Adrian Glynde (25 page)

“No, I'm afraid not,” said Adrian.

Oliver was silent. He was thinking, and smiled drily at his thoughts. “I'm afraid it's undeniable,” he said at last, “that the peculiar nature of my coal-heaving is that it is limited exclusively to the mind. Despite my strong feelings on the subject and the flood of words I let loose about it, I have never stirred a finger to put it, or anything equivalent to it, into practice. And as for doing anything useful, even in the mental department, haven't I spent half a lifetime in writing poetry which appeared to be of no use whatsoever? It's only in the last twenty years, you know, that people have begun to take any notice of me. Before that, my books didn't sell three hundred copies.”

“So your coal-heaving is a sort of prick of conscience?”

“Yes, a moment of revolt against writing poems for their own sakes only.”

“But nowadays all your work has become useful because people have learnt to appreciate it.”

“Yes, now that I have almost got accustomed to doing without appreciation.” He paused, and then said: “But no! That's not true. I value appreciation of my work. What I have grown out of is the desire for personal applause. And that is just as well, for the sage has no need of applause. I am not a sage, but I have achieved at least that quality of one, There was once a king—or
there will have been if I ever get the poem written—a king of … where shall we say? … of Khor. Because you will have noticed, Adrian, that if one wishes to make a very wise or a very beneficent character in the least credible one has to locate him outside the bounds of Europe. There was once, then, a king of Khor, whose subjects were an energetic, intelligent, but undisciplined and irresponsible people. For centuries they had been accustomed to government by tyranny, and it was as a beneficent tyrant that he ruled them when he succeeded his father on the throne. But he saw that if this state of things continued, their unemployed forces would explode and they would destroy themselves. So he began, slowly and unobtrusively, to organise them, to thrust upon them gradually the business of exploiting their energies in small details of self-government. His reforms caused grave discontent. His people complained that he was weak, idle, unable to control them; but by degrees they adapted themselves to the new conditions. When the time was ripe, he again exercised his tyranny in imposing upon them a still greater measure of freedom, and again there were outcries, again he became unpopular, and again the turbulent energies of the nation were safely conducted into wider and more useful channels. At last, by his patent and careful education, he had given them an admirably equipped constitutional government. He had tamed them and he had liberated them. His work, it seemed, was accomplished. And none too soon, for he was by this time a feeble old man. One day, seated in his study, he was overcome by dejection, for it seemed to him, despite all he had achieved, that he had failed in his life's work. As if in answer to his thoughts, his Prime Minister entered unannounced and informed him that, in response to the unanimous wish of the people, the cabinet had that morning resolved to depose him
and elect a president. They regretted that, as a matter of principle, they must also expel him from the country, for the very idea of a king had become hateful to a free people. All that was needed to put these schemes into practise was the royal assent. The old king, having received this information and given his assent, summoned his valet, ordered him to pack his things, and in an hour, unaccompanied except by the valet, left the palace. By slow stages he travelled to another country, the land of Gobi, whose king, a cousin of his, would, he knew, receive him hospitably. In order that his cousin of Gobi should not be totally unprepared for his arrival, he sent a letter ahead of him, telling of all that had happened in his own kingdom and announcing his arrival a few days later. When he reached his journey's end he was almost dead from exhaustion. They laid him on a bed of yellow damask, and by degrees he rallied. When he was to some extent rested, his cousin came to his bedside.' I have come, my dear cousin of Khor,' he said,' to offer my profound sympathy in the days of your failure and affliction.'' My dear cousin and host,' whispered the old king,' I do not deserve nor need your pity, for these are the happiest days I have ever known. Throughout my life I have coerced my people towards liberty, but the final act of liberation could not be performed by coercion. It could be performed only by themselves. I could but drive them, like horses, to the pool and hope that they would smell the water and drink. For the last year I have feared failure: I have waited and waited for a sign, and no sign came. I almost came to believe that I should die on the throne and leave my unhappy country a monarchy. But ten days ago, when my Prime Minister came to me and announced my deposition and expulsion, I knew that I was not to be robbed of the fruit of my life's labour. You see in me, dear cousin, one
of the blessed few who have triumphed.' Having spoken thus, the old king closed his eyes and, with a smile of perfect happiness on his lips, breathed his last breath.”

Adrian left Abbot's Randale in high feather. He was full of energy and keen to get to work. All the good he had got from his months in France seemed to have concentrated itself now into a tireless activity of mind. He was keen to get to grips with this business of music. And, added to the prospect of hard work at the Royal College, was his eagerness to be with Ronny again. How delightful that would be. He would have Ronny to himself at last, and in a much more satisfactory way than at Charminster for they would live intimately yet independently. They would breakfast together every morning, each would be busy with his own affairs during the day, and they would meet again after work and have their evenings together. How lucky he was. His mind suddenly turned to Ellenger, and he remembered that he must persuade Ronny to write to him fairly often.

The afternoon sun shone over the leafless woods and bare fields as the little train from Abbot's Randale rattled along towards Wilmore Junction. At Wilmore he would have a cup of tea and a word with his old friend, and when the little train had deposited him there he left his luggage with the porter and went to the refreshment-room.

Her eyes lit up as she recognised him. “And how are you?” he said in his shy, polite way.

“Oh, I keep very well, thank you,” she replied. “I needn't ask
you
how you are.”

Her pleasant, kindly eyes rested on his face and Adrian understood that she was referring to his colour. “That's left over from the summer,” he said. “I was in France. I did a lot of walking.”

“It's a long time now, isn't it,” she said, “since you first began looking in here?”

“Yes, I suppose it's at least seven years.”

“It must have been winter or early spring, because you had on a coat—a grey coat and a grey cap, I remember. You were only a little chap then.” And he's only a boy now, she thought to herself. He's got a boy's face and he's still shy, for all he's grown so big.

“Seven years is a long time,” said Adrian seriously.

She smiled. “Well, I hope you'll look in now and then during the next seven years.”

“Oh, I'm sure to,” said Adrian. “You see, my grandfather lives at Abbot's Randale. No doubt I'll be wanting fifteen or twenty cups of tea between now and seven years hence.”

Well, anyhow, he looked happy enough this time, she thought to herself after he had gone.

Adrian, having settled himself in the London train, opened his despatch-case and took out a volume of Bach's toccatas which he had not yet tried. His intention was to spend the journey in trying to learn one of these and then play it by heart at the next opportunity. Soon he was absorbed in his task, now staring earnestly at the page, now raising his head and fixing his eyes on the luggage-rack in an attempt to recall a few bars of the music.

When he had done this once or twice he became conscious of the person sitting opposite him. It was a young woman, and she was studying him with lively, amused black eyes. Why should she be amused? Adrian felt a little annoyed at her impertinence, and with a frown dropped his eyes again to the music. She thought it comical, he supposed, that anyone should read music instead of reading a cheap magazine. Probably rather
a silly young woman. He became absorbed in the music again, but just as he was going to raise his eyes again from the page and run over the next passage in his mind, he remembered the young woman and, frowning rather more severely, he kept his eyes lowered. But, after all, she was probably thinking of something else by this time. It would really be too much if she was still staring. He raised his eyes suddenly, to see what she was doing, and there she was, if you please, still examining him with a look of quiet amusement. Adrian was really annoyed, and, to show her that he was, he returned her gaze firmly and stonily for two or three seconds before dropping his eyes again to the music.

But she was not at all abashed. On the contrary, she leaned forward and said: “Do you find you can manage it?”

“Manage what?” said Adrian coldly. She hadn't the least idea, he supposed, of what he was doing.

“To memorise it,” she said.

Then she did know: she wasn't quite so silly after all, then. “Yes,” he said, still rather haughtily, “I'm getting along.”

“Then you must be pretty good at it,” she said. “I've tried, but I can never manage more than a hymn-tune. But don't you know those toccatas?”

“No,” Adrian replied. “I've only just got them.”

“There's a very fine fugue in the third,” she said. “It's in C minor.”

Adrian became interested. Really, she seemed rather nice. She had a small, round face, hair that was almost black, and those lively black eyes. He glanced at her black and white dress and her little black and white hat and approved of them. But just when he had done so, she drove him back into his shell by putting out her hand and actually turning over the pages of the music on his
knee. “There!” she said when she had found the place, “that's it.”

Adrian glanced at the fugue. It
was
a good one; at least, the subject was admirable, and he emerged a little from his shell and glanced up at her. “Yes,” he said, “it does look good.” He leaned forward and they began to talk about music.

She seemed, he was obliged to admit, to know something about it, and soon he was chatting to her quite amicably. He told her he was going to work at the Royal College.

“I was there for a time,” she said, “but I wasn't a success. I was one of the many people who aren't quite good enough. So I gave it up, oh, a long time ago now, when I was about your age.”

Adrian frowned. Really, what did she know about his age? And what right had she suddenly to turn patronising like that?” I shouldn't have supposed,” he said, assuming, in his turn, a touch of loftiness, “that it was such a terrible time ago.”

“Some years, I'm afraid,” she said. “I'm twenty-three, you see, and you, I suppose, must be seventeen.”

Adrian, abashed by her inadequate guess, smiled a little awkwardly. “No, not
quite
so young as that,” he said, with an attempt at manly ease. It was some minutes before he had recovered from his annoyance, but before they reached London they were once again on excellent terms.

When they ran into the dim cavern of Paddington she glanced at the window in surprise. “Are we there already?” she said. Then, as she rose from her seat, she said, regarding him again with those amused black eyes of hers: “Thank you for making the journey go so quickly.”

Adrian was unprepared. He stood up, awkward and
blushing, but before he could think of a polite reply a porter had opened the door.

“Well, good-bye!” she said to him, nodding pleasantly, and before he could answer she had skipped out on to the platform and disappeared.

Adrian was somewhat relieved. He had begun to think that he ought to offer to get her a porter or perhaps help her with her luggage. Now he had been freed from these complications, and, handing his bag to a porter, he got out of the train and walked down the platform towards the van.

Having rung the front-door bell, Adrian waited with mingled feelings of eagerness and agitation on the doorstep of number twenty-nine Lennox Street. It was a year and a half since he had seen Ronny and, now that the moment of their meeting again had come, he felt horribly shy. It seemed to him that he had become a timid little worm of a schoolboy again. The door opened and a maid admitted him. He was disappointed to hear from her that Mr. Dakyn was out. It was already a quarter to seven, and Adrian had expected that Ronny would be back from the office long since.

The maid led him upstairs to the sitting-room and left him there. It was a pleasant, airy room with two long windows reaching to the floor. There was a good fire, and the electric lamp shed a warm light from its orange silk shade. Large double doors opened into another room, which, he concluded, was Ronny's bedroom. He noticed with surprise that the table was set for one only. Could Ronny have forgotten that he was coming? But, in any case, the landlady would have remembered, for Ronny had told him that he had engaged his bedroom for the twenty-third. The absence of Ronny and the single place at the table chilled him a little, and he thought of Ellenger waiting in vain in Victoria Station on that afternoon nearly a year ago when he himself had started for France.

He stood with his hands in his pockets, his back to the fire, examining the room. On the sideboard opposite him stood a bottle of whiskey, two syphons, a bottle of
Italian vermouth. He strolled to one of the windows, drew aside the blind, and looked out into the pallid street. A window in one of the houses opposite was suddenly illuminated, revealing a green-panelled room with red curtains. A maid in white cap and apron flitted busily to and fro, and then came forward to the window, drew the curtains, and shut out the scene.