Twopence Coloured (23 page)

This was at the Miniature Theatre in John Street, and her
part was that of a maid. This maid opened the play by behaving briskly with a feather mop and a manservant, whose attentions nauseated her. This maid was called Celestine. The plot of this play revealed the self-immolations of a happily married ex-courtesan intent upon placing her son at Sandhurst — military colleges standing for the highest ideals recognized by this play. It ran for two weeks. It was called “The Greater Love,” and the leading part was taken by the far-famed Miss Annette Brill, who had touched her heights between 1901 and 1905 and was now fifty-one years of age. Her method of acting was to punch her nose incessantly with a sodden handkerchief, emit dangerous gurgling noises from an inexhaustible chest, and to fling herself on the floor at the end of acts. She was, indeed, one of the most Handkerchiefy actresses in London, and reputed for these orgies.

The rest of the company were not very distinguished. There were one or two elderly women; there was one of those fair-headed young Scotsmen who spread their
pantingly
earnest incompetence over the London stage; there was a furtive little dark person with curly hair and spectacles who was said to have won prizes for Greek at Oxford; and there was an engaging, untidy, bow-tied young man of short stature but attractive countenance, who edited a musical periodical and had written a life of Mozart. With respect to Greek Prizes, however, the state of mind wrought by them prohibited the wearing of a hat in the street (as it also
prohibited
friendly human discourse), but it did not prohibit the habit of creeping up behind you as you read a book in a corner, jerking a lightning nose over your taste in
literature
and retiring with an amused and ineffable expression. And a Life of Mozart had similar social drawbacks, being very affable and courteous until it got you in a dark taxi, when it commenced to handle your knees in an off-hand but experienced manner until rebuffed. Jackie’s favourite was the young Scotsman, who read the most refreshingly
innocent
double meanings into everything she said, and would have fallen head over heels in love with her had he not been
scared out of his wits by the appearance of Richard, at which he at once gave her a book of poems and retired.

The epithet for the play employed by the company was Bloody, but “Annette” was said to be “perfect.” The Life of Mozart alone rejected this view. He maintained that the latter was, if possible, the bloodier of the two. But this young man had a bristlingly independent type of mind, and abhorred Miss Brill for having taken exception (through the stage-manager) to his whiskers.

Immediately after this, and again through Richard’s
influence
, Jackie got a job in a sketch for two weeks at the Coliseum. She got five pounds a week for this (her highest yet), and struck up, during the short time she had there, a pleasant acquaintanceship with a gentleman who earned his living by growing any amount of inches while you waited. It became clear, in fact, that Jackie, if she played her cards right, could put herself in a position where she could have one by her who, for the rest of her life, would privately increase or diminish at any time of the day and at her lightest whim. And such a thing was not be sneered at. But feeling that this phenomenal and charming feat did not truly touch the essentials of life, in the way that, for instance, Richard’s attributes did, she repulsed (not without difficulty) his attentions.

And after this Jackie got a one-line part as the daughter of a Duchess at Ascot in a Drury Lane drama — a part which she doubled with a Mill Lass and a waitress and a passenger in a train, and which she found very hard work: and after this she went out for a sixteen weeks’ tour with the No. 1 company of “Barney” — the successful play of the successful novel, which had, in its ten years of existence, reached the status of an institution in touring circles. Here she was amongst, for the most part, rather aged permanent exiles from Town, who had their own recognition in the provinces and were perfectly content in that. They were homely creatures, who lent her a great number of books, took pride in their learning, and involved her in endless circular train discussions upon Spiritualism, Higher Thought, a fourth
dimension, or Christian Science. Each one of them harboured a self-defensive belief in being the most unique character in the theatre, and they buoyed themselves up with that Sense of Humour which they did, to a much too self-conscious extent, possess.

Jackie had procured a certain amount of friends during this time — enough, at any rate, to bring her in an average half-dozen wires on her first nights. Her most persistent acquaintance, however, had been Mr. Merril Marsden. This gentleman continued to invite her to luncheon debates upon himself — the topic absorbing them more than ever, and reaching various crises which served to maintain the
excitement
. He would allow, for instance, at moments of apparent divergence from their academic conceptions, that he was, after all, a Strange Man in Many Respects, and such a
confession
was not to be taken lightly. The air surrounding them became sinister with his mystery. There were also, he was beginning to discover, Odd Streaks of Anger in his Character, which Needed Watching. The air shuddered in apprehension. There was, however, a Queer Strain of Pure Nobility in his soul, the existence of which could not be denied, though it was, perhaps, Common to the rest of his Fellows. Jackie, in reply, had to throw great weight on her
Perhaps
. Mr. Marsden’s pasty features vaguely glowed with a positive Red Indianness of pure nobility, as you watched them.

Jackie sometimes experienced, of course, a certain tedium in all this, but the lunches themselves were pretty all right. For it was by now a stale axiom that whatever Else you Accused Mr. Marsden of (and he quite invited you to accuse him of things, if only for the sake of debate), you could not Accuse him of Not Knowing how to Dine. This was proved, if not actually by his choice of food and wines, at least by his manner in the restaurant. Which manner involved the intermittent and testy mutterings of French interjections immediately on entering, the utter rejection of at least two dishes, a slight confusion of himself with Voltaire, and the continually reiterated and swaggering asseveration that he would certainly have to End Up by Marrying his Cook. The
Irony of such a consummation, he said, Appealed to him Irresistibly.

Unfortunately, towards the end of this period, his paternal instincts towards Jackie assumed a heavier form, and he began to feel in Many Ways Responsible for her…. Also things began to be Not his Business, which was a bad sign. He said that he had No Business, for instance, to make any inquiries about a certain person, whom he would not mention, but whose name he had heard Connected with hers. But People, he said, were beginning to say things. Jackie was aware, he hoped, of the very shocking scandals attaching to the individual in question. He did not profess to know
anything
about it, but he trusted that Jackie was not involving herself. He personally disliked and distrusted her friend. He (Mr. Marsden) was a man (thank God) of the utmost tolerance and forgiveness for the shortcomings of mankind, but there did happen to be Things. It was the habit of Mr. Marsden occasionally to state, with overbearing reticence and sanctity, that there happened to be things. Things were a nasty subject to tackle Mr. Marsden upon. There were Things, for instance, which necessitated Horsewhips, which Mr. Marsden was quite capable of Going Down with. (A person always went Down, never Up, with Horsewhips — crashing into bestial depths from an implicit moral eminence.) One could almost sense a distant flick in Mr. Marsden’s warnings against Richard.

In such a way did this long period pass for Jackie, and she came out of it a wiser, and more jaded, and less happy young woman.

J
ACKIE had seen a great deal of Richard, and they had not been altogether unhappy. At the end of the first year, indeed, their hopes had run high; but after that they had suffered shame and humiliation.

The humiliation of Richard was complete. He made, in all, five trips to Paris, each time returning with renewed
optimism
which was each time destroyed by imbecilic
communication
from one who, having no longer any mind (and scarcely any memory) of her own, was prepared to defer to Richard in person, but to awake to resentment of his demands in his absence. He told Jackie as little as possible about these negotiations, and she asked little. She had a certain cold hatred for the cause of her own unhappiness — a hatred which developed into a more lively loathing, and something akin to fear, when she learnt that that individual had come to London. But she was only in London three weeks, and the feeling passed. A twenty-four-year-old Jackie, who was allowed to read some of her letters, was struck in a curious way by the references to herself as “this woman.” After his fifth visit to Paris, Richard definitely gave up hope. Jackie, however, at this time, was away on her tour with “Barney,” and it was not until some months later that they came to their decision.

This was brought about, curiously enough, by another letter from France, which again made them hopeful. It was too much for them. They could bear the burden of
resignation
, but they found that they could no longer bear the burden of optimism; and the things happened, very simply one night, in the Garrick Theatre.

It was their habit to go to the theatre when in London
together: they found a kind of communion in sitting together at the back row of the stalls, and very often, in the darkness, they held each other’s hand.

It was in the middle of the second act. They were both gazing at the stage, and they both appeared to be very
interested
in the play. But her remark was the most natural one in the world. It sprang as inevitably from the wearied thoughts of both of them as if they had been actually conversing.

“Oh, do take me away somewhere, Richard‚” she said, and looked at him wretchedly.

He did not answer her at first, but stared at the stage with his arms folded. Then “All right,” he said. “I will.”

A roar of laughter burst out in the auditorium as he said this, but they had no consciousness of it.

“I mean we can’t go on,” whispered Jackie. “Can we?”

“No,” he said. “We can’t.”

It was decided. Three minutes later she found his hand. They watched the play.

He found rooms in a little crescent not far from the
Edgware
Road, and they went in at five o’clock on a Friday afternoon. It was the month of February, and it was raining.

It must not be thought that Jackie and Richard did this under the influence of any emotion. Their behaviour was entirely mechanical. They experienced no love for each other whatever at the time. They merely acted soberly and
logically
upon the recorded and indisputable fact that they adored each other. Less might a commander, in the height of battle, revert to the ethics of his war, than they should now indulge in that adoration. The actual sensations they had were of a quite different nature.

It would have been all right if it had not rained, and it would have been all right if Richard had not, in an odd (and rather unimaginative) way, attempted to celebrate the
occasion
. He was, for instance, visited by the freakish idea that they should go to the Metropolitan music-hall in the
Edgware
Road. This was within walking distance, and when they had unpacked, he said, they could go along there for the first performance, and then come back to supper in their rooms. He wanted to do this, he said, because it was at this theatre that he had played his first part…. There were moments when Jackie thought that Richard had gone a little mad this evening….

Their unpacking was not a very agreeable operation — smash in and pull out drawers as they might, and call to each other from gay distances, and comment most favourably upon the desirability and suitability (nay, delectability) of their rooms. “Jolly lucky to have got them,” said Richard. “We couldn’t really have done much better.” And “No,” said Jackie, “I don’t know how you found them, Richard.” “Ah — the man’s a marvel,” he replied…. There was something misplaced and awkward in this trite retort, and they both knew it. They were silent.

And then their first amiable passages with their very amiable landlady were not very much more agreeable, either. Jackie did not quite know what to think when she heard herself being called “Mrs. Gissing” and “my wife.” She would not let herself shudder at the callous perpetration of this subterfuge, but she wanted to. She felt for a moment that all her love had been destroyed, that it could not ever bear this contact with reality…. And as the night fell, in the rain outside, she wondered whether she would ever come to hate Richard….

And when, a little later, they left the house together, quietly arm in arm, she was even more depressed. The combination of “Mrs. Gissing,” “my wife,” with this quiet walking out together into a hushed and disinterested street, was too much for her altogether. She could not properly analyse her emotion, but she thought it was partly shame and partly embarrassment at the serene and undramatic ease with which they had accomplished their desires. She felt all the distress of one receiving an over-emphatic apology…. She wanted to apologize herself, but was unable to do so…. Nobody was complaining.

And when they reached the Metropolitan, and were seated in the fifth row of the stalls, the slight sense of reassurance wrought by contact with the crowd soon wore off. And there, amid the clash of the band and the cries and gesticulations of third-rate, over-painted performers, and with all the terrors and mysteries of the evening before her, Jackie hardly knew what to do with herself. Fancy watching a daubed juggler, flicking up balls and cigars and top-hats, to soft music, on one’s bridal night!

They came out before the last turn, and found it raining. And they could not find a taxi, and they decided to walk it. They had not a word for each other on the way, though she held his arm…. She would never have believed that Richard could have made such a mess of things….

But it was not until they had reached their rooms again that she realized what a mess Richard truly had, after all, made of things. For in their sitting-room, on their chilly return, the table was set for two. And on the table, in the green light of the gas, were all manner of delightful cold foods (which he must have purchased himself) and two bottles of champagne. And she had to be surprised! And after they had removed their things, and washed, they came down into this sitting-room, and, still with very few words for each other, faced their meal.

It was the champagne which hurt her the most. The banality of that champagne! The banality and inadequacy of those two bottles, standing with a perky air of celebration, upon the table! And his perfect consciousness of their banality, as he strained at the cork, smiling weakly under her forced approving looks! She was so ashamed for his foolishness she could hardly look at him — let alone talk.

And then the meal. The cheerful criticism of the dishes — the making of the salad — the demanding and the passing of the condiments — the friendly, munching, how-are-
you-getting
-on atmosphere. And the first sip of the champagne. He lifted his glass first, and she accidentally caught his eyes, and lifted hers. They were caught. “Well, Jackie ——” he said, and they smiled. It was a grim smiling, and a grim
toast, and it was a grotesque meal. They were without conversation.

It was half an hour before Jackie began to cry, and she had no knowledge why she began. It happened after another visit from their most amiable landlady, who stayed quite five minutes to chat. She went on to the sofa, and it seemed as though she would never desist. Nothing he or she could do would stop it. It was like a sudden added calamity fallen from the skies. It lasted for a clear half-hour, breaking out again when they thought it had stopped, and playing the devil with them. “Shall I take you back, Jackie dear?” he pleaded. “Let me take you back.” But she repulsed him. She repulsed everything he said as being foolish and irrelevant.

*

But after a while she found herself in his arms, with her head on his breast. And it was quite a happy evening after that.

Not exactly happy, but they found a lot to say, and a lot to do. They exchanged photographs, among other things, running upstairs to hunt in their trunks for them, and coming down again, to the fire, and being warm and jolly before it. And on his photograph he wrote “For my dear wife‚” and stuck it on the mantelpiece, and then they held each other and wondered what she could write on hers.

And there was a lot of talk as to what she was to write, and they couldn’t come to any conclusion. But at last she took the pencil and scribbled on the back.

“To dear, dear Richard,” she scribbled, “from his
mistress
.”

And he did not want her to say that, but she said she wanted to: and very soon she was in his arms again, and weeping.

A curious, nervous evening. Even the landlady, passing their door, and hearing one or two noises, herself felt
unaccountably
nervous.