Complete Works of E W Hornung

by E. W. Hornung

  “Confound the fellow,” he cried at last, “I’ll treat him as a friend! The chances are he’ll turn and rend me; but here goes.”

  The note that was eventually written and posted ran as follows: —

  “Dear Mr. Evan Evans, — I think that ‘A Good Father’ is excellent, but on the whole it does not strike me as being in your best style — which is capital. If I may be permitted to make an unofficial observation, you will, I think, pardon the expression of an old man’s regret that a writer with a real sense of humour, like yourself, should subordinate it to what strikes one as an alien melancholy. If you would only write as cheerfully as you did some time back, I should be spared the disappointment of returning your MS., which I shall never do without peculiar and personal regrets.

  “Yours very truly,

  “Wolff Mason.”

  The good editor breathed more freely when he had got this letter off his mind, and had addressed it to Evan Evans, Esq., 17, Cardigan Mansions, Kensington, W., and closed the envelope with his own hand and tongue. It was his last act at the office that day. As he tossed the letter into one basket, and the rejected manuscript into another, the clock on the chimney-piece struck the half-hour after four. And at half-past four in the afternoon, summer and winter, seed-time and harvest, with the annual exception of a hateful holiday at some such place as Saltburn, the editor of the Mayfair Magazine returned to his club to play whist for an hour and a half precisely, with three kindred spirits as methodical and as enthusiastic as himself.

  But this was the exceptional day which proved every rule of Wolff Mason’s most ruly life by causing him to break each of them in turn. He played his cards towards evening as amateurishly as he had chosen his phrases in the forenoon. Now what is about to be written down may never be believed. But at five-thirty-three, by the card-room clock, Wolff Mason, who was more eminent among the few as a whist-player than as a writer of novels, put the last trump on his partner’s thirteenth card. One has it on unimpeachable authority. A few minutes later the rubber came to an end, and, instead of playing out time, as the custom was with this sporting quartette, the novelist complained of a slight faintness (which explained everything) and left the club twenty minutes before six for the first time for many years.

  One of the other three saw him into his hansom. He said that the air entirely revived him. It might have done so, if there had ever been anything the matter with him. He ailed nothing, however, beyond extreme and cumulative mortification; and the four winds of heaven, chasing each other round his temples as he drove westward, could not have blown that cobweb out of his respected head.

  He could no longer feel surprised at anything that he might do, or say, or think. Somewhere in the neighbourhood of the park he managed to think upon Evan Evans’s latest story, now on its way back to that uneven contributor, and it seemed only natural that the shrewdest, most experienced magazine-editor in London should question the wisdom of his late decision in a way that would have made him laugh on any other occasion. He did not laugh now. The optimist of letters was in an incredibly pessimistic mood, in which the story he had refused seemed to him an ideal one for the magazine. He thought of his valued and most promising contributor, Evan Evans, of the manuscript now on its way back to him, of the possible effect of the rejection of so good a story upon a sensitive young man with a knowledge of other markets. Then he thought of this contributor’s address, which was quite close to his own, and of the twenty minutes which he had in hand owing to his premature departure from the club. A word on the spur to the cab-man, a sharp turn to the left, some easy driving along a quiet street, and the hansom pulled up before the respectable portals of Cardigan Mansions, Nos. 11-22, whereof the stout attendant in uniform came forward and threw back the panels.

  In another minute Wolff Mason was pressing the electric bell outside No. 17 on the second floor, and reflecting, with a qualm, that he was about to intrude upon a rejected contributor whom he had never seen — a truly startling reversal of a far too common editorial experience of his own. An elderly servant opened the door.

  “Is Mr. Evans at home?”

  “Mr. Hevans, sir?”

  The servant looked as vacant as a woman need.

  “Mr. Evan Evans,” said the editor, distinctly, and with a smile as it struck him that there was no occasion in the world for him to leave his name. But a light had broken over the crass face of the elderly door-opener.

  “Oh, I know, sir! He is in. Will you step this way?”

  There was no drawing back now. Mr. Mason stepped boldly across the threshold, and the door closed behind him. In the very narrow passage the servant squeezed by him, and paused with her fingers on the handle of a door upon the right-hand side.

  “What name shall I say, sir?”

  “Mr. Wolff Mason.”

  A moment later the novelist-editor found himself standing in a more charming study than he himself owned to that day. It was all books and pictures, and weapons and pretty curtains, and comfortable chairs and handy tables. A good fire was burning, and on the right of it was a desk so placed that the writer looked out into the room as he sat at his work. The writer was sitting there now. He was a very young man, with a pipe in his mouth and a pen in his hand, and as he leant forward with the utmost eagerness, and the light of his writing-lamp fell full upon his youthful face, Wolff Mason had not the slightest difficulty in recognising Ida’s presumptuous suitor of Saltburn-by-the-Sea.

  “How do you do, Mr. Mason?” the young fellow said, coming forward with his hand frankly outstretched; but the other hesitated before taking it in his.

  “Am I speaking to Mr. Evan Evans?”

  “That is the name I — write stories under.”

  “Exactly. Your other name is not my concern. I don’t seek to know it, Mr. Evans.”

  The editor was smiling grimly, but his gloved hand was now extended. Now, however, that of the young man went coolly into his trousers’ pocket as he looked his visitor steadily in the face. They were grey flannel trousers, with yellow slippers at one end of them and a Norfolk jacket at the other. The editor’s smile had turned to a look of interest.

  “I called to see you about a little story, Mr. Evans.”

  “You have done me a very great honour, sir. Won’t you sit down? Do you find it warm? Shall I open the window?”

  “Not at all, not at all. I won’t detain you a moment, and I won’t sit down in one of your chairs, because they look comfortable, and I am stiff — though you wouldn’t think it from my breaking in upon you like this, would you?”

  Having shown very plainly that it was not his intention to recognise any former acquaintance, and seeing his young host take the cue from him in a way that struck him as at once manly and gentlemanly, Mr. Wolff Mason was now behaving in his own most charming fashion, which was very charming indeed to a young unknown beginner from a favourite old author whose name had been a household word for a quarter of a century at least. The beginner felt that if he had gauged the character of Wolff Mason correctly, when they first met at the sea-side, he would never have concealed the identity of Jack Overman with Evan Evans. But all thought of the old man’s hardness upon a young one perished in an overwhelming sense of the great editor’s kindness towards his utterly unknown contributor.

  “I’ll stand here, if I may, with my back to your fire. I looked in about the very clever little story you sent me yesterday.”

  The young author’s face brightened till it quivered, but his words were all unworthy.

  “How awfully kind of you!”

  “Not at all, my dear sir. I was passing close to you, on my way home, and I was bothering about your story. I admire your work, but I don’t altogether admire this story. My dear fellow, it ends too sadly altogether!”

  “No other ending was possible,” the young man declared. “So I felt, and one must write as one feels.”

  “Must one?” said the veteran, smiling blandly into the boyish earnest face. “Surely all things are poss
ible to him who writes — unless, to be sure, he takes himself seriously!”

  This, however, was not very seriously said, for Wolff Mason had turned round and was peering at the photographs on and over the mantel-piece. Suddenly he pushed up his spectacles and thrust his head close to a framed portrait, with a piece of stamp-paper stuck upon the glass to hide the face, but with the name in print underneath upon the mount.

  “May I ask, young man,” inquired Mr. Mason, as he favoured his contributor with a very comical stare, “why you have my photograph on the wall, in the first place; and, in the second, why the deuce you cover up my face?”

  “You must ask the man who lives with me. He may come in any moment now.”

  “Did he do it?”

  “I’m ashamed to say he did.”

  “Upon my word I should like to know why!”

  “Well, sir, he bought me your photograph when you were accepting my stories; and he hid your face because he said — —”

  “Well, what did he say?”

  “He talked such rot, sir!”

  “I have no doubt.”

  “He was ass enough to say you’d certainly live to hide it yourself on my account! I’m afraid that he unduly admires my stuff. He’s a fellow who is full of sympathy — —”

  “And not free from humour — by no means free!” cried Mr. Mason, laughing at the top of his voice (as he had never, never laughed at Saltburn-by-the-Sea). “But seriously, you are ending your later stories far too sadly. To come back to your last one — though I’m afraid it’s coming back to you! I rejected it, and then, as I was driving home, I thought you would perhaps alter it, if I called and asked you before you sent it elsewhere. Don’t you think you could soften your good father — just at the end?”

  “I couldn’t,” said the young fellow, with a candid stare; but his eyes fell under the cool, kindly scrutiny of the elderly man, who continued gazing at the well-shaped head, on which the hair was perhaps a trifle long and untidy. For once that day Wolff Mason was the equal of the occasion, and he knew it to his consolation. The occasion, moreover, was the very one to which he would have desired to rise.

  “Why couldn’t you, my dear fellow?”

  “Because it isn’t life.”

  “Are you so sure that you know life?”

  “I know it as I find it,” said the young fellow bitterly; and there was a pause.

  “Well, at any rate, you know that I like your stories.”

  “I am thankful to hear it.”

  “I want to accept them — —”

  “You are very kind.”

  “As many of them as ever you can write, and some day a long novel. I believe in you, Overton.”

  “Oh, sir, you are more than kind — to a raw recruit — on the ladder which you yourself — —”

  “My good Overton, why on earth didn’t you mix those metaphors three months ago? Not that you’re raw at all — unless it’s with me!”

  Two frail hands were laid on the young man’s shoulders. He answered dryly:

  “My other name isn’t Overton. It’s Overman. But I forgot, you said it wasn’t your concern!”

  “Ah, well, but the man who is to make the name famous is becoming my very grave concern. You should have let me know that you were in our swim, my boy.”

  “Before I was sure of keeping myself afloat? I thought I had a better chance as a — bad whist-player!”

  “Confound the boy!” cried Wolff Mason, “but you were perfectly right, though your work is better than your whist.”

  “Then it was your magazine that I was writing for — you were the one man in England who could help me on — the whole situation was so liable to misconstruction!”

  “It was — it was. And, now I think of it, you never brought me an introduction nor asked for an interview, nor wrote me a single superfluous line!”

  “I wanted you to accept my stuff,” said the young fellow, smiling.

  But behind his spectacles the editor’s eyes sparkled for an instant with something more than human kindness. He had made the grand discovery of his editorial life. He had discovered the ideal contributor, and for the moment he could only think of him as a young man of letters. Now, however, his right hand had found its way into that of young Overman, as he said with a comic solemnity:

  “Look here, Overton, I was five minutes late in leaving the house this morning; for once in a way I don’t mind if I’m five minutes late in getting back. I think that all you need do is to shave, though Ida might prefer you in another pair of bags and slippers. You can’t improve upon that Norfolk jacket — but — but you and I must have another talk about the end of your story.”

  AUTHOR! AUTHOR!

  This story has to do with two men and a play, instead of a woman, and it is none of mine. I had it from an old gentleman I love: only he ought to have written it himself. This, however, he will never do, having known intimately in his young days one of the two men concerned. But I have his leave to repeat the story more or less as he told it — if I can. And I am going to him for my rebuke — when I dare.

  “You want to hear the story of poor old Pharazyn and his play? I’m not going to tell it you....

  “Ah, well! My recollection of the matter dates from one summer’s night at my old rooms in the Adelphi, when he spoilt my night’s work by coming in flushed with an idea of his own. I remember banging the drawer into which I threw my papers to lock them away for the night; but in a few minutes I had forgotten my unfinished article, and was glad that Pharazyn had come. We were young writers, both of us; and, let me tell you, my good fellow, young writing wasn’t in those days what it is now. I am thinking less of merit than of high prices, and less of high prices than of cheap notoriety. Neither of us had ever had our names before the public — not even in the bill of an unread and unreadable magazine. No one cared about names in my day, save for the half-dozen great ones that were then among us; so Pharazyn’s and mine never got into the newspapers, though some of them used our stuff.

  “In a manner we were rivals, for we were writing the same sort of thing for the same sort of publications, and that was how we had come together; but never was rivalry friendlier, or mutually more helpful. Our parts were strangely complementary: if I could understand for the life of me the secret of collaboration, I should say that I might have collaborated with Pharazyn almost ideally. I had the better of him in point of education, and would have turned single sentences against him for all he was worth; and I don’t mind saying so, for there my superiority ended. When he had a story to tell he told it with a swing and impetus which I coveted him, as well I might to this day; and if he was oftener without anything to write about, his ideas would pay twenty shillings in the pound, in strength and originality, where mine made some contemptible composition in pence. That is why I have been a failure at fiction — oh, yes, I have! That is why Pharazyn would have succeeded, if only he had stuck to plain ordinary narrative prose.

  “The idea he was unable to keep within his own breast, on the evening of which I am telling you, was as new, and simple, and dramatic as any that ever intoxicated the soul of story-teller or made a brother author green with envy. I can see him now, as I watched him that night, flinging to and fro with his quick, nervous stride, while he sketched the new story — bit by bit, and often the wrong bit foremost; but all with his own flashing vividness, which makes me so sorry — so sorry whenever I think of it. At moments he would stand still before the chair on which I sat intent, and beat one hand upon the other, and look down at me with a grand, wondering smile, as though he himself could hardly believe what the gods had put into his head, or that the gift was real gold, it glittered so at first sight. On that point I could reassure him. My open jealousy made me admire soberly. But when he told me, quite suddenly, as though on an afterthought, that he meant to make a play of it and not a story, I had the solid satisfaction at that moment of calling him a fool.

  “The ordinary author of my day, you see, had a certain
timorous respect for the technique of the stage. It never occurred to us to make light of those literary conventions which it was not our business to understand. We were behind you fellows in every way. But Pharazyn was a sort of forerunner: he said that any intelligent person could write a play, if he wanted to, and provided he could write at all. He said his story was a born play; and it was, in a way; but I told him I doubted whether he could train it up with his own hand into a good acting one. I knew I was right. He had neither the experience nor the innate constructive faculty, one or other of which is absolutely necessary for the writing of possible plays. I implored him to turn the thing into a good dramatic novel, and so make his mark at one blow. But no; the wilful fit was on him, and one had to let it run its course. Already he could see and hear his audience laughing and crying, so he said, and no doubt he had further visions of his weekly cheque. Anyhow, we sat up all night over it, arguing, smoking, and drinking whisky until my windows overlooking the river caught the rising sun at an angle. Then I gave in, for poor old Pharazyn was more obstinate than ever, though he thanked me with the greatest good temper for my well-meant advice.

  “‘And look here, my boy,’ says he, as he puts on his hat, ‘you shan’t hear another word about this till the play’s written; and you are to ask no questions. Is that a bargain? Very well, then. When I’ve finished it — down to the very last touches — you shall come and sit up all night with me, and I’ll read you every word. And by George, old chap, if they give me a call the first night, and want a speech — and I see you sitting in your stall, like a blessed old fool as you are — by George, sir, I’ll hold up you and your judgment to the ridicule of the house, so help me Himmel!’

  “Well, I am coming to that first night presently. Meanwhile, for the next six months I saw very little of Pharazyn, and less still in the new year. He seldom came to my rooms now; when he did I could never get him to stay and sit up with me; and once when I climbed up to his garret (it was literally that) he would not answer me, though I could smell his pipe through the key-hole in which he’d turned the key. Yet he was perfectly friendly whenever we did meet. He said he was working very hard, and indeed I could imagine it; his personal appearance, never his strong point, being even untidier, not to say seedier, than of old. He continued to send me odd magazines in which his stuff happened to appear, or, occasionally a proof for one’s opinion and suggestions; we had done this to each other all along; but either I did not think about it, or somehow he led me to suppose that his things were more or less hot from the pen, whereas many of mine had been written a twelve-month before one saw them in type. One way or another I gathered that he was at work in our common groove, and had shelved, for the present at all events, his proposed play, about which you will remember I had undertaken to ask no questions.