# A Child of the Age (Adams)/Chapter 19

III
That was the morning of the evening on which I received a book and a letter from Mrs. Herbert, enclosing another—from Starkie, at last! I read Mrs. Herbert's first, in order to be able to better give myself up to Starkie's and the book, which I guessed was Brooke's. There was nothing of any interest in hers; a mere report of the satisfactory condition of things at Dunraven Place. Then I opened Starkie's, and began reading it slowly. He had caught up Clarkson at Zanzibar. Things were not going as well as they might. Two months frittered away in taking great pains about doing nothing! But they had at last started, and here they were on the Continent. Clarkson wanted to turn down to Lake Intangweolo, instead of making for Lake Eugenie, to explore that block, which was comparatively unknown; whereas the other place was both known and interestless, save for the fact that poor old Osbaldistone died there. He, Starkie, should like to know what the devil was Clarkson going to do in that galère? Get fever or dysentery and manure a patch of sand? He could not possibly say when they might be back; perhaps not at all. He had a faint hope that it might possibly be before next year was out. But he couldn't write any more of this stuff. He was out of sorts—in the blues. Clarkson seemed determined to give his name to a new species of beast, or bird, or die in the attempt. They'd do no good this time. Only another instance of wasted time, and wasted treasure, and perhaps wasted—life. But here was the end, or he ​would be tearing up this miserable stuff.—Mine disgustedly, but truly, Oliver S. Starkie.
I began to consider this letter till it struck me that it was odd I had not received it sooner. Then I examined the post-marks, and found that it had arrived in England in early February.
'Damn the old woman!' I said, and pulled the paper covering off what as I had rightly guessed was Brooke's book, the Book! Rosy asked what was the matter? I explained, and, after a little small-talk, took to examining the thing. When I had satisfied myself, feeling in a sociable humour, I began babbling with her, and she, soon brightening, came to me gladly. We had a quiet talk about past things, one of the, if not the best talks I had ever had with her. We went over how she had made me eat the grapes and had made me call her Rosy (Miss Rosebud, I insisted. She had not had all her own way from the first!), and how Minnie (poor Minnie!) had chased the piece of paper under the table: and how we had gone out for our first walk together when I was so weak—and stupid (Where was the respectful clerk a good deal better dressed and, doubtless, fed, than myself, now?) and how we had tea together that other evening in my room, with the fruit and the cakes and all the other things, including a sweet solemn little owl who wouldn't laugh properly once the whole time, and then the walk together afterwards. And so on.
And then afterwards, in the bedroom we had a look at a certain little round silver locket (chosen in a jeweller's in Edgware Road), of which there had been some mention in the study, and I repeated dramatically:
'But I shall always be able to keep the locket, you know; and, when I look at it, I shall think of you and give a sigh; (and I gave one) 'for—you've been——'
'Don't tease me!' cried Rosy, with puckered brow and a slap on my arm. And I didn't.
The next day after breakfast I set upon my work again, but could make nothing of it. I felt I had better go out. I went out: down to the Seine and frittered away half an hour or so looking at books in ​the book-boxes on the river walls. It was a dull grey day, with a certain amount of wind, north-east wind I thought: altogether quite like a half-bred London day in early March, before Boreas has grown boisterous.
I lit upon an ill-used copy of a book by an English writer whose name I had heard spoken (evilly spoken) of in my later London days. I was in the humour for buying the book of such a writer, so I bought it and came home with it and straightway began to read it. The subject was an author whom I had been of late accustomed to read both rather frequently and rather carefully. I was struck by the number of my own thoughts that I found. Then there began to creep over me the sense that I had done nothing yet, written nothing yet, that is: a displeasing enough sense when coupled with another—that I never should do anything, write anything; anything, that is, worth the doing or reading. I envied this man who wrote with such assurance of work done.—About which point Rosy came in from her afternoon walk and we had tea.
It often happened that I was silent at meals and she content to let me so, but this evening, apparently because she saw that I particularly did not care to talk, she kept on asking me questions and chattering ceaselessly. For some time my sense of duty kept successful guard over my patience and I answered her quietly; but at last I sent my sense of duty packing and began to answer her rather irritably: then, gradually worked into an aggrieved state by her nervous babblement, at last kept a frowning silence. She was defiant: went on gibbering and laughing with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, and at last proceeded to tease me. I was not in a humour to be teased. I said so. She was excited now and not to be stopped, despite that Marie (the maid) was in the room clearing away the things for dessert. I kept my frowning silence till Marie was gone, and then said, as playfully as I could, that I was rather tired of hearing her little tongue wagging and wished it would stop still for a while. Then came an indignant flare up, to which I made no answer, only looking at the grapes I was eating and my plate: then a second indignant flare ​up, spiced with hot reproaches. I expected wet reproaches to follow; and expected rightly. She was getting tired of them when, having finished my grapes, I got up and went into the study.
I made an attempt to work, but failed: made another attempt, and failed again. I determined I would go out. Then, under the influence of a collapsing sense of tiredness and sleepiness, thought of bed: but bed meant Rosy, and I could not stand her just at present. I went into the dining-room. She was sitting knitting, in a chair. I told her that I was going out, and might not be in till late: to which she deigned no answer. I went into the hall and, taking my hat and stick, down and out. Which way to go? where to go to? I stood, whirling my stick about, considering. It was a beautiful night, clear and cool—no moon, with the heavens star-sown.
There was evil in me. I felt it in a little: and did not care to combat it. I walked to the right, a little jerkily like an actor. It was not now, 'Which way to go?' but, 'Where to?'
I began to think of piquant pictures of Grévin's—dumpy, strutting little cocottes of undeniable chic, and smiled at the thought. There was evil in me, and I did not care to combat it. Names I knew of the supposed haunts of said dumpy, strutting little cocottes—Rue Blanche, 'le Skating Théâtre' (the pronunciation of which, 'le Skatting Théâtre,' made me laugh) and the Folies-Bergères.
I took a cab to the Rue Blanche.
When I entered the hall there was a certain tremulousness in me, chiefly the result of an imperfect sense of wrong-doing, and a little, perhaps, of the music and the bright scene. I stalked round the rink, not quite daring to openly regard anyone: in fact, very self-conscious. At last I sat down at a table, and, having ordered a bock, began to argue with myself for a perfect fool. Here was I, who had pondered on Life and Death and Time and Space and God, and God knows what not, absolutely nervous in a hall filled with harlots and harlot-mongers! What more ludicrous? I paid the waiter; drank a little of my bock, and looked about me.
​In five or six minutes I was master of myself: in ten I was stalking round the rink again, observing the people with interest. I thought I would speak to one of ces dames, and see what she had to say for herself. Variety is pleasing. But ces dames had such uninteresting faces, and such puffed out breasts and contracted waists, that I found I had no real inclination to speak to any of them. I wandered about for half an hour or so without seeing any face that attracted me; and then went out and (not analysing my motives) took a cab to the Folies-Bergères.
At first sight, I liked the place better than the Rue Blanche: the fountains pleased me, and the verdured seats. Then I was attracted by a vendeuse of somethings or other, who had a finely developed bust and pair of whiskers, quite bushy. I stood and began imagining her point of view of life and things generally, till, catching my eye, she smilingly proffered one of her somethings or other, addressing me. This made me laugh and, laughingly declining, pass on. I wandered about once more. The faces of the women seemed to me a little more interesting than those at the Rue Blanche, but not interesting enough to be spoken to.
Once, coming down a staircase, I found myself faced by myself in a huge mirror. I paused in my descent for a moment, in which I saw my solemn face set above my shoulders, squared by my hands being clasped together behind my back. The idea of this figure and face stalking about among these people made me grin to myself.
At last I grew wearied of it, and went away for a long walk about the streets.
When I came home I found Rosy sitting in the study, in the easy-chair, looking as if she had kept herself awake by means of some sort of emotion: I soon perceived, jealousy. In a little she began questioning. Where had I been? why was I so late? I answered her simply. First, I had been to the Skating Theatre, in the Rue Blanche, then to the Folies-Bergères: and then for a walk.
Those were bad places: bad women were there! I ​needn't have kept her up all this time, and then come and told her that!
How did she mean that I had kept her up? Since when had she taken to sitting up for me when I went out at night?
She believed that I had been talking with a lot of those women! And why hadn't I gone home with one and never come back here again? She (Rosy) had always thought it would be like this! she knew quite well when I went away this evening that I was going after some … some one else (Tears): I was a horrid …
I thought the child was ill, and tried to comfort her. She would take no comfort. I came to her, intending to try more personal comfort. She was up and, with an intense: 'I hate you!… Go away!' herself went away.
After a little pondering, I decided that it would be best to let her alone, and composed myself to sleep in the arm-chair and another chair for my feet. Next morning, Marie, entering to dust the room, was apparently the instrument of wakening me from bad dreams. For a little I did not know whether to grin, or pull a face at myself, or take Rosy's quarrel with me seriously: then, observing the sunshine in the room, determined to go out and get rid of all these spiritual cobwebs. Dried and somewhat dirty as I felt, I would not go into the bedroom and wash myself, with the chance of awakening her. I passed into the hall and, taking up my sticky out on to the the landing. I was going down the first flight of steps, with my mind full of thought, when, all at once, there was a stumble; a fall; a clutching at and a missing of the bannister, and I was lying, half-stunned and dazed, on the broad step at the foot of the flight.
Then wrath rose in and burst forth as I got up in a keen:
'Blast!'
This foolery was past all endurance!—I suddenly dropped down again. My foot had failed me. The anguish in it, in my ankle particularly, was almost intolerable. It turned me sick. I rolled on to my ​stomach and face, stiffening my muscles so as to bear it without the threatening childish collapse, or, at least, moan. After a little I determined I would get up—up the flight, into the house.
With great pain, aided by my stick, I reached the door; opened it; went on into the study, and let myself down in the easy-chair.
There I began to reflect.
Presently in came Rosy, dressed, but still in the sulks. I did not speak to her. I was wondering now whether I would send for a doctor for my foot, or no; deciding no. Rosy pretended she had come to look for something, and, not being able to find it, went out again without a word.
I got up and made my way to the dining-room doorway; then through the dining-room to the salon doorway. She was in the salon. I had only a moment's hesitation. I crossed half the salon as ordinarily as I could; but I knew I limped a little, and this rather angered me. Then I suddenly thought: Why should I care to disguise from her the fact that I am hurt? and limped altogether. She said nothing. Once in the bedroom, I rang the bell and went and sat down on the bed. I got my boot off myself, and Amelie, following my directions, bandaged my ankle up in a wet napkin. Her final adjusting touch of the bandage extorted a sound of some sort from me, and I looked up. Rosy was standing by the doorway, watching. I looked down again. She went away.
I ordered my breakfast in the study, whither I proceeded, passing by Rosy in the dining-room. My foot was ceaselessly painful.
I ordered a bed to be put up in, what we called, the bath-room for me. Rosy came into the study at about five; found a book of hers on the mantelpiece just above my head, and went out without a word.
At half-past Marie brought in the tea. Rosy following her. Then she poured out a cup; put sugar and milk into it, and, taking a piece of cake, retired to the chair in the far-window, where she began to drink the one and eat the other in silence. As I wished for my cup of tea, I got up and poured it out, and, taking a ​piece of cake, retired to my seat again. I determined that I would have dinner in here, in the shape of some fruit and bread and milk.
When she had done her cup of tea and piece of cake, she renewed them: I, after some thought as to whether the pain of getting them was worth the candle of partaking of them, and the supposed display of my feeling toward her in this matter, did not. When she had finished, she put her cup and saucer on the table and went out of the room. I rang and told Marie what I wished about my dinner. I was not angry or even piqued by Rosy's proceedings; I was too indifferent to be either. The reason why I did not make advances towards reconciliation with her was, that I did not care to trouble myself so far.
During the course of the day she contrived what little annoyances she could for me; but with no other effect than making me rather amused at her simplicity. 'If you quarrel with a woman,' I thought, 'you must expect this sort of thing.'
Then, when I was in bed, I considered what was the real condition of my feelings towards her. Without doubt, they were those of complete callousness and, perhaps, something more. There was no 'imperfect sense of wrong-doing' in the thought. It seemed to me to be something little short of folly to stay here and be troubled with her, I ought to go out into the world and see its ways, so as to prepare myself for my work; that work which was nothing else than, having by self-culture and observation got an impression of things generally, to put down that impression on paper. Truth was the object of my work, and, by the very fact that I was a quite unprejudiced viewer of the phenomena of what is called Life, I did not see why I should not produce such an impression of things generally 'as posterity should not willingly let die.' The idea of telling the truth about things was a pleasing one. I could almost believe that some day that idea might be of itself a sufficient incentive to a love of existence. Meantime the connection with Rosy was passably stupid and tiresome, and perhaps even harmful.
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