by Gerald Kersh
Now, people were people, human beings of a sort, and therefore everything that was most important to them, purchasable only with their blood, sweat and (same thing) money, was doomed to the ash-tray, the ash-can, the cesspool, or some dark hole in the ground. He lit another cigarette and considered the burned match. There you were again! Matches. People couldn’t get along without them. The poorest of the poor had to spend his begged or borrowed or sweated-for penny on a few seconds of flickering flame. One puff, and they were in the dark once more, and all was to do again; another penny must be found. So it was with candles.
What was a candle? Half a farthing’s worth of stearine and paraffin, bought for a halfpenny for the sake of an hour’s freedom from the blackness of the night. Or ink—people had to write, and stroke by stroke the penny bottle of blue-black emptied itself.
Ink reminded him of paper, another highly destructible commodity. What happened to all the paper in the world? Pondering this, he decided that on the whole the best kind of paper to sell must be newspaper and toilet paper—the two kinds most in demand—but not wallpaper, which stuck for years … Solly Schwartz was enjoying this little meditation. He thought of pins and needles, and remembered Cohen’s workshop. Cohen was a careful man with pins, yet every week or two he would have to buy another big box of these elusive, essential inches of pointed wire…. Pins, needles, thread, pencils, flowers, soap. Soap: however thoroughly you washed you got dirty again, and had to spend a little more of your sweat to purchase the wherewithal to lather it away….
Somewhat tired, he rested his rugged chin on the ornate handle of his walking-stick and thought dreamily and happily of man’s perpetual crying need for things that must day after day disappear into the air or be washed away back into the earth and must always be bought and paid for in hard cash.
He lit another cigarette and smiled at the smoke. Like everyone else he had lusted after smoke; had denied himself a pennyworth of fish and chips for the sake of five cigarettes for a penny … A pennyworth of smoke and ashes. True, fish and chips went the way of all replaceable things. But fish and chips gave a man strength. Fish and chips, especially on a cold night, lent a man the courage and the power to face another day, and achieve great things; whereas smoke begot nothing but a yearning for more smoke, and was productive of nothing. A bad habit, a bad taste in the mouth, a stale smell, a cough. Now, Solly Schwartz looked angrily at his cigarette. He was smoking Dimitrinos, an expensive brand. In the sealed compartment the fragrant smoke went up in a diaphanous blue ribbon, gently weaving, until it spun itself away into the close air and disappeared. And all for Dimitrino! Solly Schwartz dashed the cigarette to the floor and ground it to dust under his iron foot. Then he took from his pocket the box with its Egyptian Government stamp, and threw it out of the window. It landed, he guessed, on a siding about ten miles out of Euston, where some delighted sucker would pick up the packet and suck smoke out of it, making ashes and dust to enrich Dimitrino; giving more power to his weakness; dribbling a few more pennies out of his pay envelope into the pockets of W.D. & H.O. Wills, John Player, Godfrey Phillips, and all the rest of them. He kept his cigarette-case filled, and his cigar-case too—for fools—but from that moment Solly Schwartz never smoked again.
As soon as the collector snatched away his ticket, he hobbled, respectably dressed as he was, to a fish shop in the Euston Road, and ate fish and fried potatoes voraciously and, between mouthfuls, thought of Goodridge, with his high sweet voice and his air of putrefaction—Goodridge, with his blackened nails and brain of crystal, Goodridge with his deft, delicate, filthy hands, making fine diagrams on a greasy marble table and expounding ever so gently the mysteries of strange machines.
The memory of Goodridge took away his appetite. All the same, Solly Schwartz finished his meal—he had eaten eight-pennyworth—threw down one-and-six, and went out in a bad temper. Here was what came of being over-eager, too generous. If he had kept Goodridge on beer, he might have had the Calculating Machine, as well as a lousy tin can. It was true that anyone who had an opponent by the belly had the death-grip; and Solly Schwartz had the world in a powerful grip, in the guts. Still, if he had not been so impetuously generous, he might have had this same world by the brain; he might have taken hold of Calculation by its … by its quadratic equations.
He went home, feeling, as he expressed it, flatter than a saucerful of cold piss, and slept like a dead man. But next morning he leaped up at seven o’clock; strapped on his iron foot; paced the floor, thinking, for half an hour; put on a conspicuous suit with a red over-check and a pearl Trilby hat, took hold of a cane, the ivory handle of which was carved in the shape of a voluptuous mermaid, and went to see Abel Abelard.
*
He knew that people like Abel Abelard were not early risers. Still, such was his impatience, he reached Fitzroy Square at ten o’clock in the morning and poked impatiently with the ferrule of his stick at the scarred and blistered studio door. Which, to his astonishment, swung open. Abelard was awake, inspired, working at his great picture of The Destruction of the Library at Alexandria. The slatternly girl was posing stark naked, bending backwards in the grip of a lay-figure. Every muscle in her body expressed strain and anguish, and her tousled hair hung over her face and down her back in wild twists and strands. At the end of one stray wisp dangled a celluloid “slide” (now, Solly Schwartz reflected, they call them bobby pins … more costly detritus—more to be bought and lost, more to be paid for and thrown away). Her face was twisted with anguish, but her eyes were blankly happy, while, through her pouting lips, came a bubbling noise adjusted to the rhythm of “She’s Only A Bird In A Gilded Cage”. In her dangling left hand she held the smouldering half of a home-made cigarette.
Solly Schwartz, having made a mental note of the hair-clip, touched Abelard with his stick. The artist turned, palette in left hand and brush in right, his face full of menace. The tip of the brush was red. Solly Schwartz laughed, and struck it out of his hand with a flick of his stick, saying: “Come on, trottel, put a sock in it. Do you want a job, or don’t you?”
Abelard said: “Oh, it’s you, is it? I was working. I had an inspiration, Mr…. Mr….”
“—Schwartz, Mr. Schwartz. To hell with your inspiration! Schwartz! … Tell her to go and get dressed. Put down that board of paints—you’re dirty enough already—it’s running down. I want to talk to you.”
Turning his head, Abelard said to the girl: “Put something on, darling.”
“Oh good!” she said, and, shamelessly stretching herself, strolled away, while the lay-figure, folding like a carpenter’s ruler, fell into a kneeling position, hands outstretched as if in worship.
“I had an idea——” Abelard began.
“Idea be buggered,” said Solly Schwartz. “I’ve got an idea. Put that bloody board down for a minute, do you mind? Put it away. I want a word.” He looked with distaste at the only empty chair, and, although he was tired, said: “I’ll stand. It won’t take a minute. Listen. You want work?”
“I am working,” said Abelard, pointing to the canvas.
“I mean work” said Solly Schwartz. “I mean work, regular hours, for money. Work!” he said leering at the canvas. “Is this work? What do you get out of such work? Work! … I mean seven pounds a week regular. That’s what I call work. Well?”
Abelard could only say: “Well?”
“Listen,” said Solly Schwartz.
“Do you mean seven pounds a week every week?” asked Abelard.
“Seven pounds a week every week to begin with. Later, if you do the job, ten, twelve, fifteen, twenty——”
“Would you like a glass of beer, Mr. Schwartz?”
“No. Listen. You remember those labels you done for me?”
Abel Abelard laughed and said: “Oh, those! That was nothing….”
“Oh, those,” said Solly Schwartz. “That was nothing, eh? And by you the pay was nothing? Give me an honest answer. No, don’t waste your breath, save it. Sit down.”
/> Abelard sat down, saying: “Yes, but what is all this about seven pounds a week?”—fumbling at his little beard with an irresolute hand.
Cumulatively, from petty deal to petty deal, there had grown in the hunchback’s head a terrifying realisation of the brevity of life. There was so much to do, so little time. Now he felt as some fisherman might feel who, angling in a little boat on a wide sea lit by a sinking golden sun, feels the jerking of the hook in the jaw of a monstrous fish—and plays it and plays it, gritting his teeth and holding the slippery rod with all his might and main while the reel irresistibly rolls and the taut wet line slides away—the big fish is invisible; the line is unreliable; the light will not last; time is short, dreadfully short—but his will and his pride ordain that between the twilight and the dark, upon this fine thread, he must pull in a monster.
He struck his iron foot impatiently with his heavy cane. Abel Abelard drew a sketch of him from memory a little later—a head, brilliantly expressive of courage, vanity, and blind pride—a flattened head, curiously satanic with a crunched-up, irritable, irascibly smiling mouth and deadly little watchful eyes.
Solly Schwartz said: “Be quiet. Listen.” He looked for a moment at the great canvas, shrugged his high shoulders and went on, “That scheiss won’t pay your rent. This scheiss will.” He took out of his pocket one of his tin cans, wrapped in one of Abelard’s labels. “I want more. I want more and more. I want labels for everything—I want labels for cherries, strawberries, plums, greengages, apples, pears, pineapple, anything you can think of. I want labels for fish, sausages, ham, beef, stew. I want labels for asparagus. I want labels, by God, I want labels for everything! I want posters to stick on walls—big ones, little ones, large ones, small ones! I want showcards for shops—you know, cardboard showcards—so they can hang ’em up, stand ’em up, stick ’em up. Like you did those labels, see? Delicious, works of art, to make your mouth water. Do you understand? I want big posters….” Solly Schwartz tried to extend his arms beyond the bounds of the studio.
“Forty-eight sheets,” said Abelard.
“Forty-eight sheets, fifty-eight sheets; so long as they make the trottel’s mouth water! Little ones——”
“Double-crowns?”
“That’s right, double-crowns. Double. That’s the idea. Colours. But I want them real, real, you understand, like a photograph. Gooseberries, take gooseberries. I want gooseberries, little green gooseberries and big red gooseberries—but I want to see every bloody hair on every one of those bloody gooseberries—every leaf!”
“Lea … leaf …” said Abel Abelard, thoughtfully. “If you want realism, you know, mightn’t it be a good idea to have, say, a caterpillar on——”
“Talk sense!” said Solly Schwartz. “Caterpillars. Who buys tinned caterpillars? Butterflies! Coloured butterflies.”
“Same thing, in the long run,” said Abelard. “A butterfly is nothing but a caterpillar with a pair of wings.”
“Same thing, eh? What would you rather have—a houseful of caterpillars of a houseful of butterflies?”
“Butterflies, I suppose.”
“Then if you like, butterflies. No caterpillars, understand?” Solly Schwartz hesitated a moment and then said: “Just a minute. Just a minute. It could be a good thing to have a trademark. A butterfly …”
Abelard handed him an album, saying: “Here are pretty nearly all the moths and butterflies in the world. Take your choice.”
Solly Schwartz turned the pages and at last stopped, marking with his horny thumbnail a gaudy and magnificent insect with wonderful wings. “This one,” he said.
Abel Abelard answered: “Hey, my dear sir, you can’t put that on your tin! That’s the Purple Emperor—he lives on rotten meat.”
“So do lobsters. So do crabs. So do shrimps. So do eels. Didn’t you ever stick your nose up against a shop-window in the Strand, with an empty belly? To look at the lobsters? They live on dead men. Well? What do you think you live on, eh? One of these days, big as you are, you’re going to die,” said Solly Schwartz, “and out of your guts what do you think is going to come? Diamonds? Grass? Who eats the grass? The lamb. Who eats the lamb? Eh? I’ll eat you. Purple Emperors…. Now, listen. You work for me, five, five and a half, six days a week, and I pay you seven pounds a week. You draw. Later on, when things get better with me, you get more. Anything especially good you do, you get a bonus. In the meantime, seven pounds a week. What’s the matter with that, eh?”
“Well, nothing,” said Abelard. “Only I wonder if I might have something on account.”
Solly Schwartz took out his wallet and put down two ten-pound notes, saying: “Here’s twenty pounds.”
“Oh, thank you! This is on account of salary, I take it?”
“Don’t be such a bloody fool! Salary! This is a bonus in advance. Work with me, play straight with me, and I give you my word of honour—you’ll want for nothing. Now, are you with me?”
Abelard said: “I am with you, Mr. Schwartz.”
“That’s settled then,” said Solly Schwartz. “I’ll get in touch with you. In the meantime, remember: seven pounds a week to begin with, and for the present, Good-bye!”
The girl, who had put on a dress and come out to hear the end of the conversation, ran to Solly Schwartz and, before he could recoil, kissed him wetly on the left cheek. He limped away. Looking down the stair-well she saw him scrubbing his cheek with the cuff of his conspicuous coat, rubbing her kiss away. This made her angry and sad: more sad than angry. But when Abel Abelard showed her the two ten-pound notes she squealed like a delighted child. They embraced, and went to a good restaurant, agreeing that God had sent them a fool.
Solly Schwartz went on his way, grinning.
Now this, if Charles Small only knew it, was the point at which Solly Schwartz began to be God—began unwittingly to involve himself in Charles Small’s destiny and help to break his heart.
God: this is a strong word. Powerful though he was, alert though he was, the hunchback with the game leg was nothing but the unconscious agent of infinitely higher powers. Shrewd, keen, calculating as he was, how little Schwartz knew of the beautiful thing he had destroyed and in what manner he had been responsible for its destruction!
*
Now how had this happened? To Charles Small, when his life was torn asunder, when he was very young and wriggling like a cut worm in the dirt, it was a mystery. He clung to Solly Schwartz, for there was no one else strong enough to cling to. He became an atheist and, denying the existence of God, cursed Him. He denied God and the Devil, then, and considered himself as a marble between the fumbling forefinger and thumb of a blind man, or as one of a pair of dice in the clumsy hands of a myopic man … hopeless, helpless, lost.
Later he knew that Solly Schwartz, whom he loved then and always would love, was his evil genius. But now, thinking through the mud in which he feels that he is immersed, Charles Small knows that Solly Schwartz bore him nothing but goodwill—loved him—but was himself a bewildered wanderer in this world where men grow tired, in spite of the fact that he believed that he knew exactly where he was going and what he was doing. Now (the hunchback would break a walking-stick over his head if he said it) Charles Small, feeling sorry for himself, feels sorry for Solly Schwartz, the Superman. Schwartz was a better man than Charles, Charles’s father, and twenty men put together … and yet he was, so to speak, in the grip of terrible forces. Even Schwartz, with all his spiritual might, never accomplished a design, or quite achieved an end. Even he, Schwartz, was a tool in an Invisible Hand. Yes, even Solly Schwartz, the Calculator, was nothing and nobody. He was sharp; but keenest of all is that part of the razor-edge which one cannot see. The part that cuts is invisible.
Charles Small knows, now; he understands that which was incomprehensible, and sees things to which in the old days he was blind.
O world invisible, we view thee!
O world intangible, we touch thee!
O world unknowable, we know thee!
&
nbsp; Inapprehensible, we clutch thee!
Now it isn’t necessary to recapitulate. It is essential to turn over in the mind the great passion of Solly Schwartz and its relation to the great love of Charles Small … how the one affected the other … how Passion locked horns with Love, and Passion, triumphant, went away wailing, empty, into the night.
Lara … Lara!
*
As soon as his contract was signed Solly Schwartz went to work with a sort of demoniac energy. He established the London office and, paying Abelard lavishly, drove him like a mule, beating him with the lash of his raw, contemptuous tongue. The forty-eight sheets were painted, printed, and pasted up; and so were the twenty-four sheets, the twelve sheets, and the double-crowns. The showcards were drawn and printed, and manufactured, each with its little red cord. Solly Schwartz went about like a madman from wholesale house to wholesale house, brandishing his tin can, talking through his lower teeth:
“… Look, trottel. Look and see. There isn’t any argument. Is it clear? The best product of its kind in the world. Taste these peas—wait a minute, no need for a tin-opener—here, look—they open like that, just as easy as that! Taste, and see! Judge, judge for yourself, mister! … Isn’t that good enough for you? This other bloody rubbish you cut your fingers off with. With my can, so you turn a wheel, and there you are—peas, beans, tomatoes, anything … What? Not such a big can? I’m sorry. All right. For another pint of blood take another ounce of peas! Buy or don’t buy—I’m not here to make sales.”
