The Judas Tree Read online

  The Judas Tree

  Archibald Joseph Cronin

  A. J. Cronin’s latest novel is a devastating one—more realistic than any he has ever written. In The Judas Tree, the author of The Stars Look Down, The Citadel, The Keys of the Kingdom and The Green Years tells an engrossing story of a man beset by a supreme egoism which affects his entire life—particularly his relations with women. Rich, charming and accomplished, David Moray is a man especially attractive to women. From the depths of poverty he has risen to dazzling financial success and at a comparatively young age retired to Switzerland to enjoy its rewards. Detached from the dangers and anxieties of the world in the luxury of his beautiful estate, he is prepared to exist in perfect happiness. Without the slightest premonition of impending disaster, in a chance conversation at a party he is dramatically confronted with a situation which for years has caused him a deep sensation of guilt. When a young and impecunious medical student, he had fallen in love with a young Scottish girl and had committed himself to marry her, only to abandon her for another woman who could advance his career. With the highest intentions, he starts out to make good the damage of his first step in self advancement. Will he succeed?

  The Judas Tree

  by Archibald Joseph Cronin

  Part One

  Chapter One

  The autumn morning was so brilliant that Moray, judiciously consulting the rheostat thermometer outside his window, decided to breakfast on the balcony of his bedroom. He had slept well: for an ex-insomniac six hours was a reassuring performance: the sun shone warm through his Grieder silk robe, and Arturo had, as usual, prepared his tray to perfection. He poured his Toscanini coffee—kept hot in a silver Thermos—anointed a fresh croissant with mountain honey, and let his eye wander, with all the rich, possessive pleasure of a discoverer. God, what beauty! On the one hand, the Riesenberg, rising to the blue sky with heaven-designed symmetry above green, green grasslands lightly peppered with little ancient red-roofed peasant chalets; on the other, the gentle slopes of Eschenbrück, orchards of pear, apricot and cherry; in front, to the south, a distant ridge of snowy Alp and beneath, ah yes, beneath the plateau of his property lay the Schwansee, beloved lake of so many, many moods, sudden, wild and wonderful, but now glimmering in peace, veiled by the faintest skein of mist, through which a little white boat stole silently, like . . . well, like a swan, he decided poetically.

  How fortunate after long searching to find this restful, lovely spot, unpolluted by tourists, yet near enough the town of Melsburg to afford all the advantages of an efficient and civilised community. And the house, too, built with precision for a famous Swiss architect, it was all he could have wished. Solid rather than striking perhaps, yet stuffed with comfort. Think of finding chauffage à mazout, built-in cupboards, tiled kitchen, a fine long salon for his pictures, even the modern bathrooms demanded by his long sojourn in America! Drinking his orange juice, which he always reserved for a final bonne bouche, a sigh of satisfaction exhaled from Moray, so blandly euphoric was his mood, so sublimely unconscious was he of impending disaster.

  How should he spend his day?—as he got up and began to dress he reviewed the possibilities. Should he telephone Madame von Altishofer and go walking on the Teufenthal?—on such a morning she would surely want to exercise her weird and wonderful pack of Weimaraners. But no, he was to have the pleasure of taking her to the Festival party at five o’clock—one must not press too hard. What then? Run into Melsburg for golf? Or take out the boat and join the fishermen who were already hoping for a run of felchen in the lake? Yet somehow his inclination lay towards gentler diversions and finally he decided to look into the question of his roses which, suffering from a late frost, had not fully flowered this summer.

  He went downstairs to the covered terrace. Laid out beside the chaise longue he found his mail and the local news sheet—the English papers and the Paris Herald Tribune did not arrive until the afternoon. There was nothing to disturb him in his letters, each of which he opened with a curious hesitation, a reluctant movement of his thumb—strange how that ridiculous phobia persisted. In the kitchen Arturo was singing:

  “La donna è mobile . . .

  Sempre un’ amabile . . .

  La donna è mobile . . .

  E di pensier!”

  Moray smiled; his butler had irrepressible operatic tendencies—it was he who had chosen the blend of coffee once favoured by the maestro on a visit to Melsburg—but he was a cheerful, willing, devoted fellow and Elena, his wife, though stupendous in bulk, had proved a marvellous if temperamental cook. Even in his servants he was decidedly lucky . . . or was it merely luck, he asked himself mildly, moving out upon the lawn with pride. In Connecticut, with its stony soil and unconquerable crab grass, he had never had a proper lawn, at least nothing such as this close-cropped velvet stretch. He had made it, determinedly, uprooting a score of aged willow stumps, when he took over the property.

  Flanking this luscious turf, a gay herbaceous border ran, following a paved path that led to the lily pond, where golden carp lay motionless beneath the great sappy pads. A copper beech shaded the pond, and beyond was the Japanese garden, a rocky mount, vivid with quince, dwarf maples, and scores of little plants and shrubs with Latin names defying the memory.

  The further verge of the lawn was marked by a line of flowering bushes, lilac, forsythia, viburnum, and the rest, which screened the vegetable garden from the house. Then came his orchard, laden with ripe fruits: apple, pear, plum, damson, greengage—in an idle moment he had counted seventeen different varieties, but he owned to having cheated slightly, including the medlars, walnuts, and large filberts which grew in great abundance at the top of the slope, surrounding the dependence, a pretty little chalet, which he had converted to a guest house.

  Nor must he forget his greatest botanical treasure: the great gorgeous Judas tree that rose high, high above the backdrop of mountain, take and cloud. It was indeed a handsome specimen with a noble spreading head, covered in spring with heavy purplish flowers that appeared before the foliage. All his visitors admired it and when he gave a garden party it pleased him to display his knowledge to the ladies, omitting to reveal that he had looked it all up in the Encyclopaedia Britannica. “Yes,” he would say, “it’s the Cercis siliquastrium . . . the family of Leguminasae . . . the leaves have an agreeable taste, and in the East are often mixed with salad. You know, of course, the ridiculous popular tradition. In fact Arturo, my good Italian, who is amusingly superstitious, swears it’s unlucky and calls it l’albero dei dannati”—here he would smile, translating gracefully, “the tree of lost souls.”

  But now he discovered Wilhelm, his gardener, who admitted seventy years and was seventy-nine at least, nipping buds by the cucumber frame. The old man had the face of the aged Saint Peter and the obduracy of a cavalry sergeant. It took tact even to agree with him, but he had proved his worth in knowledge and labour, his one drawback an embarrassing, if useful, propensity for making water on the compost heap. Straightening his green baize apron, he removed his hat and greeted Moray with a grimly impassive:

  “Grüss Gott.”

  “Die Rosen, Herr Wilhelm,” said Moray diplomatically. “Wollen wir diese ansehen?”

  Together they went to the rose garden where, once the old man had scattered blame in all directions, the number of new varieties required was discussed and determined. As Wilhelm departed, a delightful diversion occurred. Two diminutive figures, the children of the village piermaster, aged seven and five, were observed breasting the steep path with that breathless speed and importance which denoted the delivery of an invoice; Suzy, the senior, clutched the yellow envelope, while Hans, her brother, carried book and pencil for the receipt. The
y were the most attractive, bright-eyed children, already smiling, glowing actually, in anticipation of the ritual he had established. So, after glancing at the invoice—it was, as expected, from Frankfurt, confirming the arrival of two cases of the special 1955 Johannisberger—he shook his head forbiddingly.

  “You must be punished for being such good children.”

  They were giggling as he led them to their favourite tree, a noble Reine Claude loaded with yellow plums. He shook a branch and when a rain of juicy fruit descended they burst into shrieks of laughter, scrambling down the slope, pouncing on the ripe rolling plums.

  “Danke, danke vielmals, Herr Moray.”

  Only when they had filled their pockets did he let them go. Then he looked at his watch and decided to be off.

  In the garage, adjacent to the chalet, he chose to take the sports Jaguar. For one who had attained the age of fifty-five and had from choice retired to a life of leisure and repose, such a vehicle might possibly have been judged too racy, the more so since his other two cars, the Humber estate wagon and a new Rolls Silver Cloud—obviously, he favoured the British marque—were notably conservative. Yet he felt, and looked, he had often been told, far far younger than his years: his figure was slim, his teeth sound and even, he had kept his hair without a thread of grey, and in his smile, which was charming, he had retained an extraordinarily attractive quality, spontaneous, almost boyish.

  At first his road ran through the pasture land, where soft-eyed, brown cows moved cumbrously, clanging the great bells strapped about their necks, bells which had descended through many generations. In the lower fields men, and women too, were busy with the eternal cycle of the grass. Some paused in their scything to lift a hand in greeting, for he was known, and liked, no doubt because of his kindness to the children, or perhaps because he had taken pains to interest himself in all the local junketings. Indeed, the rustic weddings, made dolorous by the final sounding of the Alpenhorn, the traditional processions, both religious and civil, even the brassy discords of the village band, which had come to serenade him on his birthday . . . all these amused and entertained him.

  Presently he came to the outer suburbs: streets which seemed to have been scrubbed, green-shuttered white houses, with their front plots of asters and begonias, their window-boxes filled with blooming geraniums and petunias. Such flowers—he had never seen the like! And over all such a clean quiet air of neatness and efficiency, as if everything were ordered and would never break down—and indeed nothing did; as if honesty, civility and politeness were the watchwords of the people.

  How wise in his special circumstances to settle here, away from the vulgarity of the present age: the hipsters and the beatniks, the striptease, the rock-and-roll, the ridiculous mouthings of angry young men, the lunatic abstractions of modern art, and all the other horrors and obscenities of a world gone mad.

  To friends in America who had protested against his decision, and in particular to Holbrook, his partner in the Stamford company, who had gone so far as to ridicule the country and its inhabitants, he had reasoned calmly, logically. Hadn’t Wagner spent seven happy and fruitful years in this same canton, composing Die Meistersinger and even—this with a smile—a brilliant march for the local fire brigade? The house, now a museum, still stood as evidence. Did not Shelley, Keats and Byron spend long periods of romantic leisure in the vicinity? As for the lake, Turner had painted it, Rousseau had rowed upon it, Ruskin had raved about it.

  Nor was he burying himself in a soulless vacuum. He had his books, his collection of beautiful things. Besides, if the native Swiss were not—how should he put it nicely?—not intellectually stimulating, there existed in Melsburg an expatriate society, a number of delightful people, of whom Madame von Altishofer was one, who had accepted him as a member of their coterie. And if this were not enough, the airport at Zurich lay within a forty-minute drive, and thereafter in two hours, or less, he was in Paris . . . Milan . . . Vienna . . . studying the rich textures of Titian’s Entombment; hearing Callas in Tosca; savouring the marvellous Schafsragout mit Weisskraut in Sacher’s Bar.

  By this time he had reached the Lauerbach nursery. Here he made his selection of roses, resolutely adding several varieties of his own choice to the list Wilhelm had given him, although wryly aware that his would probably perish mysteriously while the others would survive and flourish. When he left the nursery it was still quite early, only eleven o’clock. He decided to return by Melsburg and do some errands.

  The town was pleasantly empty, most of the visitors gone, the lakeside promenade, where crisp leaves from the pollard chestnuts were already rustling, half deserted. This was the season Moray enjoyed, which he viewed as an act of repossession. The twin spires of the cathedral seemed to pierce the sky more sharply, the ring of ancient forts, no longer floodlit, grew old and grey again, the ancient Mels Brücke, free of gaping sightseers, calmly resumed its true identity.

  He parked in the square by the fountain and, without even thinking of locking the car, strolled into the town. First he visited his tobacconist’s, bought a box of two hundred of his special Sobranie cigarettes, then at the apothecary’s a large flask of Pineau’s Eau de Quinine, the particular hair tonic he always used. In the next street was Maier’s, the famous confectioner’s. Here, after a chat with Herr Maier, he sent off a great package of milk chocolate to Holbrook’s children in Connecticut—they’d never get chocolate of that quality in Stamford. As an afterthought—he had a sweet tooth—he took away a demi-kilo of the new season’s marrons glacés for himself. Shopping here really was a joy, he told himself, one met smiles and politeness on every side.

  He was now in the Stadplatz where, answering a subconscious prompting, his legs had borne him. He could not refrain from smiling, though with a slight sense of guilt. Immediately opposite stood the Galerie Leuschner: He hesitated, humorously aware that he was yielding to temptation. But the thought of the Vuillard pastel drove him on. He crossed the street, pushed open the door of the gallery, and went in.

  Leuschner was in his office looking over a folio of pen-and-ink sketches. The dealer, a plump, smooth, smiling little man, whose morning coat, striped trousers and pearl tie-pin were notably de rigueur, greeted Moray with cordial deference, yet with an uncommercial air which assumed his presence in the gallery to be purely casual. They discussed the weather.

  “These are quite nice,” Leuschner presently remarked, indicating the folio, when they had finished with the weather. “And reasonable. Kandinsky is a very underrated man.”

  Moray had no interest in Kandinsky’s gaunt figures and simian faces, and he suspected that the dealer knew this, yet both spent the next fifteen minutes examining the drawings and praising them. Then Moray took up his hat.

  “By the way,” he said offhandedly, “I suppose you still have the little Vuillard we glanced at last week.”

  “Only just.” The dealer suddenly looked grave. “An American collector is most interested.”

  “Rubbish,” Moray said lightly. “There are no Americans left in Melsburg.”

  “This American is in Philadelphia—the Curator of the Art Museum. Shall I show you his telegram?”

  Moray, inwardly alarmed, shook his head in a manner implying amused dubiety.

  “Are you still asking that ridiculous price? After all, it’s only a pastel.”

  “Pastel is Vuillard’s medium,” Leuschner replied, with calm authority. “And I assure you, sir, this one is worth every centime of the price. Why, when you consider the other day in London a few rough brush strokes by Renoir, some half-dozen wretched-looking strawberries, a pitiful thing, really, of which the master must have been heartily ashamed, brought twenty thousand pounds. . . . But this, this is a gem, worthy of your fine collection, and you know how rare good Post-Impressionists have become, yet I ask only nineteen thousand dollars. If you buy it, and I do not press you, for practically it is almost sold, you will never regret it.”

  There was a silence. F
or the first time they both looked at the pastel which hung alone, against the neutral cartridge paper of the wall. Moray knew it well, it was recorded in the book and it was indeed a lovely thing—an interior, full of light and colour, pinks, greys and greens. The subject too, was exactly to his taste: a conversation piece, Madame Melo and her little daughter in the salon of the actress’s house.

  A surge of possessive craving tightened his throat. He must have it, he must, to hang opposite his Sisley. It was a shocking price, of course, but he could well afford it, he was rich, far richer even than the good Leuschner had computed, having of course no access to that little black book, locked in the safe, with its fascinating rows of ciphers. And why, after all those years of sterile work and marital strife, should he not have everything he wanted? That snug profit he had recently made in Royal Dutch could not be put to better use. He wrote the cheque, shook hands with Leuschner and went off in triumph, with the pastel carefully tucked beneath his arm. Back at his villa, before Arturo announced lunch, he had time to hang it. Perfect . . . perfect . . . he exulted, standing back. He hoped Frida von Altishofer would admire it.

  Chapter Two

  He had invited her for five o’clock and, as punctuality was to her an expression of good manners, at that hour precisely she arrived—not however as was customary, in her battered little cream-coloured Dauphine, but on foot. Actually her barracks of a house, the Schloss Seeburg, stood on the opposite shore of the lake, two kilometres across, and as she came into the drawing-room he reproached her for taking the boat, holding both her hands. It was a warm afternoon and the hill path to his villa was steep; he could have sent Arturo to fetch her.

  “I don’t mind the little ferry.” She smiled. “As you were so kindly driving me I thought not to bother with my car.”