When Frank called on Lord Ottercove at six o’clock on Monday, Lord
Ottercove was standing at a window in his office, gazing pensively at
the dissolving outlines of St. Paul’s gradually devoured by the dusk.
Lord Ottercove’s pose reminded Frank of Napoleon looking at burning
Moscow, and of Kerenski, in imitation of Napoleon, gazing from a window
in the Winter Palace at the burning theatre “Bouffe”, and Frank felt
that the situation called for a fitting and pregnant remark on the man
of action by the man of letters: “A man of letters puts into letters
what he cannot put into action.” But Lord Ottercove, who, having soared
above mean human endeavour and now only pondered upon it, considered
himself a man of meditation, and did not look pleased.
“I was thinking,” he said, “of youth and the glory of struggle. How I
envy you young men. The future belongs to you.”
“Why envy us, since the present belongs to you? The future is but a
deferred present.”
“All the good the present is to us is that it helps us to forget that we
have no future.”
“Mankind has not yet learnt,” said Frank, “to live in and for each
moment. That is the meaning of life. And that is why I have just gone
and got married: as a most effective means of living in the present.”
“Got married?” said Lord Ottercove, knitting his brows. “To whom?”
“To Cynthia Wellington!”
Lord Ottercove walked up and down several times. “Incredible,” he said.
“It amazes me. Why, she’ll be the ruin of you. An extravagant girl like
that, and you have no money.”
“But she has, hasn’t she?”
“Too much! Too damned much, one might think by the way she goes about
it. That’s the trouble with her. Tends to give the impression of having
what she hasn’t got.”
“But you said so.”
“Ironically. You should study the inflection when I speak; it is
all-important. As important as punctuation. Ever heard of King Charles?”
“Yes.”
“‘_King Charles walked and talked_
_Half an hour after his head was cut off_.’
That doesn’t seem to make sense.”
“No. How could a man walk and talk half an hour after his head was cut
off?”
“Precisely. Even King Charles couldn’t do it. But put a full stop after
‘talked’ and it makes perfect sense. You may have heard of treaties
being wrecked through a comma out of place. And what punctuation is for
the written speech, intonation is for the spoken language. You should
have listened for it.”
“I have heard of treaties wrecked by faulty punctuation,” Frank said
bitterly; “but this is my first experience of two human lives ruined by
an ambiguous intonation.”
“Obviously you married under a misapprehension. But she! I am surprised
she didn’t know any better. I am rather concerned about the matter. I
knew her mother well. What was she thinking? Marrying a man like you
without a farthing to bless himself with!”
“I told her you would give me _The Evening Ensign_ as a wedding
present.”
Lord Ottercove frowned.
“You said so.”
“I cannot,” said Lord Ottercove, “give you _The Evening Ensign_ as a
wedding present. It is my principal evening paper. It has the best tone
of all the evening papers; it is read by the _élite_, the cream of the
nation. But look here, I’ll tell you what I’ll do for you.”
Frank looked up at him hopefully.
“I’ll take an article from you. I’ll pay you”--he blew hard while
considering the sum--“£20 for it. You know, when I like a fellow there’s
nothing that I wouldn’t do for him! I am like that--can’t help myself.
My staff consider me wildly extravagant.”
“Is there any valid objection to paying me more?”
“Well, look here,” said Lord Ottercove, “you must make a name for
yourself, and I will pay you more.”
“All very well, but how? How?”
“Well, we must bring your personality before the public. I am sure that
if your personality is brought before the public the public will begin
to get curious about your personality and begin to want to buy your
books.”
Frank meditated for a minute. “There is nothing in my life of any
interest to anybody, except perhaps that I was born at the time my
father was First Secretary at our Embassy in St. Petersburg and--”
“Well, that’s interesting enough. Couldn’t you develop the situation?”
“How? Perhaps suggest that the Tsar eloped with my mother?”
“Of course. That would immediately reflect on your paternity and bring
into question your legitimacy.”
“A marked resemblance to the late Emperor--what?”
“Certainly. It will make them talk.” He took up the receiver. “Send up
Miss Sherwood to me, will you. I want her to write up a story about Mr.
Dickin, who is in my office.”
Frank learnt that “stories” was the journalistic term for articles;
whereas real stories--he suggested writing a short story for Lord
Ottercove for £100--were called “articles.”
“All right,” said Lord Ottercove. “Write it to-night and let me have
your article by six o’clock to-morrow morning. I will read it in bed
before breakfast.” He leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms to
the ceiling. “Oh God, I’m bored to hell,” he said, and yawned
voluptuously.
“Now, Miss Sherwood, you know Mr. Dickin, the famous novelist. Don’t say
you haven’t read his books. That would sound uneducated. Now I want you
to write a story about him that would reach the wider public which lives
in ignorance of him only because they haven’t heard of him. I am
convinced that he has a great future before him, a future of fame and
felicity. He has already taken the first step towards it: he has gone
and got married to-day. But I feel that the public wants to know
personal details about him. There is, in the first place, his birth,
under mysterious circumstances, in Russia. His mother was an intimate of
the Imperial family. It is delicate ground we are treading upon here,
but I know you are a clever woman and I have every confidence in your
address and discretion. Your treatment of my niece’s divorce case
confirms my opinion. You could begin by giving a pen-portrait of the
late Tsar by projecting, so to speak, onto the screen of your story
salient points of the amorous life of the late Emperor. Go to the
British Museum and see if you find something, or look through the works
of William Le Queux. I remember reading something about spies in Russia
or somewhere--sure to be something about Rasputin or somebody. Well,
here is Dickin’s mother....” Lord Ottercove’s tone grew inaudible; he
took her across to the blue sofa. His robust lips moved silently. “You
understand ...” Dickin heard, “ ... more than the lad cares to
admit....”
“It’s a fine story,” nodded Miss Sherwood.
Lord Ottercove looked radiant. “Creating illusions,” he murmured, “in a
world of appearances. The essential function of the journalist. Mrs.
Hannibal,” he said in a loud, clear voice, “have that hung up as my
motto all over the building.”
Mrs. Hannibal, making a shorthand note of it, retired to execute his
instructions.
“Well,” said Lord Ottercove, stretching his hands to heaven, but
restraining a yawn.
Miss Sherwood and Frank understood that the _séance_ was at an end.
After the door had closed on them, Lord Ottercove vented his yawn,
looked at his watch, and jumped up.