The Citadel

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• A. J. Cronin
  
• Dedication
  
• Part One
  
• Chapter One
  
• Chapter Two
  
• Chapter Three
  
• Chapter Four
  
• Chapter Five
  
• Chapter Six
  
• Chapter Seven
  
• Chapter Eight
  
• Chapter Nine
  
• Chapter Ten
  
• Chapter Eleven
  
• Chapter Twelve
  
• Chapter Thirteen
  
• Chapter Fourteen
  
• Part Two
  
• Chapter One
  
• Chapter Two
  
• Chapter Three
  
• Chapter Four
  
• Chapter Five
  
• Chapter Six
  
• Chapter Seven
  
• Chapter Eight
  
• Chapter Nine
  
• Chapter Ten
  
• Chapter Eleven
  
• Chapter Twelve
  
• Chapter Thirteen
  
• Chapter Fourteen
  
• Chapter Fifteen
  
• Chapter Sixteen
  
• Part Three
  
• Chapter One
  
• Chapter Two
  
• Part Four
  
• Chapter One
  
• Chapter Two
  
• Chapter Three
  
• Chapter Four
  
• Chapter Five
  
• Chapter Six
  
• Chapter Seven
  
• Chapter Eight
  
• Chapter Nine
  
• Chapter Ten
  
• Chapter Eleven
  
• Chapter Twelve
  
• Chapter Thirteen
  
• Chapter Fourteen
  
• Chapter Fifteen
  
• Chapter Sixteen
  
• Chapter Seventeen
  
• Chapter Eighteen
  
• Chapter Nineteen
  
• Chapter Twenty
  
• Chapter Twenty-One
  
• Chapter Twenty-Two
  

Born in Cardross, Scotland, A. J. Cronin studied at the University of Glasgow. In 1916 he served as a surgeon sub-lieutenant in the Royal Navy Volunteers Reserve, and at the war’s end he completed his medical studies and practiced in South Wales. He was later appointed to the Ministry of Mines, studying the medical problems of the mining industry. He moved to London and built up a successful practice in the West End. In 1931 he published his first book,
Hatter’s Castle
, which was compared with the work of Dickens, Hardy and Balzac, winning him critical acclaim. Other books by A. J. Cronin include:
The Stars Look Down
,
The Citadel
,
Three Loves
,
The Green Years
,
Beyond This Place
, and
The Keys of the Kingdom
.

To my wife

Late one October afternoon in the year 1924 a shabby young man gazed with fixed intensity through the window of a third class compartment in the almost empty train labouring up the Penowell Valley from Swansea. All that day Manson had travelled from the North, changing at Carlisle and Shrewsbury, yet the final stage of his tedious journey to South Wales found him strung to a still greater excitement by the prospects of his post, the first of his medical career, in this strange, disfigured country.

Outside, a heavy rainstorm came blinding down between the mountains which rose on either side of the single railway track. The mountain tops were hidden in a grey waste of sky but their sides, scarred by ore workings, fell black and desolate, blemished by great heaps of slag on which a few dirty sheep wandered in vain hope of pasture. No bush, no blade of vegetation was visible. The trees, seen in the fading light, were gaunt and stunted spectres. At a bend of the line the red glare of a foundry flashed into sight, illuminating a score of workmen stripped to the waist, their torsos straining, arms upraised to strike. Though the scene was swiftly lost behind the huddled top gear of a mine, a sense of power persisted, tense and vivid. Manson drew a long breath. He felt an answering surge of effort, a sudden overwhelming exhilaration springing from the hope and promise of the future.

Darkness had fallen, emphasising the strangeness and remoteness of the scene when, half an hour later, the engine panted into Drineffy. He had arrived at last. Gripping his bag, Manson leaped from the train and walked quickly down the platform, searching eagerly for some sign of welcome. At the station exit, beneath a wind-blown lamp, a yellow-faced old man in a square hat and a long nightshirt of a mackintosh stood waiting. He inspected Manson with a jaundiced eye and his voice, when it came, was reluctant.

‘You Doctor Page’s new assistant?’

‘That’s right. Manson. Andrew Manson is the name!’

‘Huh! Mine’s Thomas, Old Thomas they mostly call me, dang ’em. I got the gig here. Set in – unless you’d rayther swim.’

Manson slung his bag up and climbed into the battered gig behind a tall angular black horse. Thomas followed, took the reins and addressed the horse.

‘Hue-up, Taffy!’ he said.

They drove off through the town which, though Andrew tried keenly to discern its outline, presented in the lashing rain no more than a blurred huddle of low grey houses ranged beneath the high and ever present mountains. For several minutes the old groom did not speak but continued to dart pessimistic glances at Andrew from beneath the dripping brim of his hat. He bore no resemblance to the smart coachman of a successful doctor but was, on the contrary, wizened and slovenly, and all the time he gave off a peculiar yet powerful odour of the stable. At last he said:

‘Only jest got your parchment, eh?’

Andrew nodded.

‘I knowed it.’ Old Thomas spat. His triumph made him more gravely communicative. ‘Last assistant went ten days ago. Mostly they don’t stop.’

‘Why?’ Despite his nervousness, Andrew smiled.

‘Work’s too hard for one thing, I reckon.’

‘And for another?’

‘You’ll find out!’ A moment later, as a guide might indicate a fine cathedral, Thomas lifted his whip and pointed to the end of a row of houses where, from a small lighted doorway a cloud of steam was emerging. ‘ See that. That there’s the missus and my little homestead. She takes in washin’ like.’ A secret amusement twitched his long upper lip. ‘Reckon you might want to know, shortly.’

Here the main street ended and, turning up a short uneven side-road, they boggled across a piece of pit ground, and entered the narrow drive of a house which stood amongst the adjacent rows behind a stunted ash tree. On the gate was the name Bryngower.

‘This is us,’ said Thomas, pulling up the horse.

Andrew descended. The next minute, while he gathered himself for the ordeal of his entrance, the front door was flung open and he was in the lighted hall being welcomed cordially by a tall, spare, smiling woman of about fifty with a calm face and clear blue eyes.

‘Well! Well! This must be Doctor Manson. Come in please, come in. I’m doctor’s sister, Miss Page. I do hope you didn’t have a tryin’ journey. I
am
pleased to see you. I been out my mind, nearly, since that last awful fellow we had left us. You ought to have seen him. He was a bright one if ever I met one, I can tell you. Oh! but never mind. It’s all right now you’re here. Come along, I’ll show you to your room myself.’

Upstairs, Andrew’s room was a small camsiled apartment with a brass bed, a yellow varnished chest of drawers and a bamboo table bearing a basin and ewer. Glancing round it, while her clear blue eyes searched his face, he said with anxious politeness:

‘This looks very comfortable, Miss Page.’

‘Yes, indeed.’ She smiled and patted his shoulder maternally. ‘You’ll do famous here, I’m sure. You treat me right and I’ll treat you right. I can’t say fairer nor that, can I? Now come along before you’re a minute older and meet doctor.’ She paused, her gaze still questioning his, her tone striving to be off-hand. ‘ I don’t know if I said so in my letter but, as a matter of fact – doctor hasn’t been too well, lately.’

Andrew looked at her in sudden surprise.

‘Oh, it’s nothing much,’ she went on quickly, before he could speak. ‘He’s been laid up a few weeks. But he’ll soon be all right. Make no mistake about that.’

Perplexed, Andrew followed her to the end of the passage where she threw open a door, exclaiming blithely:

‘Here’s Doctor Manson, Edward – our new assistant. He’s come to say ’ow do.’

As Andrew went into the room, a long fustily furnished bedroom with chenille curtains closely drawn and a small fire burning in the grate, Edward Page turned slowly upon the bed, seeming to do so by a great effort. He was a big, bony man of perhaps sixty with harshly lined features and tired, luminous eyes. His whole expression was stamped with suffering and a kind of weary patience. And there was something more. The light of the oil lamp, falling across the pillow, revealed one half of his face expressionless and waxen. The left side of his body was equally paralysed and his left hand, which lay upon the patchwork counterpane, was contracted to a shiny cone. Observing these signs of a severe and far from recent stroke, Andrew was conscious of a sudden shock of dismay. There was an odd silence.

‘I hope you’ll like it here,’ Doctor Page remarked at length, speaking slowly and with difficulty, slurring his words a little, ‘I hope you’ll find the practice won’t be too much for you. You’re very young.’

‘I’m twenty-four, sir,’ Andrew answered awkwardly. ‘I know this is the first job I’ve had, and all that – but I’m not afraid of work.’

‘There, now!’ Miss Page smiled. ‘Didn’t I tell you, Edward, we’d be lucky with our next one.’

An even deeper immobility settled on Page’s face. He gazed at Andrew. Then his interest seemed to fade. He said in a tired voice:

‘I hope you’ll stay.’

‘My goodness gracious!’ cried Miss Page. ‘What a thing to say!’ She turned to Andrew, smilingly and apologetic. ‘It’s only because he’s a morsel down today. But he’ll soon be up and doing again. Won’t you, my dear?’ Bending, she kissed her brother fondly. ‘There now! I’ll send your supper up by Annie whenever we’ve had ours.’

Page did not answer. The stony look on his one-sided face made his mouth seem twisted. His good hand strayed to the book that lay on the table beside his bed. Andrew saw that it was entitled
The Wild Birds of Europe.
Even before the paralysed man began to read he felt himself dismissed.

As Andrew went down to supper his thoughts were painfully confused. He had applied for his assistantship in answer to an advertisement in the
Lancet.
Yet in the correspondence, conducted at this end by Miss Page, which had led to his securing the post, there had been no mention whatsoever of Doctor Page’s illness. But Page was ill, there could be no question of the gravity of the cerebral haemorrhage which had incapacitated him. It would be months before he was fit for work, if, indeed, he were ever fit for work again.