Part 12

DEAR NICO,—No, please, do not come. After all the years that have passed, and the eight months and more that I have been thinking doubly—having so little else to do and believing that life was over—you must not re-enter my heart. It is sealed against you—at least so long as you keep away. How I should feel if I saw you, I cannot say; but I daren’t experiment, nor must you ask. You were to have given me so much; you took so much; you even, I confess, still hold so much—how dare I then see you, and even more, how dare I let you see me? You could never bear the thought of age, of life’s inevitable decline. So many artists cannot: it is part of the price they pay for their gifts—and no small price too, for it makes them a little inhuman and to be inhuman in this strange wonderful world is terrible. No, dear, do not come or again suggest it. My Nicholas Devose must be as dead as your Serena. The two who would now meet are strangers and they will be wise to remain so. But my Nicholas—I have him here and shall never forget him, and over him I often cry a little.—Your friend,

SERENA

CLXIX

SEPTIMUS TRIBE TO VERENA RABY

DEAR VERENA,—Your letter of good news to my poor Letitia has made us extravagantly happy—or at least it would have done so had any form of extravagance not become impossible. I am not in the habit of criticising those in authority; I think it a bad habit to which the facile grumblers, who form a large majority in this country generally, and particularly in towns such as this, where most of the residents live on pensions or fixed incomes, are too prone. None the less, I cannot conceal my chagrin and surprise that the Government cannot do more towards lowering the cost of living. Our weekly bills become more formidable every week, without any apparent reason. Why, for example, should a remote war in Europe increase the price of butter and eggs? The cows were not belligerents; there were no casualties in the poultry yards. As for coal, I am in despair, and the thought that your poor sister may be without the comfort of fires this winter fills me with a profound melancholy.

I wonder if you could get your friend Mr. Haven to help me to some task. I know him to be an influential person and I know myself to be capable. Although over age—not in fact but through a ridiculous rule of the Civil Service—and therefore disqualified to continue my labours for my country, I am still sound in mind and body. Indeed my intellect was never brighter, as many of my Tunbridge Wells friends with whom I am in the habit of discussing public affairs every day, would, I flatter myself, assure you. There is I believe a new public functionary called a Censor of Films. I feel that I could be very useful in such a capacity, if what is needed is a man of all-round sagacity and some imagination. But I would leave the nature of the post to your friend.

Such a task might bring in enough extra revenue to make all the difference to poor Letitia’s life.

Meanwhile I rejoice in your recovery, trusting fervently that there is nothing illusory about it. Unhappily I have known cases of spinal trouble improving only to return with more severity; but I intend to fight against harbouring such fears for you. Letitia would send her love but she is engaged at the moment in making a fair copy of an address which I am to deliver at our Social Circle on the credibility of present evidence on the persistence of our daily life’s routine after death. It is a labour of love to her, which is fortunate as I cannot afford an amanuensis. I am,

Your affectionate brother,

SEPTIMUS TRIBE

_P.S._ I wonder if you would care to have my address set up as a pamphlet for private distribution. Although I am its author, I feel at liberty to say without presumption that it is a very thorough presentation of the case both for and against, and every one is interested in such speculations just now. There is a most worthy little printer near the Pantiles who deserves encouragement.

CLXX

HORACE MUN-BROWN TO VERENA RABY

(_Two months later_)

DEAR AUNT,—I am deeply gratified to hear that your recovery is complete and that you have all your old and beneficial activity again.

After so long and costly an illness I am sure that, wealthy as you are, you would not, in these very expensive times, wish to lose any opportunity of adding to your fortune; and such an opportunity now occurs. You have heard of the paper shortage? Owing to the war only a small proportion of the paper needed for journals and magazines and books is now being made. The problem then is, how to supply the deficiency? And it is here that my scheme comes in.

If new paper cannot be manufactured from wood pulp—owing to the scarcity of labour in the forests—it must be made in other ways. Now the best of these is from old paper. Now this can be done satisfactorily only if the printed words on it can be removed; in other words (to be for a moment scientific) it must be “de-inked.” De-inking is a mysterious business, but Sybil, who took a course of chemistry at Newnham, has hit on a process which cannot fail. She has tried it in the kitchen of her flat with an old copy of the _Nineteenth Century and After_ and found it perfect. Our plan then is to buy up thousands and thousands of the largest papers, such as the _Daily Telegraph_ and the _Queen_ and the _Field_—the paper for each copy of which now probably costs more than the price it is sold for (this discrepancy being made possible by the wealth of advertisements)—de-ink them and sell the new paper at a considerable profit. All that is needed is the capital for the erection of the de-inking plant. Speed is of course imperative. If you are interested—and this cannot fail—please telegraph.

Ever since the day when I first met Sybil in the Egyptian Room at the British Museum my life has been a whirl of joy and intellectual stimulus. We are both convinced that we lived and loved before, in a previous existence, and Sybil even goes so far as to believe that as ancient Egyptians we were instrumental in overcoming a papyrus shortage in the days of the Ptolemies. Personally I think this a little fanciful, but it might be true. Who can say? And women have wonderful intuition.

We both long to be united. Lack of pence is our only obstacle.

Please telegraph, dear Aunt Verena, to

Yours sincerely,

HORACE MUN-BROWN

CLXXI

WALTER RABY TO HIS SISTER VERENA

(_Six Months Later_)

DEAR OLD GIRL,—I was surprised to have your long letter. You seem to have been having a pretty thin time, but I hope you’re all right by now. We have some fine cattle coming along. Keep fit, it’s the only way. Yours ever,

WALTER

INDEX TO POETRY

PAGE

Binyon, Laurence, 128

Blake, William, 66

Browne, William, 56

Burns, Robert, 57

Colman, George, 62

Conklin, Hilda, 200

Cory, William, 253

De La Mare, Walter, 89

Fitzgerald, Edward, 42

Galsworthy, John, 178

Giles, A. H., 152, 156

Herrick, Robert, 57

Hodgson, Ralph, 77

Hunt, Leigh, 173

Jonson, Ben, 56

Kilmer, Joyce, 221

Landor, W. S., 62, 229, 241

Lang, Andrew, 147

Locker-Lampson, Frederick, 200

Lowell, J. R., 193, 261

Lucas, Winifred, 41

Lytton, Robert, Lord, 103

Nichols, Bowyer, 140, 258

Regnier, the Abbé, 62

Stevenson, R. L., 57, 62

Thoreau, H. D., 183