CHAPTER VI.
Mr. Barbecue-Smith arrived in time for tea on Saturday afternoon. He wasa short and corpulent man, with a very large head and no neck. In hisearlier middle age he had been distressed by this absence of neck,but was comforted by reading in Balzac's "Louis Lambert" that all theworld's great men have been marked by the same peculiarity, and for asimple and obvious reason: Greatness is nothing more nor less thanthe harmonious functioning of the faculties of the head and heart;the shorter the neck, the more closely these two organs approach oneanother; argal...It was convincing.
Mr. Barbecue-Smith belonged to the old school of journalists. He sporteda leonine head with a greyish-black mane of oddly unappetising hairbrushed back from a broad but low forehead. And somehow he always seemedslightly, ever so slightly, soiled. In younger days he had gaily calledhimself a Bohemian. He did so no longer. He was a teacher now, a kindof prophet. Some of his books of comfort and spiritual teaching were intheir hundred and twentieth thousand.
Priscilla received him with every mark of esteem. He had never been toCrome before; she showed him round the house. Mr. Barbecue-Smith wasfull of admiration.
"So quaint, so old-world," he kept repeating. He had a rich, ratherunctuous voice.
Priscilla praised his latest book. "Splendid, I thought it was," shesaid in her large, jolly way.
"I'm happy to think you found it a comfort," said Mr. Barbecue-Smith.
"Oh, tremendously! And the bit about the Lotus Pool--I thought that sobeautiful."
"I knew you would like that. It came to me, you know, from without." Hewaved his hand to indicate the astral world.
They went out into the garden for tea. Mr. Barbecue-Smith was dulyintroduced.
"Mr. Stone is a writer too," said Priscilla, as she introduced Denis.
"Indeed!" Mr. Barbecue-Smith smiled benignly, and, looking up at Deniswith an expression of Olympian condescension, "And what sort of thingsdo you write?"
Denis was furious, and, to make matters worse, he felt himself blushinghotly. Had Priscilla no sense of proportion? She was putting them in thesame category--Barbecue-Smith and himself. They were both writers, theyboth used pen and ink. To Mr. Barbecue-Smith's question he answered,"Oh, nothing much, nothing," and looked away.
"Mr. Stone is one of our younger poets." It was Anne's voice. He scowledat her, and she smiled back exasperatingly.
"Excellent, excellent," said Mr. Barbecue-Smith, and he squeezed Denis'sarm encouragingly. "The Bard's is a noble calling."
As soon as tea was over Mr. Barbecue-Smith excused himself; he had todo some writing before dinner. Priscilla quite understood. The prophetretired to his chamber.
Mr. Barbecue-Smith came down to the drawing-room at ten to eight. He wasin a good humour, and, as he descended the stairs, he smiled to himselfand rubbed his large white hands together. In the drawing-room someonewas playing softly and ramblingly on the piano. He wondered who it couldbe. One of the young ladies, perhaps. But no, it was only Denis, who gotup hurriedly and with some embarrassment as he came into the room.
"Do go on, do go on," said Mr. Barbecue-Smith. "I am very fond ofmusic."
"Then I couldn't possibly go on," Denis replied. "I only make noises."
There was a silence. Mr. Barbecue-Smith stood with his back to thehearth, warming himself at the memory of last winter's fires. He couldnot control his interior satisfaction, but still went on smiling tohimself. At last he turned to Denis.
"You write," he asked, "don't you?"
"Well, yes--a little, you know."
"How many words do you find you can write in an hour?"
"I don't think I've ever counted."
"Oh, you ought to, you ought to. It's most important."
Denis exercised his memory. "When I'm in good form," he said, "I fancyI do a twelve-hundred-word review in about four hours. But sometimes ittakes me much longer."
Mr. Barbecue-Smith nodded. "Yes, three hundred words an hour at yourbest." He walked out into the middle of the room, turned round on hisheels, and confronted Denis again. "Guess how many words I wrote thisevening between five and half-past seven."
"I can't imagine."
"No, but you must guess. Between five and half-past seven--that's twoand a half hours."
"Twelve hundred words," Denis hazarded.
"No, no, no." Mr. Barbecue-Smith's expanded face shone with gaiety. "Tryagain."
"Fifteen hundred."
"No."
"I give it up," said Denis. He found he couldn't summon up much interestin Mr. Barbecue-Smith's writing.
"Well, I'll tell you. Three thousand eight hundred."
Denis opened his eyes. "You must get a lot done in a day," he said.
Mr. Barbecue-Smith suddenly became extremely confidential. He pulled upa stool to the side of Denis's arm-chair, sat down in it, and began totalk softly and rapidly.
"Listen to me," he said, laying his hand on Denis's sleeve. "You want tomake your living by writing; you're young, you're inexperienced. Let megive you a little sound advice."
What was the fellow going to do? Denis wondered: give him anintroduction to the editor of "John o' London's Weekly", or tell himwhere he could sell a light middle for seven guineas? Mr. Barbecue-Smithpatted his arm several times and went on.
"The secret of writing," he said, breathing it into the young man'sear--"the secret of writing is Inspiration."
Denis looked at him in astonishment.
"Inspiration..." Mr. Barbecue-Smith repeated.
"You mean the native wood-note business?"
Mr. Barbecue-Smith nodded.
"Oh, then I entirely agree with you," said Denis. "But what if onehasn't got Inspiration?"
"That was precisely the question I was waiting for," said Mr.Barbecue-Smith. "You ask me what one should do if one hasn't gotInspiration. I answer: you have Inspiration; everyone has Inspiration.It's simply a question of getting it to function."
The clock struck eight. There was no sign of any of the other guests;everybody was always late at Crome. Mr. Barbecue-Smith went on.
"That's my secret," he said. "I give it you freely." (Denis made asuitably grateful murmur and grimace.) "I'll help you to find yourInspiration, because I don't like to see a nice, steady young man likeyou exhausting his vitality and wasting the best years of his life ina grinding intellectual labour that could be completely obviated byInspiration. I did it myself, so I know what it's like. Up till thetime I was thirty-eight I was a writer like you--a writer withoutInspiration. All I wrote I squeezed out of myself by sheer hard work.Why, in those days I was never able to do more than six-fifty words anhour, and what's more, I often didn't sell what I wrote." He sighed."We artists," he said parenthetically, "we intellectuals aren't muchappreciated here in England." Denis wondered if there was any method,consistent, of course, with politeness, by which he could dissociatehimself from Mr. Barbecue-Smith's "we." There was none; and besides,it was too late now, for Mr. Barbecue-Smith was once more pursuing thetenor of his discourse.
"At thirty-eight I was a poor, struggling, tired, overworked, unknownjournalist. Now, at fifty..." He paused modestly and made a littlegesture, moving his fat hands outwards, away from one another, andexpanding his fingers as though in demonstration. He was exhibitinghimself. Denis thought of that advertisement of Nestle's milk--the twocats on the wall, under the moon, one black and thin, the other white,sleek, and fat. Before Inspiration and after.
"Inspiration has made the difference," said Mr. Barbecue-Smith solemnly."It came quite suddenly--like a gentle dew from heaven." He lifted hishand and let it fall back on to his knee to indicate the descent of thedew. "It was one evening. I was writing my first little book about theConduct of Life--'Humble Heroisms'. You may have read it; it has beena comfort--at least I hope and think so--a comfort to many thousands.I was in the middle of the second chapter, and I was stuck. Fatigue,overwork--I had only written a hundred words in the last hour, and Icould get no further. I sat biting the end of my pen and looking at t
heelectric light, which hung above my table, a little above and in frontof me." He indicated the position of the lamp with elaborate care. "Haveyou ever looked at a bright light intently for a long time?" he asked,turning to Denis. Denis didn't think he had. "You can hypnotise yourselfthat way," Mr. Barbecue-Smith went on.
The gong sounded in a terrific crescendo from the hall. Still no sign ofthe others. Denis was horribly hungry.
"That's what happened to me," said Mr. Barbecue-Smith. "I washypnotised. I lost consciousness like that." He snapped his fingers."When I came to, I found that it was past midnight, and I had writtenfour thousand words. Four thousand," he repeated, opening his mouth verywide on the "ou" of thousand. "Inspiration had come to me."
"What a very extraordinary thing," said Denis.
"I was afraid of it at first. It didn't seem to me natural. I didn'tfeel, somehow, that it was quite right, quite fair, I might almost say,to produce a literary composition unconsciously. Besides, I was afraid Imight have written nonsense."
"And had you written nonsense?" Denis asked.
"Certainly not," Mr. Barbecue-Smith replied, with a trace of annoyance."Certainly not. It was admirable. Just a few spelling mistakes andslips, such as there generally are in automatic writing. But the style,the thought--all the essentials were admirable. After that, Inspirationcame to me regularly. I wrote the whole of 'Humble Heroisms' like that.It was a great success, and so has everything been that I have writtensince." He leaned forward and jabbed at Denis with his finger. "That'smy secret," he said, "and that's how you could write too, if youtried--without effort, fluently, well."
"But how?" asked Denis, trying not to show how deeply he had beeninsulted by that final "well."
"By cultivating your Inspiration, by getting into touch with yourSubconscious. Have you ever read my little book, 'Pipe-Lines to theInfinite'?"
Denis had to confess that that was, precisely, one of the few, perhapsthe only one, of Mr. Barbecue-Smith's works he had not read.
"Never mind, never mind," said Mr. Barbecue-Smith. "It's just a littlebook about the connection of the Subconscious with the Infinite. Getinto touch with the Subconscious and you are in touch with the Universe.Inspiration, in fact. You follow me?"
"Perfectly, perfectly," said Denis. "But don't you find that theUniverse sometimes sends you very irrelevant messages?"
"I don't allow it to," Mr. Barbecue-Smith replied. "I canalise it. Ibring it down through pipes to work the turbines of my conscious mind."
"Like Niagara," Denis suggested. Some of Mr. Barbecue-Smith's remarkssounded strangely like quotations--quotations from his own works, nodoubt.
"Precisely. Like Niagara. And this is how I do it." He leaned forward,and with a raised forefinger marked his points as he made them, beatingtime, as it were, to his discourse. "Before I go off into my trance, Iconcentrate on the subject I wish to be inspired about. Let us say I amwriting about the humble heroisms; for ten minutes before I go into thetrance I think of nothing but orphans supporting their little brothersand sisters, of dull work well and patiently done, and I focus my mindon such great philosophical truths as the purification and uplifting ofthe soul by suffering, and the alchemical transformation of leaden evilinto golden good." (Denis again hung up his little festoon of quotationmarks.) "Then I pop off. Two or three hours later I wake up again, andfind that inspiration has done its work. Thousands of words, comforting,uplifting words, lie before me. I type them out neatly on my machine andthey are ready for the printer."
"It all sounds wonderfully simple," said Denis.
"It is. All the great and splendid and divine things of life arewonderfully simple." (Quotation marks again.) "When I have to do myaphorisms," Mr. Barbecue-Smith continued, "I prelude my trance byturning over the pages of any Dictionary of Quotations or ShakespeareCalendar that comes to hand. That sets the key, so to speak; thatensures that the Universe shall come flowing in, not in a continuousrush, but in aphorismic drops. You see the idea?"
Denis nodded. Mr. Barbecue-Smith put his hand in his pocket and pulledout a notebook. "I did a few in the train to-day," he said, turning overthe pages. "Just dropped off into a trance in the corner of my carriage.I find the train very conducive to good work. Here they are." He clearedhis throat and read:
"The Mountain Road may be steep, but the air is pure up there, and it isfrom the Summit that one gets the view."
"The Things that Really Matter happen in the Heart."
It was curious, Denis reflected, the way the Infinite sometimes repeateditself.
"Seeing is Believing. Yes, but Believing is also Seeing. If I believe inGod, I see God, even in the things that seem to be evil."
Mr. Barbecue-Smith looked up from his notebook. "That last one," hesaid, "is particularly subtle and beautiful, don't you think? WithoutInspiration I could never have hit on that." He re-read the apophthegmwith a slower and more solemn utterance. "Straight from the Infinite,"he commented reflectively, then addressed himself to the next aphorism.
"The flame of a candle gives Light, but it also Burns."
Puzzled wrinkles appeared on Mr. Barbecue-Smith's forehead. "I don'texactly know what that means," he said. "It's very gnomic. One couldapply it, of course to the Higher Education--illuminating, but provokingthe Lower Classes to discontent and revolution. Yes, I supposethat's what it is. But it's gnomic, it's gnomic." He rubbed hischin thoughtfully. The gong sounded again, clamorously, it seemedimploringly: dinner was growing cold. It roused Mr. Barbecue-Smith frommeditation. He turned to Denis.
"You understand me now when I advise you to cultivate your Inspiration.Let your Subconscious work for you; turn on the Niagara of theInfinite."
There was the sound of feet on the stairs. Mr. Barbecue-Smith got up,laid his hand for an instant on Denis's shoulder, and said:
"No more now. Another time. And remember, I rely absolutely on yourdiscretion in this matter. There are intimate, sacred things that onedoesn't wish to be generally known."
"Of course," said Denis. "I quite understand."