by A. A. Milne
At 3.30 next day we were in the fatal building. I should like to pause here and describe my costume to you, which was a quiet grey in the best of taste, but Myra says that if I do this I must describe hers too, a feat beyond me. Sufficient that she looked dazzling, that as a party we were remarkably well-dressed, and that Simpson—murmuring “dix-sept” to himself at intervals—led the way through the rooms till he found a table to his liking.
“Aren’t you excited?” whispered Myra to me.
“Frightfully,” I said, and left my mouth well open. I don’t quite know what picture of the event Myra and I had conjured up in our minds, but I fancy it was one something like this. At the entrance into the rooms of such a large and obviously distinguished party there would be a slight sensation among the crowd, and way would be made for us at the most important table. It would then leak out that Chevalier Simpson—the tall poetical-looking gentleman in the middle, my dear—had brought with him no less a sum than thirty francs with which to break the bank, and that he proposed to do this in one daring coup. At this news the players at the other tables would hastily leave their winnings (or losings) and crowd round us. Chevalier Simpson, pale but controlled, would then place his money on seventeen—”dix-sept,” he would say to the croupier to make it quite clear—and the ball would be spun. As it slowed down, the tension in the crowd would increase. “Mon Dieu!” a woman would cry in a shrill voice; there would be guttural exclamations from Germans; at the edge of the crowd strong men would swoon. At last a sudden shriek…and the croupier’s voice, trembling for the first time for thirty years, “Dix-sept!” Then gold and notes would be pushed at the Chevalier. He would stuff his pockets with them; he would fill his hat with them; we others, we would stuff our pockets too. The bank would send out for more money. There would be loud cheers from all the company (with the exception of one man, who had put five francs on sixteen and had shot himself) and we should be carried—that is to say, we four men—shoulder high to the door, while by the deserted table Myra and Dahlia clung to each other, weeping tears of happiness…
Something like that.
What happened was different. As far as I could follow, it was this. Over the heads of an enormous, badly-dressed and utterly indifferent crowd Simpson handed his thirty francs to the croupier.
“Dix-sept,” he said.
The croupier with his rake pushed the money on to seventeen.
Another croupier with his rake pulled it off again…and stuck to it.
The day’s fun was over.
“What did win?” asked Myra some minutes later, when the fact that we should never see our money again had been brought home to her.
“Zero,” said Archie.
I sighed heavily.
“My usual score,” I said, “not my highest.”
VI. THE RECORD OF IT
“I shall be glad to see Peter again,” said Dahlia, as she folded up her letter from home.
Peter’s previous letter, dictated to his nurse-secretary, had, according to Archie, been full of good things. Cross-examination of the proud father, however, had failed to reveal anything more stirring than “I love mummy,” and—er—so on.
We were sitting in the loggia after what I don’t call breakfast—all of us except Simpson, who was busy with a mysterious package. We had not many days left; and I was beginning to feel that, personally, I should not be sorry to see things like porridge again. Each to his taste.
“The time has passed absurdly quickly,” said Myra. “We don’t seem to have done anything—except enjoy ourselves. I mean anything ’specially Rivierish. But it’s been heavenly.”
“We’ve done lots of Rivierish things,” I protested. “If you’ll be quiet a moment I’ll tell you some.”
These were some of the things: (1) We had been to the Riviera. (Nothing could take away from that. We had the labels on our luggage.)
(2) We had lost heavily (thirty francs) at the Tables. (This alone justified the journey.)
(3) Myra had sat next to a Prince at lunch. (Of course she might have done this in London, but so far there has been no great rush of Princes to our little flat. Dukes, Mayors, Companions of St. Michael and St. George, certainly; but, somehow, not Princes.)
(4) Simpson had done the short third hole at Mt. Agel in three. (His first had cleverly dislodged the ball from the piled-up tee; his second, a sudden nick, had set it rolling down the hill to the green; and the third, an accidental putt, had sunk it.)
(5) Myra and I had seen Corsica. (Question.)(6) And finally, and best of all, we had sat in the sun, under a blue sky above a blue sea, and watched the oranges and lemons grow.
So, though we had been to but few of the famous beauty spots around, we had had a delightfully lazy time; and as proof that we had not really been at Brighton there were, as I have said, the luggage labels. But we were to be able to show further proof. At this moment Simpson came out of the house, his face beaming with excitement, his hands carefully concealing something behind his back.
“Guess what I’ve got,” he said eagerly.
“The sack,” said Thomas.
“Your new bests,” said Archie.
“Something that will interest us all,” helped Simpson.
“I withdraw my suggestion,” said Archie.
“Something we ought to have brought with us all along.”
“More money,” said Myra.
The tension was extreme. It was obvious that our consuming anxiety would have to be relieved very speedily. To avoid a riot, Thomas went behind Simpson’s back and took his surprise away from him.
“A camera,” he said. “Good idea.”
Simpson was all over himself with bonhommy.
“I suddenly thought of it the other night,” he said, smiling round at all of us in his happiness, “and I was just going to wake Thomas up to tell him, when I thought I’d keep it a secret. So I wrote to a friend of mine and asked him to send me out one, and some films and things, just as a surprise for you.”
“Samuel, you are a dear,” said Myra, looking at him lovingly.
“You see, I thought, Myra, you’d like to have some records of the place, because they’re so jolly to look back on, and—er, I’m not quite sure how you work it, but I expect some of you know and—er—”
“Come on,” said Myra, “I’ll show you.” She retired with Simpson to a secluded part of the loggia and helped him put the films in.
“Nothing can save us,” said Archie. “We are going to be taken together in a group. Simpson will send it to one of the picture papers, and we shall appear as ‘Another Merry Little Party of Well-known Sun-seekers. Names from left to right: Blank, blank, Mr. Archibald Mannering, blank, blank.’ I’d better go and brush my hair.”
Simpson returned to us, nervous and fully charged with advice.
“Right, Myra, I see. That’ll be all right. Oh, look here, do you—oh yes, I see. Right. Now then—wait a bit—oh yes, I’ve got it. Now then, what shall we have first? A group?”
“Take the house and the garden and the village,” said Thomas. “You’ll see plenty of us afterwards.”
“The first one is bound to be a failure,” I pointed out. “Rather let him fail at us, who are known to be beautiful, than at the garden, which has its reputation yet to make. Afterwards, when he has got the knack, he will be able to do justice to the scenery.”
Archie joined us again, followed by the bull-dog. We grouped ourselves picturesquely.
“That looks ripping,” said Simpson. “Oh, look here, Myra, do you—No, don’t come; you’ll spoil the picture. I suppose you have to—oh, it’s all right, I think I’ve got it.”
“I shan’t try to look handsome this time,” said Archie; “it’s not worth it. I shall just put an ordinary blurred expression on.”
“Now, are you ready? Don’t move. Quite still, please; quite—”
“It’s instantaneous, you know,” said Myra gently.
This so unnerved Simpson that he let the thing off with
out any further warning, before we had time to get our expressions natural.
“That was all right, Myra, wasn’t it?” he said proudly.
“I’m—I’m afraid you had your hand over the lens, Samuel dear.”
“Our new photographic series: ‘Palms of the Great.’ No. 1, Mr. S. Simpson’s,” murmured Archie.
“It wouldn’t have been a very good one anyhow,” I said encouragingly. “It wasn’t typical. Dahlia should have had an orange in her hand, and Myra might have been resting her cheek against a cactus. Try it again, Simpson, and get a little more colour into it.”
He tried again and got a lot more colour into it. “Strictly speaking,” said Myra sadly, “you ought to have got it on to a new film.”
Simpson looked in horror at the back of his camera, found that he had forgotten to turn the handle, apologized profusely, and wound up very gingerly till the number “2” approached. “Now then,” he said, looking up…and found himself alone.
As I write this in London I have Simpson’s album in front of me. Should you ever do us the honour of dining with us (as I hope you will), and (which seems impossible) should there ever come a moment when the conversation runs low, and you are revolving in your mind whether it is worth while asking us if we have been to any theatres lately, then I shall produce the album, and you will be left in no doubt that we are just back from the Riviera. You will see oranges and lemons and olives and cactuses and palms; blue sky (if you have enough imagination) and still bluer sea; picturesque villas, curious effects of rocks, distant backgrounds of mountain…and on the last page the clever kindly face of Simpson.
The whole affair will probably bore you to tears.
But with Myra and me the case of course is different. We find these things, as Simpson said, very jolly to look back on.
Men of Letters
John Penquarto
A Tale of Literary Life in London
(Modelled on the hundred best Authors.)
I.
John Penquarto looked round his diminutive bed-sitting-room with a feeling of excitement not unmixed with awe. So this was London! The new life had begun. With a beating heart he unpacked his bag and set out his simple belongings.
First his books, his treasured books; where should he put them? It was comforting to think that, wherever they stood, they would be within reach of his hand as he lay in bed. He placed them on the window-sill and read their titles again reverently: “Half-Hours with our Water-Beetles,” “The Fretworker’s Companion” and “Strenuous Days in Simla.” He owed everything to them. And what an air they gave the room!
But not such an air as was given by his other treasure—the photograph of Mary.
Mary! He had only met her once, and that was twenty years ago, at his native Polwollop. He had gone to the big house with a message for Mr. Trevena, her ladyship’s butler: “Mother’s respects, and she has found the other shirt-front and will send it up as soon as it is dry.” He had often taken a similar message, for Mrs. Penquarto did the washing for the upper servants at the Hall, but somehow he had known that to-day was going to be different.
There, just inside the gates, was Mary. He was only six, but even then he knew that never would he see again anything so beautiful. She was five; but there was something in her manner of holding herself and the imperious tilt of her head which made her seem almost five-and-a-half.
“I’m Mary,” she said.
He wanted to say that he was John, but could not. He stood there tongue-tied.
“I love you,” she went on.
His heart beat tumultuously. He felt suffocated. He longed to say, “So do I,” but was afraid that it was not good English. Even then he knew that he must be a writer when he grew up.
She leant forward and kissed him. He realized suddenly that he was in love. The need for self-expression was strong upon him. Shyly he brought out his last acid-drop and shared it with her. He had never seen her since, but even now, twenty years after, he could not eat an acid-drop without emotion, and a whole bag of them brought the scene back so visibly as to be almost a pain.
Yes, he was to be a writer; there could be no doubt about that. Everybody had noticed it. The Vicar had said, “Johnny will never do any good at Polwollop, I fear”; and the farmer for whom John scared rooks had said, “Thiccy la-ad seems daft-like,” and one after another of Mrs. Penquarto’s friends had given similar testimony. And now here he was, at twenty-six, in the little bed-sitting-room in Bloomsbury, ready to write the great novel which should take London by storm. Polwollop seemed a hundred years away.
Feverishly he seized pen and paper and began to wonder what to write.
II.
It was near the Albert Memorial that the great inspiration came to him some weeks later. Those had been weeks of mingled hope and despair; of hope as he had fondled again his treasured books and read their titles, or gazed at the photograph of Mary; of despair as he had taken off his belt and counted out his rapidly-decreasing stock of money, or reflected that he was as far from completing his novel as ever. Sometimes in the search for an idea he had frequented the restaurants where the great Samuel Johnson himself had eaten, and sometimes he had frequented other restaurants where even the great Samuel Johnson himself had been unable to eat. Often he had gone into the British Museum and leant against a mummy-case, or taken a ’bus to Chelsea and pressed his forehead against the brass-plate which marked Carlyle’s house, but no inspiration had come. And then suddenly, quite close to the Albert Memorial, he knew.
He would write a novel about a boy called William who had lived in Cornwall, and who came to London and wrote a novel, a novel of which “The Westminster Gazette” said: “This novel undoubtedly places the author in the front rank of living novelists.” William’s novel would be a realistic account of—yes, that was it—of a boy called Henry, who had lived in Cornwall, and who came to London and wrote a novel, a novel of which “The Morning Post” said: “By this novel the author has indubitably established his claim to be reckoned among the few living novelists who count.” But stay! What should this novel of Henry’s be about? It would be necessary to describe it. For an hour he wrestled with the problem, and then he had another inspiration. Henry’s novel would be about a boy called Thomas who had lived in Cornwall and who came to London and wrote a novel about a boy called Stephen who had lived in Cornwall, and who came to London and wrote a novel (about a boy called Michael who had lived in Cornwall, and who came to London and wrote a novel (about a boy called Peter, who had lived in Cornwall, and…)…)
And so on.
And every one of the novels would establish the author’s right to be reckoned, etc., and place him undoubtedly in the very front rank.
It was a stupendous idea. For a moment John was almost paralysed at contemplation of it. There seemed to be no end to his novel as he had planned it. Was it too much for his powers?
There was only one way to find out. He hurried back to his bed-sitting-room, seized a pen and began to write.
III.
It was two years later. For the last fortnight John Penquarto had stopped counting the money in his belt. There was none left. For a fortnight now he had been living on the belt itself.
But a great hope had always sustained him. One day he would hear from the publisher to whom he had sent his novel a year ago.
And now at last the letter had come, and he was seated in the office of the great Mr. Pump himself. His heart beat rapidly. He felt suffocated.
“Well, Mr. Penquarto,” said the smiling publisher, “I may say at once that we like your novel. We should have written before, but we have only just finished reading it. It is a little long—about two million eight hundred thousand words, I reckon it—but I have a suggestion to make which will meet that difficulty. I suggest that we publish it in half a dozen volumes, stopping, for the first volume, at the Press notices of (say) Peter’s novel. We find that the public likes these continuous books. About terms. We will send an agreement along to-mor
row. Naturally, as this is a first book, we can only pay a nominal sum on account of royalties. Say ten thousand pounds. How will that suit you?”
With a heart still beating John left the office five minutes later and bought a new belt. Then he went to a restaurant where Goldsmith had never been and ordered a joint and two veg. Success had come.
IV.
I should like to dwell upon the weeks which followed. I should like to tell of John’s emotion when he saw his first proofs and of the printer’s emotion when he saw what a mess John had made of them. I should like to describe how my hero’s heart beat during the anxious days of waiting; to picture to you his pride at the arrival of his six free copies, and his landlady’s surprise when he presented her with one. Above all, I should like to bring home to you the eagerness with which he bought and opened “The Times Literary Supplement” and read his first review:
“‘William Trewulliam—The First Phase.’ By John Penquarto, 7-½ by 5-¼, 896 pp., Albert Pump. 9s. n.”
I have no time to go into these matters, nor have I time in which to give at length his later Press cuttings, in which there was displayed a unanimity of opinion that John Penquarto was now in the front rank of living novelists, one of the limited number whose work really counted. I must hurry on.
It was a week after the publication of “William Trewulliam,” the novel which had taken all London by storm. In all the drawing-rooms of Mayfair, in all the clubs of Pall Mall, people were asking each other, “Who is John Penquarto?” Nobody knew—save one.
Lady Mary knew. It was not the name Penquarto which had told her; it was—yes, you have guessed—the scene at the beginning of the book, when William Trewulliam meets the little Anne and shares his last raspberry-drop with her. Even under this disguise she recognized that early meeting. She pierced beneath the imagination of the novelist to the recollection of the man. John Penquarto—of course! Now she remembered the name.
