LETTERS
_The Unknown Critic to Robin Adair, or the Lady Anne Garland to Peter
the Piper_
LONDON,
_July 7th_.
DEAR ROBIN ADAIR,--I have met another admirer of your book, a
delightful old man of courtly manners of the style of the eighteenth
century. At first he assumed disparagement of it, or at the best a
faint half-hearted kind of praise, which would, I believe, in any
case have roused a spirit of contradiction in me. With your book
as the subject I waxed eloquent. I took up the cudgels of defence,
and I flatter myself wielded them with dexterity. When at last the
flow of my discourse ceased--and I trust I was not too didactic in
my observations--he confessed calmly that he had merely assumed
disparagement in order that he might have the pleasure of hearing
me refute him! It knocked the wind completely out of my sails. I was
left helpless, stranded, entirely at a loss for a suitable reply. I
hope I carried off the situation with at least a passable degree of
_savoir-faire_, but I have my doubts.
I so frequently find myself addressing really witty and brilliant
remarks to my bedpost fully an hour or so after the opportunity of
making them has passed, when the witticism, the brilliance, might have
been delivered in the presence of another, and have covered me with a
dazzling glory. It is humiliating to contrast what one has said with
what one might have remarked. You writers have the better time. In
silence and solitude you can consider your epigrams, and then place
them in the mouths of your fictional people at the psychological
moment, and the world is left to marvel at your brilliance.
But to return to my old courtier. He has a sad history, which he hides
under a mask of urbane and suave courtliness. He has a son, who--so
the story runs--has disgraced their name. The old man being too proud
to overlook the disgrace--too proud, perhaps, to stoop and delve for
extenuating circumstances--has cut the son out of his life; but
fortunately, or unfortunately, he cannot cut him out of his heart,
which is aching, pining, for the lack of him. Why can he not put pride
in his pocket and ease his heartache? It's a pitiful little story, and
one which has caused my own heart to ache, though quite possibly I
should have dismissed it without a second thought if I had not met the
old courtier.
The friend with whom I am staying has soothed the spirit of discontent
which was awake in me when I last wrote. Her method is entirely
unobvious. I think it lies in her own incurably good spirits, and her
optimism, both of which are infectious. There is an "everything is for
the best in this best of all possible worlds" air about her which is
exhilarating.
I have, though, been disappointed in another friend, if I may
use the word. Personally I feel there should be another to use.
An acquaintance signifies one of whom we have but a passing and
superficial knowledge, and a friend some one much closer--very
close--the word in its real sense. Am I drawing too fine a point?
Perhaps one might use the terms I have heard children use, "friends,"
and "truly friends." So, to use the first term in application to
this woman, I have been disappointed in a friend. She is not what I
believed her to be, what I believe she wished me to believe her. It
has spoilt, as far as I am concerned the intimacy between us. I cannot
re-adjust myself towards her, and I feel myself acting the part of
a hypocrite. I have picked up her broken pieces as best I may, and
mended them, but I am conscious of the cracks. My mending has not been
as neat a job as I could wish. Is it any use trying to mend? Tell me
what you think, O Man!
The worst of it is that before she broke I asked her to spend a
few days with me in August. During those days I shall be terribly,
hideously conscious of the cracks. I shall find myself staring at them
with a kind of awful fascination. Pray Heaven she'll not observe it,
for if she did I--in the rôle of hostess--would be forever disgraced
in my own eyes.
I do not know why I should write all this to you; why I should trouble
you with what, I am fully aware, are mere absurdities which any
sane and reasonable person would assuredly dismiss without a second
thought. May I plead in excuse that somehow you have taken the
position of a "truly friend," one to whom trivialities--which after
all make up the greater part of one's life--may be mentioned without
fear of a laugh or a snub?
I went to a Beethoven concert the other day. To me he stands head and
shoulders above every other composer, living or dead. Does music give
you the sensation of colour and form? It does me. That was a purple
concert, sphere-shaped. Mozart's music is sapphire blue and shaped
like a star. Bach's is dark green and square. Grieg's is pale green
with a hint of pink and a slim oval, Wagner's is crimson and purple
and shaped like a massive crown. I might go on enumerating, if I did
not fear to bore you.
Have you read Conard's life of Beethoven? Do you know Beethoven's own
words: "Oh hommes, si vous lisez un jour ceci, pensez que vous avez
été injustes pour moi; et que le malheureux se console, en trouvant
un malheureux comme lui, qui, malgré tous les obstacles de la nature,
a cependant fait tout ce qui était en son pouvoir, pour être admis au
rang des artistes et des hommes d'élites?"
Grand, glorious Beethoven! the struggle over all infirmity, the
victory, and his lonely yet dramatic death! "Il mourut pendant un
orage--une tempête de neige--dans un éclat de tonnerre. Une main
étrangère lui fermer les yeux." If I am a hero-worshipper, and it
would seem that I am, Beethoven stands in the front rank of my heroes.
Read his life--by Conard--if you have not already done so. It is one
which every artist, of whatever branch his art, should know.
How goes it with your Wanderer? Is he reconciled to his distance from
his star? Or have you let the star fall to his hilltop?
Good-night.
_Robin Adair to the Unknown Critic, or Peter the Piper to the Lady Anne
Garland_
_July 9th._
DEAR LADY,--I have re-read your letter more than once. It is--dare I
say?--somewhat illogical, and therein most delightfully feminine.
You suggest that your old courtier should ease his heartache. Do you
not see that in so attempting he could only bring into his life a
thing which is in his eyes broken? And, however carefully he might
mend it, would he not be--as you are--painfully and terribly aware
of the cracks? Men, I fancy, choose the wiser way; they throw aside
the broken pieces into a neat little dustbin, making no attempt to
mend. For, after all, is not the glue which holds the thing together
a certain sophism which is always apparent to the repairer, and
which is, frequently, not very adhesive? Once broken--in spite of
the glue--it is apt to fall to pieces on the slightest handling. No,
the dustbin, in my opinion, is the better solution. You, as a woman,
doubtless will not agree with me. Women invariably mend, and the
majority--less critical than you--fancy they make of the mending a
neat job.
Let me offer you one piece of advice. Do not let your heart ache for
the story you have heard. It was, no doubt, related to you by another
than your courtier, and was soothed, softened, rendered pathetic in
the telling. You, in your tenderness, have imagined your courtier as
hankering after the broken pieces of his image in the dustbin. Your
tender imagination removed, the glamour of pathos round the story
would be removed also, and you would find heartaches and such-like
non-existent.
I do not believe that the wind is ever so completely knocked out of
your sails--as you say--that you are unable to find some appropriate
reply. That is merely your modesty. I picture you as talking with
charm, with ease, with brilliance. Witticisms I leave outside the
category. They belong to older men and women, and are apt to have a
poignant edge foreign to my idea of your words.
I like to think that you count me, as the children say, a "truly
friend." Your friendship--disembodied though it is--has brought me
refreshment, happiness. Though for a time my Wanderer had obsessed
me with his mood, the obsession is passed. It has passed with him
also. He does not desire that the star should fall to him. Its very
charm lies in its altitude. Perhaps one day, when he has cast off the
mantle of his flesh, he will build himself that ladder of moonbeams,
and mount to it. As it is--his mood of discontent passed--he is
worshipping, grateful that it shines in his otherwise empty firmament.
From the little hilltop--which he found was but an ant-heap--from the
lanes, from the fields, he looks up to it, and addresses to it his
thoughts, his fancies. He is once more a cheerful soul, appreciating
the earth, the wind, and the flowers. His love and worship he keeps
for his star.
I have not read Conard's life of Beethoven, nor, I confess, any
writer's life of him. I will make up for the omission without delay.
His music I know and love. Your little discourse on colour and
shapes in music interests me. I should like to hear more about them.
Unknowingly I believe I have had the same thoughts, and I agree with
the colours and shapes you assign, with, perhaps, the exception of
Grieg's shape. His colour--yes; but I have a fancy that his form is
less simple, more a variety of curves. I think I should give the
oval--slightly broadened--to Schumann, and in its slim form to Heller.
Schumann, by the way, is blue--darker than Mozart, and, though soft in
colour, less transparent. Heller is pale yellow. Do you agree?
Write again soon, and tell me everything you will about yourself.
Good-night.
ROBIN ADAIR.
_The Unknown Critic to Robin Adair, or the Lady Anne Garland to Peter
the Piper_
THE TERRACE,
_July 16th_.
DEAR ROBIN ADAIR,--Here I am once more on my terrace, looking across
the garden and the park land towards a small village--whose name I
will not disclose--lying half-hidden among the trees in the valley.
Occasionally, when I am in a ruminative mood, I wonder at the lives
of the inhabitants thereof--the routine of them, with no greater
excitement than a visit to the market-town some eight miles distant.
True, there is the yearly fair at that place, which is an event of the
greatest importance. Every man, woman, and child, except the extremely
old and the extremely young, flocks to the town on that day. Every
available vehicle is requisitioned and packed with a mass of humanity
to the fullest extent of its capacities, and those unable to find
conveyance in them, and more stalwart, walk. There are at the fair,
so I am told, booths, coco-nut shies, merry-go-rounds, and peep-shows
of a fat woman whose age is unknown, but who apparently must be akin
to Methuselah, since she has been regarded, it would seem, by the
fathers, the grandfathers, and the great-grandfathers of the present
generation. But with the exception of the fair there is absolutely
nothing to break the monotony of their lives but the weather and a
wedding or a funeral. It's rather appalling to contemplate, isn't it?
But they seem content and happy, and that after all is the main thing.
Do you believe in fortune-tellers? I went to one before I left town.
I do not think it was great credulity in the art that urged me to
consult the sibyl, but merely the fact that the friend with whom I
was staying persuaded me into the consultation. I had what is termed
a "full reading." The palm of my hand was conned, the cards spread
out, and the crystal gazed into. I confess that the affair was, to a
certain degree, uncanny. Her description of my house--this one--was
extraordinary. It might have been before her as she spoke, and she
actually saw me listening to a concert by the vagabond Piper--and not
only the concert of which I have told you, but another concert, one he
gave me the night before I went up to town, and of which I believe no
one was aware but he and I. He came to the terrace and played below
my window. It was quite medieval, and entirely delightful. She saw,
too, letters which I was receiving and which were a source of great
pleasure to me, and therein she was very assuredly right. But--and I
hope you will not be offended--after that she began to mix the Piper
and the writer of letters, speaking of them with confidence as one
and the same person. I did not enlighten her as to her mistake, as
with these sibyls it is better to let them say what they see without
interruption, otherwise they are apt to try and tell you what they
think you wish to know, what they think you desire to have said.
It was curious. And here I will make a confession. I myself have
occasionally, and in quite an absurd fashion, confounded the two in my
thoughts. Do not be vexed, Robin Adair, for you dislike--or pretend
to dislike--the Piper. But it seems to me that the sibyl must have
been extraordinary telepathic, and have somehow read my thoughts, and
their occasional confusion, in a remarkable degree. She told me a good
deal more, no doubt the usual fortune-telling jargon, which would
be, I am sure, of little interest to you. Certainly it is not worth
repetition. But what I have told you struck me as distinctly queer.
I am rejoiced to hear that your Wanderer--and consequently you--are
once more soothed and peaceful. And now that he is so, let him
continue to recount his thoughts by the hand of Robin Adair, that I
may shortly have the benefit of them.
One day--not to-day--I will write you all my fancies on colour, and
I have a good many. Perhaps you are right as to Grieg's form. It is
probably more intricate than the oval. Possibly it is a design of many
curves. As regards Schumann and Heller, I agree.
I fancy you are wrong about my courtier. He has, no doubt, acted on
your dustbin principle, but, all the same, I believe he regrets the
action. Of course, I see the justice of your accusation that my letter
was illogical, but I cannot begin an argument and a defence now.
The day is too warm and lazy for such exertion. The heat-shimmer is
bathing the gardens, and the top of my silver ink-bottle is almost
too hot to touch. The sun has slanted round, and is frizzling me in a
diabolical fashion. Hitherto I've been too indolent to move, but now,
if I don't intend to be entirely melted, I must get up and pull my
chair into the shade.
Of course fortune-telling is absurd really, at least as far as regards
the future. Though I grant that this woman's reading of my thoughts
was clever.
Good-bye for the present. The bees are droning a lullaby, and I
believe I shall sleep.
_Robin Adair to the Unknown Critic, or Peter the Piper to the Lady Anne
Garland_
_July 18th._
DEAR LADY,--I have no theories as to fortune-tellers beyond a,
no doubt absurd, dislike to them. I do not care to think of you
consulting them. Forgive me for saying so. I am perfectly well aware
that I have no smallest right to express an opinion, but--it will
out--I wish you wouldn't, and long to beg you not to do it again.
When you are in a less melted mood write me a letter of argument
and defence. You will not be able to explain away your illogical
statements, but I should much enjoy hearing you try to do so.
I must certainly contradict flatly about your courtier. I am sure you
are wrong. And as I shall cry "Knife" every time you cry "Scissors,"
let us abandon him as a topic of discussion. Write to me of colours
instead.
This is a rude letter, and I know it. But a little incident has
rubbed my mental fur the wrong way, and I am--well, cross with myself
I believe. Perhaps it would be wiser not to write at all, but not
to do so would be to discontinue a little ceremony which I have put
in practice since the first day I heard from you. Will you laugh at
me, I wonder, if I tell you that every evening your letter arrives I
become a host, and toast an invisible Lady who has condescended to
dine with me, and after dinner we talk together--through the medium
of pen, ink, and paper. Sometimes I like to imagine that the medium
is less material, and that my thoughts are carried straight on the
wings of fancy to the Lady's terrace. But if they go, can she perceive
them? Are they not too clumsy, too material, to find response in her
thought-cells? After all, it is but a fancy, and you may quite well
smile at both it and my dream dinner-party.
To-night I have not been a good host. I apologize to the Lady. Being
the sole guest I ever receive, I might have treated her with greater
courtesy.
ROBIN ADAIR.
_The Unknown Critic to Robin Adair, or the Lady Anne Garland to Peter
the Piper_
THE TERRACE,
_July 20th_.
DEAR ROBIN ADAIR,--I did not smile--at any rate not ironically. If
there was a little smile it was verging close on tears. Are you really
so lonely? Somehow I had fancied that when you spoke of yourself as a
recluse it was a mere figure of speech. Have you no friends who dine
with you, who visit you--no material friends?
The little mental picture your letter called up was pathetic. I
wish--well, never mind what I wish. Probably it would be no atom of
good. I believe--I am sure--your thoughts do reach me. Send them to
me, and I will send mine to you.
_Robin Adair to the Unknown Critic, or Peter the Piper to the Lady Anne
Garland_
_July 22nd._
DEAR LADY,--Forget my letter. I did not mean to drivel. I did not
mean to cause you the faintest suspicion of tears. I am not, I
believe, a sociable person. My disembodied Lady is more to me than
hundreds of material friends. I am utterly and entirely grateful for
her invisible presence--and the thoughts she sends me. Whatever you
wish must be of benefit. Whatever that unexpressed wish was, I endorse
it.
Thank you for your letter.
ROBIN ADAIR.