CAKES AND ALE
W . S O M E R S E T M A U G H A M
I
I HAVE noticed that when someone asks for you on the telephone and,
finding you out, leaves a message begging you to call him up the moment
you come in, and it’s important, the matter is more often important to
him than to you. When it comes to making you a present or doing you a
favour most people are able to hold their impatience within reasonable
bounds. So when I got back to my lodgings with just enough time to have
a drink, a cigarette, and to read my paper before dressing for dinner,
and was told by Miss Fellows, my landlady, that Mr. Alroy Kear wished me
to ring him up at once, I felt that I could safely ignore his request.
“Is that the writer?” she asked me.
“It is.”
She gave the telephone a friendly glance.
“Shall I get him?”
“No, thank you.”
“What shall I say if he rings again?”
“Ask him to leave a message.”
“Very good, sir.”
She pursed her lips. She took the empty siphon, swept the room with a
look to see that it was tidy, and went out. Miss Fellows was a great
novel reader. I was sure that she had read all Roy’s books. Her
disapproval of my casualness suggested that she had read them with
admiration. When I got home again, I found a note in her bold, legible
writing on the sideboard.
_Mr. Kear rang up twice. Can you lunch with him to-morrow? If
not what day will suit you?_
I raised my eyebrows. I had not seen Roy for three months and then only
for a few minutes at a party; he had been very friendly, he always was,
and when we separated he had expressed his hearty regret that we met so
seldom.
“London’s awful,” he said. “One never has time to see any of the people
one wants to. Let’s lunch together one day next week, shall we?”
“I’d like to,” I replied.
“I’ll look at my book when I get home and ring you up.”
“All right.”
I had not known Roy for twenty years without learning that he always
kept in the upper left-hand pocket of his waistcoat the little book in
which he put down his engagements; I was therefore not surprised when I
heard from him no further. It was impossible for me now to persuade
myself that this urgent desire of his to dispense hospitality was
disinterested. As I smoked a pipe before going to bed I turned over in
my mind the possible reasons for which Roy might want me to lunch with
him. It might be that an admirer of his had pestered him to introduce me
to her or that an American editor, in London for a few days, had desired
Roy to put me in touch with him; but I could not do my old friend the
injustice of supposing him so barren of devices as not to be able to
cope with such a situation. Besides, he told me to choose my own day, so
it could hardly be that he wished me to meet anyone else.
Than Roy no one could show a more genuine cordiality to a fellow
novelist whose name was on everybody’s lips, but no one could more
genially turn a cold shoulder on him when idleness, failure, or someone
else’s success had cast a shade on his notoriety. The writer has his ups
and downs, and I was but too conscious that at the moment I was not in
the public eye. It was obvious that I might have found excuses without
affront to refuse Roy’s invitation, though he was a determined fellow
and if he was resolved for purposes of his own to see me, I well knew
that nothing short of a downright “go to hell” would check his
persistence; but I was beset by curiosity. I had also a considerable
affection for Roy.
I had watched with admiration his rise in the world of letters. His
career might well have served as a model for any young man entering upon
the pursuit of literature. I could think of no one among my
contemporaries who had achieved so considerable a position on so little
talent. This, like the wise man’s daily dose of Bemax, might have gone
into a heaped-up tablespoon. He was perfectly aware of it, and it must
have seemed to him sometimes little short of a miracle that he had been
able with it to compose already some thirty books. I cannot but think
that he saw the white light of revelation when first he read that
Charles Dickens in an after-dinner speech had stated that genius was an
infinite capacity for taking pains. He pondered the saying. If that was
all, he must have told himself, he could be a genius like the rest; and
when the excited reviewer of a lady’s paper, writing a notice of one of
his works, used the word (and of late the critics have been doing it
with agreeable frequency) he must have sighed with the satisfaction of
one who after long hours of toil has completed a cross-word puzzle. No
one who for years had observed his indefatigable industry could deny
that at all events he deserved to be a genius.
Roy started with certain advantages. He was the only son of a civil
servant who after being Colonial Secretary for many years in Hong-Kong
ended his career as Governor of Jamaica. When you looked up Alroy Kear
in the serried pages of _Who’s Who_ you saw _o. s._ of Sir Raymond Kear,
K. C. M. G., K.C.V.O. _q.v._ and of Emily, _y.d._ of the late Major
General Percy Camperdown, Indian Army. He was educated at Winchester and
at New College, Oxford. He was president of the Union and but for an
unfortunate attack of measles might very well have got his rowing blue.
His academic career was respectable rather than showy, and he left the
university without a debt in the world. Roy was even then of a thrifty
habit, without any inclination to unprofitable expense, and he was a
good son. He knew that it had been a sacrifice to his parents to give
him so costly an education. His father, having retired, lived in an
unpretentious, but not mean, house near Stroud in Gloucestershire, but
at intervals went to London to attend official dinners connected with
the colonies he had administered, and on these occasions was in the
habit of visiting the Athenæum, of which he was a member. It was through
an old crony at this club that he was able to get his son, when he came
down from Oxford, appointed private secretary to a politician who, after
having made a fool of himself as Secretary of State in two Conservative
administrations, had been rewarded with a peerage. This gave Roy a
chance to become acquainted at an early age with the great world. He
made good use of his opportunities. You will never find in his works any
of the solecisms that disfigure the productions of those who have
studied the upper circles of society only in the pages of the
illustrated papers. He knew exactly how dukes spoke to one another, and
the proper way they should be addressed respectively by a member of
Parliament, an attorney, a book-maker, and a valet. There is something
captivating in the jauntiness with which in his early novels he handles
viceroys, ambassadors, prime ministers, royalties, and great ladies. He
is friendly without being patronizing and familiar without being
impertinent. He does not let you forget their rank, but shares with you
his comfortable feeling that they are of the same flesh as you and I. I
always think it a pity that, fashion having decided that the doings of
the aristocracy are no longer a proper subject for serious fiction, Roy,
always keenly sensitive to the tendency of the age, should in his later
novels have confined himself to the spiritual conflicts of solicitors,
chartered accountants, and produce brokers. He does not move in these
circles with his old assurance.
I knew him first soon after he resigned his secretaryship to devote
himself exclusively to literature, and he was then a fine, upstanding
young man, six feet high in his stockinged feet and of an athletic
build, with broad shoulders and a confident carriage. He was not
handsome, but in a manly way agreeable to look at, with wide blue frank
eyes and curly hair of a lightish brown; his nose was rather short and
broad, his chin square. He looked honest, clean, and healthy. He was
something of an athlete. No one who has read in his early books the
descriptions of a run with the hounds, so vivid, and so accurate, can
doubt that he wrote from personal experience; and until quite lately he
was willing now and then to desert his desk for a day’s hunting. He
published his first novel at the period when men of letters, to show
their virility, drank beer and played cricket, and for some years there
was seldom a literary eleven in which his name did not figure. This
particular school, I hardly know why, has lost its bravery, their books
are neglected, and cricketers though they have remained, they find
difficulty in placing their articles. Roy ceased playing cricket a good
many years ago and he has developed a fine taste for claret.
Roy was very modest about his first novel. It was short, neatly written,
and, as is everything he has produced since, in perfect taste. He sent
it with a pleasant letter to all the leading writers of the day, and in
this he told each one how greatly he admired his works, how much he had
learned from his study of them, and how ardently he aspired to follow,
albeit at a humble distance, the trail his correspondent had blazed. He
laid his book at the feet of a great artist as the tribute of a young
man entering upon the profession of letters to one whom he would always
look up to as his master. Deprecatingly, fully conscious of his audacity
in asking so busy a man to waste his time on a neophyte’s puny effort,
he begged for criticism and guidance. Few of the replies were
perfunctory. The authors he wrote to, flattered by his praise, answered
at length. They commended his book; many of them asked him to luncheon.
They could not fail to be charmed by his frankness and warmed by his
enthusiasm. He asked for their advice with a humility that was touching
and promised to act upon it with a sincerity that was impressive. Here,
they felt, was someone worth taking a little trouble over.
His novel had a considerable success. It made him many friends in
literary circles and in a very short while you could not go to a tea
party in Bloomsbury, Campden Hill, or Westminster without finding him
handing round bread and butter or disembarrassing an elderly lady of an
empty cup. He was so young, so bluff, so gay, he laughed so merrily at
other people’s jokes that no one could help liking him. He joined dining
clubs where in the basement of a hotel in Victoria Street or Holborn men
of letters, young barristers, and ladies in Liberty silks and strings of
beads ate a three-and-sixpenny dinner and discussed art and literature.
It was soon discovered that he had a pretty gift for after-dinner
speaking. He was so pleasant that his fellow writers, his rivals and
contemporaries, forgave him even the fact that he was a gentleman. He
was generous in his praise of their fledgeling works, and when they sent
him manuscripts to criticize could never find a thing amiss. They
thought him not only a good sort, but a sound judge.
He wrote a second novel. He took great pains with it and he profited by
the advice his elders in the craft had given him. It was only just that
more than one should at his request write a review for a paper with
whose editor Roy had got into touch and only natural that the review
should be flattering. His second novel was successful, but not so
successful as to arouse the umbrageous susceptibilities of his
competitors. In fact it confirmed them in their suspicions that he would
never set the Thames on fire. He was a jolly good fellow; no side, or
anything like that: they were quite content to give a leg up to a man
who would never climb so high as to be an obstacle to themselves. I know
some who smile bitterly now when they reflect on the mistake they made.
But when they say that he is swollen-headed they err. Roy has never lost
the modesty which in his youth was his most engaging trait.
“I know I’m not a great novelist,” he will tell you. “When I compare
myself with the giants I simply don’t exist. I used to think that one
day I should write a really great novel, but I’ve long ceased even to
hope for that. All I want people to say is that I do my best. I do work.
I never let anything slipshod get past me. I think I can tell a good
story and I can create characters that ring true. And after all the
proof of the pudding is in the eating: _The Eye of the Needle_ sold
thirty-five thousand in England and eighty thousand in America, and for
the serial rights of my next book I’ve got the biggest terms I’ve ever
had yet.”
And what, after all, can it be other than modesty that makes him even
now write to the reviewers of his books, thanking them for their praise,
and ask them to luncheon? Nay, more: when someone has written a stinging
criticism and Roy, especially since his reputation became so great, has
had to put up with some very virulent abuse, he does not, like most of
us, shrug his shoulders, fling a mental insult at the ruffian who does
not like our work, and then forget about it; he writes a long letter to
his critic, telling him that he is very sorry he thought his book bad,
but his review was so interesting in itself, and if he might venture to
say so, showed so much critical sense and so much feeling for words,
that he felt bound to write to him. No one is more anxious to improve
himself than he and he hopes he is still capable of learning. He does
not want to be a bore, but if the critic has nothing to do on Wednesday
or Friday will he come and lunch at the Savoy and tell him why exactly
he thought his book so bad? No one can order a lunch better than Roy,
and generally by the time the critic has eaten half a dozen oysters and
a cut from a saddle of baby lamb, he has eaten his words too. It is only
poetic justice that when Roy’s next novel comes out the critic should
see in the new work a very great advance.
One of the difficulties that a man has to cope with as he goes through
life is what to do about the persons with whom he has once been intimate
and whose interest for him has in due course subsided. If both parties
remain in a modest station the break comes about naturally, and no ill
feeling subsists, but if one of them achieves eminence the position is
awkward. He makes a multitude of new friends, but the old ones are
inexorable; he has a thousand claims on his time, but they feel that
they have the first right to it. Unless he is at their beck and call
they sigh and with a shrug of the shoulders say:
“Ah, well, I suppose you’re like everyone else. I must expect to be
dropped now that you’re a success.”
That of course is what he would like to do if he had the courage. For
the most part he hasn’t. He weakly accepts an invitation to supper on
Sunday evening. The cold roast beef is frozen and comes from Australia
and was over-cooked at middle day; and the burgundy—ah, why will they
call it burgundy? Have they never been to Beaune and stayed at the Hôtel
de la Poste? Of course it is grand to talk of the good old days when you
shared a crust of bread in a garret together, but it is a little
disconcerting when you reflect how near to a garret is the room you are
sitting in. You feel ill at ease when your friend tells you that his
books don’t sell and that he can’t place his short stories; the managers
won’t even read his plays, and when he compares them with some of the
stuff that’s put on (here he fixes you with an accusing eye) it really
does seem a bit hard. You are embarrassed and you look away. You
exaggerate the failures you have had in order that he may realize that
life has its hardships for you too. You refer to your work in the most
disparaging way you can and are a trifle taken aback to find that your
host’s opinion of it is the same as yours. You speak of the fickleness
of the public so that he may comfort himself by thinking that your
popularity cannot last. He is a friendly but severe critic.
“I haven’t read your last book,” he says, “but I read the one before.
I’ve forgotten its name.”
You tell him.
“I was rather disappointed in it. I didn’t think it was quite so good as
some of the things you’ve done. Of course you know which my favourite
is.”
And you, having suffered from other hands than his, answer at once with
the name of the first book you ever wrote; you were twenty then, and it
was crude and ingenuous, and on every page was written your
inexperience.
“You’ll never do anything so good as that,” he says heartily, and you
feel that your whole career has been a long decadence from that one
happy hit. “I always think you’ve never _quite_ fulfilled the promise
you showed then.”
The gas fire roasts your feet, but your hands are icy. You look at your
wrist watch surreptitiously and wonder whether your old friend would
think it offensive if you took your leave as early as ten. You have told
your car to wait round the corner so that it should not stand outside
the door and by its magnificence affront his poverty, but at the door he
says:
“You’ll find a bus at the bottom of the street. I’ll just walk down with
you.”
Panic seizes you and you confess that you have a car. He finds it very
odd that the chauffeur should wait round the corner. You answer that
this is one of his idiosyncrasies. When you reach it your friend looks
at it with tolerant superiority. You nervously ask him to dinner with
you one day. You promise to write to him and you drive away wondering
whether when he comes he will think you are swanking if you ask him to
Claridge’s or mean if you suggest Soho.
Roy Kear suffered from none of these tribulations. It sounds a little
brutal to say that when he had got all he could out of people he dropped
them; but it would take so long to put the matter more delicately, and
would need so subtle an adjustment of hints, half-tones, and allusions,
playful or tender, that such being at bottom the fact, I think it as
well to leave it at that. Most of us when we do a caddish thing harbour
resentment against the person we have done it to, but Roy’s heart,
always in the right place, never permitted him such pettiness. He could
use a man very shabbily without afterward bearing him the slightest
ill-will.
“Poor old Smith,” he would say. “He is a dear; I’m so fond of him. Pity
he’s growing so bitter. I wish one could do something for him. No, I
haven t seen him for years. It’s no good trying to keep up old
friendships. It’s painful for both sides. The fact is, one grows out of
people, and the only thing is to face it.”
But if he ran across Smith at some gathering like the private view of
the Royal Academy no one could be more cordial. He wrung his hand and
told him how delighted he was to see him. His face beamed. He shed good
fellowship as the kindly sun its rays. Smith rejoiced in the glow of
this wonderful vitality and it was damned decent of Roy to say he’d give
his eye-teeth to have written a book half as good as Smith’s last. On
the other hand, if Roy thought Smith had not seen him, he looked the
other way; but Smith _had_ seen him, and Smith resented being cut. Smith
was very acid. He said that in the old days Roy had been glad enough to
share a steak with him in a shabby restaurant and spend a month’s
holiday in a fisherman’s cottage at St. Ives. Smith said that Roy was a
time server. He said he was a snob. He said he was a humbug.
Smith was wrong here. The most shining characteristic of Alroy Kear was
his sincerity. No one can be a humbug for five-and-twenty years.
Hypocrisy is the most difficult and nerve-racking vice that any man can
pursue; it needs an unceasing vigilance and a rare detachment of spirit.
It cannot, like adultery or gluttony, be practised at spare moments; it
is a whole-time job. It needs also a cynical humour; although Roy
laughed so much I never thought he had a very quick sense of humour, and
I am quite sure that he was incapable of cynicism. Though I have
finished few of his novels, I have begun a good many, and to my mind his
sincerity is stamped on every one of their multitudinous pages. This is
clearly the chief ground of his stable popularity. Roy has always
sincerely believed what everyone else believed at the moment. When he
wrote novels about the aristocracy he sincerely believed that its
members were dissipated and immoral, and yet had a certain nobility and
an innate aptitude for governing the British Empire; when later he wrote
of the middle classes he sincerely believed that they were the backbone
of the country. His villains have always been villainous, his heroes
heroic, and his maidens chaste.
When Roy asked the author of a flattering review to lunch it was because
he was sincerely grateful to him for his good opinion, and when he asked
the author of an unflattering one it was because he was sincerely
concerned to improve himself. When unknown admirers from Texas or
western Australia came to London it was not only to cultivate his public
that he took them to the National Gallery, it was because he was
sincerely anxious to observe their reactions to art. You had only to
hear him lecture to be convinced of his sincerity.
When he stood on the platform, in evening dress admirably worn, or in a
loose, much used but perfectly cut, lounge suit if it better fitted the
occasion, and faced his audience seriously, frankly, but with an
engaging diffidence you could not but realize that he was giving himself
up to his task with complete earnestness. Though now and then he
pretended to be at a loss for a word, it was only to make it more
effective when he uttered it. His voice was full and manly. He told a
story well. He was never dull. He was fond of lecturing upon the younger
writers of England and America, and he explained their merits to his
audience with an enthusiasm that attested his generosity. Perhaps he
told almost too much, for when you had heard his lecture you felt that
you really knew all you wanted to about them and it was quite
unnecessary to read their books. I suppose that is why when Roy had
lectured in some provincial town not a single copy of the books of the
authors he had spoken of was ever asked for, but there was always a run
on his own. His energy was prodigious. Not only did he make successful
tours of the United States, but he lectured up and down Great Britain.
No club was so small, no society for the self-improvement of its members
so insignificant, that Roy disdained to give it an hour of his time. Now
and then he revised his lectures and issued them in neat little books.
Most people who are interested in these things have at least looked
through the works entitled _Modern Novelists_, _Russian Fiction_, and
_Some Writers_; and few can deny that they exhibit a real feeling for
literature and a charming personality.
But this by no means exhausted his activities. He was an active member
of the organizations that have been founded to further the interests of
authors or to alleviate their hard lot when sickness or old age has
brought them to penury. He was always willing to give his help when
matters of copyright were the subject of legislation and he was never
unprepared to take his place in those missions to a foreign country
which are devised to establish amicable relations between writers of
different nationalities. He could be counted on to reply for literature
at a public dinner and he was invariably on the reception committee
formed to give a proper welcome to a literary celebrity from overseas.
No bazaar lacked an autographed copy of at least one of his books. He
never refused to grant an interview. He justly said that no one knew
better than he the hardships of the author’s trade and if he could help
a struggling journalist to earn a few guineas by having a pleasant chat
with him he had not the inhumanity to refuse. He generally asked his
interviewer to luncheon and seldom failed to make a good impression on
him. The only stipulation he made was that he should see the article
before it was published. He was never impatient with the persons who
call up the celebrated on the telephone at inconvenient moments to ask
them for the information of newspaper readers whether they believe in
God or what they eat for breakfast. He figured in every symposium and
the public knew what he thought of prohibition, vegetarianism, jazz,
garlic, exercise, marriage, politics, and the place of women in the
home.
His views on marriage were abstract, for he had successfully evaded the
state which so many artists have found difficult to reconcile with the
arduous pursuit of their calling. It was generally known that he had for
some years cherished a hopeless passion for a married woman of rank, and
though he never spoke of her but with chivalrous admiration, it was
understood that she had treated him with harshness. The novels of his
middle period reflected in their unwonted bitterness the strain to which
he had been put. The anguish of spirit he had passed through then
enabled him without offense to elude the advances of ladies of little
reputation, frayed ornaments of a hectic circle, who were willing to
exchange an uncertain present for the security of marriage with a
successful novelist. When he saw in their bright eyes the shadow of the
registry office he told them that the memory of his one great love would
always prevent him from forming any permanent tie. His quixotry might
exasperate, but could not affront them. He sighed a little when he
reflected that he must be for ever denied the joys of domesticity and
the satisfaction of parenthood, but it was a sacrifice that he was
prepared to make not only to his ideal, but also to the possible partner
of his joys. He had noticed that people really do not want to be
bothered with the wives of authors and painters. The artist who insisted
on taking his wife wherever he went only made himself a nuisance and
indeed was in consequence often not asked to places he would have liked
to go to; and if he left his wife at home, he was on his return exposed
to recriminations that shattered the repose so essential for him to do
the best that was in him. Alroy Kear was a bachelor and now at fifty was
likely to remain one.
He was an example of what an author can do, and to what heights he can
rise, by industry, common-sense, honesty, and the efficient combination
of means and ends. He was a good fellow and none but a cross-grained
carper could grudge him his success. I felt that to fall asleep with his
image in my mind would insure me a good night. I scribbled a note to
Miss Fellows, knocked the ashes out of my pipe, put out the light in my
sitting room, and went to bed.