George and I had been discussing the prospect for elderly and slightly
shop-soiled _litterateurs_ under present circumstances. The result was
not wholly enlivening.
"If I had a few hundreds clear," said George at last, "I'd give up
Fleet Street and start a farm. I've always loved the country."
"My dear George," I answered, speaking slowly, "for a man to take a
farm because he loves the country is to make a master of what should
remain a mistress."
Just like that. Because I was going slowly I was able at the last
moment to substitute the word "mistress" for "servant," which would
have been merely banal. Not till then did I recognise the bright
perfection of the completed remark. No wonder George stared enviously.
"What's that out of?" he asked.
"Nothing as yet." But I had already determined that it should not
long remain unset. I mean, in these days one simply can't afford to
go chucking gems about in gratuitous conversation. The difficulty was
what exactly to do with it.
The sparkling _causerie_ was my first idea. That evening I refilled my
fountain-pen, opened a fresh packet of foolscap, and began:--
"AGRICULTURE AND AESTHETICS.
"It has been wittily observed that for a man to start farming
because----"
But there the adverb began to worry me. After all, perhaps it wasn't
quite so witty as I had hoped, or at least others might not think
it so. And in any case I got no personal credit. Subsequent pages
recorded other attempts, as--"Who was the cynical philosopher
who----?" or "It may perhaps be objected by the prudent that for a man
to start----"
After this I must have decided against starting at all, for nothing
more came of the _causerie_.
My next attempt took the form of fiction. I resolved to enshrine the
masterpiece in a short story. "The Farm that Failed" seemed to me,
and does still, an attractive title. You see the idea of it? Pastoral
humour; George, as an amateur husbandman, scored off by sheep and
confused by cows. Arrival of town friend, _Amber Dextrius_, on visit.
Some sort of love interest. And finally the Epigram. "Ah, my dear
fellow," said _Dextrius_, as he flung away his cigarette, "after all
you have only proved the great truth that----" And so on.
It looked promising. I hardly know why I abandoned it. Perhaps the
love interest proved an obstacle. Perhaps I feared lest George
(that good sort) should detect himself and be hurt. Anyhow it got no
further.
The inspiration that followed had even less fortune. It is represented
by a sheet headed:--
"THE BUCOLICS.
(_A Fantastic Comedy in Five Acts._)
[ACT I.--_Morning-room of_ Lord Amber Dextrius' _house in Hill
Street, W. A large luxuriously-furnished apartment. Doors in
right and left wall. Two doors in back wall. Three windows
also in back wall. The light is that of a brilliant morning in
May._]
_Enter_ Lord Amber, _a handsome faultlessly-dressed man of about
five-and-thirty. He walks towards the door_ L."
But he never reached it. Perhaps an entire ignorance of what he should
do when he got there paralysed him, as it did his creator. After all,
you can hardly run a five-Act comedy on stage directions and a single
epigram, though I admit that the attempt has been made.
So there the thing rested. From time to time I had wild ideas of
advertising it in the literary papers: "For sale, original epigram,
mint condition, wide application, never been used. Cheap; or would
accept typewriter, or workable film-plots." But even then I might have
no offers. I began to think that my little property was going to prove
unrealisable.
But only yesterday something happened.
"I'm awfully sorry, dear," said Ursula, entering the study with an
air of contrition. "It isn't my fault; but the Carter girls are here
having tea, and the eldest one has brought her birthday-book." She
held out the detestable little volume as she spoke.
"You know perfectly well that I never---- Is the eldest the one with
dark eyes?"
"Yes, that's the girl. She's going to be a lady-gardener."
It was like a voice from heaven. "For this once," I said benevolently,
"I will make an exception." I took the book, already open at some
absurd date in April, and wrote in a clear hand:--
"The professional horticulturist should beware lest he (or she) make
that a master which should remain a mistress."
Ursula read it twice. "It's awfully clever," she said, "and on
the spur of the moment too! I can't imagine how you think of these
things."
"Oh, they just come," I said. So it was not wholly wasted, though
I own I should have preferred cash on delivery. Still we can't have
everything.
* * * * *