Олдос Хаксли: Brief Candles. Four Stories

Autobiography was the only one of my books I ever made any money out of,’ he said. I listened apprehensively, lest he should say anything which might shock or offend the dragon. ‘He turned over all the royalties to me,’ Tilney went on. ‘I made the best part of three thousand pounds out of his Autobiography . Not to mention the five hundred he gave me for writing it.’ (Was it quite delicate, I wondered, to talk of such large sums of money in front of one so incomparably more virtuous than ourselves and so much poorer? Fortunately, Tilney changed the subject.) ‘You ought to read it,’ he said. ‘I’m really quite offended that you haven’t. All that lower middle–class childhood in Peebles—it’s really masterly.’ (‘Lower middle–class’—I shuddered. Hawtrey’s father had owned a shop; but he had had misfortunes.) ‘It’s Clayhanger and L’Éducation Sentimentale and David Copperfield all rolled into one. Really superb. And the first adventurings into the world of finance were pure Balzac—magnificent.’ He laughed again, this time without bitterness, amusedly; he was warming to his subject. ‘I even put in a Rastignac soliloquy from the top of the dome of St Paul’s, made him shake his fist at the City. Poor old Chawdron! he was thrilled. “If only I’d known what an interesting life I’d had,” he used to say to me. “Known while the life was going on.”’ (I looked at Hawtrey to see if she was resenting the references to an interesting life. But her face was closed; she worked as though she were deaf.) ‘“You wouldn’t have lived it,” I told him. “You must leave the discovery of the excitingness to the artists.”’ He was silent again. Hawtrey laid the last spoon on the tray and moved towards the door. Thank heaven! ‘Yes, the artists,’ Tilney went on in a tone that had gone melancholy again. ‘I really was one, you know.’ (The departing Hawtrey must have heard that damning confession. But then, I reflected, she always did know that I and my friends were a bad lot.) ‘Really am one,’ he insisted. ‘ Qualis artifex! But pereo, pereo . Somehow, I’ve never done anything but perish all my life. Perish, perish, perish. Out of laziness and because there always seemed so much time. But I’m going to be forty–eight next June. Forty–eight! There isn’t any time. And the laziness is such a habit. So’s the talking. It’s so easy to talk. And so amusing. At any rate for oneself.’

‘For other people too,’ I said; and the compliment was sincere. I might be uncertain whether or no I liked Tilney. But I genuinely liked his performance as a talker. Sometimes, perhaps, that performance was a little too professional. But, after all, an artist must be a professional.

‘It’s what comes of being mostly Irish,’ Tilney went on. ‘Talking’s the national vice. Like opium–smoking with the Chinese!’ (Hawtrey re–entered silently to sweep up the crumbs and fold the table–cloth.) ‘If you only knew the number of masterpieces I’ve allowed to evaporate at dinner tables, over the cigars and the whisky!’ (Two things of which, I knew, the Pillar of Society virtuously disapproved.) ‘A whole library. I might have been—what? Well, I suppose I might have been a frightful old bore,’ he answered himself with a forced self–mockery. ‘“The Complete Works of Edmund Tilney, in Thirty–Eight Volumes, post octavo.” I dare say the world ought to be grateful to me for sparing it that . All the same, I get a bit depressed when I look over the back numbers of the Thursday Review and read those measly little weekly articles of mine. Parturiunt montes … ’

‘But they’re good articles,’ I protested. If I had been more truthful, I would have said that they were sometimes good—when he took the trouble to make them good. Sometimes, on the contrary …

‘ Merci, cher maître! ’ he answered ironically. ‘But hardly more perennial than brass, you must admit. Monuments of wood pulp. It’s depressing being a failure. Particularly if it’s your fault, if you might have been something else.’

I mumbled something. But what was there to say? Except as a professional talker, Tilney had been a failure. He had great talents and he was a literary journalist who sometimes wrote a good article. He had reason to feel depressed.

‘And the absurd, ironical thing,’ he continued, ‘is that the one really good piece of work I ever did is another man’s autobiography. I could never prove my authorship even if I wanted to. Old Chawdron was very careful to destroy all the evidences of the crime. The business arrangements were all verbal. No documents of any kind. And the manuscript, my manuscript—he bought it off me. It’s burnt.’

I laughed. ‘He took no risks with you.’ Thank heaven! The dragon was preparing to leave the room for good.

‘None whatever,’ said Tilney. ‘He was going to be quite sure of wearing his laurel wreath. There was to be no other claimant. And at the time, of course, I didn’t care two pins. I took the high line about reputation. Good art—and Chawdron’s Autobiography was good art, a really first–rate novel—good art is its own reward.’ (Hawtrey’s comment on this was almost to slam the door as she departed.) ‘You know the style of thing? And in this case it was more than its own reward. There was money in it. Five hundred down and all the royalties. And I was horribly short of money at the moment. If I hadn’t been, I’d never have written the book. Perhaps that’s been one of my disadvantages—a small independent income and not very extravagant tastes. I happened to be in love with a very expensive young woman at the time when Chawdron made his offer. You can’t go dancing and drinking champagne on five hundred a year. Chawdron’s cheque was timely. And there I was, committed to writing his memoirs for him. A bore, of course. But luckily the young woman jilted me soon afterwards; so I had time to waste. And Chawdron was a ruthless taskmaster. And besides, I really enjoyed it once I got started. It really was its own reward. But now—now that the book’s written and the money’s spent and I’m soon going to be fifty, instead of forty as it was then—now, I must say, I’d rather like to have at least one good book to my credit. I’d like to be known as the author of that admirable novel, The Autobiography of Benjamin Chawdron , but, alas, I shan’t be.’ He sighed. ‘It’s Benjamin Chawdron, not Edmund Tilney, who’ll have his little niche in the literary histories. Not that I care much for literary history. But I do rather care, I must confess, for the present anticipations of the niche. The drawing–room reputation, the mentions in the newspapers, the deference of the young, the sympathetic curiosity of the women. All the by–products of successful authorship. But there, I sold them to Chawdron. For a good price. I can’t complain. Still, I do complain. Have you got any pipe tobacco? I’ve run out of mine.’

I gave him my pouch. ‘If I had the energy,’ he went on, as he refilled his pipe, ‘or if I were desperately hard up, which, thank heaven and at the same time alas! I’m not at the moment, I could make another book out of Chawdron. Another and a better one. Better,’ he began explaining, and then interrupted himself to suck at the flame of the match he had lighted, ‘because … so much more … malicious.’ He threw the match away. ‘You can’t write a good book without being malicious. In the Autobiography I made a hero of Chawdron. I was paid to; besides, it was Chawdron himself who provided me with my documents. In this other book he’d be the villain. Or in other words, he’d be himself as others saw him, not as he saw himself. Which is, incidentally, the only valid difference between the virtuous and the wicked that I ’ve ever been able to detect. When you yourself indulge in any of the deadly sins, you’re always justified—they’re never deadly. But when anyone else indulges, you’re very properly indignant. Old Rousseau had the courage to say that he was the most virtuous man in the world. The rest of us only silently believe it. But to return to Chawdron. What I’d like to do now is to write his biography, not his autobiography. And the biography of a rather different aspect of the man. Not about the man of action, the captain of industry, the Napoleon of finance and so forth. But about the domestic, the private, the sentimental Chawdron.’

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