But the completion of the tale carried him to the end of September. His funds were slipping away, and yet his concentration upon that one particular effort was such that he did not think of the many other functions that he could have performed. He contemplated no alternative way of earning a living. There was something sheeplike in his urge to struggle through that particular gap in the hedge. Always, he had been a scribbler, and if he saw no salvation save in scribbling, he was wiser than he knew.
He did not try the tale on Eleanor Richmond. He had yet to learn that as a reader she was to be of more value to him than all the wise men in London. He maintained a secrecy. He was a kind of literary Robinson Crusoe. He was building a home-made boat, and whether it would sink or swim was his concern, and no one else’s.
But Eleanor Richmond read his tale. She too maintained a secrecy. She read it in the early morning before Scarsdale was down. It puzzled her not a little. Parts of it seemed right, parts of it quite wrong. She could have put a finger on the paragraphs where Scarsdale and life had lost each other.
“Now, a woman wouldn’t have done that.”
But the tale moved her. Almost it convinced her, and she was not easily convinced. She knew her part of the world too well. She had lived and worked among the realities. It seemed to her that in writing this story Scarsdale had been playing a game of blind-man’s buff. Sometimes he caught reality; at other times it eluded him.
But if he could get rid of that bandage?
She wanted to talk to him about it, but she had a feeling that it was he who would have to open the conversation. Besides, that tale of his had impressed her. It had aroused her curiosity.
The day came when it was finished. The manuscript disappeared. It returned in due course with a typed copy. Mrs. Richmond read the typed copy, and felt that the tale had gained in vividness and interest. She stood, looking out of the window.
What would he do with it? Would it get into print? She had more than a feeling that he was both living and dying by that tale. In her way she had divined its significance. The thing was bread and meat, a beginning or an end, something dared and accomplished, a desperate challenge. He had sat for so many hours at that table. She had seemed to see things in his eyes. He was a craftsman who had constructed a piece of furniture, and the supreme test was yet to come. Would he be able to sell that story?
She was a working woman; she used her hands. The work of those who labour is their one reality. She did not live in an art for art’s sake world. Necessity opens the factory door. Yet—too—she was woman, woman who can watch a man-child at play and understand that play has some esoteric meaning. She could not use words to express her intuitions, but the light was there. Children do not play for money. That is manhood’s fate, the old inevitableness of Eden. Man had to play usefully or starve. Some men do things because they must, but the doing of them may have a double purpose. Scarsdale wrote because writing was in him. She did not call it the passion to express life, but she understood it so. No doubt words were to him what her simple, daily household doings were to her. She would not have felt herself without them.
She noticed in him a sudden restlessness. The thing was done and the urge to do had left him. He had washed up his crockery and put it away. What next? In the evenings she sat like a woman with her needle ready to look up from her work with attentive and wise eyes, but he had grown hesitant. She would hear his door open, and she could picture him standing in the passage, unable to make up his mind. She had a feeling that he wanted to come to her, and that something was holding him back.
He went out and walked, for his restlessness had other promptings. He had finished a piece of work, and the tension of effort had relaxed, but now that the thing was done he found himself face to face with finality. He had hammered out his tale, and the product had to be taken to market and offered as merchandise.
He was afraid. Almost he shirked the crude test of his work’s marketable value. He had had so many doors closed on him, so many manuscripts returned. That his financial affairs were desperate, made the crisis all the more poignant.
He hesitated. He could not make up his mind as to how he should set about marketing his tale. He had had so little success with personal interviews, for he did not impress people; he was too deprecating and too anxious. Should he try a literary agent, persuade some intermediary to do for him that which he shrank from doing? He walked. He walked into the gathering dusk, and the gradual galaxy of a city’s lights. He returned by way of the Essex Road, and in the Essex Road he came upon a hawker with a barrow. The man was selling fruit. He had no hesitations about the selling of fruit. He bawled in the public face.
And Scarsdale thought, “If only I had the assurance of that fellow. If only I had a barrow of bananas.”
But why was the assurance lacking? Why should not the product of his brain be as marketable as bananas? He stiffened. He walked on to Astey’s Row, and let himself in, and saw that the door of Mrs. Richmond’s room was ajar. A streak of light showed. He stood hesitant, and yet inspired.
Why shouldn’t she read his tale?
Now, as a stylist he might be nothing, and as a man—everything, provided that he was not concerned in the mere cutting of capers, but when he went softly down the passage and knocked at her door, he was mere Adam asking to be reassured.
“May I come in?”
She was open to his shy mood. It really was extraordinary how his shyness remained with him; for it was like an English sky gently clouded, and seldom boldly blue. She saw him standing there, the long fingers of a hand clasped over the edge of the door, his eyes asking for something. What an incalculable creature he was, and yet—in a way—so calculable. He had nothing brazen about him; he was made of much softer metal.
“Had your walk?”
“Yes.”
Strange that they should have lived together in this little house for so many months, and that he had remained so unpresumptuous even while the inevitable intimacy was unconfessed. There were moments when he was more shy of her than ever. He just sat and stroked the cat, or made quiet conversation. An assertive and confident maleness would have caused the daily invasion to become more significantly physical, but this man was most strangely like a soul without a body, a grey and gentle shape that drifted in and remained in her presence. Almost he was transparent, and yet—to her—so much more human than mere solid flesh, the obvious male so egregiously proud of its one prophetic emblem. She liked him as he was. She had had her three years with the other sort of man and had remained unsatisfied.
She had to prompt him.
“Come and sit down.”
He picked up the cat, and holding Thomas as he would have held a baby, he sat down. He was silent. He appeared to be absorbed in caressing the cat. And then he made the most irrelevant of remarks.
“Just seen a man selling bananas.”
Now, what could be more idiotic! But she did not raise an eyebrow. Some men and some children must be allowed their fancifulness.
“Off a barrow?”
“Yes”, and then he added, “it seems quite easy to sell bananas.”
For a moment she wondered. Surely he was not thinking of turning hawker? He would be a foredoomed failure as a street-hawker; he had not the voice or the face for it.
“Possibly.”
She moistened the end of her cotton and threaded a needle. No, it was she who had lost the thread. She recovered it.
“Easier than selling—other things.”
She had got it. His eyes regarded her with relief and gratitude. How oracular she was, how quick and yet how deep!
“Yes, that’s it. I’ve just finished a short story. Wish you’d read it.”
She did not tell him that she had read it.
“Of course. But I’m not what you’d call—”
He stroked the cat.
“No,—but you know about things. I’d rely a good deal,—yes,—I would, really. You’ve got understanding. I haven’t tried the tale yet,
on an editor,—I mean.”
She concealed an inward smile. Instantly she had confronted the issue, and chosen her attitude. Somehow she knew what he needed. Almost she could see him pushing that tale of his about on a barrow, and with an air of gentle hesitancy offering to the world the fruit of his labours.
“Won’t you fetch the story?”
“May I? It’s rather long. You won’t want to read it now?”
“Why not? I want to.”
He looked at her; he put down the cat and disappeared. He returned with the typescript, and handed it to her, and stood irresolute.
“I think I’ll leave you alone with it. I’ll go out and buy some tobacco.”
She answered him gently.
“Yes, go out and buy some tobacco.”
He was away for the best part of an hour, and when he returned with a face that tried to veil both its eagerness and its anxiety, she had her white lie ready. Besides, the lie was not very enormous. What he needed was the glow of a suggestive confidence.
“I think it’s a wonderful tale. It made me want to cry.”
She glanced at him momentarily from under careful lashes. She saw something happen to his face. His eyes grew luminous.
“Really! I’m so awfully glad. You see,—I—”
He recovered the typescript from the table. Almost, he caressed it. The thing had become different.
“I’d rather please you, Eleanor. You see—you’re—you’re so wise in a kind of way. I’m awfully glad.”
And suddenly he smiled.
“Perhaps I’ll sell my bunch of bananas.”
2
His courage returned to him. It could not be said that his self-confidence swaggered, but it moved him to consult a copy of the “Literary Year Book”, to run a finger down the long list of magazines. His finger came to rest opposite the Golden Magazine. Possibly he found the name arrestive, and so significant so far as his own needs were concerned. It suggested golden gates, and the Apples of the Hesperides, and it caused him to remember that the name of the magazine was not new to him. It had been launched since the war, and with some éclat, and it had had considerable success, a success that had surprised Fleet Street, because a man who was considered to be an outsider had been given the editorial chair. Yes, one Arthur Raymond. And for all that Scarsdale knew Raymond still edited the Golden Magazine.
He asked himself why he should obey his finger, and try his fortune with the Golden Magazine. It had the colour of a banana. He might even dare to ask for an interview with Arthur Raymond. Previously he had had no luck with editors; he had not found the sympathetic presence, the particular personality that would match his shyness. He had been too much discouraged by the Taggarts and the Bagshaws. But there was nothing to prevent him from attempting the adventure, nothing but his own diffidence. His necessity was a scourge.
He went. That a man should discover terror in so mild an adventure might appear absurd. In a sense it was absurd, but then man is a wonderful and a ridiculous creature, and to Scarsdale a little success would mean the slackening of a noose. He was not one of those poor sodden devils who had ceased to care; he cared acutely, and especially now that there was something to care for. He came to the building that housed the staff of the Golden Magazine; he had a glimpse of two mahogany swing doors with brass handles and glass panels, and of a commissionaire, a very smart and polished veteran sitting on a high stool. And suddenly Scarsdale’s purpose seemed to fail in him; his blood was water, his stomach an empty sack. A little, whimpering voice cried, “No, I can’t go in there. No justification. I’m nobody.”
He traversed the length of street three times. He stood in front of a window in which copies of last month’s Golden Magazine were displayed. It had an opulent air. It could boast of the names of a number of distinguished authors. It frightened Scarsdale. It made him feel like a ragged and futile creature with his nose glued to the window of a goldsmith’s shop. He felt so inferior.
He turned again towards the door. His intention was to pass it, but some access of self-shame, a sudden rage against his own cowardice, impelled him into the entrance. He was aware of the very polished commissionaire pulling open one of the swing doors. It was done for him, Spenser Scarsdale!
“ ’Morning, sir.”
Scarsdale’s mouth felt dry. He heard a little throaty voice asking a question. It was his own voice.
“Mr. Raymond in?”
“I think so, sir. Got an appointment?”
And to Scarsdale came no vision of a cross in the sky, no symbol fit for emperors to gaze upon, but the remembrance of a barrow of bananas, and of a little red-faced man blaring his assurance in the face of the Essex Road.
He pulled out a wallet.
“No. I’ll send up my card. Mr. Raymond will see me.”
No one was more astonished than Scarsdale when the commissionaire returned to the little waiting-room at the foot of the stairs, and informed the gentleman that Mr. Raymond would see him. The event lacked credibility. There was no reason why Raymond should see him. As a matter of fact Arthur Raymond had acted upon impulse, he, a very busy man, had had to teach himself to say no, because the natural kindness of his heart had always been for yes. He had glanced at Scarsdale’s card. Possibly the name attracted him. He had five minutes.
Scarsdale quaked. He went up the stairs, and was met by a girl secretary. He said good morning to her, and she gave him the vaguest of smiles. She opened an inner door, and he found himself with Arthur Raymond.
They looked at each other. One man was frightened, the other quietly alert. Scarsdale’s figure had an awkwardness, a rigidity; his feet had the appearance of being attached to the floor.
“Sit down, Mr. Scarsdale.”
The voice was very quiet; so was the man. He was tall and thin, with a finely drawn face, and a pair of bright brown eyes. There was something staglike about him. His thin hair curled back from a sensitive forehead. His mouth was the mouth of a priest.
Scarsdale sat down. He nursed his hat. His bony knees seemed to stick out hugely.
He said, “It’s very good of you to see me. I won’t waste your time. I used to do work for various magazines. I have written a tale. I don’t think it’s a bad tale. I wondered if I might send it to you to read. I’m not asking for favours.”
Raymond observed him, but gently so. He noticed something, little beads of perspiration on the other man’s forehead, a glisten of anguish.
“Certainly. I should like to read it.”
His long thin fingers played with a pencil. Always he felt the need of gripping something when he had to be hard.
“But just a word. You understand, the work has to carry itself. There is no other test.”
Scarsdale nodded.
“I know. You have to set a standard. But all I ask is—”
“You can send the tale to me. Perhaps you have it with you?”
“No.”
“Address it to me personally.”
“I am very grateful to you. It means—opportunity.”
He got up. He had been less than two minutes in that chair. He looked down at Arthur Raymond, and seemed to see in him that which other men were not. He smiled as though some spasm of anguish had passed.
“Must not waste your time. I’ll send it at once. Good morning. I am very much obliged.”
He caught Arthur Raymond’s upward and merciful smile, and got himself out of the room, and past the impassive secretary, and down the stairs. The commissionaire dismounted from his stool and wished Scarsdale good morning. Scarsdale wished him it back with a glory of harps and of halos.
Upstairs Raymond was looking at his finger-nails.
“Poor devil!”
The editor and man in him added, “I hope it’s possible. Not hopeless tosh. Quite damnable that a man should sweat like that. What am I—anyway? A doorkeeper? But I have to respect my door.”
3
Scarsdale had some ten pounds left in the world when that tale was posted
to Arthur Raymond, but for the moment he possessed more than mere cash; he was the owner of a little optimism.
He dared to hope. Certainly, hope was a very fragile plant placed so as to catch all the London sunlight that there was in Eleanor Richmond’s window, nor was it a plant that grew or flowered, but just kept itself alive during those autumn days. Scarsdale cherished it, for never before had he been granted so precious an opportunity. To him Arthur Raymond was a god, yet somehow frail and human. There had been an instant of unexpressed sympathy between them, the mirror-flash of two sensitives.
Scarsdale returned to his novel. The urge to work was less self-consciously tense and troubled. He had his idea, a very human piece of inspiration, and during the first few days of waiting for the Raymond verdict he worked out a rough synopsis. His thinking had more fluidity. He was tempted to believe that his luck had turned, though luck was only the right adjustment of place and time and person. He began to believe a little in himself.
He even dared to tell Mrs. Richmond about the interview with Raymond. He spoke of it with a furtive facetiousness, just because the affair was so intensely serious.
“I have offered my bunch of bananas for sale. Of course, one never knows.”
She understood that he hoped and hoped considerably. He needed it, poor man. And yet he was not wholly poor to her, though she was wise as to an increasing shabbiness. He had socks that were past darning, yet though the sensitive texture of him might be frayed, the pride of him remained. It might be tenuous and shadowy, but it would be careful not to cast a shadow upon others. His money went to her each week. He was incapable of sponging.
She allowed him to feel that his success mattered.
“When will you hear?”
“Oh, in a week or two. Editors have to take time. It is a high-class magazine. I’m rather hopeful, because the editor’s rather unusual.”
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