Now what I wanted from Mr Goodman was not so much an account of Sebastian’s last years – that I did not yet need – (for I intended to follow his life stage by stage without overtaking him), but merely to obtain a few suggestions as to what people I ought to see who might know something of Sebastian’s post-Cambridge period.
So on 1 March 1936, I called on Mr Goodman at his office in Fleet Street. But before describing our interview I must be allowed a short digression.
Amongst Sebastian’s letters I found as already mentioned some correspondence between him and his publisher dealing with a certain novel. It appears that in Sebastian’s first book (1925), The Prismatic Bezel, one of the minor characters is an extremely comic and cruel skit upon a certain living author whom Sebastian found necessary to chastise. Naturally the publisher knew it immediately and this fact made him so uncomfortable that he advised Sebastian to modify the whole passage, a thing which Sebastian flatly refused to do, saying finally that he would get the book printed elsewhere – and this he eventually did.
‘You seem to wonder’, – he wrote in one letter, ‘what on earth could make me, a budding author (as you say – but that is a misapplied term, for your authentic budding author remains budding all his life; others, like me, spring into blossom in one bound), you seem to wonder, let me repeat (which does not mean I am apologizing for that Proustian parenthesis), why the hell I should take a nice porcelain blue contemporary (X does remind one, doesn’t he, of those cheap china things which tempt one at fairs to an orgy of noisy, destruction) and let him drop from the tower of my prose to the gutter below. You tell me he is widely esteemed; that his sales in Germany are almost as tremendous as his sales here; that an old story of his has just been selected for Modern Masterpieces; that together with Y and Z he is considered one of the leading writers of the «post-war» generation; and that, last but not least, he is dangerous as a critic. You seem to hint that we should all keep the dark secret of his success, which is to travel second-class with a third-class ticket – or if my simile is not sufficiently clear – to pamper the taste of the worst category of the reading public – not those who revel in detective yarns, bless their pure souls – but those who buy the worst banalities because they have been shaken’ up in a modem way with a dash of Freud or «stream of consciousness» or whatnot – and incidentally do not and never will understand that the pretty cynics of today are Marie Corelli’s nieces and old Mrs Grundy’s nephews. Why should we keep that shameful secret? What is this masonic bond of triteness – or indeed tritheism? Down with these shoddy gods I And then you go and tell me that my «literary career» will be hopelessly handicapped from the start by my attacking an influential and esteemed writer. But even if there were such a thing as a «literary career» and I were disqualified merely for riding my own horse, still I would refuse to change one single word in what I have written. For, believe me, no imminent punishment can be violent enough to make me abandon the pursuit of my pleasure, especially when this pleasure is the firm young bosom of truth. There are in fact not many things in life comparable to the delight of satire, and when I imagine the humbug’s face as he reads (and read he shall) that particular passage and knows as well as we do that it is the truth, then delight reaches its sweetest climax. Let me add that if I have faithfully rendered not only X’s inner world (which is no more than a tube station during rush hours) but also his tricks of speech and demeanour, I emphatically deny that he or any other reader may discern the least trace of vulgarity in the passage which causes you such alarm. So do not let this haunt you any longer. Remember too that I take all responsibility, moral and commercial, in case you really «get into trouble» with my innocent little volume.’
My point in quoting this letter (apart from its own value as showing Sebastian in that bright boyish mood which later remained as a rainbow across the stormy gloom of his darkest tales) is to settle a rather delicate question. In a minute or two Mr Goodman will appear in flesh and blood. The reader already knows how thoroughly I disapprove of that gentleman’s book. However, at the time of our first (and last) interview I knew nothing about his work (insofar as a rapid compilation may be called work). I approached Mr Goodman with an open mind; it is no longer open now, and naturally this is bound to influence my description. At the same time I do not very well see how I can discuss my visit to him without alluding even as discreetly as in the case of Sebastian’s college friend, to Mr Goodman’s manner if not appearance. Shall I be able to stop at that? Will not Mr Goodman’s face suddenly pop out to the owner’s rightful annoyance when he reads these lines? I have studied Sebastian’s letter and arrived at the conclusion that what Sebastian Knight might permit himself in respect to Mr X is denied me in regard to Mr Goodman. The frankness of Sebastian’s genius cannot be mine, and I should only succeed in being rude there where he might have been brilliant. So that I am treading on very thin ice and must try to step warily as I enter Mr Goodman’s study.
‘Pray be seated,’ he said, courteously waving me into a leather armchair near his desk. He was remarkably well-dressed though decidedly with a city flavour. A black mask covered his face. ‘What can I do for you?’ He went on looking at me through the eyeholes and still holding my card.
I suddenly realized that my name conveyed nothing to him. Sebastian had made his mother’s name his own completely.
‘I am,’ I answered, ‘Sebastian Knight’s half-brother.’ There was a short silence.
‘Let me see,’ said Mr Goodman, ‘am I to understand, that you are referring to the late Sebastian Knight, the well-known author?’
‘Exactly,’ said I.
Mr Goodman with finger and thumb stroked his face…. I mean the face under his mask… stroked it down, down, reflectively.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ he said, ‘but are you quite sure that there is not some mistake?’
‘None whatever,’ I replied, and in as few words as possible I explained my relationship to Sebastian.
‘Oh, is that so?’ said Mr Goodman, growing more and more pensive. ‘Really, really, it never entered my head. I was certainly quite aware that Knight was born and brought up in Russia. But I somehow missed the point about his name. Yes, now I see… Yes, it ought to be a Russian one…. His mother….’
Mr Goodman drummed the blotting-pad for a minute with his fine white fingers and then faintly sighed.
‘Well, what’s done is done,’ he remarked. ‘Too late now to add a… I mean,’ he hurriedly continued, ‘that I’m sorry not to have gone into the matter before. So you are his half-brother? Well, I am delighted to meet you.’
‘First of all,’ I said, ‘I should like to settle the business question. Mr Knight’s papers, at least those that refer to his literary occupations, are not in very great order and I don’t quite know exactly how things stand. I haven’t yet seen his publishers, but I gather that at least one of them – the firm that brought out The Funny Mountain – no longer exists. Before going further into the matter I thought I’d better have a talk with you.’
‘Quite so,’ said Mr Goodman. ‘As a matter of fact you may not be cognizant of my having interest in two Knight books, The Funny Mountain and Lost Property. Under the circumstances the best thing would be for me to give you some details which I can send you by letter tomorrow morning as well as a copy of my contract with Mr Knight. Or should I call him Mr…’ and smiling under his mask Mr Goodman tried to pronounce our simple Russian name.
‘Then there is another matter,’ I continued. ‘I have decided to write a book on his life and work, and I sorely need certain information. Could you perhaps….’
It seemed to me that Mr Goodman stiffened Then he coughed once or twice and even went as
