On the way to the station this warm / chilly morning
[_Note to Linotype Man: Please kill the inappropriate adjective; we
like to be accurate, and this April weather is so inconstant_] we were
thinking how little appreciated is the true pleasure of writing.
Writing is an art (or, if you prefer, a trade) never wholly and
properly enjoyed except by the intensely indolent. What we mean is
this: there are a lot of things in life that are not at all as they
should be. But the writer, by magnificent pretence, improves all that.
Gardening, for instance. No one enjoys seeing beds thickly decorated
with bright flowers and superb vegetables more than we do. But the
grubby and tiresome task of groping about with trowels and quicklime
and all the other fertilizers is distasteful. Getting sweet peas to
climb is a noxious business. Somehow the seedsman always palms off on
us a kind of horizontal sweet pea that runs lowly along the ground
and never blossoms at all. But take up the pen, or typewriter, and
how quickly everything is rectified. When you set to work to compose a
story, how easy it is to have things nice and genteel. Thus:
Out in the bland freshness of the suburban morning, Mr.
Frogbones was enjoying his garden. In twin beds under the tall
French windows the gardenias and sunflowers were just opening
towards the violent orb. Sweet peas and daffodils and vast
claret-coloured roses aspired upon a green trellis. “How I
love a little nosegay,” he said, as he clipped off a couple of
dozen of the great cider-tinted chrysanthemums, and bore them
indoors to his wife. In the breakfast room a well-trained maid
servant was putting the fragrant coffee on the table and the
children were drinking their morning milk with neatness and
gusto. “Elise,” said Mrs. Frogbones to the maid, “you may bring
in the sausages, kidneys, bacon, scrambled eggs, anchovy toast,
marmalade, grape fruit, porridge, raisin bread, and gooseberry
jam. Mr. Frogbones is ready for breakfast.”
Now what could be easier, what could be more agreeable, than to write
that? And yet not a word of it is true. We know Henry Frogbones well:
his garden is contemptible; the maid’s coffee is execrable, and she
is going to leave at the end of the week anyway; his children roar
with anguish when they see a mug of milk, which they detest. But how
pleasant it is to lend a hand to the travailing universe when you are
writing.
As Henry Frogbones finished his ample breakfast the large
absinthe-coloured limousine rolled with a quiet crunch
across the terrace which was pebbled with small blue gravel.
He slipped on his new herringbone surtout, lit a fine black
cheroot, hitched up one spat which had got twisted, and rolled
away to town. Ambrose, the chauffeur, was accustomed to his
employer’s ways: he drove gently so that Mr. Frogbones could
read the morning paper with comfort. After an hour’s ride
through exquisite scenery [_if the editor pays more than
five cents a word, it may be well to describe this scenery_]
Mr. Frogbones reached his office, where the morning mail had
already been opened and classified by a competent assistant. In
the anteroom a number of callers were waiting, held in check by
a respectful young man who was explaining to them that no one
can possibly disturb Mr. Frogbones until his morning article is
written....
As a matter of fact, we don’t feel that we can go on with this any
further; it is beginning to seem too unlikely. But it only seems
unlikely to us, because we know the truth about old Frogbones. The
average magazine reader would swallow it without cavil. That is
why we say that writing is huge fun, because you can solve all the
perplexities and distractions of life as you go along, and really enjoy
yourself at the same time, and (most remarkable of all) get paid for
it.
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