THE INTERVIEW FOR THE "EVENING MAIL"
Kate could hardly have chosen a more inopportune moment. The hero, who
had troubled Hugh's repose in the moist atmosphere of the city,
persisted in behaving in an untoward fashion, even when translated to an
altitude of three thousand feet or so. He still perorated, still posed
like a shop-walker, still behaved like a puppet, with its pulling
strings in plainest evidence.
It was a mercilessly hot afternoon. All over the mountains the tourists
were asking themselves in bitterness of spirit why they had left their
comfortable homes in the city to subject themselves to weather like
this. They all had the feeling of being wronged out of their money; the
hotel-keepers, the house-agents, had lured them here under false
pretences, and positively deserved punishment.
The sweat of heat and mental exertion poured down Hugh's face. He had
followed his usual plan of work this year, that of drifting pleasantly
along for nine months, jotting down a few notes, and writing a chapter
now and again; and then pulling himself sharply together, and trying to
work like a horse, and get all his ideas reduced to paper, corrected,
re-written, and made ready for Kate to type in three months. Every New
Year's Day he sat with Kate and mapped out a plan of work for the fresh
year, that was to be utterly dissimilar to this reprehensible practice.
Sometimes they got paper, and planned out each month's work, so many
chapters to the month; it was surprising how simple it all looked, put
down like that. For instance, one book a year, when a year consisted of
three hundred and sixty-five days, was not too much to expect from a
moderately active man in full possession of his health and faculties.
One book a year represented say, thirty chapters, sixty or seventy
thousand words. Seventy thousand words, divided by three hundred and
sixty-five days, represented less than two hundred words a day. It
looked like child's play--on the sheet of paper. It fairly astonished
Hugh when he saw the whole question of his authorship thus reduced to
its simple factors in black and white. Kate had typed the remarkable
memorandum for him last year, and pasted it on a card, so that he might
prop it up before him on his desk as a constant reminder.
Two hundred words a day! He used to spend much of the early part of
January leaning back in his chair, happily planning out the
accomplishment of two or three books which had long been in his head,
but which want of time had hitherto prevented from getting as far as his
writing-block. Yes, he determined (in January) that it was more than
possible to have the whole three finished by next December; he was not
married, his time was his own, he could order his days as he pleased,
and turn night into day, and day into night, exactly when he chose. Why,
when the good moods came, did he not write five thousand words a day,
easily, eagerly! And this steady writing of a couple of hundred words a
day would bring the good mood often, no doubt.
Yes, he would finish the three books this year--the subjects were all to
his hand--and possibly the play he had had tucked away in his mind so
many years. And some verse, too--the luxury of verse was very dear to
him.
Brave January with the sun of resolution flaming high in the sky!
It was December now.
The poet might have as truly spoken of the _facilis descensus_ to
December as to the torrid region he mentioned.
It was December, and Hugh's first book still wanted forty thousand words
to complete it. The other two works, the play, the verses, were still in
the pale nimbus that ever plays tantalizingly around an author's desk.
It was December and the publisher was clamouring for copy. In the proud
insolence begot of January's shining possibilities and Kate's neat
memorandum, Hugh had promised his book by August.
And the long-suffering, kindly publisher, sympathetic over an author's
mood, had refrained from overmuch pressing of his claim for three
months. But it was December now and he was growing restive; the MS. had
to be typed, had to waste five weeks at sea, to be read in London, to be
placed as advantageously as possible for serial rights in various
countries, to be illustrated, to be printed, proofs had to be sent out
for correction, to be returned, ten more weeks had to be lost at sea,
and yet the book be published in the sacred season of autumn, nine short
months hence.
The publisher was restive and Hugh desperate.
He had sworn to himself this afternoon nearly as fiercely as Pauline had
that he would not leave the room until he "got it right." Pauline was
granted the relief of tears. Hugh could only give vent to his tumult of
mind by tearing off his collar and hurling it into one corner of the
room, peeling off his coat and flinging it under his table, and kicking
off his white canvas shoes. These last he had purchased from one of the
shoe-makers in the township only this morning, having neglected to put
any footgear at all in his portmanteau. And being only two and
elevenpence--none better were kept in stock--the shoes were badly cut
and pinched him atrociously.
One at present reposed, sole upwards, on a chair where it had alighted
after a vigorous aërial flight, and the other stood its ground in the
middle of the floor.
And this was the manner of author Miss Bibby found herself suddenly shut
up with for an interview destined for the _Evening Mail!_
Hugh spun round in his chair at Kate's bland voice. He probably imagined
he was in his revolving-chair at home, but he was not, and the frail
article beneath him, unused to gyration upon one leg, gave way instantly
and all but precipitated him at full length before his visitor.
Max, who an hour before had impugned the butcher's impurity of language,
would have found that in some respects a butcher and an author were men
and brothers.
[Illustration: "Hugh spun round in his chair at Kate's bland voice"]
There was only one word; but the vigorous deliverance of it made Miss
Bibby catch her breath and clasp her hands.
"I have startled you, madam," said Hugh, facing the "limp lavender lady"
as he had called her to Kate; "and I ought to apologize, I am aware, but
I don't. I would have apologized had I been betrayed to it in a
drawing-room. But this is my work-room, _where I see nobody_." The last
four words were almost thundered.
Agnes Bibby was praying--actually praying for courage. Her throat was
working, her grey eyes had their most startled look. She was twisting
her hands nervously together.
Hugh was not in the least conscience-stricken at her evident lack of
composure.
He seriously considered for one second the expediency of repeating the
word, and adding a few others to it, and so scaring the lavender lady
out of his room and out of his life for ever.
But then he noticed she was actually trembling, and though his savage
impulses were still well to the fore, he dragged up a chair and said
"Sit down."
Miss Bibby sat down uncertainly, still gazing at him as if half
expecting he might pounce on her and eat her at any second.
"And now what incredible thing was it I heard my sister say?" he asked.
"She--Miss Kinross--was good enough to try to help me to--an
interview--a very short one--with you," said Miss Bibby, gathering
breath and strength with the opening of her mouth.
"An interview! And my sister--my sister, Kate Kinross--is party to it!"
"She was willing to help another woman," said Miss Bibby.
"Ah," said Hugh, "I see, the two of you have plotted together to entrap
a defenceless man."
Miss Bibby ventured on a faint smile, for the author was certainly
smiling now. How was she to know, as Kate might have done, that it was
his dangerous smile?
"Well, I hope you are going to forgive me, and grant my request," she
said.
"And if I don't--if contumaciously I refuse?" said Hugh.
Surely Miss Bibby's prayer for courage was answered. She looked him
gently in the eyes.
"I should try again," she said; and when he laughed at her fluttering
audacity, she actually added, "and still again."
"I see, I see," he said, "I'm plainly powerless. Well, 'if 'twere done
at all, then 'twere well it were done quickly.' Fire away, Miss Bibby;
just regard me as a lamb led to the slaughter." There was a twinkle in
his eye so demoniac that Kate would have been truly alarmed.
But now Miss Bibby was at a disadvantage. "I--unfortunately I have come
unprepared," she said. "I did not expect to get the interview for quite
a week. I brought no pencil and paper, and I might forget something you
say." She looked distressedly at his table.
"Oh, don't mention a trifle like that," said Hugh urbanely; "permit me
to lend you my fountain-pen"--he handed it to her--"and, this
writing-block, is that sufficient paper?"
"Oh, quite," she said gratefully.
"Now then," said Hugh, and he leaned back in his chair and lowered his
eyelids over his wicked eyes, "I will answer any question you like to
put to me."
"How good you are!" breathed Miss Bibby.
Then there was a dead silence in the little room.
"Well," said Hugh, opening his eyes, "why don't you begin? It cannot be
that compunction has suddenly seized you, I fear."
The woman's grey eyes wore their startled look again, there was the pink
flag of distress on her cheeks.
"I--I cannot think of any of the questions I should ask," she said
chokingly. "I meant to have carefully studied other interviews; I did
not expect to have it so suddenly. Oh, what can you think of me for
wasting your time like this?" She made a motion as if to rise and go.
But Hugh waved her back to her chair.
"Possibly," he said with smoothest courtesy, "I may be able to help you.
It would be a pity to let such trifles prevent you from earning money. I
presume you will be paid for this?"
"Oh yes," said Miss Bibby, "I am offered six guineas for it."
"Ah! And you need the money?"
"Well, I am not actually in want of it," said Miss Bibby, "but----"
"But you could do with it, I see; most people can, can't they? Well, let
us get on. You want to know all about my private life, don't you?"
"Oh," said Miss Bibby, shocked. "I should not like to intrude like that.
Just simple questions, I--I think they generally ask where you were
born."
"No, no," said Hugh; "you haven't studied the question, it's plain. The
public don't care a hang nowadays where or how or when a man's born.
What they want to do is to lift the curtain suddenly from his home and
see him going through the common round of his daily life. By George,
wouldn't they like to catch him beating his wife! A glimpse like that
would make an interviewer's fortune. 'Pon my soul, Miss Bibby, I'd give
you the chance--you are so indefatigable--if I had such a thing as a
wife."
Miss Bibby laughed nervously,
"I--I think they like to know about an author's methods of work," she
said, "if you would be so very kind."
"Certainly, certainly," said Hugh. "I rather pride myself upon my
methods, now you come to mention it. I don't believe there's an author
extant or underground with similar. See this card?" He rummaged on his
table for Kate's neatly-typed little memorandum.
"Yes?" said Miss Bibby breathlessly.
"That's my daily allowance, two hundred words. Couldn't sleep a wink if
it were a hundred and ninety-nine. Pull myself up sharp even in the
middle of a speech if I find I'm likely to make it two hundred and one."
"How very interesting!" said Miss Bibby, scribbling hard. "A whole day,
polishing two hundred words! No wonder the critics speak of your crystal
style, Mr. Kinross. It reminds me of what I have read of Flaubert's
methods."
"Then," said Hugh dreamily, "I have a few other little methods of work,
though so trivial and so essentially personal I don't know whether you
would find them worth mentioning."
"Oh, anything, anything, Mr. Kinross, if you will be so kind," said
Miss Bibby enthusiastically.
"Well," said Hugh, looking pensively around his work-room, "I am a man
of rather curious habits. I may say my habits have become part of my
nature. Certain spells are necessary to get me into proper vein for my
two hundred words. For instance, my collar--you may have been surprised
to find me collarless, Miss Bibby."
Miss Bibby hastily expressed the sentiment that nothing he could do
could surprise her; then saw the difficulties of the sentence, and
grappled hard with it to reduce it to a polite form that should express
the fact that a great author is above all the petty bonds that bind the
rest of the world, and must be expected to act accordingly.
But Hugh was evidently not listening to her.
"Most authors, I believe," he said, "when working, wear their collars in
the place intended by nature--or should I say the manufacturers?--namely,
around their neck. I cannot write one word until it is in the corner of
the room."
Miss Bibby made a note of the curious fact.
"And, mark you," said Hugh impressively, "it has to be the left-hand
corner, facing the door, or the charm won't work."
"How _very_ strange!" murmured Miss Bibby.
"Then my shoes," said Hugh. "There are authors, doubtless, who can
write with these in their customary place--upon their feet. I cannot. My
soul is too large, too chaotic. But perhaps you are not interested in
men's shoes, Miss Bibby?"
He was regarding sadly the one of his own that stood in the middle of
the floor.
"Oh, an author's shoes," murmured Miss Bibby.
"Well then, curious as it may seem to you, that, too, has become one of
my spells," said Hugh, "my feet unfettered beneath my table. One shoe a
little pointed to the right in the middle of the room; another, sole
upwards, on a chair three and three-quarter feet distant from its
fellow."
"Absolutely remarkable!" gasped Miss Bibby. She looked at him, a pencil
poised a little hesitatingly. Was this thing possible? Was the great
author then not quite, quite----she hardly liked, even in thought, to
use the word sane?
"Oh, of course," said Hugh diffidently, "the fact may not seem worth
mentioning in your article, but it is my experience that there is
nothing which so endears a celebrity to his public as his little
eccentricities."
"You are quite right," said Miss Bibby, "perfectly right, and indeed you
are very, very good to make them known to me."
"Not at all, not at all," said Hugh graciously. "Anything else? I like
to read myself, in these interviews, what time a writer gets up and goes
to bed."
"Oh yes," said Miss Bibby, "that will be very interesting."
"Well," said Hugh, carefully fitting the finger tips of one hand on to
the tips of the other, "I rise at a quarter to five, winter and summer,
and get a cool two thousand off my chest while yet my fellow men are
buried in slumber. And----"
"Excuse me," said Miss Bibby, "I don't quite follow--two thousand what,
Mr. Kinross?"
"Words, of course," said Hugh.
"B--b--but," hesitated Miss Bibby, "I thought you said two hundred a
day."
Hugh blinked a moment.
"My dear Madam," he said, "you have doubtless heard me called a stylist.
Every one of those two hundred words I erase five to ten times,
polishing, substituting, seeking to express myself better."
Miss Bibby was writing fluently again.
"This," said the author, "occupies me until half-past six, when I take
three baths, one hot, one cold, one--like the church of the
Laodiceans--neither. This stimulates me marvellously."
Scratch, scratch went the fountain-pen.
"After this," said the author, "I walk ten miles along a level road,
and three through a hilly country, during the last mile of the latter
practising the deep-breathing exercises so highly recommended by the
medical faculty."
Scratch, scratch, the pink cheek flag deepening with pleasure.
"On my return I go through a short course of exercises for the muscles,
answer a few letters while I am cooling down, and then breakfast."
"It must be eleven o'clock by then," ventured Miss Bibby.
"Eleven o'clock it is," said Hugh, after a moment's consideration.
"And for breakfast," said Miss Bibby. "Do you--do you eat ordinary
things? It would be so interesting to know."
Hugh was about to instance eggs and bacon in exaggerated quantities,
when he realized that they were much too gross for such a paper. So he
shook his head.
"I attribute my perfect health and clear and active brain solely to the
cautions I observe with my diet," he said slowly. "No meat, no drinking
at meals, no bread, no puddings. There are excellent substitutes," he
picked up negligently from his desk a small packet that had been
sent--an advertisement sample--to him by the morning's post, and had not
yet been disposed of.
Miss Bibby wrote on, glowing with fellow-feeling.
"In conclusion," he added, "I am a strict teetotaler, and I never
smoke."
Then it occurred to him "Greenways" might have seen the red end of a
cigar on the "Tenby" verandah, and he added, "except an occasional cigar
under medical orders."
He rose from his chair and gazed pensively at his black socked feet.
Miss Bibby fluttered up at once, handed back his pen, and hurriedly tore
off from the block her last written sheet.
"I can never, never thank you enough," she said, and held out to him a
hand that somehow pleased him, and made him compunctious at the same
time--such a white, slender, gentlewoman's hand it was.
But then he remembered his hero had not yet proposed, and assuredly
would not to-day after such an interruption. He told himself that she
had deserved all she got, and that she would, at all events, earn the
six guineas she was so eager about.
"Oh, don't mention it," he said gallantly, and turned her over to Kate,
who was just coming along to satisfy herself that actual murder had not
been committed.
She fluttered back one moment, however, just as he was closing the
door.
"I believe interviews have to be signed as authentic by their subject,
have they not?" she said; "forgive me for troubling you again."
"Oh, have they?" he said. His fountain-pen was in his hand. "Where shall
I put the signature? I suppose you will copy all this out again; suppose
I write on this blank slip?"
"That will do nicely," she said.
"I guarantee this to be an authentic interview, Hugh Kinross, his mark,"
he scrawled lazily across the page.
When he took his seat at the tea-table that night Kate came behind him
and kissed the top of his head, an unusual mark of affection, for they
were an undemonstrative couple in general.
"Dear old Hughie," she said, "you have given delight to more than one
person."
"I believe I have, K," he said genially.