Books: Kathleen
C >>
Christopher Morley >> Kathleen
Produced by Andrea Ball, Eric Eldred, Charles Franks
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
KATHLEEN
BY
CHRISTOPHER MORLEY
TO
THE REAL KATHLEEN
_With Apologies_
KATHLEEN
I
The Scorpions were to meet at eight o'clock and before that hour
Kenneth Forbes had to finish the first chapter of a serial story.
The literary society, named in accordance with the grotesque whim
of Oxford undergraduates, consisted of eight members, and it was
proposed that each one should contribute a chapter. Forbes was of
a fertile wit, and he had been nominated the first operator. He
had been allowed the whole Christmas vacation to prepare his
opening chapter; which was why on this first Sunday of term while
the rest of Merton College was at dinner in hall, he sat at his
desk desperately driving his pen across the paper.
Forbes's room in Fellows' Quad was one of those that had housed
Queen Henrietta Maria in 1643, and though Forbes's own tastes
were nondescript the chamber still had something of an air. The
dark wood panelling might well have done honour to a royal
lodger, and a motion-picture producer would have coveted it as a
background for Mary Pickford. It was unspoiled by pictures: two
or three political maps of Europe, sketchily drawn with coloured
crayons, were pinned up here and there. The room was a typical
Oxford apartment: dark, a little faded, but redeemed by the grate
of glowing coals. Behind the chimney two recessed seats looked
out over the college gardens; long red curtains were drawn to
shut out the winter draughts. It was the true English January--
driving squalls of rain, dampness, and devastating chill. The
east wind brought the booming toll from Magdalen tower very
distinctly to the ear, closely followed by the tinny chime in
Fellows' Quad. It was half past seven.
Forbes laid down his pen, looked quizzically at the last
illegible lines slanting up the paper, and realized that he was
hungry. His untasted tea and anchovy toast still stood in the
fender where the scout had put them three hours before.
He switched on the electric light over the dining table in the
centre of the room, and, dropping on the sofa before the fire,
prodded the huge lumps of soft coal into a blaze. The triangular
slices of anchovy toast were cold but still very good, and he
devoured them with appetite. He lit a cigarette with a sigh of
content, and reflected that he had not crossed his name off hall.
Therefore he must pay eighteen pence for dinner, even though he
had not eaten it. Also there lay somewhat heavily on his mind the
fact that at ten the next morning he must read to his tutor an
essay on "Danton and Robespierre," an essay as yet unwritten.
That would mean a very early rising and an uncomfortable chilly
session in the college library, a dismal place in the forenoon.
Never mind, first came a jolly evening with the Scorpions. The
meetings were always fun, and this one, coming after the
separation of a six-weeks' vacation, promised special sport.
Carter was down for a paper on Rabelais; King would have some of
his amusing ballades and rondeaus; and above all there would be
the first chapter of the serial, from which the members promised
themselves much diversion. It was too late now to attempt
anything on Danton and Robespierre; he picked up a volume of
Belloc and sat cosily by the fire.
A thumping tread sounded on the winding stairs, then the faint
clink of a large metal tray laid on the serving table outside,
and a muffled knock at the "oak," the thick outer door which
Forbes had "sported" when he came in at six to write his stint.
He unfastened the barrier and admitted Hinton, the scout, who
bore in a tray of eatables, ordered by Forbes from the college
store-room for the refreshment of his coming guests. Forbes, like
most men of modest means, made it a point of honour to entertain
lavishly when it was his turn as host, and the display set out by
Hinton made an attractive still life under the droplight. A big
bowl of apples and oranges stood in the centre; tin boxes from
Huntley and Palmer, a couple of large iced cakes, raisins, nuts,
and a dish of candied fruits ended the solids. There was also a
tray of coffee cups and a huge silver coffee pot bearing the
college arms, flanked by a porcelain jug of hot milk. De Reszke
cigarettes, whiskey and soda, and a new tin of John Cotton
smoking mixture completed the spread--which would be faithfully
reflected in Forbes's "battels," or weekly bills, later on. Young
men at Oxford do themselves well, and this was a typical lay-out
for an undergraduate evening.
Hinton, a ruddy old man with iron-gray hair and a very red and
bulby nose, was a garrulous servant, and after a tentative cough
made an attempt at small talk.
"I didn't see you in 'all to-night, sir."
"No," said Forbes, "I had some writing to do, Hinton."
"Oh yes, sir," said Hinton, according to the invariable formula
of college servants. A moment later, after another embarrassed
cough, he began again.
"Very wet night, sir; they say the towpath will be under water in
another day or so."
Forbes was not a rowing man, and the probable submerging of the
towpath was not news that affected him one way or the other. His
only reply was to ask the scout to refill the coal-scuttle. For
this task Hinton donned an old pair of gloves and carried in
several large lumps of coal in his hands from the bin outside.
Then he disappeared into the adjoining bedroom to pour out a few
gallons of very cold water into Forbes's hip bath, to turn down
the sheets, lay out his pajamas, and remove a muddy pair of boots
to be cleaned. Such are the customs that make sweet the lives of
succeeding undergraduates at Oxford. It is pleasant to know that
Palmerston, Pitt, Gladstone, Asquith--they have all gone through
the old routine. Forbes's father had occupied the very same
rooms, thirty years before, and very likely old Hinton, then a
"scout's boy," had blacked his boots. Certainly Forbes senior had
lain in the same bedroom and watched Magdalen Tower through the
trees while delaying to get up on chilly mornings.
"Anything else to-night, sir?" said Hinton, as Forbes put down
Belloc and began to clean a very crusty briar.
"Nothing to-night."
"Thank you, sir," said Hinton and took his departure, after
poking up the fire and removing the dead tea things.
The eight o'clock chimes spoke as Hinton clumped downstairs, and
a few moments later Forbes's guests began to straggle in. All
were wet and ruddy from rain and wind, and, as they discarded
raincoats and caps, disclosed a pleasant medley of types. The
Scorpions was a rather recent and informal society, but it had
gathered from various colleges a little band of temperamental
congenials who found a unique pleasure in their Sunday evening
meetings. None of them was of the acknowledged literary successes
of the university: their names were not those seen every week in
the undergraduate journals. And yet this obscure group, which had
drawn together in a spirit of satire, had in it two or three men
of real gift. Forbes himself was a man of uncommon vivacity.
Small, stocky, with an unruly thatch of yellow hair and a
quaintly wry and homely face, he hid his shyness and his
brilliancy behind a brusque manner. Ostensibly cynical and a
witty satirist of his more sentimental fellows, his desk was full
of charming ballades and _pieces d'amour_, scratched off at white
heat in odd moments. His infinite fund of full-flavoured jest had
won him the nickname of Priapus. But beneath the uncouth exterior
of the man, behind his careless dress and humorously assumed
coarseness, lay the soul of a poet--sensitive as a girl, and
devout before the whisperings of Beauty.
Stephen Carter and Randall King were first to arrive, and seized
the ends of the fireside couch while Forbes poured their coffee.
"A Clark Russell of an evening!" said Carter, stretching his
golfing brogues to the blaze. "Don't you love a good drenching,
downpouring night? I do!" He was a burly full-blooded blond,
extravagantly facetious in convivial moments, and a mournful
brooder in solitude. King, better known as "The Goblin," was a
dark, whimsical elf in thick spectacles, much loved in the
'varsity dramatic society for his brilliant impersonations. The
Goblin said nothing as he sipped his coffee and gazed at the
fire.
"There you go again, Falstaff!" exclaimed Forbes to Carter, as he
unlocked a corner cupboard and drew out a bottle of port. "The
universal enthusiast! I believe you'll be enthusiastic about the
examiners that plough you!"
"What, Falstaff get ploughed?" said a vast and rather handsome
newcomer, flinging open the door without knocking. "I think he's
down for a ruddy First!" This was Douglas Whitney, of Balliol.
Carter's only answer to both these remarks was to drain a glass
of the port which Forbes was decanting.
"I say, Priapus, what vile port!" he said. "Is this some of the
vintage you crocked poor old Hinton with?"
"Any port in a storm, Falstaff," said the Goblin, mildly.
As Forbes was pouring out the coffee loud shouts of "Minters!"
greeted the next arrival. This was Johnny Blair of Tennessee and
Trinity, the only American among the Scorpions. Blair was a
Rhodes Scholar whose dulcet Southern drawl and quaint modes of
speech were a constant delight to his English comrades. His great
popularity in his own college was begun by his introduction of
mint julep, which had given him his nickname.
"Hello, Minters!" cried Forbes. "What cheer?"
"Large tabling and belly cheer," said Blair, quoting his
favourite Elizabethan author.
By the time Forbes had poured out eight cups of coffee and as
many glasses of wine, Keith, Graham, and Twiston had come in,
making the full gathering. There was much laughing and banter as
the men stood round the table or by the fire, lighting pipes and
cigarettes, and helping themselves to fruit and cake. Finally,
when everyone was settled in a semicircle round the fire, Forbes
hammered his coffee cup with a spoon. According to the custom of
the society the host of the evening always acted as chairman.
"The meeting will please come to order," said Forbes. "Brother
Scorpions, what is your pleasure? Has the secretary anything to
report?"
The gatherings of the Scorpions were pleasingly devoid of
formality, and untrammeled by parliamentary conventions. There
were no minutes, and the only officer was a secretary who sent
out postal cards each week, reminding the members of the time and
place of the next meeting.
King, puffing happily at a large pipe, declared that no official
business required attention.
"Then I call upon Falstaff for his delightful paper on Rabelais,"
said Forbes.
A small electric reading lamp was propped behind Carter's head,
and the Scorpions disposed themselves to listen. Carter pulled an
untidy manuscript from his pocket, and after an embarrassed
cough, began to read.
The general tenor of an undergraduate essay on Rabelais, intended
for the intimacy of a fireside circle, may readily be guessed.
The general thesis of the composition was of course to prove that
Rabelais was by no means the low-minded old dog of Puritan
conception; or, as Carter put it, that he was "not simply a
George Moore"; but that his amazing writings bore witness
throughout to a high and devoted ethical purpose. It is even
conjecturable that Carter may have said _puribus omnia pura_; but
if he did so, it was with so droll an accent that his audience
laughed again. At all events his reading was punctuated with
cheery applause, and at the conclusion the Scorpions renewed
their acquaintance with those historic affinities whiskey and
soda. Discussion was brisk.
The meditative Goblin then was called upon for his poems; and,
after becoming hesitation, unfolded a sheaf of verses. His rhymes
were always full of quaint and elvish humour which was very
endearing. His ballade with the refrain "_When Harry Baillie kept
the Tabard Inn_," was voted the best of the six he read.
But the event of the evening was to be the serial story, which
Forbes had been appointed to begin. A new round of refreshments
was distributed, and then the host took his place under the
reading lamp.
"This needs a word of explanation," he said. "Having the whole
vacation to work on this, naturally I did nothing until tea time
this afternoon. I didn't even have an idea in my head until
yesterday. About four o'clock yesterday afternoon I was strolling
down the Broad in desperation. You know when there is some
hateful task that has to be done, one will snatch at any pretext
for postponing it. I stopped in at Blackwell's to look for a book
I wanted. Up in one corner of the shop, lying on a row of books,
I found this."
Impressively he drew from his pocket a double sheet of notepaper
and held it up.
"It was a letter, evidently written by some girl to a man at the
'varsity. Finding it there, forgotten and defenseless, I could
not resist reading it. It was a very charming letter, not too
intimate, but full of a delicious virgin coyness and reserve.
Then a great idea struck me. Why not take the people mentioned in
the letter and use them as the characters of our story? We know
that they are real people; we know their first names; that's all
we know about them. The rest can be left to the invention of the
Scorpions."
Generous laughter greeted the idea.
"Let's hear the letter!" cried someone.
"Yes," said Forbes, "before reading my chapter I'll read you the
letter. And then remember that our story is to be built up solely
upon this document. There are to be no characters in the story
except those mentioned in the letter, and our task must be to
delineate them in such a way that they are in keeping with the
suggestions the letter gives us. Here it is."
X X X X
These are from Fred.
318, BANCROFT ROAD,
WOLVERHAMPTON
October 30, 1912.
DEAR JOE:
Thank you so much for the tie--it is pretty and I do wear ties
sometimes, so I sha'n't let the boys have it.
You must think me rather ungrateful not writing before, but I
have been out the last two evenings and have had no time for
letters. Yesterday Mother and I went to Birmingham as I had my
half-term holiday.
I hope you managed to get some tea after writing to me, otherwise
I shall feel so grieved to think I was the cause of your
starvation. By the way, I read your latest poem and I don't like
it--not that that will trouble you much I'm sure. The idea isn't
at all bad, but that's all I like about it.
I haven't a bit of news, and I have just found out it is too late
to catch the post to-night, so you will have to wait a little
longer for this precious letter--it will be precious, won't it?
Charlie has just come home from his class, so I must bring his
food for him. Daddy's lumbago is better, I'm glad to say.
Good-night, and with many thanks
I remain
Yours,
KATHLEEN.
Excuse this scrawl, but the pen's groggy.
A moment of silence followed the reading of the letter.
"Joe's a lucky boy," said Whitney. "She's a darling."
"The letter doesn't tell us much," said Forbes, as he handed it
round for examination; "but more than you might think. Before
writing my chapter I summarized the data. Here they are:
"1. _Joe_. He's a member of the 'varsity who writes poetry.
Either it's published in some magazine or he sends it privately
to her. The blighter has sent Kathleen a tie of some kind--
probably a scarf with his college or club colours. He's got as
far as the plaintive stage: he tells her that he is going without
his tea just to write to her. (Probably half a dozen crumpets and
four cups of tea were simmering inside of him as he wrote). So
much for Joe. I'll wager he's a Rhodes Scholar!
"2. _Kathleen_. I put her at seventeen, and (as Whitney says)
she's a darling. She's at school still. She's adorably sane. She
doesn't care for Joe's yowling poetry (probably he writes
Verlaine kind of stuff, or free verse, or some blither of that
sort). She has younger brothers ('the boys') and she helps her
mother run the house. I think she likes Joe better than she cares
to admit--see the touch of coquettishness where she says 'It
_will_ be precious, won't it?' And how adorably she teases him in
those four crosses marked 'These are from Fred.' Gad, I'm jealous
of Joe already!
"3. _Fred_. I think he's the older brother; probably recently
left the 'varsity; a friend of Joe's, perhaps.
"4. _Charlie_ is one of the younger brothers. He goes to some
kind of night school or gymnasium. Probably an ugly little
beggar. Why doesn't he get his food for himself?
"5. _The Mother_. Don't know anything about her except that she
went to Birmingham with Kathleen.
"6. _The Father_. Has lumbago."
"One thing you don't mention," said Graham. "It's an easy run
from here to Wolverhampton on a motor bike!"
"Rather a sell if Joe should turn out a boxing blue, and mash us
all into pulp for bagging his letter!" said Whitney. There was a
general laugh at this. Whitney was over six feet, rowed number 5
in the Balliol boat, and was nicknamed the Iron Duke for his
muscular strength.
"Go on with your chapter, Priapus," said the Goblin.
II
When Forbes had finished there was general laughter and applause.
The whimsical idea of building a tale around the persons of the
letter was one which his playful mind was competent to develop,
and he had written a deft and amusing introduction. Taking "Joe"
as his subject he had sketched that gentleman's character with a
touch of irony. He had made him a Rhodes Scholar from Indiana
(evoking good-natured protest from Minters) and had carried him
on a vacation to Guilford House, a small hotel in London much
frequented by Rhodes Scholars. There he had made him meet
Kathleen who, with her mother, was staying in London for a few
days. Forbes had a taste for brunettes, and in his description of
the imagined Kathleen he had indulged himself heartily. He found
her to be seventeen, slender, with that strong slimness that only
an English girl achieves; with a straight brown gaze and abundant
dark chestnut hair. She was captain of her school hockey team, it
seemed; she was good at tennis and swimming and geometry; she had
small patience with poetry and sentiment. But within the athletic
and straightforward flapper Forbes thought he saw the fluttering
of deeper womanhood; the maiden soul erecting a barrier of abrupt
common sense about itself to conceal the shy and sensitive
feelings that were beginning to blossom. Such at any rate was
Kenneth Forbes's psycho-analysis, and he developed his chapter
toward a climax where Kathleen and Joe were left walking in
Regent's Park, and the next author would find some difficulty in
knowing how to proceed with the second instalment.
"Well done indeed!" cried Blair, as Forbes laid down his
manuscript and reached for his pipe. There was a general murmur
of assent as the men got up to stretch and talk. Someone punched
the coals into flame, and the bowl of fruit was passed round.
"Who's to write the next chapter?" asked Graham.
"Let Falstaff do it!" cried Blair. "He's the sentimentalist! But
go easy on poor Joe. You know all Rhodes Scholars don't come from
Indiana! Have a heart!"
"Do whatever you like to Joe!" cried Forbes; "But be careful with
Kathleen! She's adorable! I'm going to write a ballade to her and
mail it to her anonymously."
"I wish there was some way of getting hold of her picture," said
Keith.
"Her picture?" said Graham. "Nonsense! Why not see the flapper
herself? I'm going to bike over there on my Rudge, erb round till
I find the street, and then skid like hell right on to her
doorstep. I shall lie there in mute agony until I'm carried
indoors."
"I say, now, that's no fair!" cried Forbes. "I discovered her!
Just because you've got a motor bike you mustn't take an
advantage!"
"Look here," said the Goblin, mildly, speaking from a blue cloud
of Murray's Mixture, "we must all sign a protocol, or a mandamus
or a lagniappe or whatever you law men call it, not to steal a
march. I think we'd all like to meet the real Kathleen. But we
must give a bond to start fair and square, and nobody do anything
that isn't authorized by the whole club."
"Right-O!" cried several voices.
"All right, then," said the Goblin, "fill glasses everyone, and
we'll solemnize the oath. Brother Scorpions, I do you to wit that
we all, jointly and severally, promise not to take any steps
toward making the acquaintance of said Kathleen until so
authorized by the whole society. So help me God!"
They all drank to this, with some chuckles.
"What a lark if we could get Kathleen down for Eights Week!" said
someone.
"Very likely Joe will have her here," said Whitney. "You seem to
forget that he's been rowing this course for some time."
They all scowled.
"I wonder how many members of the 'varsity are called Joe?" Keith
asked.
"About three hundred, I dare say," said Falstaff.
"I tell you what we might do," said Forbes. "When the yarn's
finished we can send it to her, explain just how the whole thing
happened, and ask permission to call. She's got a sense of
humour, I'll swear!"
"Balmy!" retorted Falstaff. "She'd probably be frightfully fed
because you bagged her letter! 'S a hell of a thing to do, crib a
lady's letter!"
"It's a hell of a thing to do to leave it lying around!" cried
Forbes, impenitent. "No quarter for Joebags! Let the punishment
fit the crime."
"Well, you chaps, I've got to sheer off," said Whitney. "It's
nearly eleven and I've got an essay on the stocks. Cheer-o
Priapus, I've had a ripping time."
"'Arf a mo,'" cried Forbes. "Who's to do the next chapter, and
where do we meet next week?"
"Falstaff!" cried several voices.
"Why not do two chapters a week," said Carter. "I'll do one, and
Goblin can do another. Let's meet in my rooms."
This was agreed to, and after much scuffling with greatcoats and
scarves the guests tramped off down the stairs and out into the
rainy quad. Forbes could hear them, a minute later, thundering
with their heels on the huge iron-studded college gate as they
waited for the porter to let them out. The room was foul with
smoke, and he opened a window over the gardens letting in a gush
of chill sweet air and rain. Through the darkness he could hear
many chimes, counting eleven. He looked wearily at the scribbled
notes for his essay on Danton and Robespierre: then shrugged his
shoulders and went to bed.
III
By the time that Carter and King had written their chapters and
read them aloud, the Scorpions were all frankly adorers of
Kathleen; by midterm she had become an obsession. Eric Twiston
and Bob Graham, "doing a Cornstalk" (as walking on Cornmarket
Street is elegantly termed) were wont to dub any really
delightful girl they saw as "a Kathleen sort of person." At the
annual dinner of the club, which took place in a private dining
room at the "Clarry" (the Clarendon Hotel) in February, Forbes
was called upon to respond to the toast "The Real Kathleen." His
voice, tremulous with emotion and absinthe frappe, nearly failed
him; but he managed to stammer a few phrases which, thought at
the time to be extemporaneous, called forth loud applause; but it
was found later that he had jotted them down on the tablecloth
during the soup and fish courses. "Fellow Scorpers," he said, "I
mean you chaps, look here, I'm not much at this dispatch-box
business, but--hem--I want to say that I regard Kathleen with
feelings of iridescent emotion. I feel sure that she is a
pronounced brunette and that the Blue Flapper we all used to see
at the East Ocker is nowhere. I've been playing lackers
(lacrosse) this term and I give you my word that when I've been
bloody well done in and had an absolute needle of funk I had only
to think of Kathleen to buck me up. Hem. Now gentlemen, you may
think I'm drunk (loud cries of _No_!) but I want to say in truth
and soberness that any man who thinks he's got Kathleen for
bondwoman--hem--has me to reckon with!"
The applause at this speech was so immoderate that a party
of Boston ladies dining with a Chautauqua lecturer in the
Clarendon's main dining room, shuddered and began looking up
time-tables to Stratford.
By this time the serial story had grown to the length of seven or
eight chapters, and the Scorpions became so engrossed in the
fortunes of the Kenyons (so, for convenience, they had dubbed
Kathleen's family) that at the dinner a separate health was drunk
to each character in the story, and one of the members was called
upon to reply. Falstaff Carter responded to the toast to "Joe,"
and recounted his secret investigations into the number of
members of the university who bore that name. He claimed to have
tabulated from the university almanac 256 men so christened, and
offered to go into the life history of any or all of them. He
said that he was happy to say that the only Joseph who seemed at
all likely to be a poet was a scrubby little man at Teddy Hall,
who wore spectacles and a ragged exhibitioner's gown and did not
seem to threaten a serious rivalry to any Scorpion bent on
supplanting him. "I also find," he added, "that the master of the
New College and Magdalen beagles is called Joe. He is a member of
the Bullingdon, and if he is the cheese it's distinctly mooters
whether any of the Scorpers have a ghostly show; but I vote,
gentlemen, that we don't crock at this stage of the game."