A Child of the Age (Adams)/Chapter 11
III
On my way to London, I sketched out something like a plan of action for what I should do when I got there. The first thing, I thought, was the mastering of Mr. Brooke's business affairs,—all (I meant) that was connected with his property and money: the next thing, the editing of the book. I had determined to take as much of the income of one year as would keep me in comfort while I was engaged upon my work for him. Starkie had given me a letter of introduction to Professor Strachan, who would assist me, or rather, who would be assisted by me. Doubtless, after the first few weeks, I should be able to find time to set about the recovery of my books and clothes from Glastonbury, Also, to see Rosy. Also, to meditate as to what I should do when the time of my work for Mr. Brooke was over.
I had a certain amount of trouble about the business affairs, despite both what Starkie had already done to save me from as much of it as possible, and the extreme courtesy, and indeed kindness, of Mr. Brooke's lawyers. Howbeit, at the end of some ten days, I found that it was now time to present the letter of introduction to Professor Strachan.
He received me quite cordially. I had, at a dinner at Mr. Brooke's, seen but not spoken to him, and so he was not altogether a stranger to me: besides which, I had heard a good deal about him from Starkie on our last night together, and he, I could see, was not unacquainted with me. He arranged to come to Dunraven Place the next morning, and we would then proceed to examine the work that was before us.
After we had talked a little on general subjects, he asked me to go up with him and have some tea with Mrs. Strachan in the drawing-room. Up, then, we went and into the drawing-room, where we found three womenkind, one middle-aged and two young, to whom I was presented: Mrs. and the two Miss Strachans. Mrs. Strachan struck me as an ordinary good-looking middle-aged female, and her two daughters as two ordinary pretty young females, clothed with decorous fashionableness and speaking platitudes of the most irreproachable character: or shortly, as three 'ladies.' And, this seeming so, it followed that not even a certain demureness in Miss Connie's face and manner, not unsuggestive of experience in the art of flirting, added to what I subsequently was told was a 'grave sweetness' in Miss Isabel, were enough to entice me out of my shell. It was far more amusing, as it seemed to me, to sit and listen to their silly prattle, which, it was not hard to see, they took for delightful if not brilliant conversation, than to enter into the splashing shallows myself; for, if I had been a talker, I must inevitably have missed over half of the nature-strokes which as a listener I caught. The amusement of hearing Mrs. Strachan and her daughters talk about 'Culture,' while the Professor sat drinking his tea and occasionally throwing in a gibe, which they either did not hear or quite misunderstood, seemed to give me something of an insight into the meaning of the word Comedy. Finally, towards the end of an almost irrepressible fit of amusement, I rose and said good-bye to them, and went away down the stairs and out into the street, hot and a little exhausted. If I had stayed much longer, I thought, I must have shown some sign that perhaps might have offended them, and that would have been to be regretted. And then I was led to think of my last society experiences of three, it seemed years, but it was only weeks ago, till I came to Dunraven Place, when it occurred to me to write to Mother McCarthy about my things at Glastonbury.
Accordingly I wrote: took out my letter and posted it; and went for a walk into the Park, Hyde Park, till seven, when it was time for supper. And after supper came a reading of Esmond, highest Thackerayan art, in the low, red-leathered armchair under the green-shaded lamp; till eleven, dumb-bells, bed and sleep. The next morning Professor Strachan and I began our work.
My Journal takes out a new lease on that evening, (It seems to have given me pleasure, though no great pleasure, I fancy, to record events or conversations, or to deliver some few of my impressions of present people and things in that way. Perhaps there was some small necessity upon me to write these things. I cannot say.)
Here is from a week later:
'We are often almost in despair over the manuscripts. In the first place the writing is fearful. He seems to have thought it quite enough to write the first three or four letters of a word, for the rest is nearly always comprised in a twirl. Now this is aggravating to the son of man. Then, the Journal is broken off by chance notes, and these notes have references to other note-books, and so on. I never was made for editing other people's books. I lack patience, and the worst of it is, that I don't believe that anyone can do anything worth calling thing without patience. The Professor is Job and Griselda put into one.
'After a week's hard work we have arranged the stuff,—I should say materials or notes, I suppose,—into something like chronological order, having separated the whole mass into three almost equal parts: to wit, The Travels in Palestine and parts of Arabia, The Expedition from South Africa upwards, and the last Expedition to Injiji.
'A sheet was pasted on to the inside of the cover of the first note-book of the "Journal through Palestine and parts of Arabia," which we are going, we think, to use as an introduction to the two first expeditions. It is as follows:
'"This Journal through Palestine and parts of Arabia was undertaken by me in 18—, with a view to helping by details, principally geographical, my dear friend the Rev. Charles Blake, in the compilation of his proposed History of the Oripns of Christianity. On returning home, however, in 18—, I learnt that he had been compelled to abandon his scheme for certain most satisfactory reasons, I therefore laid aside my MS., hoping that events might some day make it possible for him to utilise it as he had originally intended. With that hope I seal it up now.—In case of my death, this packet is to be given to him unopened.
'"My Journal through parts of Arabia was connected with the same scheme, Blake proposing to draw a parallel between the life of the Saviour and that of Mahomet, as illustrating"[Last two words erased.]
'It seems in some way a little strange to be sitting
here copying out these words of a dead man. It would
perhaps seem really strange if I realised even now,
that he was dead. Is he dead? It seems rather as if
he had gone a journey into a far land, and now stays
there. I wonder if I shall ever read this after many
years to come, and what shall I think of it then?
'I think I should like to go to Palestine some day. Nazareth must be a very beautiful place, from what he says of it, and what so sweet as to wander in that dear land, thinking of' [Cetera desunt, and this last scratched out.]
A little lower:
'That sheet may originally have been pasted on the outside of the packet; at any rate the packet has been broken open; for the note-books are all mingled with those of the other two journals in the drawer,' etc., etc.
Another entry:
'Books and things from Glastonbury. My Ruperti's Juvenal missing, also my Greek Lex., also several note-books. A distinct nuisance. I have divided my day off as follows—Breakfast, 8.30: Italian, 9 to 10: The Book with Strachan, 10 to 1: Walk, 2 to 5: Greek, 5 to 7: (Supper): Latin, 8 to 10: English, 10 to 11. I find it is the only way to get any real work done. Now and then I go with the Strachans to the theatre, or spend afternoons or evenings out at people's houses. Mrs. Strachan does her best to drag me into what she calls "society," by introducing me to her women friends (especially those having daughters), who send me invitation cards, and the rest of it. I believe she would like to see me married, or at any rate engaged, to some young woman or other. She seems to look upon me as lawful prey in the matter of endurance of female agacerie. Sometimes I grow mischievous, and talk "atheism" to the young women she puts me with, or who are put with me, or whatever the real case may be. It is sufficiently amusing. I had great sport with Miss Isabel's "grave sweetness" last Wednesday afternoon in this way. (Miss Isabel would marry me, "atheism" and all, I think, if I, after all proper formalities, asked her to; which is a tribute to my personal charms and her belief in my personal possessions that I appreciate.) Miss Connie, however, resolutely refuses to be drawn into discussion of anything deeper than flirting, and I respect her for it. She is a frank little sensualist. Take it all in all, the womenkind I have so far met with have been of a most God-forsaken sort. There is not one that has seemed to me worth more than a mild sort of feeling that might by some be denominated "lust." The idea of having to live with one of these things for your natural life, short though it is! But the idea is happily out of the question; for where could you find one that would live with you without being your wife with bell, book, ring, and the rest of it? And I simply would not, could not, go through the foolery of the marriage service for any woman (or so I think) alive. The more I consider Christianity as compared with humanity—I mean, that Christianity is the only divinity and all other than Christians are either damned or at the best deluded—the more I revolt against it as an accursed libel on God, if He is, and His justice.'
About three weeks later:
'The first part of our work was finished to-day. I must say I hope the rest may be a little more interesting. And, indeed, it has at times seemed, perhaps illogically, that this "Journal through Palestine and parts of Arabia "has been as it were extra work; at any rate, it has at times made me feel a little aggrieved. Strachan doesn't care for it, either. I told him that Mr. Starkie had said nothing to me about it, nor yet of Blake's proposed "History" in connection with which Brooke's journey appeared to have been taken. He said that he had known of it through Clarkson, but had thought that the MS. had been destroyed, he did not quite know why.
'We should have liked not to have suppressed or added a single word of it, for obvious reasons; but this was really quite impossible. At times we came upon whole pages of, what I dare say were abbreviations, but which were to us absolutely meaningless signs: then there were long extemporary prayers, coupled with the most childish virulent attacks on different scientific men of the day and Christians whose conceptions of Christianity were different to Brooke's own. Now all this was neither beautiful nor to the point, and, besides, we felt sure that he himself would never have wished them to see the light, at any rate, in their present form. Accordingly we eliminated certain passages that seemed to us to offend: and were, I think, justified in so doing; for to whom could they do good? Certainly not to the future investigator of the origins of Christianity: certainly not to the people who would read this book: certainly not to the memory of Brooke. None the less, I for my part felt that it was very delicate work touching anything, and so (apparently) did Strachan. However, it's done now, and the best we could do it: so what's the good of troubling?
'It is astonishing how carelessly he put his materials
together, considering that the object in view was one
apparently so dear to him. I had to copy it nearly all
out. The only interesting part was where he debated
upon the sincerity of Mahomet. This we left intact
in the form of an excursus.'
The next day has:
'Went to Maitland Street this afternoon, after a good boring at Mrs. Cunningham's. Upon my soul (Façon de parler!) I don't think I will ever enter a drawing-room again. The sickening foolery we all talked! And yet—'[a pause expressed on continuing by half a row of dots.] '… And yet, how, if I do not go out into the world and talk with people therein, am I ever likely to meet the woman I am to love, nay, love already in my heart?—"O dear woman with sweet clear eyes, standing waiting and looking for me while in my light boat on that, the night of my life, I pass from the shadowiness into the silver-purled moon-track; pass on and on to the grass mingled with the gently-moving wave in which the roses dip. I am there now, and know not of you: see, breathe, only this terrestrial beauty. I step from the boat into the soft grass: the rope is tied, and I turn and come up through the rose-perfumed garden, up through the brushing dew-laden bushes; and look into the blue unspeakable depth, and the stars, and one crystal-rayed star beside the peerless moon, and then look and see you, O dear woman mine, with sweet, clear eyes, standing waiting and looking for me, and feeling that I am come at last. And at first it seems that we are there in a dream, parts, unknown parts of it; and I come closer to you, closer and closer, till more than dream's passion grows in me, and at last my eyes are in yours and yours in mine, and my lips can feel your playing breath. Oh the kiss! the kiss! the kiss! the draining of life and love! "Mine, mine, mine, mine at last! Met in the time of eternity: met, and with a meeting that can never be undone. O thou loved, thou loved, thou art come to me at last! thou loved, thou loved, take me body and soul to thyself. As river mingles with sea, as moisture with cloud: so let mine mingle with thine; for I am thine, and thou art mine, and we are Love's!"
'Rosy was out.' [A pause, expressed as before.]
'… I do wonder if I ever really shall meet a "dear woman"? It doesn't seem like it somehow. At any rate, I shan't meet her in that way. What brought up that sudden vision? I saw it as distinctly as I see that window-curtain there with the red blind behind it.—This is purposeless.
'Rosy was out, and, as I didn't feel Like waiting, I scrawled a few lines for her on a leaf of my pocket- book: tore it out, and, giving it to Mrs. Smith, who was wiping her dirty hand on her dirtier apron, asked if anyone had my room now?
"'Oh yes, sir, Miss 'Owlet 'as it now, sir! Another young lady, Miss Martin, sir, 'as the back room. Miss Rosy've changed, sir. She likes the front room best, sir—she does! It's more airy like.' (With a twist of the jaw, and an indescribable tone.)
'"Oh," I said.
'"Miss Martin's a friend of Miss 'Owlet's, sir. But I don't know anything about her 'istory—nothing about her 'istory, sir."
'"Oh," I said again. And then:
'"You will give her that when she comes in, Mrs. Smith?"
'"Yes, sir, I'll be sure I will, sir.'
'"Thank you," I said. "Good-evening."
' "Good-evening, sir. I'll be sure to give it her."
'The old she-devil!'
The next entry is five days later:
'Rosy, not seeing fit to write to me as I asked her (I don't quite know what I expected her to write), I went to No. 3 again yesterday. She had just gone out. I was a little angered (having a most ridiculous idea that she had done it on purpose): scrawled her another note, "Why hadn't she written to me? If she would only tell me some fixed hour, I would be happy to come and see her," etc.: gave it to Mrs. Smith, as servile as usual; and then went for a long walk.—Half round Regent's Park: up Primrose Hill once more, and then back to Dunraven Place. It was all strangely dim to me, this walk over the old land.
'After my afternoon's walk to-day, I found a letter from Rosy waiting me.
'"Dear Mr. Leicester,—I was very happy to see you had not forgotten me.
"I am very sorry that I was out when you called on me the two times. I hope you are quite well, and have enjoyed yourself in Paris.
"Minnie is quite well, and I am quite well.
"And I have not forgotten the Swallow Song.—Yours truly,—Rosy Howlet.
"P.S.—I shall be in to-morrow night early by eight. If you care to go a walk with me then, I shall be very happy to go a walk with you. I hope you have not forgotten Minnie.—Yours truly,—Rosy Howlet (Rosebud.)"'
The Journal follows:
'The work is much easier now, though not particularly interesting. Brooke, I must say, seems to have taken a good deal more pains over his own particular mania than over his friend's. Great parts of this second Journal are continuous narrative that (thank God) require nothing on our part. Strachan thinks my old friends Parker, Innes, and Co., will be the best publishers to send it to when it's done. Here is a copy of my preface.—But I can't trouble to do it now. I only said that all the credit of the editing of the book was due to Strachan, that I had only, etc., etc., etc. There was nothing else to be said.
'He calculates finishing it by about the middle of July. O Destiny!'