Of all the famous writers I have met, I have found Arnold Bennett the most surprising. I do not know what kind of man I expected to see when it was arranged that I should meet him, but I certainly had not anticipated beholding2 the curiously3, wrongly dressed figure that, one spring afternoon some few years ago, walked up the steps leading from the floor of Queen’s Hall to the foyer of the gallery. I was there by appointment. I was a friend of a friend of his—Havergal Brian, a young fire-eating genius from the Potteries4, and Brian had planned this curious meeting. It was during the interval5 of an afternoon concert of a Richard Strauss Festival, and Ackté was singing.
Bennett was rather short, thin, hollow-eyed, prominent-toothed. He wore a white waistcoat and a billycock hat very much awry6, and he had a manner of complete self-assurance. I cannot say that I was unimpressed. We were introduced, and he looked at me drowsily7, indifferently, insultingly indifferently. He did not speak and I, nervous, and a little bewildered by the colour of his socks, which I at that moment noticed for the first time, blundered into some futility8.
“I don’t see why,” said Bennett, in response.
I didn’t either, so far as that went. Desperately9 uncomfortable, I looked round for Brian, and saw 69him standing10 fifteen yards or so away, grinning malignantly11.
So I plunged12 into a new topic—with even more disastrous13 results.
“I notice,” said I, “that you continue writing for The New Age in spite of their violent attacks on you.”
“Yes,” he answered laconically14, and he looked dizzily over my left shoulder.
Then and there I decided15 that I would not speak again until he had spoken. I had not sought the interview any more than he had. Presently:
“I have been working very hard lately,” I heard. I turned quickly to him; he had spoken into space. I showed a polite interest and he thawed16 a little. He told me something of the number of words and hours he wrote a day, of the work he had planned for the next two years, of the regularity17 of his methods, of his disbelief in the value of “inspiration.” I seemed to have heard it all before about Anthony Trollope. He was not exactly loquacious18, but he communicated a great deal in spite of a rather unpleasant impediment in his speech....
Soon our interview was over, for we heard the orchestra tuning19 up, and we left each other with just a word of farewell and without a sigh of regret.
His conversational20 powers never, I believe, reach the point of eloquence21. I remember G. H. Mair giving me an amusing description of a breakfast he gave to Arnold Bennett and Stanley Houghton in his lodgings22 in Manchester. Bennett and Houghton had not previously23 met, and the latter was young and inexperienced enough to nurse the expectation that the personality of the famous writer would be as impressive as his work, and impressive in the same way. It is true that very extraordinary circumstances would be necessary to make breakfast in Manchester free from dullness, but Houghton no doubt thought that his meeting with Bennett was an 70extraordinary circumstance. In the event, however, he was disillusioned24.
They went in to breakfast, and Bennett sat moody25 and silent, crumbling26 a piece of bread. It chanced that on being admitted to the house Bennett had caught sight of a cabman carrying a particularly large trunk downstairs, and he began to question Mair closely about the incident, Mair explaining that a fellow-lodger was removing that morning and taking all his luggage with him.
“Yes, yes,” said Bennett, a little impatiently, “but why should he have such a large trunk? It was enormous. I don’t think I have ever seen so large a trunk before. It was at least twice the usual size.”
He took a mouthful of bacon and spent a minute in mastication27. Having swallowed:
“Absurdly large,” he said challengingly. “I can’t think why anyone should wish to own it. Besides, it’s not right to ask any man to carry such an enormous weight. That’s how strangulated hernia is caused. Yes, strangulated hernia.”
The topic did not prove fruitful, and I can imagine Houghton cudgelling his brains to discover what strangulated hernia really was, and Mair saying something witty28 about it. But with his second cup of coffee and his marmalade and toast Bennett once more talked of the cabman, the impossible trunk, and the cabman’s hypothetical hernia.
“Of course,” he remarked meditatively29, “the man must have some reason for owning such an incredibly large trunk, but I confess I can’t guess the reason. And, in any case, it is bound to be a selfish one. Now, strangulated hernia——”
And that was all that issued during a whole hour from one of the cleverest brains in England.
That Arnold Bennett is almost painfully conscious of 71his own cleverness there is no manner of doubt. He is stupendously aware of the figure he cuts in contemporary literature. He is for ever standing outside himself and enjoying the spectacle of his own greatness, and he whispers ten times a day: “Oh, what a great boy am I!” I was once shown a series of privately30 printed booklets written by Bennett—booklets that he sent to his intimates at Christmas time. They consisted of extracts from his diary—a diary that, one feels, would never have been written if the de Goncourts had not lived. One self-conscious extract lingers in the mind; the spirit of it, though not the words (and perhaps not the facts) is embodied31 in the following:—“It is 3 A.M. I have been working fourteen hours at a stretch. In these fourteen hours I have written ten thousand words. My book is finished—finished in excitement, in exaltation. Surely not even Balzac went one better than this!”
A great writer: no doubt, a very great writer: but you might gaze at him across a railway carriage for hours at a time and never suspect it.
. . . . . . . .
But if Arnold Bennett is the least picturesque32 and literary of figures, G. K. Chesterton is the most picturesque and literary. His mere33 bulk is impressive. On one occasion I saw him emerge from Shoe Lane, hurry into the middle of Fleet Street, and abruptly34 come to a standstill in the centre of the traffic. He stood there for some time, wrapped in thought, while buses, taxis and lorries eddied35 about him in a whirlpool and while drivers exercised to the full their gentle art of expostulation. Having come to the end of his meditations36 he held up his hand, turned round, cleared a passage through the horses and vehicles and returned up Shoe Lane. It was just as though he had deliberately37 chosen the middle of Fleet Street as the most fruitful place for thought. Nobody else in London could have done it with his air of absolute unconsciousness, of 72absent-mindedness. And not even the most stalwart policeman, vested with full authority, could have dammed up London’s stream of traffic more effectively.
The more one sees of Chesterton the more difficult it is to discover when he is asleep and when he is awake. He may be talking to you most vivaciously38 one moment, and the next he will have disappeared: his body will be there, of course, but his mind, his soul, the living spirit within him, will have sunk out of sight.
One Friday afternoon I went to The Daily Herald39 office to call on a friend. As I entered the building a taxi stopped at the door and I found G. K. C. by my side.
“I have half-an-hour for my article,” said he, rather breathlessly. “Wait here till I come back.”
The first sentence was addressed to himself, the second to the taxi-driver, but as we were by now in the office the driver heard nothing. Chesterton called for a back file of The Daily Herald, sat down, lit a cigar and began to read some of his old articles. I watched him. Presently, he smiled. Then he laughed. Then he leaned back in his chair and roared. “Good—oh, damned good!” exclaimed he. He turned to another article and frowned a little, but a third pleased him better. After a while he pushed the papers from him and sat a while in thought. “And as in uffish thought he” sat, he wrote his article, rapidly, calmly, drowsily. Save that his hand moved, he might have been asleep. Nothing disturbed him—neither the noise of the office nor the faint throb40 of his taxi-cab rapidly ticking off twopences in the street below.... He finished his article and rolled dreamily away.
His brother Cecil has the same gift of detachment. He can write anywhere and under any conditions. I have seen him order a mixed grill41 at the Gambrinus in Regent Street, begin an article before his food was served, and continue writing for an hour while the dishes were placed before him and allowed to go stone cold. Like most men 73in Fleet Street who do a tremendous amount of work, he has always plenty of time for play, and I do not remember ever to have come across him when he was not ready and willing to spend a half-hour in chat in one of the thousand and one little caravanserai that lurk42 so handily in the Strand43 and Fleet Street.
. . . . . . . .
Of poets of the younger generation I have met only three—Lascelles Abercrombie, Harold Monro, and John Masefield. Abercrombie I remember as a lean, spectacled man, who used to come to Manchester occasionally to hear music and, I think, to converse44 intellectually with Miss Horniman. Of music he had a sane45 and temperate46 appreciation47, but was too prone48 to condemn49 modern work, of which, by the way, he knew nothing and which by temperament50 he was incapable51 of understanding. He struck me as cold and daring—cold, daring and a little calculating. He appeared unexpectedly one day at my house, stayed for lunch, talked all afternoon, and went away in the evening, leaving me a little bewildered by the things he had refrained from saying. Really, we had nothing in common. My personality could not touch his genius at any point, and the things he wished to discuss—the technicalities of his craft, philosophy, æsthetics and so on—have no interest for me. If I had not studied his work and admired it whole-heartedly, I should have come to the conclusion that he had written poetry through sheer cleverness and brightness of brain. No man was less of a poet in appearance and conversation. He professed52 at all times a huge liking53 for beer, but I never saw him drink more than a modest pint54, and his pose of “muscular poet” (a school founded and fed by Hilaire Belloc) deceived few.
. . . . . . . .
Harold Monro I used to see occasionally in the Café Royal, and I met him a few times at the Crab55 Tree Club. 74I remember going with him, early one morning in June, 1914, after sitting up all night, to the Turkish baths in Jermyn Street. We swam a little in a tank and were then conducted to a cubicle56, where I wished to talk, but Monro was heavy with sleep and soon began to breathe stertorously57. A few days later he received me rather heavily at his office at The Poetry Bookshop, read some of my verses, and told me quite frankly58 that he did not consider me much of a poet. A sound, solid man, Monro, and he has written at least one poem—Trees—as delicate and as beautiful as anything done in our time.
. . . . . . . .
But neither Monro nor Abercrombie, greatly gifted and earnest in their work though they be, fulfils one’s conception of a poetic59 personality. There is no mystery about them, no glamour60; they do not arouse wonder or surprise. John Masefield, on the other hand, has an invincible61 picturesqueness62—a picturesqueness that stamps him at once as different from his fellows. He is tall, straight and blue-eyed, with a complexion63 as clear as a child’s. His eyes are amazingly shy, almost furtive64. His manner is shy, almost furtive. He speaks to you as though he suspected you of hostility65, as though you had the power to injure him and were on the point of using that power. You feel his sensitiveness and you admire the dignity that is at once its outcome and its protection.
There are many legends about Masefield; he is the kind of figure that gives rise to legends. And, as he is curiously reticent66 about his early life, some of the most extravagant67 of these legends have persisted and have, for many people, become true. But the bare facts of his life are interesting enough. As a young man he grew sick of life, of the kind of life he was living, and went to sea as a sailor before the mast. He had neither money nor friends; or, if he had, he relinquished68 both. The necessity to earn a living drove him into many adventures, and 75I am told that for a time he was pot-boy in a New York drink-den. Here his work must have been utterly69 distasteful, but the observing eye and the impressionable brain of the poet were at work the whole time, and one can see clearly in some of Masefield’s long narrative70 poems many evidences of those bitter New York days. How Masefield came to London and settled in Bloomsbury, becoming the friend of J. M. Synge, I do not know. For six months he was in Manchester, editing the column entitled Miscellany in The Manchester Guardian71, and writing occasional theatrical72 notices. I have been told by several of his colleagues on that paper that Masefield’s reserve was invulnerable; he quickly secured the respect of his fellow-workers, but not one of them became intimate with him. He lived in dingy73 lodgings, he worked hard and, at the end of six months, withdrew to London on the plea that he found it impossible to do literary work at night.
But if the circumstances of Masefield’s life are little known, his spiritual history is more than indicated in his work. Here one sees a stricken soul; a nature wounded and a little poisoned; a nervous system agitated74 and apprehensive75. His mind is cast in a tragic76 mould and his soul takes delight in the contemplation of physical violence. His personality, as I have said, is furtive. He shrinks. His intimate friends may have heard him laugh. I have not.
It must be nearly six years since I visited him at his house in Well Walk, Hampstead. It was a miserably77 cold afternoon in February, and though it was not yet twilight78 the blinds of the drawing-room were drawn79 and the lights already lit. Masefield’s conversation was intolerably cautious, intolerably shy. In a rather academic way he deplored80 the lack of literary critics in England; the art of criticism was dead; the essay was moribund81. He expanded this theme perfunctorily, walking up and down the room slowly and never looking me in the eyes 76once. It was only when, at length, he had sat down—not opposite me, but with the side of his face towards me—that, very occasionally, his eyes would seek mine with a rapid dart82 and turn away instantly, and at such moments it seemed as though he almost winced83. Such shrinking, such excessive timidity, whilst arousing my curiosity, also made me feel no little discomfort84, and I was glad when a spirit kettle was brought in, with cups and saucers, and Masefield began to make tea.
This making of tea, a most solemn business, reminded me of Cranford. The poet walked to a corner of the room, took therefrom a long narrow box divided into a number of compartments85 and proceeded, most delicately, to measure out and mix two or three different kinds of tea. The teapot was next heated, the blended tea thrown in, and boiling water immediately poured on it. And then the tea was timed, Masefield holding his watch in his hand and pouring out the fluid into the cups at the psychological second.... He ought, I think, to have taken a little silver key from his waistcoat pocket and locked up the tea-box. He ought to have taken his knitting from a work-box. He ought to have asked me if I had yet spoken to the new curate. But he did none of these things....
Though for an hour he continued talking, he said nothing—at least, he said nothing I have remembered. The extraordinary thing about him was that, in spite of his timidity, his seeming apprehensiveness86, he left on my mind a deep impression of adventure—not of a man who sought physical, but spiritual, risks. I think he is a poet who cannot refrain from exacerbating87 his own soul, who must at all costs place his mind in danger and escape only at the last moment. I believe he is intensely morbid88, delighting to brood over dark things, seeing no humour in life, but full of a baffled chivalry89, a nobility thwarted90 at every turn.
. . . . . . . .
77A man of a very different type is Jerome K. Jerome, whom I met at the National Liberal Club and elsewhere in the early days of the war. Like all humorists, he is an inveterate91 sentimentalist; his belief in human nature is as wide-eyed and innocent as that of a child. He is an untidy, prosperous, middle-aged93 man—very kindly94, but a little intolerant. His mental attitude is that of a man sitting a little apart from life, alternately amused and saddened by the things he sees. In the drawing-room of his flat at Chelsea he seemed a little out of place; he did not harmonise with his surroundings. But in the Club he was easy, natural, at home. More than twenty years ago I heard him lecture in Manchester; the Jerome of to-day is the Jerome of those far-off years, a little mellower95 perhaps, a little quieter, a little more sentimental92, but essentially96 the same in appearance, in manner and in his attitude towards life.
. . . . . . . .
I have met other humorists, but of a type very different from that represented by Jerome. Sir Owen Seaman I met at a little dinner given by the Critics’ Circle at Gatti’s to a colleague of ours who was on the point of leaving for the Front, and who, alas97! is now no more. Sir Owen was made both by nature and training for a squarson—that useful but fast-dying gentleman who combines the duties and responsibilities of squire98 and parson. His personality, rather beefy and John Bullish, confirms one’s expectations. He made an excellent chairman at this particular dinner.
. . . . . . . .
His very brilliant assistant, A. A. Milne, I once interviewed for a now defunct99 Labour paper. I was invited to the office of Punch, and met a tall, slim, yellow-haired and blue-eyed youth, who was so inordinately100 shy that, after half-an-hour’s perfunctory conversation, I discovered that I had not sufficient material for a paragraph, 78whereas I had orders to make a column article of the interview. I knew instinctively101 that Milne must find, as I do, a good deal in W. S. Gilbert’s writings that is in deplorable taste, and I did my utmost to induce him to say something very rude about Sullivan’s collaborator102. But he would not “bite.” He nodded and smiled at, and appeared to agree with, all the savage103 things I said of Gilbert, but he would say very little—and certainly not enough for my purpose—on his own account. I tried other subjects, but without success; finally, I got up in despair, thanked him for the time he had given me and prepared to depart.
“But,” said Milne, eyeing me, a little distrustfully, “I must see a copy of your article before it is printed.”
“Why, certainly,” said I, and that evening posted it to him, expecting to see it back with perhaps one or two minor104 alterations105.
But when my poor article arrived back (really, I thought it an excellent piece of work) I could scarcely recognise it, so heavily was it scored out, so numerous were the alterations. And Milne’s accompanying letter was scathing106. I remember one or two sentences. “I cannot tell you how thankful I am,” he wrote, “that I insisted on seeing your article before it was printed. It does not represent my views in the least; your talent for misrepresentation is remarkably107 resourceful.”
When the article was finally passed for publication at least seventy-five per cent. of it was from Milne’s pen. He wrote one or two other stabbing sentences to me, from which it appeared that, however numerous his virtues108 may be, he is unable to suffer fools gladly.
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1
seaman
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| n.海员，水手，水兵 | |
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beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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potteries
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| n.陶器( pottery的名词复数 )；陶器厂；陶土；陶器制造（术） | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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awry
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| adj.扭曲的，错的 | |
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drowsily
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| adv.睡地，懒洋洋地，昏昏欲睡地 | |
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futility
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| n.无用 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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malignantly
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| 怀恶意地； 恶毒地； 有害地； 恶性地 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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laconically
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| adv.简短地，简洁地 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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thawed
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| 解冻 | |
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regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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loquacious
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| adj.多嘴的，饶舌的 | |
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tuning
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| n.调谐，调整，调音v.调音( tune的现在分词 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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eloquence
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lodgings
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previously
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disillusioned
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moody
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crumbling
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mastication
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witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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meditatively
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privately
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embodied
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picturesque
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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abruptly
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eddied
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| 起漩涡，旋转( eddy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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deliberately
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vivaciously
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| adv.快活地；活泼地；愉快地 | |
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herald
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| vt.预示...的来临，预告，宣布，欢迎 | |
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throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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grill
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lurk
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strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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temperate
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| adj.温和的，温带的，自我克制的，不过分的 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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crab
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| n.螃蟹，偏航，脾气乖戾的人，酸苹果；vi.捕蟹，偏航，发牢骚；vt.使偏航，发脾气 | |
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cubicle
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| n.大房间中隔出的小室 | |
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stertorously
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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picturesqueness
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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reticent
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| adj.沉默寡言的；言不如意的 | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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relinquished
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的过去式和过去分词 )； 放弃 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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deplored
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| v.悲叹，痛惜，强烈反对( deplore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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moribund
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| adj.即将结束的，垂死的 | |
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dart
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| v.猛冲，投掷；n.飞镖，猛冲 | |
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winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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compartments
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| n.间隔( compartment的名词复数 )；（列车车厢的）隔间；（家具或设备等的）分隔间；隔层 | |
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apprehensiveness
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| 忧虑感，领悟力 | |
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exacerbating
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| v.使恶化，使加重( exacerbate的现在分词 ) | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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thwarted
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| 阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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inveterate
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| adj.积习已深的，根深蒂固的 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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mellower
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| 成熟的( mellow的比较级 )； （水果）熟透的； （颜色或声音）柔和的； 高兴的 | |
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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defunct
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| adj.死亡的；已倒闭的 | |
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inordinately
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| adv.无度地，非常地 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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collaborator
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| n.合作者，协作者 | |
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103
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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alterations
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| n.改动( alteration的名词复数 )；更改；变化；改变 | |
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scathing
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| adj.（言词、文章）严厉的，尖刻的；不留情的adv.严厉地，尖刻地v.伤害，损害（尤指使之枯萎）( scathe的现在分词) | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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