Fanny thought it all came from Tom Jones. He could go alone with a book in his pocket and watch the badgers. He would take a train at eight-thirty and walk all night. He saw fireflies, and brought back glowworms in pillboxes. He would hunt with the New Forest Staghounds. It all came from Tom Jones; and he would go to Greece with a book in his pocket and forget her.
She fetched her hand-glass. There was her face. And suppose one wreathed Jacob in a turban? There was his face. She lit the lamp. But as the daylight came through the window only half was lit up by the lamp. And though he looked terrible and magnificent and would chuck the Forest, he said, and come to the Slade, and be a Turkish knight or a Roman emperor (and he let her blacken his lips and clenched his teeth and scowled in the glass), still—there lay Tom Jones.
XI
“Archer,” said Mrs. Flanders with that tenderness which mothers so often display towards their eldest sons, “will be at Gibraltar tomorrow.”
The post for which she was waiting (strolling up Dods Hill while the random church bells swung a hymn tune about her head, the clock striking four straight through the circling notes; the glass purpling under a storm-cloud; and the two dozen houses of the village cowering, infinitely humble, in company under a leaf of shadow), the post, with all its variety of messages, envelopes addressed in bold hands, in slanting hands, stamped now with English stamps, again with Colonial stamps, or sometimes hastily dabbed with a yellow bar, the post was about to scatter a myriad messages over the world. Whether we gain or not by this habit of profuse communication it is not for us to say. But that letter-writing is practised mendaciously nowadays, particularly by young men travelling in foreign parts, seems likely enough.
For example, take this scene.
Here was Jacob Flanders gone abroad and staying to break his journey in Paris. (Old Miss Birkbeck, his mother’s cousin, had died last June and left him a hundred pounds.)
“You needn’t repeat the whole damned thing over again, Cruttendon,” said Mallinson, the little bald painter who was sitting at a marble table, splashed with coffee and ringed with wine, talking very fast, and undoubtedly more than a little drunk.
“Well, Flanders, finished writing to your lady?” said Cruttendon, as Jacob came and took his seat beside them, holding in his hand an envelope addressed to Mrs. Flanders, near Scarborough, England.
“Do you uphold Velasquez?” said Cruttendon.
“By God, he does,” said Mallinson.
“He always gets like this,” said Cruttendon irritably.
Jacob looked at Mallinson with excessive composure.
“I’ll tell you the three greatest things that were ever written in the whole of literature,” Cruttendon burst out. “ ‘Hang there like fruit my soul.’ ” he began. …
“Don’t listen to a man who don’t like Velasquez,” said Mallinson.
“Adolphe, don’t give Mr. Mallinson any more wine,” said Cruttendon.
“Fair play, fair play,” said Jacob judicially. “Let a man get drunk if he likes. That’s Shakespeare, Cruttendon. I’m with you there. Shakespeare had more guts than all these damned frogs put together. ‘Hang there like fruit my soul,’ ” he began quoting, in a musical rhetorical voice, flourishing his wineglass. “The devil damn you black, you cream-faced loon!” he exclaimed as the wine washed over the rim.
“ ‘Hang there like fruit my soul,’ ” Cruttendon and Jacob both began again at the same moment, and both burst out laughing.
“Curse these flies,” said Mallinson, flicking at his bald head. “What do they take me for?”
“Something sweet-smelling,” said Cruttendon.
“Shut up, Cruttendon,” said Jacob. “The fellow has no manners,” he explained to Mallinson very politely. “Wants to cut people off their drink. Look here. I want grilled bone. What’s the French for grilled bone? Grilled bone, Adolphe. Now you juggins, don’t you understand?”
“And I’ll tell you, Flanders, the second most beautiful thing in the whole of literature,” said Cruttendon, bringing his feet down on to the floor, and leaning right across the table, so that his face almost touched Jacob’s face.
“ ‘Hey diddle diddle, the cat and the fiddle,’ ” Mallinson interrupted, strumming his fingers on the table. “The most ex-qui-sitely beautiful thing in the whole of literature. … Cruttendon is a very good fellow,” he remarked confidentially. “But he’s a bit of a fool.” And he jerked his head forward.
Well, not a word of this was ever told to Mrs. Flanders; nor what happened when they paid the bill and left the restaurant, and walked along the Boulevard Raspaille.
Then here is another scrap of conversation; the time about eleven in the morning; the scene a studio; and the day Sunday.
“I tell you, Flanders,” said Cruttendon, “I’d as soon have one of Mallinson’s little pictures as a Chardin. And when I say that …” he squeezed the tail of an emaciated tube … “Chardin was a great swell. … He sells ’em to pay his dinner now. But wait till the dealers get hold of him. A great swell—oh, a very great swell.”
“It’s an awfully pleasant life,” said Jacob, “messing away up here. Still, it’s a stupid art, Cruttendon.” He wandered off across the room. “There’s this man, Pierre Louys now.” He took up a book.
“Now my good sir, are you going to settle down?” said Cruttendon.
“That’s a solid piece of work,” said Jacob, standing a canvas on a chair.
“Oh, that I did ages ago,” said Cruttendon, looking over his shoulder.
“You’re a pretty competent painter in my opinion,” said Jacob after a time.
“Now if you’d like to see what I’m after at the present moment,” said Cruttendon, putting a canvas before Jacob. “There. That’s it. That’s more like it. That’s …” he squirmed his thumb in a circle round a lamp globe painted white.
“A pretty solid piece of work,” said Jacob, straddling his legs in front of it. “But what I wish you’d explain …”
Miss Jinny Carslake, pale, freckled, morbid, came into the room.
“Oh Jinny, here’s a friend. Flanders. An Englishman. Wealthy. Highly connected. Go on, Flanders. …”
Jacob said
