by A. J. Cronin
‘To any normal person the evidence is plain. You must accept it.’
‘No.’
‘I insist.’
‘I have the right to my own life.’
‘Not if you are bent on ruining it.’
Neither of them raised his voice. The Rector was very pale but his eyes never left his son’s face. Beneath his agitation there was a firmness Stephen had never seen before.
‘In common justice, do you not owe me some return for all that I have done for you? No doubt you affect to despise anything so sordid as money. Yet I have devoted to your education – the finest any son could wish for – an amount of capital which I could barely afford. We are much less well off than we were, and it is with difficulty that I maintain at Stillwater the standards to which we are accustomed. I had hoped all along that this step would be unnecessary. Nevertheless, for your own sake I must bring you to your senses. Your allowance is stopped, as of this hour. And I fear you will find it impossible to continue without it.’
A bar of silence throbbed in the little church. Stephen’s gaze fell, dwelt for a long moment upon the stony effigy of his ancestor, who, in the half-light, seemed to smile cynically towards him. Gazing at the sword, the great mailed gauntlets, a phrase of his boyhood reading reoccurred to him: the iron hand in the velvet glove. He sighed.
‘Well, Father, that would appear to settle it.’
Bertram secured his day-book from the vestry – his hand shook so badly he could scarcely hold the volume and was obliged to press it against his side. They left the church in silence.
For the remainder of the afternoon Stephen was a model of complaisance, heartening the others by his liveliness and good spirits. At six o’clock he insisted on driving with Davie to the station, saw him to the train, sped him on his way with cheerful affection. Then, turning, with an altered look, he went to the cab rank, where the taxi-man had kept his bag, previously secreted amongst Davie’s luggage. From the time-table pasted outside the booking-office he saw that a coastal train was due to leave in about an hour. He bought a ticket and set himself to wait.
Part Two
Chapter One
Dover, in the rain, was a mean back-door through which to steal away from England. As the cross-Channel packet left the grimy harbour, muddy streets, yellow hillside buildings, putty-coloured cliffs alike were merged in the greyish deluge.
In the steerage the limited space below was densely crowded, and Stephen, turning from an air thickened by damp and noisy good-fellowship, regained the dripping, rope-encumbered deck. He stood solitary in the bows, sheltering, as best he could behind a tarpaulin-covered winch, his eyes on the amorphous shore, his thoughts so balanced between bitterness and sadness as to fix him in an attitude of utter immobility.
Presently he moved and, seating himself on an arm of the winch, unmindful of the heaving of the ship, of the wind and spray which whistled past this slight protection, took his sketchbook from his pocket. The movement was reflex, an outcry from the heart. Yet once his pencil had begun to travel over pages whipped at their edges by the gale, he lost himself, drew, with great rapidity, phases of the agitated sea, waves strange and ominous, which he imbued with a quality of life, seeing in their fretted contours, in the lashing intricacies of their crests, wild human faces, tormented heads and writhing torsos, the figures of men and monsters, with streaming hair and straining limbs, all lost and swept away by the unconquerable forces of the sea.
It was perhaps a kind of madness, a vertigo which left Stephen limp and spent. He shivered as the steamer slackened its plunging motion to edge warily into the arms of the Calais breakwater and, conscious of his streaming face and sodden clothing, pocketed the sketch-book with a furtive air. Ropes were thrown, gangways rolled, the douane was quickly passed. But some slight mishap on the line had held back the Paris train – it had not yet arrived.
Stephen shivered again as, stamping up and down the platform, he strove to restore his circulation. Although the rain was less relentless on the land, the breeze, scouring down the curving tracks, seemed sharper, more cutting than before. Most of his fellow passengers were making use of the delay by taking the à la carte luncheon in the station restaurant. But, faced by a future of sheer uncertainty, a closer view of the state of his finances held him from this luxury. He had, to be precise, five pounds nine shillings remaining from the original ten pounds which had been in his possession when he arrived at Stillwater.
At last the train steamed in and, after many conferences and much gesticulation, shrill whistling, crescendos of steam, and the melodious notes of a horn, the engine was reversed, steamed out again. For Stephen, huddled in the corner of a draughty compartment, it was a wretched journey. He shivered repeatedly, knew that he had caught a chill, and blamed himself for a fool.
At the Gare du Nord he hesitated, then on an off-chance, and not without a melancholy recollection of his previous light-hearted entry of the city, he took the Métro to the Rue Castel. In his present mood he longed, above all, for the simplicities and sustaining friendship of Peyrat. But the new tenant of the apartment, uncomprehending and suspicious, appeared at the door, answering that there were no letters, no messages … he believed Monsieur Peyrat would be at Puy de Dôme in the Auvergne till the end of the year, beyond that he knew nothing.
Stephen’s next steps bore him to Glyn’s studio. It was closed. Similarly, the Lamberts’ pavilion provided, with its shuttered windows, a further disappointment. In desperation, Stephen turned to Chester’s lodgings. Although he had kept no exact record of the debt, he knew that Harry, through repeated borrowings must owe him at least thirty pounds, a sum which now assumed a significance far greater than before. But this room, too, was closed, secured, in fact, by a padlock. However, as he descended the stairs, Stephen was recognised by the concierge and obtained from him Chester’s forwarding address, sent on a picture postcard only two days before. It was the Hôtel du Lion d’Or, Netiers, Normandy.
Encouraged, Stephen entered the nearest bureau de poste and sent off a telegram, explaining his situation and requesting Chester to wire, if not all, at least part of the money to him at once, in care of Alphonse Bisque in the Rue Castel. When the alpaca-clad young woman behind the grill had achieved, in ink, a complicated addition, a process which occupied her for several minutes, Stephen paid the charge and made his way to a neighbouring Duval’s where he ordered hot chocolate and a brioche.
After this light meal, as the rain had come on heavier and the gutters were awash with mud, he decided to find, as quickly as possible, a lodging for the night. Because of its convenience rather than the hope of comfort, he put up at a cheap hotel nearby, the Pension de l’Ouest, which he had often passed on his way to and from Glyn’s studio.
Reached by uncarpeted stairs, his room was no more than a narrow cubicle, but it was dry, and the bed, though its linen showed grey, had an ample supply of blue-stamped blankets – those coarse coverings used by the conscripts during army manoeuvres and sold thereafter by the government contractors. After some preliminary rigors, he warmed up, and slept heavily. Indeed, when he awoke next morning he felt better, although he was not surprised to find himself with an aggravating cough. He breakfasted on coffee and a roll, again at Duval’s, then, at eleven o’clock, made his way towards the shop of Monsieur Bisque.
Here an agreeable surprise awaited him. The pastrycook received him with cordiality, his full moon-face wreathed in smiles, and having chided Stephen for failing to visit him on the previous day, produced with the air of a conjurer Chester’s answering telegram. This, though it conveyed no actual cash, was of a nature to enliven its recipient.
DELIGHTED HAVE YOUR WIRE. JOIN ME HERE. WEATHER AND HOTEL
EXCELLENT. FINE PAINTING COUNTRY. BEST REGARDS.
HARRY
The prospect opened by this friendly invitation, the thought of standing with palette and brushes, before an easel, in the Norman sunshine, brightened Stephen’s eyes.
Bisque had a time
-table which, though its tattered sheets were rather ancient, seemed to prove that the Granville rapide, the one train of any directness, had already departed – at ten o’clock, to be exact, that morning. And as the worthy pastrycook was pressing in his hospitality, Stephen decided to postpone his journey until the following day. He spent the afternoon at Napoleon Campo’s, where, in addition to reclaiming his easel and stored equipment, he purchased varnish, new tubes of colour and a number of fresh canvases. On these he made a down payment of fifty francs, promising Campo that he would remit the balance whenever he arrived at Netiers.
Next morning brought a clear blue sky and Stephen set forth with his belongings for the Gare Montparnasse. The rapide on Quai 2 was not crowded and he secured an empty compartment in the front section of carriages without difficulty. He could not say that he felt well as they started off, for his head was stuffy and he had a sharp stitch in his right side. Nevertheless, once the train had bored its way through the tunnels and dark walled cuttings that gave egress from the city, he lost his lassitude in watching the flitting landscape: vast fields of yellow stubble holding pools of rain-water, flanked by long lines of poplars – interminable sentinels; a distant spire, slender, graceful; teams of great horses, with attendant crows, dragging upon the plough; old farm buildings, ochre-tiled, the gables splashed with enamelled signs – Byrrh, Cinzano, Dubonnet.
At noon he ate an apple and a slab of chocolate. Gradually the complexion of the countryside had altered. Struggling against drowsiness, he noted with deepening pleasure the winding lanes and small hedged orchards, a draggle of geese in slow procession towards a muddy pond followed by a bare-legged girl with a hazel switch, a row of willows close pollarded, then an aged dame tending one cow by the roadside grass, standing the while, white-coifed, to knit. Even the nature of the drink was changed. Attendez, cried the signs, buvez le cidre moissoné!
Towards three o’clock the train reached the summit of a long incline and ran into the little station of Netiers. Hastily, Stephen collected his things and jumped from the high footboard. A quick survey showed that Chester was not on hand to meet him. Reasoning that Harry could not well have foretold the time of his arrival, Stephen began to walk in the direction of the town, which could be seen further down the hill, about a kilometre away. The prospect, as he grew near, increased his eagerness – he passed a moated wall with fortifications, entered crooked cobbled streets so narrow the sharp-pitched greystone houses seemed to meet above his head. Then, in the heart of the market-place, opposite the faded terra-cotta façade of the ancient hôtel de ville, he discerned the gilded sign of the Lion d’Or.
The inn was massive, solidly comfortable, of an excellent class. Stephen took this in at a glance as he made his way to the reception desk situated in the alcove underneath the oaken staircase.
‘Yes, Monsieur?’
‘My name is Desmonde. Will you be kind enough to let Mr Chester know that I have arrived?’
A pause.
‘You are calling upon Monsieur Chester?’
‘Yes. He is expecting me.’
The clerk, a high-shouldered young man with a cropped head, studied Stephen for a moment, then said:
‘Have the goodness to wait, sir.’
He disappeared behind the curtain which shrouded the back of the bureau; then, after a short interval, returned with an older man, a substantial, thick-necked figure attired in a striped business suit.
‘You are seeking Monsieur Harry Chester?’ The tone, though polite, had a formidable quality.
‘Why, yes. I am his friend. Is he not staying here?’
A chilly pause.
‘He was residing here, Monsieur. Until yesterday afternoon, when we presented his bill. Since that time we have seen nothing of your famous Monsieur Chester.’
Stephen gazed at the proprietor, stupefied. Had he not come, expressly at Harry’s invitation, spending his last sou upon the railway fare? Then a thought struck him, crushing as a blow. Chester, once again in financial straits, had asked him down solely in the hope of borrowing a further sum.
‘If Monsieur is indeed Monsieur Desmonde’ – the sarcasm was cutting – ‘here is a letter his friend has left for him.’
An envelope was tossed, like something obscene, across the counter. It had been opened.
DEAR OLD BOY,
They may not give you this. If they do, it will let you know, with my regrets, that I have been obliged, encore, to shoot the moon, I thought we might make a go of it together – on the principle that two heads are better than one – but the bookkeeping department here got just one step ahead of me. I’ll probably bum my way South, stay in Nice for a while, try my luck at the tables. At any rate I shall certainly see you sooner or later. Frightfully sorry and all that … but needs must when the devil drives.
Yours, HARRY
P. S. No decent women in the town. But don’t fail to sample the local cider. Quite excellent.
Stephen crushed the note, hastily scrawled in pencil, between his tense fingers. He had known that Chester was unreliable, but now, beneath the charm, the gaiety, the effusive friendliness, he sensed the core of utter selfishness.
The innkeeper and his clerk were looking at him from behind the barrier with unconcealed contempt. Then came the final insolence.
‘Of course Monsieur realises, without asking, that we have no accommodation for him here.’
‘Quite,’ said Stephen, and swinging round, he went out into the street.
Chapter Two
Standing there, penniless and alone in the market-place of this strange French town, Stephen became disquietingly aware of his situation. Never before had be been without money. His allowance, like the coming of the dawn, was something which he took for granted, the natural consequence of his position in society, in fact his birthright. Now, with a bitter twist of his lips, he perceived how powerful was the weapon his father had used. Nevertheless, his native obduracy stood him in good stead. He set out, at once, to find some temporary shelter.
This, in a town much patronised by tourists, was less difficult than he had feared, and before the afternoon was far advanced he was installed in a little top room in a back courtyard of the Rue de la Cathédrale. As he had baggage the landlady, a decent elderly woman, made no advance demand upon him and, since the rent was only twelve francs a week, he resolved, come what may, that he would place himself in a position to satisfy her before many hours had passed. He had wisdom enough to know that he could not, in this locality, gain an immediate livelihood by his art. Yet his education, his university training and bachelor’s degree, must surely fit him for some modest position wherein he could earn sufficient money to set him on his feet. Why, might he not even save enough to discharge Chester’s bill – the inn proprietor’s final shaft still rankled – and return to Paris, join Peyrat there, with a confortable sum, before the winter. If only he felt less confoundedly seedy! This cough which, since the Channel crossing, had settled in his chest was a great nuisance. But a fierce desire to prove himself sent him out again to the centre of the town.
Here he made a prospective survey of the main thoroughfare, the Rue de la République. Most of the shops, though small, had that look of solid prosperity associated with a thriving agricultural district. Spades, and hayforks, scythes, zinc buckets, a red-toothed harrow, all these and more were ranged in the hardware store; there were niceties, too – delicious petits fours and sugar almonds, contrived like bridal bouquets, adorned the window of a trim pâtisserie; while in the corner creamery a great mound of Norman butter stood yellow on its china slab flanked by two brimming bowls of milk.
Outside a stationer’s, he saw displayed, on cards in a glass case, a number of advertisements written out in ink. Carefully, he read them through, then turned away. He could not tune pianos or mend basket-chairs, had no need of a seaside semi-villa on the cliffs at Granville. Further down the street he came upon the office of a weekly journal, Courierde Netiers. Within, the current number was availab
le for inspection. But its meagre columns, devoted mainly to the phases of the moon, the sale of lime and livestock, the servicing of cows and mares, the times of the tides at Mont St Michel, offered him nothing.
What next? Clearly he must ask advice. On an impulse, he entered the mairie, and selecting a clerk with a sympathetic air, sounded him discreetly on the possibilities of employment in the town. The youth, though startled by this inquiry, was well-meaning and intelligent. He thought deeply, then slowly shook his head.
‘It is very difficult … in a small community like this, the people …’ he smiled, deprecatingly, straightened his paper cuffs … ‘are not amiable to strangers.’
For another hour, Stephen combed the town without success. As night fell he returned, tired and discouraged, to his lodging. Searching in his pockets he counted up the sum of his resources – one franc, fifteen sous. The sight of these few miserable coins resting in the palm of his hand sent a wave of pride over him. He could not, he must not surrender.
Next day, in the hope of finding manual employment, he made a tour, on foot, of the neighbouring farms. Altogether he must have tramped a distance of twenty kilometres. And in vain. There was no scarcity of agricultural labour. At several places he was taken for a tramp and the dogs were set upon him. One charitable countryman forking hay in the yard seemed to hesitate, moved perhaps by the intensity of Stephen’s appeal, but in the end his Norman hardheadedness prevailed. He made a gesture of refusal.
‘You are not strong enough, mon petit; small … oh, altogether too small. But wait.’ He called into the kitchen. ‘ Jeanne, bring this lad a bite to eat.’
A comely woman with red, bare arms clattered to the back door in wooden clogs. Presently, having surveyed Stephen, she brought him a hunk of pasty and a mug of cider. As he ate this repast, seated on a low milking-stool beside the porch, the farmer and his wife, watching together, discussed him in low tones, while a small boy in a black pinafore peered at him curiously from behind his mother’s skirts. Stephen was paralysed with shame. Oh my God, he kept groaning to himself, I’m exactly like someone in a Cotman print … have I actually come to that! But the pie was good, with rich strong gravy, and the sour still drink put new heart in him for his long walk back to Netiers.