Authors: Winifred Holtby
'Oh - how stupid of me. Of course, I ought to have
asked. I took for granted. Dear me, that just shows one
ought never to get excited - well, agencies I suppose. I
really don't know. I thought the Press -I mean, one
does
tell the others, don't they?'
'Well, I expect you'd like me just to see about that for
you, wouldn't you? You leave it to me. I'll see what I can
do. Can't expect the ladies to do
everything,
bear all our
burdens, you know?'
He put her on to her bus, and waited until she pushed
her way up to a front seat and waved at him through the
window. The bus carried off her small, draggled, jubilant
person, and Johnson pulled out his watch. It was twelve
o'clock. He had half an hour to spare before meeting Maca
fee. He looked hopefully along the road for a hospitable
pub, feeling that what he wanted was a drop of whisky to
keep the rain out. Signing cheques. Miss Weller's twenty pounds. St. Denis going abroad. Seeing Gloria to-morrow
night.
He felt that he had done a good morning's work.
S3
Johnson walked along Elgin Avenue in the clear March night. From Maida Vale tube station the road stretched in
polished darkness between its budding plane trees. Though
it was only half-past eight, the pavements were almost
empty. The straight tapering road, in day-time so common
place, was disciplined by night to cool austerity. 'Elgin
Avenue,' thought Johnson, and the word Elgin brought to
him the thought of the Elgin Marbles. 'Greece,' he thought,
and saw himself in a cool moonlit gymnasium, watching the
pallid greenish light of the moon on naked figures. The
glory that was Greece. He straightened his broad back,
correcting the stoop which insidiously curved his rounding
shoulders. The perfect development of mind and body -freedom both physical and intellectual. He could feel the
muscles in his own thighs and stomach responding involun
tarily to the fine tension of his mind.
The thought of Greece brought him a strong excitement.
His vision of the age of Pericles was oddly compounded
from pictures by Alma Tadema, the drop-curtain at the
Regina Music Hall, an illustrated edition of Kingsley's
Heroes,
Isadora Duncan's autobiography, a lantern lecture
on the Elgin Marbles, and the film version of
The Private Life
of Helen of Troy.
But from these ingredients he had built up
so vivid and detailed a dream country that he could smell the crisp thymy scent of herbs in the sunburned turf. He
could feel its warm prickling surface against his body as he
threw himself down after the hot sweaty bout of wrestling. In the cool pillared hall behind him, Gloria reclined beside a low semi-circular table, on which stood goblets of wine,
and bowls of goats' milk, cheese, and honey, and fruit piled
in ample dishes. Three Nubian slaves fanned Gloria. John
son borrowed the slaves from the bath scene in 'Kismet,' but
that did not matter. Gloria's tunic slipped from one soft
milky shoulder as she held out her hand with a parsley
wreath to crown him victor in the games. Oh Greece!
That was the time when men could live like men, unafraid
in mind or body.
The soft padding of feet behind him echoed into his
dream. He turned and saw, moving in and out of the long
line of plane trees, now in gold lamplight, now in faint blue
moonlight, the figure of a runner. It was a figure sprung to
life from the Elgin Marbles, a young man's figure, white and
lithe, loping with long free strides between the plane trees.
His head was up, his chest wide, his hands clenched, his lean
long legs cut the darkness with a beautiful easy rhythm. He
ran as a youth had run from Athens to Sparta (or was it
Sparta to Athens?) bringing news of War. He ran as boys
run round the wide gymnasium. He was a miracle, a sud
den unforgettable beauty, an uncovenanted gift from the
gods, the old Greek gods. He was a clerk from Paddington
Athletic Association, hurrying home after a late training, in
his running-kit.
Johnson forgot his growing paunch, his lumbering weight, his slack muscles and unhealthy skin. He forgot his muddled shiftless way of living, and his doubtful honesty. Tears stung
his eyelids, as he stared along the empty road, from which
the fleeting vision slowly faded.
By God, that was a sight to see. That was a man's life. That was what the body should be like. Strong, dignified,
sane, alive. They knew how to live, those Greeks.
Gloria lived. By God, that was what she was like. She
was a Greek. Mollie was a savage, Delia a Cockney; but
Gloria was a Greek. She was large and splendid and un
afraid. And Basil St. Denis was leaving England.
Johnson felt extraordinarily happy and hopeful.
During the past twenty-four hours, ever since he had
watched Caroline interview the reporters, he had sought the key to his new mood. And now Elgin Avenue had supplied it. His happiness lay in the Greek view of life. He must tell
that to Gloria. He had so much to tell Gloria. They must
go away together. They must go to Greece. Why had he
never seen the Acropolis? Why had he never raced knee-deep in asphodel? Why had he never stood, like Isadora
Duncan, at the door of the Panthenon? Or was it the Pantheon? - well, anyway, they must go to Greece.
He had small doubt of his success. What could a fine
woman like Gloria see in a little affected rabbit like St.
Denis, a weedy delicate nincompoop? Fine women needed
fine men. Yes, and they got them too, by Gad.
In a high exalted humour he climbed the stairs up to the
St. Denis's flat. The steps were dark, except where the worn
brass edging made a faint bar of light across them. Unworthy stairs, thought Johnson. Smelling of tom-cats and
perambulators. Why doesn't she live in a grander place?
St. Denis is probably mean. And she earns the money too.
Well, soon she could live in a worthier home. Johnson was
in an opulent mood. Nothing would be too good for her if she could come to Greece.
He rang the bell. Gloria herself came to the door.
'Basil's in bed. I've given him about seventy aspirins and
made him go to sleep. Come along in.'
He followed her into the warm cosy room and stood on
the hearth-rug looking down at her with bright compelling
eyes. She curled herself like a great lazy cat on the divan.
'Well, what's your news? Mix me a cocktail for the love
of Mike, and tell me something cheerful. I feel as mouldy as a wet week-end, what with Basil ill an' London like it is, an'
everything. Tell me I've come into a fortune. Tell me the
Christian Cinema Company's either made or bust. I'm tired of it. I'm tired altogether.'
But she did not look tired. She looked golden and grand
and placid. Her long gown of orange velvet made a warm moving mirror for the firelight. She held out a large hand
some hand for the cocktail and Johnson saw that her painted
finger-nails were bright as cherries.
He was a man of action. He was a Greek.
He stood with one elbow on the mantelpiece looking
down at her, telling his news in crisp staccato sentences. He never muddled his own reporting. He was the unequivocal hero of his news.
'I always told Macafee to study Hollywood. He's like all specialists. Keeps his nose in his own work. Won't look
around. I don't pretend to be an engineering expert. Ideas
are my job. But I knew this right enough. Of course Brooks
spotted it at once. The Tona Perfecta's no more use to any
company to-day than a sick headache.' Johnson had quite
forgotten his own enthusiasm for the film, and Gloria had
ceased to take any interest in it. 'And we've paid five hun
dred for it. Aren't men businesslike?' she sighed.
'Of course, that doesn't mean Macafee's no good. On the
contrary I pointed out to Brooks this new colour stuff's first
rate. He'll do big things, that young man - when he's
learned his lesson.'
'But we've got no rights over the new stuff, have we?'
'We? Who's "we"? Now look here, Gloria, honestly.
Who cares a hoot for the Christian Cinema Company?
You don't. St. Denis doesn't. Isenbaum never comes near
us now. All he wanted was to make himself pleasant to your husband, 'smy belief. Now, honest, wasn't it? I guess old
Guerdon won't care. He's scared stiff of everything. Won't blow his own nose for fear of germs on his handkerchief.
The only person who'd really give a dime for the whole
damn concern is Caroline, an' she's crazy. Well, I mean,
you can't keep a thing going to please Caroline, can you?
An' she's got her curate.'
'Got what?'
'Oh, she's sweet on that young curate. What's his name?
Mortimer. The one who got hurt in the crash. Poor old
bird. One of those old-maid-sweet-on-the-parson complexes.
That'll keep her happy for months. You know, we never
ought to have thought we could run a business concern with
her as secretary. She's about as much knowledge of business
as a flea has of higher mathematics. Of course, we didn't
want to be unkind, an" all that. I quite see. But it's gotta
come to an end some day. An' we're only losin' money. I've
been going into the books a bit. We've been payin' money
to printers, lawyers, God knows what. Hadn't you better
call a meetin'; pay our bills with what assets we've got, an'
wind up the affair, an' start afresh?'
Even as he spoke he saw himself as the strong practical man, coming to the rescue of these stranded idealists. He
lifted burdens of responsibility from Gloria. He put St.
Denis to shame. His energy was like a
rushing mighty wind.
He swept poor Caroline out of her incongruous position in
Victoria Street and set her down in a nice suitable alms-
house in the country, somewhere among hollyhocks and cabbage-roses, with a thatched roof and a cat, and a kettle on the hob. He swept Gloria out of Maida Vale and set her
down in Greece among wild thyme and asphodel.
Gloria acquiesced in his rhapsodies. She was not really
thinking about Johnson. Her thoughts were with Basil,
whom she had kept in London through a dark chill winter
when he needed sun and warmth. It was her fault that he
was ill again. Without the Christian Cinema Company, he
would have left for Nice last October, and stayed there until the warm weather came. The whole affair had been a stupid
mistake. She ought to have seen from the beginning that a
company run by Caroline Denton-Smyth was inevitably
absurd. She ought not to have let Basil's sense of humour
run away with her sense of business values. She fell into a
mood of unwonted self-dissatisfaction. Tired of London,
and of the Maida Vale flat and Hanover Square, she began to wonder whether a hat-and-dress shop in the Boulevard
des Moulins might not, after all, be a good investment, now
that Monte Carlo was developing a summer as well as a win
ter season. She hardly noticed when Johnson took her hand, still talking; but when his flow of conversation stopped, as
he bent to cover her fingers and wrist with kisses, she raised
herself on one elbow and looked at him, amused interroga
tion in her eyes. He interrupted his kisses to shout at her
with tumultuous exaltation.