Читать книгу The Anxious Days - Philip Gibbs - Страница 14

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It was astonishing how slowly time passed before his engagement with Madge in Shaftesbury Avenue. He walked as far as St. Paul’s and went into the Cathedral and sat down on one of the chairs, gazing up at the twinkling mosaics round the dome, and looking ahead at the distant choir.

A lot of history had passed in this place since old Wren’s days. There had been prayers for victory here during the War, and other wars, half forgotten. Had they had any effect? Did God take sides in international quarrels? But they had comforted the living, these prayers, and given courage to women whose sons went out to the ordeal of battle.

Out in Malay he had thought a good deal about God and prayer, and survival after death. Once or twice—more than that—he had had a queer sense of being in touch with the Infinite, if those words meant anything. It was the effect of loneliness and introspection, and the mystery of Nature out East: immense, unfathomable, and terrible. God, the Eternal Spirit, the Great Cause, seemed utterly indifferent to human creatures out there. They died like flies when the forces of Nature turned against them in flood or storm. And yet sometimes he had seemed to be aware of some divine meaning behind all this conflict and surge of life. It must mean something beyond mere accident. What meaning?

What meaning? He had tried to puzzle it out under the stars, or alone in his bungalow, with tropical rain beating down upon its roof week after week in the wet season. Some of those modern books which reached him now and then denied survival after death, and mocked at any direct revelation between God and Man. They substituted a humanistic philosophy of service to the commonweal, in place of the old faith in a personal God Who would give eternal rewards to those who loved him. Well, perhaps this loss of faith in the old religion of sacrifice and love, with reward for virtue and punishment for evil, was what made the modern world so discontented and unhappy. If there were no life to come, the comforts and pleasures of this life became more important. Everybody wanted a bigger share here and now, with more wages for less work, and more profits at other men’s expense. Individuals and nations were greedy for luxury. They drove the machine faster to get more wealth. The masters of the machine were driving it so fast that they were over-producing everything, while millions lacked everything....

Too much rubber! That was why he was back in London, sitting in St. Paul’s Cathedral waiting for Madge....

It was all very bewildering. The more one loved, the more one suffered, sometimes. That was strange! Was there any such thing as happiness, or was that one of the illusions? Perhaps self-forgetfulness was the secret of happiness. He would like to serve old England somehow. It was not enough to have lost an arm. He was still young enough to go on working in some kind of job, for England’s sake. Perhaps that was egotism, the need of asserting one’s own personality.... Well, he would try to be of use to Madge.... Time to be moving in her direction.

He walked back from St. Paul’s, and asked a policeman the whereabouts of Palace Chambers in Shaftesbury Avenue. It seemed to be the headquarters of dramatic art and theatrical agencies, as he observed for half an hour or more, pacing up and down in quarter-deck style, arousing the suspicion of a young bobby on point duty, and the interest of certain young women who had the impudence—or the kindness, considering his age—to give him the glad eye in passing.

He watched the types who went into the building where Madge was rehearsing. Perhaps these girls used too much lipstick. He was inclined to think so. But they came hurrying up in a businesslike way, without any of that self-conscious languor and assumed haughtiness which he remembered as a young naval man when he had waited now and then at the stage door of the Gaiety, with other officers who had the honour of knowing some of the beauties of the chorus. Some of the elder men and women looked as if their luck were out. They looked worn and anxious. Perhaps the Pictures had taken away their chance of a weekly wage, or perhaps there is not much chance nowadays for actresses who have lost the first bloom of youth. One of them spoke to Commander Compton as he stood on the steps looking out for Madge.

“Ghastly, isn’t it, hanging about like this, and always the same answer of ‘Nothing doing’? What’s your luck? About the same, I suppose?”

Commander Compton lifted his hat to this woman whose fur coat looked the worse for wear, and whose eyes had a hunted expression, he thought.

“I’m not looking for an engagement,” he told her in his courteous way. “I’m waiting for my daughter. She’s rehearsing in there.”

“Oh, sorry, I thought you were one of us. Well, if I had a daughter I would rather she drowned than belonged to this profession. Of course it’s not so bad when you’re young and pretty. A Tiller girl?”

“No,” said Compton. “She’s rehearsing for a play at the Royalty.”

“Oh! Very distinguished! Sorry I bored you.”

“Not at all,” said Compton, lifting his hat again. He felt very sorry for her. She looked tired and rather ill.

Madge was half an hour late. He was almost giving her up, when he felt her hand on his arm.

“Sorry, Father! Here I am at last. Where are we going to have lunch?”