The Thirteen Travellers

by Hugh Walpole

As a matter of truth, he had been looking forward during the last two years to "after the war." ... That was the time when he was going to start again. Get this war behind one and he would break out in an entirely new place—"begin all over again"—show all those young fellows that all their so-called modernity was nothing but a new trick or two for covering up the same old thing. He could do it as well as they. Write in suspensive dots and dashes, mention all the parts of the human body in full, count every tick of the clock, and call your book "Disintegration," or "Dead Moons," or "Green Queens."

Robsart liked himself in these moods, and during luncheon he amiably wandered along in this direction, plucking the flowers of his wit as he went and flinging them into Westcott's lap.

Peter grew ever more and more silent. He hated Robsart. That ghastly preoccupation with his own little affairs, the self-patting and self-applause over the little successes that he had won, above all, that blending of all the horror and tragedy of that great nightmare of a war to fit into the pattern of that mean, self-gratifying little life—these things were horrible. But, strangely, with the ever-growing disgust of Robsart and his slightly disturbed self-complacency came an evil longing in Peter's breast for some of the comfort and luxury that Robsart's life represented. Ever since that day, now so many years ago, when his wife had run away with his best friend, he had known, it seemed, no peace, no quiet, no tranquillity. It was not security that he needed, but rather a pause in the battle of the spiritual elements that seemed to be for ever beating at his ears and driving him staggering from post to post. Had it not been for the war he had often thought, he must have succumbed before now. Final defeat, at any rate, meant rest. He had not succumbed. These years in Gallipoli and France had saved him. But he, in those desolate, death-ridden places had again and again said to himself, even as Robsart, safe in Hortons, had said: "After the war.... After the war...." After the war Peter would build up his life again. But first, even a month's rest—somewhere that was not dirty and cheap and ill-smelling. Somewhere with good food and kind looks.... Then he smiled as he thought of Maradick and Galleon, his two friends, who could both give him those things. No, he wanted also freedom.

Thus, to his amazement, at the end of luncheon, when he was feeling as though he could not bear the sound of Robsart's rich, self-satisfied voice a moment longer, the man made his proposal. He was going to Scotland for two months. Would Westcott like to take the flat, free of rent, of course? It was at his disposal. He need not have meals there unless he wished.

Something in Westcott's spirit had attracted Robsart. Westcott had not given him the praise he had needed; but now he seemed to have forgotten that. The man who sat opposite to him with the thin face, the black, closely cropped hair, thin above his forehead, grey above the temples, with the broad shoulders, the hard, thick-set figure, the grave eyes, the nervous, restless fingers, the man who, in spite of his forty years, seemed still in some strange way a boy—that man had been through fire and tribulation such as Robsart would never know. Robsart was not a bad man, nor an unkindly; success had been the worst thing that could have happened to his soul. He put his hand on Westcott's shoulder: "You stay here and have a rest for a bit. Do just as you like. Chuck my things about. Smash the Rodin if it amuses you." Peter accepted.

When he moved, with his few possessions, into the grand place, he found it less alarming than he had expected. Hortons itself was anything but alarming. In the first place, there was the nicest girl in the world, Fanny, who was portress downstairs. She made one happy at once. Then the valet, Albert, or Albert Edward, as he seemed to prefer to be called, was the kind of man understood in a moment by Peter. They were friends in three minutes. Albert Edward had his eye on Fanny, and was going to propose one of these days. Wouldn't they make a jolly pair?

Once or twice the great Mr. Nix himself, the manager of the flats, came in to see how Peter was faring. He seemed to have an exalted idea of Peter because he was "Robsart's friend." Robsart was a very great man in Mr. Nix's eyes.

"But I'm not his friend," Peter said. "You must have been," Mr. Nix said, "for him to let you have his flat like that. I've never known him to do that before."

In three days Peter was happy; in another three days he began to be strangled. There were too many things in the flat—beautiful things, costly things. Little golden trifles, precious china, pictures worth a fortune, first editions scattered about as though they were nothing. "Too full, too full, too full."

Peter couldn't sleep. He pushed on all the lights, and pushed them all off again. He got up, and in his old, shabby, patched pyjamas walked the length of the flat up and down, up and down. The Brahmin gods in the gold temple stared at him impassively. The Rodin old woman leered.