Miss Warren took a long breath and looked at her watch. Only five minutes now before the train left. ‘Hello. Don’t run away. Here’s the bromide about Savory. You’ve got to be quick in getting this down. They’ve asked for half a column, but I haven’t the time. I’ll give you a few sticks. Mr Quin Savory, author of The Great Gay Round, is on his way to the Far East in search of material for his new novel, Going Abroad. Although the book will have an eastern setting, the great novelist will not have quite deserted the London he loves so well, for he will view these distant lands through the eyes of a little London tobacconist. Mr Savory, a slim bronzed figure, welcomed our correspondent on the platform at Cologne. He has a curt (don’t be funny. I said curt. C.U.R.T.) manner which does not hide a warm and sympathetic heart. Asked to estimate his place in literature he said: “I take my stand with sanity as opposed to the morbid introspection of such writers as Lawrence and Joyce. Life is a fine thing for the adventurous with a healthy mind in a healthy body.” Mr Savory, who dresses quietly and without eccentricity, does not believe in the Bohemianism of some literary circles. “They give up to sex,” he said, amusingly adapting Burke’s famous phrase, “what is meant for mankind.” Our correspondent pointed out the warm admiration which had been felt by countless readers for Emmy Tod, the little char in The Great Gay Round (which incidentally is now in its hundredth thousand). “You have a wonderful knowledge of the female heart, Mr Savory,” he said. Mr Savory, who is unmarried, climbed back into his carriage with a debonair smile. “A novelist,” he laughed, “is something of a spy,” and he waved his hand gaily as the train carried him off. It is an open secret, by the way, that the Hon. Carol Delaine, the daughter of Lord Gathaway, will play the part of Emmy Tod, the chargirl, in the British film production of The Great Gay Round. Got that? Of course it’s a bromide. What else can one do with the little swine?’
Miss Warren clapped down the receiver. Dr Czinner had not appeared. She was angry, but satisfied. He had thought to leave her behind in Vienna station, and she pictured with pleasure his disappointment when he looked up from his paper to find her again in the doorway of his compartment. Closer than mud, she whispered to herself, that’s what I’ll be.
The official at the barrier stopped her: ‘Fahrkarte, bitte.’ He was not looking at her, for he was busy collecting the tickets of passengers who had just arrived by some small local train, women with babies in arms and one man clasping a live hen. Miss Warren tried to brush her way through: ‘Journalists pass.’ The ticket collector turned to her suspiciously. Where was it?
‘I’ve left my bag behind,’ said Miss Warren.
He collected the last ticket, shuffled the pasteboards into an even pile, round which with deliberation he twisted an india-rubber ring. The lady, he explained with stubborn courtesy, had told him when she came from the platform that she had a pass; she had waved a piece of card at him and brushed by before he could examine it. Now he would like to see that piece of card.
‘Damn,’ said Miss Warren. ‘Then my bag has been stolen.’
But the lady had just said that it was in the train.
Miss Warren swore again. She knew that her appearance was against her; she wore no hat, her hair was rumpled, and her breath smelt of drink. ‘I can’t help it,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to get back on that train. Send a man with me and I’ll give him the money.’
The ticket-collector shook his head. He could not leave the barrier himself, he explained, and it would be out of order to send any of the porters who were in the hall on to the platform to collect money for a ticket. Why should not the lady buy a ticket and then claim reimbursement from the company? ‘Because,’ said Miss Warren furiously, ‘the lady hasn’t enough money on her.’
‘In that case,’ the ticket-collector said gently, with a glance at the clock, ‘the lady will have to go by a later train. The Orient Express will have gone. As for the bag, you need not worry. A telephone message can be sent to the next station.’
Somebody in the booking-hall was whistling a tune. Miss Warren had heard it before with Janet, the setting of a light voluptuous song, while hand in hand they listened in darkness, and the camera panned all the length of a studio street, picking a verse from this man’s mouth as he leant from a window, from this woman who sold vegetables behind a barrow, from that youth who embraced a girl in the shadow of a wall. She put one hand to her hair. Into her thoughts and fears, into the company of Janet and Q. C. Savory, Coral and Richard Czinner, a young pink face was for a moment thrust, soft eyes beamed helpfully behind horn-rimmed glasses. ‘I guess, ma’am, you’re having some trouble with this man. I’d be vurra proud to interpret for you.’
Miss Warren spun round with fury. ‘Go and eat corn,’ she said and strode to the telephone box. The American had turned the scale between sentiment and anger, between regret and revenge. He thinks that he’s safe, she thought, that he’s shaken me off, that I can’t do anything to him just because he’s failed. But by the time the bell rang in the box she was quite calm. Janet might flirt with Savory, Coral with her Jew; Mabel Warren for the time being did not care. When there was a choice between love of a woman and hate of a man, her mind could cherish only one emotion, for her love might be a subject for laughter, but no one had ever mocked her hatred.
II
Coral Musker stared with bewilderment at the menu. ‘Choose for me,’ she said, and was glad that he ordered wine, for it will help, she thought, tonight. ‘I like your ring.’ The lights of Vienna fled by them into the dark, and the waiter leant across the table and pulled down the blind. Myatt said, ‘It cost fifty pounds.’ He was back in familiar territory, he was at home, no longer puzzled by the inconsistency of human behaviour. The wine list before him, the napkin folded on his plate, the shuffle of waiters passing his chair, all gave him confidence. He smiled and moved his hand, so that the stone glinted from different facets on the ceiling and on the wine glasses. ‘It’s worth nearly twice that.’
‘Tell me about her,’ said Mr Q. C. Savory; she’s an odd type. Drinks?’ ‘So devoted to me.’ ‘But who wouldn’t be?’ He leant forward crumbling bread and asked with caution: ‘I’ve never been able to understand. What can a woman like that do?’
‘No, I won’t have any more of this foreign beer. My stomach won’t stand it. Ask them, haven’t they got a Guinness. I’d just fancy a Guinness.’
‘Of course you are having a great sports revival in Germany,’ said Mr Opie. ‘Splendid types of young men, one sees. But still it’s not the same as cricket. Take Hobbs and Sutcliffe . . .’
‘Kisses. Always kisses.’
‘But I don’t speak the lingo, Amy.’
‘Do you always say what a thing’s worth? Do you know what I’m worth?’ Her perplexity and fear broke into irritation. ‘Of course you do. Ten pounds for a ticket.’
‘I explained,’ Myatt said, ‘all about that.’
‘If I was that girl there . . .’ Myatt turned and saw the slender woman in her furs and was caught up and judged and set down again by her soft luminous eyes. ‘You are prettier,’ he said with open insincerity, trying again to catch the woman’s gaze and learn the verdict. It’s not a lie, he told himself, for Coral at her best is pretty, while with the stranger one could never use the insignificant measure of prettiness. But I should be dumb before her, he thought. I could not talk to her easily as I can to Coral; I should be conscious of my hands, of my race; and with a wave of gratitude he turned to Coral, ‘You’re good to me.’
He leant across the soup, the rolls, and the cruet: ‘You will be good to me.’ ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘tonight.’
‘Why only tonight? When we get to Constantinople why shouldn’t you, why shouldn’t we . . .’ He hesitated. There was something about her which puzzled him: one small unvisited grove in all the acres of their familiarity.
‘Live with you there?’
‘Why not?’ But it was not the reasons against his proposal which thronged her mind, which so coloured her thoughts that she h
ad to focus her eyes more clearly on reality, the swaying train, men and women as far as she could see eating and drinking between the drawn blinds, the scraps of other people’s talk.
‘Yes, that’s all. Kisses. Just kisses.’
‘Hobbs and Zudgliffe?’
It was all the reasons in favour: instead of the chill return at dawn to a grimy lodging and a foreign landlady, who would not understand her when she asked for a hot-water bottle or a cup of tea and would offer for a tired head some alien substitute for aspirin, to go back to a smart flat with shining taps and constant hot water and a soft bed with a flowered silk coverlet, that indeed would be worth any pain, any night’s discomfort. But it’s too good to be true, she thought, and tonight when he finds me cold and frightened and unused to things, he won’t want me any longer. ‘Wait,’ she said. ‘You may not want me.’
‘But I do.’
‘Wait till breakfast. Ask me at breakfast. Or just don’t ask me.’
‘No, not cricket. Not crickett,’ said Josef Grünlich, wiping his moustache. ‘In Germany we learn to run,’ and the quaintness of his phrase made Mr Opie smile. ‘Have you been a runner yourself?’
‘In my day,’ said Josef Grünlich, ‘I was a great runner. Nobody runned as well as I. Nobody could catch me.’
‘Heller.’
‘Don’t swear, Jim.’
‘I wasn’t swearing. It’s the beer. Try some of this. It’s not so gassy. What you had before they call Dunkel.’
‘I’m so glad you liked it.’
‘That little char. I can’t remember her name, she was lovely.’
‘Come back and talk a little after dinner.’
‘You won’t be silly now, Mr Savory?’
‘I shall ask you.’
‘Don’t promise. Don’t promise anything. Talk about something else. Tell me what you are going to do in Constantinople.’
‘That’s only business. It’s tricky. The next time you eat spotted dog, think of me. Currants. I am currants,’ he added with a humorous pride.
‘Then I’ll call you spotted dog. I can’t call you Carleton, can I? What a name.’
‘Look, have a currant. I always carry a few with me. Have one of these in this division. Good, isn’t it?’
‘Juicy.’
‘That’s one of ours, Myatt, Myatt and Page. Now try one of these. What do you think of that?’
‘Look through there in the first class, Amy. Can’t you see her? Too good for us, that’s what she is.’
‘With that Jew? Well, one knows what to think.’
‘I have the greatest respect, of course, for the Roman Catholic Church,’ said Mr Opie. ‘I am not bigoted. As an example of organization . . .’
‘So?’
‘I am silly now.’
‘Juicy.’
‘No, no, that one’s not juicy.’
‘Have I said the wrong thing?’
‘That was one of Stein’s. A cheap inferior currant. The vineyards are on the wrong side of the hills. It makes them dry. Have another. Can’t you see the difference?’
‘Yes, this is dry. It’s quite different. But the other was juicy. You don’t believe me, but it really was. You must have got them mixed.’
‘No, I chose the sample myself. It’s odd. It’s very odd.’
All down the restaurant-cars fell the sudden concerted silence which is said to mean that an angel passes overhead. But through the human silence the tumblers tingled on the table, the wheels thudded along the iron track, the windows shook and sparks flickered like match heads through the darkness. Late for the last service Dr Czinner came down the restaurant-car in the middle of the silence, with knees a little bent as a sailor keeps firm foothold in a stormy sea. A waiter preceded him, but he was unaware of being led. Words glowed in his mind and became phrases. You say that I am a traitor to my country, but I do not recognize my country. The dark downward steps, the ordure against the unwindowed wall, the starving faces. These are not Slavs, he thought, who owe a duty to this frock-coated figure or to that: they are the poor of all the world. He faced the military tribunal sitting under the eagles and the crossed swords: It is you who are old-fashioned with your machine-guns and your gas and your talk of country. Unconsciously as he walked the aisle from table to table he touched and straightened the tightly knotted tie and fingered the Victorian pin: I am of the present. But for a moment into his grandiloquent dream obtruded the memory of long rows of malicious adolescent faces, the hidden mockery, the nicknames, the caricatures, the notes passed in grammars, under desks, the ubiquitous whispers impossible to place and punish. He sat down and stared without comprehension at the bill of fare.
Yes, I wouldn’t mind being that Jew. Mr Peters thought during the long angelic visitation, he’s got a nice skirt all right, all right. Not pretty. I wouldn’t say pretty, but a good figure, and that, said Mr Peters to himself, watching his wife’s tall angularity, remembering her murmurous stomach, that’s the most important thing.
It was odd. He had chosen the samples with particular care. It was natural of course that even Stein’s currants should not all be inferior, but when so much was suspected, a further suspicion was easy. Suppose, for example, Mr Eckman had been doing a little trade on his own account, had allowed Stein some of the firm’s consignment of currants, in order temporarily to raise the quality, had, on the grounds of that improved quality, indeed, induced Moult’s to bid for the business. Mr Eckman must be having uneasy moments now, turning up the time-table, looking at his watch, thinking that half Myatt’s journey was over. Tomorrow, he thought, I will send a telegram and put Joyce in charge; Mr Eckman shall have a month’s holiday. Joyce will keep an eye on the books, and he pictured the scurryings to and fro, as in an ants’ nest agitated by a man’s foot, a telephone call from Eckman to Stein or from Stein to Eckman, a taxi ordered here and dismissed there, a lunch for once without wine, and then the steep office steps and at the top of them the faithful rather stupid Joyce keeping his eye upon the books. And all the time, at the modern flat, Mrs Eckman would sit on her steel sofa knitting baby clothes for the Anglican mission, and the great dingy Bible, Mr Eckman’s first deception, would gather dust on its unturned leaf.
Q. C. Savory pushed the button of the spring blind and moonlight touched his face and his fish knife and turned the steel rails on the quiet up-line to silver. The snow had stopped falling and lay piled along the banks between the sleepers, lightening the darkness. A few hundred yards away the Danube flickered like mercury. He could see tall trees fly backwards and telegraph-poles, which caught the moonlight on their metal arms as they passed. While silence held the carriage, he put the thoughts of Janet Pardoe away from him; he wondered what terms he could use to describe the night. It is all a question of choice and arrangement; I must show not all that I see but a few selected sharp points of vision. I must not mention the shadows across the snow, for their colour and shape are indefinite, but I may pick out the scarlet signal lamp shining against the white ground, the flame of the waiting-room fire in the country station, the bead of light on a barge beating back against the current.
Josef Grünlich stroked the sore on his leg where the revolver pressed and wondered: How many hours to the frontier? Would the frontier guards have received notice of the murder? But I am safe. My passport is in order. No one saw me take the bag. There’s nothing to connect me with Kolber’s flat. Ought I to have dropped the gun somewhere? he wondered, but he reassured himself: it might have been traced to me. They can tell miraculous things nowadays from a scratch on the bore. Crime grew more unsafe every year; he had heard rumours of a new finger-print stunt, some way by which they could detect the print even when the hand had been gloved. But they haven’t caught me yet with all their science.