Not George Washington | Page 5

What we
really said, what we actually did, where precisely we two went, I do not
know. We were together, and the blur of love was about us. Always the
blur. It is not that memory cannot conjure up the scene again. It is not
that the scene is clouded by the ill-proportion of a dream. No. It is
because the dream is brought to me by will and not by sleep. The blur
recurs because the blur was there. A love vast as ours is penalised, as it
were, by this blur, which is the hall-mark of infinity.
In mighty distances, whether from earth to heaven, whether from 5245
Gerrard to 137 Glasgow, there is always that awful, that disintegrating
blur.

A third period succeeded. I may call it the affectionately practical
period. Instantly the blur vanishes. We were at our proper distance from
the essence of things, and though infinity is something one yearns for
passionately, one's normal condition has its meed of comfort. I
remember once hearing a man in a Government office say that the
pleasantest moment of his annual holiday was when his train rolled
back into Paddington Station. And he was a man, too, of a naturally
lazy disposition.
It was about the middle of this third period, during a
mushroom-trapping ramble, that the idea occurred to us, first to me,
then--after reflection--to James, that mother ought to be informed how
matters stood between us.
We went into the house, hand-in-hand, and interviewed her.
She was in the bow-window, reading a translation of The
Deipnosophists of Athenaeus.
"Good morning," she said, looking at her watch. "It is a little past our
usual breakfast time, Margie, I think?"
"We have been looking for mushrooms, mother."
"Every investigation, says Athenaeus, which is guided by principles of
Nature fixes its ultimate aim entirely on gratifying the stomach. Have
you found any mushrooms?"
"Heaps, Mrs. Goodwin," said James.
"Mother," I said, "we want to tell you something."
"The fact is, Mrs. Goodwin----"
"We are engaged."
My mother liked James.
"Margie," she once said to me, "there is good in Mr. Cloyster. He is not

for ever offering to pass me things." Time had not caused her to modify
this opinion. She received our news calmly, and inquired into James's
means and prospects. James had forty pounds and some odd silver. I
had nothing.
The key-note of my mother's contribution to our conference was,
"Wait."
"You are both young," she said.
She then kissed me, smiled contemplatively at James, and resumed her
book.
When we were alone, "My darling," said James, "we must wait.
Tomorrow I catch the boat for Weymouth. I shall go straight to London.
My first manuscript shall be in an editor's hands on Wednesday
morning. I will go, but I will come back."
I put my arms round his neck.
"My love," I said, "I trust you. Go. Always remember that I know you
will succeed."
I kissed him.
"And when you have succeeded, come back."


CHAPTER 3
A HARMLESS DECEPTION _(Miss Margaret Goodwin's narrative
continued)_
They say that everyone is capable of one novel. And, in my opinion,
most people could write one play.

Whether I wrote mine in an inspiration of despair, I cannot say. I wrote
it.
Three years had passed, and James was still haggling with those who
buy men's brains. His earnings were enough just to keep his head above
water, but not enough to make us two one.
Perhaps, because everything is clear and easy for us now, I am
gradually losing a proper appreciation of his struggle. That should
never be. He did not win. But he did not lose; which means nearly as
much. For it is almost less difficult to win than not to lose, so my
mother has told me, in modern journalistic London. And I know that he
would have won. The fact that he continued the fight as he did was in
itself a pledge of ultimate victory. What he went through while trying
with his pen to make a living for himself and me I learned from his
letters.
"London," he wrote, "is not paved with gold; but in literary fields there
are nuggets to be had by the lightest scratching. And those nuggets are
plays. A successful play gives you money and a name automatically.
What the ordinary writer makes in a year the successful dramatist
receives, without labour, in a fortnight." He went on to deplore his total
lack of dramatic intuition. "Some men," he said, "have some of the
qualifications while falling short of the others. They have a sense of
situation without the necessary tricks of technique. Or they sacrifice
plot to atmosphere, or atmosphere to plot. I, worse luck, have not one
single qualification. The nursing of a