It was just about then that Edward Driffield published The Cup of Life. It is not my business to criticize his works, and of late as much has been written about them as must satisfy the appetite of any ordinary reader; but I will permit myself to say that The Cup of Life, though certainly not the most celebrated of his books, nor the most popular, is to my mind the most interesting. It has a cold ruthlessness that in all the sentimentality of English fiction strikes an original note. It is refreshing and astringent. It tastes of tart apples. It sets your teeth on edge, but it has a subtle, bitter-sweet savour that is very agreeable to the palate. Of all Driffield’s books it is the only one I should like to have written. The scene of the child’s death, terrible and heart-rending, but written without slop or sickliness, and the curious incident that follows it, cannot easily be forgotten by anyone who has read them.
It was this part of the book that caused the sudden storm that burst on the wretched Driffield’s head. For a few days after publication it looked as though it would run its course like the rest of his novels, namely that it would have substantial reviews, laudatory on the whole, but with reservations, and that the sales would be respectable, but modest. Rosie told me that he expected to make three hundred pounds out of it, and was talking of renting a house on the river for the summer. The first two or three notices were non-committal; then in one of the morning papers appeared a violent attack. There was a column of it. The book was described as gratuitously offensive, obscene, and the publishers were rated for putting it before the public. Harrowing pictures were drawn of the devastating effect it must have on the youth of England. It was described as an insult to womanhood. The reviewer protested against the possibility of such a work falling into the hands of young boys and innocent maidens. Other papers followed suit. The more foolish demanded that the book should be suppressed and some asked themselves gravely if this was not a case where the public prosecutor might with fitness intervene. Condemnation was universal; if here and there a courageous writer, accustomed to the more realistic tone of continental fiction, asserted that Edward Driffield had never written anything better, he was ignored. His honest opinion was ascribed to a base desire to play to the gallery. The libraries barred the book and the lessors of the railway bookstalls refused to stock it.
All this was naturally very unpleasant for Edward Driffield, but he bore it with philosophic calm. He shrugged his shoulders.
‘They say it isn’t true’ he smiled. They can go to hell. It is true’
He was supported in this trial by the fidelity of his friends. To admire The Cup of Life became a mark of aesthetic acumen: to be shocked by it was to confess yourself a philistine. Mrs Barton Trafford had no hesitation in saying that it was a masterpiece, and though this wasn’t quite the moment for Barton’s article in the Quarterly, her faith in Edward Driffield’s future remained unshaken. It is strange (and instructive) to read now the book that created such a sensation; there is not a word that could bring a blush to the cheek of the most guileless, not an episode that could cause the novel-reader of the present day to turn a hair.
19
About six months later, when the excitement over The Cup of Life had subsided and Driffield had already begun the novel which he published under the name of By Their Fruits, I, being then an in-patient dresser and in my fourth year, in the course of my duties went one day into the main hall of the hospital to await the surgeon whom I was accompanying on his round of the wards. I glanced at the rack in which letters were placed, For sometimes people, not knowing my address in Vincent Square, wrote to me at the hospital. I was surprised to find a telegram for me. It ran as follows:
Please come and see me at five o’clock this afternoon
without fail. Important.
Isabel Trafford
I wondered what she wanted me for. I had met her perhaps a dozen times during the last two years, but she had never taken any notice of me, and I had never been to her house. I knew that men were scarce at teatime, and a hostess, short of them at the last moment, might think that a young medical student was better than nothing; but the wording of the telegram hardly suggested a party.
The surgeon for whom I dressed was prosy and verbose. It was not till past five that I was free and then it took me a good twenty minutes to get down to Chelsea. Mrs Barton Trafford lived in a block of flats on the Embankment. It was nearly six when I rang at her door and asked if she was at home. But when I was ushered into her drawing-room and began to explain why I was late she cut me short.
‘We supposed you couldn’t get away. It doesn’t matter.’
Her husband was there.
‘I expect he’d like a cup of tea,’ he said.
‘Oh, I think it’s rather late for tea, isn’t it?’ She looked at me gently, her mild, rather fine eyes full of kindness. ‘You don’t want any tea, do you?’
I was thirsty and hungry, for my lunch had consisted of a scone and butter and a cup of coffee, but I did not like to say so. I refused tea.
‘Do you know Allgood Newton?’ asked Mrs Barton Trafford, with a gesture toward a man who had been sitting in a big arm-chair when I was shown in, and now got up. ‘I expect you’ve met him at Edward’s.’
I had. He did not come often, but his name was familiar to me and I remembered him. He made me very nervous and I do not think I had ever spoken to him. Though now completely forgotten, in those days he was the best-known critic in England. He was a large, fat, blond man, with a fleshy white face, pale blue eyes, and greying fair hair. He generally wore a pale blue tie to bring out the colour of his eyes. He was very amiable to the authors he met at Driffield’s, and said charming and flattering things to them, but when they were gone he was very amusing at their expense. He spoke in a low, even voice, with an apt choice of words: no one could with more point tell a malicious story about a friend.
Allgood Newton shook hands with me and Mrs Barton Trafford, with her ready sympathy, anxious to put me at my ease, took me by the hand and made me sit on the sofa beside her. The tea was still on the table and she took a jam sandwich and delicately nibbled it.
‘Have you seen the Driffields lately?’ she asked me, as though making conversation.
‘I was there last Saturday.’
‘You haven’t seen either of them since?’
‘No.’
Mrs Barton Trafford looked from Allgood Newton to her husband and back again as though mutely demanding their help.
‘Nothing will be gained by circumlocution, Isabel,’ said Newton, a faintly malicious twinkle in his eye, in his fat, precise way.
Mrs Barton Trafford turned to me.
‘Then you don’t know that Mrs Driffield has run away from her husband.’
‘What!’
I was flabbergasted. I could not believe my ears.
‘Perhaps it would be better if you told him the facts, Allgood,’ said Mrs Trafford.
The critic leaned back in his chair and placed the tips of the fingers of one hand against the tips of the fingers of the other. He spoke with unction.
‘I had to see Edward Driffield last night about a literary article that I am doing for him, and after dinner, since the night was fine, I thought I would walk round to his house. He was expecting me; and I knew besides that he never went out at night except for some function as important as the Lord Mayor’s banquet or the Academy dinner. Imagine my surprise then, nay, my utter and complete bewilderment, when as I approached I saw the door of his house open and Edward in person emerge. You know, of course, that Immanuel Kant was in the habit of taking his daily walk at a certain hour with such punctuality that the inhabitants of Königsberg were accustomed to set their watches by the event, and when once he came out of his house an hour earlier than usual they turned pale, for they knew that this could only mean that some terrible thing had happened. They were right; Immanuel Kant had just received intelligence of the fall of the Bastille.’
Allgood Newton paused for a moment to mark the effect of his anecdote. M
rs Barton Trafford gave him her understanding smile.
‘I did not envisage so world-shaking a catastrophe as this when I saw Edward hurrying toward me, but it immediately occurred to me that something untoward was afoot. He carried neither cane nor gloves. He wore his working coat, a venerable garment in black alpaca, and a wide-awake hat. There was something wild in his mien and distraught in his bearing. I asked myself, knowing the vicissitudes of the conjugal state, whether a matrimonial difference had driven him headlong from the house or whether he was hastening to a letter-box in order to post a letter. He sped like Hector flying the noblest of the Greeks. He did not seem to see me and the suspicion flashed across my mind that he did not want to. I stopped him. “Edward,” I said. He looked startled. For a moment I could have sworn he did not know who I was. “What avenging furies urge you with such hot haste through the rakish purlieus of Pimlico?” I asked. “Oh, it’s you,” he said. “Where are you going?” I asked. “Nowhere,” he replied.’
At this rate I thought Allgood Newton would never finish his story, and Mrs Hudson would be vexed with me for turning up to dinner half an hour late.
‘I told him on what errand I had come, and proposed that we should return to his house where we could more conveniently discuss the question that perturbed me. “I’m too restless to go home,” he said; “let’s walk. You can talk to me as we go along.” Assenting, I turned round and we began to walk; but his pace was so rapid that I had to beg him to moderate it. Even Dr Johnson could not have carried on a conversation when he was walking down Fleet Street at the speed of an express train. Edward’s appearance was so peculiar and his manner so agitated that I thought it wise to lead him through the less frequented streets. I talked to him of my article. The subject that occupied me was more copious than had at first sight appeared, and I was doubtful whether after all I could do justice to it in the columns of a weekly journal. I put the matter before him fully and fairly and asked him his opinion. “Rosie has left me,” he answered. For a moment I did not know what he was talking about, but in a trice it occurred to me that he was speaking of the buxom and not unprepossessing female from whose hands I had on occasion accepted a cup of tea. From his tone I divined that he expected condolence from me rather than felicitation.’
Allgood Newton paused again and his blue eyes twinkled.
‘You’re wonderful, Allgood,’ said Mrs Barton Trafford.
‘Priceless,’ said her husband.
‘Realizing that the occasion demanded sympathy, I said: “My dear fellow.” He interrupted me. “I had a letter by the last post,” he said. “She’s run away with Lord George Kemp.’”
I gasped but said nothing. Mrs Trafford gave me a quick look.
‘“Who is Lord George Kemp?” “He’s a Blackstable man,” he replied. I had little time to think. I determined to be frank. “You’re well rid of her,” I said. “Allgood! ”he cried. I stopped and put my hand on his arm. “You must know that she was deceiving you with all your friends. Her behaviour was a public scandal. My dear Edward, let us face the fact: your wife was nothing but a common strumpet.” He snatched his arm away from me and gave a sort of low roar, like an orangutan in the forests of Borneo forcibly deprived of a coconut, and before I could stop him he broke away and fled. I was so startled that I could do nothing but listen to his cries and his hurrying footsteps’
‘You shouldn’t have let him go,’ said Mrs Barton Trafford. ‘In the state he was he might have thrown himself in the Thames.’
‘The thought occurred to me, but I noticed that he did not run in the direction of the river, but plunged into the meaner streets of the neighbourhood in which we had been walking. And I reflected also that there is no example in literary history of an author committing suicide while engaged on the composition of a literary work. Whatever his tribulations, he is unwilling to leave to posterity an uncompleted opus.’
I was astounded at what I heard and shocked and dismayed; but I was worried too because I could not make out why Mrs Trafford had sent for me. She knew me much too little to think that the story could be of any particular interest to me; nor would she have troubled to let me hear it as a piece of news.
‘Poor Edward,’ she said. ‘Of course no one can deny that it is a blessing in disguise, but I’m afraid he’ll take it very much to heart. Fortunately he’s done nothing rash’ She turned to me. ‘As soon as Mr Newton told us about it I went round to Limpus Road. Edward was out, but the maid said he’d only just left; that means that he must have gone home between the time he ran away from Allgood and this morning. You’ll wonder why I asked you to come and see me.’
I did not answer. I waited for her to go on.
‘It was at Blackstable you first knew the Driffields, wasn’t it? You can tell us who is this Lord George Kemp. Edward said he was a Blackstable man.’
‘He’s middle-aged. He’s got a wife and two sons. They’re as old as I am.’
‘But I don’t understand who he can be. I can’t find him in Debrett.’
I almost laughed.
‘Oh, he’s not really a lord. He’s the local coal merchant, they call him Lord George at Blackstable because he’s so grand. It’s just a joke.’
‘The quiddity of bucolic humour is often a trifle obscure to the uninitiated,’ said Allgood Newton.
‘We must all help dear Edward in every way we can,’ said Mrs Barton Trafford. Her eyes rested on me thoughtfully. ‘If Kemp has run away with Rosie Driffield he must have left his wife.’
‘I suppose so,’ I replied.
‘Will you do something very kind?’
‘If I can.’
‘Will you go down to Blackstable and find out exactly what has happened? I think we ought to get in touch with the wife.’
I have never been fond of interfering in other people’s affairs.
‘I don’t know how I could do that,’ I answered.
‘Couldn’t you see her?’
‘No, I couldn’t.’
If Mrs Barton Trafford thought my reply blunt she did not show it. She smiled a little.
‘At all events that can be left over. The urgent thing is to go down and find out about Kemp. I shall try to see Edward this evening. I can’t bear the thought of his staying on in that odious house by himself. Barton and I have made up our minds to bring him here. We have a spare room and I’ll arrange it so that he can work there. Don’t you agree that that would be the best thing for him, Allgood?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘There’s no reason why he shouldn’t stay here indefinitely, at all events for a few weeks, and then he can come away with us in the summer. We’re going to Brittany. I’m sure he’d like that. It would be a thorough change for him.’
‘The immediate question,’ said Barton Trafford, fixing on me an eye nearly as kindly as his wife’s, ‘is whether this young sawbones will go to Blackstable and find out what he can. We must know where we are. That is essential’
Barton Trafford excused his interest in archaeology by a hearty manner and a jocose, even slangy way of speech.
‘He couldn’t refuse,’ said his wife, giving me a soft, appealing glance. ‘You won’t refuse, will you? It’s so important and you’re the only person who can help us.’
Of course she did not know that I was as anxious to find out what had happened as she; she could not tell what a bitter, jealous pain stabbed my heart.
‘I couldn’t possibly get away from the hospital before Saturday,’ I said.
‘That’ll do. It’s very good of you. All Edward’s friends will be grateful to you. When shall you return?’
‘I have to be back in London early on Monday morning.’
‘Then come and have tea with me in the afternoon. I shall await you with impatience. Thank God, that’s settled. Now I must try and get hold of Edward.’
I understood that I was dismissed. Allgood Newton took his leave and came downstairs with me.
‘Our Isabel has un petit air of Catherine of Aragon to
day that I find vastly becoming,’ he murmured, when the door was closed behind us. ‘This is a golden opportunity and I think we may safely trust our friend not to miss it. A charming woman with a heart of gold. Vénus toute entière à sa proie attachée.’
I did not understand what he meant, for what I have already told the reader about Mrs Barton Trafford I only learned much later, but I realized that he was saying something vaguely malicious about her, and probably amusing, so I sniggered.
‘I suppose your youth inclines you to what my good Dizzy named in an unlucky moment the gondola of London.’
‘I’m going to take a bus’ I answered.
‘Oh? Had you proposed to go by hansom I was going to ask you to be good enough to drop me on your way, but if you are going to use the homely conveyance which I, in my old-fashioned manner, still prefer to call an omnibus, I shall hoist my unwieldy carcass into a four-wheeler.’
He signalled to one and gave me two flabby fingers to shake.
‘I shall come on Monday to hear the result of what dear Henry would call your so exquisitely delicate mission.’
20
But it was years before I saw Allgood Newton again, for when I got to Blackstable I found a letter from Mrs Barton Trafford (who had taken the precaution to note my address) asking me, for reasons that she would explain when she saw me, not to come to her flat but to meet her at six o’clock in the first-class waiting-room at Victoria Station. As soon then as I could get away from the hospital on Monday I made my way there, and after waiting for a while saw her come in. She came toward me with little tripping steps.