Jaffery Part 1
Jaffery.
by William J. Locke.
CHAPTER I
I received a letter the day before yesterday from my old friend, Jaffery Chayne, which has inspired me to write the following account of that dear, bull-headed, Pantagruelian being. I must say that I have been egged on to do so by my wife, of whom hereafter. A man of my somewhat urbane and dilettante temperament does not do these things without being worried into them. I had the inspiration, however. I told Barbara (my wife), and she agreed, at the time, dutifully, that I ought to record our friend Jaffery's doings. But now, womanlike, she declares that the first suggestion, the root germ of the idea, came from her; that the "egging on" is merely the vain man's way of misdefining a woman's serene insistence; that she has given me, out of her intimate knowledge, all the facts of the story--although Jaffery Chayne and Adrian Boldero and poor Tom Castleton, and others involved in the imbroglio, counted themselves as my bosom cronies, while she, poor wretch (a man must get home somewhere), was in the nursery; and that, finally, if she had been taught English grammar and spelling at school, she would have dispensed entirely with my pedantic a.s.sistance and written the story herself.
Anyhow, man-like, I am broad minded enough to proclaim that it doesn't very much matter. Man and wife are one. She thinks they are one wife. I know they are one husband. Between speculation and knowledge why so futile a thing as a quarrel? I proceed therefore to my originally self-appointed and fantastic task.
But on reflection, before beginning, I must honestly admit that if it had not been for Barbara I should write of these things with half-knowledge. s.e.x is a queer and incalculable solvent of human confidence. There are certain revelations that men will make only to a man, certain revelations likewise that women will make only to a man. On the other hand, a woman is told things by her sister women and her brother men which, but for her, would never reach a man's ears. So by combining the information obtained from our family encyclopaedia under the feminine heading of China with that obtained under the masculine heading of Philosophy, I can, figuratively speaking, like the famous student, issue my treatise on Chinese Philosophy.
One miraculous morning in late May, not so very many years ago, when the parrot-tulips in my garden were expanding themselves wantonly to the sun, and the lilac and laburnum which I caught, as I sat at my table, with the tail of one eye, and the pink may which I caught with the tail of the other, bloomed in splendid arrogance, my quiet outlook on greenery and colour was obscured by a human form. I may mention that my study-table is placed in the bay of a window, on the ground floor. It is a French window, opening on a terrace. Beyond the parapet of the terrace, the garden, with its apple and walnut trees, its beeches, its lawn, its beds of tulips, its lilac and laburnum and may and all sorts of other pleasant things, slopes lazily upwards to a horizon of iron railings separating the garden from a meadow where now and then a cow, when she desires to be peculiarly agreeable to the sight, poses herself in silhouette against the sky. I like to gaze on that advent.i.tious cow.
Her ruminatory att.i.tude falls in with mine... . But I digress... .
I glanced up at the obscuring human form and recognized my wife. She looked, I must confess, remarkably pretty, with her fair hair _blond comme les bles_, and her mocking cornflower blue eyes, and her mutinous mouth, which has never yet (after all these years) a.s.sumed a responsible parent's austerity. She wore a fresh white dress with coquettish bits of blue about the bodice. In her hand she grasped a dilapidated newspaper, the _Daily Telegraph_, which looked as if she had been to bed in it.
"Am I disturbing you, Hilary?"
She was. She knew she was. But she looked so charming, a petal of spring, a quick incarnation of pink may and forget-me-not and laburnum, that I put down my pen and I smiled.
"You are, my dear," said I, "but it doesn't matter."
"What are you doing?" She remained on the threshold.
"I am writing my presidential address," said I, "for the Grand Meeting, next month, of the Hafiz Society."
"I wonder," said Barbara, "why Hafiz always makes me think of sherbet."
I remonstrated, waving a dismissing hand.
"If that's all you've got to say--"
"But it isn't."
She crossed the threshold, stepped in, swished round the end of my long oak table and took possession of my library. I wheeled round politely in my chair.
"Then, what is it?" I asked.
"Have you read the paper this morning?"
"I've glanced through the _Times_," said I.
She patted her handful of bedclothing and let fall a blanket and a bed-spread or two--("Look at my beautifully, orderly folded _Times_,"
said I, with an indicatory gesture) She looked and sniffed--and shed Vallombrosa leaves of the _Daily Telegraph_ about the library until she had discovered the page for which she was searching. Then she held a mangled sheet before my eyes.
"There!" she cried, "what do you think of that?"
"What do I think of what?" I asked, regarding the acre of print.
"Adrian Boldero has written a novel!"
"Adrian?" said I. "Well, my dear, what of it? Poor old Adrian is capable of anything. Nothing he did would ever surprise me. He might write a sonnet to a Royal Princess's first set of false teeth or steal the tin cup from a blind beggar's dog, and he would be still the same beautiful, charming, futile Adrian."
Barbara pished and insisted. "But this is apparently a wonderful novel.
There's a whole column about it. They say it's the most astounding book published in our generation. Look! A work of genius."
"Rubbish, darling," said I, knowing my Adrian.
"Take the trouble to read the notice," said Barbara, thrusting the paper at me in a superior manner.
I took it from her and read. She was right. Somebody calling himself Adrian Boldero had written a novel called "The Diamond Gate," which a usually sane and distinguished critic proclaimed to be a work of genius.
He sketched the outline of the story, indicated its peculiar wonder. The review impressed me.
"Barbara, my dear," said I, "this is somebody else--not our Adrian."
"How many people in the world are called Adrian Boldero?"
"Thousands," said I.
She pished again and tossed her pretty head.
"I'll go and telephone straight away to Adrian and find out all about it."
She departed through the library door into the recesses of the house where the telephone has its being. I resumed consideration of my presidential address. But Hafiz eluded me, and Adrian occupied my thoughts. I took up the paper and read the review again; and the more I read, the more absurd did it seem to me that the author of "The Diamond Gate" and my Adrian Boldero could be one and the same person.
You see, we had, all four of us, Adrian, Jaffery Chayne, Tom Castleton and myself, been at Cambridge together, and formed after the manner of youth a somewhat incongruous brotherhood. We knew one another's shortcomings to a nicety and whenever three of the quartette were gathered together, the physical prowess, the morals and the intellectual capacity of the absent fourth were discussed with admirable lack of reticence. So it came to pa.s.s that we gauged one another pretty accurately and remained devoted friends. There were other men, of course, on the fringe of the brotherhood, and each of us had our little separate circle; we did not form a mutual admiration society and advertise ourselves as a kind of exclusive, Athos, Porthos, Aramis and d'Artagnan swashbucklery; but, in a quiet way, we recognised our quadruple union of hearts, and talked amazing rubbish and committed unspeakable acts of lunacy and dreamed impossible dreams in a very delightful, and perhaps unsuspected, intimacy. We were now in our middle and late thirties--all save poor Tom Castleton, over whom, in an alien grave, the years of the Lord pa.s.sed unheeded. Poor old chap! He was the son of the acting-manager of a well-known theatre and used to talk to us of the starry theatre-folk, his family intimates, as though they were haphazard occupants of an omnibus. How we envied him! And he was forever writing plays which he read to us; which plays, I remember, were always on the verge of being produced by Irving. We believed in him firmly. He alone of the little crew had a touch of genius.
Blond, bull-necked Jaffery who rowed in the college boat, and would certainly have got his blue if he had been amenable to discipline and, because he was not, got sent down ingloriously from the University at the beginning of his third year, certainly did not show a sign of it.
Adrian was a bit unaccountable. He wrote poems for the Cambridge Review, and became Vice-President of the Union; but he ran disastrously to fancy waistcoats, and shuddered at d.i.c.kens because his style was not that of Walter Pater. For myself, Hilary Freeth--well--I am a happy nonent.i.ty. I have a very mild scholarly taste which sufficient private means, accruing to me through my late father's ac.u.men in buying a few founder's shares in a now colossal universal providing emporium, enable me to gratify. I am a harmless person of no account. But the other three mattered. They were definite--Jaffery, blatantly definite; Adrian Boldero, in his queer, silky way, incisively definite; Tom Castleton, romantically definite. And poor old Tom was dead. Dear, impossible, f.e.c.kless fellow. He took a first cla.s.s in the Cla.s.sical Tripos and we thought his brilliant career was a.s.sured--but somehow circ.u.mstances baffled him; he had a terrible time for a dozen years or so, taking pupils, acting, free-lancing in journalism, his father having, in the meanwhile, died suddenly penniless; and then Fortune smiled on him. He secured a professorship at an Australian University. The three of us--Jaffery and Adrian and I--saw him off at Southampton. He never reached Australia. He died on the voyage. Poor old Tom!
So I sat, with the review of Adrian's book before me, looking out at my Pleasant garden, and my mind went irresistibly back to the old days and then wandered on to the present. Tom was dead: I flourished, a comfortable c.u.mberer of the earth; Jaffery was doing something idiotically desperate somewhere or the other--he was a war-correspondent by trade (as regular an employment as that of the maker of hot-cross buns), and a desperado by predilection--I had not heard from him for a year; and now Adrian--if indeed the Adrian Boldero of the review was he--had written an epoch-making novel.
But Adrian--the precious, finnikin Adrian--how on earth could he have written this same epoch-making novel? Beyond doubt he was a clever fellow. He had obtained a First Cla.s.s in the Law Tripos and had done well in his Bar examination. But after fourteen years or so he was making twopence halfpenny per annum at his profession. He made another three-farthings, say, by selling elegant verses to magazines. He dined out a great deal and spent much of his time at country houses, being a very popular and agreeable person. His other means of livelihood consisted of an allowance of four hundred a year made him by his mother.
Beyond the social graces he had not distinguished himself. And now--
"It _is_ Adrian," cried my wife, bursting into the library. "I knew it was. He has had several other glorious reviews which we haven't seen.
Isn't it splendid?"
Her eyes danced with loyalty and gladness. Now that I too knew it was our Adrian I caught her enthusiasm.
"Splendid," I echoed. "To think of old Adrian making good at last! I'm more than glad. Telephone at once, dear, for a copy of the book."
"Adrian is bringing one with him. He's coming down to dine and stay the night. He said he had an engagement, but I told him it was rubbish, and he's coming."
Barbara had a despotic way with her men friends, especially with Adrian and Jaffery, who, each after his kind, paid her very pretty homage.