by A. J. Cronin
‘Again, from first to last the whole history of the production and defiant exhibition of these works is prejudicial to the defendant. Instead of gratefully falling in with the wishes of his sponsors, consulting with them from time to time, and striving to achieve a result which would be definitely acceptable to them, and to the decent people of this city for whose benefit and edification those paintings were primarily designed, he wilfully conceived and gave effect to a production which, he now admits, did not surprise him by immediately occasioning a public outcry. In plainer terms, he set out to shock and revolt and he succeeded.
‘Nor is it a valid defence to argue that the motive behind all this was serious, honest, and sincere. If a person be inherently decadent and depraved, he might still, with the best intention in the world, produce a vicious and depraved picture.
‘Lastly, the attitude of the defendant has not impressed us. Instead of evincing a due sense of respect and contrition, he has been by turns contumacious, ironic, and defiant. We have, I may say, the most acute sympathy for his family, in particular for his father, who bears, and despite the heavy burden of today’s proceedings, will continue to bear, a reputation untarnished and undimmed. Nevertheless, justice must be served, and in whatever light one may regard this case, making every allowance, the fact remains that in actually delineating and thereafter publicly exhibiting the intimate parts of both male and female, the defendant has committed a public nuisance. We therefore find you, Stephen Sieur Desmonde, guilty of the charge brought against you. As this offence is a misdemeanor, we have the power to imprison you. Despite the seriousness of the offence, we are reluctant to impose the full penalty of the law. Instead of imprisoning you, we therefore fine you the sum of fifty pounds. In addition you will pay the costs of the prosecution. I need hardly add that it is our duty, under the Obscene Publications Act, 1857, to order the three panels here displayed to be destroyed forthwith.’
This judgement having been given, the bench rose, and amidst tumultuous applause, which could not be controlled, the court recessed.
Chapter Eleven
When he left the police office, Stephen went directly to the railway station. Glyn had arranged to wait for him at the Blue Boar, but in his present mood he wished to see no one, nothing could suppress his almost frantic impulse to escape. In the raging fury and despair that filled his soul, his one desire was to lose himself in some place where he would be unknown and unseen. Never would he return to Stillwater. This Sussex, and all that it contained, had suddenly become hateful to him.
The clock indicated four o’clock as he entered the booking-hall. It seemed deserted. Then, as he made his way towards the grille, he felt a light touch upon his arm.
‘Stephen.’
So overstrung were his nerves, he spun round with a visible start. It was Claire, in a costume of dark grey, with a dark hat and veil, beneath which her face showed pale and her eyes unusually luminous. She spoke hurriedly.
‘I thought I should find you here. I … I had to see you.’
‘Yes?’
‘Stephen …’ Although keyed to an unnatural pitch, she was striving to keep her voice calm. ‘You must need something … coffee and a sandwich … let’s go to the buffet.’
‘No, Claire, I couldn’t.’
‘Then sit here for a moment.’ In that strained, uncertain manner she indicated a corner of the bare and dingy waiting-room. ‘You must be dead-tired.’
He hesitated, then went with her to the bench.
‘I am tired,’ he said.
‘Oh, no wonder. It was frightful for you.’
‘You were there?’ He gazed at her in weary surprise.
‘Yes, yes … from the beginning to the end. Did you imagine I could have stayed away? Oh, Stephen, it was all so stupid and cruel … so beastly and horribly unfair. I longed to be able to help you.’
He glanced away.
‘Haven’t you helped me too much already?’ His voice was flat, yet free from bitterness. ‘From the beginning … when you bought my pictures.’
‘So he came over and told you … Geoffrey?’
‘It was part of our interview. Before he knocked me down. He indicated that you’d done it out of charity.’
‘It was not that … I liked the pictures.’ She spoke passionately. ‘I wanted them.’
‘No, Claire. Let’s stop pretending. You simply gave me an alms of three hundred pounds. How could you like the pictures when you admitted you didn’t understand them?’
‘But I do,’ she protested, a little wildly. ‘I’ve studied, read ever so many books … tried to educate myself in art. I do know what you’re striving after, and what you have to contend with in the way of ignorance and prejudice. That’s why I suffered so much for you today.’
‘Yes, they had their fun.’ His lips drew together. ‘I don’t care for myself. I almost wish they’d sent me to prison. What really hurts is the loss of my work. To think of it … that they’ll actually burn my panels.’
‘Never mind. You’ll go on painting.’
‘Yes, even if they burn me … I’m not finished, though I am clearing out like a beaten dog. But I swear to Heaven I’ll never give anyone the chance to do this to me again.’
She drew a sharp, agitated breath as though summoning all her strength. Her gloved hands were tightly clenched, her figure, bent towards him, was taut with the effort to speak these tremulous and unexpected words.
‘Stephen … take me with you.’
He turned his head slowly and looked at her. She had raised her veil and he saw that she had been crying, that her eyes were again filled with tears. He was shocked by the pallor of her ravaged face.
‘Don’t, Claire. You’ve been compromised enough.’
‘What do I care?’ She caught hold of his hand. ‘ Oh, Stephen … dear Stephen … I’m so unhappy. I should never have married Geoffrey. I never loved him. Never. And now … I can’t go on.’
The wild abandon in her tone startled him. Knowing her natural reserve, the inveterate restraint which, by reason of temperament and breeding, distinguished all her actions, he realised the intensity of feeling which swayed her. And, in his mood of savage bitterness, he was tempted momentarily by an impulse to accept this offering of herself, to revenge himself on Geoffrey, to justify the ill opinions he had earned and place himself beyond the pale. He had been hurt, had suffered an almost mortal wound, why should he not strike back in return? He did not love Claire, but she was sweet and docile, had always made an agreeable companion. They could travel the length of the world together, he could paint to his heart’s content.
But almost before the thought was born it died within him.
‘You’re sorry for me, Claire.’ He spoke sombrely. ‘ Pity is a dangerous emotion. It’s thrown you off balance. But you’ll get over it. You have your children, your home, lots of things you couldn’t give up.’
‘But I could, Stephen …’ A sob shook her.
‘Besides,’ he went on as though he had not heard. ‘I’m too fond of you to let you wreck your life. You don’t really know me. I’m not your kind. I’m a queer sort of throwback. We’d never get on together. After six months with me you’d be eminently miserable.’
‘I’d be happy … just being with you.’
‘No, Claire, it’s impossible.’
But she was moved beyond all caution, all self-respect.
‘Everything is possible when one is in love.’
He averted his gaze.
‘You don’t know what you’re saying. No love could survive the kind of life you’d have to lead with me … hacking around in poor lodgings, spending whole days alone while I’m hard at work, enduring my disreputable friends, putting up with hardships you’ve never dreamed of.’
‘I have the means to change all that, to make you happy and comfortable.’
He looked her directly in the eyes with a finality she could not fail to understand.
‘That would be the certain death of my ar
t. And if you killed that, Claire, I could only hate you.’
There was a quivering silence. All the supple erectness went out of her figure, her swan-like neck drooped and her face, shadowed by her long fair lashes, was desolate. Huddled there, on the bare waiting-room seat, she had the look of a wounded bird, broken and pitiful. Presently she took a square of cambric from her bag and dried her eyes. He broke the long silence, stroking her sleeve.
‘One of these days you’ll thank me.’
‘I wonder,’ she said, in a queer, far-off tone.
The bells of the cathedral began to peal for Evensong, the chimes coming soft and clear. Sighing, as though recalled, she replaced her handkerchief, got up and, moving like a woman in a dream, with a strange look, no longer filled with longing, but shamed and defeated, went out of the waiting-room.
He sat a long time after she had gone, crushed by an overpowering sadness. Then, as the sound of a train broke into his painful meditation, he rose and, with a glance through the window, hastened towards the opposite platform.
Chapter Twelve
As he came from the waiting-room the train was pulling out of the up platform. Heedless of its destination, he swung on to the footboard and flung himself into an empty compartment. The meeting with Claire had taxed him more than he had realised, and now, alone, wave after wave of wretchedness assailed him. His brain was spinning, he pressed his hand against his eyes in anguish. He had reached the furthest limit of endurance, the point from which, surely, there was no return. His spirit was dead within him. Would he ever succeed, meet anything but neglect, or the same brutal misinterpretation which had reduced him to this extremity? He stole a dazed and fascinated glance through the window. In this section the embankment ran high, across a series of narrow culverts, with a bed of broken metal a sheer seventy feet beneath. But quickly, with a shudder, he looked away.
What then was he to do? Clear out of England altogether – seek immunity in a sunnier and less biased land? No. He could not. Sick to the heart of Continental journeyings, he felt physically unable to face the pinchbeck shifts and complications of a further European adventure. The tension of these last weeks, broken like a snapped string, had left him in a strange lassitude. The palms of his hands were damp with sweat and when he breathed he left a stitch in his side. Sunk in his corner, he studied a pale and unfamiliar image in the fly-blown mirror fixed, amongst advertisements for laxatives and beer, on the opposite partition of the compartment. I’m not well, he thought, with a stab of realisation. If only he could find a quiet room where he might lie up and rest. But where? Not for anything would he impose further upon Glyn’s friendship and support. Richard would expect him, the studio would be available, an admirable refuge. But he could not accept it. He must, at this juncture, be hidden and alone. He was like a child, sick for the darkness of the womb.
As the train dragged its way, with many stops and jolting starts, he saw from the wayside stations that it was bound for London – a local. And through the interminable journey, which seemed exactly to symbolise his own uncertainty, Stephen grappled, in a growing mental haze, with the problem of his immediate future. His brain would not work, he could find no solution, then, as they reached the suburbs and Clapham Junction fell behind, he recollected his meeting with Jenny Baines. Had she not told him she had a room to let? Yes, he was sure of it. If it were still available, what could be more suitable as a temporary lodging? No one would ever dream of looking for him there. The river district was one he had always liked, and now especially, in his recoil from Stillwater, its appeal was intensified.
His drawn face lightened somewhat, and as the train, with a prolonged hiss of steam, clanked finally to rest at Victoria, he came down the platform and boarded a number 25 omnibus at the depot outside the station. A fine rain was in the air as the bus started off and moved towards Whitehall and the Strand. Traffic at this hour was heavy, the streets were greasy and darkness had fallen when, almost an hour later, they swerved and skidded into Stepney. Gazing through the beaded windows at the narrow streets, lined by flare-lit costers’ barrows, teeming with obscure humanity, Stephen felt already a soothing loss of his identity. Here, at least, he would not be recognised, abused and vilified. Rousing himself, he got off at the Good Intent, mingling immediately with the crowd, and, at a pace inexplicably sluggish, made his way to Cable Street. Number 17, he remembered, and presently he was standing on the doorstep of the narrow brick house, one of the long low row of workers’ dwellings sweeping the length of the street.
In sudden agitation Stephen raised his hand to the brightly polished knocker, feeling, with a deepening of his exhaustion, that if this should fail, he scarcely knew where to turn. Had his knock been heard? He was about to try again when the door opened and, framed against the yellow gaslight, Jenny stood before him.
‘Good evening.’ How difficult it was to make his words sound casual. ‘ I wondered if you had a vacant room.’
She had been peering at his shadowed figure with the dubiety of a householder subject to the aggravations and importunities of beggars, tramps, stowaways, and those loose-robed Orientals who came straight from the docks with rugs to sell, but now she gave an exclamation, surprised, perhaps, yet full of warmth.
‘Mr Desmonde! Well, I declare! Do come in, sir.’
She shut the door behind him and faced him in the warm little passage, bright with chequered wallpaper varnished to a prevailing yellow, made smaller by an antlered hat-stand of formidable design. Through a prevailing blur he was conscious of the reddish veins on her cheeks and the brown mole, which he had first noticed nine years ago, on her cheekbone.
‘It’s an odd thing, sir. You’ll never believe it.’ Smiling, she shook her head. ‘But since we had our chat in the tea-room I felt in my bones, with all respect, you might want to come painting Stepney way again.’
‘So you have a room?’
‘That I do, sir. Old Mr Tapley, my regular, him I told you of, has the downstairs front permanent. But my upstairs back – and I only let the two – is vacant. Would you care to have a look at it?’
‘Yes, please.’
What a relief, he thought, as he followed her up the almost perpendicular wooden stairs, that she knew nothing of what he had been through, but accepted his sudden appearance, without luggage, in the wet darkness, with that matter-of-fact calmness which had always distinguished her.
The back bed-sitting-room, though of box-like dimensions, was neat and decently habitable, with a fumed-oak wardrobe, washstand, cushioned cane chair, and two hand-hooked rugs on the waxed linoleum.
‘There isn’t a deal of space,’ she remarked, with a practical proprietary survey. ‘ But it’s cosy – with the gas fire – and clean. I never could abear dirt, Mr Desmonde.’
‘It’s very nice indeed. I’ll take it, if I may.’
‘Would you want board, sir? I give Mr Tapley his breakfast and supper. He’s out mostly midday and I daresay you’d be too. The room would be ten shillings without and a pound with.’
‘I think … with board.’
‘Very good, sir. Now, if you’ll excuse me. Then I’ll just pop round to Lipton’s for something tasty for your supper. Would you fancy a nice breaded veal cutlet?’
‘Yes … anything, thank you.’ Shaken by a sudden chill and a tightening of the stitch in his side, Stephen all at once felt so queer he had to steady himself against the wall. ‘I’d like to wash now.’
She made a gesture of understanding, added, with tactful gravity, as she moved to the door:
‘The bathroom is at the end of the landing. It’s a good geyser, sir. Penny in the slot.’
When she had gone he sat down heavily in the armchair, making an effort to gather his disjointed thoughts. How lucky he had been to find this decent little place. And Jenny was such a good sort. At a time like this she would be the last person to get on his nerves. It was a nuisance he felt so seedy, but naturally, after these past weeks, he couldn’t expect to be fighting fit. And,
come to think of it, he’d eaten nothing since breakfast – he’d be all right after supper. But this tightness in his chest was rather bothersome – he recognised it as the old bronchial trouble which always seemed to crop up inopportunely when he least expected it. Perhaps if he had a trifle more air it might help his shortness of breath. He rose and went to open the window. The sash, however, was tight, slightly warped, and as he strained to tug it upwards, a salty warmth, fluid and familiar, came into his mouth. He pressed a handkerchief to his lips, then, already knowing what to expect, looked at it with revulsion. Oh God, he thought, not that again!
Before the bubbling uprush could escape from his clenched jaws he sought for the bathroom, bent hastily over the washbasin, turned on the cold tap. It was, at least, some satisfaction that he had not made a mess. But the haemorrhage, frothing scarlet into the blue-patterned china bowl, while less than the last attack he had experienced in Spain, was more severe than that which had preceded his illness at Garonde. Recollection of that event, the sharp subsequent fever and delayed convalescence, made him burn with a weak rage. He would not, he must not, be ill here. What a return to make for the unpretentious, unsuspecting hospitality with which he had been received. Compressing the wet towel which he had placed on the back of his neck, he willed desperately that this untimely infliction should pass.
At last the flow slackened and ceased. He straightened, took a careful, sparing breath, sighed with relief when no further uprush came, cleansed the basin, wiped his numb mouth with the towel. For some reason his movements were incredibly slow, as though performed by another person, seemed to come from a long way off. His streaked, earthy face confronting him in the mirror had, he noted in weak exasperation, that greenish colour with which the earlier Spanish painters delighted to invest their corpses. He washed it laboriously. His head felt empty, light as air; his feet were heavy as lead. Yet his mind was clear, dominated by the imperative need that he return to his room. Yes, if only he could reach his room, lock the door and get to bed – he could refuse supper on some pretext – then no one need know of this disgusting mishap. In the morning he would be quite recovered. Holding himself together, he started back. The sense of his own weakness as he slowly clawed his way along the passage was so ludicrous it brought a feeble grimace to his blanched lips. It seemed that he might do it. But when he was almost there, stretching out his hand towards the knob of the door, everything wavered, whirled in a dazzling arc, and finally retreated, leaving only a black void into which he fell, noiselessly, as though slipping into the well of soft eternal night.
