The Song of the Flea (13 page)

Sadly, not without bitterness, Pym said: “That sounds strange, Proudfoot, coming from The Mouthpiece.”

Proudfoot was not disconcerted. He laughed lightly and said: “My dear fellow, what’s strange about it? Has it occurred to you that my clients were seldom if ever liable to less than ten years’ penal servitude? I never involved myself in petty larceny and misdemeanours … until now, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

Pym’s cheeks were red and hot in the cool darkness as he said: “I’m sorry, Proudfoot.”

“Sorry, sorry, sorry!” said Proudfoot. “That’s your trouble, Pym—that is your curse. Sorry! If you are to be the man you are meant to be you must stop being sorry. You must be hard, Pym, hard! Great men are not sorry. It is nothing but conceit, this perpetual sorriness of yours!”

“You’re always right, you’re never wrong, Proudfoot. But great man
are
sorry—I mean, they do feel pity.”

“Very well. Go on.”

“The greater the man, the deeper the pity,” said Pym.

“All right. ‘The greater the man, the deeper the pity.’ Very good. ‘Let us now praise famous men.’ Since you are a writer, let us talk about greatness in its relation to Pity. Come on, Sorry—I am going to nickname you ‘Sorry’—come on, Sorry Pym, name me a few pitiful great writers.”

“There was, of course, Shakespeare,” said Pym uncertainly; “and there was Dostoevsky, Chekhov, Dickens——”

“—That’s enough. Add, if you like, Balzac and Zola. Add whoever you like. All great writers know pity. I put it to you that if Charles Dickens had gone on as you are going on he would have lived and died in the blacking factory, labelling bottles, with Oliver Twist unborn—for the simple reason that he would never have snatched enough time to write it! My dear fellow, you must realise that pity, material pity, pity in four dimensions (I include Time as a dimension) is a life work in itself. Who was more full of pity than Dostoevsky? What did he do? Did he stay in Siberia, busily pitying? Oh no; oh, dear me, no! He got out of it, married a reliable typist, smacked his innocent children’s heads if they dared to cough or sniff in the flat while he was putting pity on paper, and sat down and wrote
Crime
and
Punishment.
You mentioned Shakespeare. At your
age, Shakespeare was already a man of power. ‘The greater the man the deeper the pity’ were your words, I believe?”

“Yes, that’s what I said.”

“I agree,” said Proudfoot, and paused before hammering in the last half-inch of his argument.

“Well, then——”

“—The greater the man the profounder the pity. The profounder the pity the sharper the pain of uprooting it. The sharper the pain the harder to bear. The harder to bear the stronger the man. The stronger the man, the greater the man, writer, businessman, or what you will. Detach yourself!”

“Detach myself! How?”

“My dear fellow, with only a little time to call your own—left alone only for a little while—could you, or could you not, do what you have set out to do?”

“I believe I could.”

“You know you could. I agree with you when you say ‘the greater the man the deeper the pity’, but if you are to be great you must see your subject from a distance. You must listen to me, Pym, because although I’m old and wretched and shabby and broken and altogether ridiculous, I am not a fool, and
I
was on the way to being great (comical though it may sound, coming from me) before you were born. You must see life from the proper distance. You do not see a landscape when you are lying on your face in a bed of stinging nettles, any more than you hear an orchestra if you push your ear into the mouth of a trombone. True, if you wish to paint a landscape, you must first learn the shape and feel of a nettle or a blade of grass; and you appreciate music better if you know the potentialities of all the instruments. Again, before you portray a human being you must see the articulation of his bones. But the whole, Pym, may not be viewed except from a distance. You are too closely in contact with things, especially with people, at the present moment, and you must go away to a quiet place, and put your head in order, and lick some of the salt out of your wounds, and settle down to work; as other great men have done.”

“You’re right, Proudfoot—you
are
right, I know. All I want is to be left alone. The point is, one has to eat and keep a
roof over one’s head. A formality, perhaps,” said Pym, laughing, “but necessary.”

“Quite simply, then, you must get hold of some money,” said Proudfoot.

“I like the ‘quite simply’.”

“Oh, but you can.”

“How?” asked Pym.

Proudfoot said: “Now, I don’t want to say too much at present, but a day or two ago I met an old friend who has a project in which I am interested—I think profitable, when it matures a little. I’ll tell you about it. You have lent me thirty shillings, and been very kind on previous occasions,” said Proudfoot; “and, as the saying goes, I’ll cut you in if all goes well. But you do realise, my dear fellow, that the time has come to detach yourself a little—to be hard?”

“I do, on my word of honour I do, Proudfoot. But …”

“Oh, enough of my chatter, my dear fellow. Tell me about yourself.”

“The trouble with me——” Pym began.

“Ah!” said Proudfoot.

They were at the door of the
Jackdaw
of Rheims.

“T
HE
trouble with me——” said Pym.

“Rum. At this hour of the morning rum is the best thing. Rum for you?”

“Whatever you like. Anything.”

“Two rums,” said Proudfoot.

“I’m only supposed to serve market people at this time of the morning,” said the barman. “Are you market people?”

“Well …” said Pym.

“Yes,” said Proudfoot firmly.

A costermonger in a tight brown overcoat and a cracked bowler hat said: “You’re a bloody liar.”

“Perhaps——” said Pym.

“Pay no attention,” said Proudfoot.

The costermonger’s pink, drink-thickened face glowed in the cigarette smoke like a setting sun in a wet sky. He was sullen and angry; heavy, strong and dangerous. A little, quick, dry woman, whose hat brushed his chin, touched his wrist with a tiny hand and made a gesture that reminded Pym of a fly cleaning its front legs. “Now then, Nat,” she said.

“Shut up! Keep
your
snotty nose out o’ this. Wodger mean—‘pay no attention’? Eh? Goon. Wodger mean?”

“Leave people alone,” said the barman.

“Yes, come on, Nat.”

“Shut
your
bloody mouf! Put a bloody sock in it or I’ll shut if
for
ya. ’Oo said ‘pay no attention’? You? You dirty bastard! I’ll knock your bastard block orf!”

“Go on and do it,” said Proudfoot, smiling. “I know your kind, my friend. I defy you to touch me, you sodden loafer! Here—look—here’s my face. Touch it—just touch it! I dare you to! You miserable cur. Go on—hit me, knock my ‘bastard block’ off. Here it is.”

Proudfoot folded back his upturned coat-collar and offered his face to the costermonger, looking into his eyes.

“Nat!” said the little woman.

“Oh, shullup!” The costermonger looked away from Proudfoot, saw Pym and said: “What’s the matter with you?”

“Are you asking for trouble?” said Pym. “This gentleman is my friend.”

“Now then, Nat—stop it, for Christ’s sake, can’t you?” cried the little woman.

A fruit-salesman wearing an Old Etonian tie and a tweed cap muttered: “Turn it up. Ignore ’im. You don’t want no trouble with Nat.”

“‘This gentleman is my friend,’” said Nat, with savage mockery. “‘This gentleman is my friend.’ Well, I tell you what you can do with your friend. You can go and —— your friend, and —— your mother, and —— your father, and —— yourself. See? That’s what you can do. All right? Well, go on, then. I
told you what you can do, didn’t I? and do it, you dirty-rotten, twanking son of a nore! Go on—go on and do what you’re told!”

“Good Lord!” said Pym, mildly astonished. He was looking at the ceiling in the abstracted manner of a man making mental notes.

“Come and sit down,” said Proudfoot, pulling at his sleeve.

“All right,” said Pym.

“If anybody said that to me,” whispered the fruit-salesman, “I’d ’ave a go if ’e was Jack Dempsey. I’d do ’im if I ’ad to do ’im wiv an iron bar—I’d do six months for ’im, so ’elp me Jesus Christ Allbloodymighty!”

“He didn’t seem to annoy you,” said Proudfoot, sitting next to Pym at a little round table.

“Not much, no. I really don’t mind a great deal what people say to me. Why, do you?”

“No, not a bit. You were wise not to get into a fight with Nat the Terror, though. He’s one of the madmen that don’t know when to stop: a violent creature with no regard for the consequences of anything he does,” said Proudfoot. “Shall we have another rum?”

“By all means, Proudfoot. I’ll get it. Just let me swallow this. Now, what was I saying? Yes: the trouble with me, as I was saying——”

Nat the Terror made the glasses jump as he struck the table, and the tip of his nose touched Pym’s cheekbone as he shouted: “You’re a dirty bastard of a f—d pig! I told
you
what to do. Don’t sit here! Go and —— your —— ing mother!”

The little woman took hold of Nat’s sleeve and drew him back a pace or two.

“Pay no attention,” said Proudfoot.

“No, but this is very interesting,” said Pym.

“
I
’
ll
shut
your
mouf
for
you,” said Nat, with a knowing smile, and knocked the little woman down with a backhanded swing of his right fist.

“This is what comes of interfering——” Proudfoot began to say; but Pym did not hear. He rose, kicking away his chair and shouting “
No!
No!
No!
” in a strangled, husky voice. The
barman, with a mallet in his hand, was lifting the hinged flap of the bar and advancing with the sophisticated trepidation of an old soldier.

“Now look what you done!” cried Nat, holding up a cut knuckle, “you ’oring cow, you interfering bloody bitch!”

The little woman sat up unsteadily, retching and spitting a lingering, gummy string of blood. Then Pym leapt upon Nat and struck him with all his strength in the middle of his face. “Women? You hit women?” he shouted, and struck again. Nat fell back upon the bar. “Leave him alone—leave him to me!” cried Pym to the barman. Hurling himself against Nat he fell with him into the street beyond the swinging doors of the
Jackdaw
of Rheims.

“
This
is going to be a bundle!” said the fruit-salesman, leaving his beer undrunk and rushing out. Even the barman followed him.

Nat feinted with his left hand, struck with his right and knocked Pym as he staggered back. Pym’s heels struck the kerb, and he sat down on the pavement. Nat jumped on him, but Pym, rolling forward, caught one of his ankles in a terrible grip, so that Nat fell on his face and they were lying together in the gutter. Pym remembered that a coster lived on his feet and one might break his ankle, so he relaxed his hold; and then Nat kicked himself loose and stamped on Pym’s face with a heavy boot. He had the legs of a man who pushes loaded barrows. Something clicked: there was another red sunset flavoured with salt and Pym was standing up, keeping away. He hit hard with his left hand. Nat came on. Pym skipped away from a swinging boot, and still Nat came on. The back of Nat’s hand scraped his nose. A hand took hold of his throat. Pym bowed his head, found a finger, and bit it with all his might.

“Biting, by Christ!” said Nat. “Biting!” Nat dragged himself away. He and Pym stood face to face.

“Let’s call it a day,” said Nat.

“No!” cried Pym, landing a shattering right-hand punch on his chin, and Nat fell on his back “A woman? A woman? You’d strike a woman, would you?”

“Woman, you bloody fool? Woman? That’s Lil, my
wife.
She’s not a
woman!
”
said Nat the Terror, rising. “But okay, you asked for it.”

He bobbed his head, hunched a shoulder, drew back his left hand and aimed a kick at Pym’s groin. Pym stepped aside and hit him four times before he recovered his balance. Nat fell into a mess of horse droppings and cabbage leaves, but came up with a nail-studded batten from a broken crate, indignantly shouting: “Foul me, would ’e?”

“’It ’im in the guts!” cried the barman, dancing in ecstasy. “Kick ’im in the trollybobs!”

“Mind your own bloody business!” said the fruit-salesman. “Slosh ’im in the bleeding teeth!”

“Watch them nails!” said a porter.

Pym ran in as the batten came down, caught Nat’s wrist in his left hand and butted him in the face. The batten clattered on the paving-stones. “Sticks, eh?” said Pym, still gripping Nat’s wrist; and hit him a tremendous blow on the side of the jaw. This time, as Nat fell, Pym threw himself upon him, buried his fingers in his white muffler, and knocked his head on the edge of the kerb. Nat snorted, and was still.

“That’ll teach people to hit women,” said Pym.

Then the little woman went mad. She foamed at the mouth and shrieked: “’Itting people when they’re down, you dirty, rotten stinker! You bloody, dirty, filthy-rotten stinking twanking bastard!” She buried her fingernails in Pym’s face, reaching for his eyes. “They won’t let you live! You leave my Nat alone! You leave my Nat alone!”

“Lil’s worse than what ’e is,” said the porter to Proudfoot.

“Madam——” said Pym, holding her wrists.

“Don’t give me none of your ‘Madam’.

“What’s all this?” said a policeman.

The salesman lit a cigarette. The barman went back into the
Jackdaw
of Rheims.
The porter looked at the sky and the other spectators made polite conversation.

“You mind your
own
,”
said Lil, picking at a broken
fingernail
.

“Friendly bout,” said Nat, brushing horse dung and cabbage leaves off his neck.

“I know all about your friendly bouts,” said the policeman. “Break it up, will you?”

“That’s right,” said the porter.

“Don’t you put
your
oar in, Mike,” said the policeman. “I know you.”

“I assure you that everything is perfectly in order,” said Proudfoot.

“Well, well! You, eh? How are you?”

“Bearing up, bearing up, officer. There’s nothing to detain you here, I assure you.”

The policeman walked heavily towards Wellington Street. Nat the Terror offered Pym a hand like a boiled crab and said: “A fair fight and no favour. All right? Clean battle well fought. All right? Eh? No ’ard feeling. Shake ’ands and come out fighting and may the best man win. All right?”

“I’m afraid I lost my temper,” said Pym.

“That’s all right. Afraid
I
lost
my
temper.”

“You call yourself a man?” cried Lil. “You
tuppenny-ha’penny
twirp—you stinkpot, you, you dirty-filthy-rotten shite! You——”

Nat, who had been watching big slow drops of blood falling from his nose into the cupped palm of his right hand, as the representative of a defeated Power might watch melted
sealing-wax
dropping on to the parchment of a treaty, said: “Was you
told
to poke your nose in? If I told you once I told you a million times to stuff a sock in it and shut your gash!” He slapped her face with his left hand, so hard that she fell on her back in the road.

The spectators were talking.

“Wot a left!” said the porter.

“O-oo, that right!” said the salesman.

“Biff-Bosh!
One, two, three—
Biff,
biff,
bosh,
bosh,
bash,
bang!
”
said one of the spectators, bobbing and weaving and striking the air. “—’Fight fair!’—‘I won’t fight fair’—‘Yes, you will’—‘No, I won’t’—‘Yes, you bloody will!’—‘No, I bloody won’t!’ —
Biff-bosh-bash-bosh-crash-slosh-smash-bong-
clonk-
bang
!
”

“‘Did you address that remark to me? Then take that’—
biff,
bang,
wallop!
”
said another porter. “
Smashetty-bang.
Up ’e gits. ‘Now I’ll do yer, bloody-blimey if I don’t do yer.’ ‘Ai swear bai mai mother’s laife
Ai
’
ll
bloody do yer.’ ‘Try it ’n see: ’ave a go—yer mother won’t know’, says Nat. And—
slosh,
bang,
biff;
biff-bang-bosh
—and
skwollop!
Spark out.”

Nat was saying to Pym: “One thing I like, and that’s a nice clean fight. What d’you want to sort
me
out for?”

“You shouldn’t have struck the lady,” said Pym.

“It ain’t etiquette, is it?” said a porter.

Lil, having straightened herself, foot by foot like a carpenter’s measure, threw a handful of garbage into Nat’s face, screaming: “Man? You a man? You’re a dirty-filthy-rotten Woman! You dirty Woman! Slosh, don’t bloody talk!”

“I beg your pardon; did you call me a
woman?
”
said Nat, and knocked her down again.

“Come away,” said Proudfoot. “Let us go elsewhere.”

“By all means,” said Pym.

“Are you hurt?”

“Only my nose: I think it’s broken.”

“How do you feel?”

“Never better, oddly enough.”

“What, in God’s name, made you pick a fight with Nat the Terror?”

“I simply couldn’t stand by and see him hit the lady, Proudfoot.”

“‘Lady!’ They call her Spitting Lil.”

“Well, the woman, then.”

“The trouble with you, Pym—

“Oh, yes, I was going to tell you. The trouble with me is——”

“Ah!
The
Horseball.
We’ll have a drink here and you can wash your face. You’re covered with blood, Pym. ‘Sorry’ Pym! Come and have a wash and a drink. He knocks out Nat the Terror and calls Spitting Lil ‘a lady’, and says he’s afraid he lost his temper. Come on in, come in!”

*

“The trouble with me,” said Pym, “is that—Good God!”

“What’s the matter?” asked Proudfoot.

“I beg your pardon, but do you see that little man over there?”

“Well?”

“The little fellow with the flageolet.”

“The busker with the tin whistle—yes?”

“I’d like to hear what he’s saying.”

“Come to the bar, then.”

*

Two old women and a fat old man, who had been buying tomatoes, and a worried flower-seller, nervous as a whippet, who had invested his last pound in chrysanthemums, listened sympathetically and shook their heads sadly as the little fellow held up a broken tin-whistle and delivered his peroration:

“If I had a couple of shillings I could get a new instrument and buy some sausages to take home, and then get an hour or two’s sleep and start again this evening like a lion refreshed, as the saying goes….”

The fat old man said: “’Ere y’are; catch ’old,” and gave him a shilling. The old women lifted their skirts, rummaged in dirty canvas bags hung next to their flannel petticoats. One of them gave him fourpence. The other gave him sixpence, saying: “It’s the pore what ’elps the pore.” But the nervous
flower-seller
took out a half-crown and said, tragically, “’Ere y’are. ’Ave a tosheroon and buy yourself a bleed’n saxerphone … That’s all right. If I don’t do no good to-day I’m Rogered, so it don’t make no difference.”

“I’m more than grateful, I’m sure,” said the little man with the broken tin-whistle.

The fat old man said: “You’re right, Nelly. It’s the pore that ’elps the pore. Remember the song, eh, Nelly?” The old woman sang: