# Fortitude (Walpole)/Book 2/Chapter 3

CHAPTER III
ROYAL PERSONAGES ARE COMING
I
PETER, sitting obscurely in a corner of Herr Gottfried's attic on the evening of this eventful day and listening to that string sextette that was written by Brahms when he was nineteen years of age (and it came straight from the heights of Olympus if any piece of music ever did), was conscious of the eyes of Herr Lutz.
Herr Lutz was Herr Gottfried's greatest friend and was notable for three things, his enormous size, his surpassing skill on the violoncello and his devoted attachment to the veriest shrew of a little sharp-boned wife that ever crossed from Germany into England. For all these things Peter loved him, but Herr Lutz was never very actively conscious of Peter because from the moment that he entered Herr Gottfried's attic to the moment he left it his soul was wrapped in the music and in nothing else whatever. Tonight as usual he was absorbed and after the second movement of the sextette had come to a most rapturous conclusion he was violently dissatisfied and pulled them back over it again, because they had been ragged and their enthusiasm had got the better of their time and they were altogether disgraceful villains, but through all of this his grey eyes were upon Peter.
Peter, watching from his dark corner even felt that the 'cello was being played especially for his benefit and that Herr Lutz was talking all the time to him through the medium of his instrument. It may have been that he himself was in a state of most exalted emotion, and never until the end of all things mortal and possibly all things eternal will he forget that sextette by Brahms; he may perhaps have put more into Herr Lutz than was really there, but it is certain that he was conscious of the German's attention.
As is common to all persons of his age and condition he ​was amazed at the glorified vision of everyday things. In Herr Gottfried's flat there was a model of Beethoven in plaster of Paris, a bed, and a tin wash-hand stand, a tiny bookshelf containing some tattered volumes of Reclame's Universal Bibliothek, a piano and six cane-bottomed chairs covered at the moment by the stout bodies of the six musicians—nothing here to light the world with wonder!—and yet to-night, Peter, sitting on a cushion in a dark corner watched the glories of Olympus; the music of heaven was in his ear and before him, laughing at him, smiling, vanishing only to reappear more rapturous and beautiful than ever was the lady, the wonderful and only lady.
His cheeks were hot and his heart was beating so loudly that it was surely no wonder that Herr Lutz had discovered his malady. The sextette came to an end and the six musicians sat, for a moment, silent on their chairs whilst they dragged themselves into the world that they had for a moment forsaken. That was a great instant of silence when every one in the room was concerned entirely with their souls and had forgotten that they so much as had bodies at all. Then Herr Lutz gathered his huge frame together, stuck his hand into his beard and cried aloud for drink.
Beer was provided—conversation was, for the next two hours, volcanic. When twelve o'clock struck in the church round the corner the meeting was broken up.
Herr Lutz said to Peter, “There is still the ‘verdammte’ fog. Together we will go part of the way.”
So they went together. But on the top of the dark and crooked staircase Herr Gottfried stopped Peter.
“Boy,” he said and he rubbed his nose with his finger as he always did when he was nervous and embarrassed, “I shouldn't go to the shop for a week or two if I were you.”
“Not go?” said Peter astonished.
“No—for reason why—well—who knows? The days come and they go, and again it will be all right for you. I should rub up the Editors, I should—”
“Rub up the Editors?” repeated Peter still confused.
“Yes—have other irons, you know—often enough other irons are handy—”
“Did Zanti tell you to say this to me?”
​“No, he says nothing. It is only I—as a friend, you understand—”
“Well, thank you very much,” said Peter at last. Herr Gottfried, he reflected, must think that he, Peter, had mints of money if he could so lightly and on so slender a warning propose his abandoning his precious two pounds a week. Moreover there was loyalty to Mr. Zanti to be considered. . . . Anyway, what did it all mean?
“I can't go,” he said at last, “unless Zanti says something to me. But what are they all up to?”
“Seven years,” said Herr Gottfried darkly, “has the Boy been in the shop—of so little enquiring a mind is he.”
And he would say nothing further. Peter followed Herr Lutz' huge body into the street. They took arms when they encountered the fog and went stumbling along together.
“You are in lof,” said Herr Lutz, breathlessly avoiding a lamp post.
“Yes,” said Peter, “I am.”
“Ah,” said Herr Lutz giving Peter's arm a squeeze. “It is the only thing—The—Only—Thing. . . . However it may be for you—bad or ill—whether she scold or smile, it is a most blessed state.”
He spoke when under stress of emotion, in capitals with a pause before the important word.
“It won't come to anything,” said Peter. “It can't possibly. I haven't got anything to offer anybody—an uncertain two pounds a week.”
“You have a—Career,” said Herr Lutz solemnly, “I know—I have often watched you. You have written a—Book. Karl Gottfried has told me. But all that does not matter,” he went on impetuously. “It does not matter what you get—It is—Being—in—Love—The—divine—never—to—be—equalled—State—”
The enormous German stopped on an island in the middle of the road and waved his arms. On every side of him through the darkness the traffic rolled and thundered. He waved his arms and exulted because he had been married to a shrew of a wife for thirty years. During that time she had never given him a kind word, not a loving look, but Peter knew that out of all the fog and obscurity that life ​might bring to him that Word, sprung though it might be out of Teutonic sentiment and Heller's beer, that word, at any rate, was true.
II
London, in the morning, recovered from the fog and prepared to receive Foreign Personages. They were not to arrive for another week, but it was some while since anything of the kind had occurred and London meant to carry it out well. The newspapers were crowded with details; personal anecdotes about the Personages abounded—a Procession was to take place, stands began to climb into the air and the Queen and her visitors were to have addresses presented to them at intervals during the Progress.
To Peter this all seemed supremely unimportant. At the same moment, to confuse little things with big ones, Mrs. Lazarus suddenly decided to die. She had been unwell for many months and her brain had been very clouded and temper uncertain—but now suddenly she felt perfectly well, her intelligence was as sharp and bright as it had ever been and the doctor gave her a week at the utmost. She would like, she said, to have seen the dear Queen ride through the streets amidst the plaudits of the populace, but she supposed it was not to be. So with a lace cap on her head and her nose sharp and shiny she sat up in bed, flicked imaginary bread pellets along the counterpane, talked happily to the boarding-house and made ready to die.
The boarding-house was immensely moved, and Peter, during these days came back early from the bookshop in order to sit with her. He was surprised that he cared as he did. The old lady had been for so long a part of his daily background that he could no more believe in her departure than lie could in the sudden disappearance of the dark green curtains and the marble pillars in the dining-room. She had had, from the first, a great liking for Peter. He had never known how much of that affection was an incoherent madness and he had never in any way analysed his own feeling for her, but now he was surprised at the acute sharpness of his regret.
​On a bright evening of sunshine, about six o'clock, she died—Mrs. Brockett, the Tressiters, Norah Monogue also were with her at the time. Peter had been with her alone during the earlier afternoon and although she had been very weak she had talked to him in her trembling voice (it was like the noise that two needles knocking against one another would make), and she had told him how she believed in him.
She made him ashamed with the things that she said about him. He had paid her little enough attention, he thought, during these seven years. There were so many things that he might have done. As the afternoon sun streamed into the room and the old lady, her hands like ivory upon the counterpane, fell into a quiet sleep he wondered—Was he bad or good? Was he strong or weak? These things that people said, the affection that people gave him . . . he deserved none of it. Surely never were two so opposite presences bound together in one body—he was profoundly selfish, profoundly unselfish, loving, hard, kind, cruel, proud, humble, generous, mean, completely possessed, entirely uncontrolled, old beyond his years, young beyond belief—
As he sat there beside the sleeping old lady he felt a contempt of himself that was beyond all expression, and also he felt a pride at the things that he knew that he might do, a pride that brought the blood to his cheeks.
The Man on the Lion? The Man under the Lion's Paw? . . . The years would show. A quiet happy serenity passed over Mrs. Lazarus' face and he called the others into the room.
Stern Mrs. Brockett was crying. Mrs. Lazarus woke for a moment and smiled upon them all. She took Peter's hand.
“Be good to old people,” she breathed very faintly—then she closed her eyes and so died.
Below in the street a boy was calling the evening papers.
“Arrival of the Prince and Princess of Schloss. . . . Arrival of the Prince and—”
They closed the windows and pulled down the blinds.
III
Thursday was to be the day of Royal Processions, and on Friday old Mrs. Lazarus was to be buried.
To Peter, Wednesday was a day of extravagant confusion—extravagant because it was a day on which nothing was done. Customers were not served in the shop. Editors were not attacked in their lairs. Nothing was done, every one hung about.
Peter could not name any one as directly responsible for this state of things, nor could he define his own condition of mind; only he knew that he could not leave the shop. About its doors and passages there fell all day an air of suspense. Mr. Zanti was himself a little responsible for this; it was so unusual for that large and smiling gentleman to waste the day idly; and yet there he was, starting every now and again for the door, looking into the empty yard from the windows at the back of the house, disappearing sometimes into the rooms above, reappearing suddenly with an air of unconcern a little too elaborately contrived.
Peter felt that Mr. Zanti had a great deal that he would like to say to him, and once or twice he came to him and began “Oh, I cay, boy,” and then stopped with an air of confusion as though he had recollected something, suddenly.
There was a Russian girl, too, who was about the shop, uneasily on this day. She was thin, slight, very dark; fierce eyes and hands that seemed to be always curving. Her name was Maria Notroska and she was engaged to the big Russian, Oblotzky, whom Peter had seen, on other days up and down through the shop. She spoke to no one. She knew but little English—but she would stand for hours at the door looking out into the street. It was a long uneasy day and Peter was glad when the evening, in slow straight lines of golden light, came in through the black door. The evening too seemed to bring forward a renewed hope of seeing Stephen again—enquiries could bring nothing from either Zanti or Herr Gottfried; they had never heard of the man, oh no! . . . Stephen Brant? Stephen. . . . No! Never—
That sudden springing out of the darkness had meant something however. Peter could still feel his wet clothes ​and see his shining beard. Yes, if there were any trouble Stephen would be there. What were they all about? Peter closed the shutters of the shop that night without having any explanation to offer. Mr. Zanti was indeed a strange man; when Peter turned to go he stopped him with his hand on his shoulder: “Peter, boy,” he said, whispering, “come upstairs—I have something to tell you.”
Peter was about to follow him back into the shop when suddenly the man shook his head. “No, not to-night,” he said and almost pushed him into the street.
Peter, looking back, saw that he was talking to the Russian girl.
But the day was not over with that. Wondering about Mr. Zanti, thinking that the boarding-house would be gloomy now after Mrs. Lazarus' death, recalling, above all, to himself every slightest incident of his meeting with Miss Rossiter, Peter, crossing Oxford Street, flung his broad body against a fat and soft one. There was nearly a collapse.
The other man and Peter grasped arms to steady themselves, and then behold! the fat body was Bobby Galleon's. Bobby Galleon, after all these years! But there could be no possible doubt about it. There he stood, standing back a little from the shock, his bowler hat knocked to one side of his head, a deprecating, apologetic smile on his dear fat face! A man of course now, but very little altered in spite of all the years; a little fatter perhaps, his body seemed rather shapeless—but those same kind eyes, that large mouth and the clear straight look in all his face that spoke him to all the world for what he was. Peter felt exactly as though, after a long and tiring journey, he had tumbled at last into a large arm-chair. He was excited, he waved his arms:
“Bobby, Bobby,” he cried, so loudly that two old women in bonnets, crossing the road like a couple of hens turned to look at him.
“I'm sorry—” Bobby said vaguely, and then slowly recognition came into his eyes.
“Peter!” he said in a voice lost in amazement, the colour flooding his cheeks.
It was all absurdly moving; they were quite ridiculously ​stirred, both of them. The lamps were coming out down Oxford Street, a pale saffron sky outlined the dark bulk of the Church that is opposite Mudie's shop and stands back from the street, a little as though it wondered at all the noise and clamour, a limpid and watery blue still lingered, wavering, in the evening sky.
They turned into an A.B.C. shop and ordered glasses of milk and they sat and looked at one another. They had altered remarkably little and to both of them, although the roar of the Oxford Street traffic was outside the window, it might have been, easily enough, that a clanging bell would soon summon them back to ink-stained desks and Latin exercises.
“Why, in heaven's name, did you ever get out of my sight so completely? I wrote to Treliss again and again but I don't suppose anything was forwarded.”
“They don't know where I am.”
“But why did you never write to me?”
“Why should I? I wanted to do something first—to show you—”
“What rot! Is that friendship? I call that the most selfish thing I've ever known.” No, obviously enough, Bobby could never understand that kind of thing. With him, once a friend always a friend, that is what life is for. With Peter, once an adventure always an adventure—that is what life is for—but as soon as a friend ceases to be an adventure, why then—
But Bobby had not ceased to be an adventure. He was, as he sat there, more of one than he had ever been before.
“What have you been doing all these years?”
“Been in a bookshop.”
“In a bookshop?”
“Yes, selling second-hand books.”
“What else?”
“Oh reading a lot . . . seeing one or two people . . . and some music.” Peter was vague; what after all had he been doing?
Bobby looked at him tenderly and affectionately, “You want seeing after—you look fierce, as you used to when you'd been having a bad time at school. The day they all hissed you.”
​“But I haven't been having a bad time. I've had a jolly good one. By the way,” Peter leant forward, “have you seen or heard anything of Cards?”
Bobby coloured a little. “No, not for a long time. His mother died. He's a great swell now with heaps of money, I believe. I'm not his sort a bit.”
They drank milk and beamed upon one another. Peter wanted to tell Bobby everything. That was one of his invaluable qualities, that one did like telling him everything. Talking to him eagerly now, Peter wondered how it could be that he'd ever managed to get through these many years without him. Bobby simply existed to help his friends and that was the kind of person that Peter had so often wanted.
But in it all—in their talking, their laughing together, their remembering certain catchwords that they had used together, there was nothing more remarkable than their finding each other exactly as they had been during those years before at Dawson's. Not even Bobby's tremendous statement could alter that.
“I'm married,” he said.
“Married?”
Bobby blushed. “Yes—two years now—got a baby. She's quite splendid!”
“Oh!” Peter was a little blank. Somehow this did remove Bobby a little—it also made him, suddenly, strangely old.
“But it doesn't make any difference,” Bobby said, leaning forward eagerly and putting his hand on Peter's arm—“not the least difference. You two will simply get on famously. I've so often told her about you and we've always been hoping that you'd turn up again—and now she'll be simply delighted.”
But it made a difference to Peter, nevertheless. He went back a little into his shell; Bobby with a home and a wife and a baby couldn't spare time, of course, for ordinary friends. But even here his conscience pricked him. Did he not know Bobby well enough to be assured that he was as firm and solid as a rock, that nothing at all could move or change him? And after all, was not he, Peter, ​wishing to be engaged and married and the father of a family and the owner of a respectable mansion?
Clare Elizabeth Rossiter! How glorious for an instant were the thin, sharp-faced waitresses, the little marble-topped tables, the glass windows filled with sponge-cakes and hard-boiled eggs!
Peter came out of his shell again. “I shall just love to come and see her,” he said.
“Well, just as soon as you can. By Jove, old man, I'll never let you go again. Now tell me, everything—all that you have done since I saw you.”
Peter told him a great deal—not quite everything. He told him nothing, for instance, about meeting a certain young lady on a Good Friday afternoon and he passed over some of the Scaw House incidents as speedily as possible.
“And since I came up to London,” he went on, “the whole of my time has been spent either in the bookshop or the boarding-house. They're awfully good sorts at both, but it's all very uncertain of course and instead of writing a novel that no one will want to read I ought to have been getting on to editors. I've a kind of feeling that the book-shop's going to end very shortly.”
“Let me see the book,” said Bobby.
“Yes, certainly,” said Peter.
“Anyhow, we go on together from this time forth—72 Cheyne Walk is my little house. When will you come—to-morrow?”
“Oh! To-morrow! I don't think I can. There are these Processions and things—I think I ought to be in the shop. But I'll come very soon. This is the name of my boarding-house—”
Bobby, as he saw his friend, broad-shouldered, swinging along, pass down the street with the orange lamps throwing chains of light about him, was confronted again by that old elusive spirit that he had known so well at school. Peter liked him, Peter was glad to see him again, but there were so many other Peters, so many doors closed against intruders. . . . Bobby would always, to the end, be for Peter, outside these doors. He knew it quite certainly, a ​little sadly, as he climbed on to his bus. What was there about Peter? Something hard, fierce, wildly hostile . . . a devil, a God. Something that Bobby going quietly home to his comfortable dinner, might watch and guard and even love but something that he could never share.
Now, in the cool and quiet of the Chelsea Embankment as he walked to his door, Bobby sighed a little because life was so comfortable.