Thomas Wolfe, page 483
And in the moonlight, his lonely scarred and pitted face was transfigured by a look of happiness. And we walked the streets, we walked the streets. We felt the sense of something priceless and unutterable, a world invisible that we must see, a world intangible that we must touch, a world of warmth, of joy, of imminent and impending happiness, of impossible delight, that was almost ours. And we walked the streets, we walked the streets. The moon blazed blank and cold out of the whited brilliance of the sky. And the streets were silent. All the doors were closed. And from the distance came the last and muted murmurs of the fair. And we went home.
[¬]
’E, A RECOLLECTION
[The New Yorker, July 17, 1937]
All through the fall and winter of that year Mr. Joseph Doaks was living in a flat in London. For him it was a memorable year, and one of the most memorable experiences of that year was his relationship with Daisy Purvis.
Mrs. Purvis was a charwoman who lived at Hammersmith and for years had worked for “unmarried gentlemen” in the fashionable districts known as Mayfair and Belgravia. Mr. Doaks inherited her, so to speak, from a young gentleman of fashion who occupied the little flat in Ebury Street before Mr. Doaks took it over. In appearance, Mrs. Purvis might have been the prototype of a whole class. She was somewhere in the middle forties, a woman inclined to plumpness, of middling height, fair-haired, blue-eyed, and pink-complexioned, with a pleasant, modest face, and a naturally friendly nature. At first, although at all times courteous, her manner toward her new employer was a little distant. She would come in in the morning, and they would formally discuss the business of the day: what they were going to have for lunch, the supplies they were going to “git in,” the amount of money it would be necessary to “lay out.”
“What would you like for lunch today, sir?” Mrs. Purvis would say. “’Ave you decided?”
“No, Mrs. Purvis. What would you suggest? Let’s see. We had the chump chop yesterday, didn’t we, and the sprouts?”
“Yes, sir,” Mrs. Purvis would reply, “and the day before, Monday, you may recall, we ’ad rump steak with potato chips.”
“Yes, and it was good, too. Well, then, suppose we have rump steak again?”
“Very good, sir,” Mrs. Purvis would say, with perfect courtesy, but with a rising intonation of the voice that somehow suggested that she rather thought his choice was not the best one. Feeling this, Mr. Doaks would immediately have doubts. He would say, “Oh, wait a minute. We’ve been having steak quite often, haven’t we?”
“You ’ave ’ad it quite a bit, sir,” she would say quietly. “Still, of course—” She would pause and wait.
“Well, then, what would you suggest, Mrs. Purvis?”
“Well, sir, if I may say so, a bit of gammon and peas is rather nice sometimes,” with just a trace of diffidence, mixed with an engaging tinge of warmth. “I ’ad a look in at the butcher’s as I came by this morning, and the gammon was nice, sir. It was a prime bit, sir,” she said now with genuine warmth. “Prime.”
After this, of course, he could not tell her that he had not the faintest notion what gammon was. He could only look delighted and respond, “Then, by all means, Mrs. Purvis, let’s have gammon and peas. I think it’s just the thing today.”
“Very good, sir.” The words had put her back within the fortress of aloofness, had put him back on his heels.
“All right, then, Mrs. Purvis,” he said. “Thank you very much.”
“’Kew,” she said, most formally and distantly now, and went out, closing the door gently but very firmly after her.
Mr. Doaks had a good life that year. He had never had a servant in his life before. He had been served by many people, but never before had he owned a servant body and soul, to the degree that her life was his life, her interests his interests, her whole concern devoted to the preservation of his welfare. It was perhaps not quite as absolute a devotion as has been here described. Mrs. Purvis had, in fact, for two or three hours of the day, another master, who shared with Doaks her service. This was the little man who kept doctor’s offices on the floor below. From one o’clock in the afternoon until four, or thereabout, the doorbell tinkled almost constantly, and Mrs. Purvis was kept busy padding up and down the narrow stairs, admitting or ushering out an incessant stream of patients, all of whom were women.
Doaks used to tease Mrs. Purvis about this unbroken procession of female visitors, and question her on the nature of the doctor’s practice. It is probable that she knew that he was not above turning an honest guinea now and then by occasional unorthodoxy. But her loyalty to anyone she served was so unquestioning that when the young man pressed her for information her manner would instantly become beautifully vague, and she would confess that, although she was not familiar with the technical details of Doctor’s practice, it was, she believed, devoted to “the treatment of nervous diseases.”
“Yes, but what kind of nervous diseases, Mrs. Purvis, and why?” Mr. Doaks would innocently continue. “Why is it always women who have these nervous diseases? Don’t the gentlemen ever get nervous, too?”
“Ah-h,” said Mrs. Purvis, nodding her head with an ejaculation of knowing profundity. “Ah-h! There you ’ave it!”
“Have what, Mrs. Purvis?” Mr. Doaks demanded.
“’Ave the answer,” Mrs. Purvis said. “It’s this Moddun Tempo. That’s what Doctor says,” she said, loftily. “It’s the pace of Moddun Life—cocktail parties, staying up to all hours, and all of that. In America, I believe, conditions are even worse,” said Mrs. Purvis. “Not, of course, that they really are,” she added quickly, as if fearing her remark might inadvertently have wounded the patriotic sensibilities of her employer. “I mean, after all, not ’avin’ been there myself, I wouldn’t know, would I? I must say, though,” she went on tactfully after a brief pause, “the American ladies are very smart, aren’t they, sir? They’re all so very well turned out, aren’t they, sir? You can always tell one when you see one. And then they’re very clever, aren’t they? I mean, quite a number of them ’ave married into the nobility, ’aven’t they, sir? You’re always readin’ somethin’ or other about them, and quite a number of them ’ave been received at court. And of course”—her voice fell to just the subtlest shade of unction, and Mr. Doaks’ prophetic soul informed him what was coming—“and of course, sir, ’E . . .” Ah, there it was: immortal “’E,” who lived and moved and loved and had his being there at the central sphere of Daisy Purvis’s heaven; immortal “’E,” the idol of every Purvis everywhere, who, for their uses, their devotions, had no other name and needed none but “’E.”
“Of course, sir,” Mrs. Purvis said, “’E likes them, doesn’t ’E? I’m told ’E’s very fond of them. The American ladies must be very clever, sir, because ’E finds them so amusing. There was a picture of ’Im in the news just recently with a party of ’Is friends and a new American lady was among them. At least I’d never seen ’er face before, and very smart she was, too—a Mrs. Somebody-or-Other—I can’t recall the name. But as I say, sir,” reverting to her former theme, “it’s what Doctor calls the Moddun Tempo, and I’ve ’eard that conditions in America are”—she hesitated just perceptibly, then with unfailing tactfulness she found the proper phrase—“much the same as they are here.”
Her picture of America, derived largely from the pages of tabloid newspapers, of which she was an assiduous devotee, was so delightfully fantastic that Doaks could never find it in his heart to disillusion her. So he dutifully agreed that she was right, and managed skillfully to convey the suggestion that a large proportion of America’s female population spent their time going from one cocktail party to another; in fact, practically never got out of bed.
“Ah, then,” said Mrs. Purvis, nodding her head wisely with an air of satisfaction, “then you know what it means!” And after a just perceptible pause, “Shockin’ I calls it.”
She called a great many things shocking. In fact, it is doubtful that any choleric Tory in London’s most exclusive club could have been more vehemently concerned with the state of the nation than was Daisy Purvis. To listen to Mrs. Purvis talk, one might have thought that she was the heir to enormous estates that had been chief treasures of her country’s history since the days of the Norman conquerors, but which were now being sold out of her hands, ravaged and destroyed because she could no longer pay the ruinous taxes which the government had imposed.
They used to discuss these matters long and earnestly, with dire forebodings, windy sighs, and grave shakings of the head. Mr. Doaks would sometimes work the whole night through and finally get to bed at six or seven o’clock in the dismal pea soup of a London morning. Mrs. Purvis would arrive at seven-thirty. If he was not already asleep, he would hear her creep softly up the stairs and go into the kitchen on the top floor. A little later she would rap at his door and come in with an enormous cup, smoking with a beverage, in whose soporific qualities she had the utmost faith.
“’Ere’s a nice, ’ot cup of Ovaltine,” said Mrs. Purvis, “to git you off to sleep.”
He was probably nearly “off to sleep” already, but this made no difference. If he was not “off to sleep,” Mrs. Purvis had the Ovaltine to “git him off” again.
The real truth of the matter was that she wanted to exchange gossip with him, in especial to go over the delectable proceedings of the day’s news. She would bring him crisp, fresh copies of the Times and Daily Mail, and she would have, of course, her own copy of the tabloid paper that she read.
While he propped himself up in bed and drank his Ovaltine, Mrs. Purvis would stand in the doorway, rattle her tabloid with a peremptory gesture, and thus begin: “Shockin’, I calls it!”
“Why, ’ere now, listen to this, if you please!” she would say indignantly, and read as follows: “‘It was announced yesterday, through the offices of the Messrs. Merigrew & Raspe, solicitors to ’is Grace, the Duke of Basingstoke, that ’is Grace ’as announced the sale of ’is estate at Chipping Cudlington in Gloucestershire. The estate, comprising sixteen thousand acres, of which eight thousand are in ’unting preserve, and including Basingstoke ’All, one of the finest examples of early Tudor architecture in the kingdom, ’as been in the possession of ’is Grace’s family since the fifteenth century. Representatives of the Messrs. Merigrew & Raspe stated, ’owever, that because of the enormous increase in estate and income taxes since the war, ’is Grace feels that it is no longer possible for ’im to maintain the estate, and ’e is accordingly putting it up for sale. This means, of course, that the number of ’is Grace’s private estates ’as now been reduced to three, Fothergill ’All in Devonshire, Wintringham in Yorkshire, and the Castle of Loch McTash, ’is ’unting preserve in Scotland. ’Is Grace, it is said, ’as stated recently to friends that if something is not done to check the present ruinous trend toward higher taxation, there will not be a single great estate in England remaining in the ’ands of its original owners within a ’undred years.’”
“Ah-h,” said Mrs. Purvis, nodding with an air of knowing confirmation as she finished reading this dolorous item. “There you ’ave it! Just as ’is Grace says, we’re losin’ all of our great estates. And wot’s the reason? Why, the owners can no longer afford to pay the taxes—ruinous, ’e calls ’em, and ’e’s right. If it keeps up, you mark my words, the nobility’ll ’ave no place left to live. A lot of ’em are migratin’ already,” she said darkly.
“Migrating where, Mrs. Purvis?”
“Why,” she said, “to France, to Italy, places on the Continent. They’ve all let their estates go. They’ve gone abroad to live. And why? Because the taxes are too ’igh. Shockin’, I calls it!”
By this time Mrs. Purvis’s pleasant face would be pink with indignation. It was one of the most astonishing demonstrations of concern young Mr. Doaks had ever seen. Again and again he would try to get to the bottom of it. He would bang down his cup of Ovaltine and burst out, “Yes, but good Lord, Mrs. Purvis, why the hell should you worry so much about it? Those people aren’t going to starve. Here you get twelve shillings a week from me and eight shillings more from the doctor. He says he’s going abroad to live at the end of the year, and I’m going back to America in a few months. You don’t even know where you’ll be, what you’ll be doing, this time next year. And yet you come in here, day after day, and read me this stuff about the Duke of Basingstoke or the Earl of Pentateuch having to give up one of their half-dozen estates, as if you were afraid the whole lot of them would have to go on the dole. You’re the one who will have to go on the dole if you get out of work. Those people are not going to suffer, not really, not the way you’ll have to.”
“Ah-h, yes,” she answered, in a tone that was soft and gentle, as if she were speaking of the welfare of a group of helpless children, “but then, we’re used to it, aren’t we? And they, poor things, they’re not.”
It was appalling. He couldn’t fathom it. You could call it what you liked; you could call it servile snobbishness, blind ignorance, imbecilic stupidity, but there it was. You couldn’t shatter it, you couldn’t even shake it. It was one of the most formidable examples of devotion and loyalty he had ever known.
These conversations would go on morning after morning until there was scarcely an impoverished young viscount whose grandeurs and whose miseries had not undergone the reverent investigation of Mrs. Purvis’s anguished and encyclopedic care. But always at the end—after the whole huge hierarchy of saints, angels, captains of the host, guardians of the inner gate, and chief lieutenants of the right hand had been reverently inspected down to the minutest multicolored feather that blazed in their heraldic wings—silence would fall. It was as if some great and unseen presence had entered the room. Then Mrs. Purvis would rattle her crisp paper, clear her throat, and with holy quietness pronounce the sainted name of “’E.”
“Well,” she would say, and as she spoke her face was softened by a glow of tenderness, “I see by the paper ’ere that ’E’s got back from the Continent. I wonder what ’E’s up to now.” And suddenly she laughed, a jolly and involuntary laugh that flushed her pink cheeks almost crimson and brought a mist to her blue eyes. “Ah! I tell you wot,” she said, “’E is a deep one. You never know wot ’E’s been up to. You pick up the paper one day and read where ’E’s visitin’ some friends in Yawkshire. The next day, before you know it, ’E turns up in Vienna. This time they say ’E’s been in Scandinavia—it wouldn’t surprise me if ’E’s been over there visitin’ one of them young princesses. Of course”—her tone was now tinged with the somewhat pompous loftiness with which she divulged her profounder revelations to the incondite Mr. Doaks—“of course, there’s been talk about that for some time past. Not that ’E would care! Not ’Im. ’E’s too independent, ’E is! ’Is mother found that out long ago. She tried to manage ’Im the way she does the others. Not ’Im! That chap’s got a will of ’Is own. ’E’ll do wot ’E wants to do and no one will stop ’Im, that’s ’ow independent ’E is.”
She was silent a moment, reflecting with misty eyes upon the object of her idolatry. Then suddenly her pleasant face again suffused with ruddy color, and a short, rich, almost explosive laugh burst from her as she cried, “The dev-ill! You know, they do say that ’E was comin’ ’ome one night not long ago, and that”—her voice lowered confidingly—“they do say ’E’d ’ad a bit too much, and”—her voice sank still lower, and in a tone in which a shade of hesitancy was mixed with laughter, she went on—“well, sir, they do say ’E was ’avin’ ’Is troubles in gittin’ ’ome. They say that really ’E was ’avin’ to support himself, sir, by the fence around St. James’s Palace. But they do say, sir, that—ooh! ha-ha-ha!”—she laughed suddenly and throatily—“You must excuse me, sir, but I ’ave to larf when I think of it!” And then, slowly, emphatically, with an ecstasy of adoration, Mrs. Purvis whispered, “They do say, sir, that the bobby on duty just outside the palace saw ’Im, and came up to ’Im and said, ‘Can I ’elp you, sir?’ But not ’Im! ’E wouldn’t be ’elped! ’E’s too proud, ’E is! That’s the way ’E’s always been. I’ll tell you wot, ’E is a dev-ill!” And still smiling, her strong hands held before her in a worn clasp, she leaned against the door and lapsed into the silences of misty contemplation.
“But Mrs. Purvis,” Doaks remarked presently, “do you think he’ll ever get married? I mean, do you really, now? After all, he’s no chicken any longer, is he? And he must have had lots of chances, and if he was going to do anything about it—”
“Ah!” said Mrs. Purvis, in that tone of lofty recognition that she always used at such a time. “Ah! Wot I always says to that is, ’E will! ’E’ll make up ’Is mind to it when ’E ’as to, but not before! ’E won’t be driven into it, not ’Im! ’E’ll do it when ’E knows it’s the proppuh time.”
“Yes, Mrs. Purvis,” her questioner persisted, “but what is the proper time?”
“Well,” said Mrs. Purvis, “after all, there is ’Is father, isn’t there? And ’Is father is not so young as ’e used to be, is ’e?” She was silent for a moment, diplomatically allowing the tactful inference to sink in by itself. “Well, sir,” she concluded very quietly, “I mean to say, sir, a time will come, sir, won’t it?”
“Yes, Mrs. Purvis,” the young man persisted, “but will it? I mean, can you be sure? You know, you hear all sorts of things—even a stranger like myself hears them. For one thing, you hear that he doesn’t want it very much, and then, of course, there is his brother, isn’t there?”
