I RETURNED home for the Long Vacation without plans and without money. To cover end-of-term expenses I had sold my Omega screen to Collins for ten pounds, of which I now kept four; my last cheque overdrew my account my a few shillings, and I had been told that, without my father’s authority, I must draw no more. My next allowance was not due until October. I was thus faced with a bleak prospect and, turning the matter over in my mind, I felt something not far off remorse for the prodigality,of the preceding weeks.
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I had started the term with my battels paid and over a hundred pounds in hand. All that had gone, and not a penny paid out where I could get credit. There had been no reason for it, no great pleasure unattainable else; it had gone in ducks and drakes. Sebastian used to tease me - ‘You spend money, like a bookie’ - but all of it went on and with him. His own finances were perpetually, vaguely distressed. ‘It’s all done by lawyers,’ he said helplessly, ‘and I suppose they embezzle a lot. Anyway, I never seem to get much. Of course, mummy would give me anything I asked for.’
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‘Then why don’t you ask her for a proper allowance?’
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‘Oh, mummy likes everything to be a present. She’s so sweet,’ he said, adding one more line to the picture I was forming of her.
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Now Sebastian had disappeared into that other life of his where I was not asked to follow, and I was left, instead, forlorn and regretful.
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How ungenerously in later life we disclaim the virtuous moods of our youth, living in retrospect long, summer days of unreflecting dissipation. There is no candour in a story of early manhood which leaves out of account the home-sickness for nursery morality,the regrets and resolutions of amendment, the black hours which, like zero on the roulette table, turn up with roughly calculable regularity.
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Thus I spent the first afternoon at home, wandering from room to room, looking from the plate-glass windows in turn on the garden and the street, in a mood of vehementself-reproach.
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My father, I knew, was in the house, but his library was inviolable, and it was not until just before dinner that he appeared to greet me. He was then in his late fifties, but it was his idiosyncrasy to seem much older than his years; to see him one might have put him at seventy, to hear him speak at nearly eighty. He came to me now, with the shuffling, mandarin-tread which he affected, and a shy smile of welcome. When he dined at home - and he seldom dined elsewhere - he wore a frogged velvet smoking suit of the kind which had been fashionable many years before and was to be so again, but, at that time, was a deliberate archaism.
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‘My dear boy, I they never told me you were here.’ Did you have a very exhausting journey? They gave you tea? You are well? I have just made a somewhat audacious I purchase from Sonerscheins - a terra-cotta bull of the fifth century. I was examining it and forgot your arrival. Was the carriage very full? You had a corner seat? (He travelled so rarely himself that to hear of others doing so always excited his solicitude.) ‘Hayter brought you the evening paper? There is no news, of course - such a lot of nonsense.’
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Dinner was announced. My father from long habit took a book with him to the table and then, remembering my presence, furtively dropped it under his chair. ‘What do you like to drink? Hayter, what have we for Mr Charles to drink?’
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‘There’s some whisky.’
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‘There’s whisky. Perhaps you like something, else? What else have we?’
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‘There isn’t anything else in the house, sir.’
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‘There’s nothing else. You must tell Hayter what you would like and he will get it in. I never keep any wine now. I am forbidden it and no one comes to see me. But while you are here, you must have what you like. You are here for long.?’
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‘I’m not quite sure, father.’
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‘It’s a very long vacation,’ he said wistfully. ‘In my day we used to go on what were called reading parties, always in mountainous areas. Why?. Why,’ he repeated petulantly, ‘should alpine scenery be thought conducive to study?’
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‘I thought of putting in some time at an art school - in the life class.’
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‘My dear boy, you’ll find them all shut. The students go to Barbizon or such places and paint in the open air. There was an institution in my day called a “sketching club”’ - mixed sexes’ (snuffle), ‘bicycles’ (snuffle), ‘pepper-and-salt knickerbockers, holland umbrellas, and, it was popularly thought, free love’ (snuffle), such a lot of nonsense. I expect they still go on. You might try that.’
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‘One of the problems of the vacation is money, father.’
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‘Oh, I shouldn’t worry about a thing like that at your age.’
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‘You see, I’ve run rather short.’
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‘Yes?’ said my father without any sound of interest.
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‘In fact I don’t quite know how I’m going to get through the next two months.’
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‘Well, I’m the worst person to come to for advice. I’ve never been “short” as you so painfully call it. And yet what else could you say? Hard up? Penurious? Distressed?Embarrassed? Stonybroke?’ (snuffle). ‘On the rocks? In Queer Street? Let us say you are in Queer Street and leave it at that. Your grandfather once said to me, “Live within your means, but if you do get into difficulties, come to me. Don’t go to the Jews.” Such a lot of nonsense. You try. Go to those gentlemen in Jermyn Street who offer advances on note of hand only. My dear boy, they won’t give you a sovereign.’
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‘Then what do you suggest my doing?’
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‘Your cousin Melchior was imprudent with his investments and got into a very queer street. He went to Australia.’
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I had not seen my father so gleeful since he found two pages of second-century papyrus between the leaves of a Lombardic breviary.?
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‘Hayter, I’ve dropped my book.’
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It was recovered for him from under his feet and propped against the épergne. For the rest of dinner he was silent save for an occasional snuffle of merriment which could not, I thought be provoked by the work he read.
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Presently we left the table and sat in I the garden-room; and there, plainly, he put me out of his mind; his thoughts, I knew, were far away, in those distant ages where he moved at ease, where time passed in centuries and all the figures were defaced and the names of his companions were corrupt readings of words of quite other meaning. He sat in an attitude which to anyone else would have been one of extreme discomfort, askew in his upright armchair, with his book held high and obliquely to the light. Now and then he took a gold pencil-case from his watchchain and made an entry in the margin.
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The windows were open to the summer night; the ticking of the clocks, the distant murmur of traffic on the Bayswater Road, and my-father’s regular turning of the pages were the only sounds. I had thought it impolitic to smoke a cigar while pleading poverty; now in desperation I went to my room and fetched one. My father did not look up. I pierced it, lit it, and with renewed confidence said, ‘Father, you surely don’t want me to spend the whole vacation here with you?’
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‘Eh?’
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‘Won’t you find it rather a bore having me at home for so long?’
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‘I trust I should not betray such an emotion even if I felt it, said my father mildly and turned back to his book.
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The evening passed. Eventually all over the room clocks of diverse pattern musically chimed eleven. My, father closed his book and removed his spectacles. ‘You are very welcome, my dear boy,’ he said. ‘Stay as long as you find it convenient.’ At the door he paused and turned back. ‘Your cousin Melchior worked his passage to Australia before the mast.’ (Snuffle.) ‘What, I wonder, is “before the mast”?’
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During the sultry week that followed, my relations with my father deteriorated sharply. I saw little of him during the day; he spent hours on end in the library; now and then he emerged and I would hear him calling over the banisters: ‘Hayter, get me a cab.’
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Then he would be away, sometimes for half an hour or less, sometimes a whole day; his errands were never explained. Often I saw trays going up to him at odd hours, laden with meagre nursery snacks - rusks, glasses of milk, bananas, and so forth. If we met in a passage or on the stairs he would look at me vacantly and say ‘Ah-ha,’ or ‘Very warm,’ or ‘Splendid, splendid,’ but in the evening, when he came to the garden-room in his velvet smoking suit, he always greeted me formally.
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The dinner table was our battlefield.
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On the second evening I took my book with me to the dining-room. His mind and wandering eye fastened on it with sudden attention, and as we passed through the hall he surreptitiously left his own on a side table. When we sat down, he said plaintively: ‘I do think, Charles, you might talk to me. I’ve had a very exhausting day. I was looking forward to a little conversation.’
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‘Of course, father. What shall we talk about?’
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‘Cheer me up. Take me out of myself,’ petulantly, ‘tell me about the new plays.’
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‘But I haven’t been to any.’
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‘You should, you know you really should. It’s not natural in a young man to spend all his evenings at home.’
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‘Well, father,’ as I told you, I haven’t much money to spare for theatre-going.’
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‘My dear boy, you must not let money become your master in this way. Why, at your age, your cousin Melchior was part-owner of a musical piece. It was one of his few happy ventures. You should go to the play as part of your education. If you read the lives of eminent men you will find that quite half of them made their first acquaintance with drama from the gallery. I am told there is no pleasure like it. It is there that you find the real critics and devotees. It is called “sitting, with the gods”. The expense is nugatory, and even while you wait for admission in the street you are diverted by “buskers”. We will sit with the gods together one night. How do you find Mrs.Abel’s cooking?’
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‘Unchanged.’
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‘It was inspired by your Aunt Philippa. She gave Mrs Abel ten menus, and they have never been varied. When I am alone I do not notice what I eat, but now that you are here, we must have a change. What would you like? What is in season? Are you fond of lobsters? Hayter, tell Mrs Abel to give us lobsters tomorrow night.’
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Dinner that. evening consisted of a white, tasteless soup, overfried fillets of sole with a pink sauce, lamb cutlets propped against a cone of mashed potato, stewed pears in jelly standing on a kind of sponge cake.
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‘It is purely out of respect for your Aunt Philippa that I dine at this length. She laid it down that a three-course dinner was middle-class. “If you once let the servants get their way,” she said, “you will find yourself dining nightly off a single chop.” There is nothing I should like more. In fact, that is exactly what I do when I go to my club on Mrs Abel’s evening out. But your aunt ordained that at home I must have soup and three courses; some nights it is fish, meat, and savoury, on others it is meat, sweet, savoury - there are a number of possible permutations.
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It is remarkable how some people are able to put their opinions in lapidary form; your aunt had that gift.
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‘It is odd to think that she and I once dined together nightly just as you and I do, my boy. Now she made unremitting efforts to take me out of myself. She used to tell me about her reading. It was in her mind to make a home with me, you know. She thought I should get into funny ways if I was left on my own. Perhaps I have got into funny ways. Have I? But it didn’t do. I got her out in the end.’
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There was an unmistakable note of menace in his voice as he said this. It was largely by reason of my Aunt Philippa that I now found myself so much a stranger in my father’s house. After my mother’s death she came to live with my father and me, no doubt, as he said, with the idea of making her home with us. I knew nothing, then, of the nightly agonies at the dinner table. My aunt made herself my companion, and I accepted her without question. That was for a year.
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The first change was that she reopened her house in Surrey which she had meant to sell, and lived there during my school terms, coming to London only for a few days’ shopping and entertainment. In the summer we went to lodgings together at the seaside. Then in my last year at school she left England. ‘I got her out in the end,’ he said with derision and triumph of that kindly lady, and he knew that I heard in the words a challenge to myself.?
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As we left the dining-room my father said, ‘Hayter, have you yet said anything to Mrs Abel about the lobsters I ordered for tomorrow?’
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‘No, sir.’
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‘Do not do so.’
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‘Very good, sir.’
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And when we reached our chairs in the garden-room he said: ‘I wonder whether Hayter had any intention of mentioning, lobsters, I rather think not. Do you know, I believe he thought I was joking? ‘
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Next day by chance, a weapon came to hand. I met an old acquaintance of school-days, a contemporary of mine named Jorkins. I never had much liking for Jorkins. Once, in my Aunt Philippa’s day, he had come to tea, and she had condemned him as being probably charming at heart, but unattractive at first sight. Now I greeted him with enthusiasm and asked him to dinner. He came and showed little alteration.
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My father must have been warned by Hayter that there was a guest, for instead of his velvet suit he wore a tail coat; this, with a black waistcoat, very high collar, and very narrow white tie, was his evening dress; he wore it with an air of melancholy as though it were court mourning, which he had assumed in early youth and, finding the style sympathetic, had retained. He never possessed a dinner jacket.