Not George Washington — an Autobiographical Novel

by P. G. Wodehouse

  CHAPTER 24

  A RIFT IN THE CLOUDS

  O perfidy of woman! O feminine inconstancy! That is the only allusion Ishall permit to escape me on the subject of Eva Eversleigh's engagementto that scoundrel Julian.

  I had the news by telegraph, and the heavens darkened above me, whilstthe solid earth rocked below.

  I had been trapped into dishonour, and even the bait had been withheldfrom me.

  But it was not the loss of Eva that troubled me most. It should haveoutweighed all my other misfortunes and made them seem of no account,but it did not. Man is essentially a materialist. The prospect of anempty stomach is more serious to him than a broken heart. A brokenheart is the luxury of the well-to-do. What troubled me more than allother things at this juncture was the thought that I was face to facewith starvation, and that only the grimmest of fights could enable meto avoid it. I quaked at the prospect. The early struggles of thewriter to keep his head above water form an experience which does notbear repetition. The hopeless feeling of chipping a little niche foroneself out of the solid rock with a nib is a nightmare even in timesof prosperity. I remembered the grey days of my literaryapprenticeship, and I shivered at the thought that I must go throughthem again.

  I examined my position dispassionately over a cup of coffee at Groom's,in Fleet Street. Groom's was a recognised _Orb rendezvous_. When Iwas doing "On Your Way," one or two of us used to go down Fleet Streetfor coffee after the morning's work with the regularity of machines. Itformed a recognised break in the day.

  I thought things over. How did I stand? Holiday work at the _Orb_would begin very shortly, so that I should get a good start in my race.Fermin would be going away in a few weeks, then Gresham, and after thatFane, the man who did the "People and Things" column. With luck I oughtto get a clear fifteen weeks of regular work. It would just save me. Infifteen weeks I ought to have got going again. The difficulty was thatI had dropped out. Editors had forgotten my work. John Hatton theyknew, and Sidney Price they knew; but who was James Orlebar Cloyster?There would be much creaking of joints and wobbling of wheels before mytriumphal car could gather speed again. But, with a regular salarycoming in week by week from the _Orb_, I could endure this. Ibecame almost cheerful. It is an exhilarating sensation having one'sback against the wall.

  Then there was Briggs, the actor. The very thought of him was a tonic.A born fighter, with the energy of six men, he was an ideal model forme. If I could work with a sixth of his dash and pluck, I should besafe. He was giving me work. He might give me more. The new edition ofthe _Belle of Wells_ was due in another fortnight. My lyrics wouldbe used, and I should get paid for them. Add this to my _Orb_salary, and I should be a man of substance.

  I glared over my coffee-cup at an imaginary John Hatton.

  "You thought you'd done me, did you?" I said to him. "By Gad! I'll havethe laugh of you all yet."

  I was shaking my fist at him when the door opened. I hurriedly tiltedback my chair, and looked out of the window.

  "Hullo, Cloyster."

  I looked round. It was Fermin. Just the man I wanted to see.

  He seemed depressed. Even embarrassed.

  "How's the column?" I asked.

  "Oh, all right," he said awkwardly. "I wanted to see you about that. Iwas going to write to you."

  "Oh, yes," I said, "of course. About the holiday work. When are youoff?"

  "I was thinking of starting next week."

  "Good. Sorry to lose you, of course, but----"

  He shuffled his feet.

  "You're doing pretty well now at the game, aren't you, Cloyster?" hesaid.

  It was not to my interests to cry myself down, so I said that I wasdoing quite decently. He seemed relieved.

  "You're making quite a good income, I suppose? I mean, no difficultyabout placing your stuff?"

  "Editors squeal for it."

  "Because, otherwise what I wanted to say to you might have beensomething of a blow. But it won't affect you much if you're doingplenty of work elsewhere."

  A cold hand seemed laid upon my heart. My mind leaped to what hemeant. Something had gone wrong with the _Orb_ holiday work, mysheet-anchor.

  "Do you remember writing a par about Stickney, the butter-scotch man,you know, ragging him when he got his peerage?"

  "Yes."

  It was one of the best paragraphs I had ever done. A two-line thing,full of point and sting. I had been editing "On Your Way" that day,Fermin being on a holiday and Gresham ill; and I had put the paragraphconspicuously at the top of the column.

  "Well," said Fermin, "I'm afraid there was rather trouble about it.Hamilton came into our room yesterday, and asked if I should be seeingyou. I said I thought I should. 'Well, tell him,' said Hamilton, 'thatthat paragraph of his about Stickney has only cost us five hundredpounds. That's all.' And he went out again. Apparently Stickney was onthe point of advertising largely with the _Orb_, and had backedout in a huff. Today, I went to see him about my holiday, and he wantedto know who was coming in to do my work. I mentioned you, and heabsolutely refused to have you in. I'm awfully sorry about it."

  I was silent. The shock was too great. Instead of drifting easily intomy struggle on a comfortable weekly salary, I should have to start thetooth-and-nail fighting at once. I wanted to get away somewhere bymyself, and grapple with the position.

  I said good-bye to Fermin, retaining sufficient presence of mind totreat the thing lightly, and walked swiftly along the restless Strand,marvelling at what I had suffered at the hands of Fortune. The deceiverof Margaret, deceived by Eva, a pauper! I covered the distance betweenGroom's and Walpole Street in sombre meditation.

  In a sort of dull panic I sat down immediately on my arrival, and triedto work. I told myself that I must turn out something, that it would bemadness to waste a moment.

  I sat and chewed my pen from two o'clock till five, but not a page ofprintable stuff could I turn out. Looking back at myself at thatmoment, I am not surprised that my ideas did not flow. It would havebeen a wonderful triumph of strength of mind if I had been able towrite after all that had happened. Dr. Johnson has laid it down that aman can write at any time, if he sets himself to it earnestly; but minewere exceptional circumstances. My life's happiness and my means forsupporting life at all, happy or otherwise, had been swept away in asingle morning; and I found myself utterly unable to pen a coherentsentence.

  At five o'clock I gave up the struggle, and rang for tea.

  While I was having tea there was a ring at the bell, and my landladybrought in a large parcel.

  I recognised the writing on the label. The hand was Margaret's. Iwondered in an impersonal sort of way what Margaret could be sending tome. From the feel of it the contents were paper.

  It amuses me now to think that it was a good half-hour before I tookthe trouble to cut the string. Fortune and happiness were waiting forme in that parcel, and I would not bother to open it. I sat in mychair, smoking and thinking, and occasionally cast a gloomy eye at theparcel. But I did not open it. Then my pipe went out, and I found thatI had no matches in my pocket. There were some at the farther end ofthe mantelpiece. I had to get up to reach them, and, once up, I foundmyself filled with a sufficient amount of energy to take a knife fromthe table and cut the string.

  Languidly I undid the brown paper. The contents were a pile oftypewritten pages and a letter.

  It was the letter over which my glassy eyes travelled first.

  "My own dear, brave, old darling James," it began, and its purport wasthat she had written a play, and wished me to put my name to it andhawk it round: to pass off as my work her own amateurish effort atplaywriting. Ludicrous. And so immoral, too. I had always imagined thatMargaret had a perfectly flawless sense of honesty. Yet here she wasasking me deliberately to impose on the credulity of some poor,trusting theatrical manager. The dreadful disillusionment of it shockedme.

  Most men would have salved their wounded susceptibilities by putting amatch to the manuscript without further thought or investiga
tion.

  But I have ever been haunted by a somewhat over-strict conscience, andI sat down there and then to read the stupid stuff.

  At seven o'clock I was still reading.

  My dinner was brought in. I bolted it with Margaret's play propped upagainst the potato dish.

  I read on and on. I could not leave it. Incredible as it would appearfrom anyone but me, I solemnly assure you that the typewritten nonsenseI read that evening was nothing else than _The Girl who Waited_.