One day, four years after the publication of _Saturnalia_, Rickman
received a letter in an unknown hand; a woman's hand, but with a
familiar vivid signature, the signature that is to be seen beneath the
portraits of Walter Fielding, the greatest among contemporary poets,
the living god of Rickman's idolatry.
"Dear Sir," he wrote (or rather, some woman had written for him),
"I came across your Poems the other day; by chance, I must
confess, and not by choice. I have something to say to you about
them, and I would therefore be glad if you could call on me here,
to-morrow. I say, call on me; for I am an old man, and you, if I
am not mistaken, are a young one; and I say to-morrow, because
the day after to-morrow I may not have that desire to see you
which I feel to-day.
"Faithfully yours,
"Walter Fielding.
"PS.--You had better come in time for lunch at one o'clock."
Rickman's hand trembled as he answered that letter. All evening he
said to himself, "To-morrow I shall see Fielding"; and the beating of
his heart kept him awake until the dawn of the wonderful day. And as
he dressed he said to himself, "To-day I shall see Fielding." That he
should see him was enough. He could hardly bear to think what Fielding
had to say to him.
He had risen early, so as to go down into Surrey on his bicycle.
About noon he struck into the long golden road that goes straight
across the high moor where the great poet had built him a house.
Inside his gates, a fork of the road sloped to the shore of a large
lake fringed with the crimson heather. The house stood far back on a
flat stretch of moor, that looked as if it had been cut with one sweep
of a gigantic scythe from the sheltering pine-woods.
He saw Fielding far off, standing at the door of his house to welcome
him. Fielding was seventy-five and he looked sixty. A strong straight
figure, not over tall nor over slender, wearing, sanely but loosely,
the ordinary dress of an English gentleman. A head with strong
straight features, masses of white hair that hid the summit of the
forehead, a curling moustache and beard, close-clipped, showing the
line of the mouth still red as in his youth. A head to be carved in
silver or bronze, its edges bitten by time, like the edges of an
antique bust or coin.
"So you've come, have you?" was his greeting which the grasp of his
hand made friendly.
He took Rickman straight into his study, where a lady sat writing at a
table in the window.
"First of all," said he, "I must introduce you to Miss Gurney, who
introduced you to me."
Miss Gurney rose and held out a slender feverish hand. She did not
smile (her face narrowed so abruptly below her cheekbones that there
was hardly room for a smile on it), but her eyes under their thick
black brows turned on him an eager gaze.
Her eyes, he thought, were too piercing to be altogether friendly. He
wondered whether it was the flame in them that had consumed her face
and made it so white and small.
She made a few unremarkable remarks and turned again to her writing
table.
"Yes, Gertrude, you may go."
Her sallow nervous hands had already begun gathering up her work in
preparation for the word that banished her. When it came she smiled
(by some miracle), and went.
They had a little while to wait before luncheon. The poet offered
whisky and soda, and could hardly conceal his surprise when it was
refused.
"You must forgive me," he said presently, "for never having heard of
you till yesterday. My secretary keeps these things from me as a rule.
This time she allowed herself to be corrupted."
Rickman felt a sudden interest in Miss Gurney.
"Your poems were sent to her by a friend of hers, with the request--a
most improper one--that I should read them. I had no intention of
reading them; but I was pleased with the volume at first sight. It was
exactly the right length."
"The right length?"
"Yes, small octavo; the very best length for making cigar lighters."
Rickman had heard of the sardonic, the cruel humour with which
Fielding scathed his contemporaries; still, he could hardly have
expected even him to deal such a violent and devilish blow. Though he
flushed with the smart he bore himself bravely under it. After all, it
was to see Fielding that he had come.
"I am proud," said he, "to have served so luminous a purpose."
His readiness seemed to have disarmed the formidable Fielding. He
leaned back in his chair and looked at the young man a moment or two
without speaking. Then the demon stirred in him again with a malignant
twinkle of his keen eyes.
"You see I was determined to treat you honourably, as you came to me
through a friend of Miss Gurney's. But for her, you would have gone
where your contemporaries go--into the waste-paper basket. They serve
no purpose--luminous or otherwise." He chuckled ominously. "I had the
knife ready for you. But if you want to know why I paused in the deed
of destruction, it was because I was fascinated, positively fascinated
by the abominations of your illustrator. And so, before I knew what I
was doing (or I assure you I would never have done it), I had read,
actually read the lines which the creature quotes at the bottom of his
foul frontispiece. Why he quoted them I do not know--they have no more
to do with his obscenities than I have. And then--I read the poem they
were taken from."
He paused. His pauses were deadly.
"You have one great merit in my eyes."
Rickman looked up with a courageous smile, prepared for another
double-edged pleasantry more murderous than the last.
"You have not imitated me."
For one horrible moment Rickman was inspired to turn some phrase about
the hopelessness of imitating the inimitable. He thought better of it;
but not before the old man divined his flattering intention. He shook
himself savagely in his chair.
"Don't--please don't say what you were going to say. If you knew how I
loathe my imitators. I shouldn't have sent for you if you had been one
of them."
His mind seemed to be diverted from his present victim by some
voluptuous and iniquitous reminiscence. Then he began again. "But you
and your _Saturnalia_--Ah!"
He leant forward suddenly as he gave out the interjection like a
growl.
"Do you know you're a very terrible young man? What do you mean by
setting my old cracked heart dancing to those detestable tunes? I wish
I'd never read the d----d things."
He threw himself back in his chair.
"No, no; you haven't learnt any of those tunes from me. My Muse wears
a straighter and a longer petticoat; and I flatter myself she has the
manners of an English gentlewoman."
Rickman blushed painfully this time. He had no reply to make to that.
"I didn't mean," Fielding went on, "to talk to you about your _Saturnalia_.
But _On Harcombe Hill_, and _The Song of Confession_--those
are great poems."
Rickman looked up, startled out of his self-possession by the
unexpected words and the sudden curious vibration in the voice that
uttered them. Yet he could hardly realize that Fielding was praising
him.
"They moved me," said Fielding, "as nothing moves me now, except the
Psalms of David. I have been a great poet, as poets go nowadays; but"
(he smiled radiantly) "the painful conviction is forced upon me that
you will be a greater--if you live. I wanted to tell you this,
because nobody else is likely to find it out until you're _dead_. You
may make up your mind to that, my friend."
"I had made up my mind to many things. But they don't matter--now."
Fielding ignored the compliment. "_Has_ any one found it out? Except
yourself?"
"Only one person."
"Man or woman?"
He thought of Maddox, that irresponsible person. "A man. And perhaps
he hardly counts."
The old poet gave him a keen glance from his all-knowing eyes.
"There _is_ one other person, who apparently doesn't count, either.
Well, I think that was the luncheon-bell."
On their way to the dining-room he remarked: "That's another reason
why I sent for you. Because I hear they've not been particularly kind
to you. Don't suppose I'm going to pity you for that."
"I don't pity myself, sir."
"No--no--you don't. That's what I like about you," he added, taking
his guest by the arm and steering him to his place.
At luncheon Miss Gurney took a prominent part in the conversation,
which Rickman for her sake endeavoured to divert from the enthralling
subject of himself. But his host (perceiving with evident amusement
his modest intention) brought it up again.
"Don't imagine, for a moment," said he, "that Miss Gurney admires you.
She hates young poets."
Miss Gurney smiled; but as Rickman saw, more in assent than polite
denial. Throughout the meal she had the air of merely tolerating his
presence there because it humoured the great man's eccentricity. From
time to time she looked at him with an interest in which he detected a
certain fear. The fear, he gathered, was lest his coming should
disturb, or in any way do harm to the object of her flagrant
adoration.
After she had left the table Fielding reproached him for mixing water
with his wine.
"In one way," said he, "you're a disappointment. I should have
preferred to see you drink your wine like a man."
"Unfortunately," said Rickman, "it's not so easy to drink it like a
man, if you've ever drunk it like a beast."
"Ah-h. You're an even more remarkable person than I thought you were,"
said the poet, rising abruptly from the table.
He proposed that they should take a walk in the garden, or rather on
the moor; for the heather ran crimson to the poet's doors, and the
young pines stood sentinel at his windows.
They walked slowly towards the lake. On their way there Fielding
stopped and drew a deep breath, filling his lungs with the pure, sweet
air.
"Ah! that's better." He looked round him. "After all, we're right,
Rickman. It's the poets that shall judge the world; and if _we_ say
it's beautiful, it _is_ beautiful. _And_ good."
Happy Fielding, thought Rickman. Fielding had never suffered as he had
suffered; _his_ dream had never been divorced from reality. It seemed
fitting to the younger poet that his god should inhabit these pure and
lofty spaces, should walk thus on golden roads through a land of
crimson, in an atmosphere of crystal calm. He would have liked to talk
to Fielding of Fielding; but his awe restrained him.
Fielding's mind did not wander long from his companion. "Let me see,"
said he, "do you follow any trade or profession?" He added with a
smile, "besides your own?"
"I'm a journalist." Rickman mentioned his connection with _The
Museion_ and _The Planet_.
"Ah, I knew there was an unlucky star somewhere. Well, at any rate,
you won't have to turn your Muse on to the streets to get your living.
But a trade's better than a profession; and a craft's better than a
trade. It doesn't monopolize the higher centres. I certainly had the
impression that you had been in trade."
Rickman wondered who could have given it to him. Miss Gurney's friend,
he supposed. But who was Miss Gurney's friend? A hope came to him
that made his heart stand still. But he answered calmly.
"I was. I worked for two years in a second-hand bookshop as a
bibliographical expert; and before that I stood behind the counter
most of my time."
"Why did you leave it? You weren't ashamed of your trade?"
"Not of my trade, but of the way I had to follow it. I'm not ashamed
of working for Mr. Horace Jewdwine."
He brought the name in awkwardly. In bringing it in at all he had some
vague hope that it might lead Fielding to disclose the identity of the
friend. Horace Jewdwine was a link; if his name were familiar to
Fielding there would be no proof perhaps, but a very strong
presumption that what he hoped was true.
"He is a friend of yours?"
"Yes." His hope leapt high; but Fielding dashed it to the ground.
"I never heard of him. I see," he said, "you've got a conscience. Have
you also got a wife?"
"Not yet--but--"
"Good. So young a man as you cannot afford to keep _both_. I am so old
that I may be pardoned if I give you some advice. But why should I?
You won't take it."
"I should like to hear it all the same, sir."
"Well, well, it's cheap enough. Whatever you do, don't fritter
yourself away upon the sort of women it may be your misfortune to have
met."
It was beautifully done, this first intimation of his consciousness of
any difference between them; between Rickman who had glorified a
variety actress, and Walter Fielding whose Muse had "always had the
manners of an English gentlewoman." And to Rickman's heart, amid vivid
images of Poppies and Flossies, the memory of Lucia Harden stirred
like a dividing sword.
"That is my advice," said Fielding. "But you will not take it."
"These things," said Rickman, "are not always in our power."
In the silence which followed he put the question that was burning in
him.
"May I ask who the friend was who told Miss Gurney about me?"
"You may ask Miss Gurney; but I do not think she'll tell you. It seems
to be a secret, and Miss Gurney, strange to say, is a young woman who
can keep a secret."
He led the way to a seat overlooking the lake where they sat for
awhile in silence, and Rickman found his thoughts roaming from his
god.
Presently Fielding rose and turned back to the house. Rickman felt
that the slow footsteps were measuring now the moments that he had to
be with him. He was glad that they were slow.
Fielding stopped at his house-door, and stood for a second gazing
earnestly at the young man.
"When you write anything," he said, "you may always send it to me. But
no more--please--no more _Saturnalia_."
"There won't be any more _Saturnalia_."
"Good. I do not ask you to come again to see me."
Rickman struggled for an answer, but could not think of anything
better than, "It's enough for me to have seen you once," which was not
at all what he had meant to say.
Fielding smiled faintly; his humour pleased, Rickman fancied, with the
ambiguity of his shy speech.
"I'm afraid I've tired you, sir," he said impulsively.
"You have not tired me. I tire myself. But here is Miss Gurney; she
will look after you and give you tea."
"Geniality," he continued, "is not my strong point, as you may have
perceived. And any unnatural effort of the kind fatigues me. My own
fault."
"You have been very generous to me."
"Generous? There can't be any generosity between equals. Only a simple
act of justice. It is you who have been good to me."
"I? To you?"
"Yes. You have satisfied my curiosity. I own that sometimes I have
wanted to know what sort of voice will be singing after I am dead. And
now I _do_ know. Good-bye, and thank you."
He pressed his hand, turned abruptly and shuffled into the house. He
was noticeably the worse for his walk, and Rickman felt that he had to
answer for it to Miss Gurney.
"I'm afraid I've tired him. I hope I haven't done him harm."
Miss Gurney glanced sharply at him, turned, and disappeared through
the study window. Her manner implied that if he had harmed Fielding
she would make him feel it.
She came back still unsmiling. "No. You have not tired him."
"Then," said he as he followed her into the drawing-room, "I am
forgiven?"
"Yes. But I did not say you had not done him harm."
The lady paused in her amenities to pour out his tea.
"Miss Gurney," he said as he took the cup from her, "can you tell me
the name of the friend who sent my book to you?"
"No, I'm afraid I cannot."
"I see. After all, I am not forgiven?"
"I am not at all sure that you ought to be."
"I heard what he said to you," she went on almost fiercely. "That's
why I hate young poets. He says there is only you to hate."
"So, of course, you hate me?"
"I think I do. I wish I had never heard of you. I wish he had never
seen you. I hope you will never come again. I haven't looked at your
poems that he praises so. He says they are beautiful. Very well, I
shall hate them _because_ they are beautiful. He says they have more
life in them than his. Do you understand _now_ why I hate them and
you? He was young before you came here. You have made him feel that he
is old, that he must die. I don't know what else he said to you. Shall
I tell you what he said to me? He said that the world will forget him
when it's listening to you."
"You misunderstood him." He thought that he understood her; but it
puzzled him that, adoring Fielding as she did, she yet permitted
herself to doubt.
"Do you suppose I thought that he grudged you your fame? Because he
doesn't. But I do."
"You needn't. At present it only exists in his imagination."
"That's enough. If it exists there--"
"You mean, it will go down the ages?"
She nodded.
"And you don't want it to go?"
"Not unless his goes too, and goes farther."
"You need hardly be afraid."
"I'm _not_ afraid. Only, he has always stood alone, so high that no
one has touched him. I've always seen him that way, all my life--and I
can't bear to see him any other way. I can't bear any one to touch
him, or even to come anywhere near him."
"No one ever will touch him. Whoever comes after him, he will always
stand alone. And," he added gently, "you will always see him so."
"Yes," she said, but in a voice that told him she was still
unconsoled. "If I had seen him when he was young, I suppose I should
always see him young. Not that I care about that so much. His youth is
the part of him that interests me least; perhaps because it was never
in any way a part of me."
He looked at her. Did she realize how far Fielding's youth, if report
spoke truly, had belonged to, or in her own words, "been a part of"
other women? Did she resent their part in him? He thought not. It was
not so much that she was jealous of Fielding's youth, as that she
shrank from any appearance of disloyalty to his age.
"And yet," she said, "I feel that no one has a right to be young when
he is old. I hate young poets because they are young. I hate my own
youth--"
Her youth? Yes, it was youth that leapt quivering in her tragic face,
like a blown flame. Her body hardly counted except as fuel to the
eager and incessant fire.
"Don't hate it," he said. "It is the most beautiful thing you have to
give him."
"Ah--if I _could_ give it him!"
He smiled. "You have given it him. He isn't old when he can inspire
such devotion. He is to be envied."
He rose and held out his hand. As she took it, Miss Gurney's
flame-like gaze rested on him a moment and grew soft.
"If you want to know, it was Lucia Harden who sent me your poems,"
said she. And he knew that for once Miss Gurney had betrayed a secret.
He wondered what had made her change her mind. He wondered whether
Lucia had really made a secret of it. He wondered what the secret had
to do with Fielding. And wondering he went away, envying him the love
that kept its own divine fire burning for him on his hearth.