And Even Now
would not have spared Mlle. Ange’lique. Besides, why should I libel M.
Joumand? Poor--no, not poor M. Joumand! I warned myself against pitying
him. One touch of ‘sentimentality,’ and I should be lost. M. Joumand was
ridiculous. I must keep him so. But--what was his position in life? Was
he a lawyer perhaps?--or the proprietor of a shop in the Rue de Rivoli?
I toyed with the possibility that he kept a fan shop--that the business
had once been a prosperous one, but had gone down, down, because of his
infatuation for this woman to whom he was always giving fans--which she
always smashed.... ‘“Ah monsieur, cruel and ungrateful to me though she
is, I swear to you that if I had anything left to give, it should be
hers; but,” he stared at me with his old hopeless eyes, “the fan she
broke to-night was the last--the last, monsieur--of my stock.” Down
below,’--but I pulled myself together, and asked pardon of my Muse.
It may be that I had offended her by my fooling. Or it may be that she
had a sisterly desire to shield Mlle. Ange’lique from my mordant art. Or
it may be that she was bent on saving M. de Maupassant from a dangerous
rivalry. Anyway, she withheld from me the inspiration I had so
confidently solicited. I could not think what had led up to that scene
on the terrace. I tried hard and soberly. I turned the ‘chose vue’ over
and over in my mind, day by day, and the fan-stump over and over in my
hand. But the ‘chose a’ figurer’--what, oh what, was that? Nightly I
revisited the cafe’, and sat there with an open mind--a mind wide-open
to catch the idea that should drop into it like a ripe golden plum. The
plum did not ripen. The mind remained wide-open for a week or more, but
nothing except that phrase about the sea rustled to and fro in it.
A full quarter of a century has gone by. M. Joumand’s death, so far too
fat was he all those years ago, may be presumed. A temper so violent as
Mlle. Angélique’s must surely have brought its owner to the grave, long
since. But here, all unchanged, the stump of her fan is; and once more I
turn it over and over in my hand, not learning its secret--no, nor
even trying to, now. The chord this relic strikes in me is not one of
curiosity as to that old quarrel, but (if you will forgive me) one
of tenderness for my first effort to write, and for my first hopes of
excellence.
‘HOW SHALL I WORD IT?’ 1910.
It would seem that I am one of those travellers for whom the railway
bookstall does not cater. Whenever I start on a journey, I find that my
choice lies between well-printed books which I have no wish to read, and
well-written books which I could not read without permanent injury to my
eyesight. The keeper of the bookstall, seeing me gaze vaguely along his
shelves, suggests that I should take ‘Fen Country Fanny’ or else ‘The
Track of Blood’ and have done with it. Not wishing to hurt his feelings,
I refuse these works on the plea that I have read them. Whereon he,
divining despite me that I am a superior person, says ‘Here is a
nice little handy edition of More’s “Utopia”’ or ‘Carlyle’s “French
Revolution”’ and again I make some excuse. What pleasure could I get
from trying to cope with a masterpiece printed in diminutive grey-ish
type on a semi-transparent little grey-ish page? I relieve the bookstall
of nothing but a newspaper or two.
The other day, however, my eye and fancy were caught by a book entitled
‘How Shall I Word It?’ and sub-entitled ‘A Complete Letter Writer for
Men and Women.’ I had never read one of these manuals, but had often
heard that there was a great and constant ‘demand’ for them. So I
demanded this one. It is no great fun in itself. The writer is no fool.
He has evidently a natural talent for writing letters. His style is, for
the most part, discreet and easy. If you were a young man writing ‘to
Father of Girl he wishes to Marry’ or ‘thanking Fiance’e for Present’
or ‘reproaching Fiance’e for being a Flirt,’ or if you were a mother
‘asking Governess her Qualifications’ or ‘replying to Undesirable
Invitation for her Child,’ or indeed if you were in any other one of the
crises which this book is designed to alleviate, you might copy out and
post the specially-provided letter without making yourself ridiculous in
the eyes of its receiver--unless, of course, he or she also possessed
a copy of the book. But--well, can you conceive any one copying out
and posting one of these letters, or even taking it as the basis
for composition? You cannot. That shows how little you know of your
fellow-creatures. Not you nor I can plumb the abyss at the bottom of
which such humility is possible. Nevertheless, as we know by that great
and constant ‘demand,’ there the abyss is, and there multitudes are at
the bottom of it. Let’s peer down... No, all is darkness. But faintly,
if we listen hard, is borne up to us a sound of the scratching of
innumerable pens--pens whose wielders are all trying, as the author of
this handbook urges them, to ‘be original, fresh, and interesting’ by
dint of more or less strict adherence to sample.
Giddily you draw back from the edge of the abyss. Come!--here is a
thought to steady you. The mysterious great masses of helpless folk for
whom ‘How Shall I Word It’ is written are sound at heart, delicate in
feeling, anxious to please, most loth to wound. For it must be presumed
that the author’s style of letter-writing is informed as much by a
desire to give his public what it needs, and will pay for, as by his own
beautiful nature; and in the course of all the letters that he dictates
you will find not one harsh word, not one ignoble thought or unkind
insinuation. In all of them, though so many are for the use of persons
placed in the most trying circumstances, and some of them are for
persons writhing under a sense of intolerable injury, sweetness and
light do ever reign. Even ‘yours truly, Jacob Langton,’ in his ‘letter
to his Daughter’s Mercenary Fiance’,’ mitigates the sternness of his
tone by the remark that his ‘task is inexpressibly painful.’ And he, Mr.
Langton, is the one writer who lets the post go out on his wrath. When
Horace Masterton, of Thorpe Road, Putney, receives from Miss Jessica
Weir, of Fir Villa, Blackheath, a letter ‘declaring her Change of
Feelings,’ does he upbraid her? No; ‘it was honest and brave of you to
write to me so straightforwardly and at the back of my mind I know you
have done what is best.... I give you back your freedom only at your
desire. God bless you, dear.’ Not less admirable is the behaviour, in
similar case, of Cecil Grant (14, Glover Street, Streatham). Suddenly,
as a bolt from the blue, comes a letter from Miss Louie Hawke (Elm View,
Deerhurst), breaking off her betrothal to him. Haggard, he sits down to
his desk; his pen traverses the notepaper--calling down curses on Louie
and on all her sex? No; ‘one cannot say good-bye for ever without deep
regret to days that have been so full of happiness. I must thank you
sincerely for all your great kindness to me.... With every sincere wish
for your future happiness,’ he bestows complete freedom on Miss Hawke.
And do not imagine that in the matter of self-control and sympathy, of
power to understand all and pardon all, the men are lagged behind by the
women. Miss Leila Johnson (The Manse, Carlyle) has observed in Leonard
Wace (Dover Street, Saltburn) a certain coldness of demeanour; yet ‘I
do not blame you; it is probably your nature’; and Leila in her sweet
forbearance is typical of all the other pained women in these pages: she
is but one of a crowd of heroines.
Face to face with all this perfection, the not perfect reader begins to
crave some little outburst of wrath, of hatred or malice, from one of
these imaginary ladies and gentlemen. He longs for--how shall he word
it?--a glimpse of some bad motive, of some little lapse from dignity.
Often, passing by a pillar-box, I have wished I could unlock it and
carry away its contents, to be studied at my leisure. I have always
thought such a haul would abound in things fascinating to a student of
human nature. One night, not long ago, I took a waxen impression of the
lock of the pillar-box nearest to my house, and had a key made. This
implement I have as yet lacked either the courage or the opportunity to
use. And now I think I shall throw it away.... No, I shan’t. I refuse,
after all, to draw my inference that the bulk of the British public
writes always in the manner of this handbook. Even if they all have
beautiful natures they must sometimes be sent slightly astray by
inferior impulses, just as are you and I.
And, if err they must, surely it were well they should know how to do it
correctly and forcibly. I suggest to our author that he should sprinkle
his next edition with a few less righteous examples, thereby both
purging his book of its monotony and somewhat justifying its sub-title.
Like most people who are in the habit of writing things to be printed,
I have not the knack of writing really good letters. But let me crudely
indicate the sort of thing that our manual needs....
LETTER FROM POOR MAN TO OBTAIN MONEY FROM RICH ONE.
[The English law is particularly hard on what is called blackmail. It is
therefore essential that the applicant should write nothing that might
afterwards be twisted to incriminate him.--ED.]
DEAR SIR, To-day, as I was turning out a drawer in my attic, I came
across a letter which by a curious chance fell into my hands some years
ago, and which, in the stress of grave pecuniary embarrassment, had
escaped my memory. It is a letter written by yourself to a lady, and the
date shows it to have been written shortly after your marriage. It is
of a confidential nature, and might, I fear, if it fell into the
wrong hands, be cruelly misconstrued. I would wish you to have the
satisfaction of destroying it in person. At first I thought of sending
it on to you by post. But I know how happy you are in your domestic
life; and probably your wife and you, in your perfect mutual trust, are
in the habit of opening each other’s letters. Therefore, to avoid risk,
I would prefer to hand the document to you personally. I will not ask
you to come to my attic, where I could not offer you such hospitality as
is due to a man of your wealth and position. You will be so good as
to meet me at 3.0 A.M. (sharp) to-morrow (Thursday) beside the tenth
lamp-post to the left on the Surrey side of Waterloo Bridge; at
which hour and place we shall not be disturbed. I am, dear Sir, Yours
respectfully, JAMES GRIDGE.
LETTER FROM YOUNG MAN REFUSING TO PAY HIS TAILOR’S BILL.
Mr. Eustace Davenant has received the half-servile, half-insolent screed
which Mr. Yardley has addressed to him. Let Mr. Yardley cease from
crawling on his knees and shaking his fist. Neither this posture
nor this gesture can wring one bent farthing from the pockets of Mr.
Davenant, who was a minor at the time when that series of ill-made suits
was supplied to him and will hereafter, as in the past, shout (without
prejudice) from the house-tops that of all the tailors in London Mr.
Yardley is at once the most grasping and the least competent.
LETTER TO THANK AUTHOR FOR INSCRIBED COPY OF BOOK.
DEAR MR. EMANUEL FLOWER, It was kind of you to think of sending me a
copy of your new book. It would have been kinder still to think again
and abandon that project. I am a man of gentle instincts, and do not
like to tell you that ‘A Flight into Arcady’ (of which I have skimmed
a few pages, thus wasting two or three minutes of my not altogether
worthless time) is trash. On the other hand, I am determined that you
shall not be able to go around boasting to your friends, if you have
any, that this work was not condemned, derided, and dismissed by your
sincere well-wisher, WREXFORD CRIPPS.