Fortitude

H >> Hugh Walpole >> Fortitude

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"It's that lion--the one the lady had--I want it."

"You can't have it--the lady's got it."

"Well--take me to see them--the real ones--there are lots somewhere Mother
says." Robin inserted his very small hand into Peter's large one.

"All right, one day--we'll go to the 'Zoo."

Robin sighed with satisfaction--he lay down and murmured sleepily to
himself, "I love Mister Peter and lions and Mother and God," and was
suddenly asleep.

Peter bent down over the cot and kissed him. He felt miserably wretched.
He had known nothing like it since that day when he had said good-bye to
his mother. He wondered that he could ever have felt any exultation; he
wondered that writing and glory and ambition could ever have seemed worth
anything to him at all. Could he have had his prayer granted he would have
prayed that he might always stay in Brockett's, always have these same
friends, watch over Robin as he grew up, talk to Norah Monogue--and then
all the others ... and Mr. Zanti. He felt fourteen years old ... more
miserable than he had ever been.

He kissed Robin again--then he went down to find Mrs. Brockett. Here, too,
he was faced with an unexpected difficulty. The good lady, listening to him
sternly in her grim little sitting-room, refused to hear of his departure.
She sat upright in her stiff chair, her thin black dress in folds about
her, the gas-light shining on her neatly parted hair.

"You see, Mrs. Brockett," he explained to her, "I'm no longer in the same
position. I can't be sure of my two pounds a week any more and so it
wouldn't be right for me to live in a place like this."

"If it's expense that you're thinking about," she answered him grimly,
"you're perfectly welcome to stay on here and pay me when you can. I'm sure
that one day with so clever a young man--"

"That's awfully good of you, Mrs. Brockett, but of course I couldn't hear
of anything like that." For the third time that evening he had to fight
against a disposition to blow his nose and be absurd. They were, both of
them, increasingly grim with every word that they spoke and any outside
observer would have supposed that they were the deadliest of enemies.

"Of course," she began again, "there's a room that I could let you have at
the back of the house that's only four shillings a week and really you'd be
doing me a kindness in taking it off my hands. I'm sure--"

"No, there's more in it than that," he answered. "I've got to go
away--right away. It's time I had a change of scene. It's good for me to
get along a bit by myself. You've all been too kind to me, spoilt me--"

She stood up and faced him sternly. "In all my years," she said, "I've
never spoilt anybody yet and I'm not likely to be going to begin now.
Spoilt you! Bah!" She almost snorted at him--but there were tears in her
eyes.

"I'm not a philanthropist," she went on more dryly than ever, "but I like
to have you about the house--you keep the lodgers contented and the babies
quiet. I'm sure," and the little break in her voice was the first sign of
submission, "that we've been very good friends these seven years and it
isn't everywhere that one can pick up friends for the asking--"

"You've been splendid to me," he answered. "But it isn't as though I were
going away altogether--you'll see me back in a week or two. And--and--I say
I shall make a fool of myself if I go on talking like this--"

He suddenly gripped her hand and wrung it again and again--then he burst
away from her, leaving her standing there in the middle of the room.

The old black bag was very soon packed, his possessions had not greatly
increased during these seven years, and soon he was creeping down the
stairs softly so that no one should hear.

The hall was empty. He gave it one last friendly look, the door had closed
behind him and he was in the street.

II

In its exuberance and high spirits and general lack of self-control London
was similar to a small child taken to the Drury Lane Pantomime for the
first time. Of the numbers of young men who, with hats on the back of their
heads, passed arm-in-arm down the main thoroughfares announcing it as their
definite opinion that "Britons never shall be slaves," of the numbers of
young women who, armed with feathers and the sharpest of tongues, showed
conclusively the superiority of their sex and personal attractions, of the
numbers of old men and old women who had no right whatever to be out on
a night like this but couldn't help themselves, and enjoyed it just as
much as their sons and daughters did, there is here no room to tell. The
houses were ablaze with light, the very lamp-posts seemed to rock up and
down with delight at the spirit of the whole affair and the Feast of the
Glorification of the Bomb that Didn't Come Off was being celebrated with
all the honours.

Peter was very soon in the thick of it. The grey silences of Bennett Square
and Bloomsbury were left behind and with them the emotions of those tender
partings. After all, it would only be a very few weeks before he would be
back again among them all, telling them of his success on some paper and
going back perhaps to live with them all when his income was assured.

And, anyhow, here he was, out to seek his fortune and with Stephen to help
him! He battled with the crowd dragging the black bag with him and shouting
sometimes in sheer excitement and good spirits. Young women tickled him
with feathers, once some one linked arms with him and dragged him along,
always he was surrounded with this sea of shouting, exultant humanity--this
was life!

By the lion Stephen was waiting for him, standing huge and solemn as the
crowd surged past. He pressed Peter's arm to show that he was pleased to
see him and then, without speaking, they pushed through, past Charing Cross
station, and down the hill to the Underground.

Here, once again, there was startling silence. No one seemed to be using
the trains at all.

"I'm afraid it ain't much of a place that I'm taking yer to," Stephen said.
"We can't pick and choose yer know and I was there before and she's a good
woman."

A chill seemed to come with them into the carriage. Suddenly to Peter the
comforts of Brockett's stretched out alluring arms, then he pulled himself
together.

"I'm sure it will be splendid," he said, "and it will be just lovely being
with you after all this time."

They got out and plunged into a city of black night. Around them, on every
side there was silence--even the broad central thoroughfare seemed to be
deserted and on either side of it, to right and left, black grim roads like
open mouths, lay waiting for the unwary traveller.

Down one of these they plunged; Peter was conscious of faces watching them.
"Bucket Lane" was the street's title to fame. Windows showed dim candles,
in the distance a sharp cry broke the silence and then fell away again. The
street was very narrow and from the running gutters there stole into the
air the odour of stale cabbage.

"This is the 'ouse." Stephen stopped. Somewhere, above their heads, a child
was crying.

CHAPTER VI

THE WORLD AND BUCKET LANE

I

A light flashed in the upper windows, stayed for a moment, and disappeared.
There was a pause and then the door slowly opened and a woman's head
protruded.

She stared at them without speaking.

"Mr. Brant," Stephen said. "I'm come back, Mrs. Williams 'oping you might
'ave that same room me and my friend might use if it's agreeable."

She stepped forward then and looked at them more carefully. She was a stout
red-faced woman, her hair hanging about her face, her dirty bodice drawn
tightly over her enormous bosom and her skirt pulled up in front and
hanging, draggled behind her. Her long, dirty fingers went up to her face
continually; she had a way of pushing at her teeth with them.

She seemed, however, pleased to see Stephen.

"Well, Mr. Brant," she said, "come in. It's a surprise I must say but Lord!
as I'm always telling Mrs. Griggs oo's on the bottom floor when she can
afford 'er rent which 'asn't been often lately, poor thing, owing to 'aving
'er tenth only three weeks back, quite unexpected, and 'er man being turned
off 'is 'ouse-painting business what 'e's been at this ten year and
more--well come along in, I'm sure--"

They _were_ in by this time having been urged by their hostess into
the very narrowest, darkest and smelliest passage that Peter had ever
encountered. Somewhere behind the walls, the world was moving. On every
side of him above and below, children were crying, voices swearing,
murmuring, complaining, arguing; Peter could feel Mrs. Williams' breath hot
against his cheek. Up the wheezy stairs she panted, they following her.
Peter had never heard such loquacity. It poured from her as though she
meant nothing whatever by it and was scarcely aware indeed of the things
that she was saying. "And it's a long time, Mr. Brant, since we 'ad
the pleasure of seeing you. My last 'usband's left me since yer was
'ere--indeed 'e 'av--all along of a fight 'e 'ad with old Colly Moles
down Three Barrer walk--penal servitude, poor feller and all along of 'is
nasty temper as I was always tellin' 'im. Why the very morning before it
'appened I remember sayin' to 'im when 'e up and threw a knife at me for
contradictin' 'is words I remember sayin' to 'im that 'is temper would be
the settlin' of me but 'e wouldn't listen, not 'e. Obstinate! Lord! that
simply isn't the word for it ... but 'ere's the room and nobody been in it
since Sairy Grace and she was always bringin' men along with 'er, dirty
slut and that's a month since she's been and gone and I always like 'aving
yer, Mr. Brant, for you're quiet enough and no trouble at all--and your
friend looks pleasant I must say."

The room was, indeed, remarkably respectable--not blessed with much
furniture in addition to two beds and two chairs but roomy and with a large
and moderately clean window.

"Now what about terms for me and my friend?" said Stephen.

Now followed friendly argument in which the lady and Stephen seemed
perfectly to understand one another. After asserting that under no
circumstances whatever could she possibly take less than at least double
the price that Stephen offered her she suddenly, at the sound of a child's
shrill crying from below, shrugged her shoulders with: "There's young
'Lisbeth Anne again ... well, Mr. Brant, 'ave it your own way--I'm
contented enough I'm sure," and vanished.

But the little discussion had brought Peter to a sharp realisation of the
immediate business of ways and means. Sitting on one of the beds afterwards
with Stephen beside him he inquired--

"How much have we got, Stephen? I've got thirty bob."

"Never you mind, Peter. We'll soon be gettin' work."

"Why, of course. I'll force 'em to take me. That's all you want in
these things--to look fierce and say you won't go until they give you
something--a trial anyhow."

And sitting there on the bed with Stephen beside him he felt immensely
confident. There was nothing that he could not do. With one swift movement
he seemed to have flung from him all the things that were beginning to
crowd in between him and his work. He must never, never allow that to
happen again--how could one ever be expected to work if one were always
thinking of other people, interested in them and their doings, involved
with anarchists and bombs and romantic adventures. Why here he was with
nothing in the world to hold him or to interfere and no one except dear
old Stephen with whom he must talk. Ambition crept very close to him
that night--ambition with its glittering, shining rewards, its music and
colours--close to him as he sat in that bare, naked room.

"I'd rather be with you than any one in the world--we'll have such times,
you and I."

Perhaps Stephen knew more about the world; perhaps during the years that he
had been tumbled and knocked about he had realised that the world was no
easy nut to crack and that loaves and fishes don't come to the hungry for
the asking. But Peter that night was to be appalled by nothing.

They sat up into the early morning, talking. The noises in the house and in
the streets about them rose and fell. Some distant cry would climb into the
silence and draw from it other cries set like notes of music to tumble back
into a common scheme together.

"Steve, tell me about Zanti. Is he really a scoundrel?"

"A scoundrel? No, poor feller. Why, Mr. Peter, you ought to know better
than that. 'E ain't got a spark of malice in him but 'e's always after
adventure. 'E knows all the queer people in Europe--and more'n Europe
too. There's nothin' 'e don't put 'is nose into in a clumsy, childish way
but always, you understand, Mr. Peter, because 'e's after 'is romantic
fancies. It was when 'e was after gold down in Cornwall--some old
treasure story--that I came across 'im and 'e was kind to me.... 'E was a
kind-'earted man, Mr. Zanti, and never meant 'arm to a soul. And 'e's very
fond of you, Mr. Peter."

"Yes, I know." Peter was vaguely troubled. "I hope I haven't been unkind
about him. I suppose it was the shock of the whole thing. But it was time I
went anyway. But tell me, Stephen, what you've been doing all these years.
And why you let me be all that time without seeing you--"

"Well, Mr. Peter, I didn't think it would be good for you--I was knowing
lots o' strange people time and again and then you might have been mixed up
with me. I'm safe enough now, I'm thinking, and I'd have been safe enough
all the time the way Cornwall was then and every one sympathising with
me--"

"But what have you been doing all the time?"

"I was in America a bit and there are few things I haven't worked at in my
time--always waiting for 'er to come--and she will come some time--it's
only patience that's wanted."

"Have you ever heard from her?"

"There was a line once--just a line--_she's_ all right." His great body
seemed to glow with confidence.

Peter would like then to have spoken about Clare Rossiter. But no--some
shyness held him--one day he would tell Stephen.

He unpacked his few possessions carefully and then, on a very hard bed,
dreaming of bombs, of Mrs. Brockett dressed as a ballet dancer, of Mr.
Zanti digging for treasure beneath the grey flags of Bennett Square, of
Clare Elizabeth Rossiter riding down Oxford Street amidst the shouts of the
populace, of the world as a coloured globe on which he, Peter Westcott,
the author of that masterpiece, "Reuben Hallard," had set his foot ... so,
triumphant, he slept.

II

On the next morning the Attack on London began. The house in Bucket Lane
was dark and grim when he left it--the street was hidden from the light
and hung like a strip of black ribbon between the sunshine of the broader
highways that lay at each end of it. It was a Jewish quarter-notices in
Yiddish were in all the little grimy shop windows, in the bakers and the
sweetshops and the laundries. But it was not, this Bucket Lane, a street
without its dignity and its own personal little cleanliness. It had its
attempts at such things. His own room and Mrs. Williams' tea and bread and
butter had been clean.

But as he came down out of these strange murmuring places with their sense
of hiding from the world at large the things that they were occupied in
doing, Bucket Lane stuck in his head as a dark little quarry into which
he must at the day's end, whatever gorgeous places he had meanwhile
encountered, creep. "Creeping" was the only way to get into such a place.

Meanwhile he had put on his best, had blackened his shoes until they shone
like little mirrors, had brushed his bowler hat again and again and looked
finally like a sailor on shore for a holiday. Seven years in Charing Cross
Road had not taken the brown from his cheeks, nor bent his broad shoulders.

At the Mansion House he climbed on to the top of a lumbering omnibus and
sailed down through the City. It was now that he discovered how seldom
during his seven years he had ventured beyond his little square of country.
Below him, on either side of him, black swarms stirred and moved, now
forming ahead of him patterns, squares, circles, then suddenly rising
it appeared like insects and in a cloud surging against the high stone
buildings. All men--men moving with eyes straight ahead of them, bent
furiously upon some business, but assembling, retreating, advancing, it
seemed, by the order of some giant hand that in the air above them played a
game. Imagine that, in some moment of boredom, the Hand were to brush the
little pieces aside, were to close the board and put it away, then, with
what ignominy and feeble helplessness would these little black figures
topple clumsily into heaps.

Down through the midst of them the omnibus, like a man with an impediment
in his speech, surrounded by the chatter of cabs and carts and bicycles,
stammered its way. The streets opened and shut, shouts came up to them and
fell away. Peter's heart danced--London was here at last and the silence of
Bennett Square, the dark omens of Bucket Lane and the clamour of the city
had together been the key for the unlocking of its gates.

Ludgate Hill caught them into its heart, held them for an instant, and then
flung them down in the confusion of Fleet Street.

Here it was at last then with its typewriters and its telephones and its
printing machines hurling with a whir and clatter the news of the world
into the air, and above it brooding, like an immense brain--the God of its
restless activity--the Dome of St. Paul's.

Peter climbed down from his omnibus because he saw on his right a Public
Reading Room. Here in tattered and anxious company, he studied the papers
and took down addresses in a note book. He was frightened for an instant by
the feet that shuffled up and down the floor from paper to paper. There was
something most hopeless in the sound of that shuffle.

"'Ave yer a cigarette on yer, Mister, that yer wouldn't mind--"

He turned round and at once, like blows, two fierce gaunt eyes struck him
in the face. Two eyes staring from some dirty brown pieces of cloth on end,
it seemed, by reason of their own pathetic striving for notice, rather than
because of any life inside them.

Peter murmured something and hurried away. Supposing that editors ... but
no, this was not the proper beginning of a successful day. But the place,
down steps under the earth, with its miserable shadows was not pleasant to
remember.

His first visit was to the office of _The Morning World_. He remembered his
remark to Stephen about self-assertion, but his heart sank as he entered
the large high room with its railed counter running round the centre of
it--a barrier cold, impassable. Already several people were sitting on
chairs that were ranged along the wall.

Peter went up boldly to the counter and a very thin young man with a stone
hatchet instead of a face and his hair very wonderfully parted in the
middle--so accurately parted that Peter could think of nothing
else--watched him coldly over the barrier.

"What can I do for you?" he said.

"I want to see the Editor."

"Have you an appointment?"

"No."

"Oh, I'm afraid that it would be impossible without an appointment."

"Is there any one whom I could see?"

"If you could tell me your business, perhaps--"

Peter began to be infuriated with this young man with the hatchet face.

"I want to know if there's any place for me on this paper. If I can--"

"Oh!" The voice was very cold indeed and the iron barrier seemed to
multiply itself over and over again all round the room.

"I'm afraid in that case you had better write to the Editor and make an
appointment. No, I'm afraid there is no one..."

Peter melted away. The faces on the chairs were all very glad. The stone
building echoed with some voice that called some one a long way away. Peter
was in the street. He stood outside the great offices of _The Morning
World_ and looked across the valley at the great dome that squatted above
the moving threads of living figures. He was absurdly upset by this
unfortunate interview. What could he have expected? Of what use was it that
he should fling his insignificance against that kind of wall? Moreover he
must try many times before his chance would be given him. It was absurd
that he should mind that rebuff. But the hatchet-faced young man pursued
him. He seemed to see now as he looked up and down the street, a hostility
in the faces of those that passed him. Moreover he saw, here and there
figures, wretched figures, moving in and out of the crowd, bending into the
gutter for something that had been dropped--lean, haggard faces, burning
eyes ... he began to see them as a chain that wound, up and down, amongst
the people and the carriages along the street.

He pulled himself together--If he was feeling these things at the very
beginning of his battle why then defeat was certain. He was ashamed and,
looking at his paper, chose the offices of _The Mascot_, a very popular
society journal that brightened the world with its cheerful good-tempered
smile, every Friday morning. Here the room in which he found himself was
small and cosy, it had a bright pink wall-paper, and behind a little
shining table a shining young woman beamed upon him. The shining young
woman was, however, very busy at her typewriter and Peter was examined by a
tiny office boy who seemed to be made entirely of shining brass buttons and
shining little boots and shining hair.

"And what can I do for you, sir?" he said.

"I should like to see the Editor," Peter explained.

"Your name?" said the Shining One.

Peter had no cards. He blamed himself for the omission and stammered in his
reply.

The Boy gave the lady at the typewriter a very knowing look and
disappeared. He swiftly returned and said that Mr. Boset could see Mr.
Westcott for a few minutes, but for a few minutes only.

Mr. Boset sat resplendent in a room that was coloured a bright green. He
was himself stout and red-faced and of a surpassing smartness, his light
blue suit was very tight at the waist and very broad over the hips, his
white spats gleamed, his pearl pin stared like an eye across the room, his
neck bulged in red folds over his collar. Mr. Boset was eating chocolates
out of a little cardboard box and his attention was continually held by the
telephone that summoned him to its side at frequent intervals. He was
however exceedingly pleasant. He begged Peter to take a chair.

"Just a minute, Mr. Westcott, will you? Yes--hullo--yes--This is 6140
Strand. Hullo! Hullo! Oh--is that you, Mrs. Wyman? Good morning--yes,
splendid, thank you--never fitter--Very busy yes, of course--what--Lunch
Thursday?... Oh, but delighted. Just let me look at my book a moment?
Yes--quite free--Who? The Frasers and Pigots? Oh! delightful! 1.30,
delightful!"

Mr. Boset, settled once more in his chair, was as charming as possible. You
would suppose that the whole day was at Peter's service. He wanted to know
a great many things. Peter's hopes ran high.

"Well--what have you got to show? What have you written?"

Peter had written a novel.

"Published?"

"No."

"Well ... got anything else?"

"No--not just at present."

"Oh well--must have something to show you know--"

"Yes." Peter's hopes were in his boots.

"Yes--must have something to show--" Mr. Boset's eyes were peering into the
cardboard box on a voyage of selection.

"Yes--well--when you've written something send it along--"

"I suppose there isn't anything I can do--"

"Well, our staff, you know, is filled up to the eyes as it is--fellows
waiting--lots of 'em--yes, you show us what you can do. Write an article or
two. Buy _The Mascot_ and see the kind of thing we like. Yes--Excuse me,
the telephone--Yes--Yes 6140 Strand...."

Peter found himself once more in the outer room and then ushered forth by
the Shining Boy he was in the street.

He was hungry now and sought an A.B.C. shop and there over the cold
marble-topped tables consulted his list. The next attempt should be _The
Saturday Illustrated_, one of the leading illustrated weeklies, and perhaps
there he would be more successful. As he sat in the A.B.C. shop and watched
the squares of street opposite the window he felt suddenly that no effort
of his would enable him to struggle successfully against those indifferent
crowds.

Above the houses in the patch of blue sky that filled the window-pane soft
bundles of cloud streamed like flags before the wind. Into these soft grey
meshes the sun was swept and with a cold shudder Fleet Street fell into
shadow; beyond it and above it the great dome burned; a company of sandwich
men, advertising on their stooping bodies the latest musical comedy, crept
along the gutter.

III

At the offices of _The Saturday Illustrated_ they told him that if he
returned at four o'clock he would be able to see the Editor. He walked
about and at last sat down on the Embankment and watched the barges slide
down the river. The water was feathery and sometimes streamed into lines
like spun silk reflecting many colours, and above the water the clouds
turned and wheeled and changed against the limpid blue. The little slap
that the motion of the river gave to the stone embankment reminded him of
the wooden jetty at Treliss--the place was strangely sweet--the roar of the
Strand was far away and muffled.

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