'Nothing.' The demand would have to be postponed. It couldn't be made in public, particularly when the public was Beatrice. Damn Beatrice! he thought unjustly. What business had she to do subediting and Shorter Notices for nothing? Just because she had a private income and adored Burlap.
Walter had once complained to her, jokingly, of his miserable six pounds a week.
'But the World's worth making sacrifices for,' she rapped out. 'After all, one has a responsibility towards people; one ought to do something for them.' Echoed in her clear rapping voice, Burlap's Christian sentiments sounded, Walter thought, particularly odd. 'The World does do something; one ought to help.'
The obvious retort was that his own private income was very small and that he wasn't in love with Burlap. He didn't make it, however, but suffered himself to be pecked. Damn her, all the same!
Beatrice entered, a neat, plumply well-made little figure, very erect and business-like. 'Morning, Walter,' she said, and every word she uttered was like a sharp little rap with an ivory mallet over the knuckles. She examined him with her bright, rather protuberant brown eyes. 'You look tired,' she went on. 'Worn out, as though you'd been on the tiles last night.' Peck after peck. 'Were you?'
Walter blushed. 'I slept badly,' he mumbled and engrossed himself in a book.
They sorted out the volumes for the various reviewers. A little heap for the scientific expert, another for the accredited metaphysician, a whole mass for the fiction specialist. The largest pile was of Tripe. Tripe wasn't reviewed, or only got a Shorter Notice.
'Here's a book about Polynesia for you, Walter,' said Burlap generously. 'And a new anthology of French verse. No, on second thoughts, I think I'll do that.' On second thoughts he generally did keep the most interesting books for himself.
'The Life of St. Francis re-toldfor the Children by Bella Jukes. Theology or tripe?' asked Beatrice.
'Tripe,' said Walter looking over her shoulder.
'But I'd rather like an excuse to do a little article on St. Francis,' said Burlap. In the intervals of editing, he was engaged on a full-length study of the Saint. 'St. Francis and the Modern Psyche,' it was to be called. He took the little book from Beatrice and let the pages flick past under his thumb. 'Tripe-ish,' he admitted. 'But what an extraordinary man! Extraordinary!' He began to hypnotize himself, to lash himself up into the Franciscan mood.
'Extraordinary!' Beatrice rapped out, her eyes fixed on Burlap.
Walter looked at her curiously. Her ideas and her pecking goose-billed manner seemed to belong to two different people, between whom the only perceptible link was Purlap. Was there any inward, organic connection?
'What a devastating integrity!' Burlap went on, selfintoxicated. He shook his head and, sighing, sobered himself sufficiently to proceed with the morning's business.
When the opportunity came for Walter to talk (with what diffidence, what a squeamish reluctance!) about his salary, Burlap was wonderfully sympathetic.
'I know, old man,' he said, laying his hand on the other's shoulder with a gesture that disturbingly reminded Walter of the time when, as a schoolboy, he had played Antonio in The Merchant of Venice and the detestable Porter Major, disguised as Bassanio, had been coached to register friendship. 'I know what being hard up is.' His little laugh gave it to be understood that he was a Franciscan specialist in poverty, but was too modest to insist upon the fact. 'I know, old man.' And he really almost believed that he wasn't half owner and salaried editor of the World, that he hadn't a penny invested, that he had been living on two pounds a week for years. 'I wish we could afford to pay you three times as much as we do. You're worth it, old man.' He gave Walter's shoulder a little pat.
Walter made a vague mumbling sound of deprecation. That little pat, he was thinking, was the signal for him to begin:
'I am a tainted wether of the flock,
Meetest for slaughter.'
'I wish for your sake,' Burlap continued, 'for mine too,' he added, putting himself with a rueful little laugh in the same financial boat as Walter, 'that the paper did make more money. If you wrote worse, it might.' The compliment was graceful. Burlap emphasized it with another friendly pat and a smile. But the eyes expressed nothing. Meeting them for an instant, Walter had the strange impression that they were not looking at him at all, that they were not looking at anything. 'The paper's too good. It's largely your fault. One cannot serve God and mammon.'
'Of course not,' Walter agreed; but he felt again that the big words had come too easily.
'I wish one could.' Burlap spoke like a jocular St. Francis pretending to make fun of his own principles.
Walter joined mirthlessly in the laughter. He was wishing that he had never mentioned the word 'salary.'
'I'll go and talk to Mr. Chivers,' said Burlap. Mr. Chivers was the business manager. Burlap made use of him, as the Roman statesman made use of oracles and augurs, to promote his own policy. His unpopular decisions could always be attributed to Mr. Chivers; and when he made a popular one, it was invariably made in the teeth of the business manager's soulless tyranny. Mr. Chivers was a most convenient fiction. 'I'll go this morning.'
'Don't bother,' said Walter.
'If it's humanly possible to scrape up anything more for you...'
'No, please.' Walter was positively begging not to be given more. 'I know thd difficulties. Don't think I want...'
'But we're sweating you, Walter, positively sweating you.' The more Walter protested, the more generous Burlap became.'don't think I'm not aware of it. I've been worrying about it for a long time.'
His magnanimity was infectious. Walter was determined not to take any more money, quite determined, even though he was sure the paper could afford to give it. 'Really, Burlap,' he almost begged, 'I'd much rather you left things as they are.' And then suddenly he thought of Marjorie. How unfairly he was treating her! Sacrificing her comfort to his. Because he found haggling distasteful, because he hated fighting on the one hand and accepting favours on the other, poor Marjorie would have to go without new clothes and a second maid.
But Burlap waved his objections aside. He insisted on being generous. 'I'll go and talk to Chivers at once. I think I can persuade him to let you have another twentyfive a year.'
Twentyfive. That was ten shillings a week. Nothing. Marjorie had said that he ought to stand out for at least another hundred. 'Thank you,' he said and despised himself for saying it.
'It's ridiculously little, I'm afraid. Quite ridiculously.'
That's what I ought to have said, thought Walter.
'One feels quite ashamed of offering it. But what can one do?' 'One' could obviously do nothing, for the good reason that 'one' was impersonal and didn't exist.
Walter mumbled something about being grateful. He felt humiliated and blamed Marjorie for it.
When Walter worked at the office, which was only three days a week, he sat with Beatrice. Burlap, in editorial isolation, sat alone. It was the day of Shorter Notices. Between them, on the table, stood the stacks of Tripe. They helped themselves. It was a Literary Feast--a feast of offal. Bad novels and worthless verses, imbecile systems of philosophy and platitudinous moralizings, insignificant biographies and boring books of travel, pietism so nauseating and children's books so vulgar and so silly that to read them was to feel ashamed for the whole human race--the pile was high, and every week it grew higher. The ant-like industry of Beatrice, Walter's quick discernment and facility were utterly inadequate to stem the rising flood. They settled down to their work 'like vultures,' said Walter, 'in the Towers of Silence.' What he wrote this morning was peculiarly pungent.
On paper Walter was all he failed to be in life. His reviews were epigrammatically ruthless. Poor earnest spinsters, when they read what he had written of their heartfelt poems about God and Passion and the Beauties of Nature, were cut to the quick by his brutal contempt. The big-game shooters who had so much enjoyed their African trip would wonder how the account of anything so interesting could be called tedi
ous. The young novelists who had modelled their styles and their epical conceptions on those of the best authors, who had daringly uncovered the secrets of their most intimate and sexual life, were hurt, were amazed, were indignant to learn that their writing was stilted, their construction non-existent, their psychology unreal, their drama stagey and melodramatic. A bad book is as much of a labour to write as a good one; it comes as sincerely from the author's soul. But the bad author's soul being, artistically at any rate, of inferior quality, its sincerities will be, if not always intrinsically uninteresting, at any rate uninterestingly expressed, and the labour expended on the expression will be wasted. Nature is monstrously unjust. There is no substitute for talent. Industry and all the virtues are of no avail. Immersed in his Tripe, Walter ferociously commented on lack of talent. Conscious of their industry, sincerity and good artistic intentions, the authors of the Tripe felt themselves outrageously and unfairly treated.
Beatrice's methods of criticism were simple; she tried in every case to say what she imagined Burlap would say. In practice what happened was that she praised all books in which Life and its problems were taken, as she thought, seriously, and condemned all those in which they were not. She would have ranked Bailey's Festus higher than Candide, unless of course Burlap or some other authoritative person had previously told her that it was her duty to prefer Candide. As she was never permitted to criticize anything but Tripe, her lack of all critical insight was of little importance.
They worked, they went out to lunch, they returned and set to work again. Eleven new books had arrived in the interval.
'I feel,' said Walter, 'as the Bombay vultures must feel when there's been an epidemic among the Parsees.' Bombay and the Parsees reminded him of his sister Elinor. She and Philip would be sailing to-day. He was glad they were coming home. They were almost the only people he could talk to intimately about his affairs. He would be able to discuss his problems with them. It would be a comfort, an alleviation of his responsibility. And then suddenly he remembered that everything was settled, that there were no more problems. No more. And then the telephone bell rang. He lifted the receiver, he hallooed into the mouthpiece
'Is that you, Walter darling?' The voice was Lucy's.
His heart sank; he knew what was going to happen.
'I've just woken up,' she explained. 'I'm all alone.'
She wanted him to come to tea. He refused. After tea, then.
'I can't,' he persisted.
'Nonsense! Of course you can.'
'Impossible.'
'But why? '
'Work.'
'But not after six. I insist.'
After all, he thought, perhaps it would be better to see her and explain what he had decided.
'I'll never forgive you if you don't come.'
'All right,' he said, 'I'll make an effort. I'll come if I possibly can.'
'What a flirt you are!' Beatrice mocked, as he hung up the receiver. 'Saying no for the fun of being persuaded!'
And when, at a few minutes after five, he left the office on the pretext that he must get to the London Library before closing time, she sent ironical good wishes after him. 'Bon amusement!' were her last words.
In the editorial room. Burlap was dictating letters to his secretary. 'Yours etcetera,' he concluded and picked up another batch of papers. 'Dear Miss Saville,' he began, after glancing at them for a moment. 'No,' he corrected himself.'dear Miss Romola Saville. Thank you for your note and for the enclosed manuscripts.' He paused and, leaning back in his chair, closed his eyes in brief reflection. 'It is not my custom,' he went on at last in a soft remote voice, 'it is not my custom to write personal letters to unknown contributors.' He reopened his eyes, to meet the dark bright glance of his secretary from across the table. The expression in Miss Cobbett's eyes was sarcastic; the faintest little smile almost imperceptibly twitched the corners of her mouth. Burlap was annoyed; but he concealed his feelings and continued to stare straight in front of him as though Miss Cobbett were not there at all and he were looking absentmindedly at a piece of furniture. Miss Cobbett looked back at her notebook.
'How contemptible!' she said to herself. 'How unspeakably vulgar!'
Miss Cobbett was a small woman, black-haired, darkly downy at the corners of her upper lip, with brown eyes disproportionately large for her thin, rather sickly little face. Sombre and passionate eyes in which there was, almost permanently, an expression of reproach that could flash up into sudden anger or, as at this moment, derision. She had a right to look reproachfully on the world. Fate had treated her badly. Very badly indeed. Born and brought up in the midst of a reasonable prosperity, her father's death had left her, from one day to another, desperately poor. She got engaged to Harry Markham. Life promised to begin again. Then came the War. Harry joined up and was killed. His death condemned her to shorthand and typing for the rest of her natural existence. Harry was the only man who had ever loved her, who had been prepared to take the risk of loving her. Other men found her too disquietingly violent and impassioned and serious. She took things terribly seriously. Young men felt uncomfortable and silly in her company. They revenged themselves by laughing at her for having no'sense of humour,' for being a pedant and, as time went on, for being an old maid who was longing for a man. They said she looked like a witch. She had often been in love, passionately, with a hopeless violence. The men had either not noticed; or, if they noticed, had fled precipitately, or had mocked, or, what was almost worse, had been patronizingly kind as though to a poor misguided creature who might be a nuisance but who ought, none the less, to be treated with charity. Ethel Cobbett had every right to look reproachful.
She had met Burlap because, as a girl, in the prosperous days, she had been at school with Susan Paley, who had afterwards become Burlap's wife. When Susan died and Burlap exploited the grief he felt, or at any rate loudly said he felt, in a more than usually painful series of these always painfully personal articles which were the secret of his success as a journalist (for the great public has a chronic and cannibalistic appetite for personalities), Ethel wrote him a letter of condolence, accompanying it with a long account of Susan as a girl. A moved and moving answer came back by return of post. 'Thank you, thank you for your memories of what I have always felt to be the realest Susan, the little girl who survived so beautifully and purely in the woman, to the very end; the lovely child that in spite of chronology she always was, underneath and parallel with the physical Susan living in time. In her heart of hearts, I am sure, she never quite believed in her chronological adult self; she could never quite get it out of her head that she was a little girl playing at being grown up.' And so it went on--pages of a rather hysterical lyricism about the dead child-woman. He incorporated a good deal of the substance of the letter in his next week's article. 'Of such is the Kingdom of Heaven' was its title. A day or two later he travelled down to Birmingham to have a personal interview with this woman who had known the realest Susan when she was chronologically as well as spiritually a child. The impression each made upon the other was favourable. For Ethel, living bitterly and reproachfully between her dismal lodgings and the hateful insurance office where she was a clerk, the arrival first of his letter and now of Burlap himself had been great and wonderful events. A real writer, a man with a mind and a soul. In the state into which he had then worked himself Burlap would have liked any woman who could talk to him about Susan's childhood and into whose warm maternal compassion, a child himself, he could luxuriously sink as into a feather bed. Ethel Cobbett was not only sympathetic and a friend of Susan's; she had intelligence, was earnestly cultured and an admirer. The first impressions were good.
Burlap wept and was abject. He agonized himself with the thought that he could never, never ask Susan's forgiveness for all the unkindness he had ever done her, for all the cruel words he had spoken. He confessed in an agony of contrition that he had once been unfaithful to her. He recounted their quarrels. And now she was dead; he would never be able to ask her
pardon. Never, never. Ethel was moved. Nobody, she reflected, would care like that when she was dead. But being cared for when one is dead is less satisfactory than being cared for when one is alive. These agonies which Burlap, by a process of intense concentration on the idea of his loss and grief, had succeeded in churning up within himself were in no way proportionate or even related to his feelings for the living Susan. For every Jesuit novice Loyola prescribed a course of solitary meditation on the passion of Christ; a few days of this exercise, accompanied by fasting, were generally enough to produce in the novice's mind a vivid, mystical and personal realization of the Saviour's real existence and sufferings. Burlap employed the same process; but instead of thinking about Jesus, or even about Susan, he thought of himself, his own agonies, his own loneliness, his own remorses. And duly, at the end of some few days of incessant spiritual masturbation, he had been rewarded by a mystical realization of his own unique and incomparable piteousness. He saw himself in an apocalyptic vision as a man of sorrows. (The language of the New Testament was constantly on Burlap's lips and under his pen. 'To each of us,' he wrote, 'is given a Calvary proportionate to his or her powers of endurance and capabilities of self-perfection.' He spoke familiarly of agonies in the garden and cups.) The vision rent his heart; he was overwhelmed with self-pity. But with the sorrows of this Christ-like Burlap poor Susan had really very little to do. His love for the living Susan had been as much self-induced and self-intensified as his grief at her death. He had loved, not Susan, but the mental image of Susan and the idea of love, fixedly concentrated on, in the best Jesuitical manner, until they became hallucinatingly real. His ardours for this phantom, and the love of love, the passion for passion which he had managed to squeeze out of his inner consciousness, conquered Susan, who imagined that they had some connection with herself. What pleased her most about his feelings was their 'pure' unmasculine quality. His ardours were those of a child for its mother (a rather incestuous child, it is true; but how tactfully and delicately the little (Edipus!); his love was at once babyish and maternal; his passion was a kind of passive snuggling. Frail, squeamish, less than fully alive and therefore less than adult, permanently under-aged, she adored him as a superior and almost holy lover. Burlap in return adored his private phantom, adored his beautifully Christian conception of matrimony, adored his own adorable husbandliness. His periodical articles in praise of marriage were lyrical. He was, however, frequently unfaithful; but he had such a pure, childlike and platonic way of going to bed with women, that neither they nor he ever considered that the process really counted as going to bed. His life with Susan was a succession of scenes in every variety of emotional key. He would chew and chew on some grievance until he had poisoned himself into a passion of anger or jealousy. Or else he would pore over his own shortcomings and grow abjectly repentant, or roll at her feet in an ecstasy of incestuous adoration for the imaginary mother-baby of a wife with whom he had chosen to identify the corporeal Susan. And then sometimes, very disquietingly for poor Susan, he would suddenly interrupt his emotions with an oddly cynical little laugh and would become for a while somebody entirely different, somebody like the Jolly Miller in the song. 'I care for nobody, no, not I, and nobody cares for me.' 'One's devil' was how he described those moods, when he had worked himself back again into emotional spirituality; and he would quote the Ancient Mariner's words about the wicked whisper that had turned his heart as dry as dust. 'One's devil'--or was it, perhaps the genuine, fundamental Burlap, grown tired of trying to be somebody else and of churning up emotions he did not spontaneously feel, taking a brief holiday?