Читать книгу Harmer John - Hugh Walpole - Страница 13

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Johanson turned to the boy. “Know any one called Benjamin Shortt, Fred?” he asked.

“What! Old feller with long hair below his collar—looks as though ’e never washed—teaches droring?”

“That sounds like it!”

“I know—used to go to the High School to teach the girls. Hard luck on the girls!”

They started on the day’s engagements. “Nobody this mornin’, sir,” said Fred. “Mr. Barnstaple, 3 to 4, Major Comstock, 4.15 to 5.15. To-morrer mornin’s the Choir School, 10 to 11. The Band of Hope’s comin’ along to see you this afternoon, sir, leastways the head man, Mr. Tittmuss.”

“And what does he want?”

“Exercisin’ the bodies of the Band of Hope, I shouldn’t wonder,” said Fred, “and they need it. But he won’t pay much. Mean as mustard.”

Johanson got up, stretching his long arms. “It’s this hanging about is the hardest,” he said, talking to Fred as though he were his equal in age, experience, size and authority. “I’m impatient. I want to be forward with this. When I look out through this window I would wish to go down into the market and bring them all up here. They all of them wants something done to them. It’s a shame all men doesn’t realise how strong they might be!”

“Most of ’em haven’t got time, sir, I expect,” said Fred. He looked up with intense admiration at Johanson’s size and strength. “If you’d been born small and crooked,” he said, “you wouldn’t know you were small and crooked. Leastways you’d be proud of yourself for being small and crooked, think it made you more interestin’ or something.”

Johanson laughed. “They are coming in all right, though, aren’t they, Fred? New ones every day.”

Fred beamed. “Why, we’re doing something wonderful, sir,” he said. “All the town’s talking of us. We’ll be famous right through Glebeshire in a week or two!” The door-bell rang. Johanson went through into the inner room. The door opened. Three clergymen appeared.

“Mr. Johanson in?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Could he see me for a moment?”

“I’m sure he’d see you, sir, at any time.” Fred’s face was beaming. This was Mr. Longstaffe, friend and chief supporter of the establishment. With him the Reverend Canon Ronder, the Reverend Canon Bentinck-Major, dignitaries of the Cathedral. An important visit for the establishment.

Fred disappeared—reappeared.

“Will you come through, gentlemen? Mr. Johanson will see you.”

They went through to the inner room, the little one where important interviews (this was the first the establishment had encountered) were held.

Of the four men Tom Longstaffe was the most nervous and self-conscious. That little man had the virtue or the defect (whichever way this modern cynical world may see it) of greeting a new friendship with terrific enthusiasm and of working in every possible direction for that new friend like a little Mercury. He had taken to this man quite enormously, taken to him for himself, taken to him for the work that he wanted to do. There was nothing this town needed so much as new physical vigour, something to brace everybody up and send the citizens skidding along in fresh, healthy directions.

Here was the very man, a man also who was himself after Longstaffe’s own heart in sincerity, honesty, courage. So far so good, but the next step was difficult. Johanson and his little gymnasium would never get anywhere without the patronage of Polchester’s Upper Ten, and Longstaffe had not himself penetrated so deeply into the sacred circle that he was thoroughly at home in there.

Everything was a little more difficult because of Johanson’s simplicity. Longstaffe was simple, but not so simple as Johanson. Johanson, eager though he was for his venture to succeed, confessing indeed to Longstaffe that he had put every penny of his savings into it and that therefore succeed it must, nevertheless seemed to fail to understand the real importance of Ronder, of Wistons, of Mrs. Sampson, of Lady St. Leath. He was convinced, it appeared, that all reasonable people would realise at once the advantage of good health, the splendour of physical fitness, and that the rest would follow. They were all, it appeared, good and wise and intelligent. That there should be cliques and rivalries and jealousies seemed never to occur to him at all, and that he should go out and solicit favours was an obvious impossibility. It was true that people were coming in just now thick and fast, but when the novelty was over only the patronage of the Cathedral, the School, the Cathedral set would keep it going. Johanson was so simple about people that Longstaffe could only wonder where, then, he had lived all his days. Were they all angels in Scandinavia? Was no one false, jealous, mean, spiteful, dishonest in Copenhagen?

Oh yes, there were such, Johanson did not doubt, but he had been very fortunate. And he would be still more fortunate here. Were not all Englishmen honest, and was not he, Johanson, a wonderful reader of character? He could tell at a glance, he was never deceived. And nine out of ten human beings were honest and true. After all, he had seen the world. His father had been a bad one. There was a bad man if you like, but he had never had a proper chance, and when he was sober he was not so bad after all....

“But don’t you understand,” Longstaffe had broken in desperately, “that in a little town like this there are dozens of intrigues and sets within sets? It’s always so in a small town. You must choose your friends and stick by them—but you can’t be friends with every one.”

Johanson had clapped Longstaffe on the shoulder with a mighty smack. “Well, I shall stick by you,” he said, “for ever”—which finally had nothing to do with the real question. So, when Longstaffe had met Ronder and Bentinck-Major in the High Street and Ronder had stopped to talk and, soon afterwards, had mentioned Johanson’s name, and Longstaffe, on impulse, had asked them to come with him to see him, he had wondered as he walked with them through the market-place whether he had been wise. Johanson was a queer fellow. These were important men, and Johanson might not realise it in the least ...

It appeared that he did not. He was completely at his ease. He asked them to sit down, and then stood opposite them leaning against the wall, smiling upon them as though they were his long-lost brothers.

Little Bentinck-Major was at once uneasy. As he explained afterwards to his wife, “The fellow leaning against the wall looked tall enough to go through the ceiling and broad enough to break the window and door at the same moment without stirring. I was sitting down, my dear, and although I am not exactly a dwarf, never felt, physically, so small in my life.” So he sat there fingering his gold watch-chain, looking at his neat, shining boots, touching, once and again, his neat, shining hair.

Ronder, on the other hand, was at his best. He liked this man at first sight.

Ronder always liked men better than women, liked them better and trusted them more. In the furthering of his many little schemes and plans (schemes and plans never malevolent in their intention) he found that women were easier to use and adapt, and therefore he liked men better. He despised always his agents, and when a man became soft and pliable in his hands he always noticed that he had much in his character that was feminine. Here, he saw at once, was a proper man. Himself was now growing much too fat, and some exercises, some massage, perhaps, would be an admirable thing. And upon that instant seizure on an opportunity for his own increased personal comfort there began to work in him a little moving pattern of possible combinations and developments. This man might have his place in larger issues than the reduction of Ronder’s figure. You cannot be the most important man in Polchester for ten years without much manipulation of human beings, and the manipulation of human beings (always with good intentions) was the very breath of Ronder’s nostrils.

Yes, but Johanson was of course entirely unaware of all this. What, at first, he was mainly aware of (as he told Longstaffe afterwards) was Ronder’s figure. He had not for a long time seen anything so fat and round and also so neat and shining. Fat men, he had often noticed, were as a rule untidy, creased as to their garments, unbrushed and spotted. But Ronder was a miracle of smartness from the tips of his boots to the splendour of his admirably parted hair. His face (that of a blooming cherub) was kindly indeed, his expression clever and animated. In three minutes Johanson liked him very much indeed.

Ronder, in fact, took trouble to be his most charming, and how charming that could be every one in Polchester by this time well knew. So genuine, too. When his heart wanted to burst through his waistcoat he allowed it to burst through; the pleasantest sensation he knew—like a thorough and hearty sneeze. He loved to be moved warmly towards people—he was moved warmly towards Johanson now.

The little meeting ended by being a great success. Johanson did not say very much. Ronder talked for everybody. This was exactly, in his opinion, what Polchester needed. He knew that it was what he, Ronder, needed. Johanson might count on his hearty co-operation. It was not much that he could do, but he had his little influence in the place, and, such as it was, it should be all at Johanson’s service. Then there was the School—the School. Would Johanson have time for some work up there? He thought that a word from him in that direction ... He had some slight influence....

Longstaffe, watching his friend, was immensely relieved. Johanson took Ronder’s advances just as they should be taken—with friendliness but no sycophancy, thanking him but with no effusiveness, looking him straight between the eyes, and shaking hands so heartily at the last that the Canon’s bones must have remembered for a good hour afterwards.

“I don’t hope,” Johanson said at the last with his courteous bow, “that you shall think that what we have here is as it will be. Everything begins. I mean that the continuation shall be very good.”

He suddenly turned on Bentinck-Major, who was picking his way delicately like a hen round the parallel-bars.

“I do hope you like it,” he said rather as a child might who has built a castle of bricks and turns to his father for approval.

“Oh yes, yes,” Bentinck-Major stammered nervously—“Delightful! Delightful! Charming!”

Johanson tossed his head. “It shall be better,” he said as though Bentinck-Major had criticised him, “much, much better.”

In the outer room they saw as they came through an old man waiting there. Not so old in years, perhaps, but shabby with that hopelessness that can only come to a human being when he has abandoned altogether even the semblance of a struggle.

He presented at first sight the image of a decayed actor in the familiar Irving pattern—hooked nose, long wispy hair falling over a greasy velvet collar, tightly buttoned long faded black coat, thin bony frame, large patent-leather boots with a crack across the toe. His face was anxious, submissive, a little furtive.

Seeing Ronder and Bentinck-Major, who were, it appeared, sufficiently well known to him to call a faint flush into his sallow features, he bowed low. Ronder gave him a sharp glance. It was as though he realised that now that he had taken Johanson under his protection, had drawn him into the world of his manœuvres, he must attend to every detail of his circumstances, to his visitors above all. They had become of great significance to him.

He bowed to the shabby old man, repeated his assurances to Johanson and departed, followed by Bentinck-Major.

Longstaffe for a moment remained. He knew this shabby figure well enough, and felt impatient at his appearance there.

Were the charlatans and the beggars of the place already gathering round his friend? He had himself a tender heart, but no good could come from association with old back-me-downs like this old Benjamin Shortt—right on the back of Ronder, too.

But Johanson apparently realised nothing of the kind. Fred superciliously had given the old man’s name—“You had a letter from him this morning, sir”—and Johanson had at once gripped the shabby one’s dingy hand as heartily as before he had gripped Ronder’s plump one, and in his eyes shone a light of kindliness and compassion. He turned to Longstaffe.

“You’ll excuse me? I must talk to my friend here. He has written to me. Heartily thanks for your goodness in bringing your friends to see me. One day I will show you how I am grateful.”

He put his hands on Longstaffe’s shoulders, shaking him a little. “Good-bye,” he said. He burst out laughing. “That’s a fat clergyman,” he said, “if he wants massage he will have it. And it shall hurt too!”

Then he turned back and led the way into the other room, followed apprehensively by Mr. Shortt. He sat the man down in the chair but now occupied by Canon Ronder, then himself sat down close to him, balanced on the end of the table, his long legs swinging.

“Mr. Shortt, half an hour ago I read your letter. Thank you for writing it. It was good of you.”

The man’s eyes filled with tears, filled too readily, a cynical observer might have fancied. “Oh, Mr. Johnson, when our friend Mr. Longstaffe—he seemed in something of a hurry this morning I fancied—told me the other night of your projects and ambitions for our town, my heart swelled with gladness, and I said to myself, ‘I will not delay, I will go at once and put myself at the feet of this stranger who is realising at last dreams—dreams—’ ”

He paused. He pulled out a very grimy handkerchief and wiped his eyes. “Forgive me, sir,” he said, “I have not been well of late.... It is too much....”

“You’re hungry, that’s what you are,” said Johanson, “wait a moment.” He swung off the table and went out. Soon he returned. “You will have some sandwiches in a minute. I’ve sent the boy out. You can eat them in here where you shan’t be interrupted.”

Mr. Shortt blinked his eyes. “Your goodness—coming after these hard years.... Since my wife died five years ago I have had nothing but tribulation. I must tell you,” he hesitated, “in my letter there was something that was untrue. It is two years now since I last instructed the young ladies of the High School. It was a foolish lie, because you would discover it so quickly. I have here some drawings—” He fumbled with a dirty roll of paper.

He produced something for Johanson’s inspection. Johanson took them in his hands. They were drawings, rather faded now, copies—Michael Angelo’s “Moses,” Verrocchio’s “Madonna and Child” from the Bargello, a baby from one of Mino da Fiesole’s tombs, and here his beloved Donatello, two of them, the David with the helmet and the St. George.

They had never been very good drawings, and now they were faded and smudged, but Johanson’s heart beat excitedly as he looked at them.

“Oh, you’re in luck to have been there,” he said. “Soon, when, this is successful, I too will go. We shall go together and then return and have a school for sculptors and artists and painters and make this town beautiful, keeping the old lovely things and making new things in tune with them, and the Cathedral above all ... and fine men and women all working for the love of their town....”

He began to stride about the room.

The man watched him with blurred eyes which occasionally he rubbed. Fred came in with a pile of sandwiches on a plate and a bottle of Bass. Mr. Shortt gave him a sharp look to see whether he were laughing or sneering at him, then between gulps and bites he murmured, “Oh yes, indeed, ... glor-i-ous ... glor-i-ous! Our beautiful town.... My dreams coming true, Mr. Johnson, indeed they are. What is life but the pursuit of beauty? And all these years I have been labouring in the wilderness alone—and now at last when I had almost given up hope.” A tear welled into his eye and slowly trickled down his cheek, to mingle with the crumbs of sandwich on his chin.

Johanson turned round abruptly and stood over him. He was tremendously excited. He raised his arms. That already when he had been in the place only a month or two men and women should be springing from the very stones of the city as it were to join him with their enthusiasm!

“We can found our school here, we can make it perhaps famous throughout the country—a new life, simpler, kinder, a new town rising out of the beautiful old one, every one happier!”

He wrung Mr. Shortt’s hand again. “All your life you have worked here and not seen your dreams realised, now at last they may come true....”

Mr. Shortt looked at the plate to see whether the sandwiches were finished. They were. He rose slowly from the chair wiping the crumbs from his mouth with a very dirty handkerchief.

“Indeed, indeed, Mr. Johnson, this is a very great moment in my life. You can be assured now and always of my cordial co-operation. This is truly a happy day for me.” He paused, looking anxiously about him. “There is one little matter,” he glanced down at his boots; “coming this morning I was compelled to miss a possible engagement. Five shillings would, I imagine, cover the loss. I quite understand, of course, if you find it impossible—”

Johanson had not heard him. He was staring towards the window. “Five shillings would cover—” repeated Mr. Shortt anxiously.

Johanson wheeled round. “What’s that? Five shillings? Why, of course....” From his trouser-pocket he produced some silver. “There, Mr. Shortt. Come and see me soon again, remember. We shall have much to discuss....”

Fred appeared in the doorway. “Two ladies to see you, sir,” he said. Mr. Shortt started apprehensively. “Well, well, I must hasten back to my work. I have found a friend, Mr. Johnson. I shall never forget that to-day I have found a friend....”

He shuffled off. In the outer room he almost shuffled into Mrs. Penethen and her daughter Maude. He bowed and, his head bent, disappeared through the door.

Miraculous morning! Johanson in his happiness could have kissed Mrs. Penethen, who greeted him with her customary severe smile.

“I have no right to intrude, Mr. Johnson,” she said, “I can see that you are very busy, but we are passing and I have a little matter that will take me only a minute to discuss with you.”

“Certainly,” he said, smiling at Maude, “I am delighted to see you.”

They moved, the three of them, into the little room, and all stood together looking out of the window on to the market-place, now soaked with sun under a faint pigeon-blue sky. What Mrs. Penethen wanted to say was that March 13 was Maude’s birthday and she intended to give a little party. Would Mr. Johnson honour them with his presence? Only perhaps a dozen people—Mr. Ben Squires, her brother-in-law, Mrs. Boultewood (a friend from girlhood) and her daughter, Miss Midgeley and Mr. Fletch, and one or two more? In the kitchen, of course, supper and then a dance. They would have old Mr. Harty, who played the fiddle like a two-year-old. Now, what Mrs. Penethen wanted to ask was not only would Mr. Johnson come, but would he ask his friend Mr. Longstaffe? Did he think that he dared? It would be so nice to have a clergyman, and Mr. Longstaffe was so popular. It would just give a finish to the evening. Mrs. Penethen didn’t dare herself ... but perhaps Mr. Johnson wouldn’t mind....

“Why, of course I’ll ask him!” Johanson cried, “and I’m sure he’ll come unless he have some other engagement. I’ll ask him, that’s certain.”

Mrs. Penethen’s stern features relaxed as she thanked him. What a charming place he had here. It really was charming. She moved into the other room to examine everything and began one of her dignified polite conversations with Billy. The other two remained beside the window.

They spoke no word. Johanson, staring down into the market-place, saw nothing. Slowly, as though a thin paper sheet had been held before his eyes and was suddenly split by some strong hand, he beheld the scene of his now so familiar dream. He heard the fountain. The long white staircase came into view, the cool of the dark sheltered garden, the long, high, empty room with the shining floor, utter peace, the voice of the birds.

He had never known such happiness. In another moment he would be shown the secret of life, some secret so simple that it would be amazing that for so long every one could have been so blind—

He turned to the girl. Almost on his lips were the words, “Come and see my garden. It is so quiet there and no one will interrupt us....” The girl’s hand touched the back of his. “Well, Mr. Johnson, we must be getting along,” she said almost as though she had been waiting for something that had not happened, and was disappointed. “We’ve got ever so much to do this morning.”

She waited yet a moment looking up at him. She knew that she was bewitching when she looked up at some one, her chin tilted ever so slightly. Then, as he did not move, she turned with a little shrug of her shoulders and walked out of the room.