Riceyman Steps

Part I

I

Riceyman Steps

On an autumn afternoon of 1919 a hatless man with a slight limp might have been observed ascending the gentle, broad acclivity of Riceyman Steps, which lead from King’s Cross Road up to Riceyman Square, in the great metropolitan industrial district of Clerkenwell. He was rather less than stout and rather more than slim. His thin hair had begun to turn from black to grey, but his complexion was still fairly good, and the rich, very red lips, under a small greyish moustache and over a short, pointed beard, were quite remarkable in their suggestion of vitality. The brown eyes seemed a little small; they peered at near objects. As to his age, an experienced and cautious observer of mankind, without previous knowledge of this man, would have said no more than that he must be past forty. The man himself was certainly entitled to say that he was in the prime of life. He wore a neat dark-grey suit, which must have been carefully folded at nights, a low, white, starched collar, and a “made” black tie that completely hid the shirtfront; the shirt-cuffs could not be seen. He was shod in old, black leather slippers, well polished. He gave an appearance of quiet, intelligent, refined and kindly prosperity; and in his little eyes shone the varying lights of emotional sensitiveness.

Riceyman Steps, twenty in number, are divided by a half-landing into two series of ten. The man stopped on the half-landing and swung round with a casual air of purposelessness which, however, concealed, imperfectly, a definite design. The suspicious and cynical, slyly watching his movements, would have thought: “What’s that fellow after?”

A man interested in a strange woman acquires one equine attribute—he can look in two directions at once. This man could, and did, look in two directions at once.

Below him and straight in front he saw a cobbled section of King’s Cross Road—a hell of noise and dust and dirt, with the County of London tramcars, and motor-lorries and heavy horse-drawn vans sweeping north and south in a vast clangour of iron thudding and grating on iron and granite, beneath the bedroom windows of a defenceless populace. On the far side of the road were, conspicuous to the right, the huge, red Nell Gwynn Tavern, set on the site of Nell’s still huger palace, and displaying printed exhortations to buy fruity Portuguese wines and to attend meetings of workers; and, conspicuous to the left, red Rowton House, surpassing in immensity even Nell’s vanished palace, divided into hundreds and hundreds of clean cubicles for the accommodation of the defeated and the futile at a few coppers a night, and displaying on its iron façade a newspaper promise to divulge the names of the winners of horse-races. Nearer to the man who could look two ways lay the tiny open space (not open to vehicular traffic) which was officially included in the title “Riceyman Steps.” At the south corner of this was a secondhand bookseller’s shop, and at the north an abandoned and decaying mission-hall; both these abutted on King’s Cross Road. Then, on either hand, farther from the thoroughfare and nearer the steps, came a few private houses with carefully curtained windows, and one other shop—a confectioner’s. And next, also on either hand, two business “yards” full of lorries, goods, gear, and the hum of hidden machinery. And the earth itself faintly throbbed; for, to the vibrations of traffic and manufacture, the Underground Railway, running beneath Riceyman Steps, added the muffled uproar of its subterranean electric trains.

While gazing full at the spectacle of King’s Cross Road the man on the steps peered downwards on his right at the confectioner’s shop, which held the woman who had begun to inflame him. He failed to descry her, but his thoughts pleasantly held her image, and she held his thoughts. He dreamed that one day he would share with her sympathetic soul his own vision of this wonderful Clerkenwell in which he lived and she now lived. He would explain to her eager ear that once Clerkenwell was a murmuring green land of medicinal springs, wells, streams with mills on their banks, nunneries, aristocrats, and holy clerks who presented mystery-plays. Yes, he would tell her about the drama of Adam and Eve being performed in the costume of Adam and Eve to a simple and unshocked people. (Why not? She was a widow and no longer young.) And he would point out to her how the brown backs of the houses which fronted on King’s Cross Road resembled the buttressed walls of a mighty fortress, and how the grim, ochreish, unwindowed backs of the houses of Riceyman Square (behind him) looked just like lofty, medieval keeps. And he would relate to her the story of the palace of Nell Gwynn, contemporary of Louise de la Vallière, and dividing with Louise the honour of being the first and most ingenuous of modern vampires. Never before had he had the idea of unfolding his mind on these enthralling subjects to a woman.

Rain began to fall. It fell on the bargain-books exposed in a stand outside the bookseller’s shop. The man did not move. Then a swift gentlemanly person stepped suddenly out of King’s Cross Road into the approach to the steps, and after a moment’s hesitation entered the shop. The man on the steps quietly limped down and followed the potential customer into the shop, which was his own.

II

The Customer

The shop had one window in King’s Cross Road, but the entrance, with another window, was in Riceyman Steps. The King’s Cross Road window held only cheap editions, in their paper jackets, of popular modern novels, such as those of Ethel M. Dell, Charles Garvice, Zane Grey, Florence Barclay, Nat Gould, and Gene Stratton Porter. The side window was set out with old books, first editions, illustrated editions, and complete library editions in calf or morocco of renowned and serious writers, whose works, indispensable to the collections of self-respecting book-gentlemen (as distinguished from bookmen), have passed through decades of criticism into the impregnable paradise of eternal esteem. The side window was bound to attract the attention of collectors and bibliomaniacs. It seemed strangely, even fatally, out of place in that dingy and sordid neighbourhood where existence was a dangerous and difficult adventure in almost frantic quest of food, drink and shelter, where the familiar and beloved landmarks were public-houses, and where the immense majority of the population read nothing but sporting prognostications and results, and, on Sunday mornings, accounts of bloody crimes and juicy sexual irregularities.

Nevertheless, the shop was, in fact, well placed in Riceyman Steps. It had a picturesque air, and Riceyman Steps also had a picturesque air, with all its outworn shabbiness, grime and decay. The steps leading up to Riceyman Square, the glimpse of the Square at the top, with its church bearing a massive cross on the west front, the curious perpendicular effects of the tall, blind, ochreish houses—all these touched the imagination of every man who had in his composition any unusually strong admixture of the universal human passion—love of the past. The shop reinforced the appeal of its environment. The shop was in its right appropriate place. To the secret race of collectors always ravenously desiring to get something for much less than its real value, the window in Riceyman Steps was irresistible. And all manner of people, including book-collectors, passed along King’s Cross Road in the course of a day. And all the collectors upon catching sight of the shop exclaimed in their hearts: “What a queer spot for a bookshop! Bargains! …” Moreover, the business was of old date and therefore had firmly established connections quite extra-local. Scores of knowing persons knew about it, and were proud of their knowledge. “What!” they would say with affected surprise to acquaintances of their own tastes. “You don’t know Riceyman Steps, King’s Cross Road? Best hunting-ground in London!” The name “Riceyman” on a signboard, whose paint had been flaking off for twenty years, also enhanced the prestige of the shop, for it proved ancient local associations. Riceyman must be of the true ancient blood of Clerkenwell.

The customer, with his hands behind him and his legs somewhat apart, was staring at a case of calf-bindings. A short, carefully dressed man, dapper and alert, he had the air neither of a bookman nor of a member of the upper-middle class.

“Sorry to keep you waiting. I just had to slip out, and I’ve nobody else here,” said the bookseller quietly and courteously, but with no trace of obsequiousness.

“Not at all!” replied the customer. “I was very interested in the books here.”

The bookseller, like many shopkeepers a fairly sure judge of people, perceived instantly that the customer must have acquired deportment from somewhere after adolescence, together with the art of dressing. There was abruptness in his voice, and the fact was that he had learnt manners above his original station in a strange place—Palestine, under Allenby.

“I suppose you haven’t got such a thing as a Shakespeare in stock; I mean a pretty good one?”

“What sort of a Shakespeare? I’ve got a number of Shakespeares.”

“Well, I don’t quite know. … I’ve been thinking for a long time I ought to have a Shakespeare.”

“Illustrated?” asked the bookseller, who had now accurately summed up his client as one who might know something of the world, but who was a simpleton in regard to books.

“I really haven’t thought.” The customer gave a slight good-humoured snigger. “I suppose it would be nice to have pictures to look at.”

“I have a good clean Boydell, and a Dalziel. But perhaps they’d be rather big.”

“Um!”

“You can’t hold them, except on a desk or on your knee.”

“Ah! That wouldn’t do! Oh, not at all!” The customer, who was nonplussed by the names mentioned, snatched at the opportunity given to decline them.

“I’ve got a nice little edition in eight volumes, very handy, with outline drawings by Flaxman, and nicely printed. You don’t often see it. Not like any other Shakespeare I know of. Quite cheap too.”

“Um!”

“I’ll see if I can put my hand on it.”

The shop was full of bays formed by bookshelves protruding at right-angles from the walls. The first bay was well lighted and tidy; but the others, as they receded into the gloomy backward of the shop, were darker and darker and untidier and untidier. The effect was of mysterious and vast populations of books imprisoned forever in everlasting shade, chained, deprived of air and sun and movement, hopeless, resigned, martyrized. The bookseller stepped over piles of cast books into the farthest bay, which was carpeted a foot thick with a disorder of volumes, and lighted a candle.

“You don’t use the electric light in that corner,” said the client, briskly following. He pointed to a dust-covered lamp in the grimy ceiling.

“Fuse gone. They do go,” the bookseller answered blandly; and the blandness was not in the least impaired by his private thought that the customer’s remark came near to impudence. Searching, he went on: “We’re not quite straight here yet. The truth is, we haven’t been straight since 1914.”

“Dear me! Five years!”

Another piece of good-humoured cheek.

“I suppose you couldn’t step in tomorrow?” the bookseller suggested, after considerable groping and spilling of tallow.

“Afraid not,” said the customer with polite reluctance. “Very busy … I was just passing and it struck me.”

“The Globe edition is very good, you know … Standard text. Macmillans. Nothing better of the sort. I could sell you that for three-and-six.”

“Sounds promising,” said the customer brightly.

The bookseller blew out the candle and dusted one hand with the other.

“Of course it’s not illustrated.”

“Oh, well, after all, a Shakespeare’s for reading, isn’t it?” said the customer, for whom Shakespeare was a volume, not a man.

While the bookseller was wrapping up the green Globe Shakespeare in a creased bit of brown paper with an addressed label on it—he put the label inside—the customer cleared his throat and said with a nervous laugh:

“I think you employ here a young charwoman, don’t you?”

The bookseller looked up in mild surprise, peering. He was startled and alarmed, but his feelings seldom appeared on his face.

“I do.” He thought: “What is this inquisitive fellow getting at? It’s not what I call manners, anyhow.”

“Her name’s Elsie, I think. I don’t know her surname.”

The bookseller went on with his packing and said naught.

“As I’m here I thought I might as well ask you,” the customer continued with a fresh nervous laugh. “I ought to explain that my name’s Raste, Dr. Raste, of Myddelton Square. Dare say you’ve heard of me. From your name your family belongs to the district?”

“Yes,” agreed the bookseller. “I do.”

He was very proud of the name Riceyman, and he did not explain that it was the name only of his deceased uncle, and that his own name was Earlforward.

“I’ve got a lad in my service,” the doctor continued. “Shell-shock case. He’s improving, but I find he’s running after this girl Elsie. Quite OK, of course. Most respectable. Only it’s putting him off his work, and I just thought as I happened to be in here you wouldn’t mind me asking you about her. Is she a good girl? I’d like him to marry—if it’s the right sort. Might do him a lot of good.”

“She’s right enough,” answered the bookseller calmly and indifferently. “I’ve nothing against her.”

“Had her long?”

“Oh, some time.”

The bookseller said no more. Beneath his impassive and courteous exterior he hid a sudden spasm of profound agitation. The next minute Dr. Raste departed, but immediately returned.

“Afraid your books outside are getting a bit wet,” he cried from the doorway.

“Thank you. Thank you,” said the bookseller mildly and unperturbed, thinking: “He must be a managing and interfering kind of man. Can’t I run my own business?”

Some booksellers kept waterproof covers for their outside display, but this one did not. He had found in practice that a few drops of rain did no harm to low-priced volumes.