Part 24 (1/2)
”Record impressions,” Mrs. James helped me out.
Smiling, Basil took from a breast-pocket a small green morocco volume with a pencil slipped into a loop. Compared to Mrs. West's pretty book, his was a shabby thing; but it smelt of good cigarettes.
”I'm afraid this will disillusion you,” he said, ”if you expect something interesting. I simply make notes of things I want to see, or jot down thoughts to recall pictures to my mind. Reading over one's notebook is like glancing over a lot of kodak films. Sometimes one sticks in a lot of nonsense.”
I opened the little volume, and ran my eyes down the short pages.
”Carlisle, Sat.u.r.day, August Something or Other. Notes for Scotch Tour,”
I read aloud. ”Story of honeymoon. English hero--American girl. Aline wants her Canadian. I see her American. Dispute. Must decide soon.
Reading up Galloway makes me want to go there. Aline says rush straight on to Ayr, and save time. Hate saving time! Worst economy. More time you spend, more you have. Must go along coast of Ayr, anyhow. Once lined with strongholds of great families. See Dunure, Crossaguel, and deuced lot of others.
”Keats visited Burns's birthplace. Wrote sonnet there. Look this up.
”Burns sought out, along banks of Ayr, places where Wallace was supposed to have hidden. Good stuff this. Wallace fought all over the place here.
At Irvine, one of his earliest exploits. Kindled big fire, neighbouring village. When English soldiers marched forth to put fire out, jumped on them and killed the lot. Stuffed bodies into dungeon of castle at Irvine. Called 'Wallace Larder' after that. Nasty larders people had in those days. Read up account Douglas Larder. Compare the two. See which worse. Why not call Barns of Ayr Wallace Oven? Read up Blind Harry for picturesque story Barns of Ayr. Far as I remember, English enticed all neighbouring Scots to powwow of some sort. Wallace expected; delay on way. Scots executed on some pretext. When Wallace turned up, niece warned him. He routed up few followers, set fire to barns and burnt English, who were celebrating triumph over Wallace and his men. When get to Ayr look this up further.... Word 'Whig' comes first from Ayr. Wonder why? Look up. Also get Burns glossary. Dialect difficult. Aline won't read Burns. Fear she's going to fail in this book. Thinks only of one thing. But no matter. Courage, mon brave!
”Sunday. Had batch bad notices of last book from America. Aline gone to bed with headache as usual after bad reviews. Says we must economize.
She'll forget when we start and want best suites of rooms with baths everywhere. I _know_ that book was good. Hang notices! Understand so well what Job meant when said, 'Oh, that mine enemy would write a book!'
He wanted to criticise it. Each new boil would suggest scathing epithet.
”Monday. Everything changed. Old plot exploded in thousand pieces.
Mustn't be honeymoon couple. Heroine radiant young girl, eighteen, hair red as Circe's, eyes of new-born angel, comes like bombsh.e.l.l into hero's life. Not good simile, bombsh.e.l.l. Query, hero. Would she fall in love with man of B. N.'s type? I see another type more probable, but don't want that.
”August 4th. Fearful row. General upset. Don't see any book unless I write it alone. Aline says I can save situation for her. Would like only too well do what she wants, but difficult bring it off as things are.
Chances in favour of other man. Temptation consent be cat's-paw. Is that fair to the lovely chestnut in the fire? Extra-ordinary that child like this can so upset us all. What is the electric attraction we can't resist? More than normal amount of radium, perhaps!”
”Well, why don't you laugh at the rattle of the dry bones?” asked Basil, as I read on, more and more puzzled.
”I haven't come to many funny things yet,” said I, ”except about Job.
That was rather good, though I don't see how you weave such things into your books.”
”Job--Job?” he repeated vaguely. Then a rush of blood went over his whole face, up to his forehead. His dreamy dark eyes looked suddenly anything but dreamy. ”Good Heavens!” he gasped. ”What have you got there?” and began to ransack all the pockets of his waistcoat and coat until he found the twin of the book he'd given me. ”This is what I meant you to see,” he said in a queer, ashamed voice.
I handed the first book back to him. He seized it and glanced from page to page, looking almost ill. By and by he came to something which seemed to scare him. As far as I could tell, it was farther toward the end than I had read.
”Would you mind showing me where you left off,” he asked.
”It was where you were wondering whether your new heroine had swallowed radium or something,” said I.
”Oh!” He looked relieved. ”Well--I wouldn't have had you see that idiotic stuff for a good deal. But I told you, didn't I, that if the book went on I'd have to put you into it? There's a lot of silly rot there. Poetical license!”
”The thing that made the most impression on me was the part about the red hair,” I said. ”The description sounded so nice. Who was Circe, please? Was she Scottish? It's a name a Pictish princess might have had.”
”The first Circe lived even before the Pictish princesses,” Basil answered, quieting down, though he was still very flushed. ”But she's had a good many descendants--one or two at least in each generation of women born in every country. Not that you--I mean the new heroine--will be one of them really.”
”What did Circe do?” I hurried on.
”Do? She was an exceptionally attractive woman. She had a special kind of magnetism that n.o.body could resist. She amused herself by turning all the men she knew--there were quite a lot of them--into animals of different sorts.”