Kipps · Book II · Chapter 2 6 (2/3)

“I’ve taken my fun where I’ve found it,

And now I must pay for my fun,

For the more you ’ave known o’ the others,

The less will you settle to one⁠—

“Well. In my case anyhow⁠—I don’t know how much that proves, seeing I’m exceptional in so many things and there’s no good denying it⁠—but so far as I’m concerned⁠—I tell you two, but of course you needn’t let it go any farther⁠—I’ve been perfectly faithful to Muriel ever since I married her⁠—ever since.⁠ ⁠… Not once. Not even by accident have I ever said or done anything in the slightest⁠—.” His little, brown eye became pensive after this flattering intimacy and the gorgeous draperies of his abundant voice fell into graver folds. “I learnt about women from ’er,” he said impressively.

“Yes,” said Walshingham, getting into the hinder spaces of that splendid pause, “a man must know about women. And the only sound way of learning is the experimental method.”

“If you want to know about the experimental method, my boy,” said Chitterlow, resuming.⁠ ⁠…

So they talked. Ex pede Herculem, as Coote, that cultivated polyglot, would have put it. And in the small hours Kipps went to bed, with his brain whirling with words and whiskey, and sat for an unconscionable time upon his bed edge, musing sadly upon the unmanly monogamy of soul that had cast its shadow upon his career, musing with his thoughts pointing around more and more certainly to the possibility of at least duplicity with Ann.

For some days he had been refraining with some insistence from going off to New Romney again.⁠ ⁠…

I do not know if this may count in palliation of his misconduct. Men, real Strong-Souled, Healthy Men, should be, I suppose, impervious to conversational atmospheres, but I have never claimed for Kipps a place at these high levels. The unquenchable fact remains that the next day he spent the afternoon with Ann and found no scruple in displaying himself a budding lover.

He had met her in the High Street, had stopped her, and almost on the spur of the moment had boldly proposed a walk, “for the sake of old times.”

“I don’t mind,” said Ann.

Her consent almost frightened Kipps. His imagination had not carried him to that. “It would be a lark,” said Kipps, and looked up the street and down. “Now?” he said.

“I don’t mind a bit, Artie. I was just going for a walk along towards St. Mary’s.”

“Let’s go that way be’ind the church,” said Kipps, and presently they found themselves drifting seaward in a mood of pleasant commonplace. For a while they talked of Sid. It went clean out of Kipps’ head at that early stage even that Ann was a “girl” according to the exposition of Chitterlow, and for a time he remembered only that she was Ann. But afterwards, with the reek of that talk in his head, he lapsed a little from that personal relation. They came out upon the beach and sat down in a tumbled, pebbly place, where a meagre grass and patches of sea poppy were growing, and Kipps reclined on his elbow and tossed pebbles in his hand, and Ann sat up, sunlit, regarding him. They talked in fragments. They exhausted Sid, they exhausted Ann, and Kipps was chary of his riches.

He declined to a faint lovemaking. “I got that ’arf sixpence still,” he said.

“Reely?”

That changed the key. “I always kept mine, some’ow,” said Ann, and there was a pause.

They spoke of how often they had thought of each other during those intervening years. Kipps may have been untruthful, but Ann perhaps was not. “I met people here and there,” said Ann; “but I never met anyone quite like you, Artie.”

“It’s jolly our meeting again, anyhow,” said Kipps. “Look at that ship out there. She’s pretty close in.⁠ ⁠…”

He had a dull period, became indeed almost pensive, and then he was enterprising for a while. He tossed up his pebbles so that as if by accident they fell on Ann’s hand. Then, very penitently, he stroked the place. That would have led to all sorts of coquetries on the part of Flo Banks, for example, but it disconcerted and checked Kipps to find Ann made no objection, smiled pleasantly down on him, with eyes half shut because of the sun. She was taking things very much for granted.

He began to talk, and Chitterlow standards resuming possession of him he said he had never forgotten her.

“I never forgotten you either, Artie,” she said. “Funny, isn’t it?”

It impressed Kipps also as funny.

He became reminiscent, and suddenly a warm summer’s evening came back to him. “Remember them cockchafers, Ann?” he said. But the reality of the evening he recalled was not the chase of cockchafers. The great reality that had suddenly arisen between them was that he had never kissed Ann in his life. He looked up and there were her lips.

He had wanted to very badly, and his memory leaped and annihilated an interval. That old resolution came back to him and all sorts of new resolutions passed out of mind. And he had learnt something since those boyish days. This time he did not ask. He went on talking, his nerves began very faintly to quiver and his mind grew bright.

Presently, having satisfied himself that there was no one to see, he sat up beside her and remarked upon the clearness of the air, and how close Dungeness seemed to them. Then they came upon a pause again.

“Ann,” he whispered, and put an arm that quivered about her.

She was mute and unresisting, and, as he was to remember, solemn.

He turned her face towards him, and kissed her lips, and she kissed him back again⁠—kisses frank and tender as a child’s.

It was curious that in the retrospect he did not find nearly the satisfaction in this infidelity he had imagined was there. It was no doubt desperately doggish, doggish to an almost Chitterlowesque degree to recline on the beach at Littlestone with a “girl,” to make love to her and to achieve the triumph of kissing her, when he was engaged to another “girl” at Folkestone, but somehow these two people were not “girls,” they were Ann and Helen. Particularly Helen declined to be considered as a “girl.” And there was something in Ann’s quietly friendly eyes, in her frank smile, in the naive pressure of her hand, there was something undefended and welcoming that imparted a flavour to the business upon which he had not counted. He had learnt about women from her. That refrain ran through his mind and deflected his thoughts, but as a matter of fact he had learnt about nothing but himself.

He wanted very much to see Ann some more and explain. He did not clearly know what it was he wanted to explain.

He did not clearly know anything. It is the last achievement of the intelligence to get all of one’s life into one coherent scheme, and Kipps was only in a measure more aware of himself as a whole than is a tree. His existence was an affair of dissolving and recurring moods. When he thought of Helen or Ann or any of his friends, he thought sometimes of this aspect and sometimes of that⁠—and often one aspect was finally incongruous with another. He loved Helen, he revered Helen. He was also beginning to hate her with some intensity. When he thought of that expedition to Lympne, profound, vague, beautiful emotions flooded his being; when he thought of paying calls with her perforce, or of her latest comment on his bearing, he found himself rebelliously composing fierce and pungent insults, couched in the vernacular. But Ann, whom he had seen so much less of, was a simpler memory. She was pretty, she was almost softly feminine, and she was possible to his imagination just exactly where Helen was impossible. More than anything else, she carried the charm of respect for him, the slightest glance of her eyes was balm for his perpetually wounded self-conceit.

Chance suggestions it was set the tune of his thoughts, and his state of health and repletion gave the colour. Yet somehow he had this at least almost clear in his mind, that to have gone to see Ann a second time, to have implied that she had been in possession of his thoughts through all this interval, and, above all, to have kissed her, was shabby and wrong. Only unhappily this much of lucidity had come now just a few hours after it was needed.

Four days after this it was that Kipps got up so late. He got up late, cut his chin while shaving, kicked a slipper into his sponge bath and said, “Desh!”

Perhaps you know those intolerable mornings, dear Reader, when you seem to have neither the heart nor the strength to rise, and your nervous adjustments are all wrong and your fingers thumbs, and you hate the very birds for singing. You feel inadequate to any demand whatever. Often such awakenings follow a poor night’s rest, and commonly they mean indiscriminate eating, or those subtle mental influences old Kipps ascribed to “Foozle Ile” in the system, or worry. And with Kipps⁠—albeit Chitterlow had again been his guest overnight⁠—assuredly worry had played a leading role. Troubles had been gathering upon him for days, there had been a sort of concentration of these hosts of Midian overnight, and in the grey small hours Kipps had held his review.

The predominating trouble marched under this banner:

Mrs. Bindon Botting

At Home

Thursday, September 16th

a banner that was the facsimile of a card upon his looking glass in the room below. And in relation to this terribly significant document things had come to a pass with Helen that he could only describe in his own expressive idiom as “words.”

It had long been a smouldering issue between them that Kipps was not availing himself with any energy or freedom of the opportunities he had of social exercises, much less was he seeking additional opportunities. He had, it was evident, a peculiar dread of that universal afternoon enjoyment, the Call, and Helen made it unambiguously evident that this dread was “silly” and had to be overcome. His first display of this unmanly weakness occurred at the Coote’s on the day before he kissed Ann. They were all there, chatting very pleasantly, when the little servant with the big cap announced the younger Miss Wace.

Whereupon Kipps manifested a lively horror and rose partially from his chair. “O Gum!” he protested. “Carn’t I go upstairs?”

Then he sank back, for it was too late. Very probably the younger Miss Wace had heard him as she came in.

Helen said nothing of that, though her manner may have shown her surprise, but afterwards she told Kipps he must get used to seeing people, and suggested that he should pay a series of calls with Mrs. Walshingham and herself. Kipps gave a reluctant assent at the time and afterwards displayed a talent for evasion that she had not suspected in him. At last she did succeed in securing him for a call upon Miss Punchafer, of Radnor Park⁠—a particularly easy call because Miss Punchafer being so deaf one could say practically what one liked⁠—and then outside the gate he shirked again. “I can’t go in,” he said in a faded voice.

“You must,” said Helen, beautiful as ever, but even more than a little hard and forbidding.

“I can’t.”

He produced his handkerchief hastily, thrust it to his face, and regarded her over it with rounded, hostile eyes.

“ ’Possible,” he said in a hoarse, strange voice out of the handkerchief. “Nozzez bleedin’.”

But that was the end of his power of resistance, and when the rally for the Anagram Tea occurred she bore down his feeble protests altogether. She insisted. She said frankly, “I am going to give you a good talking to about this,” and she did.⁠ ⁠…

From Coote he gathered something of the nature of Anagrams and Anagram parties. An anagram, Coote explained, was a word spelt the same way as another, only differently arranged, as, for instance, T O C O E would be an anagram for his own name, Coote.

“T O C O E,” repeated Kipps very carefully.

“Or T O E C O,” said Coote.

“Or T O E C O,” said Kipps, assisting his poor head by nodding it at each letter.

“Toe Company like,” he said in his efforts to comprehend.

When Kipps was clear what an anagram meant, Coote came to the second heading, the Tea. Kipps gathered there might be from thirty to sixty people present, and that each one would have an anagram pinned on. “They give you a card to put your guesses on, rather like a dance programme, and then, you know, you go around and guess,” said Coote. “It’s rather good fun.”

“Oo rather!” said Kipps, with simulated gusto.

“It shakes everybody up together,” said Coote.

Kipps smiled and nodded.⁠ ⁠…

In the small hours all his painful meditations were threaded by the vision of that Anagram Tea; it kept marching to and fro and in and out of all his other troubles, from thirty to sixty people, mostly ladies and callers, and a great number of the letters of the alphabet, and more particularly P I K P S and T O E C O, and he was trying to make one word out of the whole interminable procession.⁠ ⁠…

This word, as he finally gave it with some emphasis to the silence of the night, was “Demn!”

Then, wreathed as it were in this lettered procession, was the figure of Helen as she had appeared at the moment of “words”; her face a little hard, a little irritated, a little disappointed. He imagined himself going around and guessing under her eye.⁠ ⁠…

He tried to think of other things, without lapsing upon a still deeper uneasiness that was wreathed with yellow sea poppies, and the figures of Buggins, Pierce and Carshot, three murdered Friendships, rose reproachfully in the stillness and changed horrible apprehensions into unspeakable remorse. Last night had been their customary night for the banjo, and Kipps, with a certain tremulous uncertainty, had put old Methuselah amidst a retinue of glasses on the table and opened a box of choice cigars. In vain. They were in no need, it seemed, of his society. But instead Chitterlow had come, anxious to know if it was all right about that syndicate plan. He had declined anything but a very weak whiskey and soda, “just to drink,” at least until business was settled, and had then opened the whole affair with an effect of great orderliness to Kipps. Soon he was taking another whiskey by sheer inadvertency, and the complex fabric of his conversation was running more easily from the broad loom of his mind. Into that pattern had interwoven a narrative of extensive alterations in the Pestered Butterfly⁠—the neck and beetle business was to be restored⁠—the story of a grave difference of opinion with Mrs. Chitterlow, where and how to live after the play had succeeded, the reasons why the Hon. Thomas Norgate had never financed a syndicate, and much matter also about the syndicate now under discussion. But if the current of their conversation had been vortical and crowded, the outcome was perfectly clear. Kipps was to be the chief participator in the syndicate, and his contribution was to be two thousand pounds. Kipps groaned and rolled over and found Helen, as it were, on the other side. “Promise me,” she had said, “you won’t do anything without consulting me.”

Kipps at once rolled back to his former position, and for a space lay quite still. He felt like a very young rabbit in a trap.

Then suddenly, with extraordinary distinctness, his heart cried out for Ann, and he saw her as he had seen her at New Romney, sitting amidst the yellow sea poppies with the sunlight on her face. His heart called out for her in the darkness as one calls for rescue. He knew, as though he had known it always, that he loved Helen no more. He wanted Ann, he wanted to hold her and be held by her, to kiss her again and again, to turn his back forever on all these other things.⁠ ⁠…