David Saunderson lived on the top floor of one of the few lofty buildings
in Chelsea, and as his years increased, the ascent of the five flights of
stairs became a serious matter. His heart was none too sound, and the
three minutes he once needed to reach his attic from the ground floor had
already become five when the War began.
With the first shock of battles the emaciated remains of his bedridden
brother were borne down the steep stairs and out of the little flat he
had not left for the last five years of his life.
The two had lived together since Philip had returned from India as a man
of fifty, with the reasonable hope of enjoying his pensioned retirement.
Philip had spent his energy freely in the Indian Civil Service, and the
two middle-aged brothers, either too poor to marry, too shy, or both,
determined to combine resources with companionship and keep house
together.
For a time they sailed contentedly downstream. Philip’s public spirit and
industrious habits would not permit of what he called “a life of indolent
ease.” He rose early and put in a good eight hours’ day at various unpaid
labours. He became churchwarden of the parish, joined the vestry, and was
a much valued unit of that obscure element in the population which does a
great part of the public work for which individuals of a less modest type
get the recognition.
David earned his living as a journalist and literary hack. He had never
done or been anything else in his life, although to his small circle he
loved, in a guileless way, to convey the impression that his youthful
performances had been of no little brilliance.
He would mention the names of the celebrated editors by whom he had been
employed as literary or dramatic critic, and was never tired of
eulogizing these and other lettered heroes for whom he had slaved in the
distant past. He insisted on the appreciation that these forgotten lions
had shown of his work; but, however that might be, its manifestation had
certainly never been translated into terms of cash, for within no one’s
memory had David’s pecuniary resources been other than exiguous.
He was a great lover of the Arts, but his tastes were catholic and he
worshipped at many shrines. He had no great patience with those who
admire the modern to the exclusion of the old, or whose allegiance to one
school precludes acceptance of another. He held his arms wide open and
embraced Art in all its manifestations.
He was a great hero-worshipper; there was no sort of achievement he did
not admire, but he had his special favourites; generally these were
successful playwrights or novelists whose work he revised for publication
at a minimum rate and whose additional recognition, in the form of a back
seat for a first night or a signed presentation copy, produced in him a
quite inordinate gratitude.
David Saunderson was the embodiment of ponderousness; he spoke as slowly
as he moved his cumbersome limbs. So gradual were his mental processes
that his friends forbore to ask him questions, knowing that they would
not have time to wait for his replies. For these reasons the agile in
body and mind avoided encounters with him, but if he chanced to meet them
where there was no escape they would evade him by cunning or invent
transparent excuses which only one so artless as he would have believed.
Now and then he paid visits to old friends who were sometimes caught
unawares. Then he would settle his huge bulk in an arm-chair, and his
head, bald except for a fringe of grey hair about the ears, seemed to
sink into his chest, upon which the bearded chin reposed as though the
whole affair were too heavy to support. At such times he gave one the
impression of a massive fixture which could be about as easily moved as a
grand piano, and his hosts would resign themselves to their fate.
If any one had the temerity to provoke him to discussion, he would wait
patiently for an opening, and once he secured it, would maintain his
opinion steadily, the even, dispassionate voice slowly wearing down all
opposition.
He was not without humour and a certain shrewdness in judging men and
things, and would smile tolerantly when views were advanced with which he
disagreed. It was not difficult to make merry at his expense, for he
suspected no one, and only those who spoke ill of their neighbours
disturbed his equanimity. Towards cynics his attitude was compassionate.
Directly war broke out David enrolled himself in the special volunteer
corps of artists raised by an eminent Academician. He took his duties
very seriously, and was at great pains to master the intricacies of
squad-drill. He never admitted that some of the exercises, especially the
one that consists in lying on the ground face downwards and raising
yourself several times in succession by your arms, were trying to a man
of his weight and proportions, but about the time he was beginning to
pride himself on his military proficiency Philip’s death occurred. He
said little about it and quietly occupied himself with the funeral and
with settling his dead brother’s small affairs, but the battalion were
little surprised when shortly afterwards his resignation followed on
medical grounds.
The Saundersons were connected with a family of some distinction, the
head of which, knowing that Philip’s pension died with him and that
David’s earnings were smaller than ever since the War, would gladly have
offered him some pecuniary assistance. But David’s pride equalled his
modesty, and Peter Knott had to be charged with the mission of
approaching him.
One afternoon Peter found David in his attic going through his dead
brother’s papers and smoking a pipe. Peter knew his man too well to
attempt direct interrogation. He felt his way by inquiries as to the
general situation of Art, and David was soon enlarging on the merits
of sundry unknown but gifted painters and craftsmen whose work he hoped
Peter might bring to the notice of his wealthy friends.
“The poor fellows are starving, Knott,” he said in his leisurely way as
he raised himself painfully from his chair and walked heavily to a corner
where lay a portfolio.
Every piece of furniture in the small sitting-room was littered with a
heterogeneous collection of manuscripts and books; the latter were piled
up everywhere. David slowly removed some from a table and laid the folio
upon it.
“Now, here’s--a charming--etching.” He had a way of saying a word or two
and then pausing as though to take breath, which demanded great patience
of a listener.
Peter stood by him and examined it, David meanwhile puffing at his pipe.
“The man--who did that--is one of our best line engravers--his name is
Macmanus--he’s dreadfully hard up--look at this.”
He held another before his visitor.
“That’s by Plimsoll--a silver point--isn’t it a beautiful thing?”
“Delightful,” replied Peter.
“Well, do you know--Knott--that--” David’s pipe had gone out. He moved
slowly towards his chair and began looking for the matches. “Do you know,
Plimsoll is one of the most gifted”--he was holding a match to his pipe
as he spoke--“gifted young artists in the country--and two days
ago--he--was literally hungry--” David took his pipe from his mouth and
looked at Peter to see the effect of his words.
“It’s very sad, very”--Peter Knott’s tone was sympathetic--“but after
all, they’re young; they could enlist, couldn’t they?”
David sat down in his chair and pulled at his pipe reflectively before
answering.
“They’re--neither of them--strong, Knott. They’d--be laid up in a week.”
“Um--hard luck that,” Peter Knott agreed. “But what’s to be done?
Everybody’s in the same boat. The writers now, I wager they’re just as
badly hit, aren’t they?”
“That depends--” David paused, and Peter gave him time to finish his
sentence. “The occasional--er--contributors--are having a bad time--but
the regular journalists--the people on the staffs--are all right--of
course I know cases--there’s a man called--er, let me see--I’ve got a
letter from him somewhere--Wyatt’s his name--now, he’s--” David’s huge
body began to rise again gradually. Peter Knott stopped him.
“By the way,” he remarked briskly, “I saw your friend Seaford yesterday.”
David had subsided, and once more began relighting his pipe; he looked up
at the name.
“Frank Seaford--oh, did you? How is he? I haven’t seen him for some
time--”
“So I gathered,” Peter remarked dryly. “He seems to be getting on very
well since Ringsmith took him up.”
“Ah! Ringsmith’s right. He’s a beautiful--artist. Did you--see--”
Peter interrupted. “I think I’ve seen all Seaford’s work. Anyhow he owes
his recognition entirely to you. I introduced him to Ringsmith entirely
on your recommendation two years ago. He’s sold a lot of pictures during
that time. When did you see him last, Saunderson?”
David stroked his beard thoughtfully.
“Let me see--some time before the War--it must have been--more than a
year ago.”
“Not very grateful,” Peter could not help rapping out.
David stopped smoking, and seemed to rouse himself.
“You’re quite wrong, Knott. He sent me--that exquisite study--on the wall
yonder.” He pointed as he spoke to a small drawing in water colours.
Peter got up, looked at it a moment, and shrugged his shoulders.
“If you’re satisfied, I’ve got nothing to say.”
“Satisfied--of course I’m satisfied--” A tolerant, almost condescending
smile stole over David’s eyes and mouth. “You don’t understand--artists,
Knott.”
“Perhaps not, perhaps not.” Knott pulled out his watch. “Anything doing
in your own line, Saunderson?” he asked in a tone of careful
indifference.
David puffed at his pipe.
“I’m not very busy--but--you know--that’s rather a good thing--now I’m a
special constable.”
Peter Knott’s single eyeglass wandered over the unwieldy frame sitting
opposite him.
“A special constable?” he echoed.
David puffed complacently.
“Sergeant,” he replied.
Peter Knott dropped his glass.
“Really, you know, Saunderson. For a man at your time of life, and
obliged to work for his living, it’s--” He hesitated. “Well, you oughtn’t
to do it.”
David smiled in a superior way.
“That’s just where--you’re wrong--Knott--we relieve the--younger
men--that’s our job--and I’m proud to--”
Peter Knott’s kindly old eyes twinkled at the thought of David tackling a
lusty cracksman, twinkled and then became grave.
“Supposing you get laid up, injured in some way?” he asked.
“We don’t think about that.” David’s expression was serene. “I go
on--duty at--two--very quiet then--lovely it is--on fine nights--when
I’ve been working--to get out--into the cool air--”
As David spoke Peter Knott pulled out his watch again and then got up.
“I saw your cousin Herbert a few days ago, Saunderson. He said he hadn’t
seen you for a long time, wondered whether you’d go down to Rendlesham
for a few weeks. He wants a catalogue of his prints, and there are some
old manuscripts he would like your opinion about. I’m going down this
week-end. What shall I tell him?”
David put down his pipe.
“Tell him--I’m much obliged--later on perhaps--I can’t--leave my
duties--while these Zeppelin scares last. They need experienced
men--one doesn’t know what--may happen.” He had got on his feet and had
gradually reached the door of the tiny flat. “Good-bye, Knott,” he said
as he took the other’s hand. “Don’t forget--about Macmanus
and--Plimsoll--”