traffic in Kensington Gore, motor-cars speeding
towards Richmond, Surrey, perhaps the West Country,
ponderous motor-buses advertising English soaps, plays,
oats; andv horses swiftly drawing the broughams of
Englishwomen to Dover or Grafton Street. This is
England, wealthy, easy England. And there is the
immense policeman at the gate of the Gardens ; near him
are two blues from Knightsbridge, who flirt with nurse-
maids in hospital garb. Handsome, well-groomed men,
dainty children, women whose clothes are six months
behind the Paris fashion, pedigree terriers — England.

And in this room, my study, are Morlands on the brown
paper; in the bookcase I read the names of the bigger
books : Macaulay's History of England, the Life of
Disraeli, a massive volume on the Pre-Raphaelites ; I
recognise the novels of Fielding and Thackeray, Bos well's
Life of Johnson ; and a playwright's corner, Beaumont and
Fletcher, Sheridan; there are no French yellow-backs.
On a bracket my well-beloved collection of Lowestoft
china ; on the mantelpiece Liverpool transfer. Comfort-
able chairs are covered with green-leaved black chintz;
a pipe-rack hangs over my piled golf-clubs. The Times
has fallen on the floor, littering the hearthrug, and John,

390

AN ENGLISHMAN'S HOME 391

the bulldog, sleeps with his enormous head pillowed on
the loose sheets ; he snores, and as he sleeps he chokes and
gurgles. He is disgusting, he is delightful. This is
England.

I have not been to the City to-day, but shall drop in
for an hour at four o'clock, when I shall have finished these
memoirs. I must finish them, perhaps to begin them over
again one day, for I have not had the strength or the wish
to extend them over the last five years. Of those years

nothing now ; perhaps I have nothing to say, perhaps

1 obscurely that my alien life ended one morning,
when Edith and I faced each other across the little body
of Fiona as she squirmed in the rough grass. Yes, every-
thing conspires to give me that message. On the stairs
I hear voices raised in shrill protest ; I hear Marmaduke

ouring for sweeties and tiny Edna uttering, for
reasons unknown to me, scream after scream. Then
Edith's voice, very low, very sweet. I wonder why I

I those two " Marmaduke " and " Edna." Oh, yes,
I remember : there are no corresponding French names.

II

me lies a blue paper. Addressed to Lucicn

ton Core, it states that "By

f a Precept of the High Sheriff of the County

I am summoned to appear before His Majesty's

igned to hold the Assizes, there to

a Special Juror. Can it be that the recreant

h-born say "Damn" when they find such a blue

r in the post? It is amazing to me who am thrilled.

thing I may <1<> f«»r my country. With

in to decide the fate of

Englishmen in the stern, bill lofty presence of England's

Sc>f . ghost'lil nlniiniiaid comes in with

392 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

the message that Mrs. Cadoresse would like to have the
car later on if I don't want it. I nod. No Frenchified
familiarities, discussions or pleasantries pass between me
and my servant ; I don't look at her, I am not sure that I
would know her in the street. Yes, I am an Englishman.

Ill

But what of these English, then ? Can they be under-
stood of me at all ? or only felt ? Ten years have gone,
and I seem to see the English only in flashes, as if some
psychic stage-manager made them leap across the stage,
leap so fast that my mental eye could gather of them
nothing but a post -impression.

They leap, the English, all different, all alike ; each one
has his passion or his equally amazing lack of passion, and
yet each one is somehow brother to his fellow. Let me
close my eyes, look at you one by one, as if you were
bacteria wriggling under a lens.

Here is Hugh Lawton, my brother-in-law. You play
a good hand at bridge, but you are not too good to be
mistaken for a sharper ; your golf handicap is six : you
will never be a plus man; you do not belong to the
Athenaeum, nor to an obscure club in a back yard of St.
James's. You are a fair average. You have married a
pretty woman, not a beauty, and, of course, you have
three children : it would be impossible to imagine you
with either none or fourteen. You are a moderate Liberal
—did you ever dream of Empire or of Socialism, once upon
a time? And now that you have told me so much, tell
me what is your passion. What ! you don't know. No,
I don't suppose you do : Hugh, you are not alive, you are
merely there — and yet you have life as has that queer
little animal which lives at the bottom of the sea, alive on
its mineral stalk. You are for the Broad Church, the
constitutional State, the "good" novels, the vote for

AN ENGLISHMAN'S HOME 393

women householders ; you maintain, and some things you

tolerate — you will tolerate the intolerable when it is

established. For you are an Englishman; you want to

be neither too unhappy, for that is unpleasant, nor too

happy, for that is sinful; you want to earn enough

money, play your games, peacefully love your wife,

educate your children as yourself, work just hard enough

ant to play just hard enough and to sleep well, not too

ily, until you surrender your soul for the eternal rest.

You are in the middle; you are not among the very

good, not among the very bad; you and your million

brothers, you are always in the middle, and England —

is it because England is always in the middle that England

is the centre of the world ?

Yet, all of you, you are not like that. Here is Edward
Kent, an elegant figure, a Regency wit in a morning coat.
Are you England ? or only donnish Cambridge ? What
are these affectations of yours? What makes you say
M What race ? " when, on the greatest occasion of the year,
some girl decked out in light or dark blue ribbons tells
you that it's a fine day for the race ? -Kent, your revolt
list England is allegiance to England; your French
Is, your unashamed desire to shine in public, your
trim hands, your dislike of sport, all these are revolts you
are trying to engineer against the England that has got
will never loose you, that will force you to do
■ t t liing on a battlefield if you are dragged there,
: t, if you get so far. I do not think
get into Court, for you will never want any
in badly enough to suffer because you take her,
ii you; like birth and religion it is not
the kind of thing a gentleman should meddle with, for it
involves complications, you know, the problem-play corn-
so sordid, unnecessary, so un]
Luxurious Kent, you would ring for
your pyj rtland gaol, but you wouldn't be

394 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

luxurious if you Acre not trying not to be coarse —
English.

Others, Mr. Lawton, Under-Secretary of State, im-
possible to corrupt (save perhaps with a peerage by-and-
by); Colonel Raleigh, soldier, who believes in efficiency
and making Lord Kitchener Governor of every British
Colony. Gallant Colonel, you made Yorkshire smile last
year when you, a J.P., were caught in a quiet assembly

where cocks were fighting a main. . . . Dicky Bell I

like your round face, your short nose and bright eyes, your
devotion to the little slum boys whom you still drill. You
have some ideas of education. Games and classics, you
say, have gone too far in our country, but you're not going
to do away with them. And many more, the acute and
the dull, Stanley, Neville, pretty Muriel and her sapper,
Farr the abominable, old Purkis, the young Liberals of
Hambury, Mrs. Lawton, enjoying a quiet life between an
at home, a dinner and the supper that follows on the play,
the eighty-seven clerks of Stanley, Cadoresse & Co., and
all the others whose nameless faces crowd round me, what
are you doing ?

Living. That is enough. Asking no more. Just
wanting to keep the blinds down so that life may be
decently obscured.

England is busily engaged in not pulling the blinds up.

Living cleanly, without worrying about what will
happen next. You'd die well, most of you, if it came to
that : it's a good deal.

I love you, oh, not blindly as in Edwardian days. I
know you're not so nimble as the French, and that you
enjoy shooting ideas as much as you enjoy shooting
grouse. But I love your calmness in the presence of life;
I love your neutrality, your unobtrusive courage, your
economy of emotion, and the immense, sane generosity
of you. To the stranger within your gates you give bread,
and you give him your kindly heart too. Only the

AX ENGLISHMAN'S HOME 395

stranger makes you shy if he lets you see that he knows
that. You are the dignity, the solidity of the world.
The French are its passion, you are its reason ; you are
the bearers of restfulness.

Englishmen, when I want to think of you all together
I think of Falstaff. You have lost most of his gaiety,
you no longer dance round the maypole of Merrie England ;
oppressed by cares and expenditures you stand aloof from
democracy and no longer respect aristocracy ; your rich
men cannot sit in the banqueting-hall where he rioted,
for it is tumbling about their ears. But the root of you
is Falstaflian : the poetic idealism of the Fat Knight still

re in your sons, his philosophic acceptance of good
and evil radiates out from the midst of you. The broad

mces of England, her taste for liberty and ease, her
occasional bluster and her boundless conceit, they are

.iff.
Falstaff embodies all that is gross in England and much
that is fine ; his cowardice, his craft, his habit of flattery
are no more English than they are Chinese : they are

ly human. But the outer Falstaff is English, the

ss root of him yet more English, for you hate the law,

obey it only because you make it in such wise as not

you. And he is your soul ; he is the Englishman

who conquered every shore and, a Bible in his hand, planted

among the savages ; he is the unsteady boy who

ran away to sea, the privateers man who fought the

ch and the Dutch; he is the cheerful, greedy, dull

Englishman, who is so wonderfully stupid

and so wonderfully full of common-sense. Falstaff was

r curbed by adversity : no more was the English
. like hin tin and too optimistic, too

rially bounded by its immediate Falstaff,

are the gigantic ancestor of I nerchanta

and soldiers who have conquered and held fields where

:■ floated the lilies of t] h or the castles of the

396 THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN

Portuguese. Too dull to be beaten and too big to be
moved, you were the Englishman.

IV

That is all I have to say, for I am born anew, and all m>
life lies before me, the past effaced. EnglancT has taken
me in her strong, warm arms, and I have pressed my face
to her broad bosom. Big, strong heart, I hear you beat ;
there come sorrow, famine, pestilence, and you beat no
slower ; and now fame and victory, there is no hurry in
your throbbing. Fold me close to you, woman with the
golden helmet, and hold your trident ready to keep danger
at bay : I was not the child of your body, let me be the
child of your heart, because I love you, my

I hear a soft footfall behind me, then a low voice :

44 Am I disturbing you ? "

I turn, and for a moment consider the young face,
unmarked of the fleeting years, the smiling, rosy mouth,
the gentle blue eyes. I clasp the slim, white hand, draw
towards me the form that so gladly yields. Edith sits
across my knees, laughs low as I kiss her neck.

44 Have you much more to write ? " she asks, at length.

" No," I murmur, " only one word."

" Let me write it," says Edith, and there is in her eyes
an appeal with which mingles security.

I whisper into her ear as she takes the pen : " . . . be-
cause I love you, my. . . ." Her left hand still in mine,
she bends forward, and I can see nothing save the pale
gold tendrils on her neck as she writes the last word •

44 . . . England."

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