Don't worry. The novel will be about as unreal as the land it comes from. I won't have to say—'All the characters in this book are fictitious’ or whatever it is they put in the front of books. Nobody will recognize anybody, the author least of all. A good thing it will be in your name. What a joke if it turned out to be a best seller! If reporters came knocking at the door to interview you.'
The thought of this terrified her. She didn't think it funny at all.
Oh, I said, you called me a dreamer a moment ago. Let me read you a passage—it's short—from The Hill of Dreams. You should read the book some time; it's a dream of a book.
I went to the bookshelf and opened to the passage I had in mind.
He's just been telling about Milton's Lycidas, why it was probably the most perfect piece of pure literature in existence. Then says Machen: ‘Literature is the sensuous art of causing exquisite impressions by means of words.’ But here's the passage ... it follows right after that: ‘And yet there was something more; besides the logical thought, which was often a hindrance, a troublesome though inseparable accident, besides the sensation, always a pleasure and a delight, besides these there were the indefinable, inexpressible images which all fine literature summons to the mind. As the chemist in his experiments is sometimes astonished to find unknown, unexpected elements in the crucible or the receiver, as the world of material things is considered by some a thin veil of the immaterial universe, so he who reads wonderful prose or verse is conscious of suggestions that cannot be put into words, which do not rise from the logical sense, which are rather parallel to than connected with the sensuous delight. The world so disclosed is rather the world of dreams, rather the world in which children sometimes live, instantly appearing, and instantly vanishing away, a world beyond all expression or analysis, neither of the intellect nor of the senses ... ‘
It is beautiful, she said, as I put the book down. But don't yon try to write like that. Let Arthur Machen write that way, if he wishes. You write your own way.
I sat down at the table again. A bottle of Chartreuse was standing beside my coffee. As I poured a thimbleful of the fiery green liqueur into my glass, I said: There's only one thing missing now: a harem.
Pop supplied the Chartreuse, she said. He was so delighted with those pages.
Let's hope he'll like the next fifty pages as much.
You're not writing the book for him, Val. You're writing it for us.
That's true, I said. I forget that sometimes.
It occurred to me then that I hadn't told her anything yet about the outline of the real book. There's something I have to tell you, I began. Or should I? Maybe I ought to keep it to myself a while longer.
She begged me not to tease.
All right, I'll tell you. It's about the book I intend to write one day. I've got the notes for it all written out. I wrote you a long letter about it, when you were in Vienna or God knows where. I couldn't send the letter because you gave me no address. Yes, this will really be a book ... a huge one. About you and me.
Didn't you keep the letter?
No. I tore it up. Your fault! But I've got the notes. Only I won't show them to you yet.
Why?
Because I don't want any comments. Besides, if we talk about it I may never write the book. Also, there are some things I wouldn't want you to know about until I had written them out.
You can trust me, she said. She began to plead with me.
No use, I said, you'll have to wait.
But supposing the notes got lost?
I could write them all over again. That doesn't worry me in the least.
She was getting miffed now. After all, if the book was about her as well as myself ... And so on. But I remained adamant.
Knowing very well that she would turn the place upside down in order to lay hands on the notes, I gave her to understand that I had left them at my parents’ home. I put them where they'll never find them, I said. I could tell from the look she gave me that she wasn't taken in by this. Whatever her move was, she pretended to be resigned, to think no more of it.
To sweeten the atmosphere I told her that if the book ever got written, if it ever saw the light of day, she would find herself immortalized. And since that sounded a bit grandiloquent I added—You may not always recognize yourself but I promise you this, when I get through with your portrait you'll never be forgotten.
She seemed moved by this. You sound awfully sure of yourself, she said.
I have reason to. This book I've lived. I can begin anywhere and find my way around. It's like a lawn with a thousand sprinklers: all I need do is turn on the faucet. I tapped my head. It's all there, in invisible ... I mean indelible ... ink.
Are you going to tell the truth—about us?
I certainly am. About every one, not just us.
And you think there'll be a publisher for such a book?
I haven't thought about that, I replied. First I've got to write it.
You'll finish the novel first, I hope?
Absolutely. Maybe the play too.
The play? Oh Val, that would be wonderful.
That ended the conversation.
