May 1st.

This morning in the course of my walk I saw a hungry child trying to sell violets, a girl gazing fearfully at the Maternity Hospital, an old woman picking, as if they were gold, coals from the gutter. At times what a world of poignant drama these common sights reveal! It is like getting one’s eye to a telescope that is focussed on a world of interesting misery. I want to write of these things, but I must not. First of all I must write for money; that gained, I may write for art.

So far I haven’t hit on my novel motif, though I’ve lain awake at nights racking my poor brains. What makes me fret so is that never have I felt such confidence, such power, such hunger to create. I think it must be Paris and the Springtime. The combination makes me dithyrambic with delight. I thrill, I burn, I see life with eyes anointed. Yesterday in the Luxembourg I wrote some verses that weren’t half bad; but writing verses does not make the thorns crackle under the pot, far less supply the savoury soup. Oh, the Idea, the Idea!

To my little band of manuscripts I have never given another thought. But that is my way. I am like a mother cat—when my kittens are young I love them; when they grow to be cats I spit at them. My work finished, I never want to see it again.

One day as I fumed and fussed abominably Lorrimer called.

“Look here, Madden, I don’t know what kind of writing you do, but I suppose you’re not any too beastly rich; you’re not above making an honest dollar. Now, I’m one of the future gold medallists of the Spring Salon, cela va sans dire, but in the meantime I’m not above doing this.”

“This” was a paper covered booklet of a flaming type. I took it with some disfavour. The paper was muddy, the type disreputable, the illustrations lurid. Turning it over I read:

THE MARVELLOUS PENNYWORTH LIBRARY
OF WORLD ADVENTURE.

“Pretty rotten, isn’t it?” said Lorrimer. “Well, you wouldn’t believe it, some of these things sell to nearly quarter of a million. They give the best value for the money in their line. Fifty pages of straight adventure and a dozen spirited illustrations for a humble copper; could you beat it?”

“Well, what’s it got to do with me?”

“It’s like this: I’ve been guilty of the illustrations of two of these masterpieces. They were Wild West stories. Being an American, though I’ve never lived out of Connecticut, I’m supposed to know all about Colorado. Well, it’s the firm of Shortcake & Hammer that publish them, and I happened to meet young Percy Shortcake when he was on a jamboree in Paris. Over the wassail we got free, so he promised to put some work my way. Soon after I got a commission to illustrate Sureshot, or the Scout’s Revenge; then some months after I adorned the pages of Redhand the Nightrider, or the Prowler of the Prairies.”

“I see. What’s the idea now?”

“The idea is that you write one of these things and I illustrate it.”

“My dear fellow, you have too high an opinion of my powers.”

“Oh, come now, Madden, try. You won’t throw me down, old man. I need the money. Supposing we place it we’ll get a ten pound note for it; that will be seven for you and three for me. Three pounds, man, that will keep me for a month, give me time to finish my prize picture for the Salon. Just think what it means to me, what a crisis in my fortunes. Fame there ready to crown me, and for the want of a measly three quid, biff! there she chucks her crown back in the laurel bin for another year. Oh, Madden, try. I’m sure you could rise to the occasion.”

Thus approached, how could a kind-hearted Irishman refuse? Already I saw Lorrimer gold-medalled, glorified; then the reverse of the picture, Lorrimer writhing in the clutches of dissipation and despair. Could I desert him? I yielded.

“Good!” whooped Lorrimer; “we’ll make a best-seller in Penny-dreadfuldom. Take Sureshot here as a model. Here, too, are your illustrations.”

“My what?”

“The pictures. Oh, yes, I did them first. It doesn’t make any difference, you can make them fit in. It’s often done that way. Half the books published for Christmas sale are written up to illustrations that the publishers have on hand.”

“All right. The illustrations may suggest the story.”

Lorrimer went away exultant. After all, I thought, seven pounds won’t be bad for a week’s work. So I read Sureshot with some care. It was divided into twenty chapters of about a thousand words each, and every chapter finished on a situation of suspense. The sentences were jerkily short; each was full of pith and punch, and often had a paragraph all to itself. For example:

End of chapter; the next of which artfully switches, and takes up another thread of the story.

The result of my effort was that in six days I produced Daredeath Dick, or the Scourge of the Sierras. Lorrimer was enthusiastic.

“Didn’t think you had it in you, old man. I’ll get it off to Shortcake & Hammer at once. It will likely be some weeks before we can hear from them.”

Since then I have been seeing quite a lot of Lorrimer. After all, our little apartment is cosiness itself, and beer at four sous a litre is ambrosia within reach of the most modest purse. He talks vastly of his work (with a capital W). He arrives with the announcement that he has just dropped in for a quiet pipe; in an hour he must be back at his Work. Then: “Well, old man, just another short pipe, and I must really be off.” But in the end he takes his departure about two in the morning, sometimes talking me asleep.

How he lives is a mystery. Any evening you can see him in the Café d’Harcourt, or the Soufflet, and generally accompanied by Rougette. When he is in funds he spends recklessly. Once he gained a prize for a Moulin Rouge poster, and celebrated his success in a supper that cost him three times the value of his prize. Sometimes he contributes a very naughty drawing to Pages Folles, and I know that he does aquarelles for the long-haired genius who sells them on the boulevards, and who, though he can draw little else than a cork from a bottle, in appearance out-rapins the rapins.

One afternoon I heard Helstern painfully toiling upstairs.

“I’ve got an idea,” he began. “You know as soon as I set eyes on the mother of your little Solonge I saw she was just the type I’ve been looking for for my group, Maternity. That woman’s a born mother, a mother by destiny. See, here’s a sketch of my group.”

Helstern’s statues, I notice, seldom get beyond the sketch stage. This one showed a mother suckling an infant and gazing fondly at another little girl, who in her turn was looking maternally at the baby.

“That’s all very well,” I objected banally; “but Frosine hasn’t got a baby.”

“Pooh! a mere trifle. I’ll soon supply the baby. Already I see my group crowned in the Salon. The thing’s as good as done. It only remains for you to go down and get the consent of Madam.”

“Me!”

“Why, yes. You know I’m no good at talking to women. It takes an Irishman to be persuasive. Go on, there’s a good fellow.”

Was I ever able to resist an appeal to my vanity? But pretty soon I returned rather crestfallen.

“It’s no use, old man. Can’t make anything of the lady. I showed her your sketch; I offered to provide the infant; I pointed out the sensation it would make in the Salon; no use. She positively refuses to pose; prefers to sew lingerie. If she would be serious I might be able to wheedle her; but she only laughs, and when a woman laughs I’ve got to laugh with her. But I can’t help thinking there’s something at the back of her refusal.”

“Well, well,” sighed the big sculptor, “I give her up. And already I could see the crowds admiring my group as it stood under the dome of the Grand Palace; already I could hear their plaudits ringing in my ears; already....”

Once more he sighed deeply, and went away.

May 15th.

It is so hot to-day that I think Summer must have taken the wrong cue. On the Boul’ Mich’ the marronniers sicken in the stale air composed equally of asphalt, petrol and escaping gas. Assyrian bearded students and Aubrey Beardsley cocottes are sitting over opaline glasses in front of the stifling cafés, and the dolphins in the fountains of the Observatory spout enthusiastically. Now is the time to loll on a shaded bench in the Luxembourg Gardens, and refrain from doing anything strenuous.

So I sit there dreaming, and note in a careless way that I am becoming conspicuously shabby. Because the necessary franc for the barber cannot well be spared, I have allowed my hair to accumulate æsthetically. Anastasia loves it like that—says it makes me look like the great man of letters I am; and with a piece of silk she has made me a Lavallière tie. More than ever I feel like a character in a French farce.

My boots, I particularly note, need heeling. Every morning I conscientiously brush them before I go out, but invariably I am called back.

“Show me your feet.”

I bow before this domestic tyrant.

“Oh, what a dirty boy it is. What shame for me to have husbands go out like that.”

“But look!” I protest; “they’re clean. They shine like a mirror. Why, you can see your face in them—if you look hard enough.”

“But the heels! Look at the heels. Why you have not brush them. Oh, I nevaire see child like that. You just brush in front.”

“Well, how can I see the heels? I’m no contortionist.”

“Oh, mon Dieu! He brush his boots after he puts them on. Oh, what a cabbage head I have for husband!”

“Well, isn’t that the right way?”

“Nom d’un chien! Give me your patte.”

Then what a storm if I try to go out with a hole in my socks!

“Oh, dear! I nevaire see man like that. Suppose you get keel in the street, and some one take off your boots, sink how you are shamed. What shame for me, too, if I have husbands keel wiz hole in his sock!”

In addition to her other duties I have made her my Secretary. Alas! I must confess some of my valiant manuscripts have come sneaking back with unflattering promptitude. It is a new experience and a bitter one. Yet I think my chief concern is that Anastasia’s faith in me should be shattered. After the first unbelieving moment I threw the things aside in disgust.

“They’re no good. I’ll never send them out again.”

“Oh, don’t say that, darleen. You geeve to me and I send away some more.”

“Do what you like,” I answered savagely. “But don’t let me see the beastly things again. And don’t,” I added thoughtfully, “send them twice to the same place.”

So what is happening I know not, though the expense for stamps is a grievous one. She has a list of periodicals and is posting the things somewhere. Perhaps she may blunder luckily. Anyway, I don’t care. I’m sick of them.

May 30th.

Some days ago I was sitting by the gate of the Luxembourg that fronts the bust of St. Beuve. That fine, shrewd face seemed to smile at me with pawky kindliness, as if to say: “Don’t despair, young men; seek, seek, for the luminous idea will come.”

But just then it was more pleasant to dream than to seek. A slim pine threw on the sun-flooded lawn its purple pool of shadow; in the warm breeze a thickset yew heaved gently; a lively acacia twinkled and fluttered; a silver-stemmed birch tossed enthusiastic plumes. Over a bank of golden lilies bright-winged butterflies were hovering, and in a glade beyond there was a patch of creamy hyacinths. Against the ivy that mantled an old oak, the white dress of a girl out-gleamed, and her hat, scarlet as a geranium, made a sparkling note of colour.

Then, as she drew near I saw it was Anastasia, and she was much excited. I wondered why. Is there anything in this world, I asked myself, worth while getting excited about? Just then I was inclined to think not; so I smoked on imperturbably. The vacuum in my life made by the lack of tobacco had been more than I could bear, and I had taken to those cheap packets of Caporal, cigarettes bleues, whose luxuriant whiskers I surreptitiously trimmed with Anastasia’s embroidery scissors. Never shall I be one of those kill-joys who recommend young men not to smoke—in the meantime filling up their own pipes with particular gusto.

“Hullo, Little Thing! Why this unexpected pleasure?”

“Oh, I search you everywhere. See! There’s letter from editor.”

“So it is; and judging by your excitement it must contain at least twenty pounds. Already I wallow in the sands of Pactolus.... Yes, you’re right: A cheque. How long it seems since I’ve seen a cheque! Let’s see—why! it’s for a whole guinea.”

Her eyes gleamed with pleasure, and she clapped her hands.

“In payment,” I went on, “of the article How to be a Successful Wife, from the editor of Baby’s Own a weekly Magazine specially devoted to the Nursery.”

“Yes, yes. I send heem zere. I sink it’s so chic, that magazine.”

“Well, I congratulate you on your first success as a literary agent. You deserve your ten per cent. commission. It isn’t the Eldorado of our dreams, but it will enable us to carry out some needed sartorial reforms. For example, I may now get my boots persuaded to a new lease of life, while you can buy some stuff for a blouse. How much can we do on twenty-six francs?”

Between Necessary Expenditure and Cash in Hand the difference was appalling, but after elaborate debate the money was duly appropriated. From this time on Anastasia became more energetic than ever in her consumption of postage. It was about this time, too, I noticed she ate very sparingly. On my taxing her, she declared she was dieting. She was afraid, she said, of getting fat. On which I decided I also was getting fat: I, too, must diet. Every one, we agreed, ate too much. I for one (I vowed) could do better work on a mess of pottage than on all the fleshpots of Egypt. So the expenses of our ménage began to take a very low figure indeed.

At the same time “Soup of the Onion” began to make its appearance with a monotonous frequency. It is made by frying the fragments of one of these vegetables till it is nearly black. You then add hot water, boil a little, strain. The result is a warm, yellowish liquor of onionish suggestion, which an ardent imagination may transform into a delicate and nourishing soup—and which costs about one sou.

A sudden reversion, however, to a more generous cuisine aroused my suspicion, and, on visiting the little embroidery shop, again I saw some of her work. I made a rapid calculation. Of my personal possessions there only remained to me my gold signet ring, and the seal that had hung at the end of my chain. For the first I got fifty francs, for the second, twenty. So for thirty francs I bought her work, and locked it away with the cushion cover.

I am really beginning to despair, to think I shall have to give in. Oh, the bitterness of surrender! All that is mulish in me revolts at the thought. For myself rather would I starve than be beaten, but there is the girl, she must not be allowed to suffer.

May 31st.

This has been a happy day, such a happy day as never before have I known. This morning Lorrimer burst into my apartment flourishing a cheque for The Scourge of the Sierras. Shortcake & Hammer expressed themselves as well pleased, and sent—not ten pounds but twelve.

“I tell you what!” cried the artist excitedly, “we’ve got to celebrate your success as a popular author. We’ll spend the extra two pounds on a dinner. We’ll ask Rougette and Helstern, and we’ll have it to-night in the Café d’Harcourt.”

He is one of these human steam-rollers who crush down all opposition; so that night we five met in the merriest café in the Boul’ Mich’. Below its bizarre frescoes of student life we had our table, and considering that four of us did not know where the next month’s rent was coming from we were a notably gay party.

Oh, you unfortunates who dine well every day of your lives, little do you guess the gastronomic bliss of those whose lives are one long Lent! Never could you have vanquished, as we, that host of insidious hors-d’œuvres; never beset as we that bouillon with the brown bread drowned in it. How the crisp fried soles shrank in their shrimp sauce at the spectacle of our devouring rage, and the filet mignon hid in fear under its juicy mushrooms! The salad of chicken and haricots verts seemed to turn still greener with terror, and, as it vanished in total rout, after it we hurled a bomb of Neapolitan ice cream. And the wine! How splendid to have all the Beaune one wants after a course of “Château La Pompe!” And those two bottles of sunshine and laughter from the vaults of Rheims—not more radiantly did they overflow than did our spirits! And so sipping our cafés filtre, we watched the crowd and all the world looked glorious.

The place had filled with the usual mob of students, models and filles-de-joie, and the scene was of more than the usual gaiety. The country had just been swept by a wave of military enthusiasm; patriotism was rampant; the female orchestra perspired in its efforts to be heard. Every one seemed to be thumping on tables with bocks, and two hundred voices were singing:

Some one started Fragson’s En avant, mes petits Gars, and there was more stamping, shouting and banging of bocks. Then the orchestra broke into the melody for which all were longing:

All were up on their seats now, and the song finished in a furore of enthusiasm.

The generous wine had affected us three men differently. Lorrimer was loquacious, Helstern gloomy, while I was inclined to sleep.

“Bah!” Helstern was saying: “This fire and fury, what is it? A mask to hide a desperate uneasiness. Poor France! There she is like some overfat ewe; there is the Prussian Wolf waiting; but look! between them the paw of the Lion.”[A]

He represented the fat ewe with the sugar bowl, the Wolf with the cream jug, and laid his big hand in between.

“Poor France!” broke in the girls; Rougette was more brilliantly pretty than ever, and her eyes flashed with indignation. Even the gentle Anastasia was roused to mild resentment.

“Yes,” went on Helstern, “you’re a great race, but you’re too old. You’ve got to go as they all went, Greece, Rome, Italy, Spain. England will follow, then Germany, last of all Russia.”

“For Heaven’s sake!” broke in Lorrimer noisily, “don’t let him get on the subject of International Destinies. What does it matter to us? To-day’s the only time worth considering. Let’s think of our own destinies: mine as the coming Gérôme, Helstern’s as the coming Rodin, and Madden’s as the coming Sylvanus Cobb.”

But I did not heed him. Drowsy content had possession of me. “Seven pounds,” I was thinking; “that means the sinews of war for another month. Oh, if I could only get some kind of an idea for that novel! What is Lorrimer babbling about now?”

“Marriage,” he was saying; “I don’t believe in marriage. The first year people are married they are happy, the second contented, the third resigned. There should be a new deal every three years. Why, if a general dispensation of divorce were to be granted, half of the married couples would break away so quick it would make your head swim.”

“Oh, Monsieur, you are shocking,” said Anastasia.

“What shocks to-day is a commonplace to-morrow. There will come a time when the custom that condemns a couple to bore one another for life will be considered a barbaric one. Why penalise people eternally for the aberration of a season? Three year marriages would give life back its colour, its passion, its romance. People so soon grow physically indifferent to each other. Flavoured with domesticity kisses lose their rapture.”

“You have the sentiments épouventable,” said Anastasia. “Wait till you have marry.”

“Me! You’ll never see me in the valley of the shadow of matrimony. Would you spoil a good lover by making an indifferent husband of him? No, we never care for the things we have, and we always want those we haven’t. If I were married to Helen of Troy I’d be sneaking side glances at some little Mimi Pinson across the way. And by the same token, Madam, keep your eye on that husband of yours, for even now he’s looking pretty hard at some one else.”

And indeed I was, for there across the room was the girl from Naples, Lucrezia Poppolini.