THE DOUBLE
I was having lunch in one of those places where you stand and eatsandwiches until you are tired, and then try to count up how many youhave had. As the charm of these sandwiches is that they all tasteexactly alike, it is difficult to recall each individual as it wentdown; one feels, too, after the last sandwich, that one's mind wouldmore willingly dwell upon other matters. Personally I detest the wholebusiness--the place, the sandwiches, the method of scoring--but it isconvenient and quick, and I cannot keep away. On this afternoon I wasgiving the _foie gras_ plate a turn. I know a man who will never touch_foie gras_ because of the cruelty involved in the preparation of it. Iexcuse myself on the ground that my own sufferings in eating thesesandwiches are much greater than those of any goose in providing them.
There was a grey-haired man in the corner who kept looking at me. Iseemed to myself to be behaving with sufficient propriety, and there wasnothing in my clothes or appearance to invite comment; for in theworking quarter of London a high standard of beauty is not insistedupon. On the next occasion when I caught his eye I frowned at him, and amoment later I found myself trying to stare him down. After two minutesit was I who retired in confusion to my glass.
As I prepared to go--for to be watched at meals makes me nervous, andleads me sometimes to eat the card with "Foie Gras" on it in mistake forthe sandwich--he came up to me and raised his hat.
"You must excuse me, sir, for staring at you," he said, "but has anyone ever told you that you are exactly like A. E. Barrett?"
I drew myself up and rested my left hand lightly on my hip. I thought hesaid David Garrick.
"The very image of him," he went on, "when first I met him."
Something told me that in spite of his grey hair he was not talking ofDavid Garrick after all.
"Like _who?_" I said in some disappointment.
"A. E. Barrett."
I tried to think of a reply, both graceful and witty. The only one Icould think of was, "Oh?"
"It's extraordinary. If your hair were just a little longer the likenesswould be perfect."
I thought of offering to go away now and come back in a month's time.Anyway, it would be an excuse for going now.
"I first knew him at Cambridge," he explained. "We were up together inthe 'seventies."
"Ah, I was up in the nineteen hundreds," I said. "I just missed youboth."
"Well, didn't they ever tell you at Cambridge that you were the image ofA. E. Barrett?"
I tried to think. They had told me lots of things at Cambridge, but Icouldn't remember any talk about A. E. Barrett.
"I should have thought every one would have noticed it," he said.
I had something graceful for him this time all right.
"Probably," I said, "those who were unfortunate enough to know me hadnot the honour of knowing A. E. Barrett."
"But everybody knew A. E. Barrett. _You've_ heard of him, of course?"
The dreadful moment had arrived. I knew it would.
"Of course," I said.
"A charming fellow."
"Very brainy," I agreed.
"Well, just ask any of your artist friends if they don't notice thelikeness. The nose, the eyes, the expression--wonderful! But I must begoing. Perhaps I shall see you here again some day. Good afternoon"; andhe raised his hat and left me.
You can understand that I was considerably disturbed. First, why had Inever heard of A. E. Barrett? Secondly, what sort of looking fellow washe? Thirdly, with all this talk about A. E. Barrett, however manysandwiches had I eaten? The last question seemed the most impossible toanswer, so I said "eight," to be on the safe side, and went back towork.
In the evening I called upon Peter. My acquaintance of the afternoon hadassumed too readily that I should allow myself to be on friendly termswith artists; but Peter's wife illustrates books, and they both talk ina disparaging way of our greatest Academicians.
"Who," I began at once, as I shook hands, "did I remind you of as I camein at the door?"
Peter was silent. Mrs. Peter, feeling that some answer was called for,said, "The cat."
"No, no. Now I'll come in again." I went out and returned dramatically."Now then, tell me frankly, doesn't that remind you of A. E. Barrettentering his studio?"
"Who is A. E. Barrett?"
I was amazed at their ignorance.
"He's the well-known artist. _Surely_ you've heard of him?"
"I seem to know the name," lied Peter. "What did he paint?"
"'Sunrise on the Alps,' 'A Corner of the West,' 'The Long DayWanes'--_I_ don't know. Something. The usual thing."
"And are you supposed to be like him?"
"I am. Particularly when eating sandwiches."
"Is it worth while getting you some, in order to observe the likeness?"asked Mrs. Peter.
"If you've never seen A. E. Barrett I fear you'd miss the likeness, evenin the most favourable circumstances. Anyhow, you must have heard ofhim--dear old A. E.!"
They were utterly ignorant of him, so I sat down and told them what Iknew; which, put shortly, was that he was a very remarkable-lookingfellow.
. . . . .
I have not been to the sandwich-place since. Detesting the sandwiches asI do, I find A. E. Barrett a good excuse for keeping away. For, upon theday after that when he came into my life, I had a sudden cold fear thatthe thing was a plant. How, in what way, I cannot imagine. That I am tobe sold a _Guide to Cambridge_ at the next meeting; that an A. E.Barrett hair-restorer is about to be placed on the market; that an offerwill be made to enlarge my photograph (or Barrett's) free of charge if Ibuy the frame--no, I cannot think what it can be.
Yet, after all, why should it be a plant? We Barretts are not the sortof men to be mixed up with fraud. Impetuous the Barrett type may be,obstinate, jealous--so much you see in our features. But dishonest?Never!
Still, as I did honestly detest those last eight sandwiches, I shallstay away.