The Garden Party, and Other Stories
Look out again! A huge barouche comes swinging down the hill with two
old, old babies inside. She holds up a lace parasol; he sucks the knob
of his cane, and the fat old bodies roll together as the cradle rocks,
and the steaming horse leaves a trail of manure as it ambles down the
hill.
Under a tree, Professor Leonard, in cap and gown, stands beside his
banner. He is here “for one day,” from the London, Paris and Brussels
Exhibition, to tell your fortune from your face. And he stands, smiling
encouragement, like a clumsy dentist. When the big men, romping and
swearing a moment before, hand across their sixpence, and stand before
him, they are suddenly serious, dumb, timid, almost blushing as the
Professor’s quick hand notches the printed card. They are like little
children caught playing in a forbidden garden by the owner, stepping
from behind a tree.
The top of the hill is reached. How hot it is! How fine it is! The
public-house is open, and the crowd presses in. The mother sits on the
pavement edge with her baby, and the father brings her out a glass of
dark, brownish stuff, and then savagely elbows his way in again. A reek
of beer floats from the public-house, and a loud clatter and rattle of
voices.
The wind has dropped, and the sun burns more fiercely than ever.
Outside the two swing-doors there is a thick mass of children like
flies at the mouth of a sweet-jar.
And up, up the hill come the people, with ticklers and golliwogs, and
roses and feathers. Up, up they thrust into the light and heat,
shouting, laughing, squealing, as though they were being pushed by
something, far below, and by the sun, far ahead of them—drawn up into
the full, bright, dazzling radiance to... what?
An Ideal Family
That evening for the first time in his life, as he pressed through the
swing door and descended the three broad steps to the pavement, old Mr.
Neave felt he was too old for the spring. Spring—warm, eager,
restless—was there, waiting for him in the golden light, ready in front
of everybody to run up, to blow in his white beard, to drag sweetly on
his arm. And he couldn’t meet her, no; he couldn’t square up once more
and stride off, jaunty as a young man. He was tired and, although the
late sun was still shining, curiously cold, with a numbed feeling all
over. Quite suddenly he hadn’t the energy, he hadn’t the heart to stand
this gaiety and bright movement any longer; it confused him. He wanted
to stand still, to wave it away with his stick, to say, “Be off with
you!” Suddenly it was a terrible effort to greet as usual—tipping his
wide-awake with his stick—all the people whom he knew, the friends,
acquaintances, shopkeepers, postmen, drivers. But the gay glance that
went with the gesture, the kindly twinkle that seemed to say, “I’m a
match and more for any of you”—that old Mr. Neave could not manage at
all. He stumped along, lifting his knees high as if he were walking
through air that had somehow grown heavy and solid like water. And the
homeward-looking crowd hurried by, the trams clanked, the light carts
clattered, the big swinging cabs bowled along with that reckless,
defiant indifference that one knows only in dreams....
It had been a day like other days at the office. Nothing special had
happened. Harold hadn’t come back from lunch until close on four. Where
had he been? What had he been up to? He wasn’t going to let his father
know. Old Mr. Neave had happened to be in the vestibule, saying
good-bye to a caller, when Harold sauntered in, perfectly turned out as
usual, cool, suave, smiling that peculiar little half-smile that women
found so fascinating.
Ah, Harold was too handsome, too handsome by far; that had been the
trouble all along. No man had a right to such eyes, such lashes, and
such lips; it was uncanny. As for his mother, his sisters, and the
servants, it was not too much to say they made a young god of him; they
worshipped Harold, they forgave him everything; and he had needed some
forgiving ever since the time when he was thirteen and he had stolen
his mother’s purse, taken the money, and hidden the purse in the cook’s
bedroom. Old Mr. Neave struck sharply with his stick upon the pavement
edge. But it wasn’t only his family who spoiled Harold, he reflected,
it was everybody; he had only to look and to smile, and down they went
before him. So perhaps it wasn’t to be wondered at that he expected the
office to carry on the tradition. H’m, h’m! But it couldn’t be done. No
business—not even a successful, established, big paying concern—could
be played with. A man had either to put his whole heart and soul into
it, or it went all to pieces before his eyes....
And then Charlotte and the girls were always at him to make the whole
thing over to Harold, to retire, and to spend his time enjoying
himself. Enjoying himself! Old Mr. Neave stopped dead under a group of
ancient cabbage palms outside the Government buildings! Enjoying
himself! The wind of evening shook the dark leaves to a thin airy
cackle. Sitting at home, twiddling his thumbs, conscious all the while
that his life’s work was slipping away, dissolving, disappearing
through Harold’s fine fingers, while Harold smiled....
“Why will you be so unreasonable, father? There’s absolutely no need
for you to go to the office. It only makes it very awkward for us when
people persist in saying how tired you’re looking. Here’s this huge
house and garden. Surely you could be happy in—in—appreciating it for a
change. Or you could take up some hobby.”
And Lola the baby had chimed in loftily, “All men ought to have
hobbies. It makes life impossible if they haven’t.”
Well, well! He couldn’t help a grim smile as painfully he began to
climb the hill that led into Harcourt Avenue. Where would Lola and her
sisters and Charlotte be if he’d gone in for hobbies, he’d like to
know? Hobbies couldn’t pay for the town house and the seaside bungalow,
and their horses, and their golf, and the sixty-guinea gramophone in
the music-room for them to dance to. Not that he grudged them these
things. No, they were smart, good-looking girls, and Charlotte was a
remarkable woman; it was natural for them to be in the swim. As a
matter of fact, no other house in the town was as popular as theirs; no
other family entertained so much. And how many times old Mr. Neave,
pushing the cigar box across the smoking-room table, had listened to
praises of his wife, his girls, of himself even.
“You’re an ideal family, sir, an ideal family. It’s like something one
reads about or sees on the stage.”
“That’s all right, my boy,” old Mr. Neave would reply. “Try one of
those; I think you’ll like them. And if you care to smoke in the
garden, you’ll find the girls on the lawn, I dare say.”
That was why the girls had never married, so people said. They could
have married anybody. But they had too good a time at home. They were
too happy together, the girls and Charlotte. H’m, h’m! Well, well.
Perhaps so....
By this time he had walked the length of fashionable Harcourt Avenue;
he had reached the corner house, their house. The carriage gates were
pushed back; there were fresh marks of wheels on the drive. And then he
faced the big white-painted house, with its wide-open windows, its
tulle curtains floating outwards, its blue jars of hyacinths on the
broad sills. On either side of the carriage porch their
hydrangeas—famous in the town—were coming into flower; the pinkish,
bluish masses of flower lay like light among the spreading leaves. And
somehow, it seemed to old Mr. Neave that the house and the flowers, and
even the fresh marks on the drive, were saying, “There is young life
here. There are girls—”
The hall, as always, was dusky with wraps, parasols, gloves, piled on
the oak chests. From the music-room sounded the piano, quick, loud and
impatient. Through the drawing-room door that was ajar voices floated.
“And were there ices?” came from Charlotte. Then the creak, creak of
her rocker.
“Ices!” cried Ethel. “My dear mother, you never saw such ices. Only two
kinds. And one a common little strawberry shop ice, in a sopping wet
frill.”
“The food altogether was too appalling,” came from Marion.
“Still, it’s rather early for ices,” said Charlotte easily.
“But why, if one has them at all....” began Ethel.
“Oh, quite so, darling,” crooned Charlotte.
Suddenly the music-room door opened and Lola dashed out. She started,
she nearly screamed, at the sight of old Mr. Neave.
“Gracious, father! What a fright you gave me! Have you just come home?
Why isn’t Charles here to help you off with your coat?”
Her cheeks were crimson from playing, her eyes glittered, the hair fell
over her forehead. And she breathed as though she had come running
through the dark and was frightened. Old Mr. Neave stared at his
youngest daughter; he felt he had never seen her before. So that was
Lola, was it? But she seemed to have forgotten her father; it was not
for him that she was waiting there. Now she put the tip of her crumpled
handkerchief between her teeth and tugged at it angrily. The telephone
rang. A-ah! Lola gave a cry like a sob and dashed past him. The door of
the telephone-room slammed, and at the same moment Charlotte called,
“Is that you, father?”
“You’re tired again,” said Charlotte reproachfully, and she stopped the
rocker and offered her warm plum-like cheek. Bright-haired Ethel pecked
his beard, Marion’s lips brushed his ear.
“Did you walk back, father?” asked Charlotte.
“Yes, I walked home,” said old Mr. Neave, and he sank into one of the
immense drawing-room chairs.
“But why didn’t you take a cab?” said Ethel. “There are hundreds of
cabs about at that time.”
“My dear Ethel,” cried Marion, “if father prefers to tire himself out,
I really don’t see what business of ours it is to interfere.”
“Children, children?” coaxed Charlotte.
But Marion wouldn’t be stopped. “No, mother, you spoil father, and it’s
not right. You ought to be stricter with him. He’s very naughty.” She
laughed her hard, bright laugh and patted her hair in a mirror.
Strange! When she was a little girl she had such a soft, hesitating
voice; she had even stuttered, and now, whatever she said—even if it
was only “Jam, please, father”—it rang out as though she were on the
stage.
“Did Harold leave the office before you, dear?” asked Charlotte,
beginning to rock again.
“I’m not sure,” said Old Mr. Neave. “I’m not sure. I didn’t see him
after four o’clock.”
“He said—” began Charlotte.
But at that moment Ethel, who was twitching over the leaves of some
paper or other, ran to her mother and sank down beside her chair.
“There, you see,” she cried. “That’s what I mean, mummy. Yellow, with
touches of silver. Don’t you agree?”
“Give it to me, love,” said Charlotte. She fumbled for her
tortoise-shell spectacles and put them on, gave the page a little dab
with her plump small fingers, and pursed up her lips. “Very sweet!” she
crooned vaguely; she looked at Ethel over her spectacles. “But I
shouldn’t have the train.”
“Not the train!” wailed Ethel tragically. “But the train’s the whole
point.”
“Here, mother, let me decide.” Marion snatched the paper playfully from
Charlotte. “I agree with mother,” she cried triumphantly. “The train
overweights it.”
Old Mr. Neave, forgotten, sank into the broad lap of his chair, and,
dozing, heard them as though he dreamed. There was no doubt about it,
he was tired out; he had lost his hold. Even Charlotte and the girls
were too much for him to-night. They were too... too.... But all his
drowsing brain could think of was—too _rich_ for him. And somewhere at
the back of everything he was watching a little withered ancient man
climbing up endless flights of stairs. Who was he?
“I shan’t dress to-night,” he muttered.