• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

By Root 2568 0

He told me he started it before he met me. Eight or nine years, then. I tell him no one will read it when it is finished. Who wants to read a book about the theory of music, I should like to know? He says himself there is too much of that sort of thing published as it is. It is not that the man hasn’t got ability. He is bright enough in his way. It is just that he doesn’t know how to go about things. Then all these friends of his, like Moreland and you, encourage him, tell him he’s a genius, and the book will sell in thousands. What do you do? Are you a musician? A critic, I expect. I suppose you are writing a book yourself.’

‘I am not a music critic. I am writing a book.’

‘Musical?’

‘No – a novel.’

‘A novel?’ said Mrs Maclintick.

The idea of writing a novel seemed to displease her only a little less than the production of a work on musical theory.

‘What is it to be called?’

‘I don’t know yet.’

‘Have you written any other novels?’

I told her. She shook her head, no more in the mood for literature than music. All the time she treated Maclintick as if he were not present in the flesh; and, since he and Moreland were deeply engaged with questions of pitch and rhythm, both were probably unaware of these reflections on her domestic situation.

‘And then this house. You can see for yourself it is like a pig-sty. I slave sixteen hours a day to keep it clean. No good. Might as well not attempt it. Maclintick isn’t interested in whether his house is clean or not. What I say is, why can’t we go and live in Putney? Where I want to live is never considered, of course. Maclintick likes Pimlico, so Pimlico it has to be. The place gives me the pip. Well, don’t you agree yourself? Even if we move, it has to be somewhere else in Pimlico, and the packing up is more trouble than it is worth. I should like a bit of garden. Can’t have that here. Not even a window-box. Of course Maclintick hates the sight of a flower.’

I quoted St John Clarke’s opinion that the beauty of flowers is enhanced by metropolitan surroundings. Mrs Maclintick did not reply. Her attention had been distracted by Carolo who had begun to pile his sheets of music together and stow them away in a portfolio.

‘Come and have a drink with us, Carolo, before you go,’ she said, with greater warmth than she had shown until that moment. ‘Maclintick will get some more beer. We could all do with another drop. Here is the jug, Maclintick. Don’t take all the cheese, Moreland. Leave a little for the rest of us.’

Maclintick did not look specially pleased at this suggestion of Carolo joining us at the table, but he too welcomed the idea of more beer, immediately picking up the chipped jug and once more setting off with it to the pub. A chair was drawn up for Carolo, who accepted the invitation with no more than mumbled, ungracious agreement; to which he added the statement that he would not be able to stay long. I had not set eyes on him since that night in the Mortimer. Carolo looked just the same: pale; unromantic; black wavy hair a shade longer and greasier than before. Mrs Maclintick gave him a glance that was almost affectionate.

‘Have you got to go out tonight, Carolo?’ she said. ‘There is a little mutton left.’

Carolo shook his head, looking wearily at the residue of the joint, the remains of which were not specially tempting. He seemed in a thoughtful mood, but, when Maclintick reappeared with the jug and poured him out a glass, he drank a deep draught of the beer with apparent gratification. After wiping his mouth with a handkerchief, he spoke in his harsh, North Country voice.

‘How have you been, Moreland?’ he asked.

‘Much as usual,’ said Moreland. ‘And you?’

‘Pretty middling. How’s Matilda?’

‘Having a baby,’ said Moreland flushing; and, as if he referred to speak no more for the moment about that particular subject, went on: ‘You know, in that book I was reading upstairs, Chabrier says that the Spanish fleas have their own national song – a three-four tune in F major that Berlioz introduces into the Damnation of Faust .’

‘The Spanish fleas must be having a splendid