bonds, fine as a spider’s web for me to break. That I have had the strength to break them, is, I know, due to practical work, to the social work which was carried on by the proletariat of my country.’
‘I am floating, Stephen, I am floating. Now I am glad I am a scribbler. There is a future. Tom Barrie is right; France sheds light on everything. We have a future.’
‘Wait; plenty is to come.’
The embassies received them. In their dress of poor relations, they were announced by servants in black clothes and gloves, all the artisans of typewriter and pen, the unknown, the known, all named: ‘Monsieur André£ Gide, Madam Anna Seghers, Monsieur Thomas Mann, Monsieur Forster, Monsieur Thomas Barrie, Monsieur Kantorowicz … Henri Barbusse, Romain Rolland, Martin Nexoe, Ilya Ehrenburg, Aldous Huxley, Julien Benda—Monsieur Stephen Howard, Mademoiselle Wilkes—Bonjour, Monsieur l’Ambassadeur, bonjour, Madame l’Ambassadrice.’
‘Oof!’
Then sitting round the big rooms under portraits in oil, chatting with the hosts, getting to the big tables on which were the largest dishes of food they had ever seen, silver boats and coracles used no doubt by Jupiter guzzling in heaven; but at the Russian Embassy used to hold caviar.
Several times she promised to meet one or other of them, the Americans; and she did go with Tom Barrie to a room he shared with an English writer; but sat shy and uneasy in a chair while the two men flirted with an English girl and a French girl from the congress.
‘I can make any man lustful just by looking in his eyes,’ stated the English girl, who was plain, long-nosed and big-eyed.
‘Try me,’ said Tom Barrie.
She sat opposite to him on the twin cot and glared.
‘Pah!’ he cried suddenly, jumping off the bed.
‘Try me,’ said Pax, the English writer.
She twisted round to face him; and after a minute, he fell back on the bed, legs and arms in the air, laughing, ‘It works, yes, it works.’ The French girl meanwhile was having a bath, for there was no bath in her room at her little hotel, and it appeared that she did this every day, for her toilet things were arranged in the bathroom.
‘Well, comrades—’ said Emily, diffidently and with a flush, ‘I think I’ll get back to my hotel.’ They let her go.
Others she left standing at the door of the hall. One serious journalist from Chicago made quite a face as she hurried past him, engrossed in Howard’s words; his lineaments crashed together; he turned dark with disgrace.
‘Now, he’s going to hate me. Oh, jiminy,’ she said to Stephen, ‘I’m like B. D. Given a chance we’ll all teasers and cheats.’
‘Forget him. We’re going to lunch.’
She sighed, ‘If you knew the lift I get being with you. Life is a battlefield, but not a field of honour. Here at least, we are all on a field of honour.’
Stephen said, ‘Every writer worth his salt begins by some notion of revolt. He wants to show people that the labels are wrong; and then there’s the contagion. Writers don’t write about themselves—they need others. The others—the all-important.’
‘Ah!’ she said. ‘The baffling, puzzling, beloved others. If we could just for half an hour get inside someone else and be someone else, we’d swipe the laurels. If it didn’t kill us. Maybe, it would be the fatal bolt, strike you dead.’
He said, ‘Most writers, even if doing pulp and potboilers—are forced at least once or twice in their lives to say what they see before their own eyes—they wake up one morning and say, “The emperor has no clothes, and I’ve got to tell people that.”’
‘But this lot here are the best, they say nothing but the truth and they are trying to change the world. Oh, I can hardly bear it, it is so thrilling, noble, grand,’ said Emily. ‘What have I been doing all my life? Pulping and potboiling. Every morning I said, “The emperor has no clothes”; but I said, “But the paper runs clothing ads and they
‘I am floating, Stephen, I am floating. Now I am glad I am a scribbler. There is a future. Tom Barrie is right; France sheds light on everything. We have a future.’
‘Wait; plenty is to come.’
The embassies received them. In their dress of poor relations, they were announced by servants in black clothes and gloves, all the artisans of typewriter and pen, the unknown, the known, all named: ‘Monsieur André£ Gide, Madam Anna Seghers, Monsieur Thomas Mann, Monsieur Forster, Monsieur Thomas Barrie, Monsieur Kantorowicz … Henri Barbusse, Romain Rolland, Martin Nexoe, Ilya Ehrenburg, Aldous Huxley, Julien Benda—Monsieur Stephen Howard, Mademoiselle Wilkes—Bonjour, Monsieur l’Ambassadeur, bonjour, Madame l’Ambassadrice.’
‘Oof!’
Then sitting round the big rooms under portraits in oil, chatting with the hosts, getting to the big tables on which were the largest dishes of food they had ever seen, silver boats and coracles used no doubt by Jupiter guzzling in heaven; but at the Russian Embassy used to hold caviar.
Several times she promised to meet one or other of them, the Americans; and she did go with Tom Barrie to a room he shared with an English writer; but sat shy and uneasy in a chair while the two men flirted with an English girl and a French girl from the congress.
‘I can make any man lustful just by looking in his eyes,’ stated the English girl, who was plain, long-nosed and big-eyed.
‘Try me,’ said Tom Barrie.
She sat opposite to him on the twin cot and glared.
‘Pah!’ he cried suddenly, jumping off the bed.
‘Try me,’ said Pax, the English writer.
She twisted round to face him; and after a minute, he fell back on the bed, legs and arms in the air, laughing, ‘It works, yes, it works.’ The French girl meanwhile was having a bath, for there was no bath in her room at her little hotel, and it appeared that she did this every day, for her toilet things were arranged in the bathroom.
‘Well, comrades—’ said Emily, diffidently and with a flush, ‘I think I’ll get back to my hotel.’ They let her go.
Others she left standing at the door of the hall. One serious journalist from Chicago made quite a face as she hurried past him, engrossed in Howard’s words; his lineaments crashed together; he turned dark with disgrace.
‘Now, he’s going to hate me. Oh, jiminy,’ she said to Stephen, ‘I’m like B. D. Given a chance we’ll all teasers and cheats.’
‘Forget him. We’re going to lunch.’
She sighed, ‘If you knew the lift I get being with you. Life is a battlefield, but not a field of honour. Here at least, we are all on a field of honour.’
Stephen said, ‘Every writer worth his salt begins by some notion of revolt. He wants to show people that the labels are wrong; and then there’s the contagion. Writers don’t write about themselves—they need others. The others—the all-important.’
‘Ah!’ she said. ‘The baffling, puzzling, beloved others. If we could just for half an hour get inside someone else and be someone else, we’d swipe the laurels. If it didn’t kill us. Maybe, it would be the fatal bolt, strike you dead.’
He said, ‘Most writers, even if doing pulp and potboilers—are forced at least once or twice in their lives to say what they see before their own eyes—they wake up one morning and say, “The emperor has no clothes, and I’ve got to tell people that.”’
‘But this lot here are the best, they say nothing but the truth and they are trying to change the world. Oh, I can hardly bear it, it is so thrilling, noble, grand,’ said Emily. ‘What have I been doing all my life? Pulping and potboiling. Every morning I said, “The emperor has no clothes”; but I said, “But the paper runs clothing ads and they
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