_... Those who know tell me that there is a perfectly good
railway from Buenos Aires to Valparaiso with a permanent
way, rolling stock, points and signals, tunnels to taste and
all the paraphernalia that one might buy on a small scale at
Hamley’s toy-shop. The Andes ought, of course, to be crossed
on mule-back, but this takes long and I do not know any mules.
Nor, from your exposition of their habits, am I desirous of
meeting any llamas...._
_My faithful Stephen, many thanks for your three letters, ~he
writes, 21.11.20~. I’ve been feeling rather out of sorts these
last few days and have not written to you since Thursday, I
believe; not that I have much to tell you ... except that,
were I weller and stronger, I should write and offer my sword
to that maligned monarch, Constantine I. of the Hellenes. I am
growing heartily sick of seeing countries meddling in other
countries’ business...._
_It were the baldest side on my part, ~he confesses on
23.11.20~ to pretend that the weather here has not turned cold.
The winds are what is known as bitter. But the sun is shining
like blazes. And there you have what I was leading up to: once
bitter, twice shining._
_Ever yours,
Alexander Crawshay._
Not content with emulating Mrs. Robert Crawshay’s wit and appropriating
her name, Teixeira laid his witticism before her and challenged her to
say that it was not of the true brand. There is a reference to this in a
later letter; his next communication was a picture-postcard of Ventnor,
annotated by himself:
_A. ~[A bathchair man]~ This is not me._
_B. ~[A child with a hoop]~ Nor is this, really._
_C. ~[An indistinguishable figure]~ This might be._
_D. ~[A picture of the hotel]~ But probably I am here, lurking
in the Royal Hotel, where I can sea the sea but the sea can’t
see me._
_I think little of your latest joke, ~I wrote, 24.11.20~, and
have myself made several of late that put yours into the shade.
Thus, on learning that a woman of my acquaintance had left her
rich husband and run away with a penniless lover, I added the
conclusion that they were now living in silver-gilty splendour.
I can assure you that that is far more in the true Crawshay
tradition...._
My effort met with less than no approval:
_My poor Stephen!, ~Teixeira wrote 25.11.20~. The worst of your
jokes, when you attempt to play upon words, is that they have
all been made before. It must be 36 (thirty-six) years (I said,
years) since I saw at the old Strand Theatre a play called
~Silver Guilt~ parodying ~The Silver King~._
_I am glad or sorry, whichever I should be, that your arm[19]
has taken (~arma virumque cano~: beat that if you can! ~Virus~
poison, acc. (I hope and trust) ~virum~)...._
_My conscience smites me, ~he writes, 26.11.20~, for having
omitted in either of my last two letters to express the
sympathy which I feel with Seymour Leslie—and you—in this
serious illness of his. What is it exactly? Whatever it may be,
I hope that he will get the better of it...._
_His aunt Crawshay has been good enough to pass “once bitter,
twice shining.” She says that it “is a really worthy phrase and
will be of use to us all!”..._
_I have been reading a lot of French lately, in those very
cheap, double-columned, illustrated editions. It is perfectly
marvellous to see how happily the French draughtsmen succeed in
catching their authors’ ideas, whereas one may safely say that
“our” British illustrators do not catch them once in ten times.
Why is this? I am not sure that a certain rough, unwashed
Bohemianism is not at the bottom of it, achieving results which
are beyond that prim, priggish mode of life which nowadays
governs the artists on this side. I may be wrong: I certainly
couldn’t elaborate my theory; on the other hand, I may be
perfectly right...._
In an earlier letter I had asked why he sought a refuge where he could
see the sea but where the sea could not see him. The answer is given in a
postscript:
_I might turn giddy if the ~sea saw~ me; but it would look very
ugly if ~I saw~ it._
By way of revenge I reminded Teixeira that the gender of _virus_ was
neuter:
_Alas!, ~he replies, 27.11.20~._
_I suspected it at the time; and now my uprooted hairs are
beglooming the pink geraniums below my window. I have taken my
oath; and now you and I are pledged: no French, you; no Greek
or Latin, I. It may be all for the best._
_And ~arma virusqus cano~ would have sounded so much better!..._
Returning to the subject of French Illustration, he adds, 28.11.20:
_It’s the knock-about, rough-and-tumble, café life in Paris
I expect, that accounts for the greater success of the
French illustrators. They all of them meet all the authors
in the great ~Bourse à poignées de main~ that are the Paris
coffee-houses. The subjects are discussed over a thousand
books; and the draughtsman is not overpaid.... What I’m “after”
is this, that the British illustrators, sitting at home in
their neatly-swept fiats or studios, decorated mainly with
Japanese fans, furnished with wives instead of mistresses, that
these smug dogs, with their pappy brains, ~cannot~ turn out
such good work or enter so well into the spirit of things, as
the Frenchman. And, if all this sounds damned immoral, I can’t
help it._
The shadow of Christmas fell across Teixeira’s mind so early as the
first day of December:
_I ask myself, ~he writes~:_
_“What shall I give this Stephen? A book?... But he’s got a
book!... Ah, but has he a three-volume novel? No, bedad!...
And, as I live, I don’t believe that ~Violet Moses~ is included
in his collected edition of the works of that mighty writer,
Leonard Merrick.”_
_So here’s a first edition for you, with my blessing. ~[Your
secretary]~ should try to remove the labels with that nastiest
of utensils, a wet, hot sponge...._
For the first time in many months Teixeira was driven back on _The Wrong
Box_ to find an adequate comparison with the informative newcomer who now
disturbed the noiseless tenour of his way:
_Joseph Finsbury has arrived, ~he writes, 2.12.20~. Overhearing
me tell my wife that Bucharest is the capital of Roumania, he
leant forward and asked me if I had been to Bucharest._
_Tex: No._
_Joseph: Oh, I thought I heard you mention Bucharest._
_Tex: I sometimes mention places which I have never visited._
_Joseph: Bucharest is a second Paris._
_Tex: Grrrrrrrrmph!_
_Joseph: Though I daresay it has been destroyed by now._
_Tex: (to his wife).... Have you done with ~Femina~? If so,
I’ll give it to those Dutch ladies._
(_Stalks off to Mrs. and Miss van L._)
_Joseph: (to an Irish widow) I have been to all the capitals of
Europe ... (and holds the wretched Mrs. N. enthralled, so I am
told, for two mortal hours)...._
_Later. Joseph (to ~[my wife]~): How clever of your husband to
speak Dutch to those ladies!_
_~[My wife]~: Not at all! He’s a Dutchman._
_Joseph: I know Holland very well. I have been to Rotterdam. I
have been to Java. The finest botanical gardens in the world
are at Buitenzorg near Batavia._
_~[My wife]~: Re-e-ally!_
_Can you ~Teixeira asks, 2.12.20~, lend me that book by James
Joyce (~Portrait of the Artist~), which you once wrote to me
about? I see Barbellion praises it enthusiastically in the new
diary._
_Would you like me to lend you ~A Last Diary~ or have you
bought it?_
_Your Uncle Joseph was in disgrace yesterday. We have a girl
trio of musicians here, who play at tea-time and eke after
dinner. The pianist reports that he said to her:_
_“I have been to Japan. I was very ill there and I found myself
in the arms of a Japanese woman.”_
_To-day he stopped me in the road and said:_
_“I wish I could speak Dutch, sir, as well as you speak
English. I once learnt a continental language, but I mustn’t
speak it now. What it was” (throwing out his arms) “you can
guess....”_
I had read Barbellion’s two books without sharing Teixeira’s admiration
for them, in part because I thought that a book of self-revelation so
unreserved should only have been published posthumously, in part because
it was incongruous—to use no stronger word—to find a man, who had aroused
wide-spread compassion by what was taken to be the account of his last
hours, reading with relish the sympathetic press notices which it brought
him.
To this criticism Teixeira replies, 5.12.20:
_Thank you for your two letters and the loan of James Joyce....
Barbellion I like and almost love—I should love him entirely
but for a common strain in him that makes itself heard
occasionally—but then I was taught very early in life to make
every allowance for men of any genius, whereas you look for the
public-school attitude towards all and sundry. Apart from this,
B. seems to me to have borne almost unparalleled suffering
with remarkable courage and to have shown a good deal of pluck
besides in laying bare his soul in the midst of it all._
_You see, if one cared to take the pains, one could make you
detest pretty well everybody you know and like. For everybody
has a mean, petty, shabby, cowardly side to him; and one has
only to tell you of what the man in question chooses to keep
concealed. B. chose to reveal it; that’s all about it...._
_My wife bids you be sure to say good-bye, when you go on your
travels, to the woman, whoever she may be, in whom you are most
interested. Her reason is that she dreamt two nights ago that
you were prevented from doing so. This does not imply that you
will not return alive. It means only that something prevented
you from saying good-bye to that person and that it would be
fun to stultify the dream...._
On 7.12.20 Teixeira writes:
_... I am reading James Joyce, skippily. The fellow has a great
deal of talent, but much of it is misdirected. I should not be
surprised if one day he began to write books that he and his
country will be proud of...._
_Incidentally I admire his ruthless suppression of capitals and
am interested in his ditto ditto of hyphens...._
On Christmas Eve, he writes:
_Forgive us our Christmases as we forgive them that Christmas
against us._
_What I want to know by your next letter and what you have not
told me, though you may think that you have, is how you propose
to travel home from the west coast of South America...._
And on 27.12.20:
_I was asked to “recite” yesterday! I refused. I was asked
to take part in a hypnotic experiment: would I rather be the
professor or the subject?_
_“The subject,” I replied. “But I would even rather be dead.”_
And on 29.12.20:
_... This is the last letter but one or two which I shall be
writing to you before you sail or puff down the Solent....
Needless to add that I feel sad at the thought of your imminent
departure and glad at the thought that you appear to feel a
trifle sad too._
_The ~Almanzora~! Well, God speed her across the Atlantic! But
she’s got a plaguy hairdressing name. On my dressing-table
stand two bottles and two only. One contains Anzora cream; the
other Pandora brilliantine. Both are meant to preserve and
beautify my already well-preserved and beautiful hair. I must
try to “become” some Almanzora to keep them company...._