by A. J. Cronin
‘I must confess, Bertram, I see little harm in all this. I remember when I was at Interlaken with Papa I did some delightful little water-colours of the lake. Blue was the prevailing tint. Stephen has always liked to draw. Indeed, it was you who gave him his first box of paints.’
He bit his lip hard.
‘This is no childish hobby, Julia. Do you know that for more than a year now, without a word to us, he has been travelling from Oxford to attend night art classes at the Slade?’
‘The Slade is a reputable institution. Stephen will have ample time to sketch between his sermons. And certainly drawing is soothing for the nerves.’
He suppressed his impulses to cry out. For a moment he kept his eyes lowered, then in the tone of one who had conquered, but breathing somewhat quickly, he said:
‘I hope you are right, my dear. I suppose I worry unnecessarily. No doubt he will settle down when he gets into the swing of his work in London.’
‘No doubt he will. And Bertram, I have decided that instead of Harrogate, I shall go to Cheltenham next month. There is a mineral in the waters there which I am told is excellent in promoting the flow of bile. When Dr Leonard last analysed my urine there was a remarkable deficiency in the biliary salts.’
He said good night, in a low tone and quickly, lest he say something worse.
As he left the room he could hear along the corridor the slow tick-tack of Caroline’s machine as, unsparingly, she typed the notes for his speech next day.
Chapter Four
On a grey and drizzling afternoon six weeks later, Stephen, returning from a round of house-to-house visiting, walked slowly along Clinker Street in East Stepney. The sulphurous overcast from the London docks made the narrow thoroughfare more dreary, pressed down suffocatingly upon him. No light, no colour – only the deadness of a row of deserted barrows, greasy cobblestones, a brewer’s dray horse steaming in the rain, its driver bowed beneath a dripping sack. A westbound omnibus roared past, splashing him with mud as he turned towards the Settlement.
This red-brick structure, built into the line of broken-down stucco houses which sagged along the street like decayed old men, now more than ever reminded him of a small but efficient penitentiary. At that moment the front door swung open and the Warden, the Reverend Crispin Bliss, came out, umbrella poised, nose turned up to scent the weather, tall, meagre form encased to the heels in a long black mackintosh. A meeting, Stephen saw, was unavoidable; he went forward.
‘Ah, Desmonde … back already?’
The tone was feebly cordial, that of a man, Stephen felt, who had tried to like him, and could not, despite the best intentions and the urge of brotherly love. Unquestionably the Reverend Crispin Bliss, fellow of St Cuthbert’s, was a devoted clergyman who wrought hard for good in this unfruitful vineyard. A Low Churchman, with strong evangelical leanings, he was a man of sincere yet narrow piety. But religion apart, his manner was most unprepossessing: dry, academic, touchily superior. Equally unfortunate was his way of walking with his head thrown back, the donnish air with which he protected himself, and above all, his voice, cracked, slightly sing-song, always ready, it seemed, to utter cultured contradictions in high falsetto tones. Almost at the outset, Stephen had been unlucky enough to offend him.
In the upper corridor of the Settlement there hung, in heavy gilt, a sanguinary portrayal of the martyrdom of Saint Sebastian which bled afresh for Stephen whenever he came from his room. Since the painting seemed ignored by everyone but himself, one morning, in a moment of loathing, he turned it to the wall. The act apparently passed unnoticed. But at supper that night, with a pained glance which passed over the heads of his two curates, Loftus and Geer, and came to rest on Stephen, the Warden observed, in his most nasal tones:
‘I do not object to humour, even in its most misguided form, the practical joke. But to interfere with any object in this house which by its subject or association might be regarded as sacred is, to my mind, an unseemly and irreligious act.’
Stephen coloured to the roots of his hair and kept his eyes upon his plate. He had meant no harm, and when the meal was over the desire to explain took him to the Warden.
‘I’m sorry. I turned the picture. The only excuse I can offer you is that it rather got on my nerves.’
‘Upon your nerves, Desmonde?’
‘Well … yes, sir. It’s in such shocking taste and so obviously a fake.’
The Warden’s face lost its incredulous look, stiffening slowly.
‘I fail to understand you, Desmonde. The picture is a genuine Carlo Dolci.’
Stephen smiled apologetically.
‘Oh hardly, sir. Not even that. Apart from the crude brush-work, and the modern pigment, it’s on white flax canvas – a fabric which wasn’t manufactured until around 1890, a good two hundred years after Dolci’s death.’
The Warden’s expression turned altogether stony. He breathed out quickly through his nostrils, not fire precisely, but the Christian counterpart of wrath – just indignation.
‘The picture happens to be mine, Desmonde, and a most cherished possession. I bought it as a young man in Italy, from unimpeachable sources. In spite of your opinion I shall continue to cherish it as an original work of art.’
Now, however, there was less hostility than watchful moderation in the Warden’s regard as, standing in the rain, he offered Stephen the shelter of his umbrella and inquired:
‘You did all of Skinners Row this afternoon?’
‘Practically all, sir.’
He did not wish to confess that, since he expected a visit from Richard Glyn, he had scamped the odd numbers.
‘How did you find old Mrs Blimey?’
‘Not altogether well, I’m afraid.’
‘Is her bronchitis worse, poor creature?’ Then, as Stephen hesitated and looked uncomfortable, he added: ‘Does she need the doctor?’
‘No … not exactly. As a matter of fact, I found her very drunk.’
There was a distressful pause, then came the somewhat worldly question:
‘How did she get the money?’
‘I believe I am responsible. I gave her five shillings yesterday to pay her room rent. She seems to have spent it on gin.’
The Warden made a clicking sound with his tongue.
‘Well … you will live and learn, Desmonde. I do not reproach you. But you must not put temptation in the way of God’s poor creatures.’
‘I suppose not. On the other hand, can one blame her for trying to escape from her misery for a few hours? She has a bad chest, can’t get sewing work of any kind, owes the landlord for the rent and has pawned nearly everything in her room. I must confess I was almost glad to see her rolling about in a state of happy oblivion.’
‘Desmonde!’
‘And what’s more … I couldn’t help thinking that if any of us had been in the same position we might have done exactly the same thing.’
‘Come, come. That is pushing the case a little too far. We should never, please God, find ourselves in a like predicament.’ He shook his head disapprovingly and put up his umbrella. ‘ You have the boys’ club tonight? I will have a word with you about that at supper.’
With a parting nod, somewhat distant, he stepped off, leaving Stephen to go upstairs to his room, a narrow cubicle furnished in light oak, with a Gothic overmantel and a revolving bookcase. The bed had not yet been made. The residents of the Settlement were supposed to do for themselves – in the morning, for instance, Stephen would regularly encounter Geer, the senior curate, a bright and brawny Christian, bearing his brimming chamber-pot to the bathroom with an air of hearty unconcern. However, lest the monastic tradition prove too severe, in the afternoon a little outside maid named Jenny Dill came in from the district, ostensibly to supply the finishing touches, in reality to do most of the work. As Stephen flung himself, still in hat and coat, into a Morris chair, he could hear her moving lightly in Loftus’s room through the thin party wall. Loftus, a pretty young man, exacting and self-contained
, very elegant in a sacerdotal way, always left her plenty to do in the shape of shoes to polish, suits to brush and put away. Yet apparently she had completed these tasks, for in a few minutes there was a tap on his door and, bearing duster and pail, she came spryly in.
‘Oh, sir, I beg your pardon … I didn’t realise you was in.’
‘That’s all right, you go ahead.’
He watched her absently as she began expertly to strip the sheets and turn his mattress. She was a pleasant little thing, with a high colour on her cheekbones as though they had been rubbed with brickdust, bright brown eyes, and a fringe of black hair. She looked, he thought, a typical Cockney girl … thoroughly competent and nobody’s fool. Yet there was about her something more than ordinary: an air of willing simplicity, an innocence, an affectionate amiability, and above all, a vigour, as though she could not contain the energy and delight which throbbed in her healthy young body. And as she moved about neatly, her waist trim, her bust small and firm, unconscious of his scrutiny, or at least in no way discomposed by it, instinctively his hand went to the pencil and block upon the desk. With the pad upon his knee he began, attentively, to draw.
Presently she went to the fireplace, bent down, and began to clear out the ashes. At this his interest quickened and, when she made to rise, he stopped her abruptly.
‘Please don’t move, Jenny.’
‘But, sir …’
‘No, no. Turn back your head and don’t move an inch.’
While, obediently, she resumed, and held, her stooping position, his fingers moved nervously over the paper.
‘You think I’m quite mad, don’t you, Jenny? All the others in the district do.’
‘Oh, no, sir,’ she protested vigorously. ‘We does think you’re a morsel queer of course, giving the lads’ club sketching and that like, not like a regular curate what learns them to box. Why, when Mr Geer ’ad the lads you’d go in the ’all and find them ’ arf killing one another. And ’ ardly know them for black eyes and bloodied noses. Now it don’t scarcely seem natural, like. But all of us thinks that you’re a very nice gentleman indeed.’
‘That’s encouraging … and in spite of the absence of gore. Tell me, Jenny, if you were a bedridden old woman would you rather have a Bible or a bottle of gin?’
‘I ’ave got a Bible, sir … two in fact. Mr Loftus and Mr Geer each give me one. Mr Loftus’s has nice coloured ribbons.’
‘Don’t equivocate, Jenny. Speak the truth.’
‘Well, sir, it’d depend how bad I was. I dessay if I were proper bad the gin might come in handiest like.’
‘Good again, Jenny. You’re as honest as the day. Here, what do you think of this?’
Slowly, she relaxed, came over and examined doubtfully the drawing he held out to her.
‘I don’t know nothing about such like things, sir … but it do seem proper clever …’
‘Why, you silly girl, can’t you see that it’s you?’
‘Well, now you mention it, sir,’ she answered modestly, ‘it does seem to be my back view. Only I wish I didn’t have on my old wrapper with the burst, just there, so awkward at the placket …’
Stephen laughed and threw the block back on the desk.
‘It’s the old wrapper I like. And the burst. You’re an excellent model, Jenny. I wish you could pose for me. I’d give you five shillings an hour.’
She looked at him quickly, then glanced away.
‘That wouldn’t be quite correct, would it sir?’
‘Oh, nonsense,’ he said carelessly. ‘Where’s the harm? But I daresay you’re not interested.’
‘Well, sir’ – she spoke awkwardly, and a warmer colour came into her cheeks – ‘as a matter of fact, if everything was in order, I could do with some extra cash at present.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes sir. You see … I expects to be married fairly soon.’
His face lost its look of inquiry, he smiled boyishly.
‘Congratulations. Who’s the lucky man?’
‘His name is by way of being Alfred, sir. Alfred Baines. He’s steward on a Orient Line boat. He’ll be home the month after next.’
‘Good for you, Jenny. No wonder you want a little extra pin money. Look here. When do you knock off?’
‘Whenever I finish your room, sir. Usually around five.’
‘Well, then … suppose you stay on for an hour, from five till six, twice a week. I could pay you five shillings a time.’
‘That’s more than generous, sir.’
‘It’s very little really. But if you didn’t find the work too tiring I could give you a note to a friend of mine who teaches night classes at the Slade. He’d be glad to employ you for a short spell.’
‘He wouldn’t expect, sir …?’ Jenny blushed crimson.
‘Good heavens, no,’ Stephen said kindly. ‘ You’d wear some sort of costume. Probably he’d only want you for head and shoulders.’
‘Then I’d be very grateful, sir … indeed I should … especially to you.’
‘Shall we call it a bargain, then?’ He smiled, that rare smile that lit up his face so attractively, and held out his hand.
Still flushed, she came forward. Her small fingers, the nails ill cut or broken, were warm and dry, their tips seamed with work scars and healed chilblains. Yet it was an extraordinarily pleasant little hand to hold, the pulse of her young body was in it; he barely brought himself to relinquish it. When he did so she turned towards the door. She was rather pale now, and not looking at him she said:
‘You’ve always treated me so nice, Mr Desmonde, it’s a pleasure to do things for you. And I’ve always gave your room an extra polish. And done your shoes special nice because … well, just because it was you, sir.’ She broke off, and was gone.
To one tormented by moods of self-depreciation these words brought an odd warmth. But soon Stephen’s momentary cheerfulness faded, he became again conscious of himself, his surroundings, and the dreariness which stretched ahead. He wished that Glyn might come soon.
Taking up Paley’s Evidences, which he had promised his father he would read, he tried to immerse himself in it. But it was no use. He had no interest in the book, detested the life he had been leading ever since he came to the Settlement: the visiting, the Bible classes, the club – though he had tried in his own fashion to enliven this – the eternal hypocrisy of feeding words to cold and hungry people, while he, and others of the breed, remained warm and well-fed.
He could understand a man entering the Church who was by nature deeply religious, who felt it his predestined mission to succour his fellow men. But to take up a comfortable living without such a strong vocation, for reasons which were clearly material, seemed to him the worst kind of fraud. And besides, had he not his own vocation, a call which kept ringing with greater insistency in his heart? What a fool he had been to let himself be driven into such a pass, like a stupid sheep penned between gates at a country fair. And now he was in, there seemed no escape.
Just then a rapid fire of heavy boots sounded on the wooden stairs, and a few seconds later a man some years older than Stephen broke into the room and flung himself breathlessly into a chair. He was of more than medium size and thickly built, with cropped red hair and a short bristling red beard, his features strong, his eyes, under well-marked brows, fierce, a trifle wild, yet at the moment full of fun. Dressed in moleskin trousers and a workman’s jersey, a red spotted handkerchief knotted round his throat, he had the air of a buccaneer, boisterous, unrestrained, full of a vigorous enjoyment of life. Presently, when his respirations had subsided, he pulled out a gunmetal watch, attached to his person by a piece of frayed green picture-cord.
‘Just under the hour,’ he remarked with satisfaction. ‘Not bad from Whitehall.’
Although aware of Glyn’s spasmodic passion for violent exercise, Stephen was mildly surprised.
‘You walked all the way!’
‘Ran,’ said Glyn, wiping off sweat. ‘ It was devilish amusing. I had all t
he coppers on their toes – wondering if I’d robbed a bank. But what a thirst it’s given me. I don’t suppose you’ve a spot of beer in this house of God?’
‘I’m sorry, Richard. We’re not allowed to have it in our rooms I can give you tea … and biscuits.’
Glyn burst out laughing.
‘You young theologians. How can you wrestle with Satan on biscuits and tea? But if it isn’t a bother, bring ’em on.’ He added more seriously: ‘I’m afraid I can’t stay long, but I did want to see you.’
They talked while Stephen boiled a tin kettle on the gas-ring by the fireplace. When the tea was brewed Richard drank four cups of the despised beverage and, in an absent manner, finished a plate of macaroons. Then, somewhat awkwardly, the conversation lapsed.
‘Your exhibition has done well,’ Stephen said at last.
‘Well enough,’ Glyn answered carelessly. ‘The critiques were so perfectly bloody they actually brought people in.’
‘But you did sell something.’
‘One ruddy canvas. And only because I’m Welsh. The Cardiff National Gallery bought it. Fostering native talent … miner’s son, and so on.’
There was a pause.
‘However,’ Glyn resumed, ‘the cash takes me out of hock. Anna and I are off to Paris tomorrow.’
Stephen stiffened imperceptibly, a reflex of all his nerves, not only at the sound of a word which haunted him, but because in this too casual remark he sensed the purpose of Glyn’s visit. He tried to keep his voice under control.
‘How long shall you be there?’
‘At least a year. I’ll live cheap and work like the devil. Believe it or not, Paris is a wonderful place for work.’ He paused, shot a swift glance at the other. ‘You still aren’t coming along?’
Stephen felt his throat thicken. His hands on the arms of his chair showed white over the knuckles.
‘How can I?’ he muttered. ‘You know how I’m situated.’
‘At the same time, I had the impression that you wanted to paint.’
Stephen, sitting with lowered head, made no reply. Suddenly he looked up.
‘Glyn … if I chucked everything … should I ever succeed as an artist?’