by Hugh Walpole
Once Peter said: “It passes about three-thirty, doesn’t it? I think I’ll just go out and have a look later. It’ll be fine if only the sun comes.”
Mr. Zanti turned slowly round.
“I’m afraid, boy,” he said, “you’ll be wanted in ze shop. At two Herr Gottfried must be going out for some business — zere will be no one — I am zo zorry.”
They wanted to keep him there, that was evident. Or, at any rate, they didn’t want him to see the Procession.
“Very well,” he said cheerfully, “I’ll stay. There’ll be plenty more Processions before I die.” But why, why, why? What was there that they wanted him to avoid?
He went on arranging the piles of dusty books, the sense of weighty expectation growing on him with every instant. The clock struck one, but he did not go out to luncheon; the others were still motionless in their places.
Once Herr Gottfried spoke: “The people will have been waiting a much-more-than-necessary long time,” he said. “The police doubtless have frightened them, but there is still room to walk in the streets and there have been some unfortunates, since early in the morning—”
The street beyond the shop was now deserted because soldiers guarded its approach into Oxford Street; the shop seemed to be left high and dry, beyond the noise and confusion of the street.
Then there came into the silence a sharp sound that made Peter amongst his books, jump to his feet: the Russian girl was crying.
She stood there, leaning her thin dark body against the side of the door, surely the most desolate figure in the world. Her hands were about her face, her body heaved with her sobbing and the little sad noise came into the dusty tangled room and hung amongst the old broken books as though they only could sympathise and give it shelter. The band in Oxford Street was blazing with sound but it did not hide her crying.
Mr. Zanti crossed to her and spoke to her but she suddenly let her hands fall from her face and turned upon him, furiously, wildly— “You ...” she said, “You ...” and then as though the words choked her she turned back into the inner room. Peter saw Mr. Zanti’s face and it was puckered with distress like a child’s. It was almost laughable in its helpless dismay.
Two o’clock struck. “They’ll be starting in half an hour,” Herr Gottfried said.
“Women,” Mr. Zanti said, still looking distressfully about him, “they are, in truth, very difficult.”
And now there was no pretence, any longer, of disguising the nervous tension that was with them in the room. They were all waiting for something — what it might be Peter did not know, but, with every tick of the old brass clock, some event crept more nearly towards them.
Then Stephen came back.
He came in very quietly as though he were trying to keep the note of agitation that he must have felt on every side of him as near the normal as possible.
His face above his beard was grey and streaky and his breath came rapidly as though he had been running. When he saw Mr. Zanti his hand went up suddenly in front of his face as though he would protect himself from the other’s questioning.
“I’ve ‘eard nothing—” he said almost sullenly and then he turned and looked at Peter.
“Why must ’e be ’ere?” he said sharply to Zanti.
“Why not? Where else?” the other answered and the two men watched each other with hostility across the floor.
“I wish we’d all bloomin’ wull kept out of it,” Stephen murmured to himself it seemed.
Peter’s eyes were upon Mr. Zanti. That gentleman looked more like a naughty child than ever. In his eyes there was the piteous appeal of a small boy about to be punished for some grievous fault. In some strange way Peter was, it appeared, his court of appeal because he glanced towards him again and again and then looked away.
Peter could stand it no longer. He got up from the place where he was and faced them all.
“What is it? What have you all done? What is the matter with you all?”
The Russian girl had come back. Her face was white and her hair fell untidily about her eyes. She came forward fiercely as though she would have answered Peter, but Mr. Zanti motioned her back with his hand.
“No, no,” he said almost imploringly, “let the boy be — what has he to do with all this? Leave him. He has nothing to do with it. He knows nothing.”
“But I ought to know,” Peter burst in. “Why have I been kept in the dark all this time? What right have you—”
He broke off suddenly. Absolute silence fell amongst them all and they stood looking at the door, motionless, in their places. There was a new note in the murmuring of the crowd, and the swift steady passing of it came up the street to the shop and in at the door. Voices could be heard rising above others, and then the eager passing of some piece of news from one to another.
No one in the shop spoke. Outside in the deserted street there was silence and then the bands, as though driven by some common wave of feeling, seemed at the same moment to burst into a blare of music. Some voice, from the crowd, started “God save the Queen” and immediately it was taken up and flung into the air by a thousand voices. They must give vent to their feelings, some news had passed down the crowds like a flame setting fire to a chain of beacons.
“What is it?” Peter pressed forwards to the door. And at once he was answered. Men were running past the shop, crying out; one stopped for an instant and, wild with excitement, his hands gesticulating, stammering, the words tumbling from his lips, he shouted at them— “They’ve bin flinging bombs ... dirty foreigners ... up there by the Marble Arch — flinging them at the Old Lady. But it’s all right, by Gawd — only blew ‘imself up, dirty foreigner — little bits of ’im and no one else ‘urt and now the Old Lady’s comin’ down the street — she’ll be ’ere in quarter of an ‘our and won’t we show ‘er ... by Gawd ... flingin’ their dirty bombs up there by the Marble Arch and killin’ nobody but ‘imself — Gawd save the Old Lady—” he rushed on.
So that was it. Peter, standing in the middle of the room, looked at them all and understood at last amongst whom he had been working these seven years. They were murderers, the lot of them — all of them — Gottfried, Zanti ... Stephen — Oh God! Stephen! He understood now for what they had been waiting.
He turned sick at the sudden realisation of it. It did not, at first, seem to touch himself in any way. At the first immediate knowledge of it he had been faced by its amazing incongruity. There by the Marble Arch, with bands flying, flags waving, in all the tumult of a Royal Progress some one had been blown into little pieces. Elsewhere there were people waiting, eating buns out of paper bags, and here in the shop the sun lighted the backs of rows of second-hand novels and down in Treliss the water was, very gently, lapping the little wooden jetty. Oh! the silly jumbling of things in this silly jumbling world!
And then he began to look more closely into it as it concerned himself. He saw with amazing clearness. He knew that it was Oblotzky the tall Russian who had been killed. He knew because Oblotzky was the lover of this Russian girl and he turned round to watch her, curiously, as one who was outside it all. She was standing with her back against the wall, her hands spread out flat, looking through the door into the bright street, seeing none of them. Then she turned and said something in Russian between her clenched teeth to Mr. Zanti. He would have answered her but very quietly and speaking now in English she flung at him, as though it had been a stone:
“God curse you! You drove him to it!” Then she turned round and left the room. But the tall man was blubbering like a child. He had turned round to them all, with his hands outstretched, appealing:
“But it’s not true!” he cried between his sobs, “it’s not true! I did all I could to stop them — I did not know that they would do things — not really — until now, this morning, when it was too late. It is the others, Sergius, Paslov, Odinsky — zey were always wild, desperate. But we, the rest of us, with us it was only tall words.”
Little Herr Gottfried, who had been
silent behind them, came forward now and spoke:
“It is too late,” he said, “for this crying like a baby. We have no time — we must consider what must be done. If it is true, what that man says that Oblotzky has blown himself up and no other is touched then no harm is done. Why regret the Russian? He wanted a violent end and he has got it — and he has given it to no other. Often enough we are not so fortunate. He will have spoken to no one. We are safe.” Then he turned to Peter:
“Poor boy,” he said.
But Peter was not there to be pitied. He had only one thought, “Stephen, tell me — tell me. You did not know? You had nothing to do with this?”
Stephen turned and faced him. “No, Peter boy, nothing. I did not know what they were at. They — Zanti there— ‘ad ‘elped me when I was in trouble years ago. They’ve given me jobs before now, but they’ve always been bunglers and now, thank the Lord, they’ve bungled again. You come with me, Mr. Peter — come along from it all. We’ll manage something. I’ve only been waiting until you wanted me.”
Zanti turned furiously upon him but the words that he would have spoken were for the moment held. The Procession was passing. The roar of cheering came up against the walls of the shop like waves against the rocks; the windows shook. There she was, the little Old Lady in her black bonnet, sitting smiling and bowing, and somewhere behind her a little dust had been blown into the air, had hung for a moment about her and then had once more settled down into the other dust from which it had come.
That was all. In front of her were the Royal Personages, on every side of her her faithful subjects ... only a cloud of dust had given occasion for a surer sign of her people’s devotion. That, at any rate, Oblotzky had done.
The carriage passed.
Mr. Zanti now faced Peter.
“Peter — Boy — you must believe me. I did not know, believe me, I did not. They had talked and I had listened but there is so much talk and never anything is done. Peter, you must not go, you must not leave me. You would break my ‘eart—”
“All these years,” Peter said, “you have let me be here while you have deceived me and blinded me. I am going now and I pray to God that I may never see you again.”
“No, Boy, listen. You must not go like this. ‘Ave I not been good to you? ‘Ave I ever made you do anything wrong? ‘Ave I not always kept you out of these things? You are the only person zat I ‘ave ever loved. You ‘ave become my son to me. I am not wicked. I was not one of these men — these anarchists — but it is only that all my life I ‘ave wanted adventure, what you call Ro-mance. And I ‘ave found it ’ere, there — one place, anuzzer place. But it ‘as never been wicked — I ‘ave never ‘armed a soul. What zat girl says it is not true — I would ‘ave done all to stop it if I could. But you — if you leave me now, I am all alone. There is no one in the world for me — a poor old man — but if you will be with me I will show you wonderful things.
“See,” he went on eagerly, almost breathlessly, “we ‘ave been socialists ’ere, what you will. We ‘ave talked and talked. It amuses me — to intrigue, to pretend, to ‘ave games — one day it is Treason, another Brigands, another Travel — what you will. But never, never, never danger to a soul. Now only this morning did I ‘ear that they were going to do this. Always it had been words before — but this morning I got a rumour. But it was only rumour. I ‘ad not enough to be sure of my news. Stephen here and I — we could do nozzing — we ‘ad no time — I did not know where Oblotzky was — this girl ’ere did not know — I could do nozzing — Peter, believe me, believe me—”
The man was no scoundrel. It was plain enough as he stood there, his eyes simple as a child’s, pleading still like a small boy.
A minute ago Peter had hated him, now he crossed over and put his hand on his shoulder.
“You have been wonderfully good to me,” he said. “I owe you everything. But I must go — all this has only made sure what I have been knowing this long time that I ought to do. I can’t — I mustn’t — depend on your charity any longer — it has been too long as it is. I must be on my own and then one day, when I have proved myself, I will come back to you.”
“No — Peter, Boy — come with me now. I will show you wonderful things all over Europe; we will have adventures. There is gold in Cornwall in a place I know. There is a place in Germany where there is treasure — ze world is full of ze most wonderful things that I know and you and I — we two — Oh! ze times we all ‘ave—”
“No,” ... Peter drew back. “That is not my way. I am going to make my living here, in London — or die for it.”
“No — you must not. You will succeed — you will grow fat and sleepy and ze good things of the world and ze many friends will kill your soul. I know it ... but come with me, first and we will ‘ave adventures ... and zen you shall write.”
But Peter’s face was set. The time for the new life had come. Up to this moment he had been passive, he had used his life as an instrument on which others might play. From henceforward his should be the active part.
The crowds were pouring up the street on their homeward way. Bands were playing the soldiers back to the barracks. Soon the streets would have only the paper bags left to them for company. The little bookshop hung, with its misty shelves about the three men.... Somewhere in another room, a girl was staring with white set face and burning eyes in front of her, for her lover was dead and the world had died with him.
After a little time amongst the second-hand novels Mr. Zanti sat, his great head buried in his hands, the tears trickling down through his fingers, and Herr Gottfried, motionless from behind his counter watched him in silent sympathy.
Peter and Stephen had gone together.
CHAPTER V
A NARROW STREET
I
The bomb was, that evening, the dominant note of the occasion. Through the illuminated streets, the slowly surging crowds — inhuman in their abandon to the monotonous ebb and flow as of a sweeping river — the cries and laughter and shouting of songs, that note was above all. An eye-witness — a Mr. Frank Harris, butcher of 82 Cheapside — had his veracious account journalistically doctored.
“I was standing quite close to the man, a foreigner of course, with a dirty hanging black moustache — tall, big fellow, with coat up over his ears — I must say that I wasn’t looking at him. I had Mrs. Harris with me and was trying to get her a place where she could see better, you understand. Then suddenly — before one was expecting it — the Procession began and I forgot the man, the foreigner, although he was quite up close against me. One was excited of course — a most moving sight — and then suddenly, when by the distant shouting we understood that the Queen was approaching, I saw the man break through. I was conscious of the man’s vigour as he rushed past — he must have been immensely strong — because there he was, through the soldiers and everybody — out in the middle of the street. It all happened so quickly of course. I heard vaguely that some one was shouting and I think a policeman started forward, but anyhow the man raised his arm and in an instant there was the explosion. It went off before he was ready I suppose, but the ground rocked under one’s feet. Two soldiers fell, unhurt, I have learnt since. There was a hideous dust, horses plunging and men shouting and then suddenly silence. The dust cleared and there was a hole in the ground, stones rooted up ... no sign of the man but some pieces of cloth and men had rushed forward and covered something up — a limb I suppose.... I was only anxious of course that my wife should see nothing ... she was considerably affected....”
So Mr. Harris of Cheapside, with the assistance of an eager and talented young journalist. But the fact remained in the heart of the crowd — blasted foreigner had had a shot at the Old Lady and missed her, therefore whatever gaiety may have been originally intended let it now be redoubled, shouted into frenzy — and frenzy it was.
“There was no clue,” an evening paper added to the criminal’s identity.... The police were blamed, of course.... Such a thing must never be allow
ed to occur again. It was reported that the Queen had in no way suffered from the shock — was in capital health.
Outside the bookshop Stephen and Peter had parted.
“I’ll meet you about half-past ten, Trafalgar Square by the lion that faces Whitehall; I must go back to Brockett’s, have supper and get my things, and say good-bye. Then I’ll join you ... half-past ten.”
“Peter boy, we’ll have to rough it—”
“Oh! at last! Life’s beginning. We’ll soon get work, both of us — where do you mean to go?”
“There’s a place I been before — down East End — not much of a place for your sort, but just for a bit....”
For a moment Peter’s thoughts swept back to the shop.
“Poor Zanti!” He half turned. “After so many years ... the good old chap.” Then he pulled himself up and set his shoulders. “Well, half-past ten—”
The streets were, at the instant, almost deserted. It was about five o’clock now and at seven o’clock they would be closed to all traffic. Then the surging crowds would come sweeping down.
Peter, furiously excited, hurried through the grimy deserts of Bloomsbury, to Brockett’s. To his singing, beating heart the thin ribbon of the grey street with the faint dim blue of the evening sky was out of place, ill-judged as a setting to his exultations. He had swept in the tempestuous way that was natural to him, the shop and all that it had been to him, behind him. Even Brockett’s must go with the rest. Of course he could not stay there now that the weekly two pounds had stopped. He quite savagely desired to be free from all business. These seven years had been well enough as a preparation; now at last he was to be flung, head foremost, into life.
He could have sung, he could have shouted. He burst through the heavy doors of Brockett’s. But there, inside the quiet and solemn building, another mood seized him. He crept quietly, on tiptoe, up to his room because he did not want to see any of them before supper. After all, he was leaving the best friends that he had ever had, the only home that he had ever really known. Mrs. Brockett, Norah Monogue, Robin, the Signor.... Seven years is a long time and one gets fond of a place. He closed his bedroom door softly behind him. The little room had been very much to him during all these years, and that view over the London roofs would never be forgotten by him. But he wondered, as he looked at it, how he had ever been able to sit there so quietly and write “Reuben Hallard.” Now, between his writing and himself, a thousand things were sweeping. Far away he saw it like the height of some inaccessible hill — his emotions, his adventures, the excitement of life made his thoughts, his ideas, thinner than smoke. He even, standing there in his little room and looking over the London roofs, despised the writer’s inaction.... Often again he was to know that rivalry.