by A. J. Cronin
‘Softy!’ she called after him. ‘Espèce de crétin’
He walked for perhaps fifty yards before desire surged in him again, more desperate than before. He did not care, he wanted her, and he would have her, anyhow. He turned and came back.
‘Emmy …’ He cringed, weak with wanting her.
But now she was cold and hard as stone.
‘Go to the devil,’ she spat at him. ‘You’ll wait for another chance.’
The look in her eyes told him it was hopeless. Again he turned away. Heedless of where he was going, he went straight ahead, with contracted eye and contorted lip. In these past weeks, victimised by his insatiable longing, reduced to a perpetual attitude of propitiation, he had already known himself sufficiently humiliated. But now, wounded in an his sensibilities, he felt that he had reached the lowest level of abasement. He could not, would not submit to it.
His thoughts had not taken coherent form before he found himself back on the circus ground. Since the defective engine would not be repaired till the following morning, nothing had been dismantled, and in the muddy field the great tent stood empty and deserted. Something drove him inside. The moon, shining through the top aperture in the canopy, bathed the arena in a spectral light, revealed the chute, left standing, glistening with moisture. A strange impulse, a sense of duty to himself, gradually took shape in his tormented mind. Gazing upwards, he saw that the equipment was still in place. Unable to repress a shiver, he walked towards the rope ladder, his footsteps leaving imprints in the pulpy sawdust. He took hold of the rope, began slowly to climb, spiralling slightly because he had not the knack of it.
Now he was at the top, edging on to the platform. The smallness of this perch, its height from the ground – far greater from above – made him so dizzy he closed his eyes and clung to the metal support. Momentarily the fit of vertigo paralysed him. The wind at this altitude had greater force, causing the chute to sway, and the damp canvas, flapping and billowing, increased his sense of insecurity. But he compelled his rigid muscles into action. Gazing upwards and using one hand, he unhooked the bicycle from its cleats, then, still hooked firmly to the pole by his other arm, he aligned the wheels. Shakily he mounted the machine, forced himself to look down.
The ring, beneath him, was impossibly small, a distant yellow disc. The chute on which he was poised had no more substance than a tricolour ribbon. Another violent shudder passed over all his body. He was still holding on, he could go back. Fear petrified him. He fought it. Whatever happened, he must go down.
He took a deep breath, firmed his position on the machine, crouched forward. As he did so he was vaguely conscious of a shout, of a dark foreshortened figure waving from below. If a warning were intended it came too late. Focusing his gaze on the central white strip, by a supreme effort of his will he released his hold on the support. There came a split second of flying, incredible descent, an upward surge which catapulted him through the air, then in the same instant with a resounding bounce he was down, shooting at tremendous speed into the field outside, spilled into the soft mud of the boundary ditch.
For a moment he lay there, motionless, surprised to be alive. Then he heard someone running towards him.
‘Nom de Dieu… Do you try to kill yourself?’ It was Jo-jo, for once in a state of considerable agitation.
‘No,’ said Stephen, getting up giddily. ‘But I may be going to be sick.’
‘You crazy son of a bitch. What got into you?’
‘I wanted some exercise.’
‘You are mad. When I saw you up there I thought you were done for.’
‘What difference would it have made?’
Jo-jo stared at him.
‘For Christ’s sake, come and have a drink.’
‘All right,’ Stephen said, then he added, ‘ Don’t speak of this to anyone.’
They went across to the village café. After a stiff glass of Calvados, Stephen’s hand stopped shaking. He sat there drinking with Jo-jo, almost in silence, until the place shut down. The brandy thickened his head, make him feel dull and numb. But actually he had accomplished nothing. He realised that he could not break with her. And the pain in his heart was still there.
Chapter Ten
Two weeks later they reached Nice. The city, entered by way of the mimosa-hung terraces of Les Baumettes, was larger than Stephen had expected. The Promenade des Anglais, all the glittering sea-front, with its formal flower-beds and ostentatious hotels, struck a disagreeably pretentious note. But the circus ground was well inland, towards Cimiez, at the back of the Place Carabacel, surrounded by narrow streets filled with open-air markets and little stalls bearing fruit, vegetables, and a profusion of flowers, a network of noisy and colourful passages which had the intimate charm of Paris and the added warmth of the South.
‘Not bad, eh?’ Jo-jo expanded his narrow chest under the torn singlet. ‘It is good to be back.’
‘You like it here?’
‘Greatly. And you will also. Look.’ He made a comprehensive gesture. ‘There is much of interest for an artist in the Carabacel.’
At another time it would have been an entertainment for Stephen to explore this quarter. Now, tense and restless, he felt he could not work. But he forced himself out with his Ingres block and made some studies of the Niçois – an old woman in a white cap selling artichokes, a farmer from the country with a net of live chickens, labourers working on an opening in the roadway. Yet his heart was not in it, and in the heat of noon he went back to his quarters to rest before starting work at his booth.
On the following afternoon, standing at his easel in the fairground completing his final portrait of the session, he became conscious of a spectator at his elbow, leaning lightly upon a Malacca cane.
Something in the attitude struck a chord of recollection. He glanced round.
‘Chester!’
‘How are you, old boy?’ Harry broke into his infectious laugh, removed a wash-leather glove and held out his hand. ‘I heard that you’d joined up with Peroz. But where on earth did you get that frightful rig-out?’
‘It goes with the job.’
‘That’s one way to attract the natives. But doesn’t it make you feel a bit of an ass?’
‘Oh, I’m used to it. Hold on and I’ll be with you in a minute.’
While Stephen quickly put the finishing touches to the portrait, Chester took out his cigarette case and lit up. Dressed in a linen suit, white and tan shoes and a panama hat, he had an air of leisure. His trousers were creased, his shirt was of tussore silk, and he sported a natty bow tie. His face was deeply tanned.
‘I can’t get over seeing you here,’ Stephen said. ‘Though you did say you’d make for Nice. You look well.’
‘I’m pretty fit, thanks.’
Harry smiled good-naturedly and Stephen had to smile in sympathy, drawn by that careless warmth which Chester dispensed so easily.
‘I gather you’ve had some luck at the tables.’
‘To put it mildly, yes.’ Chester’s smile became a grin. ‘I was down to my uppers and bet my last fifty francs on double zero. Why? Because I knew I’d have less than zero if I lost. Double zero came up. I left everything on. Why? Heaven alone knows. Up came double zero again. My God, you never, saw such a pile of lovely big red counters in your life. I went to lift it. I couldn’t. Something inside me said, third time lucky. I left it on. When the wheel spun I nearly died. Double zero came up again. And this time I picked everything up quick and scooted to the cashier’s desk. Next day I moved out of harm’s way to Villefranche, to a little apartment. I’ve been living like a lord ever since.’ He took Stephen’s arm. ‘ Now tell me about yourself. How’s the work going?’
‘Only so-so.’
‘Let’s have a look.’
Stephen led the way to his caravan, brought out a few of his canvases and stood them one by one against the hub cap, while Harry, with a professional expression, studied each in turn.
‘Well, old boy,’ he declared at
last, ‘you may have something there, but I can’t quite get it. What about perspective? And isn’t your brushwork pretty rough?’
‘It’s meant to be rough… to convey an impression of life.’
‘These horses aren’t particularly life-like.’
Harry pointed with his cane to a composition in tempera of stallions racing madly in a thunderstorm.
‘I’m not trying to express the obvious.’
‘Obviously not. Still… I like a horse to look like a horse.’
‘And when you see a man on his back, then you’re sure,’ Stephen said wryly, and piled the canvases together, realising that Chester had not the least idea what he was driving at. ‘Are you still painting?’
‘Oh, of course. In my spare time. I’m doing a bang-up view of the promenade. I go out with Lambert occasionally. You know that Elise and he are here. He’s got hold of a rich American widow at the Ambassadeurs and is doing a full-length of her.’
As he spoke a step sounded, and from behind the tilt of the caravan Emmy appeared. As she advanced towards Stephen she suddenly drew up, aware of Chester’s presence. A queer look came over her face.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I usually turn up when least expected.’
‘Like a bad centime?’
‘This time like a good thousand-franc note,’ Chester answered amiably, not in the least put out. ‘Didn’t you miss me?’
‘The deprivation was unbearable.’
‘Now don’t be rude to Uncle Harry. You know his nerves are weak.’ He looked at his watch. ‘ I have to shove off. I’m due at the Negresco at six. But I want you both to come tomorrow for luncheon at my apartment, 11-B Rue des Lilas – off the Boulevard Général Leclerc. The Lamberts will be there. You’re both free? Good. It’s only a few kilometres along the Corniche, the tramway goes past my door.’
With a smile and a wave of his cane he hailed a fiacre at the end of the ground, jumped in, lay back on the plaited straw seat and was whirled off. Emmy followed him with resentful eyes.
‘Patronising voyou. Telling us to take the tramway while he drives off in a carriage.’
‘We mustn’t grudge him it. He’s had his bad times too.’
‘I don’t believe he made a coup. He’s living off some old woman.’
‘Surely not. Chester’s just the sort of chap who’d have the luck to win a packet. Besides, he only goes after the pretty girls.’
‘He’ll do it once too often.’ She showed her sharp little teeth. ‘Cheap sale type. I always hated the sight of him.’
‘Then you won’t want to go tomorrow?’
‘Of course I’m going, don’t be completely fou. We’ll make him sorry for his conceit.’
He gazed at her in perplexity. She obviously disliked Chester. Why, then, should she accept his invitation? Perhaps she wanted to see the Lamberts. He never knew what was in her mind.
On the following day, when she met him, she was wearing a little yellow dress of embroidered muslin and a ribbon of the same colour round her short bushy hair. She gave him her little tight-lipped smile.
‘Can we run to a fiacre?’
‘I should say so. No tram for us.’
She picked the smartest turnout from the line. Settled back comfortably.
‘How do I look?’
‘Wonderful.’
‘I needed a new frock. I bought it this morning at the Galerie Mondial.’
‘It’s charming,’ he said. ‘And suits you perfectly.’
‘I like to show these people that I am not something beneath their feet. Chester especially. He is too full of himself for words.’
‘Oh, Harry’s not a bad sort. He can’t help being a bit spoiled. He’s too good-looking.’
‘Then you think him attractive?’
‘I think a lot of silly women have fallen for his blue eyes and curly hair.’
She gave him a sharp side-glance.
‘At least I’m not one of them.’
‘No.’ Stephen smiled. ‘I’m really rather relieved that you dislike him.’
They drove down the Avenue Raspail, a broad thoroughfare shaded by catalpa trees, along the Boulevard Carnot, then round the curve of the bay towards Beaulieu. The sky was blue, a breeze of delicious fragrance blew from the hills. He pressed her hand happily – she let him hold it for a moment. Lately the attentions that he showered upon her, the little presents he continually gave her, the restraint which by an effort of will he placed upon himself, seemed to have made some impression on her.
‘You are being nice to me,’ she murmured.
The slight remark made him ridiculously happy. Perhaps, after all, she could be taught to love him.
Presently they drove into Villefranche. Chester’s apartment in the Rue des Lilas, a street set at right angles to the front, was one of a series of suites opening upon a common balcony around a courtyard and serviced by a small hotel, the Hôtel des Lilas. A little fountain surrounded by cacti trickled in the centre of the courtyard and green tubs of flowering oleanders decorated the veranda. The place looked clean, pleasant and discreet – exactly the right sort of pied-à-terre that Chester, with his knack of doing well for himself, would come upon without the slightest effort.
They were the first to arrive and Harry greeted them effusively.
‘Welcome to the ancestral château. It’s not large, but it has a history.’
‘A bad one, no doubt,’ said Emmy.
Chester laughed. He was wearing white flannel trousers and a blue blazer with brass buttons. His thick brown hair, freshly waved, had a lighter streak running back from his brow.
‘If that’s what you think I must try to live up to it.’
While he took Emmy to the bedroom to leave her scarf and gloves, Stephen glanced round the small living-room. It was conventionally furnished, but on the walls were two framed water-colours which he recognised at once as Lambert’s work. He inspected them in turn, the one an arrangement of sweet peas in a Ming bowl, the other a group of storks standing in a misty pool, and as he gazed, he wondered how he could ever have been taken in by such prettiness. Beautifully executed, with an almost feminine brush, they were nevertheless empty and insipid, devoid of all vitality or invention, utterly meaningless. They might have been done by a clever art mistress at a superior girls’ school. They made Stephen realise how long a road he had travelled since those first days in Paris. If the journey had been hard, at least it had taught him what really constituted a work of art.
‘Good, aren’t they?’ Chester had returned with Emmy. ‘Lambert rather decently loaned me them. The price is on the back. There’s always the chance one of my visitors will buy.’
‘You haven’t shown us your own things.’
‘Well,’ Harry parried somewhat consciously, ‘as a matter of fact, most of them are away. I sent them to Paris. How about a drink?’
He produced a bottle of Dubonnet and poured out three glasses, then handed round a plate of fresh shrimps.
‘Can I tempt you, Mademoiselle? Bouquet de la baie.’
‘You caught them yourself?’
‘Sure. Got up before breakfast.’
Rearranging her hair, she looked at him, but for the first time with diminished animosity.
‘What a liar you are.’
Harry laughed heartily.
‘I’m pretty good at that too.’
The bell rang and the Lamberts came in. They seemed little changed, except that Philip had grown stouter, more languid in his manner. He wore a grey suit with a pink carnation in his buttonhole and carried on one forefinger a cardboard box of pâtisserie tied up with ribbon.
‘I brought some cakes from Henri’s, Chester. We’ll have them with the coffee. Of course, you remember my sweet tooth, Desmonde.’ He stretched out leisurely on the divan, and delicately put his thin nostrils to the flower in his lapel. Elise, who was dressed in the inevitable green and whose smile appeared a trifle more fixed than of old, was talking to Emmy. ‘Now
tell me everything, dear boy.’
Stephen began a brief account of himself, but before he had gone far he saw Lambert was not attending, and broke off.
‘You know, Desmonde,’ Philip’s tone was light and amused, ‘I wish for your own sake you wouldn’t make such heavy going of it all. You can’t attack art with a pickaxe. Why sweat your guts out like a stonebreaker? Do as I do and use a little delicacy, a little skill. I never overwork myself yet I never want for a client. And I do sell. Of course I admit I have talent, which does make it rather easy for me.’
Stephen was silent. He could well guess at Lambert’s facility. But Chester’s announcement that luncheon was ready saved him from a reply.
The meal sent up from the hotel below was admirable, and well served by a young waiter who, in producing the food so hot must have performed incredible feats of agility on the stairs. A lobster cooked in the local fashion was followed by a chicken risotto, then came a cheese souffle, and early on, Harry, with an expert touch, had popped the cork from a bottle of Veuve Cliquot. But the gayer the party became, the more Stephen felt completely out of it. At one time he had enjoyed this society, yet now, though he tried hard to attune himself to it, he failed dismally. What had happened to him that he should sit mute with the deadly consciousness that he no longer belonged here? Emmy, drinking more champagne than she should, was giving silly impersonations of Max and Montz which caused Chester, more boisterous than ever, to roar with laughter. Lambert, whom Stephen had once admired, he now saw exactly as Glyn had viewed him – a poseur and dilettante, a feebly endowed amateur. Perfectly mannered, well educated, made safe by his regular little income, refusing to be ruffled or excited, he drifted about, never exerting himself, skimming the cream from life. By cultivating women, he picked up clients who commissioned him for portraits or who paid good prices for his fans and water-colours. Elise, with her fixed smile and sharpened profile, showed the marks of this existence. Her looks were beginning to fade and lines to gather beneath her green, light-lashed eyes, yet while her capacity for flattering him had worn a trifle thin, her inexhaustible devotion made of her more and more a complaisant partner in this game of artistic bluff, the mere thought of which made Stephen move restlessly upon his chair.
