reaction in this stranger who, by asking him to read his manuscript, had given Wells immense power over him – the power to act like the executioner of the despicable society in which they lived.
Wells cleared his throat and replied in a courteous, almost cold voice, as though he were indifferent to the harmful effect his words might have on his visitor: ‘I read your work with great care, Mr Murray, and I confess I did not enjoy any part of it. I found nothing in it to praise, nothing to admire. I have taken the liberty to speak to you in this way because I consider you a colleague and I believe that lying to you would do you no good whatsoever.’
Murray’s smile vanished, and his huge paws gripped the arms of the chair. Wells studied his shifting expression even as he carried on wounding him, extremely courteously: ‘In my opinion, not only have you started out with a rather naive premise, but you have developed it in a most unfortunate way, stifling its few possibilities. The structure of your narrative is inconsistent and muddled, the episodes are linked only tenuously, and in the end one has the impression that events occur higgledy-piggledy, without any inner cohesion, simply because it suits you. This tiresome randomness of the plot, added to your writing style – worthy of some legal clerk who admires Jane Austen’s romantic novels – inevitably produces boredom in the reader, or if not, a profound aversion to what he is reading.’
At this point, Wells paused to study his guest’s contortions with scientific interest. He must be a block of ice not to have exploded with rage at such remarks. Was Murray a block of ice? He watched the man’s attempts to overcome his bewilderment -chewing his lip, opening then clenching his fists, as though he were milking an invisible udder – and predicted that he was about to find out.
‘What are you talking about?’ Murray finally burst out, seized by a rage that made the tendons on his neck bulge. ‘What kind of reading have you given my work?’
No, he was not a block of ice. He was pure fire, and Wells instantly realised he would not fall apart. His visitor was one of those people whose pride was so monumental that in the long run they were morally invincible: they were so full of themselves they believed they could achieve anything through simple pig-headedness, whether this was building a bird box or writing a science-fiction novel. Unfortunately for Wells, Murray had not been content to build a bird box. He had decided to employ his efforts in showing the world what an extraordinary imagination he had, how easily he was able to juggle with the words accumulated in a dictionary, or that he had been endowed with some, if not all, of the writerly characteristics that appealed to him.
Wells tried hard to remain poised while his guest, shaking with rage, labelled his remarks foolish. Watching him wave his arms about wildly, Wells regretted the choice he had made. Clearly if he carried on in that vein, demolishing the novel with scathing remarks, the situation could only get worse. But what else could he do? Must he retract everything he had said for fear the fellow might tear his head off in a fit of rage?
Luckily for Wells, Murray suddenly appeared to calm down. He took a few breaths, twisted his head from side to side and rested his hands in his lap, in a stubborn attempt to regain his composure. His painstaking effort at controlling himself felt to Wells like a caricature of the actor Richard Mansfield’s amazing transformation at the Lyceum Theatre during the performance of the play
Murray seemed ashamed at having lost his temper, and the author realised that he was an intelligent man burdened with a passionate temperament, a fiery nature that drove him to those accesses of rage he had undoubtedly learned to control over the years, achieving a level of restraint of which he should feel proud. But Wells had touched his sore point, wounded his vanity, reminding him his self-control was by no means infallible.
‘You may have been lucky enough to write a nice novel everybody likes,’ Murray said when he had calmed himself, although his tone was still belligerent, ‘but clearly you are incapable of judging the work of others. And I wonder whether this might not be because of envy. Is the king afraid the jester might usurp his throne and do a better job as ruler than he?’
Wells smiled to himself: after the outpouring of rage came a false serenity and a change in strategy. Murray had just reduced Wells’s novel – praised to the skies days before – to the category of popular fiction, and had found an explanation for Wells’s opinions that bore no relation to his own lack of literary talent. However, this was preferable than having to put up with his angry outbursts. They were now entering the domain of verbal sparring and Wells felt a rush of excitement: this was an area in which he felt particularly at ease. He decided to speak even more plainly.
‘You are perfectly at liberty to think what you like about your own work, Mr Murray’ he said. ‘But I imagine that if you came to my house to ask my opinion it is because you deemed me sufficiently knowledgeable in such matters to value my judgement. I regret not having told you what you wanted to hear, but those are my thoughts. For the reasons I already mentioned, I doubt that your novel would appeal to anyone, although in my view the main problem with it is the implausibility of your idea. Nobody would believe in the future you have described.’
Murray tilted his head to one side, as though he had not heard properly. ‘Are you saying the future I describe is implausible?’ he asked.
Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying, and for various reasons,’ Wells coolly replied. ‘The notion that a mechanical toy, however sophisticated, could come to life is unimaginable, not to say ludicrous. Equally implausible is the suggestion that a world war could take place in the coming century. It will never happen. Not to mention other details you have overlooked – for example, that the inhabitants of the year 2000 are still using oil lamps, when anybody can see that it is only a matter of time before electricity takes over. Even fantasy must be plausible, Mr Murray. Allow me to take my own novel as an example. In order to describe the year 802,701 all I did was to think logically. The division of the human race into two species, the Eloi, languishing in their mindless hedonism, and the Morlocks, the monsters living below ground, is an example of one possible outcome of our rigid capitalist society. By the same token, the future demise of the planet, however demoralising, is based on complex predictions made by astronomers and geologists and published daily in journals. This constitutes true speculation, Mr Murray. Nobody could accuse my 802,701 of being implausible. Things may turn out quite differently, of course, especially if other, as yet unforeseeable, factors come into play, but nobody can rule out my vision. Yours, on the other hand, does not bear up under scrutiny’
Gilliam Murray looked at him in silence for a long time, until finally he said: ‘Perhaps you are right, Mr Wells, and my novel does need a thorough overhaul in terms of style and structure. It is a first attempt, and naturally I couldn’t possibly expect the result to be excellent or even passable. But what I cannot tolerate is that you cast doubt on my speculations about the year 2000. Because in that case you are no longer judging my literary abilities, you are simply insulting my intelligence. Admit it, my vision of the future is as plausible as any other.’
‘Permit me to disagree,’ Wells replied coldly, judging that at this point in the conversation the time for mercy had passed.
Gilliam Murray had to repress another access of rage. He twisted in his seat, as though he were suffering from convulsions, but in a matter of seconds he had recovered his relaxed, almost blase demeanour. He studied Wells with amused curiosity for a few moments, as though he were a strange species of insect he had never seen before, then let out a thunderous guffaw. ‘Do you know what the difference is between you and I, Mr Wells?’
The author saw no reason to reply, and simply shrugged.
