Seven Men

`Braxton was coming up the aisle.  He came slowly, casting a tourist’s eye at the stained-glass windows on either side.  Walking heavily, yet with no sound of boots on the pavement, he reached our pew.  There, towering and glowering, he halted, as though demanding that we should make room for him.  A moment later he edged sullenly into the pew.  Instinctively I had sat tight back, drawing my knees aside, in a shudder of revulsion against contact.  But Braxton did not push past me.  What he did was to sit slowly and fully down on me.

`No, not down on me.  Down through me—­and around me.  What befell me was not mere ghastly contact with the intangible.  It was inclusion, envelopment, eclipse.  What Braxton sat down on was not I, but the seat of the pew; and what he sat back against was not my face and chest, but the back of the pew.  I didn’t realise this at the moment.  All I knew was a sudden black blotting-out of all things; an infinite and impenetrable darkness.  I dimly conjectured that I was dead.  What was wrong with me, in point of fact, was that my eyes, with the rest of me, were inside Braxton.  You remember what a great hulking fellow Braxton was.  I calculate that as we sat there my eyes were just beneath the roof of his mouth.  Horrible!

`Out of the unfathomable depths of that pitch darkness, I could yet hear the “voluntary” swelling and dwindling, just as before.  It was by this I knew now that I wasn’t dead.  And I suppose I must have craned my head forward, for I had a sudden glimpse of things—­a close quick downward glimpse of a pepper-and-salt waistcoat and of two great hairy hands clasped across it.  Then darkness again.  Either I had drawn back my head, or Braxton had thrust his forward; I don’t know which.  “Are you all right?” the Duchess’ voice whispered, and no doubt my face was ashen.  “Quite,” whispered my voice.  But this pathetic monosyllable was the last gasp of the social instinct in me.  Suddenly, as the “voluntary” swelled to its close, there was a great sharp shuffling noise.  The congregation had risen to its feet, at the entry of choir and vicar.  Braxton had risen, leaving me in daylight.  I beheld his towering back.  The Duchess, beside him, glanced round at me.  But I could not, dared not, stand up into that presented back, into that great waiting darkness.  I did but clutch my hat from beneath the seat and hurry distraught down the aisle, out through the porch, into the open air.

`Whither?  To what goal?  I didn’t reason.  I merely fled—­like Orestes; fled like an automaton along the path we had come by.  And was followed?  Yes, yes.  Glancing back across my shoulder, I saw that brute some twenty yards behind me, gaining on me.  I broke into a sharper run.  A few sickening moments later, he was beside me, scowling down into my face.

`I swerved, dodged, doubled on my tracks, but he was always at me.  Now and again, for lack of breath, I halted, and he halted with me.  And then, when I had got my wind, I would start running again, in the insane hope of escaping him.  We came, by what twisting and turning course I know not, to the great avenue, and as I stood there in an agony of panting I had a dazed vision of the distant Hall.  Really I had quite forgotten I was staying at the Duke of Hertfordshire’s.  But Braxton hadn’t forgotten.  He planted himself in front of me.  He stood between me and the house.

`Faint though I was, I could almost have laughed.  Good heavens! was that all he wanted:  that I shouldn’t go back there?  Did he suppose I wanted to go back there—­with him?  Was I the Duke’s prisoner on parole?  What was there to prevent me from just walking off to the railway station?  I turned to do so.

`He accompanied me on my way.  I thought that when once I had passed through the lodge gates he might vanish, satisfied.  But no, he didn’t vanish.  It was as though he suspected that if he let me out of his sight I should sneak back to the house.  He arrived with me, this quiet companion of mine, at the little railway station.  Evidently he meant to see me off.  I learned from an elderly and solitary porter that the next train to London was the 4.3.

`Well, Braxton saw me off by the 4.3.  I reflected, as I stepped up into an empty compartment, that it wasn’t yet twenty-four hours ago since I, or some one like me, had alighted at that station.

`The guard blew his whistle; the engine shrieked, and the train jolted forward and away; but I did not lean out of the window to see the last of my attentive friend.

`Really not twenty-four hours ago?  Not twenty-four years?’

Maltby paused in his narrative. `Well, well,’ he said, `I don’t want you to think I overrate the ordeal of my visit to Keeb.  A man of stronger nerve than mine, and of greater resourcefulness, might have coped successfully with Braxton from first to last—­might have stayed on till Monday, making a very favourable impression on every one all the while.  Even as it was, even after my manifold failures and sudden flight, I don’t say my position was impossible.  I only say it seemed so to me.  A man less sensitive than I, and less vain, might have cheered up after writing a letter of apology to his hostess, and have resumed his normal existence as though nothing very terrible had happened, after all.  I wrote a few lines to the Duchess that night; but I wrote amidst the preparations for my departure from England:  I crossed the Channel next morning.  Throughout that Sunday afternoon with Braxton at the Keeb railway station, pacing the desolate platform with him, waiting in the desolating waiting-room with him, I was numb to regrets, and was thinking of nothing but the 4.3.  On the way to Victoria my brain worked and my soul wilted.  Every incident in my stay at Keeb stood out clear to me; a dreadful, a hideous pattern.  I had done for myself, so far as those people were concerned.  And now that I had sampled them, what cared I for others?  “Too low for a hawk, too high for a buzzard.”  That homely old saying seemed to sum me up.  And suppose I could still take pleasure in the company of my own old upper-middle class, how would that class regard me now?  Gossip percolates.  Little by little, I was sure, the story of my Keeb fiasco would leak down into the drawing-room of Mrs. Foster-Dugdale.  I felt I could never hold up my head in any company where anything of that story was known.  Are you quite sure you never heard anything?’

I assured Maltby that all I had known was the great bare fact of his having stayed at Keeb Hall.

`It’s curious,’ he reflected. `It’s a fine illustration of the loyalty of those people to one another.  I suppose there was a general agreement for the Duchess’ sake that nothing should be said about her queer guest.  But even if I had dared hope to be so efficiently hushed up, I couldn’t have not fled.  I wanted to forget.  I wanted to leap into some void, far away from all reminders.  I leapt straight from Ryder Street into Vaule-la-Rochette, a place of which I had once heard that it was the least frequented seaside-resort in Europe.  I leapt leaving no address—­leapt telling my landlord that if a suit-case and a portmanteau arrived for me he could regard them, them and their contents, as his own for ever.  I daresay the Duchess wrote me a kind little letter, forcing herself to express a vague hope that I would come again “some other time.”  I daresay Lady Rodfitten did not write reminding me of my promise to lunch on Friday and bring “Ariel Returns to Mayfair” with me.  I left that manuscript at Ryder Street; in my bedroom grate; a shuffle of ashes.  Not that I’d yet given up all thought of writing.  But I certainly wasn’t going to write now about the two things I most needed to forget.  I wasn’t going to write about the British aristocracy, nor about any kind of supernatural presence….  I did write a novel—­my last—­while I was at Vaule.  “Mr. and Mrs. Robinson.”  Did you ever come across a copy of it?

I nodded gravely.

`Ah; I wasn’t sure,’ said Maltby, `whether it was ever published.  A dreary affair, wasn’t it?  I knew a great deal about suburban life.  But—­well, I suppose one can’t really understand what one doesn’t love, and one can’t make good fun without real understanding.  Besides, what chance of virtue is there for a book written merely to distract the author’s mind?  I had hoped to be healed by sea and sunshine and solitude.  These things were useless.  The labour of “Mr. and Mrs. Robinson” did help, a little.  When I had finished it, I thought I might as well send it off to my publisher.  He had given me a large sum of money, down, after “Ariel,” for my next book—­so large that I was rather loth to disgorge.  In the note I sent with the manuscript, I gave no address, and asked that the proofs should be read in the office.  I didn’t care whether the thing were published or not.  I knew it would be a dead failure if it were.  What mattered one more drop in the foaming cup of my humiliation?  I knew Braxton would grin and gloat.  I didn’t mind even that.’

`Oh, well,’ I said, `Braxton was in no mood for grinning and gloating.  “The Drones” had already appeared.’

Maltby had never heard of `The Drones’—­which I myself had remembered only in the course of his disclosures.  I explained to him that it was Braxton’s second novel, and was by way of being a savage indictment of the British aristocracy; that it was written in the worst possible taste, but was so very dull that it fell utterly flat; that Braxton had forthwith taken, with all of what Maltby had called `the passionate force and intensity of his nature,’ to drink, and had presently gone under and not re-emerged.

Maltby gave signs of genuine, though not deep, emotion, and cited two or three of the finest passages from `A Faun on the Cotswolds.’  He even expressed a conviction that `The Drones’ must have been misjudged.  He said he blamed himself more than ever for yielding to that bad impulse at that Soiree.

`And yet,’ he mused, `and yet, honestly, I can’t find it in my heart to regret that I did yield.  I can only wish that all had turned out as well, in the end, for Braxton as for me.  I wish he could have won out, as I did, into a great and lasting felicity.  For about a year after I had finished “Mr. and Mrs. Robinson” I wandered from place to place, trying to kill memory, shunning all places frequented by the English.  At last I found myself in Lucca.  Here, if anywhere, I thought, might a bruised and tormented spirit find gradual peace.  I determined to move out of my hotel into some permanent lodging.  Not for felicity, not for any complete restoration of self-respect, was I hoping; only for peace.  A “mezzano” conducted me to a noble and ancient house, of which, he told me, the owner was anxious to let the first floor.  It was in much disrepair, but even so seemed to me very cheap.  According to the simple Luccan standard, I am rich.  I took that first floor for a year, had it repaired, and engaged two servants.  My “padrona” inhabited the ground floor.  From time to time she allowed me to visit her there.  She was the Contessa Adriano-Rizzoli, the last of her line.  She is the Contessa Adriano-Rizzoli-Maltby.  We have been married fifteen years.’

Maltby looked at his watch.  He rose and took tenderly from the table his great bunch of roses. `She is a lineal descendant,’ he said, `of the Emperor Hadrian.’

`Savonarola’ brown

I like to remember that I was the first to call him so, for, though he always deprecated the nickname, in his heart he was pleased by it, I know, and encouraged to go on.

Quite apart from its significance, he had reason to welcome it.  He had been unfortunate at the font.  His parents, at the time of his birth, lived in Ladbroke Crescent, XV.  They must have been an extraordinarily unimaginative couple, for they could think of no better name for their child than Ladbroke.  This was all very well for him till he went to school.  But you can fancy the indignation and delight of us boys at finding among us a newcomer who, on his own confession, had been named after a Crescent.  I don’t know how it is nowadays, but thirty-five years ago, certainly, schoolboys regarded the possession of any Christian name as rather unmanly.  As we all had these encumbrances, we had to wreak our scorn on any one who was cumbered in a queer fashion.  I myself, bearer of a Christian name adjudged eccentric though brief, had had much to put up with in my first term.  Brown’s arrival, therefore, at the beginning of my second term, was a good thing for me, and I am afraid I was very prominent among his persecutors.  Trafalgar Brown, Tottenham Court Brown, Bond Brown—­what names did we little brutes not cull for him from the London Directory?  Except how miserable we made his life, I do not remember much about him as he was at that time, and the only important part of the little else that I do recall is that already he showed a strong sense for literature.  For the majority of us Carthusians, literature was bounded on the north by Whyte Melville, on the south by Hawley Smart, on the east by the former, and on the west by the latter.  Little Brown used to read Harrison Ainsworth, Wilkie Collins, and other writers whom we, had we assayed them, would have dismissed as `deep.’  It has been said by Mr. Arthur Symons that `all art is a mode of escape.’  The art of letters did not, however, enable Brown to escape so far from us as he would have wished.  In my third term he did not reappear among us.  His parents had in some sort atoned.  Unimaginative though they were, it seems they could understand a tale of woe laid before them circumstantially, and had engaged a private tutor for their boy.  Fifteen years elapsed before I saw him again.

This was at the second night of some play.  I was dramatic critic for the Saturday Review, and, weary of meeting the same lot of people over and over again at first nights, had recently sent a circular to the managers asking that I might have seats for second nights instead.  I found that there existed as distinct and invariable a lot of second-nighters as of first-nighters.  The second-nighters were less `showy’; but then, they came rather to see than to be seen, and there was an air, that I liked, of earnestness and hopefulness about them.  I used to write a great deal about the future of the British drama, and they, for their part, used to think and talk a great deal about it.  People who care about books and pictures find much to interest and please them in the present.  It is only the students of the theatre who always fall back, or rather forward, on the future.  Though second-nighters do come to see, they remain rather to hope and pray.  I should have known anywhere, by the visionary look in his eyes, that Brown was a confirmed second-nighter.

What surprises me is that I knew he was Brown.  It is true that he had not grown much in those fifteen years:  his brow was still disproportionate to his body, and he looked young to have become `confirmed’ in any habit.  But it is also true that not once in the past ten years, at any rate, had he flitted through my mind and poised on my conscience.

I hope that I and those other boys had long ago ceased from recurring to him in nightmares.  Cordial though the hand was that I offered him, and highly civilised my whole demeanour, he seemed afraid that at any moment I might begin to dance around him, shooting out my lips at him and calling him Seven-Sisters Brown or something of that kind.  It was only after constant meetings at second nights, and innumerable entr’acte talks about the future of the drama, that he began to trust me.  In course of time we formed the habit of walking home together as far as Cumberland Place, at which point our ways diverged.  I gathered that he was still living with his parents, but he did not tell me where, for they had not, as I learned by reference to the Red Book, moved from Ladbroke Crescent.

I found his company restful rather than inspiring.  His days were spent in clerkship at one of the smaller Government Offices, his evenings—­except when there was a second night—­in reading and writing.  He did not seem to know much, or to wish to know more, about life.  Books and plays, first editions and second nights, were what he cared for.  On matters of religion and ethics he was as little keen as he seemed to be on human character in the raw; so that (though I had already suspected him of writing, or meaning to write, a play) my eyebrows did rise when he told me he meant to write a play about Savonarola.

He made me understand, however, that it was rather the name than the man that had first attracted him.  He said that the name was in itself a great incentive to blank-verse.  He uttered it to me slowly, in a voice so much deeper than his usual voice, that I nearly laughed.  For the actual bearer of the name he had no hero-worship, and said it was by a mere accident that he had chosen him as central figure.  He had thought of writing a tragedy about Sardanapalus; but the volume of the “Encyclopedia Britannica” in which he was going to look up the main facts about Sardanapalus happened to open at Savonarola.  Hence a sudden and complete peripety in the student’s mind.  He told me he had read the Encyclopedia’s article carefully, and had dipped into one or two of the books there mentioned as authorities.  He seemed almost to wish he hadn’t. `Facts get in one’s way so,’ he complained. `History is one thing, drama is another.  Aristotle said drama was more philosophic than history because it showed us what men would do, not just what they did.  I think that’s so true, don’t you?  I want to show what Savonarola would have done if—­’ He paused.

`If what?’

`Well, that’s just the point.  I haven’t settled that yet.  When I’ve thought of a plot, I shall go straight ahead.’

I said I supposed he intended his tragedy rather for the study than for the stage.  This seemed to hurt him.  I told him that what I meant was that managers always shied at anything without `a strong feminine interest.’  This seemed to worry him.  I advised him not to think about managers.  He promised that he would think only about Savonarola.

I know now that this promise was not exactly kept by him; and he may have felt slightly awkward when, some weeks later, he told me he had begun the play. `I’ve hit on an initial idea,’ he said, `and that’s enough to start with.  I gave up my notion of inventing a plot in advance.  I thought it would be a mistake.  I don’t want puppets on wires.  I want Savonarola to work out his destiny in his own way.  Now that I have the initial idea, what I’ve got to do is to make Savonarola live.  I hope I shall be able to do this.  Once he’s alive, I shan’t interfere with him.  I shall just watch him.  Won’t it be interesting?  He isn’t alive yet.  But there’s plenty of time.  You see, he doesn’t come on at the rise of the curtain.  A Friar and a Sacristan come on and talk about him.  By the time they’ve finished, perhaps he’ll be alive.  But they won’t have finished yet.  Not that they’re going to say very much.  But I write slowly.’

I remember the mild thrill I had when, one evening, he took me aside and said in an undertone, `Savonarola has come on.  Alive!’ For me the MS. hereinafter printed has an interest that for you it cannot have, so a-bristle am I with memories of the meetings I had with its author throughout the nine years he took over it.  He never saw me without reporting progress, or lack of progress.  Just what was going on, or standing still, he did not divulge.  After the entry of Savonarola, he never told me what characters were appearing. `All sorts of people appear,’ he would say rather helplessly. `They insist.  I can’t prevent them.’  I used to say it must be great fun to be a creative artist; but at this he always shook his head:  `I don’t create.  They do.  Savonarola especially, of course.  I just look on and record.  I never know what’s going to happen next.’  He had the advantage of me in knowing at any rate what had happened last.  But whenever I pled for a glimpse he would again shake his head: 

`The thing must be judged as a whole.  Wait till I’ve come to the end of the Fifth Act.’

So impatient did I become that, as the years went by, I used rather to resent his presence at second nights.  I felt he ought to be at his desk.  His, I used to tell him, was the only drama whose future ought to concern him now.  And in point of fact he had, I think, lost the true spirit of the second-nighter, and came rather to be seen than to see.  He liked the knowledge that here and there in the auditorium, when he entered it, some one would be saying `Who is that?’ and receiving the answer `Oh, don’t you know?  That’s “Savonarola” Brown.’  This sort of thing, however, did not make him cease to be the modest, unaffected fellow I had known.  He always listened to the advice I used to offer him, though inwardly he must have chafed at it.  Myself a fidgety and uninspired person, unable to begin a piece of writing before I know just how it shall end, I had always been afraid that sooner or later Brown would take some turning that led nowhither—­ would lose himself and come to grief.  This fear crept into my gladness when, one evening in the spring of 1909, he told me he had finished the Fourth Act.  Would he win out safely through the Fifth?

He himself was looking rather glum; and, as we walked away from the theatre, I said to him, `I suppose you feel rather like Thackeray when he’d “killed the Colonel”:  you’ve got to kill the Monk.’

`Not quite that,’ he answered. `But of course he’ll die very soon now.  A couple of years or so.  And it does seem rather sad.  It’s not merely that he’s so full of life.  He has been becoming much more human lately.  At first I only respected him.  Now I have a real affection for him.’

This was an interesting glimpse at last, but I turned from it to my besetting fear.

`Haven’t you,’ I asked, `any notion of how he is to die?’

Brown shook his head.

`But in a tragedy,’ I insisted, `the catastrophe must be led up to, step by step.  My dear Brown, the end of the hero must be logical and rational.’

`I don’t see that,’ he said, as we crossed Piccadilly Circus. `In actual life it isn’t so.  What is there to prevent a motor-omnibus from knocking me over and killing me at this moment?’

At that moment, by what has always seemed to me the strangest of coincidences, and just the sort of thing that playwrights ought to avoid, a motor-omnibus knocked Brown over and killed him.

He had, as I afterwards learned, made a will in which he appointed me his literary executor.  Thus passed into my hands the unfinished play by whose name he had become known to so many people.

I hate to say that I was disappointed in it, but I had better confess quite frankly that, on the whole, I was.  Had Brown written it quickly and read it to me soon after our first talk about it, it might in some ways have exceeded my hopes.  But he had become for me, by reason of that quiet and unhasting devotion to his work while the years came and went, a sort of hero; and the very mystery involving just what he was about had addicted me to those ideas of magnificence which the unknown is said always to foster.

Even so, however, I am not blind to the great merits of the play as it stands.  It is well that the writer of poetic drama should be a dramatist and a poet.  Here is a play that abounds in striking situations, and I have searched it vainly for one line that does not scan.  What I nowhere feel is that I have not elsewhere been thrilled or lulled by the same kind of thing.  I do not go so far as to say that Brown inherited his parents’ deplorable lack of imagination.  But I do wish he had been less sensitive than he was to impressions, or else had seen and read fewer poetic dramas ancient and modern.  Remembering that visionary look in his eyes, remembering that he was as displeased as I by the work of all living playwrights, and as dissatisfied with the great efforts of the Elizabethans, I wonder that he was not more immune from influences.

Also, I cannot but wish still that he had faltered in his decision to make no scenario.  There is much to be said for the theory that a dramatist should first vitalise his characters and then leave them unfettered ; but I do feel that Brown’s misused the confidence he reposed in them.  The labour of so many years has somewhat the air of being a mere improvisation.  Savonarola himself, after the First Act or so, strikes me as utterly inconsistent.  It may be that he is just complex, like Hamlet.  He does in the Fourth Act show traces of that Prince.  I suppose this is why he struck Brown as having become `more human.’  To me he seems merely a poorer creature.

But enough of these reservations.  In my anxiety for poor Brown’s sake that you should not be disappointed, perhaps I have been carrying tactfulness too far and prejudicing you against that for which I specially want your favour.  Here, without more ado, is