Mr. Barbecue-Smith belonged to the old school of journalists. He sported a leonine head with a greyish-black mane of oddly unappetising hair brushed back from a broad but low forehead. And somehow he always seemed slightly, ever so slightly, soiled. In younger days he had gaily5 called himself a Bohemian. He did so no longer. He was a teacher now, a kind of prophet. Some of his books of comfort and spiritual teaching were in their hundred and twentieth thousand.
Priscilla received him with every mark of esteem6. He had never been to Crome before; she showed him round the house. Mr. Barbecue-Smith was full of admiration7.
Priscilla praised his latest book. “Splendid, I thought it was,” she said in her large, jolly way.
“I’m happy to think you found it a comfort,” said Mr. Barbecue-Smith.
“Oh, tremendously! And the bit about the Lotus Pool—I thought that so beautiful.”
“I knew you would like that. It came to me, you know, from without.” He waved his hand to indicate the astral world.
They went out into the garden for tea. Mr. Barbecue-Smith was duly introduced.
“Mr. Stone is a writer too,” said Priscilla, as she introduced Denis.
“Indeed!” Mr. Barbecue-Smith smiled benignly10, and, looking up at Denis with an expression of Olympian condescension11, “And what sort of things do you write?”
Denis was furious, and, to make matters worse, he felt himself blushing hotly. Had Priscilla no sense of proportion? She was putting them in the same category—Barbecue-Smith and himself. They were both writers, they both used pen and ink. To Mr. Barbecue-Smith’s question he answered, “Oh, nothing much, nothing,” and looked away.
“Mr. Stone is one of our younger poets.” It was Anne’s voice. He scowled12 at her, and she smiled back exasperatingly13.
“Excellent, excellent,” said Mr. Barbecue-Smith, and he squeezed Denis’s arm encouragingly. “The Bard’s is a noble calling.”
As soon as tea was over Mr. Barbecue-Smith excused himself; he had to do some writing before dinner. Priscilla quite understood. The prophet retired14 to his chamber15.
Mr. Barbecue-Smith came down to the drawing-room at ten to eight. He was in a good humour, and, as he descended16 the stairs, he smiled to himself and rubbed his large white hands together. In the drawing-room someone was playing softly and ramblingly on the piano. He wondered who it could be. One of the young ladies, perhaps. But no, it was only Denis, who got up hurriedly and with some embarrassment17 as he came into the room.
“Do go on, do go on,” said Mr. Barbecue-Smith. “I am very fond of music.”
“Then I couldn’t possibly go on,” Denis replied. “I only make noises.”
There was a silence. Mr. Barbecue-Smith stood with his back to the hearth18, warming himself at the memory of last winter’s fires. He could not control his interior satisfaction, but still went on smiling to himself. At last he turned to Denis.
“You write,” he asked, “don’t you?”
“Well, yes—a little, you know.”
“How many words do you find you can write in an hour?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever counted.”
“Oh, you ought to, you ought to. It’s most important.”
Denis exercised his memory. “When I’m in good form,” he said, “I fancy I do a twelve-hundred-word review in about four hours. But sometimes it takes me much longer.”
Mr. Barbecue-Smith nodded. “Yes, three hundred words an hour at your best.” He walked out into the middle of the room, turned round on his heels, and confronted Denis again. “Guess how many words I wrote this evening between five and half-past seven.”
“I can’t imagine.”
“No, but you must guess. Between five and half-past seven—that’s two and a half hours.”
“Twelve hundred words,” Denis hazarded.
“No, no, no.” Mr. Barbecue-Smith’s expanded face shone with gaiety. “Try again.”
“Fifteen hundred.”
“No.”
“I give it up,” said Denis. He found he couldn’t summon up much interest in Mr. Barbecue-Smith’s writing.
“Well, I’ll tell you. Three thousand eight hundred.”
Denis opened his eyes. “You must get a lot done in a day,” he said.
Mr. Barbecue-Smith suddenly became extremely confidential19. He pulled up a stool to the side of Denis’s arm-chair, sat down in it, and began to talk softly and rapidly.
“Listen to me,” he said, laying his hand on Denis’s sleeve. “You want to make your living by writing; you’re young, you’re inexperienced. Let me give you a little sound advice.”
What was the fellow going to do? Denis wondered: give him an introduction to the editor of “John o’ London’s Weekly”, or tell him where he could sell a light middle for seven guineas? Mr. Barbecue-Smith patted his arm several times and went on.
“The secret of writing,” he said, breathing it into the young man’s ear—“the secret of writing is Inspiration.”
Denis looked at him in astonishment20.
“Inspiration...” Mr. Barbecue-Smith repeated.
“You mean the native wood-note business?”
Mr. Barbecue-Smith nodded.
“That was precisely22 the question I was waiting for,” said Mr. Barbecue-Smith. “You ask me what one should do if one hasn’t got Inspiration. I answer: you have Inspiration; everyone has Inspiration. It’s simply a question of getting it to function.”
The clock struck eight. There was no sign of any of the other guests; everybody was always late at Crome. Mr. Barbecue-Smith went on.
“That’s my secret,” he said. “I give it you freely.” (Denis made a suitably grateful murmur23 and grimace24.) “I’ll help you to find your Inspiration, because I don’t like to see a nice, steady young man like you exhausting his vitality25 and wasting the best years of his life in a grinding intellectual labour that could be completely obviated26 by Inspiration. I did it myself, so I know what it’s like. Up till the time I was thirty-eight I was a writer like you—a writer without Inspiration. All I wrote I squeezed out of myself by sheer hard work. Why, in those days I was never able to do more than six-fifty words an hour, and what’s more, I often didn’t sell what I wrote.” He sighed. “We artists,” he said parenthetically, “we intellectuals aren’t much appreciated here in England.” Denis wondered if there was any method, consistent, of course, with politeness, by which he could dissociate himself from Mr. Barbecue-Smith’s “we.” There was none; and besides, it was too late now, for Mr. Barbecue-Smith was once more pursuing the tenor27 of his discourse28.
“At thirty-eight I was a poor, struggling, tired, overworked, unknown journalist. Now, at fifty...” He paused modestly and made a little gesture, moving his fat hands outwards29, away from one another, and expanding his fingers as though in demonstration30. He was exhibiting himself. Denis thought of that advertisement of Nestle’s milk—the two cats on the wall, under the moon, one black and thin, the other white, sleek31, and fat. Before Inspiration and after.
“Inspiration has made the difference,” said Mr. Barbecue-Smith solemnly. “It came quite suddenly—like a gentle dew from heaven.” He lifted his hand and let it fall back on to his knee to indicate the descent of the dew. “It was one evening. I was writing my first little book about the Conduct of Life—‘Humble32 Heroisms’. You may have read it; it has been a comfort—at least I hope and think so—a comfort to many thousands. I was in the middle of the second chapter, and I was stuck. Fatigue33, overwork—I had only written a hundred words in the last hour, and I could get no further. I sat biting the end of my pen and looking at the electric light, which hung above my table, a little above and in front of me.” He indicated the position of the lamp with elaborate care. “Have you ever looked at a bright light intently for a long time?” he asked, turning to Denis. Denis didn’t think he had. “You can hypnotise yourself that way,” Mr. Barbecue-Smith went on.
The gong sounded in a terrific crescendo34 from the hall. Still no sign of the others. Denis was horribly hungry.
“That’s what happened to me,” said Mr. Barbecue-Smith. “I was hypnotised. I lost consciousness like that.” He snapped his fingers. “When I came to, I found that it was past midnight, and I had written four thousand words. Four thousand,” he repeated, opening his mouth very wide on the “ou” of thousand. “Inspiration had come to me.”
“What a very extraordinary thing,” said Denis.
“I was afraid of it at first. It didn’t seem to me natural. I didn’t feel, somehow, that it was quite right, quite fair, I might almost say, to produce a literary composition unconsciously. Besides, I was afraid I might have written nonsense.”
“And had you written nonsense?” Denis asked.
“Certainly not,” Mr. Barbecue-Smith replied, with a trace of annoyance35. “Certainly not. It was admirable. Just a few spelling mistakes and slips, such as there generally are in automatic writing. But the style, the thought—all the essentials were admirable. After that, Inspiration came to me regularly. I wrote the whole of ‘Humble Heroisms’ like that. It was a great success, and so has everything been that I have written since.” He leaned forward and jabbed at Denis with his finger. “That’s my secret,” he said, “and that’s how you could write too, if you tried—without effort, fluently, well.”
“But how?” asked Denis, trying not to show how deeply he had been insulted by that final “well.”
“By cultivating your Inspiration, by getting into touch with your Subconscious36. Have you ever read my little book, ‘Pipe-Lines to the Infinite’?”
Denis had to confess that that was, precisely, one of the few, perhaps the only one, of Mr. Barbecue-Smith’s works he had not read.
“Never mind, never mind,” said Mr. Barbecue-Smith. “It’s just a little book about the connection of the Subconscious with the Infinite. Get into touch with the Subconscious and you are in touch with the Universe. Inspiration, in fact. You follow me?”
“Perfectly, perfectly,” said Denis. “But don’t you find that the Universe sometimes sends you very irrelevant37 messages?”
“I don’t allow it to,” Mr. Barbecue-Smith replied. “I canalise it. I bring it down through pipes to work the turbines of my conscious mind.”
“Like Niagara,” Denis suggested. Some of Mr. Barbecue-Smith’s remarks sounded strangely like quotations39—quotations from his own works, no doubt.
“Precisely. Like Niagara. And this is how I do it.” He leaned forward, and with a raised forefinger40 marked his points as he made them, beating time, as it were, to his discourse. “Before I go off into my trance, I concentrate on the subject I wish to be inspired about. Let us say I am writing about the humble heroisms; for ten minutes before I go into the trance I think of nothing but orphans41 supporting their little brothers and sisters, of dull work well and patiently done, and I focus my mind on such great philosophical42 truths as the purification and uplifting of the soul by suffering, and the alchemical transformation43 of leaden evil into golden good.” (Denis again hung up his little festoon of quotation38 marks.) “Then I pop off. Two or three hours later I wake up again, and find that inspiration has done its work. Thousands of words, comforting, uplifting words, lie before me. I type them out neatly44 on my machine and they are ready for the printer.”
“It all sounds wonderfully simple,” said Denis.
“It is. All the great and splendid and divine things of life are wonderfully simple.” (Quotation marks again.) “When I have to do my aphorisms,” Mr. Barbecue-Smith continued, “I prelude46 my trance by turning over the pages of any Dictionary of Quotations or Shakespeare Calendar that comes to hand. That sets the key, so to speak; that ensures that the Universe shall come flowing in, not in a continuous rush, but in aphorismic drops. You see the idea?”
Denis nodded. Mr. Barbecue-Smith put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a notebook. “I did a few in the train to-day,” he said, turning over the pages. “Just dropped off into a trance in the corner of my carriage. I find the train very conducive47 to good work. Here they are.” He cleared his throat and read:
“The Mountain Road may be steep, but the air is pure up there, and it is from the Summit that one gets the view.”
“The Things that Really Matter happen in the Heart.”
It was curious, Denis reflected, the way the Infinite sometimes repeated itself.
“Seeing is Believing. Yes, but Believing is also Seeing. If I believe in God, I see God, even in the things that seem to be evil.”
Mr. Barbecue-Smith looked up from his notebook. “That last one,” he said, “is particularly subtle and beautiful, don’t you think? Without Inspiration I could never have hit on that.” He re-read the apophthegm with a slower and more solemn utterance48. “Straight from the Infinite,” he commented reflectively, then addressed himself to the next aphorism45.
“The flame of a candle gives Light, but it also Burns.”
Puzzled wrinkles appeared on Mr. Barbecue-Smith’s forehead. “I don’t exactly know what that means,” he said. “It’s very gnomic. One could apply it, of course to the Higher Education—illuminating, but provoking the Lower Classes to discontent and revolution. Yes, I suppose that’s what it is. But it’s gnomic, it’s gnomic.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. The gong sounded again, clamorously, it seemed imploringly49: dinner was growing cold. It roused Mr. Barbecue-Smith from meditation50. He turned to Denis.
“You understand me now when I advise you to cultivate your Inspiration. Let your Subconscious work for you; turn on the Niagara of the Infinite.”
There was the sound of feet on the stairs. Mr. Barbecue-Smith got up, laid his hand for an instant on Denis’s shoulder, and said:
“No more now. Another time. And remember, I rely absolutely on your discretion51 in this matter. There are intimate, sacred things that one doesn’t wish to be generally known.”
“Of course,” said Denis. “I quite understand.”
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1
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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unctuous
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| adj.油腔滑调的，大胆的 | |
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benignly
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| adv.仁慈地，亲切地 | |
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condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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scowled
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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exasperatingly
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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obviated
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| v.避免，消除（贫困、不方便等）( obviate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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outwards
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| adj.外面的，公开的，向外的；adv.向外；n.外形 | |
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demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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crescendo
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| n.(音乐)渐强，高潮 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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subconscious
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| n./adj.潜意识(的)，下意识(的) | |
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irrelevant
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| adj.不恰当的，无关系的，不相干的 | |
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quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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quotations
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| n.引用( quotation的名词复数 )；[商业]行情（报告）；（货物或股票的）市价；时价 | |
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forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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orphans
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| 孤儿( orphan的名词复数 ) | |
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philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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aphorism
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| n.格言，警语 | |
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prelude
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| n.序言，前兆，序曲 | |
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conducive
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| adj.有益的，有助的 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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imploringly
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| adv. 恳求地, 哀求地 | |
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50
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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51
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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