by James Hilton
After he had gone his daughter resumed her work of teaching. She had been glad of the interval’s respite, though she always said that after her father’s intervention a class was completely ruined for the rest of the day.
Howat usually ignored afternoon tea, though if he were out visiting and were offered it, he would accept. He preferred, however, when he was at home, an uninterrupted hour by the fire before his ‘proper’ tea—a meal which consisted as a rule of tea and an egg. After this there was often another gap of an hour or so before the beginning of evening engagements.
On this unpleasant November day Howat occupied both odd hours in reading a book which would have deeply shocked ninety per cent of his congregation had there been the slightest possibility of their understanding it. It was Jeans’s “The Universe Around Us,” borrowed from the local library, which had obtained it at his own request.
As Mary had predicted, there was only a very small attendance at the Young People’s Guild that evening. The Guild was one of Howat’s pet institutions; he had founded it himself some half-dozen years before, and it had flourished, he ventured to think, as handsomely as could have been expected. It met weekly during the winter months; in summer there were country rambles, visits to places of interest, and so on. It had always been Howat’s idea to make it a centre of secular enlightenment (backgrounded, of course, by the chapel atmosphere); most of the weekly talks were on literary, musical, or artistic subjects—very few were definitely religious. This aspect alienated the sympathies of some of the older people, who thought that Howat was coddling the young and shirking his plain job of rubbing religion into them. Howat, though, did not care about that; if there were ever to be a choice (though there would not be if he could help it) he was all out for the young; the old, he felt, were so confident of attaining Heaven that they could look after themselves.
As founder and president, Howat always opened the terminal session by an address on some subject or other; it also fell to him to fill in any gaps made by speakers dropping out after the programme had been made up. This November Monday was one of these gap-filling occasions, his talk on Mozart being in lieu of a paper on modern town-planning by a young local architect.
The place of meeting was a bleak schoolroom furnished and panelled in pitch pine—a very hot room at one corner near a stove, and very cold and draughty elsewhere. Nothing relieved the brown varnished monotony of the walls except a map of Palestine and a tattered and faded temperance banner. A desk stood on a slightly raised platform, and on the desk lay a Bible, a hymn- book, and a carafe of water. (The room was used regularly for Sunday School and other chapel functions.) There was also a cupboard which, when incautiously opened, usually emitted a cascade of ragged hymn-books and tea-party crockery. Two inverted T-shaped gas-brackets shed a hissing illumination over the rather melancholy scene, and this evening wisps of fog curled in fitfully when the green-baize doors opened from the vestibule.
Howat gazed with a certain dreamy satisfaction on the dozen or so young persons who comprised his audience. In some ways they satisfied him as much as a far larger gathering; because he could think of most of them individually, knowing their names, homes, and circumstances; and he could marvel a little at the spirit that had brought them out, on a foggy night, to hear him talk about Mozart. Surely he was not wrong, at such a moment, in thinking that he was accomplishing some kind of good in Browdley, that his years of persistence were bearing fruit after all? And he felt, as deeply as he had ever felt in the pulpit, inspired by a passionate desire to give these few youngsters something adequate to their degree of needing and wanting. The whole world stretched out beyond Browdley, a world they might and probably would never see; could he not show them an inner world of beauty, visible to all whose eyes were attuned to it? He thought then, quite suddenly and with an odd sensation of mind- wandering: These walls would look better with a few pictures—why not some of those coloured reproductions of Italian primitives, and so on? It wouldn’t cost more than a few shillings; I daresay I could afford it myself. Still, I shall have to economise for a time—that trip to London will cost a bit, and the specialist’s fee will probably be stiff- five guineas, maybe, or three if I plead poverty. Wonder if there is anything really serious the matter—queer how that pain comes and goes—I hadn’t it this afternoon while I was talking to those children in school, but it came back during tea. Never mind, stick it out, whatever it is—no sense in whining over things…
The mere thinking of his throat made it feel dry and parched; he would have poured out a drink from the carafe had not the water repelled by its stale, yellowish tinge. And just for a moment there carne over him the most absurd and ridiculous longing for something he would never dream of having—a glass of beer. One of those dark brown frothing tumblers he sometimes saw through the windows of public-houses—public-houses all warm and brightly lit, with men in them talking sociably and perhaps playing darts. In his mind, just for the moment, the picture stood out in vivid contrast to the chill, comfortless room in which he was shortly to begin his address.
He half-smiled at the quaintness of the vision, and then, with a quick return to reality, nodded and smiled to Mr. and Mrs. Garland, who had just entered. They were by no means ‘young people’, and he did not recollect their ever having attended a Guild meeting before; still, he was glad enough to see them, though faintly surprised.
Swallowing hard to ease the dryness of his throat, Howat rose from his chair and began to speak. He began haltingly, unfluently, as he so often did; those who heard him for only the first minute of any speech or sermon must certainly have thought him a very poor orator. It was as if he had, by a tremendous effort, to launch himself into a world of mind and spirit in which words came of their own accord. He kept saying: Mozart…Mozart…His face had a peculiar nervous twitch during those initial struggles; his rugged features looked, for the time, almost agonised; till, with a suddenness that was sometimes rather amusing, he was ‘off’. He had, beyond doubt, a voice and an enunciation of great beauty.
Certain of his words and phrases sounded, in his own ears, far above others, and went on echoing long after he had spoken them. Was he soaring above their heads, he wondered, momentarily, remembering his daughter’s caution? Well no, he thought not; he hoped not; and besides, even if he were, perhaps he could get them to soar with him—above their own heads and his too. If only that sharpness in his throat would disappear; it was absurd, at his age, to be bothered in such a way; he was only forty-three and already seeing specialists and worrying about his health. And suddenly, looking round at the young faces in front of him, he saw them all labelled, as it were, with the inevitable doom of age and death; life was so tragically short, and it seemed in some sense a kind of divine toss-up whether one succeeded or failed in getting anything out of it during the time allowed. How necessary to make the most of youth, to pursue while the pursuit had zest, to apprehend the beauty of the world that lay everywhere around, in sight and sound and feeling…He made a pause in his remarks, wound up his portable gramophone, and played over the Trio in E Major and then the two great Overtures; the music floated past him, dissolving, as it were, into the air of which it was born; he always felt that Mozart was like that, perfectly and enchantingly meaningless except for that one central unanalysable meaning—beauty. ’fever, he said when the records were finished, there had been an angel born upon this earth, that angel was Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. We might not know a very great deal about the future life, but we must feel—indeed it was almost impossible not to feel—that it was linked up in a marvellous way with the beauty of our own world…Mozart…Raphael the painter…William Blake the poet…And then, with a little mist before his eyes, he was aware that he was making contact, that he was actually and for a second or so putting into the minds of these boys and girls an urge, a longing for something beyond their own immediate surroundings.
He finished in secret triumph. He sat down. He felt drained of power, yet with a tired dreamy feeling o
f having conquered. Yes, yes, he would get those pictures. Was the fog worse, he wondered? His throat was not so bad now, and anyway, he didn’t care—he was too tired and triumphant to care. The tune of the E Major Trio was in his ears. What happened next? Oh yes, someone usually got up and moved a vote of thanks. Only a formality—wouldn’t take more than a couple of minutes. Then a little chat with anybody who chose to stay behind, then the short walk through the fog across the playground and past the front of the chapel, and so into his house. A cup of hot cocoa. Bed. Heavens—he was tired—he was sure he would sleep well.
Suddenly he realised that Garland was on his feet and beginning to talk. Pity it couldn’t have been somebody else; Garland had such a raucous voice and would go on far too long. Never mind, though—decent of him to come.
Garland, in fact, was one of those fussy, self-important men, full of official correctness, who never miss a chance to say ‘a few words’. An air of portentous solemnity hovered over everything he did and had, from the pompous modulations of his ill-pronounced words to the black cut-away coat whose collar was always lightly powdered with dandruff. He was rather squat in build, and had a black curling moustache whose waxed ends were absurdly visible when one saw him from the rear. Howat respected him as a trustworthy chapel official, but they had never attempted any more intimate relationship.
Mrs. Garland was a thin-lipped precise-looking woman with a rigidity of bearing less solemn but more aggressive than her husband’s.
Garland was saying: “Of course we’re all extremely grateful to Mr. Freemantle for his address, but I do feel there is an aspect—and a very important aspect—of his subject which he has left quite out of account. And that is religion. All this talk about beauty—music, poetry, and all that—isn’t any use without the true spirit of religion. And I must say I don’t hold with him when he said that we might not know a great deal about the future life. I contend, as every true believer must, that we do know a great deal about it—we know all about Heaven, and anyone who doesn’t has only got to read his Bible. Fact of the matter is, people don’t read their Bibles enough nowadays—there’s far too much discussion of other books, poetry, music, and what not. First things should come first…And now let’s refresh ourselves with a hymn—’There is a Book who runs may read’…”
Howat’s chin and mouth were half-hidden in the palm of his hand. At the mention of the hymn, however, he looked up abruptly and gave the opening note with his clear, vibrant baritone. In a scattered and rather ineffectual way the audience began to sing, led by Howat, and with Garland supplying a morose and untuneful rumble far below any classifiable key. It was unusual to sing hymns after a Guild meeting, but Howat didn’t care—Garland could go through the whole hymn-book if he wanted. Howat felt: He means well, but I’m glad he doesn’t come to these affairs oftener.
The hymn came to an end, and as the audience began to pick up hats and wraps and prepare to disperse, he realised that Garland was waiting behind deliberately, as if he wanted to say something. Howat was just slightly peeved about that; if the fellow wanted to see him, why didn’t he call at the Manse? After meetings Howat liked a chat with the youngsters, but there wouldn’t be any, clearly, if Garland stayed.
After a few moments he was quite alone in the room with Garland and Mrs. Garland. The others had all disappeared through the green-baize door, and there was left no sound except the hissing of the four gas jets. Howat remarked conversationally as he packed up his gramophone: “Bad night, Mr. Garland.” (Garland was the sort of man who wouldn’t do for anyone to drop the prefix.)
“Very,” replied Garland, massively, and went on: “As a matter of fact, Mr. Freemantle, we shouldn’t have come but, only we thought it would give us a chance of seeing you in private.”
“Really? Well, anything I can do, of course—” He felt so thoroughly tired, and more in the mood for anything on earth than for a private talk with Garland. However…
“You see, Mr. Freemantle, it’s about our girl. She’s run away from. home.”
“Indeed?” he made the necessary mental effort—Garland’s daughter—the girl he had been teaching German—a pleasant girl, she had always seemed, and she had surprised him once, he recollected, by humming a tune from a Brahms sonata.
He repeated: “Indeed? She’s run away from home, you say?”
“Yes. On Saturday. She packed up all her things and went before we knew anything about it.”
“But surely—”
“Oh, it astonishes you, does it?” interrupted Mrs. Garland, tartly. “We thought maybe you mightn’t be so astonished as we were, seeing the chances she’s had lately of confiding in you.”
“Confiding in me?” Howat was sheerly bewildered. “I don’t understand you, Mrs. Garland—I really don’t understand. Your daughter has been taking lessons in German from me week by week, but apart from that—”
“And it wasn’t our idea she should do it, please don’t think that for a moment. What would she be wanting to learn German for, I should like to know?”
“She gave no definite reason—not to me, anyhow—but I suppose she wished to improve her general education. Surely there’s nothing very outrageous in that.”
“It’s all very outrageous. She was full of mad ideas, always was.”
“But in these days, Mrs. Garland—”
“These days? It’s a pity these days are what they are. A sinful, godless age, that’s what it is.”
Howat’s fingers drummed on the desk-lid; he was becoming just a shade impatient. “Well, well, that’s a big subject—you were telling me about your daughter, weren’t you? Do you mean that she’s disappeared, and that you don’t know where she is at all?”
Garland here thought fit to intervene; he said, as if realising that his wife would only bungle the business: “The fact is, Mr. Freemantle, we can only guess. We’ve had no news at all except a card saying she was quite well but wouldn’t be coming back. We couldn’t read the postmark. And what crossed our minds was that perhaps she might have hinted to you something about her intentions. It’s a most upsetting thing to have happened altogether.”
“I agree with you, Mr. Garland, and I wish I could help, but I assure you she never gave me the slightest idea that such a notion was in her mind. If she had, I need hardly say that I should have strongly dissuaded her and even, if necessary, approached you on the matter.”
Garland seemed to find this reply moderately satisfactory, but Mrs. Garland’s eyes narrowed sharply. “You mean that you haven’t heard from her at all, then?” she interposed.
He shook his head and then suddenly remembered the Raphael picture that had arrived by the first post that day. “Stay, though—well yes, now I come to recollect it, I did hear from her this morning, but it was merely a short message to say she wouldn’t be coming for her usual German lesson to-morrow.”
“Oh? So she has written to you then? Was that all she said? Did she give no explanation?”
“She merely said she would be out of Browdley at the time.”
“What was the postmark?”
“I must confess I didn’t notice.”
“Perhaps you still have the letter and it could be examined.”
“I don’t know, I’m afraid. It may be torn up—quite probably it is. Naturally it didn’t strike me as particularly important when I received it.”
Garland again took the lead. “Well, Mr. Freemantle, it’s an unfortunate business, anyhow. She’s left home, and we don’t know what’s happening to her.”
Howat found himself slowly rising out of a dream into this new and intricate reality that was being forced upon him. “But surely, Mr. Garland, you have some idea why she’s gone, at any rate? That seems to me almost as important as where she is, apart from the fact that it might afford a clue. She can’t have acted like that without some big reason of her own.”
He felt: Why are they bothering me about it? I can’t help them, but I can see now it was a mistake to give the girl German les
sons—I never guessed that her parents didn’t approve of it. She ought to have told me, really…
“Oh, she has her reasons, I’ve no doubt,” retorted Mrs. Garland, sourly. “And precious fine reasons they are, too, if they were only known, I daresay. The idea—talking of giving up her job at the library and going abroad! That’s what she did talk about, though you mayn’t believe it. Of course we forbade it—absolutely. A good deal that we don’t like we may have to put up with in these days, but there are certain limits, I’m glad to say.
“She talked of going abroad, did she?”
“She’s been talking of it off and on for some time. But it came to a head last Friday night when we found she’d been writing to a travel agency about railway tickets to Paris. And then, if you please, she calmly told us that she was going to go abroad in any case.”
“To Paris?”
“That’s one of the things we have to guess. It doesn’t sound a nice sort of place for a young girl to want to go to, does it?”