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Giant’s Bread
Copyright
HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by Collins 1930
Copyright © 1930 Rosalind Hicks Charitable Trust. All rights reserved.
www.agathachristie.com
Cover by www.ninataradesign.com © HarperCollins 2017
Agatha Christie asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Source ISBN: 9780008131449
Ebook Edition © June 2017 ISBN: 9780007535002
Version: 2018-04-11
Dedication
To the Memory of My Best and Truest Friend My Mother
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Book I. Abbots Puissants
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Book II. Nell
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Book III. Jane
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Book IV. War
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Book V. George Green
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Also by Agatha Christie
About the Publisher
PROLOGUE
It was the opening night of London’s new National Opera House and consequently an occasion. Royalty was there. The Press were there. The fashionable were there in large quantities. Even the musical, by hook and by crook, had managed to be there—mostly very high up in the final tier of seats under the roof.
The musical composition given was The Giant, a new work by a hitherto unknown composer, Boris Groen. In the interval after the first part of the performance, a listener might have collected the following scraps of conversation.
‘Quite divine, darling.’ ‘They say it’s simply the—the—the—latest!! Everything out of tune on purpose … And you have to read Einstein in order to understand it …’ ‘Yes, dear, I shall tell everyone it’s too marvellous. But privately, it does make one’s head ache!’
‘Why can’t they open a British Opera House with a decent British composer? All this Russian tomfoolery!’ Thus a peppery colonel.
‘Quite so,’ drawled his companion. ‘But you see, there are no British composers. Sad, but there it is!’
‘Nonsense—don’t tell me, sir. They just won’t give them a chance—that’s what it is. Who is this fellow Levinne? A dirty foreign Jew. That’s all he is!’
A man nearby, leaning against the wall, half concealed by a curtain, permitted himself to smile—for he was Sebastian Levinne, sole owner of the National Opera House, familiarly known by the title of the World’s Greatest Showman.
He was a big man, rather too well covered with flesh. His face was yellow and impassive, his eyes beady and black, two enormous ears stood out from his head and were the joy of caricaturists.
The surge of talk eddied past him …
‘Decadent—morbid … neurotic … childish …’
Those were critics.
‘Devastating … too divine … marvellous, my dear …’
Those were women.
‘The thing’s nothing but a glorified revue.’ ‘Amazing effects in the second part, I believe. Machinery, you know. This first part “Stone” is only a kind of introduction. They say old Levinne has simply gone all out over this. Never been anything like it.’ ‘Music’s pretty weird, isn’t it?’ ‘Bolshy idea, I believe. Noise orchestras, don’t they call them?’
Those were young men, more intelligent than the women, less prejudiced than the critics.
‘It won’t catch on. A stunt, thath all.’ ‘Yet, I don’t know—there’s a feeling for this Cubist thtuff.’ ‘Levinne’s shrewd.’ ‘Dropth money deliberately thometimes—but getth it back.’ ‘Cost …?’ The voices dropped, hushed themselves mysteriously as sums of money were mentioned.
Those were members of his own race. Sebastian Levinne smiled.
A bell rang—slowly the crowd drifted and eddied back to their seats.
There was a wait, filled with chattering and laughter—then the lights wavered and sank. The conductor mounted to his place. In front of him was an orchestra just six times as large as any Covent Garden orchestra and quite unlike an ordinary orchestra. There were strange instruments in it of shining metal like misshapen monsters, and in one corner an unaccustomed glitter of crystal. The conductor’s baton was stretched out—then fell and immediately there was a low rhythmic beating as of hammers on anvils—every now and then a beat was missed—lost—and then came floating back taking its place out of turn, jostling the others.
The curtain rose …
At the back of a box on the second tier Sebastian Levinne stood and watched.
This was no opera, as commonly understood. It told no story, featured no individuals. Rather was it on the scale of a gigantic Russian ballet. It contained spectacular effects, strange and weird effects of lighting—effects that were Levinne’s own inventions. His revues had for long been proclaimed as the last word in sheer spectacular sensation. Into this, more artist than producer, he had put the whole force of his imagination and experience.
The prologue had represented Stone—Man’s infancy.
This—the body of the work—was a supreme pageant of machinery—fantastic, almost awful. Power houses, dynamos, factory chimneys, cranes, all merging and flowing. And men—armies of men—with Cubist robot faces—defiling in patterns.
The music swelled and eddied—a deep sonorous clamour came from the new strangely shaped metal instruments. A queer high sweet note sounded above it all—like the ringing of innumerable glasses …
There was an Episode of Skyscrapers—New York seen upside down as from a circling aeroplane in the early dawn of morning. And the strange inharmonious rhythm beat ever more insistently—with increasing menacing monotony. It drew on through other episodes to its climax—a giant seeming steel erection—thousands of steel faced men welded together into a Giant Collective Man …
The Epilogue followed immediately. There was no interval, the lights did not go up.
Only one side of the orchestra spoke. What was called in the new modern phrase ‘the Glass’.
Clarion ringing notes.
The curtain dissolved into mist … the mist parted … the sudden glare made one wish to shield one’s eyes.
Ice—nothing but ice … great bergs and glaciers … shining …
And on the top immense pinnacle a little figure—facing away from the audience towards the insufferable glare that represented the rising of the sun …
The ridiculous puny figure of a man …
The glare increased—to the whiteness of magnesium. Hands went instinctively to eyes with a cry of pain.
The glass rang out—high and sweet—then crashed—and broke—literally broke—into tinkling fragments.
The curtain dropped and the lights rose.
Sebastian Levinne with an impassive face received various congratulations and side hits.
‘Well, you’ve done it this time, Levinne. No half measures, eh?’
‘A damned fine show, old man. Blessed if I know what it’s all about, though.’
‘The Giant, eh? That’s true, we live in an age of machinery all right.’
‘Oh, Mr Levinne, it’s simply too frightening for words! I shall dream of that horrid steel giant.’
‘Machinery as the Giant that devours, eh? Not far wrong, Levinne. We want to get back to Nature. Who’s Groen? A Russian?’
‘Yes, who’s Groen? He’s a genius whoever he is. The Bolshevists can boast they’ve produced one composer at last.’
‘Too bad, Levinne, you’ve gone Bolshy. Collective Man. Collective Music too.’
‘Well, Levinne, good luck to you. Can’t say I like this damned caterwauling they call music nowadays, but it’s a good show.’
Almost last came a little old man, slightly bent, with one shoulder higher than the other. He said with a very distinct utterance:
‘Like to give me a drink, Sebastian?’
Levinne nodded. This little old man was Carl Bowerman, the most distinguished of English musical critics. They went together to Levinne’s own sanctum.
In Levinne’s room they settled down in two arm-chairs. Levinne provided his guest with a whisky and soda. Then he looked across at him inquiringly. He was anxious for this man’s verdict.
‘Well?’
Bowerman did not reply for a minute or two. At last he said slowly:
‘I am an old man. There are things in which I take pleasure—there are other things—such as the music of today—which do not give me pleasure. But all the same I know Genius when I meet it. There are a hundred charlatans—a hundred breakers down of tradition who think that by doing so they have accomplished something wonderful. And there is the hundred and first—a creator, a man who steps boldly into the future—’
He paused, then went on.
‘Yes, I know genius when I meet it. I may not like it—but I recognize it. Groen, whoever he is, has genius … The music of tomorrow …’
Again he paused, and again Levinne did not interrupt, but waited.
‘I don’t know whether your venture will succeed or fail. I think succeed—but that will be mainly because of your personality. You have the art of forcing the public to accept what you want them to accept. You have a talent for success. You’ve made a mystery about Groen—part of your press campaign, I suppose.’
He looked at Sebastian keenly.
‘I don’t want to interfere with your press campaign, but tell me one thing—Groen’s an Englishman, isn’t he?’
‘Yes. How did you know, Bowerman?’
‘Nationality in music is unmistakable. He has studied in the Russian Revolutionary school, yes—but—well, as I said, nationality is unmistakable. There have been pioneers before him—people who have tried tentatively the things he has accomplished. We’ve had our English school—Holst, Vaughan Williams, Arnold Bax. All over the world musicians have been drawing nearer to the new ideal—the Absolute in Music. This man is the direct successor of that boy who was killed in the war, what was his name? Deyre—Vernon Deyre—He had promise.’ He sighed. ‘I wonder, Levinne, how much we lost through the war.’
‘It’s difficult to say, sir.’
‘It doesn’t bear thinking of. No, it doesn’t bear thinking of.’ He rose. ‘I mustn’t keep you. You’ve a lot to do, I know.’ A faint smile showed on his face. ‘The Giant! You and Groen have your little joke all to yourselves, I fancy. Everyone takes it for granted the Giant is the Moloch of Machinery—They don’t see that the real Giant is that pigmy figure—man. The individualist who endures through Stone and Iron and who though civilizations crumble and die, fights his way through yet another Glacial Age to rise in a new civilization of which we do not dream …’
His smile broadened.
‘As I grow older I am more and more convinced that there is nothing so pathetic, so ridiculous, so absurd, and so absolutely wonderful as Man—’
He paused by the doorway, his hand on the knob.
‘One wonders,’ he said, ‘what has gone to the making of a thing like the Giant? What produces it? What feeds it? Heredity shapes the instrument—environment polishes and rounds it off—sex wakens it … But there’s more than that. There’s its food.
‘Fee, fie, fo fum,
I smell the blood of mortal man
Be he alive or be he dead
I’ll grind his bones to make my bread.
A cruel giant, genius, Levinne! A monster feeding on flesh and blood. I know nothing about Groen, yet I’d swear that he’s fed his Giant with his own flesh and blood and perhaps the flesh and blood of others too … Their bones ground to make the Giant’s bread …
‘I’m an old man, Levinne. I have my fancies. We’ve seen the end tonight—I’d like to know the beginning.’
‘Heredity—environment—sex,’ said Levinne slowly.
‘Yes. Just that. Not that I have any hopes of your telling me.’
‘You think I—know?’
‘I’m sure you know.’
There was a silence.
‘Yes,’ said Levinne at last, ‘I do know. I would tell you the whole story if I could—but I cannot. There are reasons …’
He repeated slowly: ‘There are reasons …’
‘A pity. It would have been interesting.’
‘I wonder …’
CHAPTER 1
There were only three people of real importance in Vernon’s world: Nurse, God and Mr Green.
There were, of course, the nursemaids. Winnie, the present one, and behind her Jane and Annie and Sarah and Gladys. Those were all the ones that Vernon could remember, but there were lots more. Nursery maids never stayed long because they couldn’t get on with Nurse. They hardly counted in Vernon’s world.
There was also a kind of twin deity called Mummy-Daddy mentioned by Vernon in his prayers and also connected with going down to dessert. They were shadowy figures, rather beautiful and wonderful—especially Mummy—but they again did not belong to the real world—Vernon’s world.
The things in Vernon’s world were very real indeed. There was the drugget on the nursery floor, for instance. It was of green and white stripes and rather scrubbly to bare knees and in one corner of it was a hole which Vernon used surreptitiously to make bigger by working his fingers round in it. There were the nursery walls where mauve irises twined themselves interminably upwards round a pattern that was sometimes diamonds and sometimes, if you looked at it long enough, crosses. That seemed very interesting to Vernon and rather magical.
There was a rocking horse against one wall, but Vernon seldom rode on it. There was a basket-work engine and some basket-work trucks which he played with a good deal. There was a low cupboard full of more or less dilapidated toys. On an upper shelf were the more delectable contents that you played with on a wet day or when Nurse was in an unusually good temper. The Paint Box was there and the Real Camel Hair Brushes and a heap of illustrated papers for Cutting Out. In fact, all the things that Nurse said were ‘that messy she couldn’t abear them about’. In other words, the best things.
And in the centre of this realistic nursery universe, dominating everything, was Nurse herself. Person No. 1 of Vernon’s Trinity. Very big and broad, very starched and crackling. Omniscient and omnipotent. You couldn’t get the better of Nurse. She knew better than little boys. She frequently said so. Her whole lifetime had been spent looking after little boys (and incidentally little girls too, but Vernon was not interested in them) and one and all they had grown up to be a Credit to her. She said so and Vernon believed her. He had no doubt that he also would grow up to be a Credit to her, though sometimes it didn’t seem likely. There was something awe-inspiring about Nurse, but at the same time infinitely comfortable. She knew the answer to everything. For instance, Vernon propounded the riddle about the diamonds and the crosses on the wallpaper.
‘Ah, well!’ said Nurse, ‘there’s two ways of looking at everything. You must have heard that.’
And as Vernon had heard her say much the same to Winnie one day, he was soothed and satisfied. On the occasion in question, Nurse had gone on to say that there were always two sides to a question and in future Vernon always visualized a question as something like a letter A with crosses creeping up one side of it and diamonds going down the other.
After Nurse there was God. God was also very real to Vernon mainly because he bulked so largely in Nurse’s conversation. Nurse knew most things that you did, but God knew everything, and God was, if anything, more particular than Nurse. You couldn’t see God, which, Vernon always felt, gave him rather an unfair advantage over you, because he could see you. Even in the dark, he could see you. Sometimes when Vernon was in bed at night, the thought of God looking down at him through the darkness used to give him a creepy feeling down the spine.
But on the whole, God was an intangible person compared with Nurse. You could conveniently forget about him most of the time. That was, until Nurse lugged him deliberately into the conversation.
Once Vernon essayed revolt.
‘Nurse, do you know what I shall do when I’m dead?’
Nurse, who was knitting stockings, said: ‘One, two, three, four, there now, I’ve dropped a stitch. No, Master Vernon, I’m sure I don’t.’
‘I shall go to Heaven—I shall go to Heaven—and I shall go right up to God—right up to him I shall go, and I shall say: “You’re an ’orrible man and I ’ate you!”’
Silence. It was done. He had said it. Unbelievable, unparalleled audacity! What would happen? What awful punishment terrestrial or celestial would descend upon him? He waited—breathless.
Nurse had picked up the stitch. She looked at Vernon over the top of her spectacles. She was serene—unruffled.
‘It’s not likely,’ she remarked, ‘that the Almighty will take any notice of what a naughty little boy says. Winnie, give me those scissors, if you please.’
Vernon retired crestfallen. It was no good. You couldn’t down Nurse. He might have known.
And then there was Mr Green. Mr Green was like God in that you couldn’t see him, but to Vernon he was very real. He knew, for instance, exactly what Mr Green looked like—of middle height, rather stout, a faint resemblance to the village grocer who sang an uncertain baritone in the village choir, bright red cheeks and mutton chop whiskers. His eyes were blue, a very bright blue. The great thing about Mr Green was that he played—he loved playing. Whatever game Vernon thought of, that was just the game that Mr Green loved to play. There were other points about him. He had, for instance, a hundred children. And three others. The hundred, in Vernon’s mind, were kept intact, a joyous mob that raced down the yew alleys behind Vernon and Mr Green. But the three others were different. They were called by the three most beautiful names that Vernon knew: Poodle, Squirrel and Tree.
Vernon was, perhaps, a lonely little boy, but he never knew it. Because, you see, he had Mr Green and Poodle, Squirrel and Tree to play with.
For a long time Vernon was undecided as to where Mr Green’s home was. It came to him quite suddenly that of course Mr Green lived in the Forest. The Forest had always been fascinating to Vernon. One side of the Park bordered on it. There were high green palings and Vernon used to creep along them hoping for a crack that would let him see through. There were whisperings and sighings and rustlings all along, as though the trees were speaking to each other. Half-way down there was a door, but alas, it was always locked, so that Vernon could never see what it was really like inside the Forest.
Nurse, of course, would never take him there. She was like all nurses and preferred a good steady walk along the road, and no messing your feet up with them nasty damp leaves. So Vernon was never allowed to go in the Forest. It made him think of it all the more. Some day he would take tea there with Mr Green. Poodle and Squirrel and Tree were to have new suits for the occasion.
The nursery palled on Vernon. It was too small. He knew all there was to know about it. The garden was different. It was really a very exciting garden. There were so many different bits of it. The long walks between the clipped yew hedges with their ornamental birds, the water garden with the fat goldfish, the walled fruit garden, the wild garden with its almond trees in spring time and the copse of silver birch trees with bluebells growing underneath, and best of all the railed-off bit where the ruins of the old Abbey were. That was the place where Vernon would have liked to be left to his own devices—to climb and explore. But he never was. The rest of the garden he did much as he liked in. Winnie was always sent out with him but since by a remarkable coincidence they always seemed to encounter the second gardener, he could play his own games unhindered by too much kind attention on Winnie’s part.
Gradually Vernon’s world widened. The twin star, Mummy-Daddy, separated, became two distinct people. Daddy remained nebulous, but Mummy became quite a personage. She often paid visits to the nursery to ‘play with my darling little boy’. Vernon bore her visits with grave politeness, though it usually meant giving up the game that he himself was engaged upon and accepting one which was not, in his opinion, nearly so good. Lady visitors would sometimes come with her, and then she would squeeze Vernon tightly (which he hated) and cry:
‘It’s so wonderful to be a mother! I never get used to it! To have a darling baby boy of one’s very own.’
Very red, Vernon would extricate himself from her embrace. Because he wasn’t a baby boy at all. He was three years old.
Looking across the room one day, just after a scene like the above, he saw his father standing by the nursery door with sardonic eyes, watching him. Their eyes met. Something seemed to pass between them—comprehension—a sense of kinship.
His mother’s friends were talking.
‘Such a pity, Myra, that he doesn’t take after you. Your hair would be too lovely on a child.’
But Vernon had a sudden feeling of pride. He was like his father.
Vernon always remembered the day that the American lady came to lunch. To begin with, because of Nurse’s explanations about America which, as he realized later, she confused with Australia.
He went down to dessert in an awe-stricken state. If this lady had been at home in her own country, she would be walking about upside down with her head hanging down. Quite enough, this, to make him stare. And then, too, she used odd words for the simplest things.
‘Isn’t he too cute? See here, honey, I’ve gotten a box of candy for you. Won’t you come and fetch it?’
Vernon came gingerly; accepted the present. The lady clearly didn’t know what she was talking about. It wasn’t candy, but good Edinburgh Rock.
There were two gentlemen there also, one the husband of the American lady. This one said:
