The Card

  Arnold Bennett

  * * *

  THE CARD

  A Story of Adventure in the Five Towns

  Contents

  1. The Dance

  2. The Widow Hullins’s House

  3. The Pantechnicon

  4. Wrecking of a Life

  5. The Mercantile Marine

  6. His Burglary

  7. The Rescuer of Dames

  8. Raising a Wigwam

  9. The Great Newspaper War

  10. His Infamy

  11. In the Alps

  12. The Supreme Honour

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  THE CARD

  Arnold Bennett (1867–1931) was one of the most versatile, ambitious and successful British novelists of the early twentieth century. His novels and short stories both celebrate and deplore a rapidly changing Britain. Much of his greatest work is set where he grew up, in the Potteries of the West Midlands. Inspired by Zola and Maupassant, he realized that this world of brutal industrial work and rapid social change, religious severity and material temptation, was the perfect backdrop for everything from comedy to tragedy. His novels include Anna of the Five Towns (1902), The Old Wives’ Tale (1908), The Card (1911) and Riceyman Steps (1923). He died of typhoid.

  1

  The Dance

  I

  Edward Henry Machin first saw the smoke on the 27th May 1867, in Brougham Street, Bursley, the most ancient of the Five Towns. Brougham Street runs down from St Luke’s Square straight into the Shropshire Union Canal, and consists partly of buildings known as ‘potbanks’ (until they come to be sold by auction, when auctioneers describe them as ‘extensive earthenware manufactories’) and partly of cottages whose highest rent is four-and-six a week. In such surroundings was an extraordinary man born. He was the only anxiety of a widowed mother, who gained her livelihood and his by making up ‘ladies’ own materials’ in ladies’ own houses. Mrs Machin, however, had a speciality apart from her vocation: she could wash flannel with less shrinking than any other woman in the district, and she could wash fine lace without ruining it; thus often she came to sew and remained to wash. A somewhat gloomy woman; thin, with a tongue! But I liked her. She saved a certain amount of time every day by addressing her son as Denry, instead of Edward Henry.

  Not intellectual, not industrious, Denry would have maintained the average dignity of labour on a potbank had he not at the age of twelve won a scholarship from the Board School to the Endowed School. He owed his triumph to audacity rather than learning, and to chance rather than design. On the second day of examination he happened to arrive in the examination-room ten minutes too soon for the afternoon sitting. He wandered about the place exercising his curiosity, and reached the master’s desk. On the desk was a tabulated form with names of candidates and the number of marks achieved by each in each subject of the previous day. He had done badly in geography, and saw seven marks against his name in the geographical column, out of a possible thirty. The figures had been written in pencil. The very pencil lay on the desk. He picked it up, glanced at the door and at the rows of empty desks, and wrote a neat ‘2’ in front of the 7; then he strolled innocently forth and came back late. His trick ought to have been found out – the odds were against him – but it was not found out. Of course it was dishonest. Yes, but I will not agree that Denry was uncommonly vicious. Every schoolboy is dishonest, by the adult standard. If I knew an honest schoolboy I would begin to count my silver spoons as he grew up. All is fair between schoolboys and schoolmasters.

  This dazzling feat seemed to influence not only Denry’s career but also his character. He gradually came to believe that he had won the scholarship by genuine merit, and that he was a remarkable boy and destined to great ends. His new companions, whose mothers employed Denry’s mother, also believed that he was a remarkable boy; but they did not forget, in their gentlemanly way, to call him ‘washer-woman’. Happily Denry did not mind.

  He had a thick skin, and fair hair and bright eyes and broad shoulders, and the jolly gaiety of his disposition developed daily. He did not shine at the school; he failed to fulfil the rosy promise of the scholarship; but he was not stupider than the majority; and his opinion of himself, having once risen, remained at ‘set fair’. It was inconceivable that he should work in clay with his hands.

  II

  When he was sixteen his mother, by operations on a yard and a half of Brussels point lace, put Mrs Emery under an obligation. Mrs Emery was the sister of Mr Duncalf. Mr Duncalf was the Town Clerk of Bursley, and a solicitor. It is well known that all bureaucracies are honeycombed with intrigue. Denry Machin left school to be clerk to Mr Duncalf, on the condition that within a year he should be able to write shorthand at the rate of a hundred and fifty words a minute. In those days mediocre and incorrect shorthand was not a drug on the market. He complied (more or less, and decidedly less than more) with the condition. And for several years he really thought that he had nothing further to hope for. Then he met the Countess.

  The Countess of Chell was born of poor but picturesque parents, and she could put her finger on her great-grandfather’s grandfather. Her mother gained her livelihood and her daughter’s by allowing herself to be seen a great deal with humbler but richer people’s daughters. The Countess was brought up to matrimony. She was aimed and timed to hit a given mark at a given moment. She succeeded. She married the Earl of Chell. She also married about twenty thousand acres in England, about a fifth of Scotland, a house in Piccadilly, seven country seats (including Sneyd), a steam yacht, and five hundred thousand pounds’ worth of shares in the Midland Railway. She was young and pretty. She had travelled in China and written a book about China. She sang at charity concerts and acted in private theatricals. She sketched from nature. She was one of the great hostesses of London. And she had not the slightest tendency to stoutness. All this did not satisfy her. She was ambitious! She wanted to be taken seriously. She wanted to enter into the life of the people. She saw in the quarter of a million souls that constitute the Five Towns a unique means to her end, an unrivalled toy. And she determined to be identified with all that was most serious in the social progress of the Five Towns. Hence some fifteen thousand pounds were spent in refurbishing Sneyd Hall, which lies on the edge of the Five Towns, and the Earl and Countess passed four months of the year there. Hence the Earl, a mild, retiring man, when invited by the Town Council to be the ornamental Mayor of Bursley, accepted the invitation. Hence the Mayor and Mayoress gave an immense afternoon reception to practically the entire roll of burgesses. And hence, a little later, the Mayoress let it be known that she meant to give a municipal ball. The news of the ball thrilled Bursley more than anything had thrilled Bursley since the signing of Magna Charta. Nevertheless, balls had been offered by previous mayoresses. One can only suppose that in Bursley there remains a peculiar respect for land, railway stock, steam yachts, and great-grandfathers’ grandfathers.

  Now, everybody of account had been asked to the reception. But everybody could not be asked to the ball, because not more than two hundred people could dance in the Town Hall. There were nearly thirty-five thousand inhabitants in Bursley, of whom quite two thousand ‘counted’, even though they did not dance.

  III

  Three weeks and three days before the ball Denry Machin was seated one Monday alone in Mr Duncalf’s private offices in Duck Square (where he carried on his practice as a solicitor), when in stepped a tall and pretty young woman, dressed very smartly but soberly in dark green. On the desk in front of Denry were several wide sheets of ‘abstract’ paper, concealed by a copy of that morning’s Athletic News. Before Denry could even think of reversing the positions of the abstract paper and the Athletic News the young woman said ‘Good morning!’ in a very friendly
style. She had a shrill voice and an efficient smile.

  ‘Good morning, madam,’ said Denry.

  ‘Mr Duncalf in?’ asked the young woman brightly.

  (Why should Denry have slipped off his stool? It is utterly against etiquette for solicitors’ clerks to slip off their stools while answering inquiries.)

  ‘No, madam; he’s across at the Town Hall,’ said Denry.

  The young lady shook her head playfully, with a faint smile.

  ‘I’ve just been there,’ she said. ‘They said he was here.’

  ‘I daresay I could find him, madam – if you would—’

  She now smiled broadly. ‘Conservative Club, I suppose?’ she said, with an air deliciously confidential.

  He, too, smiled.

  ‘Oh, no,’ she said, after a little pause; ‘just tell him I’ve called.’

  ‘Certainly, madam. Nothing I can do?’

  She was already turning away, but she turned back and scrutinized his face, as Denry thought, roguishly.

  ‘You might just give him this list,’ she said, taking a paper from her satchel and spreading it. She had come to the desk; their elbows touched. ‘He isn’t to take any notice of the crossings-out in red ink – you understand? Of course, I’m relying on him for the other lists, and I expect all the invitations to be out on Wednesday. Good morning.’

  She was gone. He sprang to the grimy window. Outside, in the snow, were a brougham, twin horses, twin men in yellow, and a little crowd of youngsters and oldsters. She flashed across the footpath, and vanished; the door of the carriage banged, one of the twins in yellow leaped up to his brother, and the whole affair dashed dangerously away. The face of the leaping twin was familiar to Denry. The man had, indeed, once inhabited Brougham Street, being known to the street as Jock, and his mother had for long years been a friend of Mrs Machin’s.

  It was the first time Denry had seen the Countess, save at a distance. Assuredly she was finer even than her photographs. Entirely different from what one would have expected! So easy to talk to! (Yet what had he said to her? Nothing – and everything.)

  He nodded his head and murmured, ‘No mistake about that lot!’ Meaning, presumably, that all that one had read about the brilliance of the aristocracy was true, and more than true.

  ‘She’s the finest woman that ever came into this town,’ he murmured.

  The truth was that she surpassed his dreams of womanhood. At two o’clock she had been a name to him. At five minutes past two he was in love with her. He felt profoundly thankful that, for a church tea-meeting that evening, he happened to be wearing his best clothes.

  It was while looking at her list of invitations to the ball that he first conceived the fantastic scheme of attending the ball himself. Mr Duncalf was, fussily and deferentially, managing the machinery of the ball for the Countess. He had prepared a little list of his own of people who ought to be invited. Several aldermen had been requested to do the same. There were thus about half-a-dozen lists to be combined into one. Denry did the combining. Nothing was easier than to insert the name of E. H. Machin inconspicuously towards the centre of the list! Nothing was easier than to lose the original lists, inadvertently, so that if a question arose as to any particular name, the responsibility for it could not be ascertained without inquiries too delicate to be made. On Wednesday Denry received a lovely Bristol board, stating in copper-plate that the Countess desired the pleasure of his company at the ball; and on Thursday his name was ticked off as one who had accepted.

  IV

  He had never been to a dance. He had no dress-suit, and no notion of dancing.

  He was a strange, inconsequent mixture of courage and timidity. You and I are consistent in character; we are either one thing or the other but Denry Machin had no consistency.

  For three days he hesitated, and then, secretly trembling, he slipped into Shillitoe’s, the young tailor who had recently set up, and who was gathering together the jeunesse dorée of the town.

  ‘I want a dress-suit,’ he said.

  Shillitoe, who knew that Denry only earned eighteen shillings a week, replied with only superficial politeness that a dress-suit was out of the question; he had already taken more orders than he could execute without killing himself. The whole town had uprisen as one man and demanded a dress-suit.

  ‘So you’re going to the ball, are you?’ said Shillitoe, trying to condescend, but, in fact, slightly impressed.

  ‘Yes,’ said Denry; ‘are you?’

  Shillitoe started and then shook his head. ‘No time for balls,’ said he.

  ‘I can get you an invitation, if you like,’ said Denry, glancing at the door precisely as he had glanced at the door before adding 2 to 7.

  ‘Oh!’ Shillitoe cocked his ears. He was not a native of the town, and had no alderman to protect his legitimate interests.

  To cut a shameful story short, in a week Denry was being tried on. Shillitoe allowed him two years’ credit.

  The prospect of the ball gave an immense impetus to the study of the art of dancing in Bursley, and so put quite a nice sum of money into the pocket of Miss Earp, a young mistress in that art. She was the daughter of a furniture dealer with a passion for the Bankruptcy Court. Miss Earp’s evening classes were attended by Denry, but none of his money went into her pocket. She was compensated by an expression of the Countess’s desire for the pleasure of her company at the ball.

  The Countess had aroused Denry’s interest in women as a sex; Ruth Earp quickened the interest. She was plain, but she was only twenty-four, and very graceful on her feet. Denry had one or two strictly private lessons from her in reversing. She said to him one evening, when he was practising reversing and they were entwined in the attitude prescribed by the latest fashion: ‘Never mind me! Think about yourself. It’s the same in dancing as it is in life – the woman’s duty is to adapt herself to the man.’ He did think about himself. He was thinking about himself in the middle of the night, and about her too. There had been something in her tone … her eye … At the final lesson he inquired if she would give him the first waltz at the ball. She paused, then said yes.

  V

  On the evening of the ball, Denry spent at least two hours in the operation which was necessary before he could give the Countess the pleasure of his company. This operation took place in his minute bedroom at the back of the cottage in Brougham Street, and it was of a complex nature. Three weeks ago he had innocently thought that you had only to order a dress-suit and there you were! He now knew that a dress-suit is merely the beginning of anxiety. Shirt! Collar! Tie! Studs! Cuff-links! Gloves! Handkerchief! (He was very glad to learn authoritatively from Shillitoe that handkerchiefs were no longer worn in the waistcoat opening, and that men who so wore them were barbarians and the truth was not in them. Thus, an everyday handkerchief would do.) Boots! … Boots were the rock on which he had struck. Shillitoe, in addition to being a tailor was a hosier, but by some flaw in the scheme of the universe hosiers do not sell boots. Except boots, Denry could get all he needed on credit; boots he could not get on credit, and he could not pay cash for them. Eventually he decided that his church boots must be dazzled up to the level for this great secular occasion. The pity was that he forgot – not that he was of a forgetful disposition in great matters; he was simply over-excited – he forgot to dazzle them up until after he had fairly put his collar on and his necktie in a bow. It is imprudent to touch blacking in a dress-shirt, so Denry had to undo the past and begin again. This hurried him. He was not afraid of being late for the first waltz with Miss Ruth Earp, but he was afraid of not being out of the house before his mother returned. Mrs Machin had been making up a lady’s own materials all day, naturally – the day being what it was! If she had had twelve hands instead of two, she might have made up the own materials of half-a-dozen ladies instead of one, and earned twenty-four shillings instead of four. Denry did not want his mother to see him ere he departed. He had lavished an enormous amount of brains and energy to the end of displa
ying himself in this refined and novel attire to the gaze of two hundred persons, and yet his secret wish was to deprive his mother of the beautiful spectacle.

  However, she slipped in, with her bag and her seamy fingers and her rather sardonic expression, at the very moment when Denry was putting on his overcoat in the kitchen (there being insufficient room in the passage). He did what he could to hide his shirt-front (though she knew all about it), and failed.

  ‘Bless us!’ she exclaimed briefly, going to the fire to warm her hands.

  A harmless remark. But her tone seemed to strip bare the vanity of human greatness.

  ‘I’m in a hurry,’ said Denry, importantly, as if he was going forth to sign a treaty involving the welfare of the nations.

  ‘Well,’ said she, ‘happen ye are, Denry. But th’ kitchen table’s no place for boot-brushes.’

  He had one piece of luck. It froze. Therefore no anxiety about the condition of boots.

  VI

  The Countess was late; some trouble with a horse. Happily the Earl had been in Bursley all day, and had dressed at the Conservative Club; and his lordship had ordered that the programme of dances should be begun. Denry learned this as soon as he emerged, effulgent, from the gentlemen’s cloak-room into the broad red-carpeted corridor which runs from end to end of the ground-floor of the Town Hall. Many important townspeople were chatting in the corridor – the innumerable Swetnam family, the Stanways, the great Etches, the Fearnses, Mrs Clayton Vernon, the Suttons, including Beatrice Sutton. Of course everybody knew him for Duncalf’s shorthand clerk and the son of the flannel-washer; but universal white kid gloves constitute a democracy, and Shillitoe could put more style into a suit than any other tailor in the Five Towns.