Wordsworth and Keats and Verlaine.”
“If you don’t mind my saying so, I don’t think that’s particularly original.”
“I don’t mind your saying so at all. I don’t think it is. But you asked me why I believed in my own judgment, and I was trying to explain to you that, whatever I said out of timidity and in deference to the cultured opinion of the day, I didn’t really admire certain authors who were then thought admirable and the event seems to show that I was right. And what I honestly and instinctively liked then has stood the test of time with me and with critical opinion in general.”
Roy was silent for a moment. He looked in the bottom of his cup, but whether to see if there were any more coffee in it or to find something to say, I did not know. I gave the clock on the chimney-piece a glance. In a minute it would be fitting for me to take my leave. Perhaps I had been wrong and Roy had invited me only that we might idly chat of Shakespeare and the musical glasses. I chid myself for the uncharitable thoughts I had had of him. I looked at him with concern. If that was his only object it must be that he was feeling tired or discouraged. If he was disinterested it could only be that for the moment at least the world was too much for him. But he caught my look at the clock and spoke.
“I don’t see how you can deny that there must be something in a man who’s able to carry on for sixty years, writing book after book, and who’s able to hold an ever-increasing public. After all, at Ferne Court there are shelves filled with the translations of Driffield’s books into every language of civilized people. Of course I’m willing to admit that a lot he wrote seems a bit old-fashioned nowadays. He flourished in a bad period and he was inclined to be long-winded. Most of his plots are melodramatic; but there’s one quality you must allow him: beauty.”
“Yes?” I said.
“When all’s said and done, that’s the only thing that counts and Driffield never wrote a page that wasn’t instinct with beauty.”
“Yes?” I said.
“I wish you’d been there when we went down to present him with his portrait on his eightieth birthday. It really was a memorable occasion.”
“I read about it in the papers.”
“It wasn’t only writers, you know, it was a thoroughly representative gathering—science, politics, business, art, the world; I think you’d have to go a long way to find gathered together such a collection of distinguished people as got out from that train at Blackstable. It was awfully moving when the P.M. presented the old man with the Order of Merit. He made a charming speech. I don’t mind telling you there were tears in a good many eyes that day.”
“Did Driffield cry?”
“No, he was singularly calm. He was like he always was, rather shy, you know, and quiet, very well-mannered, grateful, of course, but a little dry. Mrs. Driffield didn’t want him to get overtired and when we went into lunch he stayed in his study, and she sent him something in on a tray. I slipped away, while the others were having their coffee. He was smoking his pipe and looking at the portrait. I asked him what he thought of it. He wouldn’t tell me, he just smiled a little. He asked me if I thought he could take his teeth out and I said, No, the deputation would be coming in presently to say good-bye to him. Then I asked him if he didn’t think it was a wonderful moment. ‘Rum,’ he said, ‘very rum.’ The fact is, I suppose, he was shattered. He was a messy eater in his later days and a messy smoker—he scattered the tobacco all over himself when he filled his pipe; Mrs. Driffield didn’t like people to see him when he was like that, but of course she didn’t mind me; I tidied him up a bit and then they all came in and shook hands with him, and we went back to town.”
I got up.
“Well, I really must be going. It’s been awfully nice seeing you.”
“I’m just going along to the private view at the Leicester Galleries. I know the people there. I’ll take you in if you like.”
“It’s very kind of you, but they sent me a card. No, I don’t think I’ll come.”
We walked down the stairs and I got my hat. When we came out into the street and I turned toward Piccadilly, Roy said:
“I’ll just walk up to the top with you.” He got into step with me. “You knew his first wife, didn’t you?”
“Whose?”
“Driffield’s.”
“Oh!” I had forgotten him.
“Yes.”
“Well?”
“Fairly.”
“I suppose she was awful.”
“I don’t recollect that.”
“She must have been dreadfully common. She was a barmaid, wasn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“I wonder why the devil he married her. I’ve always been given to understand that she was extremely unfaithful to him.”
“Extremely.”
“Do you remember at all what she was like?”
“Yes, very distinctly,” I smiled. “She was sweet.”
Roy gave a short laugh.
