Heave-ho, my hearties

JOHN VAN DRUTEN

A well-known playwright turns to the short story to reveal the heart-ache of a jilted English Babbitt

But what am I going to do? What am I going to do tonight? Or tomorrow night? Or any damned night, for the matter of that? I don't suppose she'll have any difficulty filling her time. She knows such yards of people. She's always engaged about three deep. I wonder where she is now? Dancing, probably, with one of those awful young swine who were always hanging around her. I don't know wrhat she saw in them. And I'm here at a loose end. Stuck!

What am I going to do with myself? Oh, I'll get used to it, I suppose. One gets used to anything in time. But when you've sort of planned things the way I have, it's a bit of a job getting back. Oh hell! I don't want to stick alone tonight. Supposing I rang up C. W.? I haven't seen him for ages. Or the others either, for that matter. I've let things slide. I wonder if he'd come round if I asked him. I bet he would. Good old C. W. But then I shall have to tell him, tell him it's all over. And that won't be much fun. Not that he'd say anything, but I believe he'll be a bit glad; glad it's all over, I mean. I know he never liked Eileen, really. Of course he never said so, but I got it, donkeys' years ago. That evening when I told him I was going down to stay with her people, the way he lifted his eyebrows.

He's never said anything, of course, but then he wouldn't. Any more than I did over that girl of his, two years ago. I was jolly glad when it crashed, though. He certainly was well out of something there. Funny, I remember that evening, how he came round and talked of anything but that. Sitting just over there in that chair with his feet up. I had a sort of glimmering of what was the matter, but naturally I didn't say a word. And then, just as he was going, he turned round at the door and said: "Oh, by the way, it's all off with Kitty. I thought you'd better know," and then we never mentioned it again.

Well, it's much the best way. That's what I'll probably do if he comes round tonight; just tell him casually, and leave it at that. And if he's glad, well, he won't say so. Funny, though, because she liked him, although I think she sort of knew what he felt about her. She liked the lot of them at first—C. W., and Potts, and A. J. and Rendy—but she got fed up with them in the end. God alone knows why. What did she mean today when she said: "All those nice, hearty, inhibited friends of yours"? Inhibited? Just because they didn't care about the same things as she did? Books and pictures and things? But why "inhibited"? What the hell does it mean, anyway?

Of course I know she never really was my type ... I mean, the type I should ever have imagined myself marrying and settling down with. I remember when I first met her that I didn't really like her, though I thought she was a damned good looker. But there was something . . . well . . . oh, I don't know . . . unreal about her. And then when I did begin to get to know her and to get keen on her, I never imagined I stood a chance. She seemed so much too good for me. I mean, the sort of people she knew and went about with. Not that I liked them. I didn't. I thought they were a bunch of fakes, the whole damn lot of them, and the men all wanted their backsides kicked.

But they were what's called clever. I mean, they were people who did things, and got their names in the papers. What's called the smart set. I was all for backing out, chucking up the sponge and running away. I did, too. And then she came after me. At least . . . well, I don't mean "came after me," but rang me up, wanted to know why she hadn't seen me. Well, I knew I was getting keen, and that it wasn't really my line of country, but she seemed . . . well, sort of fed up with it all, too. I remember her saying: "It's all so false and silly. I wish to God I could get away from it."

That was the night I proposed to her. I thought perhaps I could take her away from it, if that's what she felt like, that perhaps she was better than they were; different, anyway. I don't know. She was looking lovely that night, and her eyes sort of dark and swimmy. I know she cried when I kissed her. I'd never kissed her before; I'd been afraid to. I was always afraid, really, right up to the end. I don't know what of, but there was a sort of sneer about her. Not really a sneer, but something that you always felt was in the background, that might come out any minute, that made you feel an awful greenhorn . . . compared with her, that is. I don't know why. I know it took a hell of a lot of courage to screw myself up to saying anything, though. I felt as if at any minute she might suddenly turn round and laugh at me. I never really got over that feeling. She never did turn, though. Oh, I know I got on her nerves at times because I wasn't clever enough for her. But there were times, too, when we got on like a house on fire, and I sort of found myself talking in a way I've never talked to anyone before. Telling her things about myself, and my job and . . . things I wanted to do.

And about my people. Funny how she liked them, considering. I mean the way she was brought up, what she was used to. Because after all they are a bit . . . quiet, and I mean the governor being a parson. Funny how they hit it off, really. The mater was a bit worried, I think. Not that she said anything. I was scared stiff that weekend. I mean, I'd been to her place only two week-ends before, and it was all terribly rich and smart . . . and then taking her home. It's funny how I felt the difference, but she was ripping about it. I remember in the car on the way back her saying: "They're darlings." I liked her for that, almost more than for anything else she ever said. I suppose because I didn't expect it of her.

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And then that cricket week that she came down. Well, I suppose it was boring ... for her. But she wanted to come. That was when she snubbed poor old A. J. so badly. What was it she said to me that night? It's only just come back to me. Something about "being an intruder." I suppose that's what she meant today when she said: "I can't fight that barrier of masculine friendship any longer." But they never showed her that they resented her, in any way. I wonder why I said that? They never said so once, not one of them. Yet I know that they did, really. Funny. I've never realized that, till now.

And then that night at her people's place. That's something I've never understood. I haven't let myself think about it . . . much. Waking up like that and finding her sitting on my bed. "You looked so like a little hoy lying there asleep. Did you know that I kissed you?" "While I was asleep?" "Yes. That's what being in love is like, kissing you when you're asleep." What did she mean? What could she have meant? It wasn't that she wanted . . . the other thing. I know that, though that's what most men would have thought, I suppose. But it wasn't that.

And now today. Coming here today, like that. What did she mean? "Look here, Ronnie, let's chuck this marriage business." What did she mean when she said: "I'm just as much in love with you as ever I was. More. Only I don't love you any more. That's all?" What the hell's the difference? You can't be in love with somebody and not love them. I don't understand all these distinctions. She was always analyzing things. And that other suggestion of hers. She must have been off her head. How could she have thought I'd stand for that. How could I? After we'd been engaged for six months. "Why can't we be lovers?" She must have been mad. Not that I wouldn't like to ... in a way. Damn it all, one is human. But you couldn't... like that, not with a girl like Eileen. I remember we had an argument about that once and she lost her temper. I remember saying: "I could never marry a girl I'd lived with," and she suddenly went all furious. What was it she said? "My God, you're so damned British." Why British? Well, it's true. I couldn't, somehow. She dragged that up again this evening. "I know you could never marry a girl you'd 'lived' with," as though she was making fun of the word. "But you needn't. We'll call the marriage business off." But damn it all, I don't think of her like that. I never have.

Oh well, if that's what she was really like I suppose it wouldn't have worked. I suppose I'm well out of it, really. Funny, though, to think I'll never see her again. It's going to be damnable because ... oh well, because. Having a lump cut right out of one's life like that, someone you'd seen three times a week for the last year. Well, I've got to get back, that's all. It only means going hack a year, to where I was before I met her. Only it isn't so easy. Because, after all, your point of view does change a bit, whatever you do. C. W. will help, though, I haven't really seen an awful lot of him lately. Not like we used to.

And the others. I wonder if we could work a spot of golf somewhere, in August? Old Edwards might come, only I suppose he can't leave his wife. I don't know, though. I don't see why he shouldn't, for a couple of weeks. Do him good to get a holiday. I think married couples ought to take a holiday from each other now and then. Funny what marriage does to a man. I haven't seen him for a year, now. Perhaps Rendy could get away. C. W., Rendy, A. J. and me. Not a bad four. I'm a bit out of training. Flabby. Haven't been getting my exercise. I must do something about that. Yes, I'll ring up C. W. I wonder about that girl of his, though. What was her name? Dorothy something. I hope he hasn't gone and got himself hitched up with her. It's just the sort of thing that would happen ... now, especially. Twonder if he'd be at home if I rang up? Have I got AJ.'s number? Might get him round, too. I think there's beer in the cupboard. It'll be good to see 'em all again. I'll ring him.