Crome Yellow by Aldous Huxley Page A

marked by the same peculiarity, and for a simple and obvious reason: Greatness is nothing more nor less than the harmonious functioning of the faculties of the head and heart; the shorter the neck, the more closely these two organs approach one another;
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. . . It was convincing.
    Mr Barbecue-Smith belonged to the old school of journalists. He sported a leonine head with a greyish-black mane of oddly unappetizing hair brushed back from a broad but low forehead. And somehow he always seemed slightly, ever so slightly, soiled. In younger days he had gaily 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 esteem. He had never been to Crome before; she showed him round the house. Mr Barbecue-Smith was full of admiration.
    â€˜So quaint, so old-world,’ he kept repeating. He had a rich, rather unctuous voice.
    Priscilla praised his latest book. ‘Splendid, I thought it was,’ she said in her large, jolly way.
    â€˜I’m happy to think you found it a comfort,’ said Mr Barbecue-Smith.
    â€˜Oh, tremendously! And the bit about the Lotus Pool – I thought that so beautiful.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Mr Stone is a writer too,’ said Priscilla, as she introduced Denis.
    â€˜Indeed!’ Mr Barbecue-Smith smiled benignly, and looking up at Denis with an expression of Olympian condescension, ‘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.
    â€˜Mr Stone is one of our younger poets.’ It was Anne’s voice. He scowled at her, and she smiled back exasperatingly.
    â€˜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 retired to his chamber.
    Mr Barbecue-Smith came down to the drawing-room at ten to eight. He was in a good humour, and, as he descended 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 embarrassment as he came into the room.
    â€˜Do go on, do go on,’ said Mr Barbecue-Smith. ‘I am very fond of music.’
    â€˜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 hearth, 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.
    â€˜You write,’ he asked, ‘don’t you?’
    â€˜Well, yes – a little, you know.’
    â€˜How many words do you find you can write in an hour?’
    â€˜I don’t think I’ve ever counted.’
    â€˜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 aboutfour hours. But sometimes it takes me much longer.’
    Mr Barbecue-Smith nodded. ‘Yes, three hundred words an hour