Читать книгу The Interloper - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 6

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Monica was conscious, during those few hours spent at the quaint little Italian hill town, of a curious feeling of isolation, of removal from any form of sympathetic contact with any one of her companions. She seemed suddenly to be breathing a different atmosphere, to be almost passionately anxious to escape from the humdrum conversation of the table, from the tourist-like proclivities of her mother who insisted upon buying picture postcards, and her father and Sir Stephen who wandered out to find a decent café. Dinner itself was a curious meal, served in a large, chilly-looking apartment, with a stone floor and bare walls. There was a long table in the middle of the room at which were gathered a sprinkling of tradespeople, commercial travellers, and wine growers. Monica and her party occupied one of the side tables, of which there were several. Next to them three priests ate with garrulous content; farther on were two or three Americans, and in the corner an artist and his wife. As the meal progressed the smell of the food and the heat of the closed stove became almost insufferable, and, as soon as she could, Monica made her escape into the little courtyard, with its queer pieces of statuary and cracked tiles. Up above was a wonderful pool of deep blue sky, with an amazing setting of stars, and in the middle of the square was an orange tree, whose fragrance made the stagnant air almost faint. On the other side of the wall was a row of dark cypress trees—black pencils against the clear sky. Monica lit a cigarette and sat upon a stone seat. Presently Eustace came out and joined her.

"The car's all right," he announced. "We're going to start at nine o'clock. Let's stroll round and have a look at the place."

Monica followed him gladly enough out into the street. Again she felt that curious sense of isolation which had crept over her at dinner time. Every shutter was closed. The city with its narrow streets and tall grey-stone houses was like a city of the dead. Even Eustace seemed a creature from another world.

"Rummy old place to be stranded at," he observed. "Might have been worse, though. The beds are all right, and the dinner wasn't bad."

"How about the lady at the café?" she enquired.

Eustace groaned.

"Terrible!" he admitted. "These foreign places are all the same. They promise you no end and give you nothing. She was fat, had yellow teeth and couldn't speak a word of English. Think I shall turn in early. What do you say?"

"I wonder what's become of the people?" she speculated. "They can't go to bed so early as this."

"Making merry behind closed doors and blinds, I expect," he remarked. "You can see light through the chinks of many of these shutters. There's music going on at some of the places, too. Jolly inhospitable, I call it."

Monica stopped short. On their left was a narrow passageway with a descending flight of stone steps—a passageway which seemed like a gash cloven through the mass of incongruous grey-stone buildings. At the far end was a strange little segment of panorama—a glimpse of the lights, few and far between, in the valley below. It seemed as though from the end of the passage one stepped off into a pool of space.

"That must lead to the city wall, Eustace. Let's go," she suggested.

He followed her lazily. The way was longer than it seemed, unlit and gloomy. At the end, however, they were rewarded. They ascended a few unexpected and remarkably steep steps and were on the ramparts.

"It's like leaning over the side of an airship," Monica declared.

"It makes me giddy," Eustace grumbled.

"If only there were a moon," she sighed, looking doubtfully into the great gulf below.

Where vision was denied her, however, sound intervened. From the quaint little cathedral which they had visited earlier in the day came the sound of the chiming of the hour, of a musical peal of time-mellowed bells. The notes had scarcely died away when, from farther off, came the harsh clanging of the monastery bell. Monica leaned forward eagerly. There were a few faint lights burning there. Above must be the hill. Was he still praying, she wondered, the solitary figure she had left battling with his misery? What were his thoughts? Had he really faith enough to believe that salvation in this world at any rate could come from the inertia of life? To what heights had he raised himself during these hours? Men had told her that the sound of her voice and the sight of her were hard things to forget. She had willed that he should find it so. Had she succeeded—ever so little?

"Let's be moving," Eustace suggested, yawning.

They made their way back through the slumbering city. Monica found a sleepy woman to show her to her room—a large, strangely empty apartment, into whose further recesses the fluttering illumination of the solitary candle could scarcely penetrate. The walls were of light-coloured but ancient wood, pierced here and there with worm-holes. In the far corner was a small shrine, a roughly executed wooden image of the Virgin. Monica gazed at it for some moments thoughtfully. The sight of it seemed somehow to complete her unsettlement. She lay down at last and tried to sleep. For an hour or so, perhaps, she dosed. Then she was as wide awake as though it were midday. The room was in pitch darkness, but through the open window opposite she could see the glimmering of a single street lamp. She stretched out her hand and lit the candle. By degrees the various objects in the room began to assume their natural shapes. As she lay there, the sense of isolation seemed to come back to her with renewed conviction. She felt as though, without warning, she had arrived at a break in her life—a break as abrupt and complete as the fall from that little flight of stone steps in the town into the sleeping gulf below. She seemed to look back a long distance, even to recent events. Her presentation at Court, her first ball, her life of easy luxury, almost splendour, punctuated by one or two very one-sided love affairs. There was no man in her life of whom she found herself even able to think. The larger, more vital problems of existence had scarcely even presented themselves to her. They loomed up suddenly in that silent hour—problems of life and death, of right-doing and wrong-doing. She had no past but there was a future, which seemed to her at that moment almost menacing. Was life meant to be taken seriously—as anything but a game? If so, not only she but every one of her kind was walking in the darkness. Beyond that light which she could see from her pillow, somewhere a little higher up, Francis must still be praying on the ramparts. His was a madman's device to escape the problems of life, but a sense of the mistaken spirituality of it suddenly seized her. This poor fool had something which she had missed—saw greater things in his narrow dreams than had ever come to her. She loved luxury, fine clothing, beautiful surroundings, and easy ways. What had she as a corrective—she, or the others? Nothing? Four o'clock chimed from the Cathedral bells. Already the darkness outside was less intense. Suddenly, as it seemed to her, without volition, certainly without any attempt at making up her mind, she sprang out of bed and began to dress. It was the first time in her life that she had ever risen in such a way, but she accepted it entirely as a matter of course. She twisted her thick coils of brown hair into their place with nervous fingers. Without knowing why, she felt that she was in a hurry. She stole down the stone stairs on tiptoe, tried one door after another, until she found one unlocked, then stole into the street. She had almost to grope her way out of the town. As she began to climb, however, she found the darkness had gone. A new twilight seemed to envelop her—a twilight of grey and silver. Birds were singing in all the trees. Eastwards there was a lightening in the sky—the dawn even of colour. A finger of faint pink grew wider as she watched. She hastened on. A peasant's cart met her on its way into the town, full of vegetables and country produce. The man in charge raised himself from his recumbent position to gaze at her in amazement as she passed by. There was a line of green now underneath the pink and a thin clear shaft of saffron beneath that. She quickened her pace. This was the dawn coming. She feared that she might be too late—for what?... Everything seemed as she had left it when she reached the little lone fragment of the ramparts. The young man was still on his knees, recumbent, a shapeless mass with his black cloak around him. She moved swiftly to his side and stood there for a moment. The murmur of words ceased from his lips. He looked up—saw her and struggled to his feet. There were lines under his eyes. His night's vigil seemed to have aged him.

"What are you doing here?" he asked harshly.

"All through the night," she told him, "I have lain sleepless. I could not get you out of my thoughts. I felt that I must speak to you once more before it was too late."

"Why should you think of me?" he demanded. "We are strangers."

"No two people in this world are strangers," she pleaded. "We are fellow creatures following a common way. I have done nothing but think since I left you. Last night I spoke too lightly. I reasoned foolishly. This morning—listen—I am as serious as you."

"You spoke to me of love and the joys of living," he muttered. "I want none of them."

"I was wrong," she admitted. "It is not for the sake of pleasure alone that I want you to turn your back upon that gate. I am very ignorant and I know that I am the wrong person to plead with you, but you know, they say sometimes that children see the light where their elders fail. I want to remind you that every human being is born into the world with a purpose. He has his battle to fight in life, his work to accomplish, his place to take amongst his fellows. Life down there is an abstraction and a shadow. There is nothing noble about it. You avoid evil but you reject the good. I would have you take up the burden of your life, whatever it may be, and live it in the sight of all men. That is how one may reach holiness."

She ceased, breathless. Her thoughts travelled so swiftly that time seemed to stand still. It was the most serious moment she had ever experienced. She felt her heart beating madly. He himself was moved in some way. His face was upturned. His eyes still avoided her, but his lips were quivering. Eastwards the sky now had become a bank of glory. She sought for words, passionately conscious of his hesitation. Then the silence in the valley below was broken. As though a door had been opened and a flood of melody released, there came to them the roll of an organ, the far-off sound of men's voices chanting a prayer. There was a change in the young man's face. He listened intently. His lips moved to the music. Somehow or other she found her breath again. Words came to her.

"Francis," she pleaded, "that is the music to help your footsteps when you pass across the borderline from life to death. It isn't meant for the solace of those whose work is undone. Listen, I am not tempting you. I am not begging you to turn away from that gate to seek the easier ways of pleasure and idleness. I ask you—I implore you—to come and do a man's work in the world and earn the peace which comes with accomplishment. The path you choose now is the path of cowards. The music to which you listen is a narcotic for the soul."

Still he made no answer. The music drew nearer and nearer. The monks were ascending the hill. Behind, a little line of peasants' carts were passing. The men and women crossed themselves as they looked towards Francis and scowled at Monica. None of them lingered, however. All the time Francis watched the gate. There was terror in his eyes—terror and frantic hope. The first shaft of quivering sunlight stole down upon his suddenly aged face. Monica realised that with the passing of the night his lips were sealed. She spoke again but this time hopelessly.

"Francis, can't you forget that I am a woman? It isn't my voice that calls you. It isn't my arm that would draw you away. It's duty, Francis. There is no life for a man beyond that gate."

The voices now seemed to be close at hand, on the other side of the wall. The chant ended in a little burst of solemn but glorious melody. Slowly the iron gate was opened by some unseen hand. The voices died away. There was a deep silence. Francis, with a gesture which might almost have been of despair, turned towards the open portal. Once more she cried out. This time her voice was more natural and more human.

"Francis, turn round!" she implored. "If you won't stay for duty's sake, stay for mine. Francis!"

He came to a standstill. He was still a yard from the gates. Monica tried to call out once more, but there was a sob in her throat. The singing recommenced, softly at first, as though from the throats of boys. Her eyes were blurred with tears. She dashed them away. In that moment Francis had disappeared. The gate was closed. Once more the chant swelled in volume—louder and louder and more triumphant it grew. As Monica listened her face hardened. She moved forward to the edge of the ramparts and looked downwards. She watched the little procession of monks threading their way down the precipitous path, Francis walking alone, behind. She watched them, dry-eyed, but with a surge of curious emotion, unanalysable even by herself. Only she knew that some vital possibility seemed to have dropped out of her life, that she had stepped back, a little bruised and scarred, from an experience which was still inexplicable to her, to the ways of a life which, in a sense, would never seem the same again.