The porter Joseph Zimmer had had a long and roundabout journey. A fortnight before he had worn the uniform of a British major-general. As such he had been the inmate7 of an expensive Paris hotel, till one morning, in grey tweed clothes and with a limp, he had taken the Paris–Mediterranean Express with a ticket for an officers’ convalescent home at Cannes. Thereafter he had declined in the social scale. At Dijon he had been still an Englishman, but at Pontarlier he had become an American bagman of Swiss parentage, returning to wind up his father’s estate. At Berne he limped excessively, and at Zurich, at a little back-street hotel, he became frankly9 the peasant. For he met a friend there from whom he acquired clothes with that odd rank smell, far stronger than Harris tweed, which marks the raiment of most Swiss guides and all Swiss porters. He also acquired a new name and an old aunt, who a little later received him with open arms and explained to her friends that he was her brother’s son from Arosa who three winters ago had hurt his leg wood-cutting and had been discharged from the levy10.
A kindly11 Swiss gentleman, as it chanced, had heard of the deserving Joseph and interested himself to find him employment. The said philanthropist made a hobby of the French and British prisoners returned from Germany, and had in mind an officer, a crabbed12 South African with a bad leg, who needed a servant. He was, it seemed, an ill-tempered old fellow who had to be billeted alone, and since he could speak German, he would be happier with a Swiss native. Joseph haggled13 somewhat over the wages, but on his aunt’s advice he accepted the job, and, with a very complete set of papers and a store of ready-made reminiscences (it took him some time to swot up the names of the peaks and passes he had traversed) set out for St Anton, having dispatched beforehand a monstrously14 ill-spelt letter announcing his coming. He could barely read and write, but he was good at maps, which he had studied carefully, and he noticed with satisfaction that the valley of St Anton gave easy access to Italy.
As he journeyed south the reflections of that porter would have surprised his fellow travellers in the stuffy15 third-class carriage. He was thinking of a conversation he had had some days before in a cafe at Dijon with a young Englishman bound for Modane . . .
We had bumped up against each other by chance in that strange flitting when all went to different places at different times, asking nothing of each other’s business. Wake had greeted me rather shamefacedly and had proposed dinner together.
I am not good at receiving apologies, and Wake’s embarrassed me more than they embarrassed him. ‘I’m a bit of a cad sometimes,’ he said. ‘You know I’m a better fellow than I sounded that night, Hannay.’
I mumbled17 something about not talking rot — the conventional phrase. What worried me was that the man was suffering. You could see it in his eyes. But that evening I got nearer Wake than ever before, and he and I became true friends, for he laid bare his soul before me. That was his trouble, that he could lay bare his soul, for ordinary healthy folk don’t analyse their feelings. Wake did, and I think it brought him relief.
‘Don’t think I was ever your rival. I would no more have proposed to Mary than I would have married one of her aunts. She was so sure of herself, so happy in her single-heartedness that she terrified me. My type of man is not meant for marriage, for women must be in the centre of life, and we must always be standing18 aside and looking on. It is a damnable thing to be left-handed.’
‘The trouble about you, my dear chap,’ I said, ‘is that you’re too hard to please.’
‘That’s one way of putting it. I should put it more harshly. I hate more than I love. All we humanitarians19 and pacifists have hatred20 as our mainspring. Odd, isn’t it, for people who preach brotherly love? But it’s the truth. We’re full of hate towards everything that doesn’t square in with our ideas, everything that jars on our lady-like nerves. Fellows like you are so in love with their cause that they’ve no time or inclination21 to detest22 what thwarts23 them. We’ve no cause — only negatives, and that means hatred, and self-torture, and a beastly jaundice of soul.’
Then I knew that Wake’s fault was not spiritual pride, as I had diagnosed it at Biggleswick. The man was abased24 with humility25.
‘I see more than other people see,’ he went on, ‘and I feel more. That’s the curse on me. You’re a happy man and you get things done, because you only see one side of a case, one thing at a time. How would you like it if a thousand strings26 were always tugging27 at you, if you saw that every course meant the sacrifice of lovely and desirable things, or even the shattering of what you know to be unreplaceable? I’m the kind of stuff poets are made of, but I haven’t the poet’s gift, so I stagger about the world left-handed and game-legged . . . Take the war. For me to fight would be worse than for another man to run away. From the bottom of my heart I believe that it needn’t have happened, and that all war is a blistering28 iniquity29. And yet belief has got very little to do with virtue30. I’m not as good a man as you, Hannay, who have never thought out anything in your life. My time in the Labour battalion31 taught me something. I knew that with all my fine aspirations32 I wasn’t as true a man as fellows whose talk was silly oaths and who didn’t care a tinker’s curse about their soul.’
I remember that I looked at him with a sudden understanding. ‘I think I know you. You’re the sort of chap who won’t fight for his country because he can’t be sure that she’s altogether in the right. But he’d cheerfully die for her, right or wrong.’
His face relaxed in a slow smile. ‘Queer that you should say that. I think it’s pretty near the truth. Men like me aren’t afraid to die, but they haven’t quite the courage to live. Every man should be happy in a service like you, when he obeys orders. I couldn’t get on in any service. I lack the bump of veneration33. I can’t swallow things merely because I’m told to. My sort are always talking about “service”, but we haven’t the temperament34 to serve. I’d give all I have to be an ordinary cog in the wheel, instead of a confounded outsider who finds fault with the machinery35 . . . Take a great violent high-handed fellow like you. You can sink yourself till you become only a name and a number. I couldn’t if I tried. I’m not sure if I want to either. I cling to the odds36 and ends that are my own.’
‘I wish I had had you in my battalion a year ago,’ I said.
‘No, you don’t. I’d only have been a nuisance. I’ve been a Fabian since Oxford37, but you’re a better socialist38 than me. I’m a rancid individualist.’
‘But you must be feeling better about the war?’ I asked.
‘Not a bit of it. I’m still lusting39 for the heads of the politicians that made it and continue it. But I want to help my country. Honestly, Hannay, I love the old place. More, I think, than I love myself, and that’s saying a devilish lot. Short of fighting — which would be the sin against the Holy Spirit for me — I’ll do my damnedest. But you’ll remember I’m not used to team work. If I’m a jealous player, beat me over the head.’
His voice was almost wistful, and I liked him enormously.
‘Blenkiron will see to that,’ I said. ‘We’re going to break you to harness, Wake, and then you’ll be a happy man. You keep your mind on the game and forget about yourself. That’s the cure for jibbers.’
As I journeyed to St Anton I thought a lot about that talk. He was quite right about Mary, who would never have married him. A man with such an angular soul couldn’t fit into another’s. And then I thought that the chief thing about Mary was just her serene40 certainty. Her eyes had that settled happy look that I remembered to have seen only in one other human face, and that was Peter’s . . . But I wondered if Peter’s eyes were still the same.
I found the cottage, a little wooden thing which had been left perched on its knoll41 when the big hotels grew around it. It had a fence in front, but behind it was open to the hillside. At the gate stood a bent42 old woman with a face like a pippin. My make-up must have been good, for she accepted me before I introduced myself.
‘God be thanked you are come,’ she cried. ‘The poor lieutenant43 needed a man to keep him company. He sleeps now, as he does always in the afternoon, for his leg wearies him in the night . . . But he is brave, like a soldier . . . Come, I will show you the house, for you two will be alone now.’
Stepping softly she led me indoors, pointing with a warning finger to the little bedroom where Peter slept. I found a kitchen with a big stove and a rough floor of planking, on which lay some badly cured skins. Off it was a sort of pantry with a bed for me. She showed me the pots and pans for cooking and the stores she had laid in, and where to find water and fuel. ‘I will do the marketing44 daily,’ she said, ‘and if you need me, my dwelling45 is half a mile up the road beyond the new church. God be with you, young man, and be kind to that wounded one.’
When the Widow Summermatter had departed I sat down in Peter’s arm-chair and took stock of the place. It was quiet and simple and homely46, and through the window came the gleam of snow on the diamond hills. On the table beside the stove were Peter’s cherished belongings — his buck-skin pouch47 and the pipe which Jannie Grobelaar had carved for him in St Helena, an aluminium48 field match-box I had given him, a cheap large-print Bible such as padres present to well-disposed privates, and an old battered49 Pilgrim’s Progress with gaudy50 pictures. The illustration at which I opened showed Faithful going up to Heaven from the fire of Vanity Fair like a woodcock that has just been flushed. Everything in the room was exquisitely51 neat, and I knew that that was Peter and not the Widow Summermatter. On a peg52 behind the door hung his much-mended coat, and sticking out of a pocket I recognized a sheaf of my own letters. In one corner stood something which I had forgotten about — an invalid53 chair.
The sight of Peter’s plain little oddments made me feel solemn. I wondered if his eyes would be like Mary’s now, for I could not conceive what life would be for him as a cripple. Very silently I opened the bedroom door and slipped inside.
He was lying on a camp bedstead with one of those striped Swiss blankets pulled up round his ears, and he was asleep. It was the old Peter beyond doubt. He had the hunter’s gift of breathing evenly through his nose, and the white scar on the deep brown of his forehead was what I had always remembered. The only change since I last saw him was that he had let his beard grow again, and it was grey.
As I looked at him the remembrance of all we had been through together flooded back upon me, and I could have cried with joy at being beside him. Women, bless their hearts! can never know what long comradeship means to men; it is something not in their lives — something that belongs only to that wild, undomesticated world which we forswear when we find our mates. Even Mary understood only a bit of it. I had just won her love, which was the greatest thing that ever came my way, but if she had entered at that moment I would scarcely have turned my head. I was back again in the old life and was not thinking of the new.
Suddenly I saw that Peter was awake and was looking at me.
‘Dick,’ he said in a whisper, ‘Dick, my old friend.’
The blanket was tossed off, and his long, lean arms were stretched out to me. I gripped his hands, and for a little we did not speak. Then I saw how woefully he had changed. His left leg had shrunk, and from the knee down was like a pipe stem. His face, when awake, showed the lines of hard suffering and he seemed shorter by half a foot. But his eyes were still like Mary’s. Indeed they seemed to be more patient and peaceful than in the days when he sat beside me on the buck-waggon and peered over the hunting-veld.
I picked him up — he was no heavier than Mary — and carried him to his chair beside the stove. Then I boiled water and made tea, as we had so often done together.
‘Peter, old man,’ I said, ‘we’re on trek54 again, and this is a very snug55 little rondavel. We’ve had many good yarns56, but this is going to be the best. First of all, how about your health?’
‘Good, I’m a strong man again, but slow like a hippo cow. I have been lonely sometimes, but that is all by now. Tell me of the big battles.’
But I was hungry for news of him and kept him to his own case. He had no complaint of his treatment except that he did not like Germans. The doctors at the hospital had been clever, he said, and had done their best for him, but nerves and sinews and small bones had been so wrecked58 that they could not mend his leg, and Peter had all the Boer’s dislike of amputation59. One doctor had been in Damaraland and talked to him of those baked sunny places and made him homesick. But he returned always to his dislike of Germans. He had seen them herding60 our soldiers like brute61 beasts, and the commandant had a face like Stumm and a chin that stuck out and wanted hitting. He made an exception for the great airman Lensch, who had downed him.
‘He is a white man, that one,’ he said. ‘He came to see me in hospital and told me a lot of things. I think he made them treat me well. He is a big man, Dick, who would make two of me, and he has a round, merry face and pale eyes like Frickie Celliers who could put a bullet through a pauw’s head at two hundred yards. He said he was sorry I was lame62, for he hoped to have more fights with me. Some woman that tells fortunes had said that I would be the end of him, but he reckoned she had got the thing the wrong way on. I hope he will come through this war, for he is a good man, though a German . . . But the others! They are like the fool in the Bible, fat and ugly in good fortune and proud and vicious when their luck goes. They are not a people to be happy with.’
Then he told me that to keep up his spirits he had amused himself with playing a game. He had prided himself on being a Boer, and spoken coldly of the British. He had also, I gathered, imparted many things calculated to deceive. So he left Germany with good marks, and in Switzerland had held himself aloof64 from the other British wounded, on the advice of Blenkiron, who had met him as soon as he crossed the frontier. I gathered it was Blenkiron who had had him sent to St Anton, and in his time there, as a disgruntled Boer, he had mixed a good deal with Germans. They had pumped him about our air service, and Peter had told them many ingenious lies and heard curious things in return.
‘They are working hard, Dick,’ he said. ‘Never forget that. The German is a stout65 enemy, and when we beat him with a machine he sweats till he has invented a new one. They have great pilots, but never so many good ones as we, and I do not think in ordinary fighting they can ever beat us. But you must watch Lensch, for I fear him. He has a new machine, I hear, with great engines and a short wingspread, but the wings so cambered that he can climb fast. That will be a surprise to spring upon us. You will say that we’ll soon better it. So we shall, but if it was used at a time when we were pushing hard it might make the little difference that loses battles.’
‘You mean,’ I said, ‘that if we had a great attack ready and had driven all the Boche planes back from our front, Lensch and his circus might get over in spite of us and blow the gaff?’
‘Yes,’ he said solemnly. ‘Or if we were attacked, and had a weak spot, Lensch might show the Germans where to get through. I do not think we are going to attack for a long time; but I am pretty sure that Germany is going to fling every man against us. That is the talk of my friends, and it is not bluff66.’
That night I cooked our modest dinner, and we smoked our pipes with the stove door open and the good smell of woodsmoke in our nostrils67. I told him of all my doings and of the Wild Birds and Ivery and the job we were engaged on. Blenkiron’s instructions were that we two should live humbly68 and keep our eyes and ears open, for we were outside suspicion — the cantankerous69 lame Boer and his loutish70 servant from Arosa. Somewhere in the place was a rendezvous71 of our enemies, and thither72 came Chelius on his dark errands.
Peter nodded his head sagely73, ‘I think I have guessed the place. The daughter of the old woman used to pull my chair sometimes down to the village, and I have sat in cheap inns and talked to servants. There is a fresh-water pan there, it is all covered with snow now, and beside it there is a big house that they call the Pink Chalet. I do not know much about it, except that rich folk live in it, for I know the other houses and they are harmless. Also the big hotels, which are too cold and public for strangers to meet in.’
I put Peter to bed, and it was a joy to me to look after him, to give him his tonic74 and prepare the hot water bottle that comforted his neuralgia. His behaviour was like a docile75 child’s, and he never lapsed76 from his sunny temper, though I could see how his leg gave him hell. They had tried massage77 for it and given it up, and there was nothing for him but to endure till nature and his tough constitution deadened the tortured nerves again. I shifted my bed out of the pantry and slept in the room with him, and when I woke in the night, as one does the first time in a strange place, I could tell by his breathing that he was wakeful and suffering.
Next day a bath chair containing a grizzled cripple and pushed by a limping peasant might have been seen descending78 the long hill to the village. It was clear frosty weather which makes the cheeks tingle79, and I felt so full of beans that it was hard to remember my game leg. The valley was shut in on the east by a great mass of rocks and glaciers80, belonging to a mountain whose top could not be seen. But on the south, above the snowy fir-woods, there was a most delicate lace-like peak with a point like a needle. I looked at it with interest, for beyond it lay the valley which led to the Staub pass, and beyond that was Italy — and Mary.
The old village of St Anton had one long, narrow street which bent at right angles to a bridge which spanned the river flowing from the lake. Thence the road climbed steeply, but at the other end of the street it ran on the level by the water’s edge, lined with gimcrack boarding-houses, now shuttered to the world, and a few villas in patches of garden. At the far end, just before it plunged82 into a pine-wood, a promontory83 jutted84 into the lake, leaving a broad space between the road and the water. Here were the grounds of a more considerable dwelling — snow-covered laurels85 and rhododendrons with one or two bigger trees — and just on the water-edge stood the house itself, called the Pink Chalet.
I wheeled Peter past the entrance on the crackling snow of the highway. Seen through the gaps of the trees the front looked new, but the back part seemed to be of some age, for I could see high walls, broken by few windows, hanging over the water. The place was no more a chalet than a donjon, but I suppose the name was given in honour of a wooden gallery above the front door. The whole thing was washed in an ugly pink. There were outhouses — garage or stables among the trees — and at the entrance there were fairly recent tracks of an automobile86.
On our way back we had some very bad beer in a cafe and made friends with the woman who kept it. Peter had to tell her his story, and I trotted87 out my aunt in Zurich, and in the end we heard her grievances88. She was a true Swiss, angry at all the belligerents89 who had spoiled her livelihood90, hating Germany most but also fearing her most. Coffee, tea, fuel, bread, even milk and cheese were hard to get and cost a ransom91. It would take the land years to recover, and there would be no more tourists, for there was little money left in the world. I dropped a question about the Pink Chalet, and was told that it belonged to one Schweigler, a professor of Berne, an old man who came sometimes for a few days in the summer. It was often let, but not now. Asked if it was occupied, she remarked that some friends of the Schweiglers — rich people from Basle — had been there for the winter. ‘They come and go in great cars,’ she said bitterly, ‘and they bring their food from the cities. They spend no money in this poor place.’
Presently Peter and I fell into a routine of life, as if we had always kept house together. In the morning he went abroad in his chair, in the afternoon I would hobble about on my own errands. We sank into the background and took its colour, and a less conspicuous92 pair never faced the eye of suspicion. Once a week a young Swiss officer, whose business it was to look after British wounded, paid us a hurried visit. I used to get letters from my aunt in Zurich, Sometimes with the postmark of Arosa, and now and then these letters would contain curiously93 worded advice or instructions from him whom my aunt called ‘the kind patron’. Generally I was told to be patient. Sometimes I had word about the health of ‘my little cousin across the mountains’. Once I was bidden expect a friend of the patron’s, the wise doctor of whom he had often spoken, but though after that I shadowed the Pink Chalet for two days no doctor appeared.
My investigations94 were a barren business. I used to go down to the village in the afternoon and sit in an out-of-the-way cafe, talking slow German with peasants and hotel porters, but there was little to learn. I knew all there was to hear about the Pink Chalet, and that was nothing. A young man who ski-ed stayed for three nights and spent his days on the alps above the fir-woods. A party of four, including two women, was reported to have been there for a night — all ramifications95 of the rich family of Basle. I studied the house from the lake, which should have been nicely swept into ice-rinks, but from lack of visitors was a heap of blown snow. The high old walls of the back part were built straight from the water’s edge. I remember I tried a short cut through the grounds to the high-road and was given ‘Good afternoon’ by a smiling German manservant. One way and another I gathered there were a good many serving-men about the place — too many for the infrequent guests. But beyond this I discovered nothing.
Not that I was bored, for I had always Peter to turn to. He was thinking a lot about South Africa, and the thing he liked best was to go over with me every detail of our old expeditions. They belonged to a life which he could think about without pain, whereas the war was too near and bitter for him. He liked to hobble out-of-doors after the darkness came and look at his old friends, the stars. He called them by the words they use on the veld, and the first star of morning he called the voorlooper— the little boy who inspans the oxen — a name I had not heard for twenty years. Many a great yarn57 we spun96 in the long evenings, but I always went to bed with a sore heart. The longing2 in his eyes was too urgent, longing not for old days or far countries, but for the health and strength which had once been his pride.
One night I told him about Mary.
‘She will be a happy mysie,’ he said, ‘but you will need to be very clever with her, for women are queer cattle and you and I don’t know their ways. They tell me English women do not cook and make clothes like our vrouws, so what will she find to do? I doubt an idle woman will be like a mealie-fed horse.’
It was no good explaining to him the kind of girl Mary was, for that was a world entirely97 beyond his ken8. But I could see that he felt lonelier than ever at my news. So I told him of the house I meant to have in England when the war was over — an old house in a green hilly country, with fields that would carry four head of cattle to the Morgan and furrows98 of clear water, and orchards99 of plums and apples. ‘And you will stay with us all the time,’ I said. ‘You will have your own rooms and your own boy to look after you, and you will help me to farm, and we will catch fish together, and shoot the wild ducks when they come up from the pans in the evening. I have found a better countryside than the Houtbosch, where you and I planned to have a farm. It is a blessed and happy place, England.’
He shook his head. ‘You are a kind man, Dick, but your pretty mysie won’t want an ugly old fellow like me hobbling about her house . . . I do not think I will go back to Africa, for I should be sad there in the sun. I will find a little place in England, and some day I will visit you, old friend.’
That night his stoicism seemed for the first time to fail him. He was silent for a long time and went early to bed, where I can vouch100 for it he did not sleep. But he must have thought a lot in the night time, for in the morning he had got himself in hand and was as cheerful as a sandboy.
I watched his philosophy with amazement101. It was far beyond anything I could have compassed myself. He was so frail102 and so poor, for he had never had anything in the world but his bodily fitness, and he had lost that now. And remember, he had lost it after some months of glittering happiness, for in the air he had found the element for which he had been born. Sometimes he dropped a hint of those days when he lived in the clouds and invented a new kind of battle, and his voice always grew hoarse103. I could see that he ached with longing for their return. And yet he never had a word of complaint. That was the ritual he had set himself, his point of honour, and he faced the future with the same kind of courage as that with which he had tackled a wild beast or Lensch himself. Only it needed a far bigger brand of fortitude104.
Another thing was that he had found religion. I doubt if that is the right way to put it, for he had always had it. Men who live in the wilds know they are in the hands of God. But his old kind had been a tattered105 thing, more like heathen superstition106, though it had always kept him humble107. But now he had taken to reading the Bible and to thinking in his lonely nights, and he had got a creed108 of his own. I dare say it was crude enough, I am sure it was unorthodox; but if the proof of religion is that it gives a man a prop16 in bad days, then Peter’s was the real thing. He used to ferret about in the Bible and the Pilgrim’s Progress— they were both equally inspired in his eyes — and find texts which he interpreted in his own way to meet his case. He took everything quite literally109. What happened three thousand years ago in Palestine might, for all he minded, have been going on next door. I used to chaff110 him and tell him that he was like the Kaiser, very good at fitting the Bible to his purpose, but his sincerity111 was so complete that he only smiled. I remember one night, when he had been thinking about his flying days, he found a passage in Thessalonians about the dead rising to meet their Lord in the air, and that cheered him a lot. Peter, I could see, had the notion that his time here wouldn’t be very long, and he liked to think that when he got his release he would find once more the old rapture112.
Once, when I said something about his patience, he said he had got to try to live up to Mr Standfast. He had fixed113 on that character to follow, though he would have preferred Mr Valiant-for-Truth if he had thought himself good enough. He used to talk about Mr Standfast in his queer way as if he were a friend of us both, like Blenkiron . . . I tell you I was humbled114 out of all my pride by the sight of Peter, so uncomplaining and gentle and wise. The Almighty115 Himself couldn’t have made a prig out of him, and he never would have thought of preaching. Only once did he give me advice. I had always a liking117 for short cuts, and I was getting a bit restive118 under the long inaction. One day when I expressed my feelings on the matter, Peter upped and read from the Pilgrim’s Progress: ‘Some also have wished that the next way to their Father’s house were here, that they might be troubled no more with either hills or mountains to go over, but the Way is the Way, and there is an end.’
All the same when we got into March and nothing happened I grew pretty anxious. Blenkiron had said we were fighting against time, and here were the weeks slipping away. His letters came occasionally, always in the shape of communications from my aunt. One told me that I would soon be out of a job, for Peter’s repatriation119 was just about through, and he might get his movement order any day. Another spoke63 of my little cousin over the hills, and said that she hoped soon to be going to a place called Santa Chiara in the Val Saluzzana. I got out the map in a hurry and measured the distance from there to St Anton and pored over the two roads thither — the short one by the Staub Pass and the long one by the Marjolana. These letters made me think that things were nearing a climax120, but still no instructions came. I had nothing to report in my own messages, I had discovered nothing in the Pink Chalet but idle servants, I was not even sure if the Pink Chalet were not a harmless villa3, and I hadn’t come within a thousand miles of finding Chelius. All my desire to imitate Peter’s stoicism didn’t prevent me from getting occasionally rattled121 and despondent122.
The one thing I could do was to keep fit, for I had a notion I might soon want all my bodily strength. I had to keep up my pretence123 of lameness124 in the daytime, so I used to take my exercise at night. I would sleep in the afternoon, when Peter had his siesta125, and then about ten in the evening, after putting him to bed, I would slip out-of-doors and go for a four or five hours’ tramp. Wonderful were those midnight wanderings. I pushed up through the snow-laden pines to the ridges126 where the snow lay in great wreaths and scallops, till I stood on a crest127 with a frozen world at my feet and above me a host of glittering stars. Once on a night of full moon I reached the glacier81 at the valley head, scrambled128 up the moraine to where the ice began, and peered fearfully into the spectral129 crevasses130. At such hours I had the earth to myself, for there was not a sound except the slipping of a burden of snow from the trees or the crack and rustle131 which reminded me that a glacier was a moving river. The war seemed very far away, and I felt the littleness of our human struggles, till I thought of Peter turning from side to side to find ease in the cottage far below me. Then I realized that the spirit of man was the greatest thing in this spacious132 world . . . I would get back about three or four, have a bath in the water which had been warming in my absence, and creep into bed, almost ashamed of having two sound legs, when a better man a yard away had but one.
Oddly enough at these hours there seemed more life in the Pink Chalet than by day. Once, tramping across the lake long after midnight, I saw lights in the lake-front in windows which for ordinary were blank and shuttered. Several times I cut across the grounds, when the moon was dark. On one such occasion a great car with no lights swept up the drive, and I heard low voices at the door. Another time a man ran hastily past me, and entered the house by a little door on the eastern side, which I had not before noticed . . . Slowly the conviction began to grow on me that we were not wrong in marking down this place, that things went on within it which it deeply concerned us to discover. But I was puzzled to think of a way. I might butt133 inside, but for all I knew it would be upsetting Blenkiron’s plans, for he had given me no instructions about housebreaking. All this unsettled me worse than ever. I began to lie awake planning some means of entrance . . . I would be a peasant from the next valley who had twisted his ankle . . . I would go seeking an imaginary cousin among the servants . . . I would start a fire in the place and have the doors flung open to zealous134 neighbours . . .
And then suddenly I got instructions in a letter from Blenkiron.
It came inside a parcel of warm socks that arrived from my kind aunt. But the letter for me was not from her. It was in Blenkiron’s large sprawling135 hand and the style of it was all his own. He told me that he had about finished his job. He had got his line on Chelius, who was the bird he expected, and that bird would soon wing its way southward across the mountains for the reason I knew of.
‘We’ve got an almighty move on,’ he wrote, ‘and please God you’re going to hustle136 some in the next week. It’s going better than I ever hoped.’ But something was still to be done. He had struck a countryman, one Clarence Donne, a journalist of Kansas City, whom he had taken into the business. Him he described as a ‘crackerjack’ and commended to my esteem137. He was coming to St Anton, for there was a game afoot at the Pink Chalet, which he would give me news of. I was to meet him next evening at nine-fifteen at the little door in the east end of the house. ‘For the love of Mike, Dick,’ he concluded, ‘be on time and do everything Clarence tells you as if he was me. It’s a mighty116 complex affair, but you and he have sand enough to pull through. Don’t worry about your little cousin. She’s safe and out of the job now.’
My first feeling was one of immense relief, especially at the last words. I read the letter a dozen times to make sure I had its meaning. A flash of suspicion crossed my mind that it might be a fake, principally because there was no mention of Peter, who had figured large in the other missives. But why should Peter be mentioned when he wasn’t on in this piece? The signature convinced me. Ordinarily Blenkiron signed himself in full with a fine commercial flourish. But when I was at the Front he had got into the habit of making a kind of hieroglyphic138 of his surname to me and sticking J.S. after it in a bracket. That was how this letter was signed, and it was sure proof it was all right.
I spent that day and the next in wild spirits. Peter spotted139 what was on, though I did not tell him for fear of making him envious140. I had to be extra kind to him, for I could see that he ached to have a hand in the business. Indeed he asked shyly if I couldn’t fit him in, and I had to lie about it and say it was only another of my aimless circumnavigations of the Pink Chalet.
‘Try and find something where I can help,’ he pleaded. ‘I’m pretty strong still, though I’m lame, and I can shoot a bit.’
I declared that he would be used in time, that Blenkiron had promised he would be used, but for the life of me I couldn’t see how.
At nine o’clock on the evening appointed I was on the lake opposite the house, close in under the shore, making my way to the rendezvous. It was a coal-black night, for though the air was clear the stars were shining with little light, and the moon had not yet risen. With a premonition that I might be long away from food, I had brought some slabs141 of chocolate, and my pistol and torch were in my pocket. It was bitter cold, but I had ceased to mind weather, and I wore my one suit and no overcoat.
The house was like a tomb for silence. There was no crack of light anywhere, and none of those smells of smoke and food which proclaim habitation. It was an eerie142 job scrambling143 up the steep bank east of the place, to where the flat of the garden started, in a darkness so great that I had to grope my way like a blind man.
I found the little door by feeling along the edge of the building. Then I stepped into an adjacent clump144 of laurels to wait on my companion. He was there before me.
‘Say,’ I heard a rich Middle West voice whisper, ‘are you Joseph Zimmer? I’m not shouting any names, but I guess you are the guy I was told to meet here.’
‘Mr Donne?’ I whispered back.
‘The same,‘he replied. ‘Shake.’
I gripped a gloved and mittened145 hand which drew me towards the door.
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1
belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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intern
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| v.拘禁，软禁；n.实习生 | |
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inmate
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| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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levy
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| n.征收税或其他款项，征收额 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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12
crabbed
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| adj.脾气坏的；易怒的；（指字迹）难辨认的；（字迹等）难辨认的v.捕蟹( crab的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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13
haggled
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| v.讨价还价( haggle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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monstrously
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stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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16
prop
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| vt.支撑；n.支柱，支撑物；支持者，靠山 | |
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17
mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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18
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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19
humanitarians
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| n.慈善家( humanitarian的名词复数 ) | |
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20
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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21
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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22
detest
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| vt.痛恨，憎恶 | |
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23
thwarts
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| 阻挠( thwart的第三人称单数 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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24
abased
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| 使谦卑( abase的过去式和过去分词 )； 使感到羞耻； 使降低（地位、身份等）； 降下 | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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26
strings
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| n.弦 | |
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27
tugging
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| n.牵引感v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的现在分词 ) | |
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28
blistering
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| adj.酷热的；猛烈的；使起疱的；可恶的v.起水疱；起气泡；使受暴晒n.[涂料] 起泡 | |
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29
iniquity
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| n.邪恶；不公正 | |
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30
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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31
battalion
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| n.营；部队；大队(的人) | |
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32
aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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33
veneration
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| n.尊敬，崇拜 | |
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34
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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35
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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38
socialist
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| n.社会主义者；adj.社会主义的 | |
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39
lusting
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| 贪求（lust的现在分词形式） | |
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40
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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41
knoll
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| n.小山，小丘 | |
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42
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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43
lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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44
marketing
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| n.行销，在市场的买卖，买东西 | |
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45
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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46
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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47
pouch
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| n.小袋，小包，囊状袋；vt.装...入袋中，用袋运输；vi.用袋送信件 | |
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48
aluminium
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| n.铝 (=aluminum) | |
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49
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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50
gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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51
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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52
peg
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| n.木栓，木钉；vt.用木钉钉，用短桩固定 | |
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53
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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54
trek
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| vi.作长途艰辛的旅行；n.长途艰苦的旅行 | |
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55
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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56
yarns
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| n.纱( yarn的名词复数 )；纱线；奇闻漫谈；旅行轶事 | |
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57
yarn
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| n.纱，纱线，纺线；奇闻漫谈，旅行轶事 | |
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58
wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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59
amputation
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| n.截肢 | |
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60
herding
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| 中畜群 | |
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61
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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62
lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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63
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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64
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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66
bluff
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| v.虚张声势，用假象骗人；n.虚张声势，欺骗 | |
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67
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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68
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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69
cantankerous
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| adj.爱争吵的，脾气不好的 | |
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70
loutish
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| adj.粗鲁的 | |
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71
rendezvous
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| n.约会，约会地点，汇合点；vi.汇合，集合；vt.使汇合，使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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72
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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73
sagely
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| adv. 贤能地，贤明地 | |
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74
tonic
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| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
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75
docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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76
lapsed
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| adj.流失的，堕落的v.退步( lapse的过去式和过去分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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77
massage
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| n.按摩，揉；vt.按摩，揉，美化，奉承，篡改数据 | |
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78
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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79
tingle
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| vi.感到刺痛，感到激动；n.刺痛，激动 | |
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80
glaciers
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| 冰河，冰川( glacier的名词复数 ) | |
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81
glacier
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| n.冰川，冰河 | |
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82
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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83
promontory
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| n.海角；岬 | |
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84
jutted
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| v.（使）突出( jut的过去式和过去分词 )；伸出；（从…）突出；高出 | |
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85
laurels
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| n.桂冠，荣誉 | |
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86
automobile
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| n.汽车，机动车 | |
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87
trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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88
grievances
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| n.委屈( grievance的名词复数 )；苦衷；不满；牢骚 | |
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89
belligerents
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| n.交战的一方（指国家、集团或个人）( belligerent的名词复数 ) | |
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90
livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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91
ransom
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| n.赎金，赎身；v.赎回，解救 | |
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92
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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93
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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94
investigations
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| （正式的）调查( investigation的名词复数 )； 侦查； 科学研究； 学术研究 | |
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95
ramifications
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| n.结果，后果( ramification的名词复数 ) | |
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96
spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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97
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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98
furrows
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| n.犁沟( furrow的名词复数 )；（脸上的）皱纹v.犁田，开沟( furrow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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99
orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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100
vouch
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| v.担保；断定；n.被担保者 | |
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101
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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102
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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103
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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104
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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105
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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106
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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107
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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108
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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109
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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110
chaff
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| v.取笑，嘲笑；n.谷壳 | |
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111
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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112
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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113
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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114
humbled
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| adj. 卑下的，谦逊的，粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下，贬低 | |
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115
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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116
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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117
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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118
restive
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| adj.不安宁的，不安静的 | |
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119
repatriation
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| n.遣送回国，归国 | |
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120
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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121
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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122
despondent
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| adj.失望的，沮丧的，泄气的 | |
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123
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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124
lameness
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| n. 跛, 瘸, 残废 | |
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125
siesta
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| n.午睡 | |
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126
ridges
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| n.脊( ridge的名词复数 )；山脊；脊状突起；大气层的)高压脊 | |
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127
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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128
scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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129
spectral
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| adj.幽灵的，鬼魂的 | |
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130
crevasses
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| n.破口，崩溃处，裂缝( crevasse的名词复数 ) | |
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131
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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132
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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133
butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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134
zealous
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| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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135
sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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136
hustle
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| v.推搡；竭力兜售或获取；催促；n.奔忙(碌) | |
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137
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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138
hieroglyphic
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| n.象形文字 | |
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139
spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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140
envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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141
slabs
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| n.厚板，平板，厚片( slab的名词复数 )；厚胶片 | |
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142
eerie
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| adj.怪诞的；奇异的；可怕的；胆怯的 | |
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143
scrambling
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的现在分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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144
clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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145
mittened
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| v.（使）变得潮湿，变得湿润( moisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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