Well, we all felt so good that we decided to go back to town and not stay overnight as we had planned. We sang at the top of our lungs all the way in. Even Tess sang, off-key it’s true, but lustily and without restraint. MacGregor had never heard her sing before; she had always been like a reindeer, as far as the vocal apparatus was concerned. Her speech was limited, restricted to coarse grunts, punctuated by groans of approval or disapproval. I had the queer presentiment that, in the throes of this extraordinary expansiveness, she might take it into her head to burst out singing (later on) instead of making the usual request for a glass of water or an apple or a ham sandwich. I could visualize the expression on MacGregor’s face, were she to absent-mindedly pull off a stunt like that. His look would register incredible amazement («What next, b’Jesus?» but at the same time it would suggest—«Go on, keep it up, try a falsetto for a change!» He liked people to do unheard of things. He liked to be able to think that there were certain vile, almost incredible things people could do that he had never imagined. He liked to think that there was nothing too vile, too scabrous, too ignominious for the human being to perpetrate on or against his fellow-man.
He boasted of having an open mind, a mind receptive to any alleged form of stupidity, cruelty, treachery or perversity. He went on the assumption that every one was at heart a mean, callous, selfish, bastardly son of a bitch, a fact which was proven by the miraculously limited number of cases which came to public attention through the law-courts. If every one could be spied on, trailed, hounded, surveilled, cross-examined, nailed down, forced to confess, why in his honest opinion, we would all be in jail. And the most notorious offenders, to take his word for it, were the judges, the ministers of state, the public wardens, the members of the clergy, the educators, the charitable workers. As for his own profession, he had met one or two in his life who were scrupulously honest, whose word could be depended on; the rest, which included practically the whole profession, were lower than the lowest criminals, the scum of the earth, the shittiest dregs of humanity that ever stood on two legs. No, he wasn’t being taken in by any horse shit these birds handed out for general consumption. He didn’t know why he was honest and truthful himself; it certainly didn’t pay. He was just made that way, he guessed. Besides, he had other foibles, and here he would add up all the faults which he had, or admitted he had, or imagined he had, and a formidable list it made, so that when he had finished one was tempted to ask why he bothered to retain the other two virtues of truthfulness and honesty. «So you’re still thinking about her?» he popped suddenly, turning his head slightly and twisting the words out of the corner of his mouth. «Well, I feel sorry for you. I suppose nothing will do but to marry her. You certainly are a glutton for punishment. And what will you live on—have you thought of that? You know you’re not going to keep this job very much longer—they must be wise to you by this time. It’s a wonder to me they didn’t fire you long ago. It certainly is a record for you— how long is it now, three years? I can remember when three days was a long time. Of course if she’s the right kind of girl you won’t have to worry about keeping a job—she’ll keep you. That would be ideal, wouldn’t it? Then you could write those masterpieces you’re always promising us. I think, by Jesus, that’s why you’re so eager to get rid of your wife: she’s on to you, she keeps your nose to the grind-stone. God, how it must gripe you to get up every morning and go to work! How do you do it, will you tell me? You used to be too damned lazy to get up for a meal.. Listen, Ulric, I’ve seen that bastard stay in bed for three days hand-running. Nothing the matter with him—just couldn’t bear the thought of facing the world. Love sick, sometimes. Or just suicidal. That’s something he used to like —to threaten us with suicide. (He looked at me through the mirror.) «You forget those days, don’t you?» Now he wants to live… I don’t know why… nothing’s changed… everything’s just as lousy as ever. Now he talks of giving something to the world —a masterpiece, no less. He couldn’t just give us an ordinary book that would sell. Oh no, not him! It’s got to be unique, something unheard of. Well, I’m waiting. I don’t say you won’t do it, and I don’t say you will. I’m just waiting. Meanwhile the rest of us have to go on making a living. We can’t take a lifetime trying to turn out a masterpiece.» (He paused for breath.) «You know, sometimes I feel as though I’d like to turn out a book myself—just to prove to this guy that you don’t have to make a monkey of yourself to do a trick like that. I think if I wanted to I could do a book in six months —on the side, without neglecting my practice. I don’t say that it would be a prize-winner. I never boasted of being an artist. What gets me about this bird is that he’s so damned sure he’s an artist. He’s certain that he’s infinitely superior to a Hergesheimer, let’s say, or a Dreiser—and yet he hasn’t a damned thing to show for it. He wants us to take: it on faith. He gets ruffled if you ask him to show you something tangible like a manuscript. Can you picture me trying to impress a judge with the fact that I’m a capable lawyer without having even taken a degree? I know that you can’t wave a diploma in front of some one’s eyes to prove that you’re a writer, but just the same you could wave a manuscript, couldn’t you? He says lie’s written several books already—well then, where are they? Has anybody ever seen them?»
Here Ulric interrupted to put in a word for me. I was sitting back in my soft seat chuckling. I enjoyed these tirades of MacGregor’s.
«Well, all right,» said MacGregor, «if you say you’ve seen a manuscript I’ll take your word for it. He never shows me anything, the bastard. I suppose he hasn’t any respect for my judgment. All I know is, to listen to him talk you’d think he was a genius. Mention any author—nobody suits him. Even Anatole France is no good. He must be aiming pretty high if he’s going to make these birds take a back seat. To my way of thinking, a man like Joseph Conrad is not only an artist but a master. He thinks Conrad is over-rated. Melville, he tells me, is infinitely superior. And then, by Jesus, do you know what he admits to me one day? That he never read Melville! But that doesn’t make any difference, he says. How are you going to reason with a guy like that? I haven’t read Melville either, but I’m damned if I’ll believe that he’s better than Conrad—not till I’ve read him anyway.»
«Well,» said Ulric, «maybe he’s not so crazy at that. Lots of people who’ve never seen a Giotto are fairly certain that he’s better than Maxfield Parrish, for example.»
«That’s different,» said MacGregor. «There’s no question about the value of Giotto’s work, nor of Conrad’s either. Melville, from what I can gather, is pretty much of a dark horse. This generation may find him superior to Conrad, but then again he may fade out like a comet in a hundred or two hundred years. He was almost extinct when they rediscovered him recently.»
«And what makes you think that Conrad’s fame won’t fade in a hundred or two hundred years?» said Ulric.
«Because there’s nothing dubious
