II

WHEN I rang for my letters and the papers next morning a message was

delivered to me, in answer to my note to Miss Fellows, that Mr. Alroy

Kear expected me at one-fifteen at his club in St. James’s Street; so a

little before one I strolled round to my own and had the cocktail, which

I was pretty sure Roy would not offer me. Then I walked down St. James’s

Street, looking idly at the shop windows, and since I had still a few

minutes to spare (I did not want to keep my appointment too punctually)

I went into Christie’s to see if there was anything I liked the look of.

The auction had already begun and a group of dark, small men were

passing round to one another pieces of Victorian silver, while the

auctioneer, following their gestures with bored eyes, muttered in a

drone: “Ten shillings offered, eleven, eleven and six” . . . It was a

fine day, early in June, and the air in King Street was bright. It made

the pictures on the walls of Christie’s look very dingy. I went out. The

people in the street walked with a kind of nonchalance, as though the

ease of the day had entered into their souls and in the midst of their

affairs they had a sudden and surprised inclination to stop and look at

the picture of life.

Roy’s club was sedate. In the ante-chamber were only an ancient porter

and a page; and I had a sudden and melancholy feeling that the members

were all attending the funeral of the head waiter. The page, when I had

uttered Roy’s name, led me into an empty passage to leave my hat and

stick and then into an empty hall hung with life-sized portraits of

Victorian statesmen. Roy got up from a leather sofa and warmly greeted

me.

“Shall we go straight up?” he said.

I was right in thinking that he would not offer me a cocktail and I

commended my prudence. He led me up a noble flight of heavily carpeted

stairs, and we passed nobody on the way; we entered the strangers’

dining room, and we were its only occupants. It was a room of some size,

very clean and white, with an Adam window. We sat down by it and a

demure waiter handed us the bill of fare. Beef, mutton and lamb, cold

salmon, apple tart, rhubarb tart, gooseberry tart. As my eye travelled

down the inevitable list I sighed as I thought of the restaurants round

the corner where there was French cooking, the clatter of life, and

pretty painted women in summer frocks.

“I can recommend the veal-and-ham pie,” said Roy.

“All right.”

“I’ll mix the salad myself,” he told the waiter in an off-hand and yet

commanding way, and then, casting his eye once more on the bill of fare,

generously: “And what about some asparagus to follow?”

“That would be very nice.”

His manner grew a trifle grander.

“Asparagus for two and tell the chef to choose them himself. Now what

would you like to drink? What do you say to a bottle of hock? We rather

fancy our hock here.”

When I had agreed to this he told the waiter to call the wine steward. I

could not but admire the authoritative and yet perfectly polite manner

in which he gave his orders. You felt that thus would a well-bred king

send for one of his field marshals. The wine steward, portly in black,

with the silver chain of his office round his neck, bustled in with the

wine list in his hand. Roy nodded to him with curt familiarity.

“Hulloa, Armstrong, we want some of the Liebfraumilch, the ’21.”

“Very good, sir.”

“How’s it holding up? Pretty well? We shan’t be able to get any more of

it, you know.”

“I’m afraid not, sir.”

“Well, it’s no good meeting trouble halfway, is it, Armstrong?”

Roy smiled at the steward with breezy cordiality. The steward saw from

his long experience of members that the remark needed an answer.

“No, sir.”

Roy laughed and his eye sought mine. Quite a character, Armstrong.

“Well, chill it, Armstrong; not too much, you know, but just right. I

want my guest to see that we know what’s what here.” He turned to me.

“Armstrong’s been with us for eight and forty years.” And when the wine

steward had left us: “I hope you don’t mind coming here. It’s quiet and

we can have a good talk. It’s ages since we did. You’re looking very

fit.”

This drew my attention to Roy’s appearance.

“Not half so fit as you,” I answered.

“The result of an upright, sober, and godly life,” he laughed. “Plenty

of work. Plenty of exercise. How’s the golf? We must have a game one of

these days.”

I knew that Roy was scratch and that nothing would please him less than

to waste a day with so indifferent a player as myself. But I felt I was

quite safe in accepting so vague an invitation. He looked the picture of

health. His curly hair was getting very gray, but it suited him and made

his frank, sunburned face look younger. His eyes, which looked upon the

world with such a hearty candour, were bright and clear. He was not so

slim as in his youth and I was not surprised that when the waiter

offered us rolls he asked for Rye-Vita. His slight corpulence only added

to his dignity. It gave weight to his observations. Because his

movements were a little more deliberate than they had been you had a

comfortable feeling of confidence in him; he filled his chair with so

much solidity that you had almost the impression that he sat upon a

monument.

I do not know whether, as I wished, I have indicated by my report of his

dialogue with the waiter that his conversation was not as a rule

brilliant or witty, but it was easy and he laughed so much that you

sometimes had the illusion that what he said was funny. He was never at

a loss for a remark and he could discourse on the topics of the day with

an ease that prevented his hearers from experiencing any sense of

strain.

Many authors from their preoccupation with words have the bad habit of

choosing those they use in conversation too carefully. They form their

sentences with unconscious care and say neither more nor less than they

mean. It makes intercourse with them somewhat formidable to persons in

the upper ranks of society whose vocabulary is limited by their simple

spiritual needs, and their company consequently is sought only with

hesitation. No constraint of this sort was ever felt with Roy. He could

talk with a dancing guardee in terms that were perfectly comprehensible

to him and with a racing countess in the language of her stable boys.

They said of him with enthusiasm and relief that he was not a bit like

an author. No compliment pleased him better. The wise always use a

number of ready-made phrases (at the moment I write “nobody’s business”

is the most common), popular adjectives (like “divine” or “shy-making”),

verbs that you only know the meaning of if you live in the right set

(like “dunch”), which give ease and a homely sparkle to small talk and

avoid the necessity of thought. The Americans, who are the most

efficient people on the earth, have carried this device to such a height

of perfection and have invented so wide a range of pithy and hackneyed

phrases that they can carry on an amusing and animated conversation

without giving a moment’s reflection to what they are saying and so

leave their minds free to consider the more important matters of big

business and fornication. Roy’s repertory was extensive and his scent

for the word of the minute unerring; it peppered his speech, but aptly,

and he used it each time with a sort of bright eagerness, as though his

fertile brain had just minted it.

Now he talked of this and that, of our common friends and the latest

books, of the opera. He was very breezy. He was always cordial, but

to-day his cordiality took my breath away. He lamented that we saw one

another so seldom and told me with the frankness that was one of his

pleasantest characteristics how much he liked me and what a high opinion

he had of me. I felt I must not fail to meet this friendliness halfway.

He asked me about the book I was writing, I asked him about the book he

was writing. We told one another that neither of us had had the success

he deserved. We ate the veal-and-ham pie and Roy told me how he mixed a

salad. We drank the hock and smacked appreciative lips.

And I wondered when he was coming to the point.

I could not bring myself to believe that at the height of the London

season Alroy Kear would waste an hour on a fellow writer who was not a

reviewer and had no influence in any quarter whatever in order to talk

of Matisse, the Russian Ballet and Marcel Proust. Besides, at the back

of his gaiety I vaguely felt a slight apprehension. Had I not known that

he was in a prosperous state I should have suspected that he was going

to borrow a hundred pounds from me. It began to look as though luncheon

would end without his finding the opportunity to say what he had in

mind. I knew he was cautious. Perhaps he thought that this meeting, the

first after so long a separation, had better be employed in establishing

friendly relations, and was prepared to look upon the pleasant,

substantial meal merely as ground bait.

“Shall we go and have our coffee in the next room?” he said.

“If you like.”

“I think it’s more comfortable.”

I followed him into another room, much more spacious, with great leather

armchairs and huge sofas; there were papers and magazines on the tables.

Two old gentlemen in a corner were talking in undertones. They gave us a

hostile glance, but this did not deter Roy from offering them a cordial

greeting.

“Hullo, General,” he cried, nodding breezily.

I stood for a moment at the window, looking at the gaiety of the day,

and wished I knew more of the historical associations of St. James’s

Street. I was ashamed that I did not even know the name of the club

across the way and was afraid to ask Roy lest he should despise me for

not knowing what every decent person knew. He called me back by asking

me whether I would have a brandy with my coffee, and when I refused,

insisted. The club’s brandy was famous. We sat side by side on a sofa by

the elegant fireplace and lit cigars.

“The last time Edward Driffield ever came to London he lunched with me

here,” said Roy casually. “I made the old man try our brandy and he was

delighted with it. I was staying with his widow over last week-end.”

“Were you?”

“She sent you all sorts of messages.”

“That’s very kind of her. I shouldn’t have thought she remembered me.”

“Oh, yes, she does. You lunched there about six years ago, didn’t you?

She says the old man was so glad to see you.”

“I didn’t think _she_ was.”

“Oh, you’re quite wrong. Of course she had to be very careful. The old

man was pestered with people who wanted to see him and she had to

husband his strength. She was always afraid he’d do too much. It’s a

wonderful thing if you come to think of it that she should have kept him

alive and in possession of all his faculties to the age of eighty-four.

I’ve been seeing a good deal of her since he died. She’s awfully lonely.

After all, she devoted herself to looking after him for twenty-five

years. Othello’s occupation, you know. I really feel sorry for her.”

“She’s still comparatively young. I dare say she’ll marry again.”

“Oh, no, she couldn’t do that. That would be dreadful.”

There was a slight pause while we sipped our brandy.

“You must be one of the few persons still alive who knew Driffield when

he was unknown. You saw quite a lot of him at one time, didn’t you?”

“A certain amount. I was almost a small boy and he was a middle-aged

man. We weren’t boon companions, you know.”

“Perhaps not, but you must know a great deal about him that other people

don’t.”

“I suppose I do.”

“Have you ever thought of writing your recollections of him?”

“Good heavens, no!”

“Don’t you think you ought to? He was one of the greatest novelists of

our day. The last of the Victorians. He was an enormous figure. His

novels have as good a chance of surviving as any that have been written

in the last hundred years.”

“I wonder. I’ve always thought them rather boring.”

Roy looked at me with eyes twinkling with laughter.

“How like you that is! Anyhow you must admit that you’re in the

minority. I don’t mind telling you that I’ve read his novels not once or

twice, but half a dozen times, and every time I read them I think

they’re finer. Did you read the articles that were written about him at

his death?”

“Some of them.”

“The consensus of opinion was absolutely amazing. I read every one.”

“If they all said the same thing, wasn’t that rather unnecessary?”

Roy shrugged his massive shoulders good-humouredly, but did not answer

my question.

“I thought the _Times Lit. Sup._ was splendid. It would have done the

old man good to read it. I hear that the quarterlies are going to have

articles in their next numbers.”

“I still think his novels rather boring.”

Roy smiled indulgently.

“Doesn’t it make you slightly uneasy to think that you disagree with

everyone whose opinion matters?”

“Not particularly. I’ve been writing for thirty-five years now, and you

can’t think how many geniuses I’ve seen acclaimed, enjoy their hour or

two of glory, and vanish into obscurity. I wonder what’s happened to

them. Are they dead, are they shut up in madhouses, are they hidden away

in offices? I wonder if they furtively lend their books to the doctor

and the maiden lady in some obscure village. I wonder if they are still

great men in some Italian pension.”

“Oh, yes, they’re the flash in the pans. I’ve known them.”

“You’ve even lectured about them.”

“One has to. One wants to give them a leg up if one can and one knows

they won’t amount to anything. Hang it all, one can afford to be

generous. But after all, Driffield wasn’t anything like that. The

collected edition of his works is in thirty-seven volumes and the last

set that came up at Sotheby’s sold for seventy-eight pounds. That speaks

for itself. His sales have increased steadily every year and last year

was the best he ever had. You can take my word for that. Mrs. Driffield

showed me his accounts last time I was down there. Driffield has come to

stay all right.”

“Who can tell?”

“Well, you think you can,” replied Roy acidly.

I was not put out. I knew I was irritating him and it gave me a pleasant

sensation.

“I think the instinctive judgments I formed when I was a boy were right.

They told me Carlyle was a great writer and I was ashamed that I found

the _French Revolution_ and _Sartor Resartus_ unreadable. Can anyone

read them now? I thought the opinions of others must be better than mine

and I persuaded myself that I thought George Meredith magnificent. In my

heart I found him affected, verbose, and insincere. A good many people

think so too now. Because they told me that to admire Walter Pater was

to prove myself a cultured young man, I admired Walter Pater, but

heavens how Marius bored me!”

“Oh, well, I don’t suppose anyone reads Pater now, and of course

Meredith has gone all to pot and Carlyle was a pretentious windbag.”

“You don’t know how secure of immortality they all looked thirty years

ago.”

“And have you never made mistakes?”

“One or two. I didn’t think half as much of Newman as I do now, and I

thought a great deal more of the tinkling quatrains of Fitzgerald. I

could not read Goethe’s _Wilhelm Meister_; now I think it his

masterpiece.”

“And what did you think much of then that you think much of still?”

“Well, _Tristram Shandy_ and _Amelia_ and _Vanity Fair_. _Madame

Bovary_, _La Chartreuse de Parme_, and _Anna Karenina_. And Wordsworth

and Keats and Verlaine.”

“If you don’t mind my saying so, I don’t think that’s particularly

original.”

“I don’t mind your saying so at all. I don’t think it is. But you asked

me why I believed in my own judgment, and I was trying to explain to you

that, whatever I said out of timidity and in deference to the cultured

opinion of the day, I didn’t really admire certain authors who were then

thought admirable and the event seems to show that I was right. And what

I honestly and instinctively liked then has stood the test of time with

me and with critical opinion in general.”

Roy was silent for a moment. He looked in the bottom of his cup, but

whether to see if there were any more coffee in it or to find something

to say, I did not know. I gave the clock on the chimney-piece a glance.

In a minute it would be fitting for me to take my leave. Perhaps I had

been wrong and Roy had invited me only that we might idly chat of

Shakespeare and the musical glasses. I chid myself for the uncharitable

thoughts I had had of him. I looked at him with concern. If that was his

only object it must be that he was feeling tired or discouraged. If he

was disinterested it could only be that for the moment at least the

world was too much for him. But he caught my look at the clock and

spoke.

“I don’t see how you can deny that there must be something in a man

who’s able to carry on for sixty years, writing book after book, and

who’s able to hold an ever-increasing public. After all, at Ferne Court

there are shelves filled with the translations of Driffield’s books into

every language of civilized people. Of course I’m willing to admit that

a lot he wrote seems a bit old-fashioned nowadays. He flourished in a

bad period and he was inclined to be long-winded. Most of his plots are

melodramatic; but there’s one quality you must allow him: beauty.”

“Yes?” I said.

“When all’s said and done, that’s the only thing that counts and

Driffield never wrote a page that wasn’t instinct with beauty.”

“Yes?” I said.

“I wish you’d been there when we went down to present him with his

portrait on his eightieth birthday. It really was a memorable occasion.”

“I read about it in the papers.”

“It wasn’t only writers, you know, it was a thoroughly representative

gathering—science, politics, business, art, the world; I think you’d

have to go a long way to find gathered together such a collection of

distinguished people as got out from that train at Blackstable. It was

awfully moving when the P.M. presented the old man with the Order of

Merit. He made a charming speech. I don’t mind telling you there were

tears in a good many eyes that day.”

“Did Driffield cry?”

“No, he was singularly calm. He was like he always was, rather shy, you

know, and quiet, very well-mannered, grateful, of course, but a little

dry. Mrs. Driffield didn’t want him to get overtired and when we went

into lunch he stayed in his study, and she sent him something in on a

tray. I slipped away while the others were having their coffee. He was

smoking his pipe and looking at the portrait. I asked him what he

thought of it. He wouldn’t tell me, he just smiled a little. He asked me

if I thought he could take his teeth out and I said, No, the deputation

would be coming in presently to say good-bye to him. Then I asked him if

he didn’t think it was a wonderful moment. ‘Rum,’ he said, ‘very rum.’

The fact is, I suppose, he was shattered. He was a messy eater in his

later days and a messy smoker—he scattered the tobacco all over himself

when he filled his pipe; Mrs. Driffield didn’t like people to see him

when he was like that, but of course she didn’t mind me; I tidied him up

a bit and then they all came in and shook hands with him, and we went

back to town.”