From the moment the man had appeared in the doorway with his visiting card and his unctuous smile, Wells had been in awe of his huge, ox-like body, although even more astonishing was the extraordinary weightlessness of his movements, as though his bones were hollow. Wells had sat down in the chair facing him, and while Jane served the tea, the two men had studied one another with polite discretion. When his wife had left the room, the stranger had given him an even broader smile, thanked him for agreeing to see him at such short notice and, without pausing for breath, showered him with rapturous adulation for his novel
However, there are those who only admire a thing in order to blow their own trumpet, to show off their own understanding and intelligence, and Gilliam Murray belonged to that group of men. He launched into a furious eulogy of the novel, extolling with lofty speech the symmetry of its structure, the power of its imagery, even the colour of the suit Wells had chosen for his main character. Wells listened courteously and wondered why anyone would choose to waste their morning inundating him with praise when they could put it all in a polite letter, as the rest of his admirers did. He weathered the glowing tributes, nodding uneasily, as one caught in an irksome shower, praying that the tedious panegyric would soon end and he could go back to his work.
However, he soon discovered it had been no more than a preamble aimed at smoothing the man’s way before he revealed the real reason for his visit. After finishing his fulsome speech, Murray plucked a voluminous manuscript from his briefcase and placed it delicately in Wells’s hands, as though he were handing over a sacred relic or a new-born infant.
Wells had embarked upon the task of ploughing through the manuscript, like someone undergoing torture. He had no desire to read anything issuing from the imagination of the self-important braggart he considered incapable of interesting him, and he was not mistaken. The more he read of the pretentious prose, the more his mind fogged with boredom, and he quickly decided never again to meet any of his admirers. Murray had given him an overwritten, monotonous piece of tripe; a novel that, in common with many that were swamping bookshop windows, had copied the one he had written and targeted the fashion for speculating about the future. Such novels were veritable paper depositories of junk, which, drawing inspiration from the growing impact of science, exhibited every type of outlandish machine aimed at satisfying man’s most secret longings.
Wells had read none of them, but Henley had related many of their hilarious plots to him over a meal; such as those of the New Yorker Luis Senarens, whose main characters explored the planet’s far-flung territories in airships, abducting any indigenous tribe they happen across on the way. The one that had stuck in his mind was about a Jewish inventor who built a machine that made things grow bigger. The vision of London attacked by an army of giant woodlice, which Henley had described to him with contempt, had terrified Wells.
The plot of Gilliam Murray’s novel was equally painful. The pompous title concealed the madcap visions of an unhinged mind. Murray argued that, as the years went by, the automatons – the mechanical dolls sold in some central London toyshops – would eventually come to life. Yes, incredible though it might seem, beneath their wooden skulls an almost human form of awareness would begin to stir, so human, in fact, that the astonished reader would soon discover that the automatons harboured a deep resentment towards man for the humiliating treatment they had endured as his slaves. Finally, under the leadership of Solomon, a steam-powered automaton soldier, they swiftly and mercilessly decided the fate of the human race: extermination. Within a few decades the automatons had reduced the planet to a mound of rubble and mankind to a handful of frightened rats, from among whose ranks, however, arose the brave Captain Shackleton. After years of futile combat, Shackleton finally put an end to the automaton Solomon’s evil plans, defeating him in a ridiculous sword fight.
In the final mind-boggling pages of his already preposterous tale, Murray had the temerity to draw an embarrassing moral from his story, with which he hoped to give the whole of England – or, at any rate, the toy manufacturers – something to think about: God would punish man if he went on emulating Him by creating life – if indeed these mechanical creations could be described as possessing such a thing, Wells reflected.
It was possible a story like this might work as satire, but Murray took it terribly seriously, which only made the plot seem even more ludicrous. His view of the year 2000 was utterly implausible. In all other respects, his writing was infantile and verbose in equal measure, the characters were poorly drawn and the dialogue dull as dishwater. It was the novel of someone who believed anyone could be a writer. It was not that he strung words together willy- nilly without any aesthetic pretensions; if he had, it would have made for dull but palatable reading. No, Murray was one of those avid readers who believed good writing was akin to icing a cake – which resulted in overblown, horribly flowery prose that was full of ridiculous wordy displays, indigestible to the reader.
When Wells reached the final page he felt aesthetically nauseated. The only fate the novel deserved was to be flung on the fire; furthermore, if time travel were to become the order of the day, Wells would be honour-bound to journey into the past and beat the fellow to a pulp before he was able to disgrace future literature with his creation. However, telling the truth to Gilliam Murray was an experience he had no wish to undergo, especially since he could get out of it by handing the novel to Henley, who would certainly reject it but with none of the recriminations that would fall upon Wells.
When the day came for his next appointment with Murray, Wells still had not decided what to do. The man arrived at the house with enviable punctuality, wearing a triumphant smile, but Wells sensed barely controlled anxiety beneath the cloying politeness. Murray was plainly desperate to hear his verdict, but both men were obliged to follow the rules of etiquette. Wells made small-talk as he guided him into the sitting room, and they sat down while Jane served tea.
The author took advantage of this moment of silence to study his nervous guest, who was pressing his fleshy lips into a serene smile. All of a sudden, he was filled with a sense of his own power. He, more than anyone, knew of the hope involved in writing a novel, and the insignificance of that illusion in the eyes of others, who judged the work on its merits, not on how many sleepless nights had gone into its creation. As Wells saw it, negative criticism, however constructive, was invariably painful for a writer. It always came as a blow, whether he responded to it like a brave wounded soldier or was cast into the abyss, his fragile ego in shreds. Now, as if by magic, Wells held this stranger’s dreams in his hand. He had the power to shatter them or let them live. In the end, this was the choice before him. The novel’s wretched quality was irrelevant, and in any case that decision could be left to Henley. The question was whether he wanted to use his authority for good or not, whether he wanted to witness this arrogant creature’s response to what was in essence the truth, or whether he preferred to fob him off with a pious lie so he could carry on believing he had produced a worthwhile piece of writing – at least until Henley’s diagnosis.
‘Well, sir?’ Murray asked, as soon as Jane had left the room. ‘What did you think of my novel?’
Wells could almost feel the air in the room tremble, as though reality itself had reached a crossroads and the universe awaited his decision to know. His silence was like a dam, holding back events.
Today Wells was not sure why he had taken the decision he had. He could have chosen either way. He was sure of one thing, though: he had not made up his mind out of cruelty. If anything, he was simply curious to see how the man sitting opposite him would react to such a brutal blow. Would he conceal his wounded pride, politely accept Wells’s opinion, or break down in front of him, like a man condemned to death? Perhaps he would fly into a rage and hurl himself at Wells with the intention of strangling him, a distinct possibility Wells could not rule out. Whichever way he dressed it up, it was an empirical exercise, an experiment on the soul of that wretched man. Like the scientist who must sacrifice the rat in pursuit of his discovery, Wells wanted to measure the capacity for
