his way past the statue of George the Fourth to the balustrading that
commands the square. He took up his position there for a long survey.
He looked down Whitehall to the great tower of the Houses of Parliament
and Whitehall was full of a golden haze set with a glitter of traffic.
The stream of omnibuses, cars, and motor vans poured up to mingle with
the streams that came out of Northumberland Avenue and the Strand, and
the joint flow sundered again to the left of him and to the right away
to Pall Mall, across the square there. No street lamps were lit as yet,
but in the rounded bluffs of building to the left a few windows were
warm with lights. Below, across the square, thin streams of pedestrians
flowed like ants from one point to another and the squat little
station of the Tube Railway perpetually swallowed up dots and clumps
of individuals. Some sort of meeting was going on at the foot of the
Nelson column, a mere knot of people without evident enthusiasm. Men
with white and red placards about Unemployment were distributing white
handbills and shaking collecting boxes. Immediately underneath a few
poorly-dressed children ran about and played and squabbled....
Just a little patch this was in one of his cities. For, you see, by the
lapse of time and the development of his ancient empire, he was the
rightful owner and ruler of this city and of every other city in the
world.
And he had come back to heal the swarming world’s disorders and
reinstate the deep peace of old Sumeria once again.
§ 2
But how to set about this task?
That was the difficulty. There must be no Half Advent. He must take
hold swiftly and decisively he realized, and from the balustrading in
front of the National Gallery it looked a large, loose, scattering
sort of world to take hold of. It might refuse to be taken hold of.
If he began now, if he began to shout from this place, it was more
than likely that no one would heed him. He must watch warily for his
opportunity and _make no mistakes_. It did not become the Lord and
Restorer of the Whole Earth to make mistakes.
Now, for example, that had nearly been a mistake at Buckingham Palace.
It had blown over all right but it might have had serious consequences.
People did not know the Master yet, had no inkling. “They might,” said
Sargon, lapsing into a Preemby homeliness “have run me in. And a Pretty
Fool I should have looked then!”
There must be no more hasty action of that sort.
No. Indeed it became him rather to wait for guidance.
The Power that had brought him back into the world and awakened him
to a sense of his true identity and his mission, might be trusted
presently to send him an enlightened supporter or so--who would
recognize him. Because, of course, he must resemble the monarch he
had been--even as Hockleby had been recognizably like Prewm. As he
weighed this thought his hand sought his moustache and he twisted it
thoughtfully. It was in effect a disguise. Meanwhile--? Meanwhile he
must see what he could, determine the mood of the people and learn
their particular needs and distresses. He could go among his people
unsuspected--like Haroun al Raschid, but for a wiser purpose....
“Haroun al Raschid,” whispered Sargon and looked up to Lord Nelson
and nodded to him in a friendly way. “Haroun al Raschid. Would that
my pocket was full of pieces of gold! But of that to-morrow. That
man--what was his name?--Preemby had a bank somewhere.”
He felt for his breast pocket. The cheque-book was still there. One
signed the cheques “_A. E. Preemby_”--queer, but one did. This A. E.
Preemby had played the part of a chrysalis. His hoard remained.
§ 3
In the Strand his Majesty caught a glimpse of his reflection in a shop
window. His hair was a little disordered, and he disliked to have
his hair disordered. He went into a hat shop that presented itself
conveniently and bought himself a hat.
He took out his little note-case to pay--a reassuring thing to do.
For in it were no less than seven pound-notes. He counted them with
satisfaction. After paying up at Tunbridge he had drawn again on his
bank. He hesitated whether he should give largesse to the shopman--and
did not do so.
It was not another grey felt hat with a black ribbon he bought; it
was an exceptional felt hat with a large brim such as an artist or a
literary personage might have chosen. It was not the hat that Albert
Edward Preemby, the restrained, the hesitating, would have bought; it
was much more Sargon’s sort of hat. Yet not pure Sargonesque; there
was a touch of disguise about it still, a more manifest disguise. The
brim came down over one’s brow. One could see ever and again in shop
windows and incidental mirrors that now a shadow of mystery lay upon
those brooding blue eyes.
He made his way eastward towards Aldwych and so into Kingsway, looking
now at the shops, now scanning the faces of the people.
To-day he was The Unknown. Scarce a soul that gave him a second glance.
But soon would come discovery and then all this careless jostling
crowd would be magnetized as he passed, would turn with one accord to
him. They would salute and whisper and wonder. And he must be ready
for them, ready to guide their destinies forthwith. It would not do
to stand at a loss and say “Er,” to stand collecting his thoughts and
clear his throat, “H’rrmp.”
Terrible the responsibility that lay upon him! But he would not
shirk it. What should be his opening words to them when the moment
of revelation came? “First;--Let there be Peace!” Better words than
that one could not imagine. He muttered to himself; “Peace and not War
among the Nations. Peace and not War among individuals. Peace in the
street--in the workroom--in the shop. _Peace_.
“Love and Peace. I, Sargon the Magnificent, command it. I, Sargon, have
come back after many ages to give Peace to the Whole World.”
A shop window drew him. It was a map shop and prominently displayed in
the window was a map of _Europe after the Treaty of Versailles:--Two
and Sixpence._ He stood looking at that. It would all have to be
altered again. That was just part of his task. Then he surveyed the
rest of the window. Behind the map of Europe there hung a wall-map of
the world. He would need such a map of the world; you cannot rule the
world without a map of it. Or you may forget large portions. Or would a
globe be better? Maps are all to be seen at once, and besides they are
more portable. Furthermore, the shop did not seem to sell globes and
he did not know where globes were to be bought. He went in and bought
the world map and emerged again on Kingsway after an interval, with a
roll four feet long under his arm. He was also carrying an ingenious
flat-paper planisphere which had caught his fancy as he stood at the
counter. It might be useful, he felt, for astrological purposes.
He began to think vaguely of his possible destination. Whither was he
going?
He was seeking quarters, he was seeking indeed some lonely hermitage.
He had slipped away from the Princess Royal, who also had come
back--rather needlessly he thought--into this modern world, because
it was necessary for him to be absolutely alone for a time. He had
to spend some days or weeks in spiritual struggle and meditation and
mental purification before his revelation came. Even she might not
minister to him during that period. She was devoted, but she hampered
him. Indeed, she hampered him greatly. She did not fully understand.
Her remarks and questions were generally disconcerting and sometimes
downright annoying. It was quite probable that the metamorphosis might
never occur with her about. And, besides, always in the history of
great Visitants and marvellous returns there had been this opening
phase of withdrawal and self-communion. Buddha, Muhammad; they had all
done it. Perhaps he would fast. Perhaps fasting would be necessary.
Perhaps there would be Celestial Visitants.
He wished he knew more of the technique of fasting. Did one just stop
having meals or were there ceremonies and precautions? But of that
later. First he had to find that quiet room, his secret place of final
preparation.
Presently he found himself in the grey squares of Bloomsbury and
every house he passed displayed in its window a genteel card offering
“Apartments” or “Bed and Breakfast.” Here also were “Private Hotels”
and even a plain “Boarding House.” Well, here no doubt it had to be. A
simple room amidst his unsuspecting people, a simple, simply furnished
room.
§ 4
But through all Bloomsbury, to judge by the dark green and silver cards
in its ground-floor windows, was offering shelter and sustenance to the
homeless and the stranger, the new Lord of the World found it no easy
matter to secure that simple room he needed for his own use. For more
than an hour he was visiting one grey house after another, knocking,
standing on doorsteps, entering passages laid with immemorial oilcloth,
and demanding a sight of the accommodation offered, inspecting
it, asking prices--and--it became more and more evident--arousing
suspicion. The people stared at his rolled-up map and his planisphere
and seemed to dislike them instinctively. He had not expected such
blunt demands for information; his vague mysteriousness was swept
aside, he found himself difficult to explain. They wanted to know
how he was occupied and when he would like to move in. None of them
seemed prepared for him to just sit down in his room there and then.
They expected him to go out and fetch his luggage. It undermined his
confidence that behind him there was no luggage. All these people, he
realized more and more distinctly, would expect him to produce luggage
and might behave unreasonably if he did not do so. A mere readiness to
pay in advance, he gathered, was not enough for them.
He had counted upon finding kind and simple people behind these
lodging-house doors, people who would accept him and look up to him
from the first and wonder about him and his planisphere, speculate
about its significance and gradually realize the marvellous visitant
that had come to them. But the people he saw were not simple people.
Mostly they were dingy, sophisticated people. They came up out of
basements in a mood of sceptical scrutiny, men in shirt sleeves, morose
for the most part and generally ill-shaven; extremely knowing and
anything but virginal young women, grimy looking older women, hungrily
lean or unwholesomely fat. One had a goitre-like growth. And always
there was something defensive in their manner.
And the rooms he saw were even less simple than the people. His
consciousness was invaded by a sense of the vast moral changes that had
happened to the world since he had ruled the white-robed honesty of his
Sumerian irrigators. Then a room would have a table, a seat or two, a
shelf with a few phials, an image or suchlike religious object, a clay
tablet and a writing style, perhaps, if the occupant was educated.
But these rooms were encumbered with contradictions. They had windows
to let in the light and dark curtains to keep it out. Sargon’s hidden
second youth in the laundry had made him very sensitive to dirtiness,
and the cotton-lace curtains of those places were generally very
dirty indeed. Electric light was still rare in “apartments”; mostly
they were lit from gas brackets that descended from the centre of the
ceiling and carried globes of frosted and cut glass. Always there
was a considerable table in the centre and two uneasy arm-chairs.
And there were lumpish sideboards of shiny, liver-coloured wood and
comfortless sofas and incredible ornaments. Sometimes the rooms, and
particularly the bedrooms, had a meretricious smartness and gaiety with
mezzotints of ladies in the natural state trying to pass themselves
off as allegorical figures or of the Baths in the congested harems
of wealthy, rather than refined, Orientals. The over-mantels were
extraordinary affairs and much loaded with crockery ornaments, little
jars, small gilt-winged angels, red devils, or encouraging looking
ladies in bathing-dresses that were too tight for them. A common form
of decoration was to fasten up plates on the wall much as one sees
vermin nailed up on a barn.
A considerable number of these homes for hire were as shabby as
roadside tramps. One stood out in his memory as faded and dusty
and grey and threadbare beyond the possibility of reality. His
self-absorption was penetrated by the wonder of who could live and who
could have lived in such quarters. All his life had been amongst clean
and bright surroundings; it was rare that he had any glimpses of that
worn and weary stratum of English town life in which things are patched
indeed, but in which it is rare for anything to be mended or cleaned
and incredible that anything should be replaced. Even the air in these
rooms seemed long out of date and the glass over the rusty engravings
of the Monarch of the Glen and the Stag at Bay spotted by remote
ancestral flies.
“Does anyone ever stay here?” asked Sargon of the shattered-looking
lady in charge.
He did not realize the cruelty of his question until he had asked it.
“My last gentleman stayed here fifteen years,” said the shattered lady.
“He was a copying clerk. He died in hospital this June. Dropsy. He
always found this very satisfactory--_very_ satisfactory. I never knew
him complain. He was a very good friend to me.”
A great desire for fresh air came upon Sargon. “How much are these
rooms?” he asked. “I must think it over. Think it over and let you
know.”
She asked her price, the usual price in that street, but as she led the
way down to the door she said: “If it’s too much--If you made an offer,
sir----”
Despair looked out of her grime-rimmed eyes.
“I must think about it,” said Sargon and was once more at large.
Why did people get so dirty and dismal and broken down? Surely in
Sumeria there were never lives like that! It would have to be altered;
all this would have to be altered when the Kingdom came.
§ 5
Then as the twilight deepened Sargon discovered just the peaceful
room he desired. It announced itself hopefully not by the usual
printed card but by a hand-written tablet saying “A Room to Let,” in
a window that had no lace curtains but little purple ones enhancing
rather than concealing a bare-looking white room lit pleasantly by the
flickering of a fire. There were one or two pictures--real coloured
pictures--hanging on the white wall. Rather wearily Sargon lifted the
knocker and supplemented its appeal by pressing the electric bell.
There was no immediate answer, and he knocked a second time before the
door opened. A slender young man appeared holding a small girl perched
on his shoulder. She regarded Sargon gravely with very dark grey-blue
eyes.
“Everybody seems to have gone out,” said the slender young man in a
very pleasant voice. “What can I do for you?”
“You have a room to let,” said Sargon.
“There _is_ a room to let here, yes,” said the slender young man and
his appreciative dark eyes took in the details of the figure in front
of him.
“Could I see it?”
“I suppose he might _see_ it, Susan,” the young man hesitated.
“Of course the gem’s got to see it,” said the small girl. “If Mrs.
Richman was here she’d show it him fast enough, old stoopid.” And she
pulled the slender young man’s hair--affectionately but very, very hard.
“You see,” the young man explained. “The landlady is out. _Don’t_,
Susan. And the landlady’s lady assistant is out, too. Every one is
out--and we’re sort of unofficially left in charge somehow. Properly, I
ought not to have answered the door.”
“But I told you to--_silly_!” said the little girl.
The young man made no definite move. Instead, he asked a question. “Is
that a map, sir, you are carrying?” he asked.
“It is a map of the world,” said Sargon.
“Very helpful I should think, sir. And so you found your way here.
Well--The room’s upstairs if you’d come up. Hold tight, Susan, and try
not to strangle me.” And he led the way up the staircase.
It was just the usual staircase and hall with oilcloth and wall-paper
to imitate some exceptionally bilious coarse-grained wood. As they
ascended the young lady ran great risks in her resolution never to take
her eyes off Sargon and his map. She twisted round a complete circle
and forced her bearer to stop on the first landing and readjust her.
“If you pull my hair once more,” said the slender young man, “I shall
put you down and never, never, never give you a ride again. It’s on the
next floor, sir, if you’d go first.”
The room appeared delightfully free from unnecessary furnishings. There
was a little plain bed, a table under the window, and a gas-stove, and
the walls were papered in brown paper, adorned with commonplace but
refreshing Japanese colour prints. There was a recess one side of the
fire-place with three empty shelves painted like the mantelpiece, a
deep blue. The young man had clicked on an electric light, which was
pleasantly shaded.
“It’s rather plain,” said the young man.
“I like it,” said Sargon. “I have no use for superfluities.”
“It used to be my room,” said the young man, “but now I share the
dining-room floor with the people downstairs and I’ve given this up.
It’s rather on my conscience----”
“People downstairs--what people downstairs? There aren’t no People
downstairs. It’s Daddy and Mummy he means,” said the young lady.
“It’s rather on my conscience,” said the young man, “that I persuaded
Mrs. Richman to alter the furniture. It isn’t to everybody’s taste.”
“May I ask,” said Sargon, “how much the room might be?”
“Thirty shillings, I _believe_,” said the young man, “with breakfasts.”
Sargon put down his map and the planisphere upon the table. He felt
that he must secure this room or be for ever defeated.
“I am willing,” he said, “to take the room. I would pay for it in
advance. And take up my quarters at once. But, I must warn you, my
position in the world is peculiar. I give no reference, I bring no
luggage.”
“Except of course these charts,” said the young man. “Haven’t you--for
instance--a toothbrush?”
Sargon thought. “No. I must get myself a toothbrush.”
“I think it would _look_ better,” said the young man.
“If necessary,” said Sargon, “I will pay for two weeks in advance. And
I will get myself all necessary things.”
The young man regarded him with an affectionate expression. “If it
was my room I should let you have it like a shot,” he said. “But Mrs.
Richman is the landlady and in many respects she’s different from me.
Have you--travelled far, sir?”
“In space,” said Sargon, “_No_.”
“But in time, perhaps?”
“In time, yes. But I would rather not enter into explanations at
present.”
The young man’s interest and amusement deepened. He put Susan down on
her feet. “Might I look at your map?” he asked.
“Willingly,” said Sargon. He unrolled the map on the table and put his
finger on London. “We are here,” he said.
“Exactly,” said the young man, helping to hold the map on the table
from which it seemed likely to slip.
“It is still the most convenient centre in the world,” said Sargon.
“For almost any purpose,” said the young man.
“For mine, yes,” said Sargon.
“And that star thing--that must be a great help?”
“It is,” said Sargon.
“I suppose you would--_work_ in the room? It would be just yourself?
There would be no coming and going of people?”
“None. While I was here, no one would know me. Afterwards perhaps. But
that does not concern us. Here I should remain incognito.”
“Incognito,” the young man repeated, as though he considered the word.
“Of course. Naturally. By the by, sir, might I ask your name? (If you
hit me again, Susan, I shall do something cruel and dreadful to you.)
We’d have to know your name.”
“For the time I think Mr.--Mr. Sargon.”
“Of course,” said the young man, “for the time. Sargon--wasn’t that an
Assyrian king, or does my memory betray me?”
“It is not the Assyrian Sargon in this case, it is the Sumerian Sargon,
his predecessor.”
“Not a word more, sir--I understand. You must be fatigued after your
long journey and I should love--I should dearly love to let you the
room. _Wow!_ Susan, you go downstairs. Pinching I can’t stand. Come
along. You go down to your own proper room and let’s have no nonsense
about it. _Come!_”
Susan backed to the wall and prepared to resist tooth and nail. “I
didn’t _mean_ to pinch, Bobby,” she said. “I didn’t mean to pinch.
Troof and really! I was just feelin’ your trousis. Oh, don’t take me
down, Bobby! Don’t take me down. I _will_ be good! I’ll be awful good.
I’ll just stay here and look at the funny geman. If you take me down,
Bobby----”
“Now, is this a real reformation, Susan--a conversion, a change of
heart? Will you be a _jeune femme rangée_ and all that, if I forgive
you?”
“I’ll be anyfing, Bobby dear, flet me stay.”
“Well! cease to exist then--for all practical purposes and I’ll forgive
you. What can the nice gentleman think of you, Susan? And you more
than five! _Bah!_ We were saying, Mr. Sargon--? Yes, of course, I was
saying that you ought to take the room. Payment in advance will be
accepted. _But_--there is that toothbrush. And other small--what shall
I say?--realistic touches. _I_ shouldn’t mind personally, but I’m
only an agent, so to speak. Properly I am a sort of writer. Properly
I ought to be writing a novel now, but, as you see, Mrs. Richman has
left the house on my hands and my friends downstairs have left this
charming young lady on my hands--Put that tongue back at once, Susan.
Unladylike child!--and here we are! But as I’m saying, Mrs. Richman
is the principal. She has her fancies about lodgers. It is useless to
dispute about them. She will want a show of luggage. She will insist.
But that is really not an insurmountable difficulty. This--you will
remember the name?--is Nine Midgard Street. If you go out from here and
turn to the left, take the third to the right and go straight on, you
will come to a main thoroughfare full of ’buses and trams and traffic
and light and noise, and at the corner you will find a shop where they
sell second-hand trunks and bags. Now if you bought an old, battered,
largish bag--and then went across the road to a chemist’s shop and
got those washing things you need--Oh! and a reserve collar or so at
the outfitter’s next door--You _must_ get such things.... You see the
idea?”
Sargon stood in front of the unlit gas-stove. “This seems to be acting
a falsehood.”
“But you must have clean collars sometimes,” protested the young man.
“I admit that,” said Sargon.
“And then you can settle down here and tell me about that business of
yours. Otherwise, you know, you’ll just wander about.”
“Your suggestion is really quite a helpful one,” said Sargon, getting
the thing into focus. “I shall adopt it.”
“You won’t lose the way back?”
“Why should I?”
“Nine Midgard Street.”
“I shall remember.”
“Queer world it is,” said the young man; “isn’t it? How did you leave
the old folks in--Sumeria?”
“My people were happy,” said Sargon.
“Exactly. I’ve been there since. _Quite_ recently. But the weather
wasn’t good and I got knocked about by a shell and had a nasty time as
a wounded prisoner. Hot. Crowded. No shelter. Nothing cool to drink.
But in your time it was different.”
“Very,” said Sargon.
“And now--by Jove! that kettle is boiling over all by this time, Susan.
Come down to my room, such as it is, and have a cup of tea, sir. And
then you can go out and make those little arrangements of yours and
dig yourself in so to speak before Mrs. Richman comes back. This, by
the by, is your gas meter. You get gas by the shilling in the slot
arrangement.”
“You are being very, very helpful to me,” said Sargon. “It shall not be
forgotten when my time comes.”
“Nothing. It just happened you came into my hands so to speak. No,
Susan, we don’t. You _walk_ downstairs. Pinching is forgiven but not
forgotten. You can leave your map, sir--and that star thing--as
visible signs of your occupation. No, Susan--on foot.”
§ 6
The young man’s room was bookish and rather untidy, and Susan had been
killing toys on the carpet--a china-headed doll and something or other
of yellow painted wood appeared to be the chief victims. The doll had
bled sawdust profusely. Dark curtains were drawn and a green-shaded
electric light threw all the apartment into darkness except the floor.
There was a gas-fire with a gas-ring on which a boiling kettle steamed
like an excited volcano; there was a deal table on which was a big
pile of letters address to “_Aunt Suzannah_” c/o Editor of _Wilkins’
Weekly_, and there was a large untidy desk on which was another litter
of letters evidently receiving attention, and in the midst of the desk
a writing-pad, on which reposed a squeezable tube of liquid glue and a
half-mended toy. The glue oozed upon the face sheet of the writing-pad
beneath these words, written in a beautifully neat handwriting:
UPS AND DOWNS
_A Pedestrian Novel_
BY ROBERT ROOTHING
CHAPTER THE FIRST
WHICH INTRODUCES OUR HERO
Beyond that the novel did not seem to have progressed.