VI
The manner of Wynne Rendall’s coming into prominence was fortuitous. It happened a little over two years after his marriage, and, broadly speaking, was engineered by Eve.
As a result of some unexpected sales to American publishers a few extra pounds slipped through the lodging letter-box, and Eve insisted he should spend some of these in joining a club of good standing.
“You’ve been in the dark too long, Wynne. A writer of plays must be known by the people who produce them, by the better actors and critics. They must get used to seeing you before they will believe in you.”
He raised no opposition to the idea. Of late he had felt cabined and confined, and the thought of broader horizons appealed to him.
“Uncle Clem would put you up for the Phœnician, wouldn’t he?”
Wynne shook his head irritably.
“I’m not disposed to ask favours of Uncle Clem,” he replied.
“Why not?”
“It was evident enough he disapproved of my mode of life when last we met. It will be time to ask him to do things for me when he approves. Besides, there’s no need. A cousin of my mother’s is a member—I’ll ask him.”
“Does he approve of your mode of life?”
“Probably not; but, since I have no interest in him one way or the other, it doesn’t matter. The man is rich and a fool.”
“I didn’t know you had a rich cousin.”
“It isn’t a thing to boast about. I rather believe I have a moderately rich father and mother somewhere—still it can’t be helped.”
“Do you know,” said Eve, “you have never mentioned them before.”
“I don’t know what persuaded me to do so at all.”
“Tell me about them.”
“Nothing to tell. They wanted me to accept a sound commercial position—whatever that may mean; in declining to do so I forfeited my birthright, and sacrificed my immortal soul to the flames.”
“Did you run away?”
“I walked away. They were too slow to render running a necessity.”
“I think you are rather callous,” said Eve.
“Surely to God you don’t expect me to take off my hat, like a music-hall serio, when I speak of Home and Mother.”
“No, that would be rather silly—still—”
“One must judge the value of things and persons on two counts—their service and their effect. If their service is negligible, and they produce no effect, it is clearly useless to have any further dealings with them.”
“I don’t like that,” said Eve. “It’s a cold philosophy. You sponge the wine from the cellars and complain when the vats are empty.”
“I don’t complain—I pass on. One must, or die of thirst.”
“It is a false thirst.”
“That doesn’t matter so long as one feels it acutely.”
She generally allowed him the luxury of supplying the phrase to round off an argument. It is a tribute to the gallantry of women that they will allow the vanquished to feel he is the victor, and as true of the best of them as the popular belief to the contrary is false.
Wynne joined the Phœnician, and after a while came to spend much of his time there. It made, he said, a change from the never-ending sameness of their penny-threefarthing home.
It was so long since he had foregathered with fellow-men that at first he spent his club hours in shy silence. He would sit, ostensibly reading a periodical, and actually listening to the conversation of those about him. In so doing he learnt many things in regard to the subjects which men will discuss one with another. The Phœnician was to a great extent a rabble club. The members were composed of professional men—artists, writers, actors, and those curious individuals who form a tail-light to the arts, being bracketed on as a kind of chorus. These latter always appeared to be well provided with money and ill provided with brains. They knew the names of many stage people, and reeled them off one after another as a parrot delivers its limited vocabulary. Seemingly they derived much pleasure from the practice, and their happiest conversational circumstance was to mention some one whose name they had never introduced before.
Wynne made unto himself an enemy of this section of the rabble by a chance remark on an occasion when he happened to be in their midst.
“I suppose,” he said, “you collect names as more intellectual folk collect cigar bands.”
As invariably was the case he was rather pleased with himself for producing this remark. It suggested a line of thought, and shortly afterwards he produced an article entitled “Men and their Talk.” The article, which boasted a lemon wit, appeared in the Monday Review, and offended many people.
“The average man,” he wrote, “has but four topics of conversation which he considers worthy of discussion. 1. His relation to other men’s wives. 2. His prowess at sport. 3. The names of restaurants at which he would have us believe he dines. 4. His capacity for consuming liquor. Of these subjects Nos. 1 and 4 are usually taken in conjunction. Thus, before we are privileged to hear the more intimate passages of his amours, we are obliged to follow the assuaging of his thirst from double cocktail to treble liqueur. A nice balance in self-satisfaction is proved by a man’s pride in what he drinks and how he loves.” Then, in another paragraph: “The average man is not proud of resisting the temptations of the flesh, but is always proud of yielding to them. Whenever men are gathered together you will hear them speak in admiration of what our moral code forbids, but you will not hear them boast of their fidelity. Many a faithful husband lies of infidelity that he may stand even with his fellows.”
Of all the criticisms provoked by this article Wynne was best pleased by one from a brother member, who announced that it was “an infernal breach of confidence.”
The club made serious inroads on Wynne’s finances, for no matter how abstemious a man may be, he cannot rub shoulders with his own kind without a certain amount of wear on his pocket linings. In consequence, Eve was obliged to cut things very fine and forego every atom of personal expenditure.
Possibly because he had had such small dealings with money, Wynne was not a generous giver. In these days he disbursed less toward the household account than ever before, but did not expect less to appear upon the table on this account. Neither did he expect Eve to appear before him in dresses which had lost all pretentions to attractiveness. Sometimes he would remark:
“When on earth are you going to throw away that dreadful old garment?”
The artistic mind is apt to be unreasonable in its demands—a circumstance which Eve was obliged to keep very much before her eyes if she would stay the tear which sought to rise there.