IV
John returned to the ship in a spirit of exultation, intoxicated, not so much by the heady wine of praise as by the discovery that he was not altogether alone in his difficult world. Margaret cared what became of him; apparently Mr. Alter also cared. But it was Margaret’s interest and her personality that filled his thoughts to the exclusion of the colder critic. He sought out Hartington, and laid the matter before him, reading aloud Mr. Alter’s letter, and repeating the passages in it which seemed to him unusually important.
“Dear Lynwood,
“I am sending this letter by Margaret lest it follow you from sea to sea. If she does not meet you at once, she can at least discover your whereabouts.
“I have shown your work to several friends—all creative artists, not critics only. Their opinions support my own. Probably in your present situation you have no one to whom you can go for counsel, so I have taken upon myself the duties of adviser. You must read. I don’t care about the quantity, but your reading must be regular and sound. The modern men are excellent when you have found your own feet, but before you are twenty you are prone to imitation of their extremes—probably the worst of them. So go back to men whom you will not be tempted to imitate. Read the Actes and Monuments, Swift, Addison, Walton, Goldsmith. Burton’s Anatomy of Melancholy has been an inexhaustible quarry for later essayists. If you must have the living, try Mrs. Meynell for her prose. Go to De Quincey for speed and amazement, Poe for short stories, Fielding for action—Fielding, in fact, for most things. In poetry, take Shakespeare—enough, believe me, for your present needs.
“As for a method of writing—whatever I tell you, a thousand others will tell you I am wrong. Fast or slow? Rough-hewn or polished? That you must find out for yourself. I believe le mot juste is well worth long seeking in chilly, critical moments. But if you feel excited about what you are writing it’s best to use a slack rein. Never be afraid of the whip—it’s very good to write a ‘portion’ every day, if you have the courage to destroy it when necessary in the evening. The wastepaper-basket is a good, silent friend whom it is folly to despise.
“Write to me whenever you care to, and send me the little that the wastepaper-basket does not swallow up. I have been seeing much of your mother lately, talking of old times and of you.
“Yours,
“Wingfield Alter.
“P.S.—If you can find a place to do it in, read your work aloud to yourself—especially verse. I should have told you to read the Bible and Thomas Hardy and Murray’s translations of the Greek. Robert Bridges will teach you much of metre. Try Clutton Brock for scholarly prose. Margaret is taking out a supply of my books for you. Talk to her when you can, but don’t believe all she tells you about literature—and don’t accept what I tell you as anything but a foundation upon which to build up your own tastes. I think you might read Conrad, too, if you will promise to stop when Marlow begins to dominate you completely.—W.A.”
Hartington who thought that by this time he had a fairly accurate understanding of the working of John’s mind, was at first astonished by the extraordinary elation of which this letter was the only apparent cause. It was natural that John should be pleased by the approval and interest of a man of Alter’s standing, but his changed mood, the laughter, the quickened speech, the heightened colour, called for an explanation more personal. John spoke of Margaret as “Fane-Herbert’s sister” when he spoke of her at all.
“So Alter advises you to talk to Miss Fane-Herbert when you can?” Hartington said. “What’s the exact meaning of that?”
“She knows a good deal of books,” said John easily.
“But he doesn’t suggest that you should be tutored by her?”
“Oh, no.”
“Then it’s her talk that’s to do you good?”
“Yes.”
“Because it is her talk—not for the sake of her knowledge?”
“I suppose so.”
Hartington smiled. Between them as they sat in the small cabin hung a large red-paper lantern, lighted by an electric lead. Hartington touched it with his foot, and set the light and shadows chasing each other round the Fiesole paintings and Dürer’s Hare.
“Do you think I might ask you an extremely rude question?” he said. “It’s important. I think it’s relevant.”
“I know what you are going to ask,” John answered. “About Fane-Herbert’s sister? I suppose you think I am a fool to be in love with her.”
“It makes the whole business more complicated. It means that half the time when you think you are wanting one thing you are really wanting another. Now any consideration of the future will be hopelessly entangled with consideration of her.”
John explained that, in truth, Margaret simplified the issue, because, as he said, her own ideas were so very like his own. He elaborated this theory until he could elaborate it no more. Then he stopped suddenly.
“It’s so exciting,” he said, after a pause. “Everything is so exciting.”
The excitement of it took his breath away. He steadied the red lamp, and watched its light glow through the tips of his fingers. Obviously he had forgotten that his life did not consist entirely in Margaret and literature. Of what use was it to remind him now that he was a midshipman, very young and altogether unknown, who earned one shilling and ninepence a day? of what use to speak of Ibble’s and Ibble’s wealth? Hartington decided not to trouble him that night, to leave unshattered so long as they would endure his vain, happy dreams.
“Do you think,” John said, “that Mr. Alter would put in a word with a publisher about a novel?”
“Probably. Have you written one? Have you a great work stored away secretly underneath your private till?”
“No,” said John seriously; “but I could write one. A hundred thousand words. Suppose I did a thousand a day—or even five hundred—a couple of quarto pages.... There might be money in that.”
He turned into his hammock that night to lie long awake, dreaming of title pages, bindings, and press-cuttings, and calculating royalties. He was generous to himself in the matter of royalties, for so much money would be needed before—perhaps a play would be better, after all.... Very carefully, mindful of Hartington’s warning, he excluded Margaret from his consideration of these practical matters. But when at last he fell asleep and could no longer deceive himself, he dreamed of Margaret only. He dreamed that she kissed him, not that he kissed her; of a hundred tendernesses of word and deed that were outside his experience. They had a house in Westminster.... She looked down from behind the grille on to the floor of the House of Commons.