[The opening sheets of this letter are lost, but the date is evidently
some time in January.]
* * * * *
. . . proofs coming along at express speed, I am enjoying a magnificent
illusion of importance and busy-ness. The novel will be out before the
_Life_, which is being held up considerably by copyright bothers over
the plates. All the better, as it is a mistake to bung two books out
right on top of one another.
I am feeling a great deal more sympathetic with Lathom just now. The
earnest Harrison has transferred his attentions, for the moment, to me,
because, as a literary man, I can, of course, tell him exactly how best
to prepare his fungus-book for the press. He comes teetering in at my
busiest moments to discuss points of grammar. I tell him my opinion and
he contradicts it at great length, pointing out subtleties in his
phrasing which I have not grasped. At length I either tell him that his
own original idea expresses his personality best, or fall back on _The
King’s English_ if the error is really too monstrous to let pass. This
works all right for a time, and he carries the book off with much
gratitude—returning later, however, with the demurrer to Mr. Fowler
carefully written down on paper. I once made the foolish suggestion that
he should write to Fowler and thrash it out with him direct; this was
fatal, as I had to listen to (_a_) the letter; (_b_) the reply; (_c_)
the rejoinder—so I now fall back as a rule on the phrase about
expressing personality. There was also a dreadful day when a
water-colour picture of fungi came out too green by three-colour
process. Lathom and I suffered dreadfully over this abominable
toadstool, and were at length forced to go out and drown the
recollection in Guinness.
All the same, I try my best to be helpful, because I am the only person
who can enter into Harrison’s interests, and he has really written a
very entertaining little piece of work, full of odd bits of
out-of-the-way knowledge, scraps of country lore and queer old-fashioned
recipes and things. He must have made extraordinary good use of his
holidays, and there’s not a plant or animal in the country fit for food
that he doesn’t know the last word about. He has made a wonderful
collection of botanical diaries, which ought to be of considerable
scientific value, and he brings a really scholarly mind to his rather
unscholarly subject. His water-colours, though too prim considered as
pictures, make really rather attractive book-illustrations, and his
drawings of plants and fungi are beautifully accurate in line and
colour—far better than the stuff you find in the usual text-books. And,
indeed, the vagaries of the three-colour process are enough to make Job
irritable. I told him that he should take as his motto for the book the
famous misprint in the Bible, “Printers have persecuted me without a
cause”—which pleased him.
Profiting by my position as literary guide and mentor, I have (with
colossal tact) persuaded him to let the famous portrait be shown. We got
round to it by way of cookery, oddly enough. I said that cookery was
really a very important creative art, which was not properly understood
in this country, being chiefly left in the hands of women, who were not
(pardon me, Bungie) as a rule very creative.
That led on to a general discussion of Art, and the yearning that every
creative artist feels to obtain a public response to his art. And so, by
devious ways, to Lathom and his picture. I said that, while I entirely
understood Mrs. Harrison’s quite natural feeling that to exhibit her
portrait would be, to a great extent, exhibiting herself, to Lathom it
was, of course, quite a different matter. It was his work, his handling
of line and colour, for which he wanted public recognition. But I
admitted that a woman could not be expected to appreciate this point of
view.
As I had foreseen, Harrison took this as an indirect criticism of his
wife, and promptly reacted against it. She was not, he said, like the
ordinary woman. She had a remarkable gift for artistic appreciation. He
felt sure that if he put it to her in the right light, she would see
that it was not a personal question at all. Indeed, she had made no
objection herself—it was he who had been afraid of exposing her to
unwelcome notoriety. But it should be made quite clear that the painting
was the important matter, and that the subject had no personal bearings
of any kind.
It was very odd, Bungie, to see him reassuring himself in this vicarious
way. And it was still odder that I had a feeling all the time as if I
was doing something unfair. His attitude about the thing was
preposterous, of course, but I have a queer feeling about Mrs. Harrison.
She isn’t so stupid that she can’t see Lathom’s point of view. It would
matter less if she were. It is that she is clever enough to see it and
adopt it when it is pointed out, and to make it into a weapon of some
kind for something or other. Not knowing that it is a weapon, either;
practising a sort of ju jitsu, that overcomes by giving way—good God!
what a filthy bit of obvious journalese metaphor!
Anyhow, Mr. Harrison worked off my little lecture on the creative artist
with great effect under my very nose the same evening, as though it was
all his own work. Mrs. H. started off with her usual lack of tact by
saying: “I thought you said,” and “I don’t want to discuss it,” but,
catching my eye, resigned herself to listen graciously and give consent.
So the Hanging Committee is, after all, to have the happiness of gazing
upon the portraits of Mrs. Harrison and Miss Milsom—blest pair of
sirens—and I hope they will be duly appreciative. Lathom is
pleased—and so he damn well ought to be! I hope it will calm him down,
for what with the portraits and the fungus-book and one thing and
another, he and I are both getting into a state of nerves.
_I want peace and quiet._ Damn all these people! Thank Heaven I’ve got
the proofs to see to, because I’m in no fit state to write anything. My
ideas are all upside down. I can’t focus anything. I suppose it’s just
the usual “between-books” feeling. I am going to take a few weeks’ lucid
interval and read astronomy or physics or something. Personally, I’m
dead sick of the blasted creative instinct!
Yours all-of-a-dither, but still devotedly,
JACK