CHAPTER XXI: GENIUS
When Mrs. Van Dieman was describing the neighbourhood to me she mentioned, among other people, a Mr. Figgins who wrote books. She said that she would like to get to know him better, but she did not think he liked her, as she was not clever enough.
“He probably thinks you do not like him because he is not rich enough,” I said.
“Oh, but what utter nonsense,” she protested. “When a man has an intellect like that he can’t suppose one considers his money.”
“There you are,” I replied, “that is exactly what I have been saying. He probably says to himself, ‘When a woman has a purse like that she can’t suppose one considers her brains.’ He must dislike you on other grounds if he does at all; perhaps it is your politics, or the fact that your house faces north.”
“You see, he is so interesting,” pursued Mrs. Van Dieman. “I should love to know him better, but I don’t know what to talk about, I read so little.”
“So does Mr. Figgins, probably,” I said. “But, anyhow, if you are interested in him, talk about that; he will like it far better than anything else—unless you talk about yourself. If you were as candid with him as you are with me, he would think about nothing else for weeks, you would open his eyes such a lot.”
“Anyhow,” I began again presently, “when you meet your baker out at dinner do you read up ‘Bread’ in the ‘Encyclopædia Britannica’ first?”
“We certainly do seem to get on the subject of bread whenever we meet,” she said. “Perhaps that is why I am not interested in him.”
“According to you, the baker’s friends, when they ask him to their houses, would think it complimentary to powder their hair, and embroider their dresses with currants.As for your Mr. Figgins, how could the poor man write books if there were nothing but books to write about?”
By and by, when Mrs. Van Dieman had plucked up courage and invited most of us to an embarrassing tea-party to meet the man of letters, I found that Mrs. Figgins was a friend of my childhood, and we took up our relation to one another just where we had left it. It matured rapidly, and I became very fond of both of them. Their house was often full of people whom Mrs. Van Dieman classified according to the nature of their public life. This habit of classification, which is the county method of making a social order out of the chaos of individual taste, is very infectious. I began to look at geniuses as a class, and to think I noticed certain stripes and spots in their characters which marked them as belonging to one family, however much they differed in other ways. I presented an ode on the subject to the Figginses, and watched them as they read it in turn:
“My Agnes! Did I hear you sayYou will not stop to hear us playThe trio I composed to-day?What! Let Maria come and dust!I’d sooner starve—yet, Love, I trustYou’ll pardon me, for say I mustThat’snot the way to treat a genius!“Here’s something good by Malloray,I’ll read it if you’ll only stay.(Damnation! Take that child away!)Say I will dine at six to-night,Something both nourishing and light.No, dear—my pocket’s empty quite.That’snot the way to treat a genius!“Ask me not, Agnes dear, to thinkOf anything but pen and ink(Unless its something new to drink).There is no need, my love, for youTo live at all, I’ll live for two.In tears! My darling, that won’t do!That’snot the way to treat a genius!”
“My Agnes! Did I hear you sayYou will not stop to hear us playThe trio I composed to-day?What! Let Maria come and dust!I’d sooner starve—yet, Love, I trustYou’ll pardon me, for say I mustThat’snot the way to treat a genius!“Here’s something good by Malloray,I’ll read it if you’ll only stay.(Damnation! Take that child away!)Say I will dine at six to-night,Something both nourishing and light.No, dear—my pocket’s empty quite.That’snot the way to treat a genius!“Ask me not, Agnes dear, to thinkOf anything but pen and ink(Unless its something new to drink).There is no need, my love, for youTo live at all, I’ll live for two.In tears! My darling, that won’t do!That’snot the way to treat a genius!”
“My Agnes! Did I hear you sayYou will not stop to hear us playThe trio I composed to-day?What! Let Maria come and dust!I’d sooner starve—yet, Love, I trustYou’ll pardon me, for say I mustThat’snot the way to treat a genius!
“My Agnes! Did I hear you say
You will not stop to hear us play
The trio I composed to-day?
What! Let Maria come and dust!
I’d sooner starve—yet, Love, I trust
You’ll pardon me, for say I must
That’snot the way to treat a genius!
“Here’s something good by Malloray,I’ll read it if you’ll only stay.(Damnation! Take that child away!)Say I will dine at six to-night,Something both nourishing and light.No, dear—my pocket’s empty quite.That’snot the way to treat a genius!
“Here’s something good by Malloray,
I’ll read it if you’ll only stay.
(Damnation! Take that child away!)
Say I will dine at six to-night,
Something both nourishing and light.
No, dear—my pocket’s empty quite.
That’snot the way to treat a genius!
“Ask me not, Agnes dear, to thinkOf anything but pen and ink(Unless its something new to drink).There is no need, my love, for youTo live at all, I’ll live for two.In tears! My darling, that won’t do!That’snot the way to treat a genius!”
“Ask me not, Agnes dear, to think
Of anything but pen and ink
(Unless its something new to drink).
There is no need, my love, for you
To live at all, I’ll live for two.
In tears! My darling, that won’t do!
That’snot the way to treat a genius!”
Mrs. Figgins was delighted. “There, Harry,” she exclaimed, “she’s absolutely right, she has seen you through and through; I’ve always told you you were the most selfish beast on earth. It doesn’t matter what happens to me or the children so long as you get your wretched stuff out of your head on to paper. And that about the reading aloud is so good—and the dusting—and yet you complain the house is dirty! Oh dear.”
Mr. Figgins rose, picked his wife out of her comfortable chair, and transferred her to his own, which he said was more her size, then he sat down and read the ode again.
“My dear Jane,” he said, “I have looked this over very carefully, and you are absolutely wrong; it is you she means. Look at that about the children being all over the house, and a beastly housemaid pottering about his study, and no money in the house. He even has to order his own dinner or she gives him indigestible stuff he can’t work on. He does his best to amuse and entertain her, andthen she bursts into tears and says she wants to live; it seems to me to be an admirable picture of the sort of thing I go through, only you haven’t the wit to see it.”
I took a stroll round the garden for a quarter of an hour and when I came back they were still disputing.
“Do I or do I not have to sit on the mat for hours at a time listening to you talking? And if so, how can I be ordering dinner at the same time?”
“You could order it the night before and tell them that, whatever happens, I must have it at a certain time.”
“The certain time being anything between ten in the morning and three in the afternoon.”
“Malloray’s wife gets her husband the most excellent food all ready in five minutes, at any moment he may happen to come in.”
“Mr. Malloray gets paid for his dreary stuff and you don’t, so he can afford to have sixteen parlourmaids all sitting about with nothing else to do. And that about yourliving for two is so good. What life do I have sitting round when you are there, and then working like a galley-slave when you are not to make up for the lost time and clear up the mess?”
“No man except a farm labourer ought to marry,” I heard Mr. Figgins say as I went off again. “What I want is a dear old toothless, very efficient housekeeper, and a mistress exquisitely beautiful, talented, sympathetic——”
We had a great discussion that night at dinner. Several geniuses and their wives were there, and civil war broke out. The geniuses’ complaints were trivial, but apparently rankled deeply. They all said nearly the same thing: that their wives wanted too much, and prevented them from getting on with their work, to which the wives retorted that they also wanted to get on with their work, but it was not possible, because they were always being called off to listen to something, or to pack bags, or remove a spider from the ceiling. Then if they stayedfor a few minutes’ chat, they were accused of being in the way, and why wasn’t lunch ready? and why couldn’t they see that the doors didn’t bang upstairs? If they asked for love they were given a manuscript as indigestible as a stone, but, on the other hand, when inspiration had run out and love was required (they being busy at the time doing something else) they were told that women were practical animals and had no ideals; that polygamy was the only feasible arrangement in domestic life, and would they kindly put on more coal, and make that cheque last for six months. The geniuses maintained that we all live much too elaborately. A simple, well-cooked fowl, done to a turn at any minute of the day, was quite enough for anyone; a perfectly proportioned room ascetically bare, save for a few necessary objects of priceless value, was enough to content them. A village girl with a graceful figure and sun-kissed complexion should maintain the room in that spotless order which is essential to a quietmind. The wife should direct everything, do nothing, be always occupied, always at hand and scarcely ever present. The children should have perfect freedom, intelligence, health, education, no lessons, be full of gaiety and make no noise, be one with their parents at heart, never present (like the wife) for more than a few minutes at a time, occupied in useful and beautiful handicrafts, and make no litter about the house. This is what I gathered from notes made at the time. From what I understand of the allegations brought against geniuses by their wives, there was less detailed complaint and more profound disappointment. To begin with, the work did not pay; the world did not appreciate it, or if it did, it appreciated the wrong bits—the ones that George himself cared least about. Secondly, they worked too hard, and then got so dreadfully depressed; they never seemed able to throw down their work and come out for a little bit of fun in the middle of a sentence. And when something really serious, like the bailiffs,happened, one could not get them to attend. Mrs. Malloray told us that her husband got so interested in talking to the men about Australia that he never noticed until they had gone that all the wrong things had been taken to pay the debt; instead of getting rid of a lot of rubbish, as they had hoped, some of the nicest bits of furniture in the house had gone, although she kept telling him all the time.
We all agreed that a genius should not take his wife about with him. She is there to fulfil ends which are of no interest to society, and if she is the right wife for him she will be as unsocial as a lake by moonlight. If she is the wrong kind she will make him fidgety and spoil the party, so she should amuse herself in other circles, except in houses where she can bring her knitting without exciting compassion. I am told that the Figginses still fight over the spirit of that harmless piece of doggerel, and both find it healing to their wounds. It is nice to think of, isn’t it?