They return at evening A book of ghost stories
these versatile functions, genital, obstetric, and cenotaphic, is
microscopic. And the lazy ingrates who pretend to their parentage
compare such philanthropists to a brigand!” Indignation brushed the
poppies from his eyes, and he went back to his proof-reading. A little
later his telephone bell rang. “A gentleman to see you. Yes, sir, a
Mr. Kato, sir, about a manuscript.” “Oh, show him up,” answered Mr.
Cheltenham resignedly. A moment later the door opened and an exotic
and singular personage entered. His tiny feet were embraced by patent
leather boots and white spats. A pair of plus-four knickerbockers
peeped out through a loose dark garment like a priest’s robe. Above
protruded a short, tubby body, above that a sallow expressionless face
with fluttering almond eyes. His right hand was clutching a bowler
hat, his left a package of some kind. This apparition sat down on the
chair pointed out to him by Mr. Cheltenham, and remained silent. “Well,
Mr. Kato,” said the publisher, “and what can I do for you?” Mr. Kato
thereupon raised his left hand and placed on the table a beautifully
bound manuscript on which were painted in a panel some sentences Mr.
Cheltenham supposed were Japanese. “I have this book, which I wish
to bring to notice of poetic public persons,” he said in a clipped,
toneless voice.
Mr. Cheltenham picked up the manuscript. “I take it you wish to have
it published,” he said. He saw it consisted of a number of short
poems. “The usual tripe,” he thought to himself, for he had met these
Orientals before who spend many ingenious days translating into
deliberately naïve English the lesser-known works of their compatriots
and palming them off as their own.
“Well, Mr. Kato,” said he, “it is easier to sell a boot-legger a case
of ginger-pop than for a publisher to support a wife and family on the
publication of verse. If poets are determined to inflict on a patient
public the dreams they dream and the visions they see, it is only fair
that they should foot the bill--that the piper should pay for the paper
and the printing and remunerate the publisher--in this case shall we
say myself--for the time and trouble he gives to the preparation of the
book. Are you willing to contribute towards the cost of production?”
“If it must be so,” replied Mr. Kato. “It is the poetic fame which I
desire.”
“Very well, then,” said the publisher, “but first of all I must satisfy
myself that the work is worthy to bear my imprint. My standard is
high--if I find it reaches that standard I will have an estimate
prepared, and then put my proposals before you. You shall have my
decision within a week. Good afternoon.”
Mr. Kato rose, shook hands, put on his bowler and walked towards the
door. Now Mr. Cheltenham had been very uncharacteristically brusque
and tart during this short interview, for he had not been quite at his
ease. It was no doubt owing to his drowsiness, but it had seemed to him
that Mr. Kato’s outline had been curiously smudgy and wavering, and as
he walked away he had the impression that the little Jap’s shadow was
walking out behind him, as if two little Orientals were passing across
the room to the door. But the sun had long ceased to throw shadows into
Willoughby Court. He took the MS. home with him that night, and after
dinner began to look through it. It was entitled, _And He Shall Sing As
Best He Can_. That pleased Mr. Cheltenham at once, for he recognised
it as a quotation from _The Gates of Damascus_, that masterpiece of
Flecker, a poem he considered of extreme delicacy, subtlety, and
rhythmic and verbal beauty. That Mr. Kato should have chosen such a
title gained the publisher’s sympathy at once.
For the next hour he knew one of those rare moments in a publisher’s
life when he realises that something of genius has been placed in his
care, and that for evermore it will be identified with his name. For
the poems in that lovely MS. were perfection. By some miracle of good
taste the delicate, urbane, autumnal imagery, in which the Oriental
poet clothes his thought as he delicately shrugs his shoulders at life,
had been transmitted into an English idiom at once the poet’s own,
and yet perfectly adapted to it. Its mastery and flawless precision
sent tingles of pleasure through every nerve in Mr. Cheltenham’s body.
Golden visions surged through his brain; “good simile that about poetry
and ginger-pop, but was it always true? Brooke, Housman, Masefield--no,
there _had_ been best sellers in rhyme and metre”; and through Mr.
Cheltenham’s head hummed the princely beat of printing machines, 2,000,
5,000, 30,000, 100,000! He re-read the first ten pieces and his mind
was made up. He had a winner, a philistine-proof, reviewer-proof,
bookseller-proof, inevitable certainty! There on his table was a
masterpiece. He went glowing to bed. Perhaps on that account he slept
fitfully. Four or five times it seemed to him that a tiny Mongolian
face came and stared imploringly into his eyes, and grew and grew till
crack! something snapped in his brain and he awoke. Though all Japs
looked much alike to him, this officious visitor did not remind him of
Mr. Kato.
The next morning he rushed down to his office and dictated the
following comparatively ingenuous document:--
“Dear Sir,
“I have read your verses. They seem to me to be sufficiently
competent and original to have a chance of success. So much so that I
have decided to take a risk with them, and shall not ask you to bear
the whole cost of production.
“I am prepared to suggest a joint venture with you. I propose that we
share the costs, which will amount to £200 for 1,500 copies, and that
we likewise divide between us any profits which may accrue. We will
share advertising expenses, starting with an outlay of £50. If this
scheme appeals to you I will have an agreement drawn up for you to
sign. I shall be glad to hear from you.
“Faithfully yours,
“Charles Cheltenham.”
For the rest of the day he worked steadily, though every now and again
he picked up the poems to reassure himself that he had not been too
generous, and each time his confidence increased.
The next morning Mr. Kato rang up to say that he accepted the proposal,
and would call on the publisher at five o’clock the next day.
Mr. Cheltenham spent the morning preparing a rather subtle agreement,
and it was ready for Mr. Kato when he arrived at 5.15. The publisher
had worked hard and was feeling quite drowsy when the little man
entered the room, so much so that once again he experienced the silly
illusion that Mr. Kato’s shadow had come in with him.
“Well,” he said, rousing himself, “I spent a delightful evening reading
your poems, and I think them admirable, and I am looking forward to
being your partner in their production and publication. I have the
agreement here”--he glanced down at his desk--“which I shall ask you
to--I must overcome this drowsiness,” he thought to himself, for it had
seemed to him that a shape like a small thin hand had fallen across the
page, and he had started to brush it away when he had paused--“which I
shall ask you to examine. But first I will read you the main clauses.”
“Quite pleased,” said Mr. Kato.
Mr. Cheltenham began to mumble rapidly through the first
paragraph--“An agreement between Charles Cheltenham, hereinafter
referred to as the Publisher, and F. Gonesara, hereinafter--Gonesara?”
he repeated puzzled, and then looked up with a smile. “Why I should
have made such a mistake with the name I cannot”--and then he
paused, for Mr. Kato was not looking his best. His eyes were staring
and his hands were working, and he was muttering to himself in a
foreign tongue. “Please excuse,” he murmured, “and read remainder
of contractual document.” Mr. Cheltenham did so perfunctorily and
hurriedly, for he had the impression Mr. Kato was not listening, and
was anxious to be gone. When he had finished the latter took it up and
almost ran from the room. As he got up the publisher saw, or seemed to
see, that shadow rise with him and dart away behind him.
The agreement came back the next day, laconically labelled “O.K. J.
Kato.”
Then did Mr. Cheltenham get exceedingly busy. He decided it should be a
beautiful little book bound in batik, price 7s. 6d.
He had some of the poems typed out and sent to certain influential
literary critics of his acquaintance for their opinion, and there were
many other details to attend to. He had a highly-trained mind, and
by that evening everything concerning the production of the book was
settled.
He worked late, till long after his small staff had gone home.
Shortly before leaving he had occasion to go down to the ground floor
for the estimate book which his manager guarded. On returning to his
room it seemed to him that a small figure was leaning over his desk,
but a second later it was gone.
Hallucinations had not been included in the content of Mr. Cheltenham’s
experience up till then, and he walked home to his flat in Westminster
in rather a thoughtful mood. “Possibly,” he said to himself, “I have
been overworking.”
Several days passed in an eminently satisfactory manner. Mr. Kato
signed his agreement without demur. The influential literary critics
were one and all most enthusiastic, and eager to know all there was to
be known about the author. That suggested a problem to Mr. Cheltenham.
Should he treat Mr. Kato as a mysterious and enigmatic figure, and
rouse interest in him in that way, or should he do the usual thing and
supply full details.
He decided first of all to see what facts concerning his career Mr.
Kato could supply. He wrote him the usual letter strongly urging him to
overcome that loathing for publicity which he probably cherished.
He received a reply by return of post:
“Dear Charles Cheltenham,
“Please excuse. I am, as you would say, middle classes Jap Gentleman,
formally in Rice Affair. Therefore complete void of interesting
publicity dope.
“J. Kato.”
There were some Japanese characters under the signature. When he had
read this missive and decided to treat Mr. Kato as a mystery, Mr.
Cheltenham ruminated, and not for the first time, on the incredible
workings of the creative imagination. How was it possible for a person
who could write “Please excuse”--“Formally in Rice Affair”--to be the
author of the many masterpieces in _And he shall sing as best he can_?
He gave it up.
He wondered what might be the meaning of the delightfully decorative
postscript.
When he went to lunch at his Club, he took the letter with him--Sanders
of the Far Eastern section of the British Museum was usually to be
found there. He was in on this occasion and talking very loudly,
wittily, and provocatively in the smoking-room.
He glanced casually at the letter which the publisher held out to
him. Then it seemed to hold his attention. “A morbid prophet, your
friend,” he said, “but I have always understood that even the shortest
experience of publishers sharply stimulates a suicidal neurosis.”
“Publishers, like saxophones and beards,” replied Mr. Cheltenham,
“should be exempted by a truce of God from being made subjects of the
cheap jokes of inferior humorists for Eternity. And now tell me what
those Jap words mean.”
“Well,” said Sanders, “they follow on the signature, so the whole thing
reads ‘J. Kato who will die on Feb. 13th!’”
Mr. Cheltenham was taken sharply aback.
“Is that what it says?” he replied sharply. “What’s the fool mean?”
As he walked back to his office he felt for the first time a slight
diminution of his enthusiasm for the book, a vague premonition of