âWhat are you going to do now?' she asked, and the promptitude and plainness of his answer, âI've told you. I'm getting out at Vienna,' filled her with suspicion. âThat's nice,' she said, âwe'll be together. We can talk. You'll have no objection to an interview now. If you are short of money, our Vienna office will advance you some.' She was aware that he was watching her more closely than ever before. âYes,' he said slowly, âperhaps we can talk,' and she was certain this time that he was lying. He's going to double, she thought, but it was difficult to see his motive. He had no choice but to get out at Vienna or at Budapest; it would be unsafe to travel farther. Then she remembered him at the Kamnetz trial, fully aware that no jury would convict and yet giving his dangerous useless evidence while Hartep waited with the warrant. He's fool enough to do anything, she thought, and wondered for a moment whether, behind the quietness, he was already standing in the dock with his companions, uttering his defence with an eye to the packed gallery. If he goes on, she thought, I'll go, I'll stick to him, I'll have his story, but she felt curiously weak and undecided, for she had no threat left. He was beaten, leaning back in his corner old and hopeless, with the newspaper gathering dust on the floor between them, and he was triumphant, watching her leave the carriage, the Baedeker forgotten on the seat, with nothing but silence for her exclamation: âI'll see you again at Vienna.'
When Miss Warren had gone, Dr Czinner stooped for the paper. His sleeve caught an empty glass and it fell and shattered on the floor. His hand rested on the paper and he stared at the glass, unable to concentrate his thought, unable to decide what it was he had to do, pick up the paper or gather the dangerous sharp scraps. Presently he laid the paper carefully folded across his knees and closed his eyes. He was haunted in his personal darkness by the details of the story that Miss Warren had read; he knew every turn in the stairs in the post office, he could see the exact spot where the barricade had been built. The muddling fools, he thought, and tried to feel hate for the men who had destroyed his hopes. They had ruined him with them. They had left him in an empty house which could not find a tenant because old ghosts were sometimes vocal in the rooms, and Dr Czinner himself now was not even the latest ghost.
If a face peered from a window or a voice was heard upstairs or a carpet whispered, it might have been Dr Czinner seeking to return to a sentient life after five years of burial, working his way round the corners of desks, exposing his transparency before the blackboard and the insubordinate children, crouched in chapel at a service in which the living man had never believed, asking God with the breathing discordant multitude to dismiss him with His blessing.
And sometimes it seemed as if a ghost might return to life, for he had learned that as a ghost he could suffer pain. The ghost had memories; it could remember the Dr Czinner who had been so loved that it was worth while for a hired murderer to fire a revolver at his head. That was the proudest memory of all, of how Dr Czinner sat in the beer-house at the poor corner of the park and heard the shot shatter the mirror behind him and knew it for the final proof of how dearly the poor loved him. But the ghost of Czinner, huddled in a shelter while the east wind swept the front and the grey sea tossed the pebbles, had learned to weep at the memory before returning to the red-brick building and tea and to the children who fashioned subtle barbs of pain. But after the final service and the customary hymns and handshakes the ghost of Czinner found itself again touching the body of Czinner; a touch was all the satisfaction it could get. Now there was nothing left but to leave the train at Vienna and return. In ten days the voices would be singing: âLord receive us with Thy blessing, Once again assembled here.'
Dr Czinner turned a page of the paper and read a little. The nearest he could attain to hate of these muddled men was envy; he could not hate when he remembered details no newspaper correspondent thought it worth while to give, that the man who, after firing his last shot, was bayoneted outside the sorting-room had been left-handed and a lover of Delius's music, the melancholy idealistic music of a man without a faith in anything but death. And that another, who leapt from the third-floor window of the telephone exchange, had a wife scarred and blinded in a factory accident, whom he loved and to whom he was sadly and unwillingly faithless.
But what is left for me to do? Dr Czinner put down the paper and began to walk the compartment, three steps one way to the door, three steps the other way to the window, up and down. A few flakes of snow were falling, but the wind blew the smoke of the engine back across the window, and if the flakes touched the glass at all, they were already grey like scraps of paper. But six hundred feet up, on the hills which came down to the line at Neumarkt, the snow began to lie like beds of white flowers. If they had waited, if they had waited, thought Dr Czinner, and as his mind turned from the dead to the men who lived to be tried, the impossibility of his own easy escape presented itself with such force that he exclaimed in a whisper, âI must go to them.' But what was the use? He sat down again and began to argue with himself that the gesture would have practical value. If I give myself up and stand my trial with them, the world will listen to my defence as it would never listen to me, safe in England. The strengthening of his resolution encouraged him; he grew more hopeful; the people, he thought, will rise to save me, though they did not rise for the others. Again the ghost of Czinner felt close to life, and warmth touched its frozen transparency.
But there were many things to be considered. First he had to avoid the reporter. He must give her the slip at Vienna; it ought not to be difficult, for the train did not arrive till nearly nine, and by that hour of the evening, surely, he thought, she will be drunk. He shivered a little with the cold and the idea of any further contact with that hoarse dangerous woman. Well, he thought, picking up the Baedeker and letting the newspaper drop to the floor, her sting is drawn. She seemed to hate me; I wonder why; some strange pride of profession, I suppose. I may as well go back to my compartment. But when he reached it, he walked on, hands behind back and Baedeker under arm, absorbed by the idea that the ghostly years were over. I am alive again, he thought, because I am conscious of death as a future possibility, almost a certainty, for they will hardly let me escape again, even if I defend myself and others with the tongue of an angel. Faces which were familiar to him looked up as he passed, but they failed to break his absorption. I am afraid, he told himself with triumph, I am afraid.
II
âNot
the
Quin Savory?' asked Janet Pardoe.
âWell,' said Mr Savory, âI don't know of another.'
âThe Great Gay Whirl?'
â
Round,
' Mr Savory corrected her sharply. â
Great Gay Round.
' He put his hand on her elbow and began to propel her down the corridor. âTime for a sherry. Fancy your being related to the woman who's been interviewing me. Daughter? Niece?'
âWell, not exactly related,' said Janet Pardoe. âI'm her companion.'
âBetter not.' Mr Savory's fingers closed more firmly on her arm. âGet another job. You are too young. It's not 'ealthy.'
âHow right you are,' said Janet Pardoe, stopping for a moment in the corridor and turning to him eyes luminous with admiration.
Miss Warren was writing a letter, but she saw them go by. She had laid her writing-pad upon her knee, and her fountain-pen spluttered across the paper, splashing ink and biting deep holes.
Dear Cousin Con [she wrote] I'm writing to you because I've nothing better to do. This is the Orient Express, but I'm not going on to Constantinople. I'm getting out at Vienna. But that's another story. Could you get me five yards of ring velvet? Pink. I'm having my flat done up again, while Janet's away. She's on the same train, but I'm leaving her at Vienna. A job of work really, chasing a hateful old man half across Europe. âThe Great Gay Round' is on board, but of course you don't read books. And a rather charming little dancer called Coral, whom I think I shall take as my companion. I can't make up my mind whether to have my flat re-decorated. Janet says she'll only be away a week. You mustn't on any account pay more than eight-and-eleven a yard. Blue, I think, would suit me, but of course not navy. This man I was telling you about [wrote Miss Warren, following Janet Pardoe with her eyes, digging the pen into the paper] thinks himself too clever for me, but you know as well as I do, don't you, Con, that I can play hell with anyone who thinks that. Janet is a bitch. I'm thinking of getting a new companion. There's a little actress on this train who would suit me. You should see her, the loveliest figure, Con. You'd admire her as much as I do. Not very pretty, but with lovely legs. I really think I must get my flat done up. Which reminds me. You can go up to ten-and-eleven with that ring velvet. I may be going on to Belgrade, so wait till you hear from me again. Janet seems to be getting a pash for this Savory man. But I can play hell with him too if I want to. Good-bye. Look after yourself. Give my love to Elsie. I hope she looks after you better than Janet does me. You've always been luckier, but wait till you see Coral. For God's sake don't forget that ring velvet. Much love. Mabel.
P.S. Did you hear that Uncle John died suddenly the other day almost on my doorstep?
Miss Warren's pen ended the letter in a large pool of ink. She enclosed it in a thick line and wrote
Sorry.
Then she wiped the pen on her skirt and rang the bell for a steward. Her mouth was terribly dry.
Coral Musker stood for a little while in the corridor, watching Myatt, wondering whether what Mabel Warren had suggested was true. He sat with head bent over a pile of papers, running a pencil up and down a row of figures, always returning it to the same numeral. Presently he laid down the pencil and put his head in his hands. Pity for a moment touched her, as well as gratitude. With the knowing eyes hidden he might have been a schoolboy, despairingly engaged on homework which would not come right. She could see that he had taken off his gloves the better to grip the pencil and his fingers were blue with cold; even the ostentation of his fur coat was pathetic to her, for it was hopelessly inadequate. It could not solve his sums or keep his fingers warm.
Coral opened the door and came in. He raised his face and smiled but his work absorbed him. She wanted to take the work away from him and show him the solution and tell him not to let his master know that he had been helped. Who by? she wondered. Mother? Sister? Nothing so distant as a cousin, she thought, sitting down in the easy silence which was the measure of their familiarity.
Because she grew tired of watching through the window the gathering snow she spoke to him: âYou said that I could come in when I wanted to.'
âOf course.'
âI couldn't help feeling a beast,' she said, âgoing away so suddenly and never thanking you properly. You were good to me last night.'
âI didn't like the idea of your staying in the compartment with that man when you were ill,' he said impatiently, tapping with his pencil. âYou needed proper sleep.'
âBut why were you interested in me?' She received the fatal inevitable answer: âI seemed to know you quite well.' He would have gone back to his calculations if it had not been for the unhappy quality of her silence. She could see how he was worried and surprised and a little harassed; he thinks I want him to make love to me, she thought, and wondered, do I? Do I? It would complete the resemblance to other men she had known if he rumpled her hair a bit and pulled her dress open in getting his lips against her breast. I owe him that, she thought, and the accumulated experience of other women told her again that she owed him a good deal more. But how can I pay, she asked herself, if he doesn't press for payment? And the mere thought of performing that strange act when she was not drunk as she supposed some women were, or passionate, but only grateful, chilled her more than the falling snow. She was not even certain how one went about it, whether it would be necessary to spend a whole night with him, to undress completely in the cold carriage. But she began to comfort herself with the thought that he was like other men she had known and was satisfied with very little; the only difference was that he was more generous.
âLast night,' he said, watching her closely while he spoke, and his attitude of attention and his misunderstanding of her silence told her that after all they did not know everything of each other, âlast night I dreamed about you.' He laughed nervously. âI dreamed that I picked you up and took you for a ride and presently you were going to . . .' He paused and evaded the issue. âI felt excited by you.'
She became frightened, as if a moneylender were leaning across his desk and approaching very gently and inexorably to the subject of repayment. âIn your dream,' she said. But he took no notice of her. âThen the guard came along and woke me up. The dream was very vivid. I was so excited that I bought your ticket.'
âYou mean that you thoughtâthat you wantedâ'
The moneylender raised his shoulders, the moneylender sat back behind his desk, and the moneylender rang the bell for a servant to show her out to the street and strangers and the freedom of being unknown. âI just told you this,' he said, âso that you needn't feel you owe me anything. It was the effect of a dream, and when I'd bought the ticket, I thought you might as well use it,' and he picked up his pencil and turned back to his papers. He added formally, without thought, âIt was brash of me to think that for ten poundsâ'
Those words did not at first reach her. She was too confused by her relief, even by the shame of being desirable only in a dream, above all by her gratitude. And then pursuing her out of the silence came the final words with their hint of humilityâthis was unfamiliar. She faced her terror of the bargain, putting out her hand and touching Myatt's face with a gratitude which had borrowed its gesture from an unknown love. âIf you want me to,' she said. âI thought that you were bored with me. Shall I come tonight?' She laid her fingers across the papers on his knee, small square hands with powder lying thick in the hollow of the knuckles, nails reddened at the tip, hiding the rows of numerals, Mr Eckman's calculations and subterfuges and cunning concealments, offering herself with an engaging and pathetic dubiety. He said slowly, half his mind still following Mr Eckman in and out of hidden rooms, âI thought that you disliked me'; he lifted her hands from his papers and said absent-mindedly. âPerhaps because I was Jewish.'