Complete weird tales of.., p.617
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 617
“Then there are other sorts of humans who are already bothering Karl. This species recognise in every ‘hero’ or ‘heroine’ a minute mental and physical analysis of themselves and their own particular, specific, and petty emotions. Proud, happy, flattered, they permit nobody to mistake the supposed tribute which they are entirely self-persuaded that the novelist has offered to them.
“And these phases of ‘The Real Thing’ are fretting and mortifying Karl to the verge of distraction. He awakes to find himself not famous but notorious — not criticised for his workmanship, good or bad, but gabbled about because some ludicrous old Uncle Foozle pretends to discover a similarity between Karl’s episodes and characters and certain doings of which Uncle F. is personally cognisant.
“The great resource of stupidity is and has always been the anagram; and as stupidity is almost invariably suspicious, the hunt for hidden meanings preoccupies the majority of mankind.
* * *
“Because I have ventured to send you Karl’s new book is no reason why I also should have presumed to write you a treatise in several volumes.
“But I miss you, oddly enough — miss everything I never had of you — your opinions on what interests us both; the delightful discussions of things important, which have never taken place between us. It’s odd, isn’t it, Mrs. Leeds, that I miss, long for, and even remember so much that has never been?
“Molly Wycherly wrote to Mrs. Lannis that you were having a gay time in Florida; that Sir Charles Mallison had joined your party; that you’d had luncheons and dinners given you at the Club, at the Inlet, at the Wiers’s place, ‘Coquina Castle’; and that Jim and Sir Charles had bravely slain many ducks. Which is certainly glory enough to go round. In a friendly little note to me you were good enough to ask what I am doing, and to emphasise your request for an answer by underlining your request.
“Proud and flattered by your generous interest I hasten to inform you that I am leading the same useful, serious, profitable, purposeful, ambitious, and ennobling life which I was leading when I first met you. Such a laudable existence makes for one’s self-respect; and, happy in that consciousness, undisturbed by journalistic accusations concerning marmosets and vulgarity, I concentrate my entire intellectual efforts upon keeping my job, which is to remain deaf, dumb, and blind, and at the same time be ornamental, resourceful, good-tempered, and amusing to those who are not invariably all of these things at the same time.
“Is it too much to expect another note from you?
“Sincerely yours, “Richard Stanley Quarren.”
She answered him on the fourth week of her absence.
“My dear Mr. Quarren:
“Your letter interested me, but there was all through it an undertone of cynicism which rang false — almost a dissonance to an ear which has heard you strike a truer chord.
“I do not like what you say of yourself, or of your life. I have talked very seriously with Molly, who adores you; and she evidently thinks you capable of achieving anything you care to undertake. Which is my own opinion — based on twenty-four hours of acquaintance.
“I have read Mr. Westguard’s novel. Everybody here is reading it. I’d like to talk to you about it, some day. Mr. Westguard’s intense bitterness confuses me a little, and seems almost to paralyse any critical judgment I may possess. A crusade in fiction has always seemed to me but a sterile effort. To do a thing is fine; to talk about it in fiction a far less admirable performance — like the small boy, safe in the window, who defies his enemy with out-thrust tongue.
“When I was young — a somewhat lonely child, with only a very few books to companion me — I pored over Carlyle’s ‘French Revolution,’ and hated Philip Egalité. But that youthful hatred was a little modified because Egalité did actually become personally active. If he had only talked, my hatred would have become contempt for a renegade who did not possess the courage of his convictions. But he voted death to his own caste, facing the tribunal. He talked, but he also acted.
“I do not mean this as a parallel between Mr. Westguard and the sanguinary French iconoclast. Mr. Westguard, also, has the courage of his convictions; he lives, I understand, the life which he considers a proper one. It is the life which he preaches in ‘The Real Thing’ — a somewhat solemn, self-respecting, self-supporting existence, devoted to self-development; a life of upright thinking, and the fulfilment of duty, civil and religious, incident to dignified citizenship. Such a life may be a blameless one; I don’t know.
“Also it might even be admirable within its limits if Mr. Westguard did not also appoint himself critic, disciplinarian, and prophet of that particular section of society into which accident of birth has dumped him.
“Probably there is no section of human society that does not need a wholesome scourging now and then, but somehow, it seems to me, that it could be done less bitterly and with better grace than Mr. Westguard does it in his book. The lash, swung from within, and applied with judgment and discrimination, ought to do a more thorough and convincing piece of work than a knout allied with the clubs of the proletariat, hitting at every head in sight.
“Let the prophets and sybils, the augurs and oracles of the Hoi polloi address themselves to them; and let ours talk to us, not about us to the world at large.
“A renegade from either side makes an unholy alliance, and, with his first shout from the public pulpit, tightens the master knot which he is trying to untie to the glory of God and for the sake of peace and good will on earth. And the result is Donnybrook Fair.
“I hate to speak this way to you of your friend, and about a man I like and, in a measure, really respect. But this is what I think. And my inclination is to tell you the truth, always.
“Concerning the artistic value of Mr. Westguard’s literary performance, I know little. The simplicity of his language recommends the pages to me. The book is easy to read. Perhaps therein lies his art; I do not know.
“Now, as I am in an unaccountably serious mood amid all the frivolity of this semi-tropical place, may I not say to you something about yourself? How are you going to silence me?
“Well, then; you seem to reason illogically. You make little of yourself, yet you offer me your friendship, by implication, every time you write to me. You seek my society mentally. Do you really believe that my mind is so easily satisfied with intellectual rubbish, or that I am flattered by letters from a nobody?
“What do you suppose there is attractive about you, Mr. Quarren — if you really do amount to as little as you pretend? I’ve seen handsomer men, monsieur, wealthier men, more intelligent men; men more experienced, men of far greater talents and attainments.
“Why do you suppose that I sit here in the Southern sunshine writing to you when there are dozens of men perfectly ready to amuse me? — and qualified to do it, too!
“For the sake of your beaux-yeux? Non pas!
“But there is a something which the world recognises as a subtle and nameless sympathy. And it stretches an invisible filament between you and the girl who is writing to you.
“That tie is not founded on sentiment; I think you know that. And, of things spiritual, you and I have never yet spoken.
“Therefore I conclude that the tie must be purely intellectual; that mind calls to mind and finds contentment in the far response.
“So, when you pretend to me that you are of no intellectual account, you pay me a scurvy compliment. Quod erat demonstrandum.
“With this gentle reproof I seal my long, long letter, and go where the jasmine twineth and the orchestra playeth; for it is tea-time, my friend, and the Park of Peacocks is all a-glitter with plumage. Soft eyes look wealth to eyes that ask again; and all is brazen as a dinner bell!
“O friend! do you know that since I have been here I might have attained to fortune, had I cared to select any one of several generous gentlemen who have been good enough to thrust that commodity at me?
“To be asked to marry a man no longer distresses me. I am all over the romantic idea of being sorry for wealthy amateurs who make me a plain business proposition, offering to invest a fortune in my good looks. To amateurs, connoisseurs, and collectors, there is no such thing as a fixed market value to anything. An object of art is worth what it can be bought for. I don’t yet know how much I am worth. I may yet find out.
“There are nice men here, odious men, harmless men, colourless men, worthy men, and the ever-present fool. He is really the happiest, I suppose.
“Then, all in a class by himself, is an Englishman, one Sir Charles Mallison. I don’t know what to tell you about him except that I feel exceedingly safe and comfortable when I am with him.
“He says very little; I say even less. But it is agreeable to be with him.
“He is middle-aged, and, I imagine, very wise. Perhaps his reticence makes me think so. He and Mr. Wycherly shoot ducks on the lagoon — and politics into each other.
“I must go. You are not here to persuade me to stay and talk nonsense to you against my better judgment. You’re quite helpless, you see. So I’m off.
“Will you write to me again?
“Strelsa Leeds.”
A week after Quarren had answered her letter O’Hara called his attention to a paragraph in a morning paper which hinted at an engagement between Sir Charles Mallison and Mrs. Leeds.
Next day’s paper denied it on excellent authority; so, naturally, the world at large believed the contrary.
Southern news also revealed the interesting item that the yacht, Yulan, belonging to Mrs. Sprowl’s hatchet-faced nephew, Langly Sprowl, had sailed from Miami for the West Indies with the owner and Mrs. Leeds and Sir Charles Mallison among the guests.
The Yulan had not as fragrant a reputation as its exotic name might signify, respectable parties being in the minority aboard her, but Langly Sprowl was Langly Sprowl, and few people declined any invitation of his.
He was rather a remarkable young man, thin as a blade, with a voracious appetite and no morals. Nor did he care whether anybody else had any. What he wanted he went after with a cold and unsensitive directness that no newspapers had been courageous enough to characterise. He wouldn’t have cared if they had.
Among other things that he had wanted, recently, was another man’s wife. The other man being of his own caste made no difference to him; he simply forced him to let his wife divorce him; which, it was understood, that pretty young matron was now doing as rapidly as the laws of Nevada allowed.
Meanwhile Langly Sprowl had met Strelsa Leeds.
* * *
The sailing of the Yulan for the West Indies became the topic of dinner and dance gossip; and Quarren heard every interpretation that curiosity and malice could put upon the episode.
He had been feeling rather cheerful that day; a misguided man from Jersey City had suddenly developed a mania for a country home. Quarren personally conducted him all over Tappan-Zee Park on the Hudson, through mud and slush in a skidding touring car, with the result that the man had become a pioneer and had promised to purchase a building site.
So Quarren came back to the Legation that afternoon feeling almost buoyant, and discovered Westguard in all kinds of temper, smoking a huge faïence pipe which he always did when angry, and which had become known as “The Weather-breeder.”
“Jetzt geht das Wetter los!” quoted Quarren, dropping into a seat by the fire. “Where is this particular area of low depression centred, Karl?”
“Over my damn book. The papers insist it’s a livre-à-clef; and I am certain the thing is selling on that account! I tell you it’s humiliating. I’ve done my best as honestly as I know how, and not one critic even mentions the philosophy of the thing; all they notice is the mere story and the supposed resemblance between my characters and living people! I’m cursed if I ever — —”
“Oh, shut up!” said Quarren tranquilly. “If you’re a novelist you write to amuse people, and you ought to be thankful that you’ve succeeded.”
“Confound it!” roared Westguard, “I write to instruct people! not to keep ’em from yawning!”
“Then you’ve made a jolly fluke of it, that’s all — because you have accidentally written a corking good story — good enough and interesting enough to make people stand for the cold chunks of philosophical admonition with which you’ve spread your sandwich — thinly, Heaven be praised!”
“I write,” said Westguard, furious, “because I’ve a message to deliv — —”
“‘I write,’ said Westguard, furious, ‘because I have a message to deliv—’”
“Help!” moaned Quarren. “You write because it’s in you to do it; because you’ve nothing more interesting to do; and because it enables you to make a decent and honourable living!”
“Do those reasons prevent my having a message to deliver?” roared Westguard.
“No, they exist in spite of it. You’d write anyway, whether or not you believed you had a message to deliver. You’ve written some fifteen novels, and fifteen times you have smothered your story with your message. This time, by accident, the story got its second breath, and romped home, with ‘Message’ a bad second, and that selling plater, ‘Philosophy,’ left at the post — —”
“Go on! — you irreverent tout!” growled Westguard; “I want my novels read, of course. Any author does. But I wish to Heaven somebody would try to interpret the important lessons which I — —”
“Oh, preciousness and splash! Tell your story as well as you can, and if it’s well done there’ll be latent lessons enough in it.”
“Are you perhaps instructing me in my own profession?” asked the other, smiling.
“Heaven knows I’m not venturing — —”
“Heaven knows you are! Also there is something In what you say—” He sat smoking, thoughtfully, eyes narrowing in the fire— “if I only could manage that! — to arrest the public’s attention by the rather cheap medium of the story, and then, cleverly, shoot a few moral pills into ‘em.... That’s one way, of course — —”
“Like the drums of the Salvation Army.”
Westguard looked around at him, suspiciously, but Quarren seemed to be serious enough.
“I suppose it doesn’t matter much how a fellow collects an audience, so that he does collect one.”
“Exactly,” nodded Quarren. “Get your people, then keep ’em interested and unsuspecting while you inject ’em full of thinks.”
Westguard smoked and pondered; but presently his lips became stern and compressed.
“I don’t intend to trifle with my convictions or make any truce or any compromise with ‘em,” he announced. “I’m afraid that this last story of mine ran away with me.”
“It sure did, old Ironsides. Heaven protected her own this time. And in ‘The Real Thing’ you have ridden farther out among the people with your Bible and your Sword than you ever have penetrated by brandishing both from the immemorial but immobile battlements of righteousness. Truth is a citadel, old fellow; but its garrison should be raiders, not defenders. And they should ride far afield to carry its message. For few journey to that far citadel; you must go to them. And does it make any difference what vehicle you employ in the cause of Truth — so that the message arrives somewhere before your vehicle breaks down of its own heaviness? Novel or poem, sermon or holy writ — it’s all one, Karl, so that they get there with their burden.”
Westguard sat silent a moment, then thumped the table, emphatically.
“If I had your wasted talents,” he said, “I could write anything!”
“Rot!”
“As you please. You use your ability rottenly — that’s true enough.”
“My ability,” mimicked Quarren.
“Yes, your many, many talents, Rix. God knows why He gave them to you; I don’t — for you use them ignobly, when you do not utterly neglect them — —”
“I’ve a light and superficial talent for entertaining people; I’ve nimble legs, and possess a low order of intelligence known as ‘tact.’ What more have I?”
“You’re the best amateur actor in New York, for example.”
“An amateur,” sneered Quarren. “That is to say, a man who has the inclinations, but neither the courage, the self-respect, nor the ambition of the professional.... Well, I admit that. I lack something — courage, I think. I prefer what is easy. And I’m doing it.”
“What’s your reward?” said Westguard bluntly.
“Reward? Oh, I don’t know. The inner temple. I have the run of the premises. People like me, trust me, depend upon me more or less. The intrigues and politics of my little world amuse me; now and then I act as ambassador, as envoy of peace, as herald, as secret diplomatic agent.... Reward? Oh, yes — you didn’t suppose that my real-estate operations clothed and fed me, did you, Karl?”
“What does?”
“Diplomacy,” explained Quarren gaily. “A successful embassy is rewarded. How? Why, now and then a pretty woman’s husband makes an investment for me at his own risk; now and then, when my office is successfully accomplished, I have my fee as social attorney or arbiter elegantiarum.... There are, perhaps, fewer separations and divorces on account of me; fewer scandals.
“I am sometimes called into consultation, in extremis; I listen, I advise — sometimes I plan and execute; even take the initiative and interfere — as when a foolish boy at the Cataract Club, last week, locked himself into the bath-room with an automatic revolver and a case of half-drunken fright. I had to be very careful; I expected to hear that drumming fusillade at any moment.
“But I talked to him, through the keyhole: and at last he opened the door — to take a shot at me, first.”
Quarren shrugged and lighted a cigarette.
“Of course,” he added, “his father was only too glad to pay his debts. But boys don’t always see things in their true proportions. Neither do women.”
Westguard, silent, scowling, pulled at his pipe for a while, then:
