CHAPTER NINE

forindeedhelookedquiet,notindifferent,butlikesomeoneonabeach,watching. "Oh,mydear,letmeleanonyou,"gaspedHelenAskew,hoppingononefoot,forthesilvercordroundheranklehadworkedloose.Mrs.Keymerturnedandlookedatthepictureonthewall. "LookatJacob,"saidHelen(theywerebindinghiseyesforsomegame). AndDickGraves,beingalittledrunk,veryfaithful,andverysimple-minded,toldherthathethoughtJacobthegreatestmanhehadeverknown.Anddowntheysatcross-leggeduponcushionsandtalkedaboutJacob,andHelen'svoicetrembled,fortheybothseemedheroestoher,andthefriendshipbetweenthemsomuchmorebeautifulthanwomen'sfriendships.AnthonyPollettnowaskedhertodance,andasshedancedshelookedatthem,overhershoulder,standingatthetable,drinkingtogether. Themagnificentworld—thelive,sane,vigorousworld….ThesewordsrefertothestretchofwoodpavementbetweenHammersmithandHolborninJanuarybetweentwoandthreeinthemorning.ThatwasthegroundbeneathJacob'sfeet.Itwashealthyandmagnificentbecauseoneroom,aboveamews,somewhereneartheriver,containedfiftyexcited,talkative,friendlypeople.Andthentostrideoverthepavement(therewasscarcelyacaborpolicemaninsight)isofitselfexhilarating.ThelongloopofPiccadilly,diamond-stitched,showstobestadvantagewhenitisempty.Ayoungmanhasnothingtofear.Onthecontrary,thoughhemaynothavesaidanythingbrilliant,hefeelsprettyconfidenthecanholdhisown.HewaspleasedtohavemetManginheadmiredtheyoungwomanonthefloorhelikedthemallhelikedthatsortofthing.Inshort,allthedrumsandtrumpetsweresounding.Thestreetscavengersweretheonlypeopleaboutatthemoment.Itisscarcelynecessarytosayhowwell-disposedJacobfelttowardsthemhowitpleasedhimtolethimselfinwithhislatch-keyathisowndoorhowheseemedtobringbackwithhimintotheemptyroomtenorelevenpeoplewhomhehadnotknownwhenhesetouthowhelookedaboutforsomethingtoread,andfoundit,andneverreadit,andfellasleep. Indeed,drumsandtrumpetsisnophrase.Indeed,PiccadillyandHolborn,andtheemptysitting-roomandthesitting-roomwithfiftypeopleinitareliableatanymomenttoblowmusicintotheair.Womenperhapsaremoreexcitablethanmen.Itisseldomthatanyonesaysanythingaboutit,andtoseethehordescrossingWaterlooBridgetocatchthenon-stoptoSurbitononemightthinkthatreasonimpelledthem.No,no.Itisthedrumsandtrumpets.Only,shouldyouturnasideintooneofthoselittlebaysonWaterlooBridgetothinkthematterover,itwillprobablyseemtoyouallamuddle—allamystery. TheycrosstheBridgeincessantly.Sometimesinthemidstofcartsandomnibusesalorrywillappearwithgreatforesttreeschainedtoit.Then,perhaps,amason'svanwithnewlyletteredtombstonesrecordinghowsomeonelovedsomeonewhoisburiedatPutney.Thenthemotorcarinfrontjerksforward,andthetombstonespasstooquickforyoutoreadmore.AllthetimethestreamofpeopleneverceasespassingfromtheSurreysidetotheStrandfromtheStrandtotheSurreyside.Itseemsasifthepoorhadgoneraidingthetown,andnowtrapesedbacktotheirownquarters,likebeetlesscurryingtotheirholes,forthatoldwomanfairlyhobblestowardsWaterloo,graspingashinybag,asifshehadbeenoutintothelightandnowmadeoffwithsomescrapedchickenbonestoherhovelunderground.Ontheotherhand,thoughthewindisroughandblowingintheirfaces,thosegirlsthere,stridinghandinhand,shoutingoutasong,seemtofeelneithercoldnorshame.Theyarehatless.Theytriumph. Thewindhasblownupthewaves.Theriverracesbeneathus,andthemenstandingonthebargeshavetoleanalltheirweightonthetiller.Ablacktarpaulinistieddownoveraswellingloadofgold.Avalanchesofcoalglitterblackly.Asusual,paintersareslungonplanksacrossthegreatriversidehotels,andthehotelwindowshavealreadypointsoflightinthem.OntheothersidethecityiswhiteasifwithageSt.Paul'sswellswhiteabovethefretted,pointed,oroblongbuildingsbesideit.Thecrossaloneshinesrosy-gilt.Butwhatcenturyhavewereached?HasthisprocessionfromtheSurreysidetotheStrandgoneonforever?ThatoldmanhasbeencrossingtheBridgethesesixhundredyears,withtherabbleoflittleboysathisheels,forheisdrunk,orblindwithmisery,andtiedroundwitholdcloutsofclothingsuchaspilgrimsmighthaveworn.Heshuffleson.Noonestandsstill.Itseemsasifwemarchedtothesoundofmusicperhapsthewindandtheriverperhapsthesesamedrumsandtrumpets—theecstasyandhubbubofthesoul.Why,eventheunhappylaugh,andthepoliceman,farfromjudgingthedrunkman,surveyshimhumorously,andthelittleboysscamperbackagain,andtheclerkfromSomersetHousehasnothingbuttoleranceforhim,andthemanwhoisreadinghalfapageofLothairatthebookstallmusescharitably,withhiseyesofftheprint,andthegirlhesitatesatthecrossingandturnsonhimthebrightyetvagueglanceoftheyoung. Brightyetvague.Sheisperhapstwenty-two.Sheisshabby.Shecrossestheroadandlooksatthedaffodilsandtheredtulipsintheflorist'swindow.Shehesitates,andmakesoffinthedirectionofTempleBar.Shewalksfast,andyetanythingdistractsher.Nowsheseemstosee,andnowtonoticenothing.