The Innocent Moon

by Henry Williamson

  “Goodbye, Father. I quite understand how you feel. One day——” His voice was untrustworthy as he held out his hand. With a surprised look, Richard got up and formally shook hands.

  Phillip went to the front room. “Goodbye, Mother. Don’t worry.” He pulled on his trench coat, with its warm linings of camel’s-hair and oiled silk. “I know I shall succeed! Please don’t worry.”

  “I’ll try not to, dear. You will write, won’t you?”

  “Yes, of course I’ll write!”

  “And say something nice that I can show your father, won’t you? He feels lonely, you know.”

  He kissed her goodbye. Only when the front door, with a multiple clicking of its several well-oiled locks, was shut behind him did he remember the B.S.A. air-rifle Father had swopped for his army revolver. He waited during a minute and then rang the bell shortly. His mother opened the door immediately. Tears lay on her cheeks, but she tried to smile cheerfully and speak in an ordinary voice. They embraced once more; then clutching the gun in its brown canvas case, he secured it with string to the tank of the Norton. In the tank were two gallons of petrol, enough for a hundred and forty miles. That would take him two-thirds of the way to his cottage. Petrol was expensive, four and six a gallon; but he had £3 in the bank, and the £40 to come.

  The immediate problem was, Where to go? He thought of Julian. Having tested the straps of the bag on the carrier, he waved to the face in the window smiling wanly between the aspidistra and bowls of hyacinths and daffodils; and gripping the rubber-taped handlebars, shoved off down the road, to turn the corner and away up Charlotte Road and past the lighted church, the drumming beats of the engine heard against the music of the organ.

  Julian was not in, but Mr. Warbeck was. Entering the sitting-room, Phillip said, “The guv’nor has sacked me!” with what he hoped was a devil-may-care expression appropriate to Julian’s father.

  “Ah,” said the old gentleman, pulling his grey moustache, and regarding Phillip sombrely for a few moments. “That is most interesting: for I have been wondering for some time now how I can similarly rid myself of the incubus of that useless and plausible young gentleman—ahem!—whom I so proudly realise to be my son.”

  The grey eyes under shaggy eyebrows were staring thoughtfully. Pulling one drooping moustache, the old man asked Phillip if he had had any tea.

  “Thank you, but I won’t have any, thanks.”

  “Nonsense, my dear fellow, nonsense! You mustn’t let a little thing like a parental ejection interfere with an otherwise normal and well-ordered life! Julian would eat two teas in the same circumstances, I do assure you. Furthermore, you as a student of nature surely realise that one of nature’s laws is based on the principle of the activated hoof. Of course you want tea.” He rang the bell.

  Julian’s aunt came into the room. “Hullo, Maddison! What a transformation! Washed, shaved, and dressed for dinner! The last time you were here someone said, I forget who it was—Dorothy Caldwell, I think, who was a W.A.A.C. during the War—yes, Dorothy Caldwell said, after you’d gone, ‘Is it safe to sit near Maddison? He looks properly crummy.’ She’d seen you and Julian coming back from sleeping under the haystack that morning. You went to see the stars, didn’t you?”

  “Humph!” said Julian’s father. “Three stars, I suppose. That’s where my bottle went, no doubt.”

  Sipping tea that was too hot, Phillip told them of his invitation.

  “Do my eyes deceive me,” said the old gentleman, almost ponderously, as he leaned forward, “can it be that you intend to meet the intelligentsia, or as Julian would say, the cognoscenti, or as Harold the Critic would say, the literati of London wearing studs of bone in your boiled shirt?”

  Phillip said that he had no other studs, whereupon the old man dropped his bantering tone.

  “In that case I beg you to allow me to offer you the loan of a pair of gold studs. Seriously, my dear boy, this is an event in your life, and in spite of the general decay of manners since the War, I do assure you——” He went upstairs and returning said, “You’ll find them on the bathroom table. I left the light on.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “You’ll stay to dinner, won’t you?” asked Julian’s aunt when he came down dressed. “And there’s a bed for you. I’ve told the maid to light a fire in the spare bedroom.”

  “Thank you very much, Miss Warbeck.”

  “Here’s a key before I forget,” said Mr. Warbeck. “I expect you’ll be late—but, however late you are, however much row you kick up, however drunk you are, I do assure you it will make no impression whatsoever on this household! There is beer in the cupboard under the stairs, in case you bring the cognoscenti with you—at least, there are a couple of dozen quart flagons there at the moment, but should my son choose to return with any of his sporting friends before you return, I can’t guarantee that any will be left.”

  Phillip thanked him for his kindness, but said he had given up drinking; and also smoking.

  “We heard a rumour; but we put it down to another of Julian’s charming little—shall we say fictions—now that you have a novel accepted by—let me see, a Scottish publisher, isn’t it—yes, we took it to be one of Julian’s innumerable fictions.”

  Mr. Warbeck was seventy-five years old, and had married late in life. Julian was his only child. Mr. Warbeck’s wife had died when Julian was a little boy, and Julian had been brought up by a governess and a housekeeper, both elderly.

  “I should perhaps explain—” the voice of the old man went on, with ponderous humour, “and you must realise that I speak only as an onlooker—and while assuring you of my sincere congratulations that you and your agent have extracted twenty-five pounds out of a Scots publisher—speaking as an onlooker, as I remarked, I am utterly at a loss to determine how you managed it. Even allowing for that curious and inexplicable thing, the public taste, I must say—only as an onlooker, please understand—that I am inclined to agree with my son Julian in this one thing, at least—amazing as it seems that Julian and I should have anything in common—that the fact of your book being published, or about to be published, leaves me, well, flabbergasted!”

  “Don’t you take any notice of what he says,” said Julian’s aunt, giving Phillip a smile. “I thought the parts you read to us a month or two ago, the country descriptions I mean, quite charming.”

  “Well,” said Mr. Warbeck, “honestly, m’dear fellow, I’ve read worse novels—and by Heaven the world is full of very bad novels——” He looked challengingly at Phillip. “Yes, I’ve read worse novels, but——” He paused, and added decisively, “Not often.”

  Phillip tried to smile easily. He was foolish to have lent the old man a typed copy. Julian and his father were much alike. He thought to leave the house; and with a shock recalled that he had nowhere to go.

  “I’m looking forward to reading all of it,” said Julian’s aunt.

  “Oh, thank you.” His heart was bubbling again: ever since the haemorrhage, his heart had beaten irregularly. He was afraid to tell anyone about it; his fear was that at any moment it would recur, and he would disgrace himself. The doctor had advised him to go away for a long rest in the country.

  Julian’s aunt went on knitting. The coal fire blazed in the iron grate. The old unhappy thoughts returned: why was so much of the heat wasted; rich smoke going up the chimney, unburned power, to foul the air of the world? One day such things would be looked upon with amazement: such squandering of the things of the earth, such fouling of the air and light of the world.

  How dreadfully hot it was, he could not breathe, his heart seemed to beat a double beat, and then a long pause wherein blackness came upon his sight. He sat still, gripping the edges of the chair, praying they would not notice him, shielding his eyes against the glare of the incandescent gas-mantle. With great relief he heard the voice of Aunt Julia saying, “It’s getting close in here. I’ll open the window!”

  “No, let me!” Perhaps it was the heat, after all! The oxy
gen let into the room appeared to revive Mr. Warbeck as well as himself, for he continued his satiric attack on Julian.

  “Tomorrow morning, no doubt about it, that delightful son of mine will return with a story of how still yet another publisher was impressed almost into making an offer for his Catullus translation, and will with his usual courtesy on such occasions suggest that he become thereby still more deeply in my debt; but the point, my dear sister, is that we three will, with any luck, be unmolested during dinner, when I propose to crack one of my last bottles of Veuve Cliquot in celebration of Maddison’s masterpiece of—h’m h’m, forgive an old man his joke—youthful incoherence, and—er, h’m——”

  Julian did not appear. They dined. Phillip refused the champagne, though he felt ungracious in so doing. “All the more for me, my dear fellow!” remarked Mr. Warbeck. “Well, to your success, my young friend!” He held up his glass, and first smoothing out his grey moustache, drank the wine. Phillip had not eaten much, being afraid of indigestion. With relief he put the Norton under cover, and caught a train to London, arriving expectantly at Inverness Terrace at half-past nine.

  *

  At first he was disappointed when, his name having been called out, and after being received by Sir Godber and Lady Hollins and Mr. and Mrs. J. D. Woodford he was introduced to some people who were discussing royalties, the cost of paper and strawboards, the possibility of novels having to go above nine shillings, and if the libraries would take them at such a stiff price. And the large advances best-sellers were getting—H. G. Wells had got £30,000 for his latest novel from Ernest Benn—that was enough to make any publisher cut down on new novelists. Agents were virtually holding such MSS up to auction among publishers; some were offering well-known names provided the publisher took a new author as part of the bargain.

  Tarzan of the Apes was mentioned, “a fantastic hotchpotch about a wild boy brought up by apes”, which had gone the rounds; and now was a best-seller.

  “It came to us,” said J. D. Woodford, with a rueful smile. “But I turned it down as too improbable!”

  After eating many sandwiches and drinking claret-cup he felt happier, and talked to a dark, attractive man leaning against a wall with his hands in his pockets, who was a famous poet. And yet he did not know the difference between coltsfoot and henbane! Phillip himself had known it only a few weeks, since owning a copy of John’s Flowers of the Field. Yet the famous poet’s ‘What is the difference?’ had seemed to be almost startling. Walter Ramal asking him what henbane was like! Phillip loved his poetry; it was truly beautiful, he was one of the rare ones. He told him so. “Your lyrical poems rank with Shakespeare’s!” The poet received this comparison with modesty.

  “And you knew Edward Eastaway, sir? And to think that I, all unknowingly, was only a short distance away from him, on the ninth day of April, at the opening of the battle of Arras, in the snow!”

  Four years ago: it was as far away as Agincourt. He went back to the buffet and ate another smoked salmon sandwich, imagining the sting of sleet in his face on that cold wild morning on the chalk downs before the Hindenburg Line.

  Looking around, he saw a keen-eyed man wearing pince-nez spectacles, with a lock of hair over one temple, whom he recognised as J. C. Knight. “Forgive my speaking to you, but what do you think of Francis Thompson’s poetry?”

  J. C. Knight peered at Phillip sideways and said, “Francis Thompson is a very great poet. I rank him with Milton. But it is unwise to try and compare poets, to say that this one is greater than that one. Each true poet is himself. No, I didn’t see your essay in the English Review. Were you paid for it? All work worth printing is worth payment.”

  Conversation seeming to have dried up, he went back to the buffet. Thrills moved up his spine: he, Phillip Maddison, was among the great names of contemporary literature! He talked next to a man who had been badly wounded while serving with the Ulster division during the battle of the Somme, losing a leg; he, too, was recognisable from photographs in The Bookman as Ninian M’Grape. Surely he was listening to the stuff of literary history when Ninian M’Grape was discussing with J. C. Knight the dramatisation by himself of H. G. Wells’s book The Wonderful Visit, a play which recently had failed. “It was over-produced,” said Mr. M’Grape, shifting his stance.

  To Miss Violet Hunt, whose famous face he had often seen at Mrs. Portal-Welch’s receptions, he talked about Richard Jefferies. “He’s like grass,” she murmured, her eyes roving the room. “A little goes a long way. I much prefer Hudson.” He recognised a borrowed phrase, which she had transposed: for Conrad had written in praise of W. H. Hudson ‘he writes as the grass grows.’ The petrofact beautiful face was restless; the eyes never encountered his own. He was wary of her, and slipped away as Miss Rose Macaulay came to speak to Miss Hunt.

  “Do you like Conrad?” he next asked a very quiet woman standing alone. She had gentle brown eyes, and a fringe over her forehead. “Yes,” replied Miss May Sinclair, simply. “And do you love Francis Thompson?” he asked eagerly. “A beautiful poet,” she replied. He felt safe with her.

  He saw Mrs. Portal-Welch at the other end of the double room. Now that his book was accepted he felt that she was a dear; he must pay his respects. After all, she had always been kind to him, despite his satirical references to her novels upon occasion: a rather mean retaliation, really; he felt ashamed of his behaviour, and waited until she was free to tell her so.

  “‘Many men, many minds,’” she said. “You are far too impressionable. What you need is a good woman to pull you into shape.” He felt like asking, “What shape?” but decided it was possibly ambiguous.

  He stayed until the end, being the last to leave. Regretfully he said goodnight to Mr. and Mrs. Woodford and walked bare-headed, trench-coat unbuttoned, white silk scarf thrown carelessly round neck and over shoulder, in the direction of the bright glow of the town. Enjoyable the jungle of Piccadilly, romantic the lights of the river by the Embankment! He crossed over Waterloo Bridge and walked down a long empty street towards two far converging chains of lights, reassured by the sight of stars above the Old Kent Road, noticing almost with pleasure the strange effect of houses built in steepening terraces below the heights of Nunhead—colonies of crustaceans left momentarily inactive with the ebbing of ocean. What else were people but sea-creatures taken to the land, from beyond where past and present and future were one? It was grand to be part of the flow of life.

  *

  When he opened the door of Julian’s house he heard heavy footfalls and shouting. Yes, Julian was home. Scarf and coat were slung on the coat-stand; he knocked and entered the sitting-room. Julian stopped an intensive pacing of the carpet and turned to look at him. His wide forehead, from which the hair was flung back in Beethoven disorder, was frowning; his under lip was thrust out. His father sat in the chair in the corner beside the fire, also scowling; but chiefly the expression of the old man huddled there was one of fatigued yet unrelenting scorn. His eyes were as steady in scorn upon his son as his son’s were upon those imaginary giants of the material world he was fighting on behalf of his beloved Swinburne.

  “Once and for all,” growled Julian, “I tell you that Christianity is effete and outworn. The gospel of pity is against all natural truth. I speak as a pagan.”

  “And you talk like a drunkard.”

  Ignoring his father, Julian recited,

  “‘Thou has conquered, O pale Galilean, the world has grown grey with thy breath,

  Thou hast conquered, O pale Galilean, but thy dead shall go down to thee dead!’”

  “Good evening,” said Phillip, amiably. There was no reply.

  After a while Julian went to a sideboard, poured out some beer, and offered it to Phillip.

  “If you’ll forgive me, chér Maître, I won’t. I have decided to drink only water in future.”

  “Not even milk?” enquired Julian. “Then you have sold another novel, no doubt. Anyway, I drink to your success,” he said gravely, pronouncing each word
with deliberate clearness. “Father and I were just discussing you,” he went on. “I congratulate you, my friend. You are in the tradition! The young genius has been thrown out of his father’s house! Excellent! Excellent!” He rubbed his hands together. “Well, old boy, seriously, I congratulate you!”

  “Thank you, chér Maître! That is praise indeed!”

  “Oh, well,” retorted Julian, not liking his own kind of satire turned on himself, “at least you’ve had a book taken. So you’re one up on me. Can’t I persuade you to have a little light ale after your storming of the citadel of fame?”

  Mr. Warbeck was regarding his son intently. He said to Phillip, “You’ll notice, m’dear fellow, how my son’s old-world courtesy shows itself in the air with which he offers a fellow guest the beer of his host! Such a question of punctilio, however, does not apparently extend to the suggestion that I, as his host, albeit his parent, might care to be offered a glass of my own beer!”

  “Now you know, Father,” said Julian, raising eyebrows and speaking as though with great courtesy, “that the doctor, to whom you pay regularly considerable sums of money, has told you not to drink beer after midday. You have to be careful of your arteries, you know, Father. Don’t glare at me like that, Father! I assure you you merely look extremely impotent. It is long past your bedtime, why not go to bed? Bed is for the old, beer is for the young—a natural law of life, Father.”

  Phillip began to feel weary; the fire was blazing full in the black concave grate, no window open, no oxygen.

  “Come, my dear father,” Julian was saying, “why not go to bed? All reasonable old men are in bed before midnight, I assure you.” He drained his glass; he opened another bottle. “Well, Maître, what did you think of the cognoscenti? Don’t forget to return Father’s studs by the way. I may need them myself shortly.”

  “It seems to me a most unlikely event,” said the old man.