by A. J. Cronin
It was a long high room, half-tiled and lit by many tall windows. On the low benches there were rows of microscopes, wonderful glittering Zeiss microscopes with triple swing lenses. At each place was a double-tiered rack of reagents: drop bottles of fuchsin and methylene-blue, absolute alcohol, Canada balsam, everything the heart could desire. A large electric centrifuge was whizzing under its protective wire. Some complex apparatus I had never seen before gurgled steadily beside the range of porcelain sinks. At the end of the room I made out a tall man in a buff-coloured drill coat attending to a cage of guinea pigs.
I went slowly forward, my parcel under my arm, intoxicated by the aromatic smell of the balsam mingling with the tang of formalin and the sharp fruity scent of ether. The afternoon sunshine was pouring into this heavenly place. As I came near, the man in the drill coat half turned and let his eyes rest on me inquiringly.
“Well?”
“Could I see Professor Fleming, please?”
He was a tall lean man of fifty, with a bilious complexion and a ragged moustache. His nose was long and his hollow cheeks had deep lines in them. He turned back to the cage, skilfully caught up a guinea pig, and with hypodermic syringe poised between the first and second fingers of his left hand, pressed down his thumb and delicately injected the animal with a few minims of a cloudy solution. While doing this he remarked:
“The Professor isn’t here.”
A sharp disappointment gripped me.
“When will he be in?”
“He seldom comes here on Saturdays. Goes down to his week-end place at Drymen.” Another guinea pig received its injection and was restored to the cage. “Come back Monday.”
Now thoroughly cast-down, I exclaimed: “ I can only get away on Saturdays.”
He had finished the injections and, having dropped the syringe into carbolic, one in twenty, he gazed at me curiously.
“Can I do anything? I’m Smith, the head attendant. What is it you want?”
There was a pause.
“I want a job.” My heart took a tremendous bound as I uncovered its secret, but I continued bravely. “I want to work here, in this lab, under Professor Fleming. I saw him last week, in Levenford; that’s where I come from. Any kind of job … even if it’s only to feed these guinea pigs.”
The attendant smiled dryly—at least his fixed and heavy expression lifted slightly.
“These ones don’t get fed. What are you doing now?”
I told him. Then rushed on: “I hate it, though. I love science … zoology especially … I always have. I’ve studied it for years, at school and at home. If only I could get a start here, I’d work my way up, I’d do anything, I’d take five shillings a week and sleep on the floor.” I unlimbered my package. “I brought these specimens up to show Professor Fleming. Please look at them. They’ll prove to you that I’m not lying.”
He was on the point of refusing, his long face had turned disagreeable again. Then, with a glance at the clock, he seemed to change his mind.
“Come on, then. I’ve got ten minutes before I draw the sterilizer.”
He led the way over to the bench and sat down on a stool watching me while, with trembling fingers, I tore the string and brown paper from my collections. I was anxious, of course, yet eagerness and hope were surging in my breast. I felt that I could convince this dubious and saturnine man of my genuine, my unique qualities. I had brought all my specimens, everything. But I did not trouble to exhibit the commoner varieties. I went straight to my rarities, my special hydra, my unclassified Bryozoa, my incomparable Stentors.
While I nervously described them he listened attentively, scrutinizing everything from beneath his heavy lids. Once or twice he nodded and several times shook his head. When I opened my box of sections he displayed his first signs of interest. Leaning forward he took the box from me, removed the slides and held them one after another against the light. Then, pulling a microscope towards him, much as a virtuoso might tuck a violin beneath his chin, he began, while I scarcely breathed, to examine them under the high-power. His hands were stained and dirty, his wrists bony, protruding, I could see, from cheap frayed shirt cuffs. But his long fingers were incredibly sensitive, manoeuvring the oil-immersion lens with careless, impressive accuracy.
It took him a dismayingly short time to run through all my precious work. He honoured three slides with a second inspection; then, straightening himself, he faced me, tugging at his straggling moustache.
“Is that the lot?”
“Yes,” I answered very nervously.
He tapped out some tobacco and rolled himself a cigarette which he lit at a Bunsen flame on the bench. “I had a collection like that when I was your age.”
I stared at him in complete surprise: it was the last thing I had expected him to say.
“Maybe not so good on sections. But I think better on Spirogyra. I’d attended Paxton’s night school course at the London Polytechnic and I sweated my guts out every week end on the Surrey Ponds. I thought I’d make another Cuivier of myself. That was more than thirty years ago. Look at me now. I’m fed to the teeth with routine. I get fifty bob a week and I have an invalid wife to support.” He inhaled musingly. “I tried to get in by the back door of course—the only one that was open to me. No use, my lad. If you want to be colonel of the regiment don’t enlist as a private. I’ve been stuck as a lab attendant all my life.”
I felt a sinking feeling at my heart. “But you think my work shows some promise? You said my sections were good.”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“They’re all right, considering you cut them with an old hollow-ground Frass.” He gave me a quick glance. “You see I know. I did it myself. But now we have electric microtomes. Manual dexterity is at a discount.”
“At least it would get me a laboratory job?” I was trembling with anxiety. “In spite of what you say I want that. I’d even come in as a lab boy.”
He gave a short laugh.
“Can you make Roux’s solution? Can you smoke a hundred and fifty recording drums in half an hour? Can you separate blastomeres at the four-cell stage of cleavage? It takes five years to learn that job properly. D’you know that my lab boy is a man of sixty? I let him off to-day because his rheumatism’s bad!” His lips were smiling but his look was bitter and sad. “If you want my advice, young fellow, you’ll put the whole idea out your head. I don’t deny that you have got a turn for this. But without money and a university degree the door is shut in your face. So go back to your machine, and forget it. It’s not a bad life, a marine engineer. I’d give a lot myself to see the world on an old ocean-going tramp.”
There was a silence. I began mechanically to put away the specimens in their boxes, to parcel them again with paper and string.
“Don’t take it too hard,” he said when I had finished. “ I meant it for the best.” He gave me his hand. “ Good-bye and good luck.”
I went out of the laboratory and down the deserted hill. Already the round sun was setting, streaking the dove-grey with rose. I did not take the tram, but kept on walking, across the Park. A crisp wind sent the fallen leaves scurrying along the paths, like children running out of school. I did not feel, or see, the lovely twilight. Amidst my disappointment a strange rage was burning within me. I refused to believe what Smith had told me. It was all lies. I would return to see the Professor himself next week. Nothing would stop me from achieving my ambition.
And yet, in my heart, I knew that the attendant was right. He might be soured and disagreeable but he had spoken sincerely. The longer I reflected the more surely I realized that my fine scheme for entering the department as a technician was impracticable. It was a case of the wish being father to the thought. The only way to enter was as a fee-paying student and that, of course, was impossible. What hurt most of all was the indifference with which Smith had dismissed my specimens. True, he had praised them faintly. But having, in my foolishness, expected so much, this mild approval served only to dash my high h
opes to the ground. A blast of bitterness fanned the fire within me. Strangely, I was not despondent, but wounded and furious. And, as I reached the central section of the city, becoming conscious of the futile package which I still carried, I was possessed by a sudden fatalistic determination. I had failed again. I was fated never to serve my beloved science. I would finish with it for good.
Making my way down Buchanan Street, I entered the Argyll Arcade, a covered passage leading to Argyll Street and occupied by a number of odd little shops. Next to an establishment which sold model engines I found the place I wanted. In the window goldfish were swimming in a green glass tank surrounded by packets of dog biscuits and ants’ eggs, amidst a confusion of mousetraps, butterfly nets, rubber articles and sheets of postage stamps. Above was the sign, NATURALISTS’ BAZAAR AND EXCHANGE MART.
Inside I waited, breathing the musty odours, until a small, careworn man in a shiny black suit dipped out from behind a curtain at the back.
“I want to sell my collection.”
I undid my package again, this time with vehement fingers.
“It’s good stuff,” I said when I had laid out the boxes on the counter. “ Just look at these dragonflies.”
“We’re not really buying just now.” He spoke in a throaty whisper, putting on a pair of pince-nez and beginning to look carefully at everything, weighing each object with white damp fingers.
“No, there’s no demand for that stuff.” He said regretfully when he had finished: “ I’ll give you seventeen and six for the lot.”
I gazed at him indignantly. “ Why, that yellow æschna is worth a pound itself. I’ve seen it priced in the London catalogues.”
“This isn’t London, it’s the Argyll Arcade.” His voice was no more than a husky murmur—either he had a dreadful cold or some affliction of the larynx. And his manner was quite indifferent. “That’s the best I can do. Take it or leave it.”
I felt angrier than ever. I had never before experienced the difference between buying and selling. Seventeen and six for five years’ work, for these wild, difficult and dangerous climbs upon the Longcrags, these long careful hours stretching far into the night … It was a raging insult. Yet what could I do?
“I’ll take it.”
When I left the shop, no longer encumbered, my arms seemed light and my head was hot. With the coins he had given me and what remained of my original five shillings, I had more than a pound in my pocket. It was six o’clock, the city was bright with lights. I set out recklessly to enjoy myself.
At the corner of Queen Street I found a small restaurant. It looked Bohemian and in the window a tempting display of white fish and red meat was set out between two giant artichokes. I plunged through the swing door, crossed the soft carpet and sat down in a velvet-cushioned booth.
It was a cosy little place, over-upholstered in an old-fashioned way, discreetly lighted by pink-shaded candles like those I had so often admired in the diner of The Flying Highlander. I was nervous with the waiter who had a curly moustache and a tight white apron reaching almost to his feet. But I ordered a good dinner of kidney soup, escalope of veal with mushrooms and a Neapolitan ice cream. Then he put the wine list in my hands. Pale but determined, in a voice which shook only slightly, I ordered a flask of Chianti.
I ate slowly: I had not tasted such rich, delicious food for a long time. The wine drew my tongue and cheeks together at first, but I persevered and gradually got to like its rusty flavour, and the generous warmth which flowed all the way down with every swallow. The restaurant was not very full but one or two couples occupied the booths. Opposite me, a good-looking man was entertaining a plump dark girl in a coquettish little hat. I watched them longingly as they laughed and talked in low tones, their heads very close together.
The bill came to nine shillings. It was a colossal figure but now I simply did not care. I finished the wine, tipped the waiter a shilling, received his bow with satisfaction, and went out.
What a glorious night! Lights glittering, movement and excitement in the streets, delightful, interesting people thronging the pavements. At last I was living, I had buried my obsession, I was free. I bought an Evening Times from a newsboy and scanned the amusement column beneath an electric sign. There were two variety shows in town, an Edwards musical comedy, a “positively the last night” appearance of Martin Harvey in “ The Only Way.” None of these appealed to me. Then, at the foot of the list, I observed with delight that a repertory performance of “The Second Mrs. Tanqueray” was being given at the old Theatre Royal. I proceeded to the Royal, took a pit stall, and went in.
Although I had read considerably, and had vague memories of being taken to “Cinderella” by my mother in Dublin, I had never been to a real play in my life. When the curtain rose I was conscious of a thrill of emotion. And soon I was quite carried away. This was the kind of world I had so often visualized, where people never spoke without being witty, where courageous souls burned away their lives in a pure white flame. With all my impressionable, thirsting senses, I drank in every word.
When I left the theatre I was wildly intoxicated. I too wanted to grasp life with both hands, to experience those joys which had so far eluded me. Glowing and voluptuous images rose sensuously before me.
The theatre had emptied early: it was only half-past ten. The streets were much less crowded now, some were quite deserted as I made my way towards James Square, a small open space in the centre of the city flanked by the General Post Office and a large department store whose plate-glass windows remained illuminated all night. Lewis, with a knowing smile, had dropped hints about James Square.
I began, nervously, to walk up and down the broad pavement of the square. Several members of the opposite sex were doing the same thing, pausing occasionally with an air of abstraction, as though waiting for a bus. One was extremely stout, bursting out in all directions. She wore a big hat covered with feathers and lace-up boots on her pianolike legs.
“Hello, dearie.” She murmured to me, maternally, as we passed.
Another was tall, thin, mysteriously veiled, dressed all in black. She walked very slowly, with a slight stoop. Occasionally she coughed, but politely, into her pocket handkerchief. She gave me a weary smile which froze my blood. I halted, mystified and dismayed. I could see no one remotely approaching the lovely visions of my excited fancy. Perhaps I should do better in the centre of the square.
I crossed the street to the small ornamental garden, decorated with statues and intersected by paths. Here it was darker, more romantic. And there were more promenaders. Encouraged by the greater promise of the shadows I strolled up the central path. A girl approached, her figure young, seductive in the darkness. When she passed I drew up and turned round. She had stopped and was looking back at me. When she saw that I was interested in her, she turned, and slowly, with an inviting movement of her head, sauntered on again.
My blood was pounding dizzily in my veins. I stood for a moment. Should I follow or wait until she had again made a circuit of the little garden? It was a blind circle, she must return this way: I sat down tremblingly, on a bench at the edge of the path. I only realized that the seat had another occupant when a man’s voice addressed me.
“Got a fag, mate?”
I fumbled in my pocket and brought out a packet of cigarettes. I could see dimly that he was an oldish man, down on his luck, a regular tramp in fact.
“Thanks, pal,” he said. “You wouldn’t have a match?”
Hurriedly, under the leafless trees, in the dark garden, I struck a match and held it to his cigarette. The cupped flame illumined for an instant the remnants of his face. Then it went out.
I sat on the bench a long time, stiffly. I gave him the rest of my cigarettes. I walked heavily to the station. My legs were so weak I could hardly stand. I just caught the last train.
I was alone in the compartment. I sat staring at the board partition in front of me. There was nothing, after all, nothing in life that was not completely ruined. I had
sold my collections, my birthright … for this.
Suddenly I caught sight of a little peep-hole which some mischievous passenger had cut in the wood of the dividing partition. Crushed, overwhelmed by despondency and horror, I rose nevertheless, impelled by nameless curiosity, and put my eye to the little hole.
But the next compartment was empty, quite empty too.
Chapter Five
The winter continued damp and wet. I was now in charge of a light turning-lathe and, resigned to a future at the Works, I tried to take an interest in the machine. But my mind kept wandering; I made mistakes; I saw that Jamie was becoming annoyed with me.
One day towards the middle of December he came up to my bench, frowning, with a metal connecting rod in his hand.
“Look here, Robie,” he said gruffly. “You’ll have to buck yourself up a bit.”
I flushed to the ears; it was the first time he had ever spoken to me in such a tone.
“What have I done?”
“You’ve wasted eight hours’ skilled time, to say nothing of the material.” He held out the steel piece. “I told you to drill this with a number two x. You’ve used a number four and ruined the whole job.”
I saw that I had been guilty of a careless blunder. But instead of feeling sorry I was conscious of a slow resentment. I kept my eyes on the ground.
“What difference does it make? Marshalls won’t go bankrupt.”
“That’s no way to talk,” Jamie replied sharply. “I tell you straight it’s time you stopped crying for the moon and put your back into your job.”
He lectured me heatedly for a few minutes; then, having expended his anger, he growled, before moving away: “Come up and have supper with us next Saturday.”
“Thanks.” I had turned white and my lips were stiff. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not.”
He stood for a moment in silence, then walked off. I was furious at Jamie, but most of all at myself. I knew that he was justified. As I stood there, sulking, Galt came over from an adjoining bench.
