memories of his butler and nanny, he being what Sir Eric Findlay was? It was precisely because I’d found all their biographies so very dull to start with that I’d given them so light-hearted a turn, almost as if the events they described had happened to me, not to them. At least I did them the honour of treating their output as life-stories not as case-histories for psychoanalysis, as they more or less were; I had set them on to writing fictions about themselves.
Now these autobiographies were out of my hands; but I didn’t care; they were dreary, one and all.
I was sure that nothing had happened in their lives and equally sure that Sir Quentin was pumping something artificial into their real lives instead of on paper. Presented fictionally, one could have done something authentic with that poor material. But the inducing them to express themselves in life resulted in falsity.
What is truth? I could have realized these people with my fun and games with their life-stories, while Sir Quentin was destroying them with his needling after frankness. When people says that nothing happens in their lives I believe them. But you must understand that everything happens to an artist; time is always redeemed, nothing is lost and wonders never cease.
It wasn’t till later that I found he was handing out to all of them, including Dottie, small yellow pills called Dexedrine which he told them would enable them to endure the purifying fasts he inflicted. The pills were no part of my Warrender Chase; Sir Quentin thought of them himself, doubting his power to enthral unaided.
Now, on that same day as he asked me this question about the Apologia Sir Quentin switched over to the problem of his mother. ‘Mummy,’ he said, ‘is a problem.’
I busied myself placing a sheet of carbon paper between a sheet of writing paper and one of copy paper.
‘Mummy,’ he said, has always been a problem. And I want to tell you, Miss Talbot, that you would do well to ignore any promises Mummy might have effected in your regard as to an eventual legacy. She is probably senile. Mrs Tims and I—’
‘The noun “promise” is not generally followed by the verb “effected”,’ I put in wildly, trying to keep calm. I had seen while he was speaking that he pressed the bell for Mrs Tims. As the door-bell rang at that moment she didn’t immediately appear, but Sir Quentin smiled at my little divergence and went on, ‘I know you have been very good to Mummy, taking her out on Sundays and I’m sure that if you have been out of pocket we can find ways and means of reimbursement. There is no question but that if you care to continue some little arrangement can be made. It is only that, for the future—’
‘For the future I’m well provided for, thank you,’ I slammed in. ‘And for the past, present and future I don’t take payment for friendship.’
‘You have matrimonial prospects?’ he said.
I went berserk. I said, ‘I have written a novel that’s going to be a success. It’s to be published in June.’ I don’t know whys I said this, except that I was beside myself with rage. In reality I had no hopes of success of any kind for my Warrender Chase. The new novel I was working on—my second, my All Souls’ Day —occupied my best brains now, my sweetest hopes. I thought that Warrender Chase might do respectably well as an introduction to my second book. I didn’t know then, as I know now, that it’s always the book I am working on that takes precedence in my esteem.
However, I was in no mood for the delicacies of my own opinions at that moment when out I spat the words, ‘I have written a novel …’
‘Now my dear Miss Talbot, let us be perfectly frank. Don’t you think you’ve had delusions of grandeur?’
I perceived four things simultaneously: Beryl Tims came hammering with her heels, and, opening the door, simpered that Lady Bernice was waiting; Sir Quentin opened the deep right-hand drawer of his desk with a smile;
Now these autobiographies were out of my hands; but I didn’t care; they were dreary, one and all.
I was sure that nothing had happened in their lives and equally sure that Sir Quentin was pumping something artificial into their real lives instead of on paper. Presented fictionally, one could have done something authentic with that poor material. But the inducing them to express themselves in life resulted in falsity.
What is truth? I could have realized these people with my fun and games with their life-stories, while Sir Quentin was destroying them with his needling after frankness. When people says that nothing happens in their lives I believe them. But you must understand that everything happens to an artist; time is always redeemed, nothing is lost and wonders never cease.
It wasn’t till later that I found he was handing out to all of them, including Dottie, small yellow pills called Dexedrine which he told them would enable them to endure the purifying fasts he inflicted. The pills were no part of my Warrender Chase; Sir Quentin thought of them himself, doubting his power to enthral unaided.
Now, on that same day as he asked me this question about the Apologia Sir Quentin switched over to the problem of his mother. ‘Mummy,’ he said, ‘is a problem.’
I busied myself placing a sheet of carbon paper between a sheet of writing paper and one of copy paper.
‘Mummy,’ he said, has always been a problem. And I want to tell you, Miss Talbot, that you would do well to ignore any promises Mummy might have effected in your regard as to an eventual legacy. She is probably senile. Mrs Tims and I—’
‘The noun “promise” is not generally followed by the verb “effected”,’ I put in wildly, trying to keep calm. I had seen while he was speaking that he pressed the bell for Mrs Tims. As the door-bell rang at that moment she didn’t immediately appear, but Sir Quentin smiled at my little divergence and went on, ‘I know you have been very good to Mummy, taking her out on Sundays and I’m sure that if you have been out of pocket we can find ways and means of reimbursement. There is no question but that if you care to continue some little arrangement can be made. It is only that, for the future—’
‘For the future I’m well provided for, thank you,’ I slammed in. ‘And for the past, present and future I don’t take payment for friendship.’
‘You have matrimonial prospects?’ he said.
I went berserk. I said, ‘I have written a novel that’s going to be a success. It’s to be published in June.’ I don’t know whys I said this, except that I was beside myself with rage. In reality I had no hopes of success of any kind for my Warrender Chase. The new novel I was working on—my second, my All Souls’ Day —occupied my best brains now, my sweetest hopes. I thought that Warrender Chase might do respectably well as an introduction to my second book. I didn’t know then, as I know now, that it’s always the book I am working on that takes precedence in my esteem.
However, I was in no mood for the delicacies of my own opinions at that moment when out I spat the words, ‘I have written a novel …’
‘Now my dear Miss Talbot, let us be perfectly frank. Don’t you think you’ve had delusions of grandeur?’
I perceived four things simultaneously: Beryl Tims came hammering with her heels, and, opening the door, simpered that Lady Bernice was waiting; Sir Quentin opened the deep right-hand drawer of his desk with a smile;
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