A Communication to My Friends, Chapter 3

London: Nonesuch Press, 13 June 1933, pages 28-34, 1,832 words

III

A wonderful old man, truly, full of wisdom and experience, and the contrast between him and the commonplace Tinsley sent my thoughts wandering back to Zola's story of the ne'er-do-well who had found inspiration in his father's kitchen, and I began to regret that I had left my manuscript with a man who was no more than a literary cook. Tinsley had no confidence in me, all the confidence he had was in his power to cajole two stubborn librarians to subscribe for a book that they did not like. But Vizetelly was an historian as well as a journalist, he had written a book that would live in literature and he would be able to help me from time to time during the composition of A Mummer's Wife. Already he had given me the advice that I needed, and my thoughts again at wander, I said to myself, It is only from our fellow craftsmen that we can get help. He put his finger on the weak spot of my story. I should have found out sooner or later that I must have a town that lent itself to description, but how well he had explained it. ''You cannot describe a turnip field, however great your powers of description may be — even Gautier could not do it," and I smiled, it was such a pleasure to find somebody in London who had even read Gautier, to say nothing of understanding him.

I crossed the street, thinking that perhaps I might hear of an ugly town without amusement of any sort in the Gaiety Bar. Vizetelly is right, the ugly is often more picturesque than the beautiful. But which town? After pushing through the swing doors my eyes lighted on a small man, a Jew, who without doubt was cast for comic parts, and thinking that he was as likely as another to understand my need I approached the group that he was addressing, but so appreciatively were his friends listening to him that I passed on, not liking to interrupt. He would think me a little mad to ask him to leave his friends and come and drink with me. But Byron knows them all, and he will introduce me to him, and perhaps he will be able to suggest a town in which to lay the scene of A Mummer's Wife.

In all these communings with myself I seemed to advance my story a little, and certain that it would be better for me to wait for Byron Webber's introduction to  the mummers — Byron was always there between four­ and five o'clock after he had put up his pile of bricks, that was how he spoke of the article he wrote every week for the paper he edited — I went for a walk in the Strand. The next day I was in the Gaiety Bar in an unoccupied compartment waiting for Byron Webber, and for many days I returned to the bar during the luncheon hour and again in the afternoon and evening, so afraid was I of missing the burly Byron, and it was not until the end of the week that he appeared, black heard and black bag. He seemed to be in search of something or somebody and I had to call him. "I have been here every day expecting to see you." "I have had a bad cold and my wife would not let me leave the house." Then followed the usual amenities, Won't you sit down? What will you have? Give it a name. Six out of the bottle since you are so kind, and when he had heard all that Vizetelly had told me, he said, ''You want a town, ugly and dull, that would not excite the imagination even of George Borrow." "And who is George Borrow?" I asked, and all the time he spoke of George Borrow I watched the mummers come and go, hoping that Byron would call some of his friends over to drink with us. I mentioned to him that I would like to be introduced to a little Jew who, judging from his appearance, had been created by nature to play comic parts, and I pointed him out at the other end of the counter. "Ah, De Lange," said Byron, and being full of good nature Byron walked down the bar and hailed him, and after a little talk they returned bringing with them two or three other actors and a long lanky fellow who led the orchestra. Altogether we sat seven of us, the fat and the thin, the sallow and the flushed, the silent and the talkative, everyone drinking whisky and water except myself.

"From one or more of these gentlemen you will be able to learn all you need about the towns they visit in the north of England. If I understand him right, and I think I do, the plot of his novel concerns the manager of an opera company who hears his landlady singing prettily on the staircase.'' This excited the company, and each waited impatiently for his turn to tell his story of the wooings of landladies in provincial towns. Mr. Cartwright, the tenor, listened in silence to these commonplace stories till at last, unable to keep silence any longer, he said, "I have had wooings, too, like any other man, but it was not about singing on the staircase that we came to an understanding, but at the breakfast table, when she said, 'I think you like fried eggs better than poached.' 'How do you know that?' I asked. 'Why, sir, when you were here a year ago you had fried eggs,' and marvelling at the compliment she paid me I took her hand, and that was all.''

After the laughter provoked by this story a great bass voice came from De Lange. "I wonder whether Hanley would suit you?" "Is there anything distinctive in Hanley, or is it no more than bricks and mortar, like the towns the other gentlemen have described?" "Hanley is a pottery town where they make thousands of plates and basins and chamber pots, all kinds of common china put to common uses." "And did you go through the potteries?" "No, I didn't, but the company did." "Players strolling through a world of work," said I. "I must see Hanley. Thank you, and if Hanley does not suit I will try further afield." Byron, who seemed to know everything and everybody, gave me a letter of introduction to the proprietor of the theatre. De Lange said, "I can do that. What he wants is an introduction to the pretty draperess.''

On this De Lange rose to join his companions at the counter and Byron and I returned to Charing Cross. "Many thanks for all you have done for me, Mr. Byron Webber, you have saved my book. Hanley will, I think, suit my purpose excellently well. Good-bye, I shall start to-morrow, and when I return I shall have the pleasure, I hope, of recounting to you my impressions of Hanley and perhaps of a pretty draperess."

The porter helped me to find a train and next morning I was on my way to Hanley, a three hours journey, and as I watched the Midlands flowing by, pastoral and beautiful, my thoughts were with a world of work. The draperess will go with the manager. There was his name to be thought of, and I had no name for him that was at once commonplace and, like Hanley, picturesque. Kate Ede seemed to be a name for her, but for the manager I could think of nothing better than Dick Lennox, and what, I asked myself, can happen to these twain as they wander through the store-rooms laden with domestic china? I cudgelled my brains in vain, and on leaving the station I saw nothing but ordinary streets, and I was disappointed, but when I had left my trunk at the hotel and set forth to explore, Hanley took shape and form. The very town, I said, for Kate Ede to meet Dick Lennox.

A town built upon a hill is Hanley, surrounded by a valley on all sides but one, with an enchanting view of misty hills far away. My draperess, I said, will come to the top of Market Street to meditate and to hope that Dick will lodge at her house when the company returns to Hanley. The blue hills will raise her above herself. She will melt into reveries. But why should I describe Hanley in this little book? Hanley is described in A Mummer's Wife to the admiration of Arnold Bennett, who more than once has written that it revealed to him the fictional possibilities of the five towns.

For nearly a week I went out with a notebook in hand, begging as usual my eyes not to forget what they might never see again. I wandered through the potteries and again and again up Market Street. The evenings I spent behind the scenes of the theatre enjoying the company of the mummers, and such pleasant people did I find them that I could not bear to part from them, and I travelled with the second company of the Cloches de Corneville to some town, the name of which I have forgotten. Even two journeys did not satisfy me. We visited several towns and at last, brimming with slang and theatre lore, I returned to London to meet Mr. Tinsley, who had written to tell me that he was prepared to publish A Modem Lover if I would agree to make good any loss he might incur in the publication — that is, if Mudie and Smith refused to add the book to their libraries or bought too few copies to defray the expenses of printers' bills. But how am I to know what loss he may incur? He may tell me that Mudie took sixty copies and Smith twenty-five, I cannot afford to lose money now, with Joe clamouring to give up my agency. Il faut toujours oser, mais il faut savoir oser, and after some correspondence and a few visits I agreed to pay forty pounds if my book did not prove successful.

"I am going to Ireland to-night and shall return to London in about a month. I suppose the printer will go on with the setting and will have half the book set when I come back. I shall not want the proofs sent to Dublin for I have my agent's accounts to look into and I have a new book in my head which I would like to give my mind to on the journey." When I had left Mr. Tinsley's office, rather perturbed at making myself liable for the printing of a book, I stopped at the telegraph office to send messages to my mother and to Joe Blake.