XLVIII
Thetwo friends sat long hours together, conversing of many things. William Jordan, now that his task was accomplished, had never seemed so accessible, so human, so near in sympathy and perception to those things that lay immediately about him. Jimmy Dodson, entranced by the new power and richness of his friend’s discourse, gave expression again and again to the delight that he felt.
“Luney,” he said, calling him again by that name with which he had always addressed him, “you have always been beyond me, but you have never seemed quite so far beyond me as you do now. Your actions prove you to be out of your mind, but the odd thing is that never in all the years I have known you, have you talked to me as you have talked to-night. You talk to me now, old boy, just as I should expect some of those wise old Greek Johnnies to talk to their pals. And yet you give yourself no airs of saying anything out of the common; and the way you listen to what I say to you and the way you draw me out, gives me the kind of feeling that I myself am a sort of chap like old What’s-his-name. Words have never come to me so easily as they have to-night; and as for my mind, I am sure it has never been half so bright. You seem to make me feel, old boy, that every word you use has a kind of inner meaning; and I understand enough of the meaning inside to know that there is still another meaning inside of that. I don’t know where you have been, or what you have done, but I am sure the change that has taken place in you is very wonderful.”
“The Giver of all good has at last given the light to your eyes and mine,” said William Jordan. “And speech to our lips, and hearing to our ears.”
“And the most wonderful thing about you, oldboy,” said his friend, “is that with all your strangeness I know what you mean. You sit there talking for all the world as if nothing had happened to you. And yet if you don’t mind my saying it, a week ago you were up so high that I thought you could never come down again.”
“Perhaps it was,” said William Jordan, “that I was then besieged by strange spirits. Perhaps it was, Jimmy, that my little treatise could not have got itself written without their aid.”
“And now you have written it, old boy, or now, as you put it, it has got itself written, what do you intend to do with it?” asked Jimmy Dodson eagerly.
“It is my intention to give it to the world,” said William Jordan.
The calm assurance with which the author announced this intention appeared to startle his friend.
“Yes—of course,” said Jimmy Dodson nervously; “yes—of course.”
A sequel so natural to the strange labours of which he had been the witness, had, somewhat curiously, never shaped itself in his mind.
“Yes—of course,” he reiterated, “of course you will give it to the world. That is to say, you will have it published by somebody. Have you thought which firm you will try first?”
“It is my intention,” said William Jordan, “to place it in the good hands of our friends.”
“Indeed,” said Dodson; and then he added nervously, “Yes, I suppose so. What is it all about?”
“You may speak of it as a kind of treatise on human life,” said the author.
“A treatise,” said his friend. “I hope, old boy, it is not too scientific and not too long.”
“In some respects it is ‘scientific,’ I am afraid,” said the author. “You see, it was impossible to keep out ‘science’ altogether.”
“Oh, then,” said his friend with an air of relief,“the treatise as you call it is not all pure science. I hope, old boy,” he added anxiously, “you have had the forethought to cast it into the form of a novel.”
“Yes,” said the author, “you might almost say it is a kind of novel—and yet it is a kind of poem too.”
“Ah,” said his friend hopefully, “that is better. A treatise in the form of a novel may be all right, although much depends upon the length. And a novel in the form of a prose poem; that may be all right too, that is if it is not lacking in dramatic interest. I have heard Octavius lay it down as a fixed rule that in a prose poem you must have dramatic interest.”
“I think I may promise,” said the author, with a simplicity that passed beyond the understanding of his friend, “that it is not lacking in dramatic interest.”
“Good!” said Jimmy Dodson. “Things are shaping better than could have been expected. Yet you know, old boy—if I must tell the truth—I never quite thought you had it about you to write a really good novel. But you never know, old boy, do you? Some of the smartest writing chaps of the day don’t at all look the part. Yet I don’t quite know, old boy—you won’t mind my saying it—whether you have had quite enough experience of life. I’ve heard Murtle say that a chap wants enormous experience of life to write a really good novel. I’ve heard him say to Octavius that he couldn’t possibly have done what he has unless he had dined out every night in good society for twenty years. But the novel may be a romance. Of course that would make a difference. A fellow doesn’t have to know so much, Octavius says, to write a romance. Yet don’t forget, old boy, that other things being all right, grammar, style, dramatic interest and so on, much will depend upon the length. Whatever else it may be I hope it will not be more than eighty thousand words.”
“I am afraid,” said the author, “the question of ‘length’ has not occurred to me. But now you speak of it I should not say the length is great.”
“Good,” said Jimmy Dodson. “Well, I must leave you now, old boy,” he added, “to catch my train to Peckham. I can’t tell you what a relief it has been to find you quite well again. But I will come back to-morrow evening, and I will look at this novel of yours, and we will talk over the question of offering it to the firm, although if you do that, old boy, you will be obliged, you know, to adopt what they call a pseudonym.”
“I intend that the poem shall be published anonymously,” said the author.
“Poem!” said Jimmy Dodson. “Why, I understood you to say just now that it was a kind of novel. A poem, you know, would make a difference.”
“No,” said the author, “I think it would be more accurate to define it as a poem. It is cast in a kind of hexameter which yet is hardly a hexameter at all—at least it is not the metre of Homer and Virgil. You see, Jimmy, this noble and beautiful English speech which you and I use, differs greatly from those other beautiful tongues that the ancient authors worked in. At first I had thought to write this little treatise upon human life in the language of the Iliad, the language of heroic wisdom; but when I came to reflect that this noble modern speech of ours is familiar to more than a hundred million persons, I yielded my desire. Hence you will understand, Jimmy, that to modern eyes and ears the metre may at first appear strange.”
“The deuce!” said Jimmy Dodson with a lively consternation. “A poem! That will make a difference. You see, Octavius declares that it is impossible for poetry to pay now-a-days—his pays, of course, but then he sticks to translations of Homer and the classics—and for years the firm hasgiven up the publication of original verse. But it is too late, old boy, to go into it to-night. I will look at your novel—poem—better call it novel in any case—to-morrow evening, and then I may be able to give you some advice about it.”