Adventures in Two Worlds

by A. J. Cronin

  Nevertheless, although I did not completely, slough my skin, I was conscious, within myself, of a new ease, a sense of relief. There was fresh joy in my work. The sadness, tension, and gnawing ennui which had assailed me all were gone. I had cried aloud and the sky had heard my cry. When I fell down, bludgeoned by my still dominant passions, I picked myself up again, offered my wrists voluntarily, and with true contrition, to the fetters of an active conscience. I had made the immense discovery of why I was alive.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  During this phase of readjustment I withdrew completely from public affairs. There was no hardship, but rather a fresh and novel interest, in this voluntary retreat. For the first time in my life – that bustling, crowded, tense existence wherein, with never a second to spare, I was constantly engaged – I had leisure to undertake some meditative occupation, to fill the gaps in my sketchy education, to explore the fascinating fields of history, architecture, and art, to plod with pleasure through a first folio of Chaucer, to brush up my French and Italian, to read Montaigne in the original text, yes, even to prune a cherry tree reflectively, not breaking my back to finish in an hour, to adjust methodically an old clock that was losing time, to relax completely with my children in a game of tennis or croquet – these were privileges and satisfactions I had not previously enjoyed.

  Above all, this new freedom now afforded us the opportunity to travel. It was a thrilling adventure to take a car across the Channel from Dover to Calais, and to set off along the arrow-straight French roads, between the tall sentinel poplars and those flowering hawthorn hedges beloved by Proust, through cobbled villages ablaze with roses, past red-tiled farmhouses and graceful churches, brassy estaminets and crumbling old châteaux, green canals with barges on them, woods, meadows, and orchards already pink with apple blossom … Ah, how wonderful to escape to such delights!

  Paris in the spring was a silver city. What enchantment in the fresh morning streets, to view the hurrying crowds and blue-cloaked policemen; the early housewives with arms crooked on laden baskets; a Zouave in scarlet trousers; two concierges gossiping across their brooms; an old street cleaner sending a swirl of water along the gutter; pushcarts of vegetables clattering from the Halles; and all this cut by sharp, sudden cries, the chatter of many tongues, a slow chime of bells – against the background of soft grey buildings, the graceful white bridges, the lovely river sparkling in the sun.

  Ascension Day in Chartres. There, in the great cathedral, jewel of French architecture, the sun streaming through the rose window, staining the plinths and peristyles with all the colours of the rainbow, the Cardinal, magnificent in scarlet, led the solemn procession behind swinging censers to the high altar and, supported by celestial choristers, intoned the Mass. Afterwards, at La Vieille Maison across the square, we lunched appropriately – escargots à la Bourguignonne, and quennelles de brocket, with a carafe of vin rosé to aid digestion. Then southward, to the château country, through Blois and Tours, idling along the lazy Loire, to spend the night in Angers, home of France’s most fragrant liqueur. And, indeed, at dinner in the Hotel d’Anjou a special soufflé au Cointreau appeared, light as foam, soft as a cloud, as spring air, as a maiden’s first kiss, enough to tempt a dying anchorite to eat.

  Next day, another easy southward drive, through Châteauroux and Clermont-Ferrand, into the beautiful Auvergne. Everywhere the wild spring flowers were blooming, field after field, carpeted with lily of the valley and golden-eyed narcissus, while from the plain, feathery with cedars, primitive as a Botticelli landscape, little pinnacles of rock arose, Vézelay, Sentier, and Puy-de-Dôme, each crowned by its mediaeval keep, like enchanted castles in a fairy tale.

  Carcassonne came next, with its old walled city, then Arles, Hyéres, Saint-Tropez, where for days on end one may savour, like an effervescent wine, the sunshine of the Midi sparkling upon the Mediterranean sea.

  Nor did this end our opportunity to wander and take possession of new quarters of the world. I had cut myself adrift from lion-hunting hostesses. Now there was no long list of patients to compel us to return, no telephone bringing calls every hour of the day, no night bell to make me its unwilling slave. Instead there was Spain, with its languid dignity and sunshine; the green mountains of Teneriffe, Madeira, Estoril, embowered in gorgeous mimosa and camellia trees; Bruges, placid and peaceful, with pigeons fluttering in the square; Budapest, murmurous with gipsy music, strung upon the Danube like a pearl upon a silver thread.

  There was nothing of indolence in these journeyings. Each, indeed, was a source of literary nourishment. The writer must needs refresh himself with frequent change of scene, and in his trade he is privileged above all others in that he may work when and where he pleases. In my case, since I did not use a typewriter, my sole essential luggage was a fountain pen.

  I made many notes upon these pilgrimages which formed the basis of future books. And often, too, there was some striking incident, some unusual contact with the mysterious and unforeseeable which would move me to that sadness, or delight, in the oddness of life, which is a basic element of the novelist’s attitude.

  I remember, for instance, one lovely June afternoon in Italy. As we drove through the foothills of the Alps, two small boys stopped us on the outskirts of Verona. They were selling wild strawberries, bright scarlet berries that looked delicious against the dark green leaves lining the wicker baskets.

  ‘Don’t buy,’ warned Luigi, our cautious driver. ‘ You will get fruit much better in Verona. Besides, these boys …’ He shrugged his shoulders to convey his disapproval of their shabby appearance.

  One boy had a worn jersey and cut-off trousers; the other, a shortened workman’s tunic gathered m loose folds about his skinny frame. My wife spoke to the boys, attracted by their brown skins, tangled hair, and dark earnest eyes, discovered that they were brothers. Nicola, the elder, was thirteen; Jacopo, who barely came up to the door handle of the car, was nearly twelve. We bought their biggest basket, then set off towards town.

  Verona is a lovely city, rich in history, with quiet mediaeval streets and splendid buildings of an exquisitely pale honey colour. Romeo and Juliet are reputed to have lived and died there, yet, undeterred by that ancient tragedy, and the pinch of economic necessity, the Veronese maintain their gaiety and pride.

  Next morning, coming out of our hotel, we drew up short. There, bent over shoeshine boxes beside the fountain in the public square, doing a brisk business, were our two young friends of the previous afternoon.

  We watched for a few moments. Ordinarily, I should have passed on, but now I had to reckon with a new taskmaster – the insatiable curiosity of the writer. As trade slackened, I beckoned them over. They greeted us with friendly faces.

  ‘I thought you picked fruit for a living,’ I said.

  ‘We do many things, sir,’ Nicola answered seriously. He glanced at us hopefully. ‘Often we show visitors through the town … to Juliet’s tomb … and other places of interest.’

  ‘All right,’ I smiled, ‘you take us along.’

  As we made the rounds, my interest was again provoked by their remarkable demeanour. They were childish enough, and in many ways quite artless. Jacopo, although his lips were paler than they should have been, was lively as a squirrel. Nicola’s smile was ready and engaging. Yet in both these boyish faces there was a seriousness which one respected, an air of purpose far beyond their years.

  In the week which followed we saw them frequently, for they proved extremely useful to us. If we wanted a packet of Virginia cigarettes, or a special brand of tooth paste, or seats for the opera, or the name of a restaurant that could provide good ravioli, Nicola and Jacopo could be relied upon to satisfy our needs, with their usual cheerful competence.

  What struck one most was their unremitting willingness to work. During these summer days, under the hot sun, and in the long evenings when the air blew chill from the mountains, they shined shoes, sold fruit, hawked newspapers, conducted tourists round the town, ran err
ands, exploited every avenue which the troubled economy of the town left open to them.

  One night, we came upon them in the windy and deserted square, resting on the stone pavement beneath the pale arc lights. Nicola sat upright, his face drawn with fatigue. A bundle of unsold newspapers lay at his feet, while Jacopo, his head pillowed upon his brother’s shoulder, was asleep. It was nearly midnight.

  ‘Why are you out so late, Nicola?’

  He had started sharply as I spoke, but now he gave me his independent glance.

  ‘Waiting for the last bus from Padua. We shall sell all our papers when it comes in.’

  ‘Must you keep at it so hard? You both look rather tired.’

  ‘We are not complaining, sir.’

  His tone, while perfectly polite, discouraged further inquiry. But next morning, when I went over to the fountain to have my shoes shined, I said:

  ‘Nicola, the way you and Jacopo work, you must earn quite a bit. You spend nothing on clothes. You eat little enough – when I see you having a meal it’s usually black bread and figs. Tell me, if the question is not impertinent, what do you do with your money?’

  He coloured deeply under his sunburn, then grew pale. His gaze fell to the ground.

  ‘You must be saving to go to college,’ I suggested.

  He looked at me sideways, spoke with an effort.

  “We should greatly like to have an education, sir. But at present, we have other plans.’

  ‘What plans?’

  He smiled uncomfortably, with that remote air which never failed to baffle me.

  ‘Just plans, sir,’ he answered in a low voice.

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘we’re leaving on Monday. Is there anything I can do for you before we go?’

  Nicola shook his head, but suddenly Jacopo’s nostrils quivered like a puppy’s and he piped up eagerly.

  ‘Sir,’ he burst out, ‘every Sunday we make a visit to the country, to Poleta, thirty kilometres from here. Usually we hire bicycles. But tomorrow, since you are so kind, you might send us in your car.’

  I had already told Luigi he might have the Sunday off. However, now I was more curious than ever, and I answered:

  ‘I’ll drive you out myself.’

  There was a pause. Nicola was glaring at his young brother in vexation.

  ‘We could not think of troubling you, sir.’

  ‘It won’t be any trouble.’

  He bit his lip, then, in a rather put-out tone, he said:

  ‘Very well.’

  The following afternoon we drove to die tiny picturesque village set high upon the hillside amidst sheltering chestnut groves, with a few pines on the upper slopes and a deep blue lake beneath. I imagined that our destination would be some humble dwelling. But, directed by Jacopo’s shrill treble, we drew up at a large red-roofed villa, surrounded by a high stone wall. I could scarcely believe my eyes, and before I could recover breath, my two passengers had leaped nimbly from the car.

  ‘We shall not be long, sir. Perhaps only an hour. Maybe you’d like to go to the albergo in the village for a drink?’

  They disappeared beyond the corner of the wall.

  When a few minutes had elapsed I followed. I found a grilled side entrance and determinedly rang the bell.

  A pleasant-looking woman with a ruddy complexion and steel-rimmed spectacles appeared. I blinked as I saw that she was dressed in the white uniform of a trained nurse.

  ‘I just brought two small boys here.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Her face lit up, she opened the door to admit me. ‘Nicola and Jacopo. I will take you up.’

  She led me through a cool tiled vestibule into the hospital – for hospital the villa had become. We traversed a waxed and polished corridor between well-equipped wards. We went upstairs to a southern balcony which opened to a vista of the gardens and the lake. On the threshold of a little cubicle the nurse paused, put her finger to her lips, and with a smile bade me look through the glass partition.

  The two boys were seated at the bedside of a girl of about twenty who, propped up on pillows, wearing a pretty lace jacket, was listening to their chatter, her eyes soft and tender. Despite the fault flush high upon her cheekbones and the queer inertness of her posture, one could discern at a glance her resemblance to her brothers. A vase of wild flowers stood on her table, beside a dish of fruit and several books.

  ‘Won’t you go in?’ the nurse murmured. ‘Lucia will be pleased to see you.’

  I shook my head and turned away. I felt I could not intrude upon this happy family party. But at the foot of the staircase I drew up and begged her to tell me all she knew about these boys.

  She was eager to do so. They were, she explained, quite alone in the world, except for this sister, Lucia. Their father, a widower, a well-known singer at La Scala, had been killed in a midnight car smash on the Grande Corniche. Quite improvident, dissipating his salary before he received it, he had left no other legacy than a mass of accumulated debts, writs, and notes of hand. His three children, their home sold, were thrown upon the streets. They had always known a comfortable and cultured life – Lucia had herself been training as a singer – and they had suffered horribly from near starvation and exposure to the cold Veronese winter.

  For months they had barely kept themselves alive in a sort of shelter they built of billboards with their own hands in a waste lot near the river. They were proud, they sought help from no one, and, because they loved each other, they were determined to survive. The two boys, especially, despite their extreme youth and insignificant size, refused to let poverty break their spirit. They faced it with dignity and courage.

  ‘I cannot tell you how fine they were, these two. And then, when they were finding their feet again, their sister fell sick … seriously. She was suffering from tuberculosis of the spine.’

  She paused, took a quick breath.

  ‘Did they give up? I do not have to answer that question. They brought her here, persuaded us to take her into the hospital. In the twelve months she has been our patient she has made good progress. There is every hope that one day she will walk … and sing … again.

  ‘Of course, everything is so difficult now, food so scarce and dear, we could not keep going unless we charged a fee. But every week, Lucia’s brothers have made their payment.’ She added, simply: ‘I don’t know what they do, I do not ask. Work is scarce in Verona. But whatever it is, I know they do it well.’

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed, ‘ they couldn’t do it better.’

  I waited outside until the boys rejoined me, then drove them back to the city. They sat beside me, not speaking, in a mood of contentment. For my part, I did not say a word – I knew they would prefer to feel that they had safely kept their secret – yet I was resolved that aid should reach them. Next morning, before we left for Venice, I sent an envelope to the hospital at Poleta to be delivered to them when next they went there. On it I wrote, simply this: ‘For two gentlemen of Verona.’

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Never before had the beauty of the world been so apparent. Never had life appeared so charged with potentialities for happiness. Yet through it all, like a strange dissonance in a lovely symphony, there existed everywhere in Europe harsh undertones of hatred and of fear. In the quiet valleys of Bavaria we heard the tramp of soldiers and the roar of artillery practice. We saw caisson after caisson, thundering from the factories of Silesia, loaded with the weapons of war. Munich was an insane blaze of bunting, a mad parade ground for strutting uniforms. In Vienna, gayest and gentlest of all cities, the opera continued, the bells of St Stephen’s still rang merrily, the festival of the new wine was bravely held, yet beneath, one sensed a feeling of dread, of fatalism amounting to despair. It was coming … coming … an avalanche of horror and destruction … a total war which would engulf and destroy millions of people who wished no part of it, yet were powerless to prevent it. Why, oh why, in the name of suffering humanity, must this be?

  In the winter of 1938 we rented a chalet for
the season in the village of Arosa, seven thousand feet up, on the high slopes of the Tschuggen. Majestic white peaks, made rosy by the sunrise, the cheerful jingle of the horse-drawn sleighs, ski-wasser and hot coffee with double cream in the bright little cafés of the village, the sweet smell of cows in the wooden straw-packed sheds, the ring of curling stones on ice, the spotless cleanliness, the wholesome goodness of Swiss food, the creak of new snow beneath one’s feet, at night that exquisite tiredness after a long day’s ski run to St Moritz, the polished glitter of the stars, lights extinguished, one by one, in the village houses, leaving only eternal stillness and the liquid moonlight. For our boys, for whom this holiday was an unexpected adventure, there was a joyous novelty in skiing and skating, hurtling downhill on the toboggan run at breakneck speed, winding up with ruddy cheeks, head over heels in the soft snowbed at the bottom.

  But to me, despite the stimulation of these surroundings, the world situation, rapidly deteriorating, was a constant source of sad foreboding. My outlook had changed in these last years. No longer living from hour to hour, I had, for better or worse, acquired the habit of reflecting each day upon certain aspects of existence less material than those which had previously engrossed me. Thus no doubt my state of mind was propitious to what occurred. For it was here, in Arosa, one Sunday, when I went to church – an ordinary excursion, undertaken with no unusual piety – that I met with the strangest spiritual experience of my life.

  I had seen many churches: the great cathedrals of Chartres and Rheims, the Chapel of the Black Virgin at Montserrat, St Peter’s in Rome, Giotto’s exquisite campanile and baptistry in Florence … This was different – a small, bare, pine-wood chapel, sweet-smelling with the tang of resin, perched amidst the snow-encrusted pinnacles of the Alps. Here, in these azure altitudes, cleansed by the still, pure air, stricken by the blinding beauty of snow and sky, one felt oneself upon the very threshold of high heaven.