by A. J. Cronin
He had to get away from it. It was closing round him, stifling him. There! It was like bursting through cotton-wool, his mouth, his eyes, his ears – all full of it – but at last he was free, past the lodge, out on the open road. He walked and walked – striding along with his head down – swinging along like a madman. Suddenly he heard the whistle of a train. And, lifting his head, he saw the red glare of the engine drawing into a station. He took to his heels and ran, brushed past a porter who shouted the London train. It was moving out of the station. He jumped into it, flung himself in the corner of the compartment. There, rigid and silent, he sat as the train tore through the darkness of the night.
Chapter Thirty
A dead coal dropped in the grate with a final sound. It seemed to emphasise the silence of the room – the shiny, unpleasant sitting-room of Harvey’s lodgings. Ismay, sunk in a chair with his feet upon the fender, cleared his throat defensively. He wanted to speak and yet was half afraid to break that silence. Covertly he looked up at Harvey seated opposite under the yellow-tinted globe which shone impartially on the hard, bad furniture, the monumental overmantel, on the dusty workbench in the corner, the drawn venetian blinds, the thick coffee-cups – empty and treacly – on the worn-out arty table-cover – this style two eleven a half, madam, at the sale.
It was evening of the Thursday following Harvey’s departure from Buckden. Outside, in Vincent Street, a raw March fog spread up from the river; it dulled the sound of the traffic, which seemed to pound remotely and rather thinly – for it was getting late. Indeed, at that moment the small blue clock on the mantelpiece pinged out rapidly ten tinny strokes. It gave Ismay his chance.
‘Well,’ he exclaimed, under cover of the echoes. ‘You’re more garrulous than ever.’
‘Yes?’
‘You haven’t told me the half, man. Not the half.’
‘No?’
Ismay moved impatiently.
‘I don’t deny that you’ve had a queer experience, mind you – deuced queer.’
‘Yes.’
Ismay gave a short laugh.
‘Not that I’d have considered you a likely subject for – well – that sort of fantasy.’
‘No?’
‘Of course not! You always called a spade a spade, didn’t you? You always had a nice hard scientific brick ready to heave at what you called the pretty glass illusions of life.’
For a long time Harvey didn’t answer. Then he said flatly:
‘I haven’t got any bricks now.’
There was an odd pause. Then, raising his head slowly, he declared:
‘I tell you, Ismay, I’ve learnt something that’s knocked the cold-blooded rationalism out of me. There are more things under heaven than I ever dreamed of – things inexplicable – beyond our reason. Oh, we think we know so much when really we know nothing – nothing, nothing, nothing.’
Ismay sat up.
‘Ah, come, man. You’re not serious? I don’t understand –’
‘No!’ burst out Harvey quite fiercely. ‘You don’t understand it. And neither do I. But, oh, my God, it gives us something to think about.’
There was a dead silence. Ismay made to speak, but did not. He looked sideways at Harvey, looked away again. Then he made a vague gesture with his shoulders. He wasn’t going to pursue the subject, d——d if he was. He’d got a practical mind about such elusive twaddle. Show him a perforating appendix now and he’d really do something with it. But this? And, when all was said and done what did it matter? The main thing was that Harvey was back, sound in wind and limb – ready, obviously ready, to begin again. His plan had worked. He’d said it would. And hadn’t he been right? Ignoring the very inferior clock, he took out his thin watch, looked at it, shut it with a neat little snap.
‘And what the devil,’ he enquired with abrupt cheerfulness, ‘are you thinking about now?’
‘Something that might have occurred to Corcoran,’ answered Harvey slowly. ‘ Bearing on the subject of keeping up one’s chin.’ He quoted: ‘“Let me depart from it all not lamenting, but singing like the swan.” That’s Plato, Ismay.’ He smiled queerly. ‘A great boy was Playto – you should read him, young fella, if yer not too busy.’
‘Depart be hanged,’ Ismay cried. ‘You know you’re departing none. You’re a different man – thanks to me. And you’re going to justify my words.’ He got up, took his coat from a chair, and tucked himself warmly into it. Then he carefully pulled out his yellow gloves. Took his umbrella and his hat. Finally, he paused. ‘ By the by’ – his manner quite definitely portentous; he was producing now the plum which he had been saving for the last – ‘there’s a vacancy at the Central Metropolitan.’ He paused again. ‘ I thought you’d like to know. I thought you might even care to apply.’
Harvey looked up. There was a pause.
‘You mean the new place in Tuke Street? They’d never – no, they’d never have me there.’
Ismay inspected his finger-nails with that too casual air he displayed at moments of importance.
‘I should apply if I were you.’
Harvey smiled sadly.
‘Still arranging the universe, Ismay?’
‘A large slice of it, anyway.’
‘You mean –’
‘I mean that we can get you in. I haven’t let the grass grow. Saw Craig twice about it last week. Understand that, perhaps? They want you, in fact.’ He forgot his finger-nails and became quite boyishly enthusiastic. ‘It’s a glorious chance to come back, man. A new place – a decent crowd to work with and the most up-to-date laboratory in London. Every opportunity for your work –’ He stopped short. ‘You’ll take it?’
A bar of silence throbbed within the room.
Harvey seemed to draw reflection from a long way off. Work! Of course he wanted to work. A sudden wave of hope assailed him. All his faculties drew from that deep of melancholy and fixed in one bright focus on the future. There had been the past. Now – yes, there was the future.
‘Yes,’ he said at last. ‘I’ll take it.’
Ismay rammed on his hat.
‘Knew it,’ he cried. ‘I’ll ring up Craig the minute I get back.’ His smile spread all over his face. At the door he turned; raised his umbrella to his shoulder. ‘You’ll show them, Harvey. You’ll make them pretty sick at the Victoria. I told you that you’d show them. And you will one day.’
‘I don’t want to show anybody,’ Harvey said slowly. ‘ That’s all changed. I’ve lost my smug omniscience. I only want to work, to work humbly, Ismay. I only want to try – to try –’
But Ismay wasn’t paying any attention. The triumphant slam of the door drowned the words. Ismay was gone.
Harvey stood in the centre of the room. Over the dying embers the last blue flames flickered gently. He was tired. Yet, through it all, an eager, restless energy shone like a light melting through the fog. Work! A quick sigh went through him – oh, an unexpected, a glorious chance, that Ismay had produced. He’d take it – yes, he’d take it. A new faith was in him – a new inspiration.
His body was still lax, despondent. He couldn’t help it. Yet, pulled by invisible forces, he moved, went over to his own little work-bench. The same, just the same – microscope, centrifuge, slides, reagents, test-tubes. Dusty, very dusty and unused. From the back the little sketch of Pasteur looked up at him austerely.
Suddenly that rushing aspiration swelled in him. He would try – oh, he would try. Never before had his desire been so intense, never his sense of spiritual awakening so complete. He took up a test-tube in his hand. The feel of it brought him comfort, a divine assuagement. He could work again. He could work!
It was quiet now, the house silent at last, the traffic ceased in the street outside.
He thought of Mary, his gaze fixed and remote, caught by the image of her face. Laboriously he tried to piece it all together. Yet the pieces would not fit – no human hand could ever make them fit. But it had all happened, happened, happened. And then he sighed. That was
the past. The future – he didn’t know, he couldn’t tell. But at least there was the thought of Mary – an ideal mingled inextricably with his work.
As he stood there, with melancholy still upon his face and that bright tiredness brimming in his heart, he heard a sound in the deserted street. It stole into him from the fog. He gave no heed at first. But it was repeated. A queer sound swinging in quietly from the outer door. And the door itself seemed gently to be touched. He turned his head slowly. It’s the wind, he thought. But there wasn’t any wind. No, it’s Ismay, come back for something he’s forgotten. But it was not Ismay.
His heart constricted. Again the silent house creaked – a quiet creak as though someone stepped lightly in the hall. He told himself desperately: It’s nothing, nothing, nothing. He knew that it was nothing. But his face was white as death. Then his heart stood absolutely still. No sound this time. But a perfume. It floated into the room – distinct, intoxicating. It was the perfume of the freesia flowers.…
THE END
Copyright
First published in 1933 by Gollancz
This edition published 2013 by Bello
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Copyright © A. J. Cronin, 1933
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