Honesty
Mansfield

  There was an expression Rupert Henderson was very
fond of using: "If you want my h_o_n_e_s_t_ opinion...."
He had an honest opinion on every subject under the sun, and
nothing short of a passion for delivering it. But Archie Cullen's
pet phrase was "I cannot ho_n_e_s_t_l_y_ say..." Which meant that
he had not really made up his mind. He had not really made
up his mind on any subject whatsoever. Why? Because he
could not. He was unlike other men. He was minus something
-- or was it plus? No matter. He was not in the least proud of
the fact. It depressed him -- one might go so far as to say --
terribly at times.
  Rupert and Archie lived together. That is to say, Archie
lived in Rupert's rooms. Oh, he paid his share, his half in
everything; the arrangement was a purely, strictly business
arrangement. But perhaps it was because Rupert had invited
Archie that Archie remained always -- his guest. They each
had a bedroom -- there was a common sitting-room and a
largish bathroom which Rupert used as a dressing-room as
well. The first morning after his arrival Archie had left his
sponge in the bathroom. and a moment after there was a knock
at his door and Rupert said, kindly but firmly, "Your sponge,
I fancy." The first evening Archie had brought his tobacco
jar into the sitting-room and placed it on a corner of the mantelpiece.
Rupert was reading the newspaper. It was a round
china jar, the surface painted and roughened to represent a sea-urchin.
On the lid was a spray of china seaweed with two
berries for a knob. Archie was excessively fond of it. But
after dinner, when Rupert took out his pipe and pouch, he
suddenly fixed his eyes on this object, blew through his


moustaches, gasped, and said in a wondering, astonished
voice, "I say! Is that yours or Mrs. Head's?" Mrs. Head
was their landlady.
  "It's mine," said Archie, and he blushed and smiled just a
trifle timidly.
  "I s_a_y_!" said Rupert again -- this time very meaningly.
  "Would you rather I..." said Archie, and he moved in his
chair to get up.
  "No, no! Certainly not! On no account!" answered
Rupert, and he actually raised his hand. "But perhaps" -- and
here he smiled at Archie and gazed about him -- "perhaps we
might find some spot for it that was a trifle less conspicuous."
  The spot was not decided on, however, and Archie nipped his
sole personal possession into his bedroom as soon as Rupert
was out of the way.
  But it was chiefly at meals that the attitude of host and guest
was most marked. For instance, on each separate occasion,
even before they sat down, Rupert said, "Would you mind
cutting the bread, Archie?" Had he not made such a point of
it, it is possible that Archie in a moment of abstractness might
have grasped the bread knife....An unpleasant thought!
Again, Archie was never allowed to serve. Even at breakfast,
the hot dishes and the tea, both were dispensed by Rupert.
True, he had half apologised about the tea; he seemed to feel the
necessity of some slight explanation, there.
  "I'm rather a fad about my tea," said he. "Some people,
females especially, pour in the milk first. Fatal habit, for more
reasons than one. In my opinion, the cup should be filled just
s_o_ and the tea then coloured. Sugar, Archie?"
  "Oh, please," said Archie, almost bowing over the table.
Rupert was so very impressive.
  "But I suppose," said his friend, "you don't notice any of
these little things?"
  And Archie answered vaguely, stirring: "No, I don't
suppose I do."


   Rupert sat down and unfolded his napkin.
  "It would be very inconsistent with your character and disposition,"
said he genially, "if you did! Kidneys and bacon?
Scrambled eggs? Either? Both? Which?"
  Poor Archie hated scrambled eggs, but, alas! he was practically
certain that scrambled eggs were expected of him too.
This "psychological awareness," as Rupert called it, which
existed between them might after a time make things a trifle difficult.
He felt a little abject as he murmured, "Eggs, please."
And he saw by Rupert's expression that he had chosen right.
Rupert helped him to eggs largely.
  Psychological awareness...perhaps it was that which
explained their intimacy. One might have been tempted to
say it was a case of mutual fascination. But whereas Archie's
reply to the suggestion would have been a slow "Poss-ibly!"
Rupert would have flouted it at once.
  "Fascination! The word's preposterous in this connection.
What on earth would there be in Cullen to fascinate me even
if I was in the habit of being fascinated by my fellow creatures;
which I certainly am not. No, I'll own I am deeply interested.
I confess my belief is, I understand him better than anybody
else. And if you want my honest opinion, I am certain that my
 -- my -- h'm -- influence over -- sympathy for -- him -- call it what
you like, is all to the good. There is a psychological awareness.
...Moreover, as a companion, instinctively I find him extremely
agreeable. He stimulates some part of my mind which is less
active without him. But fascination -- wide of the mark, my
dear -- wide!"
  But supposing one remained unconvinced? Supposing one
still played with the idea. Wasn't it possible to see Rupert and
Archie as the python and the rabbit keeping house together?
Rupert that handsome, well-fed python with his moustaches,


his glare, his habit of uncoiling before the fire and swaying
against the mantelpiece, pipe and pouch in hand. And Archie,
soft, hunched, timid, sitting in the lesser arm-chair, there and
not there, flicking back into the darkness at a word but emerging
again at a look -- with sudden wholly unexpected starts of playfulness
(instantly suppressed by the python). Of course, there
was no question of anything so crude and dreadful as the rabbit
being eaten by his housemate. Nevertheless, it was a strange
fact, after a typical evening the one looked immensely swelled,
benign and refreshed, and the other, pale, small and exhausted.
...And more often than not Rupert's final comment was --
ominous this -- as he doused his whisky with soda:
  "This has been very absorbing, Archie." And Archie gasped
out, "Oh, v_e_r_y?"
  Archie Cullen was a journalist and a son of a journalist.
He had no private money, no influential connections, scarcely
any friends. His father had been one of those weak, disappointed,
unsuccessful men who see in their sons a weapon
for themselves. He would get his own back on life through
Archie. Archie would show them the stuff he -- his father
was made of. Just you wait till my son comes along! This,
though highly consoling to Mr. Cullen p_e\_r_e_, was terribly poor
fun for Archie. At two and a half his infant nose was put to
the grindstone and even on Sundays it was not taken off. Then
his father took him out walking and improved the occasion
by making him spell the shop signs, count the yachts racing in
the harbour, divide them by four and multiply the result by
three.
  But the experiment was an amazing success. Archie turned
away from the distractions of life, shut his ears, folded his feet,
sat over the table with his books, and when the holidays came
he didn't like them; they made him uneasy; so he went on
reading for himself. He was a model boy. On prize-giving



days his father accompanied him to school, carried the great
wad of stiff books home for him and, flinging them on the
dining-room table, he surveyed them with an exultant smile.
My prizes! The little sacrifice stared at them, too, through his
spectacles as other little boys stared at puddings. He ought,
of course, at this juncture to have been rescued by a doting
mother who, though cowed herself, rose on the...