The Dyspeptic Critic

by Hugh Walpole

THE DYSPEPTIC CRITIC

By HUGH WALPOLE

I HAVE been occasionally asked what was the most romantic thing that ever happened to me. The adventure I am about to describe would nearly win the prize, I think. It began in this way.

Two friends and myself, bound with the universal unemployment ties, spent some of our idle time by endeavouring to help our companions out of difficulties into which their temperament led them.

The hero of this little adventure was one Everard Tallboys. Tallboys at this time must have been about thirty years of age, was reviewer on The Athanasian, The Grey Review, The Protestant Weekly and The Quid Nunc. He was also responsible for two published dramas, "The Queen at Bay" and "The Scarlet Fool," a volume of verse, "The Lute at Dawn," three novels, whose names I have forgotten, and a critical book on William Morris and his times. I had seen him on one or two occasions at literary parties, and we had once exchanged a word or two of rather heated discussion about a plate of sandwiches which I wanted for a lady and he wanted for himself. He was long, thin, black-haired, with a piercing, bitter nose, eyes grey and cold, and teeth slightly discoloured. His clothes were shabby and his hands not over-clean. I am aware that this is not a pleasant description, and, indeed, I have seldom, in all my literary experience, seen anyone whose appearance was more thoroughly unwholesome and musty than that of Everard Tallboys. His favourite attitude at a party was to stand in a corner, balancing himself on one leg like a stork, look superciliously at the people around him, and say as little as possible to anybody. He had made that important discovery that if you want to be taken for a clever man, the less you say the better. It is the garrulous who are the fools, and Tallboys very quickly obtained a real reputation for wisdom and sagacity by dealing entirely in monosyllables and by saying "Do you think so?" in a high, shrill voice to anybody who was courageous enough to offer an opinion.

It will be seen quite clearly that I did not like Tallboys, but I did like him afterwards, as the story will show. It proves, perhaps, that I wronged him in the first place through ignorance. But, after all, if you never say anything and never come into close quarters with anybody, you stand a risk of being misunderstood. Tallboys was misunderstood by a great many people. He first appeared as critic anonymously, and committed, in my opinion, the unpardonable crime of reviewing the same book in various different papers without signing his name, and as he invariably disliked the books that he reviewed, it may be said with truth that somewhere about 1915 almost all the more critical press began to be abusive to current works of fiction, and in many cases to poetry and belles lettres. Then he was forced out of his anonymity, was taken up by Hilliard, the editor of the principal literary weekly, who thought that there was a great deal too much general praise of inferior work going about, and in the years that followed the Armistice, Tallboys could be discovered in all sorts of papers, sneering and carping and damning with a languid superiority that enraged all sorts of suffering authors, but did himself great credit. At the same time, such is the impulse of his genius, that he was, for himself rather unfortunately, driven into creating works that went to other people for review. These works were of a universal mediocrity. The plays were in the good old pre-Raphaelite tradition admirably illustrated in Max Beerbohm's "Savonarola," the novels were in the weaker realistic manner, giving excellent descriptions of tables, chairs, and stair carpets, but leaving something to be desired in the analysis of the human beings who used these pieces of furniture. As to the volume of verse, by general consent, the less said the better.

Our writers in general have many very obvious faults—they are weak, vain, credulous, sensitive creatures—but they have good points, too, and, taking criticism in general, a rather touching faith in the authority and honesty of their critics. It is, however, difficult for them to be patient when a critic comes bearing in one hand abuse of their work and in the other examples of how it ought to be done, examples thoroughly mediocre and incompetent.

By the end of 1920 Tallboys had many enemies. Just at this time, for some reason or another, his photograph began persistently to appear in some of the illustrated papers: "Mr. Everard Tallboys, the eminent critic," "Everard Tallboys, one of the brightest of our younger critics," and so on. There was something about Tallboys' face in these photographs which caused simple men to long to set to work upon it, to do something to the superior nose, to stretch yet a little further the protruding ears, and to snatch a tuft or two from the already thinning hair. I am sure that Tallboys himself was quite unaware of the indignation that he was exciting; the small fragments that came to him probably stirred his vanity and made him feel himself to be a real force.

One evening at dinner I sat next to A. E. P. Braun, that well-known and justly popular young writer of romantic fiction. Braun was almost laughably like his name, thickset, bull-necked, his nose crooked—from his contest at the National Sporting Club with young Minards of Plymouth—his mouth too large for his face, but a smiling, genial person, pleasant to meet and talk to. Now, most writers of romantic fiction in these days care nothing for the critics, but Braun had in his manly bosom a real ambition to be considered by the superior papers an elegant writer. It was true, as he said to me, that his favourite subjects, Spanish treasure, pirate ships, and the 'Forty-five Rebellion, were not entirely suited to modern realistic methods, but he did write, he maintained, a great deal better than these literary fellows pretended.

Tallboys had especially got upon his young nerves. That night at dinner he unburdened himself to me. Tallboys had published in The Quid Nunc, only the week before, an article purporting to examine the reasons for the popularity of certain novels. Braun had been one of his victims. He had decided that Braun was popular because of his naïveté, love of platitudes, and execrable English. "Hang the fellow!" said Braun. "Who does he think he is? If he could write a novel himself, there might be something in it, but I never read such stuff as that last book of his." He paused, looked at his plate very solemnly, then leant closer to me and whispered: "Look here, Johnson, somebody was telling me the other day that you and young Borden have a scheme for getting rid of tiresome people. Why shouldn't you turn your attention to young Everard? Think how many people would be grateful."

"Murder him, do you mean?" I asked.

"Well, of course, that would be much the best, but it might lead to unpleasant consequences for all of us. No, the thing would be to turn his attention to something else. I tell you what—improve his stomach."

"What?" I asked.

"Yes, all his mangerly criticism comes from indigestion. I'm sure of it. Look at all the superior critics—Burroughs, Wontner, Hilliard himself. Have you ever seen such a miserable lot of men? You can see their bones through their clothes, and their white faces look as though they haven't sniffed fresh air for months. They're all the same. I tell you that dyspeptic criticism comes from dyspeptic insides. Cure those insides and you cure the criticism."

"By Jove," I said, "there is something in that! I'll think it over."

I should, nevertheless, in all probability have taken no steps in the matter had it not been that three days later I met Tallboys at the house of a mutual friend. He was that day at his most unpleasant.

I am at my worst with anyone whom I dislike, uneasy, unnatural, and over-garrulous, but on this occasion I was squeezed into a corner with Tallboys, and we were forced to talk together. Of course I talked too much, said one or two things which were platitudinous and another two or three things that I did not really mean, and equally, of course, Tallboys said "Do you think so?" and looked at me with that sarcastic patronage that is the hardest thing in the world to bear from a fellow human being. I was stung to the weakest kind of revelation, saying something about my regret that his last novel had not sold more copies, and then felt exceedingly ashamed of myself for my meanness and cheapness. There followed then one of those silences that are so unagreeable between people who do not wish to be together, but cannot escape. When I at last left the party, I asked myself indignantly why Tallboys should consider himself so superior. People will forgive you robbery, cheating at cards, and murder, a great deal sooner than they will forgive your patronage. The one thing that every human being needs is outside confirmation in the stability of his own position. I have, unwittingly perhaps, patronised in my own time, and it is those to whom I have cm some occasion, however slight and fleeting, been arrogant that will bear me a grudge to my dying day. The real reason why everyone hated Tallboys was not that he was a bitter critic, sickly in appearance, unhumorous, narrow-minded, but that he was arrogant.

Those few minutes in the corner of that overcrowded room determined me. It would, I thought, be most delightful to bring Mr. Tallboys down a peg or two. I discussed the matter with Borden, who, being the exact antithesis of Tallboys in every possible way, was just the man for this crisis. We discussed it for a long time. He thoroughly agreed with me that it would be very amusing to "make the feller jump," but how? "If we can only remove him," I said, "or change the course of his criticism, or turn his interests to sausages or growing cucumbers, we shall not only please our own natural feelings, we shall earn our one hundred and fifty pounds as well. What about a lonely farmhouse somewhere?"

"By Jove," cried Borden, smacking his thigh, "why not the Island?"

II.

If I may be allowed for a moment to reveal to the gentle reader the intimate privacies of the Tallboys' home, the critic and poet may be seen in a very dingy dressing-gown, sitting over his morning egg and reading the following letter. The letter is headed:

 

Birds' Island, ⁠
Treliss, ⁠
North Cornwall.

Dear Mr. Tallboys,

You must, I am sure, be overwhelmed with correspondence from all parts of the country; I am therefore extremely reluctant to take up even a moment of your time, but it would seem to me ungrateful were I to let no expression of gratitude escape from me when you have given me, during these last weeks, such exquisite pleasure by your two books "The Lute at Dawn" and "Rosemary at Play." Your novel seems to me, without any exaggeration, the greatest masterpiece that the twentieth century has yet given us. The nobility and generosity of your hero, Hugo Tremayne, the self-sacrifice with which he gives up one whom he loves so truly as he does Dora, to his best friend and companion, the drama of the silent struggle between the two men as they stand one on each side of the fireplace, saying nothing, but feeling so much, the poetry of your descriptions of dawn and sunset and moonrise, the walk on the moor, the bathe in the sea, all the lovely sights and sounds of Nature, these things are revealed by a master hand.

As to your book of poetry, what shall I say? To one who has found, during many years of trial and hardship, constant, sweet companionship in the genius of Shelley and Keats, it is perhaps no mean thing that he should feel that that marvellous company has now a third added to its number.

Forgive me these halting words. I feel too deeply to say all that I would wish.

Yours humbly, ⁠
Horatio Bickerstaffe.

 

Three days later another letter was received in the Tallboys' home. It ran as follows—

 

Dear Mr. Tallboys, Your kind reception of my little letter has made me a proud man. I live on this beautiful island a sheltered and retired existence. Books and birds, with an occasional rabbit, are my principal companions. Do believe me when I say that I meant, and shall always mean, every word that I wrote to you in my last.

You say that you know Cornwall but very slightly. Would it not be possible for you to snatch yourself away just for a day or two from your London labours and to seek the quiet and refreshment which this country scene affords? I cannot indeed offer you much in the way of excitement and adventure, but at least your brain will be rested as you listen to the lisp of the waves upon the shore, the singing of the birds in the little wood behind my house, the ripple of the, stream that chatters at the bottom of my garden.

I am a bachelor and quite alone here. If you cared, we could discuss many things, or, if you preferred it, I would leave you entirely alone.

The journey is an easy one. You go from Paddington to Truxe without a change, and thence a side-line quickly takes you to Treliss. There a boat will await you and row you across to my island, a mile out to sea.

I throw this out as a suggestion, tempted by the extraordinary pleasure that your visit would give me.

 

Four days later a further letter was received—

 

Dear Mr. Tallboys,

This is indeed delightful and beyond my wildest dreams. I shall expect you, then, next Tuesday, and can only hope that the weather during your stay will continue to remain as fine as it now is.

 

What were the motives that impelled Tallboys to take a little holiday? They were not, I imagine, very difficult to discover. It is possible that a good deal of Tallboys' arrogance arose from the fact that he had had during his writing career so little praise and was a hungry man. He was also, I have no doubt, a tired man, working a great deal too hard, sitting up late at night over his reviews and criticisms.

Cornwall in the month of May is no light temptation, and Mr. Bickerstaffe, although his praise was certainly a little foolish and extravagant, could probably be endured for a night or two without difficulty. In any case, on a beautiful May evening Tallboys might have been seen, a rather grimy bag in one hand and a waterproof in the other, standing on little Treliss pier and looking about him. That it was a most beautiful evening I can bear witness, because I myself was present, not close to Tallboys, but waiting discreetly in the background under the rocks, where some of the smaller boats are drawn up at high tide.

Treliss, a magic circle of gold and topaz, hung over us veiled in thin purple mist, and the sea, very faintly blue, drew up to the shore and faded away again with a gentle hiss of cosy peace and satisfaction.

Tallboys was a very noticeable figure standing there on the little pier. Presently a fisherman came up to him, touched his cap and said: "Be you the gentleman for Mr. Bickerstaffe?"

"I am," said Tallboys.

"There's a boat here, sir, to take you across to the island. Mr. Bickerstaffe asked me to say, sir, that he was partikler sorry he couldn't come across. He's just finishing some letters for the post. If you'll come with me, sir, we'll be over in no time."

Tallboys climbed into the rowing boat with that rather clumsy movement peculiar to landsmen, seating himself very carefully and clutching his bag, and soon was rowed away. When they had rounded the corner of Trusty Point, the little island came into view. Very tiny it looked, with the little wood a dark tuft against the sky, a little white building and a thin strip of golden sand. Tallboys didn't attempt any conversation; it was not easy for him to talk to men not of his own kind. I have no doubt, and I like to think, that he enjoyed the beauty of the evening, the fresh sea breeze, the colour of the sea and sky, and that for those five minutes, at any rate, he was a happy man. He was not, alas, to remain happy very long.

I have travelled in many parts of the globe, but I say definitely that I know nothing more beautiful than that gate into Birds' Island, where a little path leads up from the beach over rocky boulders, breaks on to a stretch of coarse-grained down, and finally skirting a little wood where all the trees, blown sideways by the wind, look as though they were listening for some important news coming across the sea, leads into the rough, ill-paved courtyard that stands in front of the farm. It was in this same courtyard that Tallboys met Borden, and it was from Borden that I received the next portion of the story.

Tallboys stopped in the yard and looked about him, and then saw Borden advancing towards him; but that young man's stocky figure, bull-dog countenance, and general air of being just sent down from Oxford for conduct "unbefitting a gentleman," was not at all what our friend had expected Mr. Bickerstaffe to be. However, he held out his hand—which Borden gripped and shook vigorously—and said: "Mr. Bickerstaffe?"

"No," said Borden very cheerfully, "my name is Borden. Let me carry your bag. Come inside out of the sun."

Even then Tallboys had apparently no suspicion of the truth. He sat down opposite Borden in the low-ceilinged sitting-room, across whose floor streaks of sunlight like yellow gauze were filtering, then, smiling a little nervously, he said to Borden: "Mr. Bickerstaffe is finishing some letters, I understand."

"Oh, no, he isn't," said Borden. "Any letters he had to write he finished long ago. What I mean is that there isn't any Mr. Bickerstaffe."

What a pang must then have struck the tender trusting heart of Everard Tallboys! Borden tells me that he turned a pale green, that his long thin legs began to tremble.

"I don't understand," he said.

"It's very simple. I and a friend of mine wrote those letters and signed them 'Bickerstaffe.' We were so glad you were able to come."

"Signed them 'Bickerstaffe'!" cried Tallboys, getting up from his chair. "What do you mean? I still don't understand."

"It's just this," said Borden in the friendliest manner. "There are half a dozen fellows in London who think you've been working too hard and haven't been sleeping well of nights. They'd hate you to have a breakdown or anything of that kind, and they knew that you were so conscientious that you'd never take a holiday of your own self, so they thought they'd give you a holiday, get you down here, and then when you saw how much you liked it—why, of course you'd stay."

That must have been a terrible moment for Tallboys, whose sense of humour was limited, whose dignity was very easily affronted, whose physical strength was nothing very much to boast about.

"Do you mean to say," he burst out, "that those letters weren't genuine?"

"Of course they weren't," said Borden. "I've never read a line you've written. Johnson has read a bit, and we made it up from that."

"Johnson!" cried Tallboys. "Do you mean Seymour Johnson?"

"The very same," said Borden. "He'll be here in a few minutes, and very glad to see you."

"This is a plot!" cried Tallboys.

"Exactly," said Borden, "a good old-fashioned melodramatic plot like they have at the Lyceum, only instead of a very beautiful heroine, we have—well, Mr. Tallboys."

"You shall pay for this!" cried Tallboys in the most approved melodramatic manner, striding up. and down the room. "I'll have you in gaol for this before I'm a day older!"

"You can't do very much to-day," said Borden; "there's no boat going to the mainland. Mr. Perry and his two splendid sons run this little farm, and are devoted friends of ours. Except for one boy who is next door to an idiot and an old woman who is next door to heaven, there's nobody on the island at all. There isn't a telephone and there isn't a post office. Of course you can stand on the seashore and wave your handkerchief, or you can build a fire in he good old 'Treasure Island' fashion and watch its smoke ascend to heaven, or you can climb a tree with a spy glass, or you can swim to the shore. After all, it's only a mile, and most beautiful weather. If all these things fail you, unless you have an aeroplane in your pocket, you'll be almost compelled, I am afraid, to spend a day or two with us."

"But this is infamous!" cried Tallboys. "I'll have you in gaol before the week's out!"

"Yes, and it'll be a lovely story for the papers," said Borden. "We'll be in gaol, but you'll look terribly foolish. I can see the headlines. 'Kidnapped Poet on Deserted Island.' 'Lured to Captivity.' 'Poet and His Tormentors.' And you know what everyone in London will say—that you were off on some nasty little adventure of your own and got in further than you meant. And then there are Mr. Bickerstaffe's letters. They'll look splendid in print. 'Young Poet, Gratified at Praise from Stranger, hurries to Deserted Island,' and so on."

"By Heavens, I'll have the law on you!" screamed Tallboys, now in an hysterical state and really not far from tears.

"Now, look here," said Borden, "it's very foolish to make such a fuss. This is a perfectly charming place, the weather looks as though it will hold for a week at least, the water really isn't too cold for bathing, old Mrs. Bolitho is a simple cook, but you get so hungry here that you really don't want Carlton fare, the bed is very comfortable, there are no mosquitoes yet, we've got a very nice library, you can compose poetry to your heart's content. I think a fortnight here would do you all the good in the world."

"A fortnight!" screamed Tallboys. "What about my work—my articles and the rest of it?"

"Well, I'm afraid," said Borden, "we can't allow you to send anything by post for the first week or two—not until we see the bloom of health beginning to steal into your cheeks. You can write as much as you like, only there's no post. Of course the world will be simply all in pieces at having nothing from you for a whole fortnight, and if articles begin to appear in the London press about the missing poet, we're in for it, I suppose. But won't it be interesting? You'll really be able to test your public importance. I admit that it might hurt your feelings if you were, down here for three whole weeks and nobody in London realised it, but, on the other hand, it will make you feel very free and independent."

It was at this moment that I, who had followed in another boat, came in. When Tallboys saw me, he made a sort of spring in my direction, as though he would like to tear me limb from limb; but men who have, like Tallboys, developed their brains at the expense of every other part of them, never meet these situations very effectively, and all he could do was to repeat this parrot-like cry: "By Heavens, I'll have the law on you!"

"Now, we must be sensible," said Borden. "The real truth of the matter is that two or three of us want to test a theory that we have—a theory that, if it's tested thoroughly, will really make a difference to human conditions; and when something is for the good of the race, we are all. I'm sure, ready to make a little sacrifice of our personal interests and comforts. The theory is that artistic criticism, in the direction it takes and the spirit behind it, is based largely upon stomach. Now, you won't deny that you have for a number of years been the gloomiest critic in Europe, and that, we maintain, is because your inside is all wrong, because you don't take enough exercise, because you live too much with men of your own kind, and because your sense of humour is so lamentably undeveloped. Now, you've really never had a holiday of this sort in lovely surroundings, lots of life and air, plenty of time to sleep, good food, and company who don't in the least respect your opinions. Of course we may fail. It's quite possible that you will hate both of us and the place more and more every minute that you stay here, but even then we flatter ourselves that the after-effects will be excellent, and that in days to come you will look back to these hours with longing and even think of us with kindness; and if it should happen that you take life a little more cheerfully and see it a little more thoroughly in the round, how well worth while our trouble will have been. You will be happier, we shall be happier, and countless thousands of young novelists, poets, and critics will be happier. We really shall belong to that small group of earnest men and women known as benefactors of the human race."

Tallboys turned to me. "You shall suffer for this, Johnson," he said. "I won't rest till I've made you regret this hour."

"That's all right, Tallboys," I answered. "I quite expected you to be a bit upset at first. I quite understand that you shouldn't have at this moment the friendliest feelings towards Borden and myself, so we're going to leave you in better hands than ours."

I went to the door and shouted "Jim!" There quickly appeared the large body and rubicund, smiling countenance of Jim Perry, the young farmer, some twenty-five years of age, six feet three in height, almost as broad as he was tall, one of the best fellows in the world, with an intelligence active enough as regarded birds of the air, the fish of the sea, and Nature generally, but his reading limited to a newspaper which he spelt out slowly word by word on Sunday afternoon. It had been explained to Jim that we were to have as guest a gentleman from London who was tired and worn out with overwork, whose friends had determined on his taking this holiday, who would certainly protest and try to escape in a boat, whom Jim was to look after as he would his own child, that he was to be kind, tender, and cheerful, and not to let him out of his sight.

This had seemed to Jim a capital game, and he looked at Tallboys with exactly the expression that I had seen him use once to a damaged owl whose wing was broken; the bird had been nursed by Jim week after week with the care and kindness of a mother to her only ailing child.

"Oh, yes," I added, "there's one other thing. We know you like reading, and so we've selected a library for you." I waved my hand towards the bookshelves. "Here you'll find a number of books that I'm sure you've never read. Here are all the works of Conan Doyle, Rider Haggard, A. E. W. Mason, Stanley Weyman, Henry Seton Merriman, Phillips Oppenheim, and a gentleman called Rice Burroughs, who has written several books about a monkey called 'Tarzan,' and a lot of others, too, that will be new to you. We have also the poetry of Walt Whitman and 'The Ingoldsby Legends.' Now we'll leave you and Jim together. You needn't see more of us than you want to, and I do hope you'll have a happy time." Then Borden and I left the room.

III.

Those were indeed strange days for all of us. I will confess that during them I had many misgivings. It will have been noticed by anyone who has glanced at any other of these adventures that most of my cases have been solved simply by a little re-shuffle of individuality. I proved to myself in the course of them a great lesson, namely, that no one is a bore to everybody, and that the art of getting rid of a bore is simply to find someone to whom he isn't a bore. Old Sir Marcus Pendyce, for instance, was a terrible bore to the Lambs, but a sheer delight to the old ladies in Yorkshire, and Mrs. Farbman drove the Flemings crazy, but was exactly what the host of the Vin Blanc needed.

It is also a fact about human nature that the people you dislike are, on the whole, the people with whom you do not come into close contact, that it is very hard to know anybody very well without discovering their good points. Now, Borden and I agreed, after two days in Tallboys' company, that he was indeed a dreary dog, but that his enthusiasm for literature was something extremely fine, finer than anything we ourselves possessed.

On the second morning after his arrival I came into the sitting-room and found him, quite unconscious of my presence, looking at the bookshelves. Suddenly he gave a little cry of delight, a very touching little cry, the sort of cry that Penelope must have uttered when she saw Ulysses coming up the garden path. I heard him murmur "Oh, how fortunate!" and I saw him take from the shelves a thin red-covered book, most obviously not a novel, and from where I was standing realised that it was the Oxford edition of collected poems of Robert Bridges, that had slipped in somewhere by mistake. A smile illumined Tallboys' plain features as he went to the window, clutching the book in his hands. I crept out of the room noiselessly, feeling that although it might wreck our plan, I couldn't but be glad that Bridges had broken in.

Tallboys' attitude to us during those first two days was one of silent loathing. I suggested that he should have his meals in his own room if he preferred it, and he gave us to understand, through Jim, that he did.

The afternoon of the second day was most glorious weather, and I overheard on the upstairs landing some fragments of a funny little conversation. First there was Jim. "Do 'ee come down, Mr. Torboys, and 'ave a swim. It's warm as summer. It'll make 'ee less homesick."

"Thank you, Perry"—Tallboys' voice was making a struggle for dignity, and failing—"I can't swim."

"That makes no matter, Mr. Torboys," came Jim's voice. "I'll look after 'ee."

"I haven't got any bathing things," said Tallboys.

"Oh, that's nothin'!" said Jim. "We don't wear no cloes in this place. There's only old Mrs. Bolitho, and she'm over eighty, and 'alf blind, anyway. Do 'ee come down and try."

"I suppose I may as well do that as anything else," came Tallboys' answer.

Later I watched, from a knoll in the little wood, the two on the seashore—Jim, a magnificent figure in the sunlight, poised on a rock at the farther end of the beach, standing for an instant with hands above his head, then cleaving the air like a flash; Tallboys, strangely grey in the sunlight, stepping timidly into the water, walking out, like Agag, delicately, soon surrendering himself, and five minutes later, supported by Jim, making absurd splashes and futile strokes with his arms in the course of his first swimming lesson.

That same night Borden and I, seated with our pipes, playing chess in the sitting-room, suddenly saw Tallboys enter. "May I have a word with you?" he asked stiffly, standing in the doorway.

"Certainly, as many as you like," said Borden, smiling. "Have a smoke?"

"No, thank you. You know that you've done a most dastardly thing. You are stronger than I at this particular moment, and I am in your hands. I do beg of you to let me go home to-morrow, and if you do, I promise you I'll not say a word about this affair."

Borden answered him seriously. "Look here, Tallboys, it's only natural for you to hate us—in fact, if you don't mind my saying so, I think you ought to hate us a little more than you do. We've taken considerable risks in this affair, and now we must play it through to the end. In three weeks from now we shall know whether we have succeeded or not. Of course we don't pretend that we're going to change you altogether, but we do hope and believe that you're going to be a bit different after your three weeks' rest here away from your own rotten set, and getting to know a first-class feller like Jim Perry. We must see our experiment through. Here you are for three weeks. I know that yesterday you tried to get a letter through, and that you offered Bill Perry ten quid if he'd row you across; but, you see, these men happen to be the very best friends Johnson and I possess. They're loyal as you make 'em, and you may as well know right away that it's perfectly useless trying to bribe them or to get them to act against us in any fashion whatever. Now, you may as well make up your mind to these three weeks. If you'll forgive me for saying so, you look better already. I don't want you to admit it, but you enjoyed that bathe this afternoon, and you know you did. Now, Johnson and myself are not, I am aware, the companions you'd have chosen if you'd had a free hand, but really we re not so bad. You don't like Johnson's writing, but he's just as enthusiastic as you are about good things in his own way, and, upon my word, I can't understand why you writing fellers who all care about good stuff, in distinction to the rest of us who don't know good stuff from bad—why you should spend your time in quarrelling and getting into little sets, hating one another. Now, I know nothing about literature, but I am not a bad companion, and I could show you one or two things on this island that would astonish you. Now, why not make the best of a bad job and be friendly while you're here? You can have us up in the courts when you get back, but enjoy yourself while you may."

"Thank you," said Tallboys, looking at us both with unutterable loathing. "I'd rather die than spend five minutes with either of you." And he departed to his room.

I've often wondered since what went on in Jim's mind during these curious weeks. Tallboys was something quite novel to him; it was rather as though the Archbishop of Canterbury had to stay with him for a week or two, or a native from Central Africa. It was just because of this strangeness that he developed towards Tallboys a kind of protective affection that did resemble exactly his attitude to the wounded owl of which I spoke before. Tallboys to him was a sick, melancholy broken-backed, ignorant creature. All Tallboys' knowledge of the vers librists, the modern novelists, and the rest, was to him less than nothing, and he was soon talking to him in the indulgent, kindly voice that a nurse uses to a small, miserable, unhappy child. "Now, don't 'ee, Mr. Tallboys," we used to hear him say, "don't 'ee take on so. You'll be better in no time. You're getting some colour in your cheeks now. You won't know yourself in another week's time."

I saw that, in spite of himself, Tallboys' appetite was magnificent. He was sleeping superbly. On the fourth night of his stay he took up to bed with him that admirable romance of Mr. Mason's "The Watchers." I perceived then that book after book disappeared from the shelves. On the fifth day I was sitting alone, sunning myself in the little wood, when Tallboys turned the corner and came upon me by mistake. He made as though he would retreat again, then, thinking better, he came towards me.

"Look here, Johnson," he said, "hasn't this gone on long enough? Let me go to-morrow. I don't bear you any malice, I don't indeed. Of course I think it was a rotten thing to do, but I won't deny that I do feel better for these three or four days. I hadn't, as a matter of fact, been sleeping very well in Town, and I had been overworking. Perhaps there is something in what Borden said about my getting a bit narrow. I used to feel it myself sometimes, although I'd never admit it to anybody. Let me go to-morrow."

"We must stick to our three weeks," I answered. "You're through the first week very nearly. You'll find the rest of the time pass ever so much more quickly if you talk to Borden and me a bit. Borden's a very decent fellow, really, and his views on life in general are quite worth knowing."

Tallboys stood there, looking out to sea. "It is lovely," I heard him say under his breath, "more beautiful than I'd ever imagined."

"Stay here a bit," I answered. "I'll admit that this thing began partly as a joke, and partly because a lot of us thought you were too arrogant for anything."

"Arrogant?" cried Tallboys. "I?"

"Why, yes. You thought your own opinion so mighty important, and you and your little crowd were the only people that mattered. All sorts of things go to make up literature. It isn't only a perfect style and supercilious taste that count. But I don't want to get preaching at you. I shall be as bad at my end as you are at yours; but, if you like, I'll confess something to you. I couldn't stand the sight of you before you came down, and now I'm getting quite keen on your company."

Tallboys suddenly laughed. "Of all the infernal cheek!" he said. "How you ever dared do it!"

"If you hadn't been so conceited," I answered, "you never would have come. I never believed that such absurd letters as those of ours could have brought you."

Tallboys flushed. "It's all very well," he said, "but you'd have gone yourself if you discovered a whole-hearted admirer somewhere. Why shouldn't we care about somebody liking our stuff? We spend all our days and nights thinking about it and trying to do the best we can, and if there's somebody who likes it—well, it's awfully comforting. I think the thing I felt sorest about is that there wasn't anybody, after all. Do you suppose I don't realise," he went on fiercely, "that I'm not first-class, that it wouldn't matter to anybody if I stopped writing for ever to-morrow? But because I'm not first-class myself, it's no reason that I shouldn't want other people to do first-class things."

"No, I suppose it isn't," I answered, "but it's the way that you deliver your opinions that people mind. We're all in the same box, we are most of us second-rate, and we might feel a little more kindly towards one another."

The result of that conversation was that Tallboys held himself no longer aloof. He was still shy with us, there were many moments when he broke out into abuse of us, many moments when we abused him in return. But there was always Jim in the background, proving to all of us that our little corner of the world was a mighty small one, and that while we quarrelled about literary values, Jim was looking upon us as the merest children in arms, who knew nothing, had seen nothing, and could do nothing, with the possible exception of Borden, who fished and swam and walked more like a possible human being.

After that the days flew on wings. The middle of the following week Jim had a birthday, and a number of fishermen and their wives came over from the mainland to celebrate it. That afternoon, before they arrived, I said to Tallboys: "Look here, there's going to be a party to-night, and some men are coming over from Treliss. If you like, you can give us the slip. Don't say anything to anybody, but go back with one of them after the party is over, if you want to."

Tallboys said nothing.

That was a wonderful night. June had set the calendar at defiance and slipped into May. It was so warm that we had supper outside the farm on a ridge overlooking the sea. The sky was thick with stars, soft and milky with a kind of white spray of silver. The fishermen and their wives shouted and sang, and when the meal was over, an old man and a boy produced two fiddles, and the dance went on up and down the turf, while the sea murmured below a humming accompaniment of approval and benediction.

Jim looked after Tallboys as though he were his especial property. The drink that was provided was nothing very strong, but the night, the stars, the sea, and the mild air went to our heads, and, resting suddenly breathless from one of the wildest of the country dances, I looked up and saw Tallboys being whirled round, a thin fantastic figure against the night sky, while the old fiddler, seated on a tree trunk, played for his life, and Mrs. Bolitho, who should have been in bed long since, tears of pleasure running down her furrowed cheeks, slapped her hands and beat time with her feet. I stole away up into the little wood and heard, as it were behind a curtain of trees, the screaming violin, the laughter and the shouting, and, strangely, more penetrating than any of these, the swaying whisper of the trees above my head.

I went off to bed.

Next morning Tallboys was at breakfast. I said nothing to him until quite casually in the afternoon I remarked: "Look here, write any letters you like; I'll see that they go."

He nodded his head. I saw him sitting on the beach half an hour later, when I came down to bathe, deep in a novel of Stanley Weyman's.

*⁠*⁠*⁠*⁠*

Six weeks afterwards there appeared in the columns of that superior paper The Athanasian an article headed "Romance and the Joy of Living." Its opening sentences were: "In these days of realism some of us are perhaps inclined to overemphasise the virtues of technique and to lay too strong a stress upon the perfection of form, forgetting that there are other things more important in life than the petty disputes of the schools, and that there are many gates into the temple of literature …" This article was signed "E. Tallboys."

A few nights later I tumbled onto Hilliard, the editor, of that superior weekly. "I heard," he said, "that you've been having Tallboys down in Cornwall with you. It's done his health a lot of good."

"Yes," I answered, "I think he enjoyed himself very much. You'd better come and stay with us, Hilliard, down in Cornwall."

"I'd like to," said Hilliard. "I think I will one day."

But, after all, it would scarcely be fair on Jim Perry, would it?