the unknown critic to robin adair, or the lady anne garland to peter the piper
london,
july 7th.
dear robin adair,—i have met another admirer of your book, a delightful old man of courtly manners of the style of the eighteenth century. at first he assumed disparagement of it, or at the best a faint half-hearted kind of praise, which would, i believe, in any case have roused a spirit of contradiction in me. with your book as the subject i waxed eloquent. i took up the cudgels of defence, and i flatter myself wielded them with dexterity. when at last the flow of my discourse ceased—and i trust i was not too didactic in my observations—he confessed calmly that he had merely assumed disparagement in [pg 155]order that he might have the pleasure of hearing me refute him! it knocked the wind completely out of my sails. i was left helpless, stranded, entirely at a loss for a suitable reply. i hope i carried off the situation with at least a passable degree of savoir-faire, but i have my doubts.
i so frequently find myself addressing really witty and brilliant remarks to my bedpost fully an hour or so after the opportunity of making them has passed, when the witticism, the brilliance, might have been delivered in the presence of another, and have covered me with a dazzling glory. it is humiliating to contrast what one has said with what one might have remarked. you writers have the better time. in silence and solitude you can consider your epigrams, and then place them in the mouths of your fictional people at the psychological moment, and the world is left to marvel at your brilliance.
but to return to my old courtier. he has a sad history, which he hides under a mask of urbane and suave courtliness. he has a son, who—so the story runs—has disgraced their name. the old man being too proud to overlook the disgrace—too proud, perhaps, to stoop and delve for ex[pg 156]tenuating circumstances—has cut the son out of his life; but fortunately, or unfortunately, he cannot cut him out of his heart, which is aching, pining, for the lack of him. why can he not put pride in his pocket and ease his heartache? it’s a pitiful little story, and one which has caused my own heart to ache, though quite possibly i should have dismissed it without a second thought if i had not met the old courtier.
the friend with whom i am staying has soothed the spirit of discontent which was awake in me when i last wrote. her method is entirely unobvious. i think it lies in her own incurably good spirits, and her optimism, both of which are infectious. there is an “everything is for the best in this best of all possible worlds” air about her which is exhilarating.
i have, though, been disappointed in another friend, if i may use the word. personally i feel there should be another to use. an acquaintance signifies one of whom we have but a passing and superficial knowledge, and a friend some one much closer—very close—the word in its real sense. am i drawing too fine a point? perhaps one might use the terms i have heard children use, [pg 157]“friends,” and “truly friends.” so, to use the first term in application to this woman, i have been disappointed in a friend. she is not what i believed her to be, what i believe she wished me to believe her. it has spoilt, as far as i am concerned the intimacy between us. i cannot re-adjust myself towards her, and i feel myself acting the part of a hypocrite. i have picked up her broken pieces as best i may, and mended them, but i am conscious of the cracks. my mending has not been as neat a job as i could wish. is it any use trying to mend? tell me what you think, o man!
the worst of it is that before she broke i asked her to spend a few days with me in august. during those days i shall be terribly, hideously conscious of the cracks. i shall find myself staring at them with a kind of awful fascination. pray heaven she’ll not observe it, for if she did i—in the rôle of hostess—would be forever disgraced in my own eyes.
i do not know why i should write all this to you; why i should trouble you with what, i am fully aware, are mere absurdities which any sane and reasonable person would assuredly dismiss without a second thought. may i plead in excuse that [pg 158]somehow you have taken the position of a “truly friend,” one to whom trivialities—which after all make up the greater part of one’s life—may be mentioned without fear of a laugh or a snub?
i went to a beethoven concert the other day. to me he stands head and shoulders above every other composer, living or dead. does music give you the sensation of colour and form? it does me. that was a purple concert, sphere-shaped. mozart’s music is sapphire blue and shaped like a star. bach’s is dark green and square. grieg’s is pale green with a hint of pink and a slim oval, wagner’s is crimson and purple and shaped like a massive crown. i might go on enumerating, if i did not fear to bore you.
have you read conard’s life of beethoven? do you know beethoven’s own words: “oh hommes, si vous lisez un jour ceci, pensez que vous avez été injustes pour moi; et que le malheureux se console, en trouvant un malheureux comme lui, qui, malgré tous les obstacles de la nature, a cependant fait tout ce qui était en son pouvoir, pour être admis au rang des artistes et des hommes d’élites?”
grand, glorious beethoven! the struggle over all infirmity, the victory, and his lonely yet dramatic death! “il mourut pendant un orage—une tempête de neige—dans un éclat de tonnerre. une main étrangère lui fermer les yeux.” if i am a hero-worshipper, and it would seem that i am, beethoven stands in the front rank of my heroes. read his life—by conard—if you have not already done so. it is one which every artist, of whatever branch his art, should know.
how goes it with your wanderer? is he reconciled to his distance from his star? or have you let the star fall to his hilltop?
good-night.
robin adair to the unknown critic, or peter the piper to the lady anne garland
july 9th.
dear lady,—i have re-read your letter more than once. it is—dare i say?—somewhat illogical, and therein most delightfully feminine.
you suggest that your old courtier should ease his heartache. do you not see that in so attempting he could only bring into his life a thing which [pg 160]is in his eyes broken? and, however carefully he might mend it, would he not be—as you are—painfully and terribly aware of the cracks? men, i fancy, choose the wiser way; they throw aside the broken pieces into a neat little dustbin, making no attempt to mend. for, after all, is not the glue which holds the thing together a certain sophism which is always apparent to the repairer, and which is, frequently, not very adhesive? once broken—in spite of the glue—it is apt to fall to pieces on the slightest handling. no, the dustbin, in my opinion, is the better solution. you, as a woman, doubtless will not agree with me. women invariably mend, and the majority—less critical than you—fancy they make of the mending a neat job.
let me offer you one piece of advice. do not let your heart ache for the story you have heard. it was, no doubt, related to you by another than your courtier, and was soothed, softened, rendered pathetic in the telling. you, in your tenderness, have imagined your courtier as hankering after the broken pieces of his image in the dustbin. your tender imagination removed, the glamour of pathos round the story would be removed also, and you would find heartaches and such-like non-existent.
i do not believe that the wind is ever so completely knocked out of your sails—as you say—that you are unable to find some appropriate reply. that is merely your modesty. i picture you as talking with charm, with ease, with brilliance. witticisms i leave outside the category. they belong to older men and women, and are apt to have a poignant edge foreign to my idea of your words.
i like to think that you count me, as the children say, a “truly friend.” your friendship—disembodied though it is—has brought me refreshment, happiness. though for a time my wanderer had obsessed me with his mood, the obsession is passed. it has passed with him also. he does not desire that the star should fall to him. its very charm lies in its altitude. perhaps one day, when he has cast off the mantle of his flesh, he will build himself that ladder of moonbeams, and mount to it. as it is—his mood of discontent passed—he is worshipping, grateful that it shines in his otherwise empty firmament. from the little hilltop—which he found was but an ant-heap—from the lanes, from the fields, he looks up to it, and addresses to it his thoughts, his fancies. he is once more a cheerful soul, appreciating the earth, the wind, and the flowers. his love and worship he keeps for his star.
i have not read conard’s life of beethoven, nor, i confess, any writer’s life of him. i will make up for the omission without delay. his music i know and love. your little discourse on colour and shapes in music interests me. i should like to hear more about them. unknowingly i believe i have had the same thoughts, and i agree with the colours and shapes you assign, with, perhaps, the exception of grieg’s shape. his colour—yes; but i have a fancy that his form is less simple, more a variety of curves. i think i should give the oval—slightly broadened—to schumann, and in its slim form to heller. schumann, by the way, is blue—darker than mozart, and, though soft in colour, less transparent. heller is pale yellow. do you agree?
write again soon, and tell me everything you will about yourself.
good-night.
robin adair.
the unknown critic to robin adair, or the lady anne garland to peter the piper
the terrace,
july 16th.
dear robin adair,—here i am once more on my terrace, looking across the garden and the park land towards a small village—whose name i will not disclose—lying half-hidden among the trees in the valley. occasionally, when i am in a ruminative mood, i wonder at the lives of the inhabitants thereof—the routine of them, with no greater excitement than a visit to the market-town some eight miles distant. true, there is the yearly fair at that place, which is an event of the greatest importance. every man, woman, and child, except the extremely old and the extremely young, flocks to the town on that day. every available vehicle is requisitioned and packed with a mass of humanity to the fullest extent of its capacities, and those unable to find conveyance in them, and more stalwart, walk. there are at the fair, so i am told, booths, coco-nut shies, merry-go-rounds, and peep-shows of a fat woman whose age is unknown, but who apparently must be akin to methuselah, since she has been regarded, [pg 164]it would seem, by the fathers, the grandfathers, and the great-grandfathers of the present generation. but with the exception of the fair there is absolutely nothing to break the monotony of their lives but the weather and a wedding or a funeral. it’s rather appalling to contemplate, isn’t it? but they seem content and happy, and that after all is the main thing.
do you believe in fortune-tellers? i went to one before i left town. i do not think it was great credulity in the art that urged me to consult the sibyl, but merely the fact that the friend with whom i was staying persuaded me into the consultation. i had what is termed a “full reading.” the palm of my hand was conned, the cards spread out, and the crystal gazed into. i confess that the affair was, to a certain degree, uncanny. her description of my house—this one—was extraordinary. it might have been before her as she spoke, and she actually saw me listening to a concert by the vagabond piper—and not only the concert of which i have told you, but another concert, one he gave me the night before i went up to town, and of which i believe no one was aware but he and i. he came to the terrace and played below my window. it was quite medieval, and entirely delightful. she saw, too, letters which i was receiving and which were a source of great pleasure to me, and therein she was very assuredly right. but—and i hope you will not be offended—after that she began to mix the piper and the writer of letters, speaking of them with confidence as one and the same person. i did not enlighten her as to her mistake, as with these sibyls it is better to let them say what they see without interruption, otherwise they are apt to try and tell you what they think you wish to know, what they think you desire to have said. it was curious. and here i will make a confession. i myself have occasionally, and in quite an absurd fashion, confounded the two in my thoughts. do not be vexed, robin adair, for you dislike—or pretend to dislike—the piper. but it seems to me that the sibyl must have been extraordinary telepathic, and have somehow read my thoughts, and their occasional confusion, in a remarkable degree. she told me a good deal more, no doubt the usual fortune-telling jargon, which would be, i am sure, of little interest to you. certainly it is not worth repe[pg 166]tition. but what i have told you struck me as distinctly queer.
i am rejoiced to hear that your wanderer—and consequently you—are once more soothed and peaceful. and now that he is so, let him continue to recount his thoughts by the hand of robin adair, that i may shortly have the benefit of them.
one day—not to-day—i will write you all my fancies on colour, and i have a good many. perhaps you are right as to grieg’s form. it is probably more intricate than the oval. possibly it is a design of many curves. as regards schumann and heller, i agree.
i fancy you are wrong about my courtier. he has, no doubt, acted on your dustbin principle, but, all the same, i believe he regrets the action. of course, i see the justice of your accusation that my letter was illogical, but i cannot begin an argument and a defence now. the day is too warm and lazy for such exertion. the heat-shimmer is bathing the gardens, and the top of my silver ink-bottle is almost too hot to touch. the sun has slanted round, and is frizzling me in a diabolical fashion. hitherto i’ve been too indolent [pg 167]to move, but now, if i don’t intend to be entirely melted, i must get up and pull my chair into the shade.
of course fortune-telling is absurd really, at least as far as regards the future. though i grant that this woman’s reading of my thoughts was clever.
good-bye for the present. the bees are droning a lullaby, and i believe i shall sleep.
robin adair to the unknown critic, or peter the piper to the lady anne garland
july 18th.
dear lady,—i have no theories as to fortune-tellers beyond a, no doubt absurd, dislike to them. i do not care to think of you consulting them. forgive me for saying so. i am perfectly well aware that i have no smallest right to express an opinion, but—it will out—i wish you wouldn’t, and long to beg you not to do it again.
when you are in a less melted mood write me a letter of argument and defence. you will not be able to explain away your illogical statements, but i should much enjoy hearing you try to do so.
i must certainly contradict flatly about your courtier. i am sure you are wrong. and as i shall cry “knife” every time you cry “scissors,” let us abandon him as a topic of discussion. write to me of colours instead.
this is a rude letter, and i know it. but a little incident has rubbed my mental fur the wrong way, and i am—well, cross with myself i believe. perhaps it would be wiser not to write at all, but not to do so would be to discontinue a little ceremony which i have put in practice since the first day i heard from you. will you laugh at me, i wonder, if i tell you that every evening your letter arrives i become a host, and toast an invisible lady who has condescended to dine with me, and after dinner we talk together—through the medium of pen, ink, and paper. sometimes i like to imagine that the medium is less material, and that my thoughts are carried straight on the wings of fancy to the lady’s terrace. but if they go, can she perceive them? are they not too clumsy, too material, to find response in her thought-cells? after all, it is but a fancy, and you may quite well smile at both it and my dream dinner-party.
to-night i have not been a good host. i apologize to the lady. being the sole guest i ever receive, i might have treated her with greater courtesy.
robin adair.
the unknown critic to robin adair, or the lady anne garland to peter the piper
the terrace,
july 20th.
dear robin adair,—i did not smile—at any rate not ironically. if there was a little smile it was verging close on tears. are you really so lonely? somehow i had fancied that when you spoke of yourself as a recluse it was a mere figure of speech. have you no friends who dine with you, who visit you—no material friends?
the little mental picture your letter called up was pathetic. i wish—well, never mind what i wish. probably it would be no atom of good. i believe—i am sure—your thoughts do reach me. send them to me, and i will send mine to you.
robin adair to the unknown critic, or peter the piper to the lady anne garland
july 22nd.
dear lady,—forget my letter. i did not mean to drivel. i did not mean to cause you the faintest suspicion of tears. i am not, i believe, a sociable person. my disembodied lady is more to me than hundreds of material friends. i am utterly and entirely grateful for her invisible presence—and the thoughts she sends me. whatever you wish must be of benefit. whatever that unexpressed wish was, i endorse it.
thank you for your letter.
robin adair.
