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    Love in These Days: A Modern Story
    Love in These Days: A Modern Story
    Love in These Days: A Modern Story
    Ebook381 pages6 hours

    Love in These Days: A Modern Story

    By Alec Waugh

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    About this ebook

    In Love in These Days, first published in 1926, Alec Waugh explores themes of love, marriage and friendship in the vibrant and dynamic years of the early twenties. With his characteristic attention to detail he uses his characters to examine the social and cultural changes of the time and their impact on interpersonal affairs.

    'Love in these days. How remote it was from the old and simple need by which primitive men and women were surprised into the responsibilities of parenthood. How remote too from the gilded conception of mediaeval chivalry.'
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBloomsbury Publishing
    Release dateSep 28, 2011
    ISBN9781448201785
    Love in These Days: A Modern Story
    Author

    Alec Waugh

    Alec Waugh (1898-1981) was a British novelist born in London and educated at Sherborne Public School, Dorset. Waugh's first novel, The Loom of Youth (1917), is a semi-autobiographical account of public school life that caused some controversy at the time and led to his expulsion. Waugh was the only boy ever to be expelled from The Old Shirburnian Society. Despite setting this record, Waugh went on to become the successful author of over 50 works, and lived in many exotic places throughout his life which later became the settings for some of his texts. He was also a noted wine connoisseur and campaigned to make the 'cocktail party' a regular feature of 1920s social life.

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      Book preview

      Love in These Days - Alec Waugh

      LOVE IN THESE DAYS

      A MODERN STORY

      BY

      ALEC WAUGH

      CONTENTS

      PART I

      I. THE WAY THINGS START

      II. HARD-HEARTED LADY

      III. A HALF LIE AND ITS SEQUEL

      IV. LOVE AMONG THE WORLDLINGS

      V. A COCKTAIL PARTY

      VI. AN OFFER OF RELEASE

      VII. LILITH OF OLD

      VIII. THE PRICE OF VIRTUE

      IX. THE REWARDS OF BEAUTY

      X. HOW THINGS DEVELOP

      PART II

      XI. VARIETIES OF LOVE

      XII. DINNER FOR FIVE

      XIII. THE CAVE OF MELODY

      XIV. TWELVE HOURS OF TURMOIL

      XV. CHRISTOPHER INTERVENES

      XVI. THE ENCHANTED HOURS

      XVII. TOO LATE

      XVIII. A LAST ATTEMPT

      PART III

      XIX. J’EN AI SOUPÉ

      XX. A RE-OPENED CHAPTER

      XXI. BY AIR AND SEA

      XXII. IN PARIS AND ALONE

      XXIII. THE COST OF LOVING

      XXIV. THE SETTLING OF ACCOUNTS

      EPILOGUE

      Part I

      Chapter I

      The Way Things Start

      I Should doubt, remarked Graham Moreton as I he guided his two-seater out of the noise and glare of Piccadilly into the quieter by-ways of Soho, if we were going to have a particularly exhilarating evening.

      At his side Joan Faversham stirred, a little restively.

      Why not? she asked,

      The dances at the Gloucester Galleries, he answered, are never up to much, and we shan’t know many people there.

      I see. And drawing her fur-fringed cloak the tightlier about her, she pressed herself more closely into the corner of the car. There was a time, she had it in her mind to snap at him, when you used to say that it didn’t matter where we went as long as we were together. There were only two kinds of dances, you said then. The ones I was at and the ones I wasn’t at. It’s different now, I suppose, now that we’ve been engaged two years. The words trembled on her lips but she bit them back.

      I mustn’t be silly, she told herself. I mustn’t be a pig just because things are going wrong. It’s my fault, really, that they are. At least, she supposed it was. But things had been more than ordinarily difficult. To begin with, there had been Grace Garston’s wedding; and as she had walked up the wide curving staircase to smile her greetings on the bride she could not help remembering that night such a few months back when Grace had lain sobbing desperately in her arms. You’re lucky, Grace had cried. You’re engaged. You’ve got the man you want, while I.... She had felt so proud, so confident then, in the certainty of Graham’s love for her. Yet now, with herself exactly where she had been twelve months before, with marriage apparently no nearer, here was Grace Garston married. And she had realized in the slightly exaggerated warmth of her friend’s welcome how conscious Grace was of the contrast in their conditions. A year ago, she seemed to be saying to her, I was lonely and wretched and defenceless, while you were safe and loved, with an assured future, in a position from which you could be kind and pity me, whereas now you see....

      It was petty of her, Joan realized, to feel envious. She despised herself for being it. It was not Graham’s fault after all, that their engagement had been so prolonged. As chief foreign representative of the Universal Oil and Enamel Company he had during the last three years increased the company’s export business so enormously that it was only a matter of time before the directors should decide to enlarge their export department, placing him in control of a London branch. And till that time came he and Joan had decided to delay their marriage.

      It was not that they had not enough money to marry now. Graham was making with commissions between six and seven hundred pounds a year, and Joan’s people were relatively well off. The nature of his work entailed, however, sudden and prolonged trips to the Continent and South America. For at least five months of the year he was out of England, and these were unsettling conditions to start marriage on.

      You’d better wait, Mr. Faversham had said.

      Joan’s only twenty and you’re twenty-eight. You’ve got tons of time. Keep yourself free for the next eighteen months to go away when you like and where you like. Build up your foreign connections, so that your position will be really strong by the time you come to take over the management in London; so strong that subordinates will be able to carry on for you. You couldn’t be really free to do that if you were to marry.

      They had taken his advice. Every two or three months Graham had been rushed abroad, interviewing, prospecting, drafting contracts. His position had been considerably strengthened, but marriage had come no closer. And two years was a long time to be engaged. It was hard for her not to feel a little envious of the white georgette and lilies, above which with so radiant a smile Grace was accepting her friend’s congratulations.

      And then when Christopher Stirling had begun with his languid elegance to ask her about her plans . . .

      Our plans? she had answered bitterly. Very much what they were two years ago. We are waiting as we were then.

      He had smiled, a quick, diffident, curiously winning smile, the sort of smile that made people who had known him seven minutes imagine they had been his friend for half a lifetime.

      And you’ve been engaged two years, he said. It’s a long while. I should think you must sometimes find it a little difficult.

      From any other man such a suggestion would have seemed to Joan an unpardonable impertinence. But with Chris it was somehow different. There was a sympathy, a kindliness, a sense of intimacy in his attitude that unweaponed her.

      Sometimes, she replied, pausing as though uncertain whether to say more; as though uncertain whether more were expected of her. She was not one to whom confidences came easily, particularly where she cared intensely; but she was sad and in need of sympathy, and the light was kindly in the well-shaped, indolently handsome face that bent above her.

      She nodded her head.

      Being engaged isn’t an altogether happy business, she said. You see, one expects—I don’t quite know what one expects. Chiefly that nothing’s ever going to be the same again, and in a way it isn’t. One’s old life stops. The things that used to thrill and excite you, they’re a coat you put away. One had thought of a career once, and one knows it’s no use thinking of it any longer. One used to go to dances and to parties, wondering if there’d be any amusing men there; now one ceases to. And flirting—well, I suppose, that’s really a girl’s equivalent of cricket, and it’s great fun, of course—but that’s over. One expects it to be, of course. One would hate it not to be. It’s only natural that one should want life to begin all over again. And then—well, you see—— She hesitated as though uncertain of how exactly the form of her trouble was to be conveyed.

      And then? he said.

      Well then, how shall I put it? You find that for a man it isn’t quite the same, that you haven’t turned his life inside out as he has turned yours.

      You mean, Christopher suggested, that while the whole framework of your life is changed, Graham’s work and his games have gone on apparently uninterruptedly?

      She nodded her head quickly.

      "One feels—it’s silly of me, I know, and one doesn’t feel it often, only just at odd moments, that if you mattered to him as much as he mattered to you his games and his work and his other interests wouldn’t go on quite so much as though nothing at all had happened.

      Oh, I know quite well, she had added hurriedly, that when I’m once married all this won’t worry me at all. But with things as they are it’s so easy to let small things worry you. I see Graham carrying on with his ordinary life exactly as he was before he knew me, and I think how completely he has altered mine, and I wonder whether there mayn’t be a woman who will do for his life what he has done for mine, and what I haven’t been able to do for his. Not that I want to, you understand, but—and she gave a quick, helpless little laugh— it’s hard not to be frightened sometimes, not to let small things worry one. I wouldn’t wish anyone a long engagement.

      When it’s once over though, he had said.

      She had shrugged her shoulders.

      When.

      It’ll be worth it, he had said. "Graham is, you see, a one idea person. It may hurt now rather, but in the long run I’m very certain you’ll be grateful. If he were the sort of man who didn’t for two minutes on end know what he wanted, who was changing his job every other week, the moment he met you, whatever job he happened to have at the moment would have meant nothing to him. But he isn’t. He’s decided what job he’s going to do, and he’s stuck to it, and he’s making a success of it.

      It’ll be the same with his love life; he’ll decide on one woman, and he’ll stick to her. The other sort—the sort that is changing its job every other fortnight, the sort that can never make up its mind what it really wants—is just the same with its women-folk as with its work. It can’t make up its mind. For a month or so it may be frightfully exciting. But the one idea man—— Again he hesitated; then: The woman—may I say it?—who once gets Graham Moreton will keep him.

      And again in his eyes and on his mouth that brief smile flickered.

      You’ve been very kind to me, she had said simply. And I hope you won’t get the idea that I’m a ridiculously jealous person. You won’t please think that of me. It’s only now and again I feel like that. I don’t very often show it.

      My dear, I know far too well, he said, the geography of the road you’re travelling.

      But for all his kindness she had walked unhappily away into the lamp-lit chill of a March evening.

      And then there had been that dress. They had promised faithfully at the shop to let her have it before seven. And minute after minute she had gone on waiting. She had been so anxious to look her prettiest to-night, had been so anxious to make it up to Graham for having forced him, practically, to take her to this dance. He hadn’t wanted to. She had known that. It was a charity dance, and Graham only liked dances in private houses and in hotels. But some friends of hers had promised to take tickets; and she had persuaded him, and because she had persuaded him she had meant to try all the harder to make things jolly for him. She had ordered that dress specially; a heavenly affair of pale-pink petalled taffeta, a little on the period side. The dressmaker had said with a smile that it took someone really young to wear that sort of dress. And she had wondered with a beating heart what Graham would find to say of it. Perhaps that she looked like a rose in it. She had almost wept when it had not arrived.

      And then, when she had come down half an hour late, doing her best to be brave and cheerful: I’m so sorry, darling, she had begun, I’ve been waiting for a dress; at that of all moments for him to say: It’s well worth it, though. It’s a jolly thing; to say that of a dress she had had six months and in which he had seen her a dozen times.

      It would have been easy enough when he had made that remark about the Gloucester Galleries to have answered tartly. But she bit back the words. I won’t, she said, I won’t be silly. He’s a darling. And we love each other. I won’t spoil his evening.

      Where are we going, Graham? she asked instead.

      Clarice’s.

      It was one of Soho’s larger and costlier houses, as costly indeed as any West End restaurant. As, however, it was unnecessary to change to dine there, it attracted those many who are prepared occasionally to spend forty shillings a head upon a dinner, but would feel sartorially embarrassed by the elaborate settings of Dover Street and Piccadilly.

      A stately and obsequious waiter came towards them.

      For two, sir? Here, sir. Graham shook his head.

      I ordered a table in the corner. Graham Moreton.

      The waiter looked slowly and apologetically round the room.

      The corner tables appear, sir, to be occupied.

      But I rang up this morning and ordered one. It’s ridiculous. Fetch me the head waiter.

      Apprehensively Joan Faversham looked up at Graham. The high clear forehead was puckered with angry lines, and the firm, well-shaped mouth was set. Things were going wrong this evening with a vengeance.

      I am extremely sorry, sir, the head waiter was explaining, you ordered your table for eight o’clock. It is now twenty minutes to nine. We kept your table reserved till half-past eight.

      And you ought to have kept it reserved till ten o’clock.

      The head waiter lifted his hands sideways in aggrieved assent.

      I am very sorry, sir, but corner tables are in great demand and we get let down so very often.

      When I give an order, Graham retorted, I mean it.

      The head waiter was appropriately docile.

      I assure you, sir, he said, that it shall not occur again. And I will reprimand the persons who were responsible. In the meantime, sir, I think you will find this table very satisfactory.

      The table in question was beside a pillar, and a few feet from the kitchen door. It was, however, the only one unoccupied.

      That’ll be all right, Joan intervened hastily.

      It’s pretty awful, he muttered.

      It’ll do, though, she answered. People had begun to stare. She hated being made conspicuous, and she was annoyed with Graham for aggravating into a scene an occasion for which she was herself responsible.

      Oh, very well, he said. It’s perfectly maddening, he continued, as they took their seats. I’ll never come to this place again. Now then, what are we going to eat?

      It was an unwisely, because hurriedly, selected dinner. For himself he chose as a successor to smoked salmon a steak tartare whose preparation was certain to occupy the cook’s attention for twenty minutes, without bothering to notice that the Poulet en Casserole which Joan had preferred, happened to be a plat du jour. By some thirteen minutes the arrival of the dishes failed to synchronize, and Joan hated eating by herself. Minute by minute her exasperation grew more intense.

      How different it’ll be, he said, with a gallant attempt at joviality, when we’re married and dine at home, and the arrangements are in your hands.

      When we’re married, and she laughed, a short, unhappy little laugh. I wonder when that’ll be.

      When the time comes, he answered shortly, for me to take over the London management of our export business.

      And when will that time come?

      I’m not one of the directors.

      She pouted.

      You said a few weeks at the beginning. It’s twenty-five months now.

      I’m doing my best, he answered, a trifle testily. It was for her sake, after all, that he was making this delay; for her sake, so that things should be easier for her during the early months of marriage.

      I sometimes wonder, she went on whether we ever shall get married. It’s been going on so long now, this putting off of things.

      Jonakin. . . .

      But she would not listen. The cumulative irritation of the evening had taken control of her.

      Perhaps by the time we’re free to marry, she said, we shan’t want to any longer.

      Joan.

      But she shook her head wearily.

      Oh, I don’t know, Graham, I don’t know. Things are so different now. We’re getting used to one another, I suppose. You don’t notice what I wear, and it’s not enough for you just to be with me any longer. It’s got to be an amusing place; and among amusing people.

      She spoke not angrily but fretfully, as tired people speak.

      Oh, well, said Graham, if you feel like that about it.

      The meal concluded, as it had begun, in silence. And now, he said, for the Gloucester Galleries.

      She shook her head.

      I’m sorry, she said. Would you mind very much—I’m tired—I don’t feel like dancing.

      He should, he knew it, protest and plead, pet and cajole her into coming. It was what at the back of her mind he knew she looked for. But he too was ruffled by the evening’s varied frictions. He had been kept waiting for half an hour; he had not been able to get the corner table that he wanted: he had failed to enjoy an expensive and presumably well-cooked dinner, and he had been more than a little hurt by her lack of faith in him, both as a worker and a lover.

      Very well, he said. I’ll take you home.

      In silence they drove through the bright and sounding streets. Out of the corner of his eye he watched her. Ah, but she was lovely, as she sat huddled there in the corner of the car, the fur-fringed cloak drawn closely about her throat, so that only her eyes, the pale cornflower blue eyes, and the freckled tip-tilted nose, and the sleek curve of her corn-coloured hair were visible. So lovely and he loved her so. If only they were in a taxi so that he could take her in his arms and kiss away their quarrel; but you could not at the same time make love and drive through London’s traffic.

      She did not ask him to come in when the car drew up outside her parents’ house; she jumped out, waved her hand, and ran up the steps. The key turned easily in the lock, the door swung open; momentarily against the lighted interior of the hall was stamped in graceful silhouette the long flowing line of her slim figure. Momentarily, to be shut away.

      Heavens! he thought, but what an evening!

      For a moment he hesitated on the pavement. What was he to do? It was only a few minutes after ten. And he was in no spirit for a return to his parents’ house, to the explanations that his abrupt arrival would demand of him, to the subsequent hour of desultory conversation over a collapsing fire. He was restless and unsleepy. He had not particularly wanted to dance that evening. He was working very hard just now, and preferred to be in bed by midnight. But when one had made one’s mind up to a thing, when one had got oneself into the mood for a late night . . . no, no, one did not put on a white tie to come home in it at half-past ten. I must do something, he told himself.

      A few minutes after ten. The dance at tfie Gloucester Galleries would have been going for about an hour. It would be just getting warmed up now. After all he might as well. He had paid fifteen shillings for a ticket. He could always come away if he got bored.

      Somehow or other, he said, I mean to get some amusement for myself this evening.

      • • • • • • • •

      It was the sort of dance that from the beginning Graham Moreton had suspected it would prove to be. In the first place the Gloucester Galleries had no licence, and one must be very young or very much in love to enjoy a dance at which there is no champagne. In the second the stretch of land and seascapes along the walls, for whose exhibition a society of undistinguished amateurs paid a heavy rent to the proprietors, was possessed of singularly anaphrodisiacal properties. And in the third Graham did not recognize in the whole room a single familiar face.

      One imagines sometimes, he told himself, as he stood leaning against the doorway, that one knows everyone in London, but one has only to move a few inches outside the circumference of one’s own crowd to find oneself in a world of which one knows absolutely nothing. And the curious thing about it was that all these other worlds looked exactly like his own. There were the same young women with close cropped heads and purple mouths and boneless bodies; the same young men with double-breasted waistcoats and piqué shirts, wide-spreading ties and pleated trousers, tight-fitting cuffs and padded shoulders. As they passed by him in groups and couples, it was the same animated flow of chatter that he overheard. They were, these various worlds, like so many trains running at the same speed on parallel tracks. The same people, the same setting, the same attitude towards life, but because while the dimensions of London had increased, there had remained only seven evenings to the week, there was not room for all of them in the same train.

      In the doorway that led from the ballroom to the lounge, Graham Moreton leant back watching the spate of couples sway and circle past him. In the whole room not a soul he knew.

      Really, he thought, I might just as well have stayed at home.

      And then suddenly he caught his breath. On the arm of a stockish, middle-aged, prosperous-looking man was walking, in a sheath of blue-black marocain, a tall, slim woman. Her face in its helmet of black hair, was pale with the pallor that is less snow’s than ivory’s. Above eyes that were pale pools of amber, the long-lashed lids were lifted. Her lips were like the magenta petals of some tropical and velvet flower. Exotic as the orchid upon her shoulder, slowly, and with a tired, listless expression upon her face, she walked beside her partner towards the long white buffet that was drawn across the far end of the smaller room.

      Heavens, thought Graham, but I’d like to dance with her.

      Foot by foot, his eyes followed her passage across the room.

      And I don’t see, he added, why I shouldn’t, either. She looks bored enough with the man she’s with.

      Why not, after all, since he had come there rather desperately in search of entertainment, and she was the only woman in the room from whom he was likely to get any. Resolutely he turned upon his heel, and walked after her in the direction of the buffet.

      There was a fairish crowd before the table, and it was only by the exercise of tact, patience and a little force that he found himself at last beside her, and in football parlance, on the blind side of the scrum, which was to say with her partner on the far side of her. For a moment of beating and exquisite anticipation he waited till her companion had turned aside to address a waiter, then leaning forward, he placed his hand upon her arm above the elbow, and announced in a cheerful and perfectly matter-of-fact voice:

      You are easily, you know, the most attractive woman in the room.

      Slowly she turned round to face him, and the amber-coloured eyes were lit with mockery.

      But how nice of you, she said, to come and tell me.

      The faculty to be abashed easily was not, however, any part of Graham Moreton’s equipment.

      Then may I hope, he said, that you will reward me with a dance?

      She laughed.

      But I haven’t the least idea, she answered, who you are.

      Nor I of you, he countered, but you’re so attractive and I do hope you’ll dance with me.

      After the genuine strain of his dinner with Joan Faversham such a light flirtation would be an immense relief. And with such blind wholeheartedness as at the end of a long day’s cricket one plunges into a cold bath, he dived into the flood of his own audacity.

      Do, he pleaded. If I don’t dance with you I shall regard this evening as one of the supreme calamities of my life.

      Really?

      She was smiling now, a gay, bright, clear-eyed smile. He was a jolly boy, she thought, so fresh and strong and healthy-looking, with his firm crinkly hair and hazel eyes and clear, sunburned cheeks; a jolly boy, and she had been finding the evening more than a little dull.

      But you will, won’t you? he was pleading. Number ten.

      She neither shook her head nor nodded it: just smiled, a brief ironic smile, then turned towards her partner. Now I wonder, he asked himself, what I am to make of that?

      • • • • • • • •

      Number ten happened to be the next dance but two. And as the music started and her previous partner rose at her side with the conventional bow, Graham observed walking towards her from the other side of the room the man with whom he had seen her dancing earlier in the evening.

      For a moment he hesitated. He had noticed that she was wearing a wedding ring. Quite possibly the fellow might be her husband. She hadn’t promised him the dance. There might be trouble. For a moment he hesitated, then with a quick step so that he might arrive opposite her at the same moment as her former partner, he walked across the room towards her. He was recklessly inclined this evening. And what did it matter, after all, when so little was at stake? And there was besides something offensively proprietary in the way that the other man came forward, something offensively proprietary in the tone of voice with which he said, Shall we dance or sit this out?

      Graham Moreton said nothing, but as she lifted her head he bent slightly forward, and as their eyes met he smiled; the diffident smile of a conspirator who is uncertain of his ground.

      Shall we dance this? the man repeated.

      She shook her head.

      I’m sorry, she said. I’ve promised to dance it with . . . with this gentleman.

      And rising from her chair she stretched her hand out towards Graham.

      Thank you, he said. She made no reply, and, placing his hand upon her shoulder, with long sweeping strides he swept her into the smooth flowing rhythm of Titina. Your dancing’s divine, he murmured, but, then, I knew it would be, and as he guided her through the maze of bobbing couples he whispered into her ear those graceful gallantries that fall from the lips so easily when one is not in love, so stammeringly when one is.

      Who is he, that man you were dancing with? he asked at length.

      That? Oh, a man called Fortescue. Guy Fortescue.

      He’s not your husband, is he?

      My dear boy, is it likely?

      And why not?

      As far as it is possible to shrug one’s shoulders when one is dancing, Gwen Lawrence shrugged hers.

      There are such things as taste, was her reply.

      In some things, Graham hastened to explain. But if you look round you’ll usually see that it’s the least attractive man who gets the most attractive woman.

      She smiled.

      Which means—— she said, and paused, leaving the sentence unfinished for his completion.

      Which means, he said, that if utter plainness is the magnet for supreme loveliness that man is the only person worthy of you in the room.

      He spoke lightly, smilingly, in such a way as the courtiers of the eighteenth century must have spoken, and she replied in the same key. After all, why not? They had never met before. They did not know each other’s names. As likely as not they would never see each other again. How better than in such light flirtation could the odd half-hour of a dance be spent? And so they laughed and jested and in a dim corner of the lounge made mockery of much devotion.

      Three hours ago, Graham Moreton was saying, I had never seen you. I did not know even that you existed. I had not thought it possible that such perfection could exist. While now— and he spread his hands sideways with the resigned gesture of one who accepts a miracle.

      While now, she said, I observe that my cavalier is coming here to claim me.

      The music had begun, and with a firm resolute tread the middle-aged and stockish man was walking towards the sofa where they were sitting. He did not bow. He did not speak. He just paused in front of them and stood there waiting with that in his bearing of complacent, arrogant conceit which would have stirred a subject far less inflammable than Graham Moreton.

      And there was in Graham Moreton that night a spirit of heady recklessness. He had been talking, for half an hour, a quantity of high-sounding nonsense. There was the memory to be killed of his unhappy quarrel with Joan Faversham. At his side in the presence of an attractive and unknown woman there was an intoxicating sense of audience. And there was in the smug attitude of Guy Fortescue something peculiarly and offensively aggressive. He seems to imagine, thought Graham angrily, that because he has taken her out to dinner and bought her a ticket for this dance, he has acquired permanent rights in her. Oh, well, I’ll show him.

      And rising from his seat with his back turned to Fortescue he took his leave.

      It’s been a heavenly dance, he said. I’ve so enjoyed myself. And let me see now, which day was it we arranged to lunch together? Thursday, was it, or to-morrow? To-morrow, I rather think.

      Of such an arrangement there had not passed a single word between them. And had Graham, in the glance that they exchanged, attempted either to plead or to intimidate her into compliance, as likely as not she would have

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