Polyerges, on the contrary, already illustrates the lowering tendency of slavery.         
          ANTS, BEES AND WASPS.

FREDERIC had omitted to make any mention of the fact that he had lost his brother’s drawings, and had brushed the thought of them aside. He had a comfortable memory and a convenient conscience which never worried about his lapses and misdemeanours until they were known or in danger of being known to other people. Then he lived in dread of the application of official morality and indulged in a perfect orgy of self-torment, grinding himself between the upper and nether millstones of his own laxity and the rigid codes with which his upbringing had imbued him. He had had a qualm or two about Serge’s drawings, but it was not until his brother appeared on the scene that he began to think their loss might be serious—that is, fraught with unpleasant consequences to himself. He was essentially amiable. Disagreement hurt him, and he would go to any lengths to avoid an unprofitable quarrel. On the other hand if a squabble seemed to lead to immediate gain he would rush at it head down.

In the morning he was out and away while Serge was still in the bathroom splashing and roaring at the top of his voice. He spent the morning in his office writing letters to Beecroft and Strutt telling them that his brother had come home with a stock of drawings better even than those he had shown them, and letters from London men about them. He had no clear purpose in doing this, but was filled with a vague notion that if the first drawings were irreparably lost he was making some amends.

[Pg 84]

In the lunch interval he went round to the Arts Club and asked the grubby boy if the drawings had been found. The grubby boy made an effort of memory and said that he seemed to recollect Mr. Lawrie going off with something under his arm that night. Yes; it was a big, square thing, because he had put Mr. Lawrie into a cab and it fell on to the floor, and he picked it up and laid it on Mr. Lawrie’s knees.

Frederic gave the boy a penny, got Mr. Lawrie’s address, and, as soon as he could get away in the evening went down to his house. It was one of a terrace of four stucco houses with Gothic windows. It stood at the corner, and a little bye-street led down one side of it to a slum. It had a little raised lawn, two laurel trees and a privet hedge in front of it, and a wide asphalt path led up to the front door, which lay far back in a huge gloomy porch. The windows looked out on to another row of stucco houses with a shop at the corner which for the time being was a laundry. Opposite the laundry was a public-house. Two streets met a few yards along the road, and in the cleft of them was a large red-brick house with its garden gate gleaming with brass plates. Here lived Dr. Haslam, the father of the spotty-faced youth.

Frederic gave a long tug at the bell and stood looking stupidly at the door, the lower panels of which were scratched and dented with heavy kicks. A large tabby cat came and rubbed herself against his legs.

Presently the latch was drawn and the door was opened about six inches, and in the aperture there appeared a long bony face, incredibly lined and wrinkled, and in it two burning-sorrowful eyes. The mouth of this face opened, and out of it came a toneless mournful voice saying:

“What is it?”

“Is Mr. Lawrie in?” asked Frederic.

“He is. But he’s busy. Are ye from the office? We’ll be ready in ten minutes.”

“I want to see Mr. Lawrie most particularly on a private matter.”

“Ye cannot see him.”

[Pg 85]

“I must.”

“What name?”

“Folyat. Mr. Frederic Folyat.”

“I’ll see.”

The door was closed to and Frederic, left with the cat, stood trying to quiet the omen at his heart. A very pale young man came through the gate and walked up the asphalt path and came into the porch. He looked at Frederic shyly and stood as far away from him as possible. There was an awkward moment until he said:

“Have you rung?”

“Yes.”

“She’s a bit slow. She’s got rheumatism in her feet. I know you, but you don’t know me. I’ve seen you at your father’s church. My name’s Bennett Lawrie. I’m in business. It’s beastly.”

“Do you often go to our church?”

“I go to all the High Churches, when I can get away. I wanted to be a clergyman, but I suppose I never shall be now.”

“You’d better come and see us. We have supper on Sundays for anybody who likes to come.”

“I’d just love to know your father.”

“I want to see your father.”

“Oh! My father!”

The boy shied away on that, and again the door was opened six inches. Bennett pushed it open and disappeared into the dark house leaving Frederic confronted with the gaunt personage who owned the haggard face.

“Will ye come with me now?” she said.

Frederic followed her down a long gloomy passage and into a large dining-room, where at the table, surrounded with papers, sat James Lawrie, cursing, smoking, and writing full tilt. He had a huge cup of strong coffee by his side. His brows were drawn tight over his eyes, and Frederic was most struck by his huge jutting nose. He seemed all nose—a nose and a flying pen. He took no notice of Frederic, but growled:

“The figures—give me the figures!”

[Pg 86]

The old servant took up a newspaper and read out a series of figures which, as far as Frederic could make out, related to the price of cotton. Lawrie took them down as she read, added a few words after them, gathered and folded his sheets, thrust them into a dirty inky envelope and held them out to the old woman.

“I’ll be late if I don’t take a cab,” she said.

Lawrie fumbled in his waistcoat pocket and produced a florin. She took it and shuffled away. Lawrie gulped down the remainder of his coffee, took up a battered green book and said:

“Now we’ll have some poetry.”

And he read half a canto of Spenser’s “Fa?rie Queene” in a big rumbling voice, mouthing the archaic words.

Frederic could make little sense of it and sat taking in the room, the heavy mahogany sideboard, the horsehair chairs by the fireplace, the Biblical prints on the walls, the books on either side of the window, and through the window the dismal walled garden with its starved hawthorn trees and the cats playing about on the wall. The windows were closed and the air in the room was thick and smelled of tobacco and food and clothes. It was a dingy dusty room, made more than ever forbidding by a reproduction of Munkaczy’s Christ before Pilate, which hung over the mantelpiece between the Crucifixion of Rubens and a photograph of a little Scotch church and a manse with gloomy hills in the background.

When the reading was finished Frederic said:

“I’m sorry I interrupted you.”

“Not at all. I’d finished my work. I’m alone. I’m always alone in this house. Have you ever thought how lonely a man can be in his own house? . . . You’ve not? You don’t think? May be you’re wise, though, maybe again, you’re only young. Well, I tell you, a man can be very lonely in his own house, but not many are as lonely as I am. Looking at it purely philosophically it’s something of an achievement—in a negative sort of way. I mean, not many men can have all that nature has provided for a man and get nothing at all out of it. Nearly all men manage to get some pickings for their vanity, but [Pg 87]I don’t even get that. I get nothing. . . . So do hundreds of thousands of people. They can’t. But the difference between them and me is that they can pretend and I can’t. Nature’s very wasteful. She produces far more men and women than she wants. Just a few are sound and really alive. The rest are shadows. I’m a shadow. I don’t know what you are. A sort of betwixt and between I should say, just looking at you. The real men make loveliness, and the intelligent shadows have a sort of echo of it and have a sort of reflected life through it. The rest wither away and are dead years and years before they die. What I can’t stand though is their damned cruelty. I can’t expect you to make much of that. I talk like that for hours to old Tibby. She’s the most real person in this house, and the rest of us are sticking to her like leeches. She’s had no life of her own, hasn’t Tibby, and sometimes she will stand and look at me and say, ‘You’re a wonderful talker, man,’ and I’ll say, ‘I’m nothing else, woman.’ Queer people, we are. But we’re all queer in this place to go on living in the darkness and mist of it as we do. I’ve met your father. He’s a comfortable man. It must be very pleasant to have a comfortable man in the house.”

Frederic did his best to follow him in his harangue, and, though he could make very little of it all, he was interested and wanted him to go on. He had never been in a house like it before. Never had he had such a sensation of empty darkness, and he wanted very much to know what was in the rest of the house besides the boy who had spoken to him on the doorstep and Tibby and the cat. And what did they all do when old Lawrie got drunk?

The boy Bennett came into the room, walked across to the book-shelves by the window, took down a book and went out again without taking the smallest notice of his father.

The old man watched him with a sort of hunger, and he took a piece of paper and tore it up into a thousand pieces and let them flutter down on to the floor at his feet.

Frederic plunged into his own affairs and said:

[Pg 88]

“Do you remember some drawings I showed you? My brother’s come back. I think he wants them. The boy at the club . . .”

“I have them.”

“You remember Mr. Beecroft said he was a genius.”

“Beecroft’s a sot and a fool. But they’re good. Things seen and felt. I’ve given over asking for more than that.”

He went to a cupboard and produced the portfolio. Frederic saw it with immense relief, and ceased to take any interest in old Lawrie, or Tibby, or Bennett, or the cat. He was secure against any unpleasantness, and the old man’s talk seemed to him now only maundering folly. Before he had been more than half convinced that the world was a miserable place of shadows and shams.

Except for awful moments Frederic had always found life very pleasant and amusing. He had done very much as he pleased and fancied that he had been remarkably successful in dodging consequences. He did not imagine that things could ever be different, and thinking about it always seemed to him to be a ridiculous waste of time.

He took the portfolio and began to tell old Lawrie the little he knew about Serge, and soon worked round to Beecroft’s declaration that an exhibition ought to be organised, and the old man, more to humour him and to get rid of him............