[p96]
CHAPTER IX
THE INTERVIEW FOR THE “EVENING MAIL”
Kate could hardly have chosen a more inopportune moment. The hero, who had troubled Hugh’s repose in the moist atmosphere of the city, persisted in behaving in an untoward fashion, even when translated to an altitude of three thousand feet or so. He still perorated, still posed like a shop-walker, still behaved like a puppet, with its pulling strings in plainest evidence.
It was a mercilessly hot afternoon. All over the mountains the tourists were asking themselves in bitterness of spirit why they had left their comfortable homes in the city to subject themselves to weather like this. They all had the feeling of being wronged out of their money; the hotel-keepers, the house-agents, had lured them here under false pretences, and positively deserved punishment.
The sweat of heat and mental exertion poured down Hugh’s face. He had followed [p97] his usual plan of work this year, that of drifting pleasantly along for nine months, jotting down a few notes, and writing a chapter now and again; and then pulling himself sharply together, and trying to work like a horse, and get all his ideas reduced to paper, corrected, re-written, and made ready for Kate to type in three months. Every New Year’s Day he sat with Kate and mapped out a plan of work for the fresh year, that was to be utterly dissimilar to this reprehensible practice. Sometimes they got paper, and planned out each month’s work, so many chapters to the month; it was surprising how simple it all looked, put down like that. For instance, one book a year, when a year consisted of three hundred and sixty-five days, was not too much to expect from a moderately active man in full possession of his health and faculties. One book a year represented say, thirty chapters, sixty or seventy thousand words. Seventy thousand words, divided by three hundred and sixty-five days, represented less than two hundred words a day. It looked like child’s play—on the sheet of paper. It fairly astonished Hugh when he saw the whole question of his authorship thus reduced to its simple factors in black and white. Kate had typed the remarkable memorandum for him last year, and pasted it on a card, so that he might prop [p98] it up before him on his desk as a constant reminder.
Two hundred words a day! He used to spend much of the early part of January leaning back in his chair, happily planning out the accomplishment of two or three books which had long been in his head, but which want of time had hitherto prevented from getting as far as his writing-block. Yes, he determined (in January) that it was more than possible to have the whole three finished by next December; he was not married, his time was his own, he could order his days as he pleased, and turn night into day, and day into night, exactly when he chose. Why, when the good moods came, did he not write five thousand words a day, easily, eagerly! And this steady writing of a couple of hundred words a day would bring the good mood often, no doubt.
Yes, he would finish the three books this year—the subjects were all to his hand—and possibly the play he had had tucked away in his mind so many years. And some verse, too—the luxury of verse was very dear to him.
Brave January with the sun of resolution flaming high in the sky!
It was December now.
The poet might have as truly spoken of the facilis descensus to December as to the torrid region he mentioned.