‘Then it was his ghost I saw,’ I stammered.
‘Yes,’ answered the old man slowly. ‘You must have seen his ghost in the ghost of the house, for Marlowe Grange was demolished over seven years ago and not a stone of it is left today.’
The Caretaker
WHEN STANLEY MORGAN returned to England, after an absence of over twenty years in Canada, he found London a very different place from the city he had known in boyhood. Old friends had disappeared, familiar haunts had vanished. He felt lost and was more alone than ever he had been out on the Canadian prairies when he was hundreds of miles from the nearest human being.
Morgan was a sentimentalist, and although London had never meant home to him, it had been the home of one branch of his family. True he had never even seen those wealthy relatives, and he knew that the last of them had died many years ago. Yet he felt proud of his kinship, and upon his mind was impressed the address of the house in which they had lived—4 Gidley Square. Because he was a sentimentalist he wanted to see that house—to wander through the rooms in which those unknown relatives had moved and had their being. Perhaps the present occupants would be kind enough to allow him to look over the place. It was, of course, possible that the house had been pulled down, but he had a feeling that it was still in existence. He would try to see it and then leave this inhospitable city and visit his old home town in the north of England.
On a pleasant morning in September Stanley Morgan left his hotel and turned westward. A policeman directed him to the Square, and he found number four without any difficulty. But it was empty, and the dilapidated board of a house agent proved that it had been uninhabited for years. That meant he would have to apply to the agent for the key.
He gazed up at the plain Georgian frontage, the flat windows, and felt that in some queer way the house was welcoming him. Feeling rather a fool he climbed the steps and turned the handle of the front door. To his surprise it opened, and slipping inside he closed it after him. Clouds of dust rose as he crossed the floor. He stood at the foot of the stairs, undecided which room to investigate first. It was then he heard a gentle cough, and looking up, saw the face of an old man peering at him over the banisters. Feeling guilty of unwarrantable trespass Morgan removed his hat and called out, ‘I am so sorry to intrude, but I thought the house was empty.’
With slow, careful steps the man descended the stairs, and Morgan could see that he was very small and wizened. Yet there was an air of old-world dignity about him.
‘I wanted to see the house,’ Morgan explained, ‘because my family—or, at least, a branch of my family—used to live here.’
‘That is quite all right, sir,’ answered the little fellow. ‘The last Morgan who inhabited this house was Sir James—that was fifteen years ago. If you are a Morgan you are very welcome.’
‘My name is Stanley Morgan and I have only just returned from Canada. I felt I should like to see this house before I left London. Things change so quickly in this city. Time robs us of so much and death is always waiting round the corner.’
‘Time, my dear sir, is a strange illusion,’ answered the old man. ‘Death is a conjurer who makes people disappear into his capacious pockets, but he doesn’t cause those people to cease to exist. If you hold the orthodox, conventional view of these matters you may say that he transfers them to heaven—or to the other place. Yet what do you know of either heaven or hell? Isn’t the one a fairy tale that pleases and the other a goblin story that frightens? Neither time nor people change as they are supposed to change. Twelve hours ago today was tomorrow, and within a few more hours it will be yesterday. Yet it will still retain its own individuality, and the twenty-four hours that have been in turn tomorrow, today, and yesterday will live for ever as a date. You mustn’t think that a house is empty because you cannot see the people in it. The people are there, living in their own time and doing exactly the same things they have always been accustomed to doing.’
Morgan looked down at the speaker with amazement. This was certainly a strange old man and more than slightly eccentric. Whoever had heard of a caretaker philosophising in such a manner? Whoever had heard of a person trying to prove by logical argument that time did not exist and that an old house was still inhabited by the very people who had lived and died within its walls?
‘Nor must you think,’ the old fellow went on, ‘that human beings alone possess souls. Soul is just a word used to describe consciousness—the vital spark which animates a material that would otherwise be dead. Buildings also have souls. They are not born with them, but develop them as time passes—forming their spiritual part out of the emotions they experience. Thus this house, which has already seen much of happiness and sorrow, has an entity of its own. It is capable of loving and hating—even of indifference. I know it loves me, because I have become a part of it. You must have felt, as you entered that door, that it welcomed you and offered you a friendly greeting.
‘But come, I go rambling on and forget that you wish to see over the place. Let me first show you the drawing-room where old Lady Ennis Morgan used to hold her famous routs over a hundred years ago—and, for that matter, still holds them.’
He led the way up the wide staircase and ushered Morgan into a vast empty room. The moulded ceiling was broken in places, the paper was peeling from the walls, and the great fireplace was a mass of rust.
‘Here,’ said the old man, ‘the lions of London’s literary world, famous actors and actresses, politicians and statesmen, gathered on Thursday evenings at the invitation of Lady Ennis. They still meet every Thursday for, as I have already told you, time is nothing but a silly illusion. Let your mind respond to the vibrations of this room and you will understand what I mean.’
Then Morgan experienced a strange sensation. It seemed that a veil fell from his eyes and, as through a faintly luminous mist, he saw the room as it must have appeared a hundred years before. A thick carpet covered the floor, the furniture was bright and fresh, a log fire glowed in the grate. At a writing-table under the window sat a stately-looking old lady with white hair. Just for a moment he saw these things and then the veil was drawn and he was again gazing upon a deserted room.
‘Now you must see the dining-room,’ the old man went on. ‘It was there Sir Roderick entertained Lord Byron. There, also, my master, Sir James, has given many pleasant parties.’
They descended the stairs together and the man flung open a door in the hall. Morgan found himself in a long room of noble proportions. It contained a vast table and a few tattered chairs, but the atmosphere of decay was very apparent.
‘Monday is Sir James’s night,’ whispered his guide. ‘It is then his friends gather around him at this table. The rest of the time he is mostly to be found in his study. I will show it to you.’
He led the way towards the far end of the room and opened a door cunningly concealed in the panelling. Morgan saw a dark little chamber littered with torn papers with empty bookshelves on the walls.
Then again that curious thing happened. The veil was lifted from his eyes and he was looking into a cosy little room with book-lined walls and hunting-prints dotted here and there. By the fire, lolling in a great leather chair, was a handsome middle-aged gentleman reading a book. Just for a few seconds Morgan witnessed this scene, and then his eyes dimmed over and he saw nothing but the deserted study.
Back in the hall he turned to the strange old fellow and said, ‘What is your name? I should like to know your name.’
‘My name,’ repeated the little man. ‘Ah! yes—my name. It is George Hughes. I was butler to Sir James.’
Morgan fumbled in his pockets, hardly knowing whether he ought to offer a tip. With a sudden resolve he turned and held out his hand in a friendly gesture. To his amazement there was no sign of his companion. He was alone in the hall and the door of the dining-room was closed. With a puzzled frown on his brow he let himself out into the street again, pausing on the step to make a note of the name and address of the agent whose board swun
g on the railings.
Later in the day he presented himself at the offices of Messrs Ridgemill, Ridgemill, & Co., in Fetter Lane, and to the slightly supercilious young man who attended to him, explained that he was interested in number four Gidley Square.
‘I am very sorry,’ was the reply, ‘but I am afraid the house was withdrawn from the market long ago. Our board should have been removed, but it is years since we had an inquiry about the property. You see the whole square is to be demolished under one of the new town-planning schemes.’
‘Then can you tell me anything about the caretaker—an old chap called George Hughes?’
‘There is no caretaker there, sir. There hasn’t been one for years.’
‘But,’ exclaimed Morgan, ‘I was there this morning and I saw the man.’
‘Just one moment, sir,’ replied the clerk. ‘I’ll fetch our Mr Burns. He will perhaps remember something about the man you mention as he dealt with all matters concerning the property when it was first offered for sale.’
He left the room and returned a few minutes later with an elderly man.
‘I am told that you are inquiring about George Hughes,’ said the newcomer. ‘There was a little fellow of that name who was butler to Sir James Morgan. After the death of Sir James we received instructions from the heirs to dispose of the property, and at their request, retained Hughes as caretaker, but he died about ten years ago, and there hasn’t been a caretaker since then.’
Gypsy Violin
JOSÉ ZORRILLO WAS his name and he was born in a bleak cave on the French side of the Pyrenees, not an hour’s walk from the town of Bagneres, with a fire burning before the entrance to keep evil spirits at bay and a guitar twanging an ancient tune considered to be a charm to ensure a safe delivery.
Yes! José was born a gypsy, although his mother, the darkly beautiful Maria, had been driven from Seville for daring to break the inexorable law of leis prala. The Englishman with the soft voice and the laughing eyes had won her wild heart, and his tempestuous lovemaking had caused her to forget the traditions of her race. He would certainly have married her, for they were planning to leave for Paris when Juan, Maria’s elder brother, had spoilt everything by planting a knife between her lover’s ribs. She had wept over the dead body and vowed to be faithful to his memory for ever. The vow was unnecessary because she had already given so much that she was his in life, in death, and in whatever lives there may be beyond the grave.
When her family discovered just how much she had given to the busnó they turned from her as from something unclean. The law of leis prala had been broken: henceforth she was no true Romani. With hard eyes and with bitter curses on their lips her people had driven her from Seville. Only her younger sister Lucia—Lucia who loved her more than any other human being—had been brave enough to accompany her into exile and, when the time arrived, had prepared a couch of bracken, lighted the ritual fire, and made the strings of her guitar echo the ancient sorceries.
In spite of the charms, or perhaps because of the curses, the birth of José had not been an easy matter. Yet born he was, although the effort cost his mother her life. She died commending her son to Lucia’s care and whispering the name of her English lover. It is more than likely that she had no desire to live, not even for the sake of her child, for a gypsy loves once and once only, and she was confident of finding her lover again beyond the barriers of death.
So, as the fire was growing cold and the dawn was breaking in the eastern sky, Lucia had strewn wild flowers upon her sister’s body, and, with the child in her arms, had fled down the mountain side. A priest in Bagneres had baptised the infant, and with due form and ceremony had entered his name in the parish register as José Zorillo.
Then followed years of wandering. In Austria and Italy, Germany and France, Lucia played flamenco music and performed flamenco dances for those who would fling her a few coins. Sometimes, on the fairgrounds or at wine-feasts, she fell in with others of her race, but she kept herself apart from them. Her one interest in life was José. She waited upon him hand and foot, often starved herself that he might eat, and watched him develop from a puny little baby into a sturdy, dark-skinned rogue of a boy.
The child had music in his heart and magic in his finger-tips. At the age of nine he was playing the violin with amazing skill, and by the time he was twelve his music earned more in five minutes than Lucia’s dancing could earn in a day. But then, of course, Lucia was getting old, for gypsy women quickly lose their youth.
It was in Russia that Pjatakov heard José play, and Pjatakov, although past his prime, was still the king of gypsy fiddlers. Some said he was a magician, but if so, his magic was the music of his race. For nearly a year he took the boy under his wing and taught him all he knew of the art of making a violin speak. At the end of that time he conducted him to the summit of a high hill, and pointing to the country below, said, ‘There is the world. It is yours to conquer.’
Lucia and José left Russia and followed the road that leads through Poland into Germany—she telling baji in the towns and villages and he playing little melodies to earn enough for food and lodging. It was a weary journey, but at last they came to Cologne. There, whilst the cathedral bells were pealing joyously for the festival of the Three Kings, Lucia, worn out and tired of life, died as calmly as she had lived. Before she closed her weary eyes for the last time she told José something of his parents. She whispered of the beauty of Maria and of her death in that gloomy cavern. But of his father she could only say that he was an Englishman and a busnó.
There was a great gathering of gypsies in Cologne for the festival, and they gave Lucia a real gypsy funeral. She had no caravan to burn, but they made a bonfire of her few personal belongings. As José stood by the pyre he knew that his old life was being consumed by those red flames, and that a new life was beginning for him. From an old gypsy who had travelled the world, he inquired about England, and learned that it was a bleak land of rain and mists, but that there was much money to be gained there.
On a cold day in late January, when the docks were covered by a thin mantle of snow, José sailed from Ostend to Dover. He was miserably sick during the crossing, but eventually arrived safely in London. It is a remarkable fact that, although at that time he could speak no word of English, he was not afraid. On that first night he made enough money for food and lodging by playing outside a theatre. And then, by some lucky chance, he encountered a Spaniard who directed him to a small boarding-house in Soho, where the proprietor spoke Spanish. There he was fortunate enough to meet Enrico Vassaro. Enrico was one of those musicians who make their livings on the variety stage, and as generous-hearted as most old troupers. It was he who introduced the boy to the offices of theatrical agents, and soon José was touring the halls, billed as ‘Zorrillo, the gypsy violinist’. Wherever he played he was a success, but the variety stage wasn’t good enough for him. Then one night Taniotto, the impresario, heard his performance and, in a burst of enthusiasm, swore he would make him the idol of London. How he kept his vow is a matter of history, for the name of José Zorrillo is still remembered in musical circles.
The gypsy was at the height of his fame when I first met him at the house of Lady Dorothy Sanders. I have good cause to remember that evening for James Dupont, the great authority on folklore, was trying to get José to talk about the traditional music of his race. By then the young man spoke excellent English and found no difficulty in expressing himself.
‘I have heard,’ said Dupont, ‘that there still exist certain tunes that are considered to be akin to sorcery—melodies that will send a man mad or even kill him. Have you ever heard of such a superstition, señor?’
‘I know of only one such tune,’ answered José, and I could see he spoke reluctantly. ‘It has been handed down by the Russian gypsies and is a saéta in three movements. He or she for whom the first movement is played will go blind at the last note. The second movement is worse for it brings madness. The third movement is the most terrible o
f all. It can only be played by a dead man, and he who hears the ending will surely die.’
The company seemed spell-bound for a moment by the gypsy’s obvious sincerity, and then Dupont laughed sharply and said something about a ‘weird tale’.
I got to know José fairly well after that first meeting, and he used often to visit my flat. In fact it was there he met Harry Creighton, the fellow who was destined to play such an important part in his life. Harry was just down from Cambridge and his father, old Sir Roland, was awaiting a favourable opportunity to launch his son and heir upon a political career. It was strange how the Spanish gypsy and young Creighton struck up a close friendship. Within a week or so they were to be seen everywhere in each other’s company.
Often José would play to us, and one night I said something about the saéta he had mentioned to old Dupont.
‘Don’t talk about that,’ he exclaimed. ‘It is a hellish thing.’
Naturally Creighton wanted to know what it was all about, and José explained the significance of the three movements. The story seemed to amuse Harry for he laughed and dismissed the whole business as rank superstition.
I suppose José had been in London over a year before he met Ninette Lytton. At that time she was starring in Viennese Love Song, a pretty show in which she had a good part. Taniotto, who was still managing José’s business, introduced the two. In justice to him I must say that I think he was quite unprepared for the result. The gypsy fell violently in love with the musical comedy star, and wooed her with all the insistence of his passionate southern nature. Ninette was intrigued, but, in my opinion, she wasn’t satisfied. She planned to aim higher than a mere violinist, however famous he might be. She was sufficiently worldly to realise that fame is no enduring thing, and that stability and hard cash count for more than glamorous romance. However, she must have been swept off her feet, for within three months she had his ring upon her finger and the wedding date fixed.
THE NIGHT WIND HOWLS Page 16