THE FRIENDS.
ANY one who has found himself occasionally in a London bar or tavern may well have wondered to what class and what callings those belong who have the air of spending their spare time habitually in such places. The writer certainly has wondered. He has wondered how men who aro not at all well dressed have so much money to spend on drinks, and how men who do not look clever enough to have risen very high in any occupation have enough time at their command to wander in and out of these bars morning and afternoon. He could not very well ask them, so lie has remained in ignorance. There can be no doubt, however, that the majority of customers whom you may see at any given moment in any bar—hotel bars apart, for there must be many birds of passage in these—have been there often before. They have the air of knowing the place and of being known. They sit in a chair, or corner, as though they had a right to sit there, and would challenge all who disputed it. They are on terms of familiar goodwill with the proprietor or the barman and the barmaids. The casual visitor who would like to think that his social arts are equal to emergencies may contemplate with stupefa ction the ease, assurance, and impertinent daring of the men who have good bar-side manners. He confesses with humility that this kind of thing is beyond him. He would trip with uncertainty or nervousness at the first attempt to imitate. A common spectacle, in the writer's memory, is that of a very common-looking man who has something of uncommon importance to impart to an acquaintance. He moves his hands with emphatic gesticulations such as can be seen nowhere outside bars or the conversations of bookmakers ; ho whispers in a strained voice into the ear of his listener, who wags his h cad slowly in confirmation. Evidently the matter is of the utmost moment and highly con- fidential, and the writer has known jealousy on these occasions, reflecting that no one has ever conveyed to him communications of such vast import. In bars important secrets are evidently habitual.
The life and manners of bars and taverns which have been long established in London (and it is probably so in all the large commercial towns) are so distinct and, in one sense, impreszive, that it is remarkable that they have not been studied more by writers in search of a fresh background for fiction. Perhaps they have been so exploited. if so, we are ignorant of it. In any case, a correspondent has directed our attention to a remarkable short story in the Century Magazine for October, 1915, by Mr. Stacy Aumonier. Here we find the bar-life presented with something like perfection ; and, indeed, the whole story seems to us to be one of the best short stories we have ever read in English. It is rather sordid—though that word has been generally used in a condemnatory sense, which we do not intend—and very sombre. We confess to a liking for cheerful art and solutions that are not depressing ; but in the Dostoievsky-like field in which Mr. Aumonier moves he acquits himself with absolute precision and command of himself and his material. To us it is particularly illuminating, because it throws its light—we hope and believe not all the light, but still a special and vivid light—on the mysteries of bar habits and bar frequenters. The scene described is emphatically trae,
as the present writer knows, because he has seen it. The deductions to be made from the story are truly depressing, and hero we begin to write of the matter with some misgiving, because our readers may be tempted to think that we mean to work the " lessons " of the story round to our " obsession " about drink and the war. That, however, is not our purpose. If the story has any instruction for any one it cannot be helped ; but we want to regard the story solely as a work of art.
' Of tho two " friends " whom Mr. Aumonier describes, one (White) is an agent of a wire-mattress firm, and the ether (Mapleson) the agent of a brass-bedstead firm. They aro not really friends, except in the sense that the desire of both to have companionship in drinking, and above all a pretext for drinking, makes the presence of one desiralle to the other. They know nothing of each other's family. Neither has seen the home of the other, though they have associated for years. The secret of their continual visits to the bar is that they believe, or pretend to believe, that business is best done over a drink. It is the theory of the lubricant of com- merce. Once admit this point of view and a large part of the mystery of men spending on drink an amount of money far beyond what you would judge from their appearance is their financial capacity comes to an end. They regard drink, so to speak, as their office. The bar is the place in which their work must be done and for which the rent of sitting-room must be paid. White is neat in his dress, but Mapleson is unbrushcd and unkempt. With a reservation as to this distinction, which is imposed no doubt by temperament, neither of them, it may be said, has any appearances to keep up. Their homes are small and obscure, and it is plain that they spend next to nothing on the education of their children. The man with appearances to keep up thinks twice about the expense of a single whisky and soda, but these men do not boggle at ten to fifteen whiskies and sodas a day each. Then Mr. Aumonier, with a telling stroke of irony, discloses the debit and credit account of drink as it stands between these two friends for a single year. They have done business together to the value of thirty pounds, and each has spent eighty pounds in standing drinks to the other. Neither is ever drunk, yet neither is at certain times completely and demonstrably sober. In a dim and distant way one of them at least feels that there is something wrong with the practice of treating under which each chance encounter entails a drink, and each drink stood exacts by courtesy and hospitality a drink stood in return. " I bate the stuff, my dear," ho says to his wife. " You have to do it, though.
It's all in the way of business."
There is a fashion in bars. Groups of men belonging to particular occupations frequent particular bars. The atmosphere and the customs of the bar most affected by White and Mapleson aro described to perfection. The shining mahogany, the mirrors, the brass rails, the ugly ornaments are all there, and with all those things the accomplishments of the staff in ministering to the regular customers throw over everything an air of hospitable goodwill and a kind of freemasonry. Mr. Aumonier suggests the atmo- sphere in a few words. Take Mrs. Wylde, the manageress, for instance, prescribing the exact mixture of whisky and peppermint which will best suit Mapleson's complaint when he appears in the morning, with his pills and cloves, not feeling quite " thumbs up." Or take the barmaids, Nancy and Olive, with their flaxen hair and understanding ways. One is a teetotaler, as she " hates the muck," and is for ever brewing herself cocoa. The other drinks cocoa, but also sometimes stout. To be served by Mrs. Wylde is a treat that happens only to favoured devotees of the bar. But the special mystery of bars is all encompassed in the following few words :- " A pale thin young man with pointed boots and a sort of semi- sporting suit would creep furtively in and go up to the bar and lean across and shake hands with Nancy, and after a normal greeting would say : Has the Captain been in ? ' Nancy would reply, Yes, he was in with the Rabbit about four o'clock.' Then the young man would say, ' Oh; didn't he leave nothing for me ? ' and Nancy would say, No, I wouldn't be surprised if he came in later. 'Ere, I tell you what—,' and she would draw the young man to a corner of the bar, and there would bo a whispered conversation for a few moments, and then the young man would go out."
One day White drops down in the street. He was not drunk ; there was nothing dramatic of that sort ; but his illness, whatever it was, was made more acute, and was in some degree caused, by drink. Maplccon's gloom and depression are described. They are not the fruits of affection. But White had become part of his routine ; and now he is in hospital seriously ill. Further, Mapleson is haunted by indefinite but portentous forebodings—this kind of thing might happen to him. Every one remarks his despondency and attributes merit to him. Who could have believed that he would cut up so much about his friend White's illness ? Slowly White is restored to health and drinks ginger ale, as the doctors have told him that if he ever drinks spirits again he might just as well put a revolver to his head. But after a time ho yields. The old routine Berms in a fair way to be resumed ; Maplcson was never so happy as on that night when the two friends drink ten whiskies and sodas each. But the doctors were right. The next day White is dead.
The description of Mapleson's attendance at the funeral brings one into touch with White's family. The wife has Leen living o:s scarcely more than the allowance of a labourer's wife, while her husband has drunk whisky, and played billiards, and dined, and topped his dinner with coffee and liqueurs, all in the way of business. White's " place " down at Acton, of which he had often spoken, was a dingy little house in a dingy row. He had left nothing—not even his funeral expenses. Desperate despondency again holds Mapleson. Why had he not been told that White's " place down at Acton " was like this ? And White reputed to bo worth " four figures " Why, above all, had he not been told that White had three varieties of pet birds ? What a male relation of White's keeps speaking of as " our little Orstrylian bird " affects him with peculiar bitterness. He feels darkly and illogically that White had not played a friendly part in keeping hint uninformed about this. White's wife was all in the ordinary course and naturally need not have been men- tioned, but this strange little bird was a different matter. Ho is resentful against White, and loathes his nasty relations. And then tho funeral starts. Mapleson's nerves are quite beyond his control. He simply cannot face the situation without a drink. The more he thinks of it the more he craves for it. At last he signals to the driver of his carriage to stop oppcsito a public-house. He jumps out and darts in. Tho other carriages step too. The stopping of the whole funeral procession provokes ribald mirth in the public. house. Who had ever seen a funeral stopped for a drink ? "'Ere, I sye, ain't the others cumin' in ? Let's make a dye of it." For the first time the reacher recognizes—perhaps it was the first time Mapkson had recognized it—that the man is enslaved. His habit is a necessity. He cannot do without it. This is revealed with a masterly touch.
Soaked inside and out, Mapleson turns up at the end of the day —he cannot renumber how—at the familiar her. He orders a drink and is about to convey it to his lips when he collapses. He does not live long, and a young man at the tar says : " I reckon there's more friendships made in business—real friendships I mean— than ever there is outside. Look at the case of White and Mapleson. I tell you those mon loved each other. For over twenty 3-ears they were inseparable ; there was nothing they would not have done for each other ; hand and glove they was over everything. rye never seen a chap crumple up so as Mapleson did when White died.
. The doctors said it was fatty degeneration of the 'cart, 'clped on by some kidney trouble ; but I know better. lie died of a broken 'cart."
Mapleson left more than White. He left nearly four pounds and a wife and five children. No reader of this story, we think, could ever go into a bar again without looking round for White and Mapleson, not perhaps thinking of them as typical, but still as possible and real.
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