Books Do Furnish a Room - Anthony Powell [54]
Publishers, especially Quiggin, endlessly argued the question whether Sheldon or Shernmaker ‘sold’ any of the hooks they discussed. The majority view was that no sales could take place in consequence of Sheldon’s notices, because none of his readers read books. Shernmaker’s readers, on the other hand, read books, but his scraps of praise were so niggardly to the writers he scrutinized that he was held by some to be an equally ineffective medium. It was almost inconceivable for a writer to bring off the double-event of being mentioned, far less praised, by both of them.
The dangerous juxtaposition of Sheldon and Shernmaker was worrying Quiggin. He continually glanced in their direction, and, when Gypsy joined his group with Craggs and the Cabinet Minister, he allowed husband and wife to guide the statesman to a corner for a more private conversation, while he himself moved across the room. He paused briefly with Trapnel and myself.
‘Where’s your wife?’
He spoke accusingly, as if he considered a covert effort had been made to undermine the importance of the Fission first number, also his own prestige as a director of the magazine.
‘Our child’s in bed with a cold. She sent many regrets at missing the party.’
Quiggin looked suspicious, but pursued the matter no further, as the Sheldon and Shernmaker situation had become more ominous. Bagshaw was reasonably well equipped to hold the balance between a couple like this, operating expertly on two fronts, provided the other parties did not too far overstep the bounds each felt the other allowed by convention, given the fact they were on bad terms. This rule appeared to have been observed so far, but Sheldon now began to embark on a detailed account of a recent visit to the Nuremberg trials, his report on which had already appeared in print. At this new development Shernmaker’s features had taken on the agonized, fractious contours of a baby about to let out a piercing cry. Quiggin stepped quickly forward.
‘Bernard, I’m going to take the liberty of sending you a proof copy of Alaric Kydd’s new novel Sweetskin. It will interest you.’
Shernmaker showed he had heard this statement by swivelling his head almost imperceptibly in Quiggin’s direction, at the same time signifying by an unaltered expression that nothing was less likely than that a work of Kydd’s would hold his attention for a second. However, he took the opportunity of moving out of the immediate range of Sheldon’s trumpeting narrative, giving Quiggin a look to denote rebuke for ever having allowed such an infliction to be visited on a sensitive critic’s nerves. Quiggin seemed to expect nothing more welcoming than this reception.
‘There may be trouble about certain passages in Kydd’s book – two especially. If it has to be toned down through fear of prosecution, I’d like you to have read what the author originally wrote.’
Shernmaker continued his stern silence. If he allowed his face to relax at all, it was only to register deeper suspicion of publishers and all their works. Quiggin was by no means to be put off by such severity. He smiled encouragingly. Although not by nature ingratiating, he could be industrious at the process if worth while.
‘Don’t tell me you’ve washed your hands of Kydd’s work, Bernard – like Pilate?’
Shernmaker did not return the smile. He thought for a time. Quiggin, unlike Pilate for his part, awaited an answer. Shernmaker brought his own out at last.
‘Pilate washed his hands – did he wash his feet?’
It was now Quiggin’s turn to withhold a smile. He was as practised a punch-line killer and saboteur of other people’s witticisms as Shernmaker himself. This disrespect for one of the firm’s new authors must also have annoyed him.