the moon and sixpence(月球和六便士)-第3章
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marvel at the felicity of their style； but with all their copiousness （their
vocabulary suggests that they fingered Roget's in their
cradles） they say nothing to me： to my mind they know too much and
feel too obviously； I cannot stomach the heartiness with which they slap
me on the back or the emotion with which they hurl themselves on my
bosom； their passion seems to me a little anaemic and their dreams a trifle
dull。 I do not like them。 I am on the shelf。 I will continue to write
moral stories in rhymed couplets。 But I should be thrice a fool if I did it
for aught but my own entertainment。
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Chapter III
But all this is by the way。
I was very young when I wrote my first book。 By a lucky chance it
excited attention； and various persons sought my acquaintance。
It is not without melancholy that I wander among my recollections of
the world of letters in London when first； bashful but eager； I was
introduced to it。 It is long since I frequented it； and if the novels that
describe its present singularities are accurate much in it is now changed。
The venue is different。 Chelsea and Bloomsbury have taken the place of
Hampstead； Notting Hill Gate； and High Street； Kensington。 Then it was a
distinction to be under forty； but now to be more than twenty…five is
absurd。 I think in those days we were a little shy of our emotions； and
the fear of ridicule tempered the more obvious forms of pretentiousness。 I
do not believe that there was in that genteel Bohemia an intensive culture
of chastity； but I do not remember so crude a promiscuity as seems to be
practised in the present day。 We did not think it hypocritical to draw over
our vagaries the curtain of a decent silence。 The spade was not
invariably called a bloody shovel。 Woman had not yet altogether come
into her own。
I lived near Victoria Station； and I recall long excursions by bus to the
hospitable houses of the literary。 In my timidity I wandered up and down
the street while I screwed up my courage to ring the bell； and then； sick
with apprehension； was ushered into an airless room full of people。 I was
introduced to this celebrated person after that one； and the kind words they
said about my book made me excessively uncomfortable。 I felt they
expected me to say clever things； and I never could think of any till after
the party was over。 I tried to conceal my embarrassment by handing round
cups of tea and rather ill…cut bread…and…butter。 I wanted no one to take
notice of me； so that I could observe these famous creatures at my ease
and listen to the clever things they said。
I have a recollection of large； unbending women with great noses and
rapacious eyes； who wore their clothes as though they were armour； and of
little； mouse…like spinsters； with soft voices and a shrewd glance。 I never
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ceased to be fascinated by their persistence in eating buttered toast with
their gloves on； and I observed with admiration the unconcern with which
they wiped their fingers on their chair when they thought no one was
looking。 It must have been bad for the furniture； but I suppose the
hostess took her revenge on the furniture of her friends when； in turn； she
visited them。 Some of them were dressed fashionably； and they said they
couldn't for the life of them see why you should be dowdy just because
you had written a novel； if you had a neat figure you might as well make
the most of it； and a smart shoe on a small foot had never prevented an
editor from taking your 〃stuff。〃 But others thought this frivolous； and they
wore 〃art fabrics〃 and barbaric jewelry。 The men were seldom eccentric
in appearance。 They tried to look as little like authors as possible。 They
wished to be taken for men of the world； and could have passed anywhere
for the managing clerks of a city firm。 They always seemed a little tired。
I had never known writers before； and I found them very strange； but I do
not think they ever seemed to me quite real。
I remember that I thought their conversation brilliant； and I used to
listen with astonishment to the stinging humour with which they would
tear a brother…author to pieces the moment that his back was turned。 The
artist has this advantage over the rest of the world； that his friends offer
not only their appearance and their character to his satire； but also their
work。 I despaired of ever expressing myself with such aptness or with
such fluency。 In those days conversation was still cultivated as an art； a
neat repartee was more highly valued than the crackling of thorns under a
pot； and the epigram； not yet a mechanical appliance by which the dull
may achieve a semblance of wit； gave sprightliness to the small talk of the
urbane。 It is sad that I can remember nothing of all this scintillation。 But I
think the conversation never settled down so comfortably as when it
turned to the details of the trade which was the other side of the art we
practised。 When we had done discussing the merits of the latest book； it
was natural to wonder how many copies had been sold； what advance the
author had received； and how much he was likely to make out of it。 Then
we would speak of this publisher and of that； comparing the generosity of
one with the meanness of another； we would argue whether it was better to
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go to one who gave handsome royalties or to another who 〃pushed〃 a
book for all it was worth。 Some advertised badly and some well。 Some
were modern and some were old…fashioned。 Then we would talk of
agents and the offers they had obtained for us； of editors and the sort of
contributions they welcomed； how much they paid a thousand； and
whether they paid promptly or otherwise。 To me it was all very romantic。
It gave me an intimate sense of being a member of some mystic
brotherhood。
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Chapter IV
No one was kinder to me at that time than Rose Waterford。 She
combined a masculine intelligence with a feminine perversity； and the
novels she wrote were original and disconcerting。 It was at her house one
day that I met Charles Strickland's wife。 Miss Waterford was giving a tea…
party； and her small room was more than usually full。 Everyone seemed
to be talking； and I； sitting in silence； felt awkward； but I was too shy to
break into any of the groups that seemed absorbed in their own affairs。
Miss Waterford was a good hostess； and seeing my embarrassment came
up to me。
〃I want you to talk to Mrs。 Strickland；〃 she said。 〃She's raving about
your book。〃
〃What does she do？〃 I asked。
I was conscious of my ignorance； and if Mrs。 Strickland was a well…
known writer I thought it as well to ascertain the fact before I spoke to her。
Rose Waterford cast down her eyes demurely to give greater effect to
her reply。
〃She gives luncheon…parties。 You've only got to roar a little； and
she'll ask you。〃
Rose Waterford was a cynic。 She looked upon life as an opportunity
for writing novels and the public as her raw material。 Now and then she
invited members of it to her house if they showed an appreciation of her
talent and entertained with proper lavishness。 She held their weakness
for lions in good…humoured contempt； but played to them her part of the
distinguished woman of letters with decorum。
I was led up to Mrs。 Strickland； and for ten minutes we talked together。
I noticed nothing about her except that she had a pleasant voice。 She had
a flat in Westminster； overlooking the unfinished cathedral； and because
we lived in the same neighbourhood we felt friendly disposed to one
another。 The Army and Navy Stores are a bond of union between all who
dwell between the river and St。 James's Park。 Mrs。 Strickland asked me
for my address； and a few days later I received an invitation to luncheon。
My engagements were few； and I was glad to accept。 When I arrived；
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a little late； because in my fear of being too early I had walked three times
round the cathedral； I found the party already complete。 Miss Waterford
was there and Mrs。 Jay； Richard Twining and George Road。 We were all
writers。 It was a fine day； early in spring； and we were in a good humour。
We talked about a hundred things。 Miss Waterford； torn between the
aestheticism of her early youth； when she used to go to parties in sage
green； holding a daffodil； and the flippancy of her maturer years； which
tended to high heels and Paris frocks； wore a new hat。 It put her in high
spirits。 I had never heard her more malicious about our common friends。
Mrs。 Jay； aware that impropriety is the soul of wit； made observations in
tones hardly above a whisper that might well have tinged the snowy
tablecloth with a rosy hue。 Richard Twining bubbled over with quaint
absurdities； and George Road； conscious that he need not exhibit a
brilliancy which was almost a by…word； opened his mouth only to put food
into it。 Mrs。 Strickland did not talk much； but she had a
