WOOING THE MUSE
"Five thousand words," muttered Hugh, and then tilted back in the steady
chair he had abstracted from the kitchen for the very purpose. Yes, this
was going to be one of his good days--he willed it so. The mood was not
there certainly, but then, now the finishing of the book had become a
pressing necessity, the mood never was there; it was like a tantalizing
butterfly that flitted a second in his face and then led him a desperate
chase through a tangle of undergrowth that never ended.
Five thousand words! Yes, he could if he would. Let him brace up his
sinews, summon up his blood! The mere act of battling for it hard and
earnestly would probably bring the mood back--it had done so many a time
ere this.
Let him read over the last chapter or so to get in touch again with his
characters.
Great heavens, what balderdash it all was! He crashed his chair on to
its four legs again and reached out blindly for his pen. And now he
scored pages and pages across with heavy black lines; he seemed to take
a vicious pleasure after a little time in destroying what he had written
and went along with his lips tight and a hard look in his eye, weighing
every sentence in the balance and adjusting that balance to such nicety
that he found nearly every sentence wanting. Out they came: occasionally
a fierce black zig-zag on the page he considered sufficient for future
deliberations, but more frequently it needed greater physical activity
to relieve his state of mind and he ripped the page fiercely off the
block, crumpled it in his hand and sent it flying across the room.
If Miss Bibby had happened in that morning she would have come to the
conclusion that the eccentricity of genius led it to divert itself at
times with the game of paper snowballs.
The heavy slaughtering brought a degree of relief; he looked over his
shoulder at the paper-strewn floor and felt a twinge of
self-satisfaction: there were authors who would have passed the work
quite complacently or at most have considered a little polishing was all
it needed. For him it was satisfaction or snowballs--no medium course.
But then he groaned, for his eye of a sudden fell on a calendar. Fell
on _the_ calendar, to be exact. Many of his lady friends and admirers
invariably presented him with calendars at Christmas time ("Such a
suitable present for an author, my dear!"); exquisite works of art some
of them were, whose dainty strips of ribbon, adroitly pulled, brought
into more or less perfect view the day of the month nestling in the
heart of a flower. Or you would turn a gilded handle perhaps and a day
of the week would appear on the silver sail of a ship, while another
turn would bring the date to the figure head and the pressing of a
spring send the name of the month fluttering as a flag on the top of the
mast. Hugh had a sincere admiration for this ingenious trifle, and
frequently when a hero was behaving untowardly idly amused himself with
spinning up the signs.
But of course, if one really wanted to know the date one looked at the
plainest one had: this year it happened to be a gratis one, presented
with the advertisement pamphlets of some patent medicine, and it had
stood Hugh in good stead from January to now, when November's cloud of
heat clung closely to the mountains.
But the sight of it caused him to groan and to realize that the just
passed Berserk mood had cost him perhaps seven thousand words; and the
seven thousand words represented all the work he had done up here at
"Tenby"--"Tenby" that he had taken expressly for the performance of
doughty deeds of literature.
He looked ruefully at his snowballs;--perhaps after all he had been
hypercritical, perhaps one or two of those pages might be rescued and
smoothed out and made to answer. After all, who else would be the better
or the worse for it? All the public wanted of him was a piquant flavour
for its jaded appetite and the details on which he bestowed such a fever
of care would probably escape its attention altogether. Yes, after all,
what was he? Just the paid provider of certain species of mental
refreshment,--a sort of fashionable drink that the hurrying public,
coming along and seeing others drinking, took a gulp at and went on with
its much more important work nor better nor worse for the quaff. Why, an
orange boy, selling his honest juicy fruit to a thirsty crowd was a
better public benefactor than himself! Pah! he had been over-estimating
himself of late; he was not of the authors who might legitimately claim
to refresh and stimulate the race to higher things. He was just a maker
of "bitters," and the public, in its charmingly inscrutable fashion,
declaring for it as its favourite beverage for the moment, he had become
"popular." Why worry himself ill over the concoction of the bitters;
sharp and strong that was all it asked? Yes, yes, those snowballs on
the floor were quite good enough, let him pick them up and uncrumple
them and pin them back in their places ready for the typewriter.
But Kate came in,--Kate in one of her fresh-looking pin-spot print
frocks. She seemed to exhale something clean, wholesome, stimulating,
though she spoke no word and only laid the morning letters down beside
him and, when he looked round at her, gave him her cheery smile.
He clutched at her plump, print-covered arm.
"For the love of heaven, K," he said, "pick all that paper up off the
floor and take it away."
Kate gave him the soothing hand-stroke that nurses keep for feverish
patients.
"Of course," she said, "certainly, straight away, old boy." She groped
about beneath his knees for the wastepaper basket that would be needed
as vehicle.
Then he heard her breathing a little hard as she stooped here, there and
everywhere for the snowballs.
He did not turn round, but talked during her labours.
"It's not etiquette I know, girl," he said, "I wouldn't dare to present
a hero to the public who let a woman pick up her own handkerchief. But I
always was a cowardly chap, wasn't I? You remember the time I took
Jack's licking at school because I knew if I turned round and let him
see it was the wrong fellow, the master would notice my cheek was puffed
out with toothache and send me straight off to the dentist's."
"Yes, I remember," said Kate, puffing and panting cheerfully about the
room.
"Hurry up, old girl," he said. "In a second I shan't be able to restrain
myself from clutching some of that stuff back."
"And it's genuinely bad?" said Kate, working hard: you might have
imagined her engaged in gathering mushrooms at so much a minute.
"The scum of literary abomination," groaned Hugh.
"And you're certain you're not deceiving yourself."
"Oh, perhaps I am," he said swinging round, "y-y-yes, I'm pretty sure
it's good enough. Seven thousand words, K, seven thousand p-p-precious
words--human nature won't stand it, will it? Let me have another look at
it."
But now Kate was adamant.
"Good enough is not good enough for Hugh Kinross," she said sternly and
made straight off to the kitchen fire with the overflowing basket
clasped firmly in her arms.
And now Hugh heaved a sigh of relief and settled down in better heart to
his work. He took out a fresh writing-block and firmly and with
inspiring assurance inscribed upon it the number of his chapter.
But after regarding this effort with an uplifted look for a second or
two his eye fell upon the letters beside him that Kate had laid down.
Now there is something insidiously insistent about the morning post when
one is away from all the other corrupting effects of the civilization of
cities.
Hugh knew perfectly well that he was trembling on the verge of his
precipice when he let his eye linger upon the envelopes; he knew
perfectly well that the act of opening one would send his already nearly
maddened Muse clean out of the window for the rest of the morning. But
yet he dallied.
It was more than possible that there was a highly important letter
there, and two or three hours' delay in opening would mean a serious
loss. His last story, for instance, that his London agent was
serializing in several countries--yes, it was quite possible some
instant information was wanted about it. Or that tale he had offered to
an American magazine--probably there was news about it here; it was a
decent story too, he would like to find out if it had been appreciated.
And then there were those shares he had taken in that Transvaal concern,
suppose news had come of a fall or rise in them? He would not listen to
the cold-headed remembrance that whispered that no English, nor
American, nor African mail was due to-day. It was perfectly possible
that in an undermanned country post office like this these important
letters had been left over since last mail and only just delivered. It
was really highly important that he should make sure.
He drew the little stack of envelopes towards him and tilted comfortably
back while he opened them.
He owed his tailor thirteen pounds eleven and six, he discovered. He
discovered that by employing the Reliance Carpet Company his Axminster
carpets would be entirely freed from dust and in such a way that he need
fear no microbes for his nursery.
The Mission to the Chinese of Wexford Street, and Lower George Street,
would be glad of a subscription from him, he learnt.
A Consumptive Hospital, a Crêche for Neglected Infants, a Convalescent
Home, an Inebriates' Retreat all had a similar use for him. While
slightly more cheerful, if less urgently necessary methods of spending
his money were suggested by requests, (1) to take a few five-shilling
tickets for a concert for the purpose of sending a deserving young
singer to Italy; (2) to purchase at a reduction a calf-bound set of the
_Encyclopædia Cosmopolitana_ with which the owner, being short of money,
was reluctantly compelled to part, and which he, as an author, would
doubtless find it to his benefit to acquire; (3) to be present at the
banquet of a fellow author, departing for the old country, tickets one
guinea. Then there was one typewriting lady who offered to do his work
at so much a thousand words, and submitted a sample of her work. And
another typewriting lady, who submitted no sample, stated that reverses
of fortune had driven her from a high position in the best society to
the bitter one of a typist, and she was therefore compelled to solicit
his work to enable her to keep herself.
It was quite a pleasant change to discover two people merely wanted his
autograph. "Dear sir, I am collecting autographs and have 637; will you
please send yours by return post as I enclose a stamp."
"She encloses a stamp," murmured Hugh admiringly.
The other seeker accompanied her request with a perfervid letter of
praise about his work, but on the heavy autograph album that accompanied
the letter he noticed Kate had had to pay tenpence deficient postage and
there were no stamps enclosed for the return of the precious volume.
A jeweller's catalogue provided a few minutes' lighter reading, and its
diamond rings and its pearl and diamond necklets and pendants and
brooches were so temptingly illustrated, that they awoke the
present-giving instinct in the man's heart and he revolved the question
whether etiquette would permit him to give Dora and Beatrice a necklet
apiece for their pretty necks and Miss Bibby a chaste brooch. Kate, he
reluctantly remembered, cared nothing for jewellery.
But it was upon the last opened missive he wasted most of his
time,--possibly because it was the last and Chapter eleven looked large
on the horizon again.
It was an advertisement of enamel paint and was accompanied by a most
pleasing picture of a gentleman in a frock coat and a lady in a most
complicated costume, delicately engaged in making "better than new," by
the aid of this enamel paint, a whole bedroom suite.
Something in the elegant _négligé_ of the attitude of the gentleman in
the frockcoat depicted pensively painting the bedstead stimulated Hugh
marvellously.
He felt an insane desire to get a pot of the famous paint and set to
work himself upon a similar labour.
Kate came gently across the floor and placed a jug of iced lemon water
and a tumbler at his elbow.
She was about to withdraw in perfect silence, but he detained her.
"Kate," he said.
Her most motherly look was on her face.
"What is it, dear lad?" she said, for her heart was full of futile
sympathy for his straits.
"Kate," he said yearningly. "Do you think Larkin could get me a pot of
Perfect Perfection Enamel warranted to dry in ten minutes, all colours
kept in stock? If I can't enamel a bedstead this very minute I won't
answer for my reason."
Kate walked deliberately across the room and boxed his ears.