Джон Голсуорси - The White Monkey

“You don’t ‘ave to advertise, they do it for you.”

“Saw too much of advertising with us, eh?”

“Well, sir, I did use to read the wrappers. Astonished me, I will sy—the number of gryte books.”

Michael ran his hands through his hair.

“Wrappers! The same young woman being kissed by the same young man with the same clean-cut jaw. But what can you do, Bicket? They WILL HAVE IT. I tried to make a break only this morning—I shall see what comes of it. “‘And I hope YOU won’t!’ he thought: ‘Fancy coming on Fleur outside a novel!’

“I did notice a tendency just before I left,” said Bicket, “to ‘ave cliffs or landskips and two sort of dolls sittin’ on the sand or in the grass lookin’ as if they didn’t know what to do with each other.”

“Yes,” murmured Michael, “we tried that. It was supposed not to be vulgar. But we soon exhausted the public’s capacity. What’ll you have now—cheese?”

“Thank you, sir; I’ve had too much already, but I won’t say ‘No.’”

“Two Stiltons,” said Michael.

“How’s Mr. Desert, sir?”

Michael reddened.

“Oh! He’s all right.”

Bicket had reddened also.

“I wish—I wish you’d let him know that it was quite a—an accident my pitchin’ on his book. I’ve always regretted it.”

“It’s usually an accident, I think,” said Michael slowly, “when we snoop other people’s goods. We never WANT to.”

Bicket looked up.

“No, sir, I don’t agree. ‘Alf mankind’s predytory—only, I’m not that sort, meself.”

In Michael loyalty tried to stammer “Nor is he.” He handed his cigarette case to Bicket.

“Thank you, sir, I’m sure.”

His eyes were swimming, and Michael thought: ‘Dash it! This is sentimental. Kiss me good-bye and go!’ He beckoned up the white-aproned fellow.

“Give us your address, Bicket. If integuments are any good to you, I might have some spare slops.”

Bicket backed the bill with his address and said, hesitating: “I suppose, sir, Mrs. Mont wouldn’t ‘ave anything to spare. My wife’s about my height.”

“I expect she would. We’ll send them along.” He saw the ‘little snipe’s’ lips quivering, and reached for his overcoat. “If anything blows in, I’ll remember you. Goodbye, Bicket, and good luck.”

Going east, because Bicket was going west, he repeated to himself the maxim: “Pity is tripe—pity is tripe!” Then getting on a ‘bus, he was borne back past St. Paul’s. Cautiously ‘taking a lunar’—as old Forsyte put it—he SAW Bicket inflating a balloon; little was visible of his face or figure behind that rosy circumference. Nearing Blake Street, he developed an invincible repugnance to work, and was carried on to Trafalgar Square. Bicket had stirred him up. The world was sometimes almost unbearably jolly. Bicket, Wilfrid, and the Ruhr!” Feeling is tosh! Pity is tripe!” He descended from his ‘bus, and passed the lions towards Pall Mall. Should he go into ‘Snooks’ and ask for Bart? No use—he would not find Fleur there. That was what he really wanted—to see Fleur in the daytime. But—where? She was everywhere to be found, and that was nowhere.

She was restless. Was that his fault? If he had been Wilfrid—would she be restless? ‘Yes,’ he thought stoutly, ‘Wilfrid’s restless, too.’ They were all restless—all the people he knew. At least all the young ones—in life and in letters. Look at their novels! Hardly one in twenty had any repose, any of that quality which made one turn back to a book as a corner of refuge. They dashed and sputtered and skidded and rushed by like motor cycles—violent, oh! and clever. How tired he was of cleverness! Sometimes he would take a manuscript home to Fleur for her opinion. He remembered her saying once: “This is exactly like life, Michael, it just rushes—it doesn’t dwell on anything long enough to mean anything anywhere. Of course the author didn’t mean it for satire, but if you publish it, I advise you to put: ‘This awful satire on modern life’ outside the cover.” And they had. At least, they had put: “This wonderful satire on modern life.” Fleur WAS like that! She could see the hurry, but, like the author of the wonderful satire, she didn’t know that she herself veered and hurried, or—did she know? Was she conscious of kicking at life, like a flame at air?

He had reached Piccadilly, and suddenly he remembered that he had not called on her aunt for ages. That was a possible draw. He bent his steps towards Green Street.

“Mrs. Dartie at home?”

“Yes, sir.”

Michael moved his nostrils. Fleur used—but he could catch no scent, except incense. Winifred burnt joss-sticks when she remembered what a distinguished atmosphere they produced.

“What name?”

“Mr. Mont. My wife’s not here, I suppose?”

“No, sir. Only Mrs. Val Dartie.”

Mrs. Val Dartie! Yes, he remembered, nice woman—but not a substitute for Fleur! Committed, however, he followed the maid.

In the drawing-room Michael found three people, one of them his father-inlaw, who had a grey and brooding aspect, and, from an Empire chair, was staring at blue Australian butterflies’ wings under glass on a round scarlet table. Winifred had jazzed the Empire foundations of her room with a superstructure more suitable to the age. She greeted Michael with fashionable warmth. It was good of him to come when he was so busy with all these young poets. “I thought ‘Copper Coin,’” she said—“what a NICE title! – such an intriguing little book. I do think Mr. Desert is clever! What is he doing now?”

Michael said: “I don’t know,” and dropped on to a settee beside Mrs. Val. Ignorant of the Forsyte family feud, he was unable to appreciate the relief he had brought in with him. Soames said something about the French, got up, and went to the window; Winifred joined him—their voices sounded confidential.

“How is Fleur?” said Michael’s neighbour.

“Thanks, awfully well.”

“Do you like your house?”

“Oh, fearfully. Won’t you come and see it?”

“I don’t know whether Fleur would—?”

“Why not?”

“Oh! Well!”

“She’s frightfully accessible.”

She seemed to be looking at him with more interest than he deserved, to be trying to make something out from his face, and he added:

“You’re a relation—by blood as well as marriage, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Then what’s the skeleton?”

“Oh! nothing. I’ll certainly come. Only—she has so many friends.”

Michael thought: ‘I like this woman!’ “As a matter of fact,” he said, “I came here this afternoon thinking I might find Fleur. I should like her to know you. With all the jazz there is about, she’d appreciate somebody restful.”

“Thank you.”

“You’ve never lived in London?”

“Not since I was six.”

“I wish she could get a rest—pity there isn’t a d-desert handy.” He had stuttered; the word was not pronounced the same—still! He glanced, disconcerted, at the butterflies. “I’ve just been talking to a little Cockney whose S. O. S. is ‘Central Austrylia.’ But what do you say—Have we got souls to save?”

“I used to think so, but now I’m not so sure—something’s struck me lately.”

“What was that?”

“Well, I notice that any one at all out of proportion, or whose nose is on one side, or whose eyes jut out, or even have a special shining look, always believes in the soul; people who are in proportion, and have no prominent physical features, don’t seem to be really interested.”

Michael’s ears moved.

“By Jove!” he said; “some thought! Fleur’s beautifully proportioned—SHE doesn’t seem to worry. I’m not—and I certainly do. The people in Covent Garden must have lots of soul. You think ‘the soul’s’ the result of loose-gearing in the organism—sort of special consciousness from not working in one piece.”