Complete Works of Ford Madox Ford, page 507
To tell the truth, I was really marking time because I did not exactly relish the idea of continuing the conversation. One is at bottom selfish: it was no affair of mine, and I could not exactly see where it was going to lead me with a young woman like Miss Jeaffreson. Besides, to get at what I wanted to get at in the way I wanted to get at it I needed to stand still. Far down towards the Circus that was inconvenient. I truly believe that if a fourth man had collided with my back I should have walked on in silence. But there stood Miss Jeaffreson, her mouth slightly open, and in her eyes a distinct challenge. I should have to have an explanation with her sooner or later. And it seemed better to have it after I had struck a hard, or at least a determined note. So that:
“Or,” I continued resolutely, “that Mr. Heimann, senior, is a bad hat who has left his country for his country’s good? With the further implication that the mother entangled him and, after bearing him the two children, came to a bad end?”
The diagnosis, put in that brutal way, came so near her real thoughts that she uttered merely an:
“Oh!” that was like a gasp. And I took the opportunity to use exactly the words that that morning Mr. Podd had used to young Heimann concerning his parentage. Of course I didn’t, at that stage, tell her that they were Mr. Podd’s, She said then, quickly but rather loftily:
“Oh, but you’re... I can’t take you as being just an....”
I said that I was a perfect stranger: she continued ingratiatingly:
“Oh, but you!... We’ve sat, Mary Elizabeth and I, for so many hours under... That you seem... We’ve; haven’t we?.... A different... I mean — vocabulary, from the vulgar-minded...”
I retorted that, as far as I knew, to say that a woman was no better than she should be had only one significance in all sorts of vocabularies — and that was what she had said of George Heimann’s mother. She answered cheerfully: “Oh, come: you don’t want to pretend to be... One couldn’t ever take you as... a vulgarian! Not you!” I asked her, as drily as I could — but I don’t for a moment imagine that the dryness got through to her:
“Then what precisely do you mean?”
Her dislike of the definite was so great that, even then, she had to ask:
“Do you mean what do I mean as to the whole affair? “I said, mercilessly:
“No: simply by the phrase ‘no better than she should be.’”
And she had the face to say:
“My dear man: that she hadn’t read... that she wasn’t grounded... that she appears to have been a frivolous, shallow.... Oh, a devoted mother, I grant you! But not one of... Us!”
I hope the reader will not think I was merely making a melodramatic point when I say that I hurriedly moved our walk across the traffic of the Circus, where a retort was impossible — after I had exclaimed:
“And is that the construction, do you suppose, that Mr. Podd would put upon your words? Or do you think Mr. Podd, too, to be one of Us! Not just an...?”
And, do you know, as we made that crossing, I felt extremely sick.
For it was this woman who had told Mr. Podd the hideous things he had hurled at George Heimann that morning. I could tell it from her manner, then; I could have told it from the mere look of her eyes behind her glasses when I had first really looked at her, half way through that walk; and I could have told it from the gurgling, regretful tone in which she had said that she supposed she couldn’t now ask Mr. Podd to publish her book! No one else in London could have done it. And of course I was quite right. You will hear.......
But why do people do these things? Against their best friends! It would appear to be for nothing. But I daresay that is not so.
Miss Jeaffreson was a young woman with a book to publish: that fellow published books... and nothing ingratiates you more than telling unknown, salacious details about the lives of other people — though the telling may well ruin the lives of those other people, and they your trusting friends! And, in the telling, leaning juicily over a lunch table, you achieve an importance! And Miss Jeaffreson was a plainish young woman, avid of flirtations — and Mr. Podd an obscure Don Juan. And there was a fashion amongst young women of Miss Jeaffreson’s age and traditions, at that time, of lunching alone with men who had something to give, and paying in one way or another. It was done “on principle.” At any rate that was what this girl had done.
And no doubt she had paid — with the head of George Heimann!
The congestion of that gay midsummer day — it was getting on to being the last gay day of any London season for God knows how long! — the block of the mainmoth traffic, the hurry of excited people, were such — and you know that to be in London then, in the apex of the season, was to be in the centre of the world! — that Miss Jeaffreson, not at all abashed, was only able to answer when we were opposite Burlington House. And then she answered:
“Oh, but Mr. Podd: with his knowledge of... his love for... old... You couldn’t call him exactly just... Besides, he published my father’s Aramaic Potsherds from “So that,” I said, “he’s an old family friend?”
She answered, even a little more loftily:
“Oh, I shouldn’t say exactly a... You know... But he used to come to our.....”
This lady was small, and even frail. But I saw that she had an indomitable spirit. Not only was it impossible to make her think herself in the wrong; but, from the quite confident look that she gave me, I saw that it was impossible to make her realise that I thought she was in the wrong. It couldn’t be done by tones of voice: I suppose I might have said that she was an abominable little chatterbox. But that wasn’t, ever, my sort of line. And I gave it up, really. For the mischief had been done. The lady with her charges had, I gathered, already been for a matter of six weeks or two months in London, awaiting the appearance of The Titanic: an Epic, and in that time she must have told her exciting tale to innumerable people. I could do nothing by warning her against the practice. I just walked on. The street, however, wasn’t so crowded or so noisy but that I could hear her saying:
“You’re not... I’m certain you’re not... the author of... couldn’t be so... unfine as to think that I oughtn’t to have... Besides...” A new briskness came into her tones: I knew the really alarming announcement was coming now. It came: she looked at me determinedly and uttered the fated words: “It’s with me a matter of principle!”
I said:
“Of course! of course!” And I don’t know what more could have been expected of me. I was no hero. She said, as we continued down the hill beside the Green Park railings:
“They all work in together. It’s extraordinary how they all work in together: modern principles!”
I found then that she could be definite enough in her speech when it came to abstractions. It was only over tit-bits of gossip that she had to be vague. I suppose that was how she made herself think that she was no gossip.
Her principles on this occasion and for this set of circumstances were then three in number: Firstly, there was Roman Law; secondly, a democratic dislike for the privileged classes; and, lastly, there was the determination to do what she called breaking up the complexes in the minds of her charges. All these things, it seemed, could be immensely advanced by making her charges the talk of London. Roman Law would vindicate itself, because, supposing these young Heimanns to have been born out of wedlock in certain parts of Europe — and, Miss Jeaffreson said, there was no knowing where exactly they had been born — they would inherit of right certain fixed shares of their father’s estate: the aristocracy would be abashed, because Miss Jeaffreson was certain that if the whole truth were brought to light it would be what certainly Mr. Heimann and probably Lady Ada Pugh Gomme didn’t want. She said she was convinced that Mr. Heimann was an English aristocrat passing under a false name —
With regard to the complexes she had not time enough to explain them and, as I have said, the subject was in those days a new one — or at any rate the consideration of it hadn’t much come my way. I was destined, however, to hear a great deal more of it before my long day let me go to bed.... We were forced at this point to cross the road.
But, on an island, between an immense lamp-standard and an iron post, with the traffic going at a terrifying rate on either side of our refuge, Miss Jeaffreson caught my sleeve in a strong hold. She had, on the pavement, got herself tremendously going, and she was still in the grip of her excitement. She said:
“At any rate I’m determined to get for this affair the fullest amount of....”
I couldn’t help saying, though the noise of the place deafened me:
“If it’s publicity you mean, you certainly deserve to be congratulated on what you’ve managed to do already.” It was time to step on to the roadway, but I added: “The young man won’t like it!”
She continued speaking while we dodged a lorry, a motor-bus, and a taxi that was prowling empty along the kerb. I gathered that she knew he wouldn’t like it. But his sister, she added grimly, as we arrived safely on the opposite pavement, would. It was 3.13.
As we walked in silence up the broad marble steps of the Club — a rococo caravanserai — I congratulated myself that in the cavernous hall of the establishment I might have two minutes’ silence and that, Miss Jeaffreson losing her identity as a mere member of the audience, I could so effectually, after ten minutes of speech and twenty of debate, entrench myself among the teacups of the club notables that never, never, never should I hear any more of this distressing subject. The poor young man — and it really pained me to think of him, would go, revolving in that group of three — like a lama — a South American sheep with a long neck — encircled by bolas, a South American lasso, contrived of two leaden balls one at each end of a thong of leather. But I should hear no more of them. That was a relief.
We were met in the hall by an extremely capable, attractive, tall lady with a mop of lion-coloured hair. She was, I suppose, the secretary of the club gathering — for she bore down upon me with the words:
“Oh, Mr. Jessop! — is that Mrs. Jessop? How do you do? Didn’t you get my letter?” Whilst I was explaining that I hadn’t got her letter, very probably because I had been week-ending in the country, had gone straight from the terminus to Mr. Podd’s, and so hadn’t yet had time to get to my rooms, where the letter was doubtless awaiting me; and, whilst she was explaining to me what the letter contained, I was feeling a gentle annoyance. I imagine it was partly because this Miss Scott should have thought me likely to marry any one as unpresentable as Miss Jeaffreson; and partly because it seemed to me that in this place which passed for a hive of gossip, they must have been discussing lately my misfortunes in love. I was a great deal younger in those days, and I believe that, now, I am so indifferent to gossip and have so few social ambitions left, that I should not feel the same pang of disgust. But one never knows!
I forget how I disposed of Miss Jeaffreson, but I remember the pleasure with which I heard that that letter had asked me to put off speaking until 4.30. The literary Great Gun whom I was to oppose had announced at the last moment that he would be unable to attend until 4.15. I remember also the very evident pleasure that Miss Jeaffreson showed when she exclaimed:
“Then now I can explain them to you!” — and her eyes glittered.
It was the steely fervour of the missionary. For, if Miss Jeaffreson had some enthusiasm for Roman Law — and some too for the destruction of the privileged classes — it now appeared that these were as nothing. And my function in her world became plain. I wasn’t, I mean, the great author; not the potential lover or the just possible husband. I was to be the distinguished convert and the eventual propagandist — of the complex.
I make the point now, because it was this passion in Miss Jeaffreson that led to the ultimate catastrophe of George Heimann. For I want you to understand that, unpractised as my pen may have become through disuse during the war, and grope as I may have to after expression, I am not such an amateur as to introduce long digressions for the purpose of displaying my characteristics or conquests. My career, at this moment, was entangled with that of George Heimann — for a very long day. He got into it and upset me a good deal, as you are hearing. And if this young woman could so grapple on to a comparative stranger, what must she not have done to the unfortunate young man whose home she actually shared?
For she had become to me such a — let me say: complex! — even by that time, that I was at a social loss. She had of course talked a great deal more than I have reported, so that really I was what my old nurse used to call “all of a dither “ with trying not to listen to her. And the manuscript of my shadow play — which was to be produced that night! — was, as far as I knew, still lost. It had been stolen by a consumptive Russian tenor. That sounds improbable, but, as far as I knew, it is true. At any rate I felt a desperate desire to get to a telephone.
And the only device that I could think of for stalling off Miss Jeaffreson was just to pretend not to hear her.
I told Miss Scott, the gracious lady with the leonine hair, that I would very gladly condone that delay if only she would get me very quickly into communication with the Night Club.
It happened with improbable promptitude. A small boy in buttons was at my elbow exclaiming: “ You’re through” almost before the lady had finished telling him to get me on. Miss Jeaffreson, at my other elbow, was still avid of my attention.
I plunged into the telephone box as if into the blissful depths of a lake where I should find silence and common sense. From the hard disk pressed to my ear a guttural foreign voice that had the air of having been talking a long time asked me if I could find the second pail. This did not distress me as much as you might imagine. One had learned in those days to be patient with an overworked instrument. So that I merely asked:
“Will you ask Madame to come to the ‘phone? Jessop speaking.”
The voice grew more guttural and more foreign. It exclaimed:
“Yes! Yes! Jebbleson! Cann “ vind the seggund pail?”
I gathered some more patience to myself. At the Night Club, in the small hours, stockbrokers and Guards’ officers were said not infrequently to bathe in iced champagne. For that ice-pails were needed; and the waiters were all foreign. The only wonder was that it was not the seventy-second pail that he was asking for.
I said:
“I am not a caterer’s. I am Mr. Ernest Jessop. Will you tell Madame I shall not keep her a minute?”
The speaker — he had a very full and authoritative chest voice — said:
“Madame ist not yet here. She is coming to be the first pail. Who shall the second be? The Rechtsanwalt...”
I ejaculated:
“Who?” I was conscious of a rising anger. I did not want to be in a temper. It was essential that I should keep my head if I was to get with credit through that long day and the long night.
The voice said:
“The Rechtsanwalt... So... lee... see... tor!” and a great many German words came through. I know very little German: practically none; still I got the idea that he was talking about my brother, which was impossible. I shouted:
“In Heaven’s name: who are you?”
I got my answer very clearly and distinctly: that man, too, must have had a very admirable patience:
“I am Professor Doctor Wirklicher Geheimrath Edouard Curtius! “ He began earnestly: “Liebes Kind!” — which means “ dear child”—” Madame will be the first pail!” and then a great deal more German that I could not follow. And then the telephone began one of its dark, interior noises, that are like being mad.
That seemed indeed a tenebrous affair. I am fairly good at accounting for situations; but, although I could imagine reasons for the Professor being at the Night Club, I could not fit in the pails. The Professor must have persuaded Madame, the gracious, indefinitely foreign lady who ran the Night Club, to stage some sort of dramatic representation of The Titanic: an Epic. The Professor I supposed to desire notoriety, and the Countess I knew wanted to put up a new show every night. And I just dimly had a vision of the lighted stage of the Night Club, in a cavern, at an immense distance, with the negro-coon orchestra and, on the boards, a representation of a liner sinking, whilst the Professor, robed as Neptune, and the Countess as Thetis, dashed water from immense pails.... An allegorical vision!
I was seized by the elbow and torn out of those shades. In the plate-glass light of the immense hall the little page let my elbow go, and said wearily:
“The Night Club wants you in box two! Over there.” Another telephone bell was ringing violently. As if with mania. I saw the bell-boy talking to Miss Jeaffreson. And I saw, plainly and disagreeably, in the brighter daylight outside, the familiar, hideous electric-blue dresses of two red-haired ladies who much disliked me. They were entering by the immense glass doors. And that reminded me that in an hour’s time I should be declaiming an unrehearsed speech, and those two women would be sneering at me from the front row of the audience. They did that whenever they had the chance.
But when again I had the hard pressure of the telephone at my ear it was as if peace descended. A full, purring, perfectly admirable voice said:
“It will be all ra-ight!... It will be all ra-ight!” That was dreadfully, seductively soothing. For if Madame who admirably managed the Night Club was not a Russian — and I had not the remotest idea what she was — she had most of the characteristics of that dreamy but not eminently reliable race. So at least I had been told, for I did not know the lady except by sight. She had written to ask me to write a shadow play for her little theatre, in order to brighten London and to help a young designer who wanted a little advertisement to bring his great talents before a London audience of the wealthy type. So I said:
“Has Monsieur Revendikoff returned my manuscript?” The answer came:
“Ah! you must be Mr. Jessop. I thought it was Miss Honeywill. They say she has been ringing up every five minutes — all day!”
I began again:
“Has M. Revendikoff.. — I think that was the name of the consumptive tenor: but it does not matter. Once again — thus history is said to repeat herself! — that sagacious instrument began one of its maddening soliloquies, and I could not finish my sentence. When, as mists clear off a mountain side, that noise dissolved, the calm voice swam out:
