by Hugh Walpole
“Well, enough for the present. I don’t know what nonsense there isn’t here. Into the envelope it all goes. I’ve been talking to you for an hour and a half and that’s something....”
II
“... I’ve just come in from dinner with Peter and Clare and feel inclined to talk to you for hours ahead. However, that I can’t do, so I shall write to you instead and you’re to regard it all as a continuation of the things that I said in last night’s letter. I am as interested as ever and indeed, after this evening’s dinner more interested. The odd thing about it all is that Peter is so completely oblivious to any change that may be going on in Clare. His whole mind is centred now on the baby, he cannot have enough of it and it was he, and not Clare, who took me up after dinner to see it sleeping.
“You remember that they had some kind of a dispute about the name of the boy at the time of the christening. Peter insisted that it should be Stephen, after, I suppose, that odd Cornish friend of his, and Clare, weak and ill though she was, objected with all her might. I don’t know why she took this so much to heart but it was all, I suppose, part of that odd hatred that she has of Peter’s earlier life and earlier friends. She has never met the man Brant, but I think that she fancies that he is going to swoop down one of these days and carry Peter off on a broomstick or something. She gave in about the name — indeed I have never seen Peter more determined — but I think, nevertheless, that she broods over it and remembers it. My dear, I am as sorry for her as I can be. There she stands, loving Peter with all her heart and soul, terrified out of her wits at the possibilities that life is presenting to her, hating Peter’s friends at one moment, his work the next, the baby the next — exactly like some one, walking on a window-ledge in his sleep and suddenly waking and discovering —
“Peter’s a more difficult question. He’s too riotously happy just at the moment to listen to a word from any one. His relation to the child is really the most touching thing you ever saw, and really the child, considering that it has scarcely begun to exist, has a feeling for him in the most wonderful way. It is as good as gold when he is there and follows him with its eyes — it doesn’t pay much attention to Clare. I think it knows that she’s frightened of it. Yes, Peter is quite riotously happy. You know that ‘The Stone House’ is coming out next week. There is to be a supper party at the Galleons’ — myself, Mrs. Launce. Maradick, the Gales, some woman he knew at that boarding-house, Cardillac and Dr. and Mrs. Rossiter.
“By the way, Cardillac is there a great deal and I am both glad and sorry. He is very good for Clare and not at all good for Peter. He seems to understand Clare in the most wonderful way — far better than Peter does. He brings her out, helps her to be broader and really I think explains Peter to her and helps things along. His influence on Peter is all the other way. Peter, of course, worships him, just as he used to do in the old days at school, and Cards always liked being worshipped. He has an elegance, a savoir-faire that dear, square-shouldered rough-and-tumble Peter finds entrancing, but, of course, Peter’s worth the dozen of him any day of the week. He drags out all Peter’s worst side. I wonder whether you’ll understand what I mean when I say that Peter isn’t meant to be happy — at any rate not yet. He’s got something too big, too tremendous in him to be carved easily into any one of our humdrum, conventional shapes. He takes things so hard that he isn’t intended to take more than one thing at a time, and here he is with Clare and Cards both, as it seems to me, in a conspiracy to pull him into a thousand little bits and to fling each little bit to a different tea-party.
“He ought to be getting at his work and he isn’t getting at it at all. ‘The Stone House’ is coming out next week and it may be all right, but I don’t mind betting that the next one suffers. If he weren’t in a kind of dream he’d see it all himself, and indeed I think that he’ll wake one day soon and see that a thousand ridiculous things are getting in between him and his proper life.
“He was leading his proper life in those days at Dawson’s when they were beating him at home and hating him at school, and it was that old bookshop and the queer people he met in it that produced ‘Reuben Hallard.’
“He’s so amazingly young in the ways of the world, so eager to make friends with everybody, so delighted with an entirely superficial butterfly like Cards, so devotedly attached to his wife, that I must confess that the outlook seems to me bad. There’s going to be a tremendous tug-of-war in a minute and it’s not going to be easy for the boy — nor, indeed for Clare.
“I hope that you don’t feel so far removed from this in your Yorkshire desert that it has no interest for you, but I know how devoted you are to Peter and one doesn’t want to see the boy turned into the society novelist creature — the kind of creature, God forgive me, that brother Percival is certain to become. You’ll probably say when you read this that I am trying to drag out all the morbid side of Peter and make him the melancholy, introspective creature that he used to be, in fits and starts, when you first knew him. Of course that’s the last thing I want to do, but work to a man of Peter’s temperament is the one rock that can save him. He has, I do believe, a touch of genius in him somewhere, and I believe that if he’s allowed to follow, devoutly and with pain and anguish, maybe, his Art, he’ll be a great creature — a great man and a great writer. But he’s in the making — too eager to please, too eager to care for every one, too desperately down if he thinks things are going badly with him. I notice that he hasn’t been to see my father lately — I think too that all this reviewing is bad for him — other people’s novels pouring upon him in an avalanche must take something from the freshness of his own.
“Anyhow I, Robert Galleon, your clever and penetrating husband, scent much danger and trouble ahead. Clare, simply out of love for him and anxiety for herself, will I know, do all she can to drag him from the thing that he should follow — and Cards will help her — out of sheer mischief, I verily believe.
“On their own heads be it. As to the carpets you asked me to go and look at....”
III
“... And now for the supper party. Although there’s a whole day behind me I’m still quivering under the excitement of it. As I tell you about it it will in all probability, declare itself as a perfectly ordinary affair, and, indeed, I think that you should have been there yourself to have realised the emotion of it. But I’ll try and give it you word for word. I was kept in the city and arrived late and they were all there. Mrs. Launce, twinkling all over with kindness, Maradick in his best Stock Exchange manner, the Gales (Janet Gale perfectly lovely), the old Rossiters, Cards, shining with a mixture of enterprise and knowledge of the world and last of all a very pale, rather nervous, untidy Irish woman, a Miss Monogue. Clare was so radiantly happy that I knew that she wasn’t happy at all, had obviously taken a great deal of trouble about her hair and had it all piled up on the top of her head and looked wonderful. I can’t describe these things, but you know that when she’s bent on giving an impression she seems to stand on her toes all the time — well, she was standing on every kind of toe, moral, physical, emotional last night. Finally there was Peter, looking as though his evening dress had been made for something quite different from social dinner parties. It fitted all right, but it was too comfortable to be smart — he looked, beside Cards, like a good serviceable cob up against the smartest of hunters. Peter’s rough, bullet head, the way that he stands with his legs wide apart and his thick body holding itself deliberately still with an effort as though he were on board ship — and then that smile that won all our hearts ages ago right out of the centre of his brown eyes first and then curving his mouth, at last seizing all his body — but always, in spite of it, a little appealing, a little sad somewhere — can’t you see him? And Cards, slim, straight, dark, beautifully clothed, beautifully witty and I am convinced, beautifully insincere. Can’t you see Cards say ‘good evening’ to me — with that same charm, that same ease, that same contempt that he had when we were at school together? Bobby Galleon — an h
onest good fellow — but dull — mon Dieu — dull (he rather likes French phrases) — can’t you hear him saying it? Well from the very first, there was something in the air. We were all excited, even old Mrs. Rossiter and the pale Irish creature whom I remembered afterwards I had met that day when I went to that boarding — house after Peter. Clare was quite extraordinary — I have never seen her anything like it — she talked the whole time, laughed, almost shouted. The only person she treated stiffly was Cards — I don’t think she likes him.
“He was at his most brilliant — really wonderful — and I liked him better than I’ve ever liked him before. He seemed to have a genuine pleasure in Peter’s happiness, and I believe he’s as fond of the boy as he’s able to be of any one. A copy of ‘The Stone House’ was given to each of us (I haven’t had time to look at mine yet) and I suppose the combination of the baby and the book moved us all. Besides, Clare and Peter both looked so absurdly young. Such children to have had so many adventures already. You can imagine how riotous we got when I tell you that dessert found Mrs. Rossiter with a paper cap on her head and Janet Gale was singing some Cornish song or other to the delight of the company. Miss Monogue and I were the quietest. I should think that she’s one of the best, and I saw her look at Peter once or twice in a way that showed how strongly she felt about him.
“Well, old girl, I’m bothered if I can explain the kind of anxiety that came over me after a time. You’ll think me a regular professional croaker but really I suppose, at bottom, it was some sort of feeling that the whole thing, this shouting and cheering and thumping the table — was premature. And then I suppose it was partly my knowledge of Peter. It wasn’t like him to behave in this sort of way. He wasn’t himself — excited, agitated by something altogether foreign to him. I could have thought that he was drunk, if I hadn’t known that he hadn’t touched any liquor whatever. But a man of Peter’s temperament pays for this sort of thing — it isn’t the sort of way he’s meant to take life.
“Whatever the reason may have been I know that I felt suddenly outside the whole business and most awfully depressed. I think Miss Monogue felt exactly the same. By the time the wine was on the table all I wanted was to get right away. It was almost as though I had been looking on at something that I was ashamed to see. There was a kind of deliberate determination about their happiness and Clare’s little body with her hair on the verge, as it seemed, of a positive downfall, had something quite pitiful in its deliberate rejoicing; such a child, my dear — I never realised how young until last night. Such a child and needing some one so much older and wiser than Peter to manage it all.
“Well, there I was hating it when the final moment came. Cards got up and in one of the wittiest little speeches you ever heard in your life, proposed Peter’s health, alluded to ‘Reuben Hallard,’ then Clare, then the Son and Heir, a kind of back fling at old Dawson’s, and then last of all, an apostrophe to ‘The Stone House’ all glory and honour, &c.: — well, it was most neatly done and we all sat back, silent, for Peter’s reply.
“The dear boy stood there, all flushed and excited, with his hair pushed back off his forehead and began the most extraordinary speech I’ve ever heard. I can’t possibly give you the effect of it at secondhand, in the mere repetition of it there was little more than that he was wildly, madly happy, that there was no one in the world as happy as he, that now at last the gods had given him all that he had ever wanted, let them now do their worst — and so crying, flung his glass over his shoulder, and smashed it on to the wall behind him.
“I cannot possibly tell you how sinister, how ominous the whole thing suddenly was. It swooped down upon all of us like a black cloud. Credit me, if you will, with a highly — strung bundle of nerves (not so solid matter-of-fact as I seem, you know well enough) but it seemed to me, at that moment, that Peter was defying, consciously, with his heart in his mouth, a world of devils and that he was cognisant of all of them. The thing was conscious — that was the awful thing about it, I could swear that he was seeing far beyond all of us, that he was hurling his happiness at something that he had there before him as clearly as I have you before me now. It was defiance and I believe the minute after uttering it he would have liked to have rushed upstairs to see that his baby was safe....
“Be that as it may, we all felt it — every one of us. The party was clouded. Cards and Clare did their best to brighten things up again, and Peter and Tony and Janet Gale played silly games and made a great deal of noise — but the spirit was gone.
“I left very early. Miss Monogue came away at the same time. She spoke to me before she said good-night: ‘I know that you are an old friend of Peter’s. I am so fond of him — we all are at Brockett’s, it isn’t often that we see him — I know that you will be his true friend in every sense of the word — and help him — as he ought to be helped. It is so little that I can do....’
“Her voice was sad. I am afraid she suffers a great deal. She is evidently greatly attached to Peter — I liked her.
“Well, you in your sober way will say that this is all a great deal of nonsense. Why shouldn’t Peter, if he wishes, say that he is happy? All I can say is that if you yourself had been there....”
CHAPTER VIII
BLINDS DOWN
I
It was not until Stephen Westcott had rejoiced in the glories (so novel and so thrilling) of his first birthday and “The Stone House” had been six months before the public eye that the effect of this second book could be properly estimated. Second books are the most surely foredoomed creatures in all creation and there are many excellent reasons for this. They will assuredly disappoint the expectations of those who enjoyed the first work, and the author will, in all probability, have been tempted by his earlier success to try his wings further than they are, as yet, able to carry him.
Peter’s failure was only partial. There was no question that “The Stone House” was a remarkable book. Had it been Peter’s first novel it must have made an immense stir; it showed that he was, in no kind of way, a man of one book, and it gave, in its London scenes, proof that its author was not limited to one kind of life and one kind of background. There were chapters that were fuller, wiser, in every way more mature than anything in “Reuben Hallard.”
But it was amazingly unequal. There were places in it that had no kind of life at all; at times Peter appeared to have beheld his scenes and characters through a mist, to have been dragged right away from any kind of vision of the book, to have written wildly, blindly.
The opinion of Mrs. Launce was perhaps the soundest that it was possible to have because that good lady, in spite of her affection for Peter, had a critical judgment that was partly literary, partly commercial, and partly human. She always judged a book first with her brain, then with her heart and lastly with her knowledge of her fellow creatures. “It may pay better than ‘Reuben Hallard,’” she said, “there’s more love interest and it ends happily. Some of it is beautifully written, some of it quite unspeakably. But really, Peter, it’s the most uneven thing I’ve ever read. Again and again one is caught, held, stirred — then, suddenly, you slip away altogether — you aren’t there at all, nothing’s there, I could put my ringer on the places. Especially the first chapters and the last chapters — the middle’s splendid — what happened to you?... But it will sell, I expect. Tell your banker to read it, go into lots of banks and tell them. Bank clerks have subscriptions at circulating libraries always given them ... but the wild bits are best, the wild bits are splendid — that bit about the rocks at night ... you don’t know much about women yet — your girls are awfully bad. By the way, do you know that Mary Hollins is only getting £100 advance next time? All she can get, that last thing was so shocking. I hear that that book about an immoral violet, by that new young man — Rondel, isn’t it? — is still having a most enormous success — I know that Barratt’s got in a whole batch of new copies last night — I hear....”
Mrs. Launce was disappointed — Peter could tell well e
nough. He received some laudatory reviews, some letters from strangers, some adulation from people who knew nothing whatever. He did not know what it was exactly that he had expected — but whatever it was that he wanted, he did not get it — he was dissatisfied.
He began to blame his publishers — they had not advertised him enough; he even, secretly, cherished that most hopeless of all convictions — that his book was above the heads of the public. He noticed, also, that wherever he might be, this name of Rondel appeared before him, Mr. Rondel with his foolish face and thin mother in black, was obviously the young man of the moment — in the literary advertisements of any of the weekly papers you might see The Violet novel in its tenth edition and “The Stone House” by Peter Westcott, second edition selling rapidly.
