the captives-第25节

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。　Before　Maggie's　arrival　he　had　had　but　a　slender　excuse　for　his　continual　presence。　He　could　not　sit　in　the　empty　drawing…room　surveying　the　large　and　ominous　portrait　of　the　Cardinal　childhood；　quite　alone　save　for　Thomas；　without　seeming　a　very　considerable　kind　of　fool。　And　to　appear　that　in　the　eyes　of　Aunt　Anne；　who　already　regarded　mankind　in　general　with　pity；　would　be　a　mistake。

Now　that　Maggie　was　here　he　might　come　so　often　as　he　pleased。　Many　was　the　dark　afternoon　through　the　long　February　and　March　months　that　they　sat　together　in　the　dim　drawing…room；　Maggie　straining　her　eyes　over　an　attempted　reform　of　some　garment；　Mr。　Magnus　talking　in　his　mild　ironical　voice　with　his　large　moon…like　spectacles　fixed　upon　nothing　in　particular。

Mr。　Magnus　did　all　the　talking。　Maggie　fancied　that；　all　his　life；　he　had　persisted　in　the　same　gentle　humorous　fashion　without　any　especial　attention　as　to　the　wisdom；　agreement　or　even　existence　of　his　audience。　She　fancied　that　all　men　who　wrote　books　did　that。　They　had　to　talk　to　〃clear　their　ideas。〃　She　raised　her　eyes　sometimes　and　looked　at　him　as　he　sat　there。　His　shabby；　hapless　appearance　always　appealed　to　her。　She　knew　that　he　was；　in　reality；　anything　but　hapless；　but　his　clothes　never　fitted　him；　and　it　was　impossible　for　him　to　escape　from　the　Quixotic　embarrassments　of　his　thin　hair；　his　high　cheek…bones；　his　large　spectacles。　His　smile；　however；　gave　him　his　character；　when　he　smiledand　he　was　always　smilingyou　saw　a　man　independent；　proud；　wise　and　gentle。　He　was　not　a　fool；　Mr。　Magnus；　although　he　did　love　Aunt　Anne。

To　a　great　deal　that　he　said　Maggie　paid　but　little　attention；　it　was；　she　felt；　not　intended　for　her。　She　had；　in　all　her　relations　with　him；　to　struggle　against　the　initial　disadvantage　that　she　regarded　all　men　who　wrote　books　with　pity。　She　was　not　so　stupid　as　not　to　realise　that　there　were　a　great　many　fine　books　in　the　world　and　that　one　was　the　better　for　reading　them；　but；　just　because　there　were；　already；　so　many　fine　ones；　why　write　more　that　would　almost　certainly　be　not　so　fine？　He　tried　to　explain；　to　her　that　some　men　were　compelled　to　write　and　could　not　help　themselves。

〃I　wrote　my　first　book　when　I　was　nineteen。　One　morning　I　just　began　to　write；　and　then　it　was　very　easy。　Then　everything　else　was　easy。　The　first　publisher　to　whom　I　sent　it　accepted　it。　It　was　published　and　had　quite　a　success。　I　thought　I　was　made　for　life。　Anything　seemed　possible　to　one。　After　all；　so　far　as　one's　possibilities　went　one　was　on　a　level　with　any　oneShakespeare；　Dante；　any　one　you　like。　One　might　do　anything。　。　。　。　I　published　a　book　a　year；　after　that；　for　ten　yearsten　years　ten　books；　and　then　awoke　to　the　fact　that　I　was　nothing　at　all　and　would　never　be　anythingthat　I　would　never　write　like　Shakespeare；　and；　a　matter　of　equal　importance；　would　never　sell　like　Mrs。　Henry　Wood。　Not　that　I　wished　to　write　like　any　one　else。　I　had　a　great　idea　of　keeping　to　my　own　individuality；　but　I　saw　quite　clearly　that　what　I　had　in　myself　all　of　itwas　no　real　importance　to　any　one。　I　might　so　well　have　been　a　butcher　or　baker　for　all　that　it　mattered。　I　saw　that　I　was　one　of　those　unfortunate　peoplethere　are　many　of　themjust　in　between　the　artists　and　the　shopkeepers。　I　was　an　artist　all　right；　but　not　a　good　enough　one　to　count；　had　I　been　a　shopkeeper　I　might　have　sold　my　goods。〃

〃Well；　then；　here's　your　question；　Miss　Cardinal。　Why　on　earth　did　I　go　on　writing？　。　。　。　Simply　because　I　couldn't　help　myself。　Writing　was　the　only　thing　in　the　world　that　gave　me　happiness。　I　thought　too　that　there　might　be　people；　here　and　there；　unknown　to　me　who　cared　for　what　I　did。　Not　many　of　courseI　soon　discovered　that　outside　the　small　library　set　in　London　no　one　had　ever　heard　of　me。　When　I　was　younger　I　had　fancied　that　that　to　me　fiery　blazing　advertisement：　〃New　Novel　by　William　Magnus；　author　of　。　。　。〃　must　cause　men　to　stop　in　the　street；　exclaim；　rush　home　to　tell　their　wives；　'Do　you　know　Magnus'　new　novel　is　out？'now　I　realised　that　by　nine　out　of　every　ten　men　and　five　out　of　every　ten　women　the　literary　page　in　the　paper　is　turned　over　with　exactly　the　same　impatience　with　which　I　turn　over　the　betting　columns。　Anyway；　why　not？　。　。　。　perfectly　right。　And　then　by　this　time　I'd　seen　my　old　books；　often　enough；　lying　scattered　amongst　dusty　piles　in　second…　hand　shops　marked；　'All　this　lot　6d。'　Hundreds　and　hundreds　of　six…　shilling　novels；　dirty；　degraded；　ashamed　。　。　。　I'd　ask；　sometimes；　when　I　was　very　young；　for　my　own　works。　'What's　the　name？　What？　Magnus？No；　don't　stock　him。　No　demand。　We　could　get　you　a　copy；　sir　。　。　。　'　There　it　is。　Why　not　laugh　at　it？　I　was　doing　perhaps　the　most　useless　thing　in　the　world。　A　commonplace　little　water…　colour；　hung　on　a　wall；　can　give　happiness　to　heaps　of　people；　a　poor　piece　of　music　can　do　a　thousand　things；　good　and　bad；　but　an　unsuccessful　noveltwenty　unsuccessful　novels！　A　whole　row；　with　the　same　history　awaiting　their　successors　。　。　。　'We　welcome　a　new　novel　by　Mr。　William　Magnus；　who　our　readers　will　remember　wrote　that　clever　story　。　。　。　The　present　work　seems　to　us　at　least　the　equal　of　any　that　have　preceded　it。'　。　。　。　A　fortnight's　advertisementDead　silence。　Some　one　in　the　Club；　'I　see　you've　written　another　book；　old　man。　You　do　turn　'em　out。'　A　letter　from　a　Press　Agency　who　has　never　heard　of　one's　name　before；　'A　little　sheaf　of　thin　miserable　cuttings。'　。　。　。　The　Sixpenny　Lot　。　。　。　Ouf！　And　still　I　go　on　and　shall　go　on　until　I　die。　Perhaps　after　all　I'm　more　justified　than　any　of　them。　I'm　stripped　of　all　reasons　save　the　pleasure；　the　thrill；　the　torment；　the　hopes；　the　despairs　of　the　work　itself。　I've　got　nothing　else　out　of　it　and　shall　get　nothing　。　。　。　and　therefore　I'm　justified。　Now　do　you　understand　a　little；　Miss　Cardinal？〃

She　half　understood。　She　understood　that　he　was　compelled　to　do　it　just　as　some　men　are　compelled　to　go　to　race　meetings　and　just　as　Uncle　Mathew　was　compelled　to　drink。

But　she　nevertheless　thought　it　a　dreadful　pity　that　he　was　unable　to　stop　and　interest　himself　in　something　else。　Then　he　could　see　it　so　plainly　and　yet　go　on！　She　admired　and　at　the　same　time　pitied　him。

It　seemed；　this　private　history　of　Mr。　Magnus；　at　first　sight　so　far　from　Maggie's　immediate　concerns；　her　new　life；　her　aunts；　the　Chapel　and　the　Chapel　world。　It　was　only　afterwards；　when　she　looked　back；　that　she　was　able　to　see　that　all　these　private　affairs　of　private　people　radiated　inwards；　like　the　spokes　of　a　wheel；　towards　the　mysterious　inner　circlethat　inner　circle　of　which　she　was　already　dimly　aware；　and　of　which　she　was　soon　to　feel　the　heat　and　light。　She　was；　meanwhile；　so　far　impressed　by　Mr。　Magnus'　confidences　that　she　borrowed　one　of　his　novels　from　Caroline；　who　confided　to　her　that　she　herself　thought　it　the　dullest　and　most　tiresome　of　works。　〃To　be　honest；　I　only　read　a　bit　of　itI　don't　know　what　it's　about。　I　think　it's　downright　silly。〃

This　book　bore　the　mysterious　title　of　〃Dredinger。〃　It　was　concerned　apparently　with　the　experiences　of　a　young　man　who；　buying　an　empty　house　in　Bloomsbury；　discovered　a　pool　of　water　in　the　cellar。　The　young　man　was　called　Dredinger；　which　seemed　to　Maggie　an　unnatural　kind　of　name。　He　had　an　irritating　habit　of　never　finishing　his　sentences；　and　the　people　he　knew　answered　him　in　the　same　inconclusive　fashion。　The　pool　in　the　cellar　naturally　annoyed　him；　but　he　did　nothing　very　practical　about　it；　allowed　it　to　remain　there；　and　discussed　it　with　a　Professor　of　Chemistry。　Beyond　this　Maggie　could　not　penetrate。　The　young　man　was　apparently　in　love　with　a　lady　much　older　than　himself；　who　wore　pince…nez；　but　it　was　an　arid　kind　of　love　in　which　the　young　man　discovered　motives　and　symptoms　with　the　same　dexterous　surprise　with　which　he　discovered　newts　and　tadpoles　in　the　cellar…pond。　Maggie　bravely　attacked　Mr。　Magnus。

〃Why　didn't　he　have　men　in　to　clear　up　the　pond　and　lay　a　new　floor？〃　she　asked。

〃That　was　just　the　point；〃　said　Mr。　Magnus。　〃He　couldn't。〃

〃Why　couldn't　he？〃

〃Weakness　of　character　and　waiting　to　see　what　would　happen。〃

〃He　talked　too　much；〃　she　answered　decisively。　〃But　are　there　houses　in　London　with　ponds　in　them　？〃

〃Lots；〃　said　Mr。　Magnus。　〃Only　the　owners　of　the　houses　don't　know　it。　There　is　a　big　pond　in　the　Chapel。　That's　what　Thurston　came　out　of。〃

This　was　beyond　Maggie　altogether。　An　agreeable　thing；　however；　about　Mr。　Magnus　was　that　he　did　not　mind　when　you　disliked　his　work。　He　seemed　to　expect　that　you　would　not　like　it。　He　was　certainly　a　very　unconceited　man。

A　more　important　and　more　interesting　theme　was　Mr。　Magnus'　reason　for　being　where　he　was。　What　was　he　doing　here？　What　led　him　to　the　Chapel　doors；　he　being　in　no　way　a　religious　man？

〃It　was　like　this；〃　he　told　her。　〃I　was　living　in　Golders　Green；　and　suddenly　one　morning　I　was　tired　of　the　country　that　wasn't　country；　and　the　butcher　boy　and　the　postman。　So　I　moved　as　far　into　the　centre　of　things　as　I　could　and　took　a　room　in　St。　Martin's　Lane　close　at　hand　here。　Then　one　evening　I　was　wandering　about；　a　desolate　Sunday　evening　when　the　town　is　given　over　to　cats。　I　suddenly　came　across　the　Chapel。　I　like　g