MARGARET IN LONDON
1
I was twenty-seven when I met Margaret again, and the intervening five years had been years of vigorous activity for me, if not of very remarkable growth.When I saw her again, I could count myself a grown man.I think, indeed, I counted myself more completely grown than I was.At any rate, by all ordinary standards, I had "got on" very well, and my ideas, if they had not changed very greatly, had become much more definite and my ambitions clearer and bolder.
I had long since abandoned my fellowship and come to London.I had published two books that had been talked about, written several articles, and established a regular relationship with the WEEKLYREVIEW and the EVENING GAZETTE.I was a member of the Eighty Club and learning to adapt the style of the Cambridge Union to larger uses.The London world had opened out to me very readily.I had developed a pleasant variety of social connections.I had made the acquaintance of Mr.Evesham, who had been attracted by my NEW RULER, and who talked about it and me, and so did a very great deal to make a way for me into the company of prominent and amusing people.Idined out quite frequently.The glitter and interest of good London dinner parties became a common experience.I liked the sort of conversation one got at them extremely, the little glow of duologues burning up into more general discussions, the closing-in of the men after the going of the women, the sage, substantial masculine gossiping, the later resumption of effective talk with some pleasant woman, graciously at her best.I had a wide range of houses;Cambridge had linked me to one or two correlated sets of artistic and literary people, and my books and Mr.Evesham and opened to me the big vague world of "society." I wasn't aggressive nor particularly snobbish nor troublesome, sometimes I talked well, and if I had nothing interesting to say I said as little as possible, and I had a youthful gravity of manner that was liked by hostesses.
And the other side of my nature that first flared through the cover of restraints at Locarno, that too had had opportunity to develop along the line London renders practicable.I had had my experiences and secrets and adventures among that fringe of ill-mated or erratic or discredited women the London world possesses.The thing had long ago ceased to be a matter of magic or mystery, and had become a question of appetites and excitement, and among other things the excitement of not being found out.
I write rather doubtfully of my growing during this period.Indeed I find it hard to judge whether I can say that I grew at all in any real sense of the word, between three and twenty and twenty-seven.
It seems to me now to have been rather a phase of realisation and clarification.All the broad lines of my thought were laid down, Iam sure, by the date of my Locarno adventure, but in those five years I discussed things over and over again with myself and others, filled out with concrete fact forms I had at first apprehended sketchily and conversationally, measured my powers against my ideals and the forces in the world about me.It was evident that many men no better than myself and with no greater advantages than mine had raised themselves to influential and even decisive positions in the worlds of politics and thought.I was gathering the confidence and knowledge necessary to attack the world in the large manner; I found I could write, and that people would let me write if I chose, as one having authority and not as the scribes.Socially and politically and intellectually I knew myself for an honest man, and that quite without any deliberation on my part this showed and made things easy for me.People trusted my good faith from the beginning--for all that I came from nowhere and had no better position than any adventurer.
But the growth process was arrested, I was nothing bigger at twenty-seven than at twenty-two, however much saner and stronger, and any one looking closely into my mind during that period might well have imagined growth finished altogether.It is particularly evident to me now that I came no nearer to any understanding of women during that time.That Locarno affair was infinitely more to me than I had supposed.It ended something--nipped something in the bud perhaps--took me at a stride from a vague, fine, ignorant, closed world of emotion to intrigue and a perfectly definite and limited sensuality.
It ended my youth, and for a time it prevented my manhood.I had never yet even peeped at the sweetest, profoundest thing in the world, the heart and meaning of a girl, or dreamt with any quality of reality of a wife or any such thing as a friend among womanhood.
My vague anticipation of such things in life had vanished altogether.I turned away from their possibility.It seemed to me I knew what had to be known about womankind.I wanted to work hard, to get on to a position in which I could develop and forward my constructive projects.Women, I thought, had nothing to do with that.It seemed clear I could not marry for some years; I was attractive to certain types of women, I had vanity enough to give me an agreeable confidence in love-making, and I went about seeking a convenient mistress quite deliberately, some one who should serve my purpose and say in the end, like that kindly first mistress of mine, "I've done you no harm," and so release me.It seemed the only wise way of disposing of urgencies that might otherwise entangle and wreck the career I was intent upon.
I don't apologise for, or defend my mental and moral phases.So it was I appraised life and prepared to take it, and so it is a thousand ambitious men see it to-day....
