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Chapter 5

The rashest drivers in the world are, certainly, the drivers of postoffice vans. Swinging down Lambs Conduit Street, the scarlet van rounded the corner by the pillar box in such a way as to graze the kerb and make the little girl who was standing on tiptoe to post a letter look up, half frightened, half curious. She paused with her hand in the mouth of the box; then dropped her letter and ran away. It is seldom only that we see a child on tiptoe with pitymore often a dim discomfort, a grain of sand in the shoe which its scarcely worth while to removethats our feeling, and soJacob turned to the bookcase.

Long ago great people lived here, and coming back from Court past midnight stood, huddling their satin skirts, under the carved doorposts while the footman roused himself from his mattress on the floor, hurriedly fastened the lower buttons of his waistcoat, and let them in. The bitter eighteenthcentury rain rushed down the kennel. Southampton Row, however, is chiefly remarkable nowadays for the fact that you will always find a man there trying to sell a tortoise to a tailor. Showing off the tweed, sir; what the gentry wants is something singular to catch the eye, sirand clean in their habits, sir! So they display their tortoises.

At Mudies corner in Oxford Street all the red and blue beads had run together on the string. The motor omnibuses were locked. Mr. Spalding going to the city looked at Mr. Charles Budgeon bound for Shepherds Bush. The proximity of the omnibuses gave the outside passengers an opportunity to stare into each others faces. Yet few took advantage of it. Each had his own business to think of. Each had his past shut in him like the leaves of a book known to him by heart; and his friends could only read the title, James Spalding, or Charles Budgeon, and the passengers going the opposite way could read nothing at allsave a man with a red moustache, a young man in grey smoking a pipe. The October sunlight rested upon all these men and women sitting immobile; and little Johnnie Sturgeon took the chance to swing down the staircase, carrying his large mysterious parcel, and so dodging a zigzag course between the wheels he reached the pavement, started to whistle a tune and was soon out of sightfor ever. The omnibuses jerked on, and every single person felt relief at being a little nearer to his journeys end, though some cajoled themselves past the immediate engagement by promise of indulgence beyondsteak and kidney pudding, drink or a game of dominoes in the smoky corner of a city restaurant. Oh yes, human life is very tolerable on the top of an omnibus in Holborn, when the policeman holds up his arm and the sun beats on your back, and if there is such a thing as a shell secreted by man to fit man himself here we find it, on the banks of the Thames, where the great streets join and St. Pauls Cathedral, like the volute on the top of the snail shell, finishes it off. Jacob, getting off his omnibus, loitered up the steps, consulted his watch, and finally made up his mind to go in. ... Does it need an effort? Yes. These changes of mood wear us out.

Dim it is, haunted by ghosts of white marble, to whom the organ for ever chaunts. If a boot creaks, its awful; then the order; the discipline. The verger with his rod has life ironed out beneath him. Sweet and holy are the angelic choristers. And for ever round the marble shoulders, in and out of the folded fingers, go the thin high sounds of voice and organ. For ever requiemrepose. Tired with scrubbing the steps of the Prudential Societys office, which she did year in year out, Mrs. Lidgett took her seat beneath the great Dukes tomb, folded her hands, and half closed her eyes. A magnificent place for an old woman to rest in, by the very side of the great Dukes bones, whose victories mean nothing to her, whose name she knows not, though she never fails to greet the little angels opposite, as she passes out, wishing the like on her own tomb, for the leathern curtain of the heart has flapped wide, and out steal on tiptoe thoughts of rest, sweet melodies. ... Old Spicer, jute merchant, thought nothing of the kind though. Strangely enough hed never been in St. Pauls these fifty years, though his office windows looked on the churchyard. So thats all? Well, a gloomy old place. ... Wheres Nelsons tomb? No time nowcome againa coin to leave in the box. ... Rain or fine is it? Well, if it would only make up its mind! Idly the children stray inthe verger dissuades themand another and another ... man, woman, man, woman, boy ... casting their eyes up, pursing their lips, the same shadow brushing the same faces; the leathern curtain of the heart flaps wide.

Nothing could appear more certain from the steps of St. Pauls than that each person is miraculously provided with coat, skirt, and boots; an income; an object. Only Jacob, carrying in his hand Finlays Byzantine Empire, which he had bought in Ludgate Hill, looked a little different; for in his hand he carried a book, which book he would at ninethirty precisely, by his own fireside, open and study, as no one else of all these multitudes would do. They have no houses. The streets belong to them; the shops; the churches; theirs the innumerable desks; the stretched office lights; the vans are theirs, and the railway slung high above the street. If you look closer you will see that three elderly men at a little distance from each other run spiders along the pavement as if the street were their parlour, and here, against the wall, a woman stares at nothing, bootlaces extended, which she does not ask you to buy. The posters are theirs too; and the news on them. A town destroyed; a race won. A homeless people, circling beneath the sky whose blue or white is held off by a ceiling cloth of steel filings and horse dung shredded to dust.

There, under the green shade, with his head bent over white paper, Mr. Sibley transferred figures to folios, and upon each desk you observe, like provender, a bunch of papers, the days nutriment, slowly consumed by the industrious pen. Innumerable overcoats of the quality prescribed hung empty all day in the corridors, but as the clock struck six each was exactly filled, and the little figures, split apart into trousers or moulded into a single thickness, jerked rapidly with angular forward motion along the pavement; then dropped into darkness. Beneath the pavement, sunk in the earth, hollow drains lined with yellow light for ever conveyed them this way and that, and large letters upon enamel plates represented in the underworld the parks, squares, and circuses of the upper. Marble ArchShepherds Bushto the majority the Arch and the Bush are eternally white letters upon a blue ground. Only at one pointit may be Acton, Holloway, Kensal Rise, Caledonian Roaddoes the name mean shops where you buy things, and houses, in one of which, down to the right, where the pollard trees grow out of the paving stones, there is a square curtained window, and a bedroom.

Long past sunset an old blind woman sat on a campstool with her back to the stone wall of the Union of London and Smiths Bank, clasping a brown mongrel tight in her arms and singing out loud, not for coppers, no, from the depths of her gay wild hearther sinful, tanned heartfor the child who fetches her is the fruit of sin, and should have been in bed, curtained, asleep, instead of hearing in the lamplight her mothers wild song, where she sits against the Bank, singing not for coppers, with her dog against her breast.

Home they went. The grey church spires received them; the hoary city, old, sinful, and majestic. One behind another, round or pointed, piercing the sky or massing themselves, like sailing ships, like granite cliffs, spires and offices, wharves and factories crowd the bank; eternally the pilgrims trudge; barges rest in mid stream heavy laden; as some believe, the city loves her prostitutes.

But few, it seems, are admitted to that degree. Of all the carriages that leave the arch of the Opera House, not one turns eastward, and when the little thief is caught in the empty marketplace no one in blackandwhite or rosecoloured evening dress blocks the way by pausing with a hand upon the carriage door to help or condemnthough Lady Charles, to do her justice, sighs sadly as she ascends her staircase, takes down Thomas a Kempis, and does not sleep till her mind has lost itself tunnelling into the complexity of things. Why? Why? Why? she sighs. On the whole its best to walk back from the Opera House. Fatigue is the safest sleeping draught.

The autumn season was in full swing. Tristan was twitching his rug up under his armpits twice a week; Isolde waved her scarf in miraculous sympathy with the conductors baton. In all parts of the house were to be found pink faces and glittering breasts. When a Royal hand attached to an invisible body slipped out and withdrew the red and white bouquet reposing on the scarlet ledge, the Queen of England seemed a name worth dying for. Beauty, in its hothouse variety (which is none of the worst), flowered in box after box; and though nothing was said of profound importance, and though it is generally agreed that wit deserted beautiful lips about the time that Walpole diedat any rate when Victoria in her nightgown descended to meet her ministers, the lips (through an opera glass) remained red, adorable. Bald distinguished men with goldheaded canes strolled down the crimson avenues between the stalls, and only broke from intercourse with the boxes when the lights went down, and the conductor, first bowing to the Queen, next to the baldheaded men, swept round on his feet and raised his wand.

Then two thousand hearts in the semidarkness remembered, anticipated, travelled dark labyrinths; and Clara Durrant said farewell to Jacob Flanders, and tasted the sweetness of death in effigy; and Mrs. Durrant, sitting behind her in the dark of the box, sighed her sharp sigh; and Mr. Wortley, shifting his position behind the Italian Ambassadors wife, thought that Brangaena was a trifle hoarse; and suspended in the gallery many feet above their heads, Edward Whittaker surreptitiously held a torch to his miniature score; and ... and ...

In short, the observer is choked with observations. Only to prevent us from being submerged by chaos, nature and society between them have arranged a system of classification which is simplicity itself; stalls, boxes, amphitheatre, gallery. The moulds are filled nightly. There is no need to distinguish details. But the difficulty remainsone has to choose. For though I have no wish to be Queen of England or only for a momentI would willingly sit beside her; I would hear the Prime Ministers gossip; the countess whisper, and share her memories of halls and gardens; the massive fronts of the respectable conceal after all their secret code; or why so impermeable? And then, doffing ones own headpiece, how strange to assume for a moment some onesany onesto be a man of valour who has ruled the Empire; to refer while Brangaena sings to the fragments of Sophocles, or see in a flash, as the shepherd pipes his tune, bridges and aqueducts. But nowe must choose. Never was there a harsher necessity! or one which entails greater pain, more certain disaster; for wherever I seat myself, I die in exile: Whittaker in his lodginghouse; Lady Charles at the Manor.

A young man with a Wellington nose, who had occupied a sevenandsixpenny seat, made his way down the stone stairs when the opera ended, as if he were still set a little apart from his fellows by the influence of the music.

At midnight Jacob Flanders heard a rap on his door.

By Jove! he exclaimed. Youre the very man I want! and without more ado they discovered the lines which he had been seeking all day; only they come not in Virgil, but in Lucretius.

Yes; that should make him sit up, said Bonamy, as Jacob stopped reading. Jacob was excited. It was the first time he had read his essay aloud.

Damned swine! he said, rather too extravagantly; but the praise had gone to his head. Professor Bulteel, of Leeds, had issued an edition of Wycherley without stating that he had left out, disembowelled, or indicated only by asterisks, several indecent words and some indecent phrases. An outrage, Jacob said; a breach of faith; sheer prudery; token of a lewd mind and a disgusting nature. Aristophanes and Shakespeare were cited. Modern life was repudiated. Great play was made with the professional title, and Leeds as a seat of learning was laughed to scorn. And the extraordinary thing was that these young men were perfectly rightextraordinary, because, even as Jacob copied his pages, he knew that no one would ever print them; and sure enough back they came from the Fortnightly, the Contemporary, the Nineteenth Centurywhen Jacob threw them into the black wooden box where he kept his mothers letters, his old flannel trousers, and a note or two with the Cornish postmark. The lid shut upon the truth.

This black wooden box, upon which his name was still legible in white paint, stood between the long windows of the sittingroom. The street ran beneath. No doubt the bedroom was behind. The furniturethree wicker chairs and a gatelegged tablecame from Cambridge. These houses (Mrs. Garfits daughter, Mrs. Whitehorn, was the landlady of this one) were built, say, a hundred and fifty years ago. The rooms are shapely, the ceilings high; over the doorway a rose, or a rams skull, is carved in the wood. The eighteenth century has its distinction. Even the panels, painted in raspberrycoloured paint, have their distinction. ...

DistinctionMrs. Durrant said that Jacob Flanders was distinguishedlooking. Extremely awkward, she said, but so distinguishedlooking. Seeing him for the first time that no doubt is the word for him. Lying back in his chair, taking his pipe from his lips, and saying to Bonamy: About this opera now (for they had done with indecency). This fellow Wagner ... distinction was one of the words to use naturally, though, from looking at him, one would have found it difficult to say which seat in the opera house was his, stalls, gallery, or dress circle. A writer? He lacked selfconsciousness. A painter? There was something in the shape of his hands (he was descended on his mothers side from a family of the greatest antiquity and deepest obscurity) which indicated taste. Then his mouthbut surely, of all futile occupations this of cataloguing features is the worst. One word is sufficient. But if one cannot find it?

I like Jacob Flanders, wrote Clara Durrant in her diary. He is so unworldly. He gives himself no airs, and one can say what one likes to him, though hes frightening because ... But Mr. Letts allows little space in his shilling diaries. Clara was not the one to encroach upon Wednesday. Humblest, most candid of women! No, no, no, she sighed, standing at the greenhouse door, dont breakdont spoilwhat? Something infinitely wonderful.

But then, this is only a young womans language, one, too, who loves, or refrains from loving. She wished the moment to continue for ever precisely as it was that July morning. And moments dont. Now, for instance, Jacob was telling a story about some walking tour hed taken, and the inn was called The Foaming Pot, which, considering the landladys name ... They shouted with laughter. The joke was indecent.

Then Julia Eliot said the silent young man, and as she dined with Prime Ministers, no doubt she meant: If he is going to get on in the world, he will have to find his tongue.

Timothy Durrant never made any comment at all.

The housemaid found herself very liberally rewarded.

Mr. Sopwiths opinion was as sentimental as Claras, though far more skilfully expressed.

Betty Flanders was romantic about Archer and tender about John; she was unreasonably irritated by Jacobs clumsiness in the house.

Captain Barfoot liked him best of the boys; but as for saying why ...

It seems then that men and women are equally at fault. It seems that a profound, impartial, and absolutely just opinion of our fellowcreatures is utterly unknown. Either we are men, or we are women. Either we are cold, or we are sentimental. Either we are young, or growing old. In any case life is but a procession of shadows, and God knows why it is that we embrace them so eagerly, and see them depart with such anguish, being shadows. And why, if thisand much more than this is true, why are we yet surprised in the window corner by a sudden vision that the young man in the chair is of all things in the world the most real, the most solid, the best known to uswhy indeed? For the moment after we know nothing about him.

Such is the manner of our seeing. Such the conditions of our love.

(Im twentytwo. Its nearly the end of October. Life is thoroughly pleasant, although unfortunately there are a great number of fools about. One must apply oneself to something or otherGod knows what. Everything is really very jollyexcept getting up in the morning and wearing a tail coat.)

I say, Bonamy, what about Beethoven?

(Bonamy is an amazing fellow. He knows practically everythingnot more about English literature than I dobut then hes read all those Frenchmen.)

I rather suspect youre talking rot, Bonamy. In spite of what you say, poor old Tennyson. ...

(The truth is one ought to have been taught French. Now, I suppose, old Barfoot is talking to my mother. Thats an odd affair to be sure. But I cant see Bonamy down there. Damn London!) for the market carts were lumbering down the street.

What about a walk on Saturday?

(Whats happening on Saturday?)

Then, taking out his pocketbook, he assured himself that the night of the Durrants party came next week.

But though all this may very well be trueso Jacob thought and spokeso he crossed his legsfilled his pipesipped his whisky, and once looked at his pocketbook, rumpling his hair as he did so, there remains over something which can never be conveyed to a second person save by Jacob himself. Moreover, part of this is not Jacob but Richard Bonamythe room; the market carts; the hour; the very moment of history. Then consider the effect of sexhow between man and woman it hangs wavy, tremulous, so that heres a valley, theres a peak, when in truth, perhaps, alls as flat as my hand. Even the exact words get the wrong accent on them. But something is always impelling one to hum vibrating, like the hawk moth, at the mouth of the cavern of mystery, endowing Jacob Flanders with all sorts of qualities he had not at allfor though, certainly, he sat talking to Bonamy, half of what he said was too dull to repeat; much unintelligible (about unknown people and Parliament); what remains is mostly a matter of guess work. Yet over him we hang vibrating.

Yes, said Captain Barfoot, knocking out his pipe on Betty Flanderss hob, and buttoning his coat. It doubles the work, but I dont mind that.

He was now town councillor. They looked at the night, which was the same as the London night, only a good deal more transparent. Church bells down in the town were striking eleven oclock. The wind was off the sea. And all the bedroom windows were darkthe Pages were asleep; the Garfits were asleep; the Cranches were asleepwhereas in London at this hour they were burning Guy Fawkes on Parliament Hill.