‘Can you hesitate?’ she said. ‘Here we hardly know where to look for
to-morrow’s food, and you are offered a certain income and fifty pounds
as earnest-money.’
I closed with the offer and accepted the retaining fee; and I felt as
Dr Faustus might have done when he sold his soul to the Evil One.
Mrs Collingwood Dawson seemed pleased at my compliance, and sketched
out to me the part she wished me to take. We were to manufacture novels
solely—about three a year. The plot was to be drawn out for me with
indications of the points to be worked out. I was to fill in dialogue
and description. The ‘author’ was to be at liberty to add, cut out,
amend, and put in finishing touches.
‘I shall give you,’ she said, ‘a packet which I have left in the fly,
containing the various works of my husband. Read them over critically,
and adapt your style to his. I know you are a skilful workman, and will
have no difficulty in the matter.’
Business over, my employer joined our family dinner. She was bright and
cheerful, and her gaiety was infectious. My wife was charmed with her;
the children could not make enough of her. Her presence had all the
effect upon me of sparkling wine. When she was gone, I sat down to read
Mr Dawson’s works with as little appetite for their perusal as a grocer
has for figs. But I was surprised to find that though uneven in quality
and often carelessly written, there were abundant traces of a vivid
imagination, and an intimate knowledge of the workings of the human
heart in morbid and unhealthy developments. These qualities, I may say,
appeared only by fits and starts, and were overlaid by a good deal of
very commonplace work. The strong point of his fiction, and that which
gained, no doubt, the approval of the public, was the plot. His plots
were always ingenious and well combined, and kept the interest going to
the very fall of the curtain.
Time passed on. I got fairly to work on my new business. I had no fault
to find with my employers, and they on their part seemed well satisfied
with my services. I had as much work as I could manage; but I found
it much easier than of old, inasmuch as I had definite lines to work
upon and a distinct object in view. Then the payment was regular, and
in virtue of that, our household assumed an aspect of comfort and
tranquillity to which it had long been a stranger. As it was no longer
necessary for me to live within reach of London, I determined to carry
out a plan that had been in my head for some time, and settle for a
while in some quiet place in Normandy, where one could have good air,
repose, and tranquillity, without the appalling dullness that mantles
over an English country town.
All this time I had never seen Mr Collingwood Dawson, and the only
address I knew was at his chambers in the Temple; but all business
matters were arranged with a Mr Smith, who, I understood, was his
agent. My removal involved only a trifling extra cost in postage, and I
had work on hand that would keep me going for several months.
We settled in a pleasant picturesque little town on the banks of
the Seine, and after giving myself a few weeks’ holiday, to make
acquaintance with the neighbourhood, I began to plod on steadily at my
task.
I had just despatched a parcel of manuscript, and was strolling
homewards from the post-office along the quay, when I stopped to watch
some people fishing from the steps that lead down to the water-side.
The tide was low, the evening tranquil. The setting sun was blinking
over the edge of the wood-crowned heights behind; but all this side of
the view was in shadow, while the aspens and poplars on the further
bank were glowing in golden light. A little brook that escapes into
the river hereabouts through a conduit of stone was splashing and
bubbling merrily. In the eddy formed by the brook and the big river
were swimming the light floats of the fishermen, every now and then
pulled down, more often by some drowning weed or twig, but sometimes by
a fish, whose eager darts from side to side, and struggles as it was
hauled in by main force, afforded great amusement and excitement to
some half-dozen boys.
A more than commonly vigorous pluck at one of the floats, and a
strenuous tug at the line belonging to it, which made the rod curve
and wave under its strain, shewed that a big fish had been hooked.
The sensation among the spectators was great. It is always an awkward
matter to land a fish of any size when the river-bank is perpendicular
and there is no landing-net. Our friends here, however, were not
disposed to create unnecessary difficulties. A companion of the
successful fisherman seized the line and began to haul it in hand over
hand. It is a capital way this if everything holds and the fish is
hooked beyond possibility of release. In this case, however, although
the line was pulled in vigorously, all of a sudden the resistance
ceased and the hook came naked home. The baffled fisherman bowed
and smiled politely at his friend. It was a little _contre-temps_
inseparable from the amusement of fishing.
‘Clumsy!’ growled a voice close to my elbow in good English. I turned
round quite startled, for there were no English residents in the
town, and the accents of my native tongue were becoming unfamiliar.
A man stood by my side of somewhat strange appearance. He was short
and thick-set, and had a massive strongly marked face, with bushy
overhanging eyebrows, a heavy gray moustache, and stubbly beard of only
a few weeks’ growth. His arms were folded, the left one over the other;
but as he changed his position, I saw that he had lost his right hand,
and that its place was supplied with an iron hook. He was dressed in
a blouse made of some kind of coarse blanket-stuff of a huge cheque
pattern, trousers of dirty-white flannel, stuffed into boots that came
halfway up his calf. A Turkey-red handkerchief was twisted carelessly
round his throat, there being no sign of any shirt beneath; and a
bonnet of the Glengarry shape was cocked rather fiercely on his head.
In his hand he held a packet of whity-brown paper, made up as it seemed
for transmission by post. I could not help seeing that the packet was
addressed ‘London’ in a bold rough hand.
He seemed to wince at the look full of curiosity that I gave him. His
face, which had been lighted up with interest in watching the progress
of the fishing, now turned dull and dark. He went off at a short
shambling trot in the direction of the post-office, and I saw no more
of him just then.
I was not long, however, in finding out something about him. His name
it seemed was Houlot, and although eccentric, he was inoffensive,
and was on the whole rather respected by the townspeople. He was a
_savant_—a character, in their eyes, that excused a good deal of
moroseness and roughness of manner. He had resided in the neighbourhood
for some years, and occupied a single room in a house upon the hill
overlooking the town. Here he lived—hermit-fashion—keeping no domestic,
buying his own provisions in the market and cooking them himself. His
kitchen, however, I was given to understand, was the least important
part of his establishment; and the juice of the grape or of the apple,
or of the potato haply, distilled into strong waters, formed the
chief of his diet. For many weeks at a time he would scarcely stir
from his room, only coming out when his bottle of brandy was empty,
or on market-days to buy provisions. After this period of seclusion,
he would be seen walking about the country with a pipe in his mouth,
a thick oaken stick under his arm, and a book in his solitary hand,
still morose and unsociable. There was yet a third stage, during
which he would haunt the cafés and wine-shops, drinking a good deal,
and chatting away with all comers. At these times he was apt to get
quarrelsome, and he was known in consequence to be on bad terms with
the inspector of police.
I daresay that if I had chosen to apply to the last-named functionary,
I should have got still more ample information; but there was nothing
to justify me in pushing inquiry any further. It was generally
thought that Houlot was English in origin; but his French was not
distinguishable as that of a foreigner, and he spoke German as well as
he did English.
A week or two afterwards I met Monsieur Houlot walking on the heights
overlooking the Seine, with his pipe and stick, and with his nose in
a tattered volume. I raised my hat in passing; but he turned his head
away with a scowl, and did not return my salute. Decidedly, I said to
myself, he is English.
One morning the postman brought me a registered letter containing a
remittance from England, and placed before me his book to receive my
signature. When I had signed, he handed me a letter; but it was not for
me, it was for M. Houlot; and yet, curiously enough, the address was in
the handwriting of Mr Smith, the business agent of Collingwood Dawson,
from whom I was expecting a remittance.
‘Ah, I have given you the wrong letter,’ said the postman. ‘They are
both just alike, and I have made a mistake; pardon, Monsieur;’ and he
handed me a similar letter addressed to myself.
I noticed that from this date Houlot seemed to assume his third stage
of habits—that in which he haunted the cafés and wine-shops. Every one
agreed that he was much less inaccessible at such times, and could
even make casual acquaintanceship with strangers. I had a great desire
to know more about him, and took a little pains to throw myself in
his way. I ascertained that he usually spent his afternoons in one
particular café—the _Café Cujus_—thus called from the name of its
proprietor; and I made a point of taking coffee there every day at the
hour at which he was usually to be met with. But I did not advance my
purpose by that. He would bury his head in the _Journal de Rouen_,
turn his back persistently upon me, and leave the café at the earliest
possible moment.
‘You will come and visit us this evening?’ said Mademoiselle Cujus
graciously to me one day, as I paid my score at the counter of the
elegant little platform whence she dispensed her various tinctures. ‘We
shall have a very genteel concert tonight.’
Mademoiselle is a charming little Frenchwoman, with a piquant retroussé
nose, a full and softly rounded chin, and dark eyes with a veiled fire
about them, most attractive. She wears the prettiest little boots in
the world, and is always charmingly dressed. It is difficult to refuse
Mademoiselle Cujus anything, and I undertook to be present at the
concert. Admission was free, and thus I did not commit myself to any
great outlay.
When I entered the café that evening, I found it well filled with
a miscellaneous but respectable company. Everybody is talking,
coffee-cups and glasses are clinking, dominoes are rattling. At one
end of the room, on an extemporised platform, formed of a few rough
boards, the prima-donna, a rather bony lady in a very low dress,
stands with a roll of music in her hand, and surveys the company in a
somewhat dissatisfied way. She has cleared her throat once or twice,
and the pianist bangs out an opening chord or two. Her voice is a
little husky—perhaps with the singing of anthems; but she has plenty of
confidence and ‘go’ about her, and the wit to please her audience.
When the rattle of applause that greeted the end of the lady’s song
had ceased, there followed a comic man dressed as a peasant, carrying
a tobacco-pipe, which he was always trying, though ineffectually, to
light with a match from his trousers-pocket. He counterfeits the Norman
peasant in a state of semi-intoxication excellently well, and his song
is much applauded and called for again.
‘Yah!’ growled a voice behind me in an angry tone; and looking round I
saw M. Houlot standing by the doorway, his thick stick under his arm.
He seemed to be a little obscure in his faculties, and to have resented
the last performance as a personal insult to himself. His brows were
knitted, and his eyes gleamed angrily whilst he grasped the thin end
of his stick in a menacing way. Mademoiselle Cujus saw him at the same
moment as myself, and descended quickly from her Olympus to appease
him, laying her hand upon his arm as if to beg him to retire. He shook
it roughly off; and Mademoiselle looked imploringly at me, as being the
only one of the company who had noticed this little scene. At the sight
of beauty in distress I at once came forward. I took Houlot kindly
but firmly by the arm, and led him out into the kitchen at the back,
where, among the many brightly shining vessels of tin and copper, we
endeavoured to pacify him and explain matters.
No one could possibly withstand the winning ways of Miss Cujus. Houlot
was appeased, and went quietly out into the street. I had had enough
of the concert, and followed him. He lurched a little in his gait,
and every now and then stopped and looked fiercely round at the stars
overhead, as if he objected to their winking at him in the manner they
did. I accosted him once more, and in English, saying that I understood
that he spoke the language perfectly, and would he favour me with his
company for half an hour. He made no reply at first, but wrinkled his
brows and puckered his lips.
‘Come along!’ he said at last with a suddenness that startled me. ‘Let
me have a talk with you, then.’
I occupied a furnished house, with a little pavilion in the garden
looking out on the river, which I used as my writing and smoking room;
and to this pavilion I took my friend and called for lights and cognac.
He seemed restless and disturbed at the idea of being my guest. He
would not sit down, but as soon as he had swallowed a glass of brandy
he grasped his stick once more to take his departure.
‘If you would like any English books,’ I said, ‘I have some magazines
and so on.’
He shook his head. ‘I never read English; I have read none for ten
years,’ he said. ‘I like to get things at first-hand; so that if I want
to know anything, I go to the Germans; if I want to feel anything, to
the French. But what have you here?’ taking up a book. It was a volume
of Dawson’s last novel, which had been sent over to me.
‘Hum!’ he cried. ‘Is this a good author?’
‘A popular one,’ I replied, modestly remembering the share I had, if
not in his fame, at least in his fortunes.
‘I’ll take this, if you’ll let me have it,’ he said.
‘Take the three volumes.’
‘No; I’ll only take one. I don’t suppose I shall get through the first
chapter.’
Next day, however, he came back to borrow the second volume, and the
day after the third. I felt a little flattered that a work in which I
had taken so good a share had the power to captivate such a dour and
sullen soul.
‘What do you think of it?’ I said, when he brought back the last
volume. He was standing leaning against the doorway with his stick
under his arm. He would never sit down; he seemed to have made a vow
against it.
‘Think of it?’ he cried. ‘Why, it is my own—my own story!’
‘Yours!’ I said astonished. ‘How do you make that out?’
‘It is mine! the framework, the skeleton of it. Some fool has been at
work upon it and taken out all the beauties of it! The burning fiery
dialogue, the magnificent glowing descriptions, all are gone, and in
their stead some ass has filled it all up with pulp!’
This was pleasant for me to hear. My blood boiled with indignation,
but I was obliged to smother my rage and put on a sickly smile. ‘You
must be mistaken,’ I said. ‘How could he possibly have got hold of your
story?’
‘How? He must have got it from a man named Smith, to whom I sent it.
Write? Yes, I have written ever since I was breeched! It is a disease
with me; I can’t help it. Romances, novels, all that trash!’
‘And you send what you write to London?’
Houlot nodded. But he seemed all at once to have repented of his
freedom of speech, and took refuge in his usual taciturnity. Then once
more hugging his stick, he started off at his usual shambling trot.