Her figure faded into the darkness, as pale things waver down into deep
water, and as soon as she disappeared my sense of humour returned. The
episode appeared more clearly, as a flirtation with an enigmatic, but
decidedly charming, chance travelling companion. The girl was a riddle,
and a riddle once guessed is a very trivial thing. She, too, would be a
very trivial thing when I had found a solution. It occurred to me that
she wished me to regard her as a symbol, perhaps, of the future--as a
type of those who are to inherit the earth, in fact. She had been
playing the fool with me, in her insolent modernity. She had wished me
to understand that I was old-fashioned; that the frame of mind of which
I and my fellows were the inheritors was over and done with. We were to
be compulsorily retired; to stand aside superannuated. It was obvious
that she was better equipped for the swiftness of life. She had a
something--not only quickness of wit, not only ruthless determination,
but a something quite different and quite indefinably more impressive.
Perhaps it was only the confidence of the superseder, the essential
quality that makes for the empire of the Occidental. But I was not a
negro--not even relatively a Hindoo. I was somebody, confound it, I was
somebody.
As an author, I had been so uniformly unsuccessful, so absolutely
unrecognised, that I had got into the way of regarding myself as ahead
of my time, as a worker for posterity. It was a habit of mind--the only
revenge that I could take upon despiteful Fate. This girl came to
confound me with the common herd--she declared herself to be that very
posterity for which I worked.
She was probably a member of some clique that called themselves Fourth
Dimensionists--just as there had been pre-Raphaelites. It was a matter
of cant allegory. I began to wonder how it was that I had never heard of
them. And how on earth had they come to hear of me!
"She must have read something of mine," I found myself musing: "the
Jenkins story perhaps. It must have been the Jenkins story; they gave
it a good place in their rotten magazine. She must have seen that it was
the real thing, and...." When one is an author one looks at things in
that way, you know.
By that time I was ready to knock at the door of the great Callan. I
seemed to be jerked into the commonplace medium of a great, great--oh,
an infinitely great--novelist's home life. I was led into a well-lit
drawing-room, welcomed by the great man's wife, gently propelled into a
bedroom, made myself tidy, descended and was introduced into the
sanctum, before my eyes had grown accustomed to the lamp-light. Callan
was seated upon his sofa surrounded by an admiring crowd of very local
personages. I forget what they looked like. I think there was a man
whose reddish beard did not become him and another whose face might have
been improved by the addition of a reddish beard; there was also an
extremely moody dark man and I vaguely recollect a person who lisped.
They did not talk much; indeed there was very little conversation. What
there was Callan supplied. He--spoke--very--slowly--and--very
--authoritatively, like a great actor whose aim is to hold the stage as
long as possible. The raising of his heavy eyelids at the opening door
conveyed the impression of a dark, mental weariness; and seemed somehow
to give additional length to his white nose. His short, brown beard was
getting very grey, I thought. With his lofty forehead and with his
superior, yet propitiatory smile, I was of course familiar. Indeed one
saw them on posters in the street. The notables did not want to talk.
They wanted to be spell-bound--and they were. Callan sat there in an
appropriate attitude--the one in which he was always photographed. One
hand supported his head, the other toyed with his watch-chain. His face
was uniformly solemn, but his eyes were disconcertingly furtive. He
cross-questioned me as to my walk from Canterbury; remarked that the
cathedral was a--magnificent--Gothic--Monument and set me right as to
the lie of the roads. He seemed pleased to find that I remembered very
little of what I ought to have noticed on the way. It gave him an
opportunity for the display of his local erudition.
"A--remarkable
woman--used--to--live--in--the--cottage--next--the--mill--at--Stelling,"
he said; "she was the original of Kate Wingfield."
"In your 'Boldero?'" the chorus chorussed.
Remembrance of the common at Stelling--of the glimmering white faces of
the shadowy cottages--was like a cold waft of mist to me. I forgot to
say "Indeed!"
"She was--a very--remarkable--woman--She----"
I found myself wondering which was real; the common with its misty
hedges and the blurred moon; or this room with its ranks of uniformly
bound books and its bust of the great man that threw a portentous shadow
upward from its pedestal behind the lamp.
Before I had entirely recovered myself, the notables were departing to
catch the last train. I was left alone with Callan.
He did not trouble to resume his attitude for me, and when he did speak,
spoke faster.
"Interesting man, Mr. Jinks?" he said; "you recognised him?"
"No," I said; "I don't think I ever met him."
Callan looked annoyed.
"I thought I'd got him pretty well. He's Hector Steele. In my
'Blanfield,'" he added.
"Indeed!" I said. I had never been able to read "Blanfield." "Indeed,
ah, yes--of course."
There was an awkward pause.
"The whiskey will be here in a minute," he said, suddenly. "I don't have
it in when Whatnot's here. He's the Rector, you know; a great temperance
man. When we've had a--a modest quencher--we'll get to business."
"Oh," I said, "your letters really meant--"
"Of course," he answered. "Oh, here's the whiskey. Well now, Fox was
down here the other night. You know Fox, of course?"
"Didn't he start the rag called--?"
"Yes, yes," Callan answered, hastily, "he's been very successful in
launching papers. Now he's trying his hand with a new one. He's any
amount of backers--big names, you know. He's to run my next as a
_feuilleton_. This--this venture is to be rather more serious in tone
than any that he's done hitherto. You understand?"
"Why, yes," I said; "but I don't see where I come in."
Callan took a meditative sip of whiskey, added a little more water, a
little more whiskey, and then found the mixture to his liking.
"You see," he said, "Fox got a letter here to say that Wilkinson had
died suddenly--some affection of the heart. Wilkinson was to have
written a series of personal articles on prominent people. Well, Fox was
nonplussed and I put in a word for you."
"I'm sure I'm much--" I began.
"Not at all, not at all," Callan interrupted, blandly. "I've known you
and you've known me for a number of years."
A sudden picture danced before my eyes--the portrait of the Callan of
the old days--the fawning, shady individual, with the seedy clothes, the
furtive eyes and the obliging manners.
"Why, yes," I said; "but I don't see that that gives me any claim."
Callan cleared his throat.
"The lapse of time," he said in his grand manner, "rivets what we may
call the bands of association."
He paused to inscribe this sentence on the tablets of his memory. It
would be dragged in--to form a purple patch--in his new serial.
"You see," he went on, "I've written a good deal of autobiographical
matter and it would verge upon self-advertisement to do more. You know
how much I dislike _that_. So I showed Fox your sketch in the
_Kensington_."
"The Jenkins story?" I said. "How did you come to see it?"
"Then send me the _Kensington_," he answered. There was a touch of
sourness in his tone, and I remembered that the _Kensington_ I had seen
had been ballasted with seven goodly pages by Callan himself--seven
unreadable packed pages of a serial.
"As I was saying," Callan began again, "you ought to know me very well,
and I suppose you are acquainted with my books. As for the rest, I will
give you what material you want."
"But, my dear Callan," I said, "I've never tried my hand at that sort of
thing."
Callan silenced me with a wave of his hand.
"It struck both Fox and myself that your--your 'Jenkins' was just what
was wanted," he said; "of course, that was a study of a kind of
broken-down painter. But it was well done."
I bowed my head. Praise from Callan was best acknowledged in silence.
"You see, what we want, or rather what Fox wants," he explained, "is a
kind of series of studies of celebrities _chez eux_. Of course,
they are not broken down. But if you can treat them as you treated Jenkins
--get them in their studies, surrounded by what in their case stands for
the broken lay figures and the faded serge curtains--it will be exactly the
thing. It will be a new line, or rather--what is a great deal better,
mind you--an old line treated in a slightly, very slightly different
way. That's what the public wants."
"Ah, yes," I said, "that's what the public wants. But all the same, it's
been done time out of mind before. Why, I've seen photographs of you and
your arm-chair and your pen-wiper and so on, half a score of times in the
sixpenny magazines."
Callan again indicated bland superiority with a wave of his hand.
"You undervalue yourself," he said.
I murmured--"Thanks."
"This is to be--not a mere pandering to curiosity--but an attempt to get
at the inside of things--to get the atmosphere, so to speak; not merely
to catalogue furniture."
He was quoting from the prospectus of the new paper, and then cleared
his throat for the utterance of a tremendous truth.
"Photography--is not--Art," he remarked.
The fantastic side of our colloquy began to strike me.
"After all," I thought to myself, "why shouldn't that girl have played
at being a denizen of another sphere? She did it ever so much better
than Callan. She did it too well, I suppose."
"The price is very decent," Callan chimed in. "I don't know how much per
thousand, ...but...."
I found myself reckoning, against my will as it were.
"You'll do it, I suppose?" he said.
I thought of my debts ... "Why, yes, I suppose so," I answered. "But who
are the others that I am to provide with atmospheres?"
Callan shrugged his shoulders.
"Oh, all sorts of prominent people--soldiers, statesmen, Mr. Churchill,
the Foreign Minister, artists, preachers--all sorts of people."
"All sorts of glory," occurred to me.
"The paper will stand expenses up to a reasonable figure," Callan
reassured me.
"It'll be a good joke for a time," I said. "I'm infinitely obliged to
you."
He warded off my thanks with both hands.
"I'll just send a wire to Fox to say that you accept," he said, rising.
He seated himself at his desk in the appropriate attitude. He had an
appropriate attitude for every vicissitude of his life. These he had
struck before so many people that even in the small hours of the morning
he was ready for the kodak wielder. Beside him he had every form of
labour-saver; every kind of literary knick-knack. There were
book-holders that swung into positions suitable to appropriate
attitudes; there were piles of little green boxes with red capital
letters of the alphabet upon them, and big red boxes with black small
letters. There was a writing-lamp that cast an æsthetic glow upon
another appropriate attitude--and there was one typewriter with
note-paper upon it, and another with MS. paper already in position.
"My God!" I thought--"to these heights the Muse soars."
As I looked at the gleaming pillars of the typewriters, the image of my
own desk appeared to me; chipped, ink-stained, gloriously dusty. I
thought that when again I lit my battered old tin lamp I should see
ashes and match-ends; a tobacco-jar, an old gnawed penny penholder, bits
of pink blotting-paper, match-boxes, old letters, and dust everywhere.
And I knew that my attitude--when I sat at it--would be inappropriate.
Callan was ticking off the telegram upon his machine. "It will go in the
morning at eight," he said.