It would be interesting to know to what extent the work of authors isinfluenced by their private affairs. If life is flowing smoothly, arethe novels they write in that period of content coloured withoptimism? And if things are running crosswise, do they work off theresultant gloom on their faithful public? If, for instance, Mr. W. W.
Jacobs had toothache, would he write like Hugh Walpole? If Maxim Gorkywere invited to lunch by Trotsky, to meet Lenin, would he sit down anddash off a trifle in the vein of Stephen Leacock? Probably the eminenthave the power of detaching their writing self from their living,work-a-day self; but, for my own part, the frame of mind in which Inow found myself had a disastrous effect on my novel that was to be. Ihad designed it as a light comedy effort. Here and there a page or twoto steady the reader and show him what I could do in the way of pathosif I cared to try; but in the main a thing of sunshine and laughter.
But now great slabs of gloom began to work themselves into the schemeof it. A magnificent despondency became its keynote. It would not do.
I felt that I must make a resolute effort to shake off my depression.
More than ever the need of conciliating the professor was borne inupon me. Day and night I spurred my brain to think of some suitablemeans of engineering a reconciliation.
In the meantime I worked hard among the fowls, drove furiously on thelinks, and swam about the harbour when the affairs of the farm did notrequire my attention.
Things were not going well on our model chicken farm. Little accidentsmarred the harmony of life in the fowl-run. On one occasion a hen--notAunt Elizabeth, I am sorry to say,--fell into a pot of tar, and cameout an unspeakable object. Ukridge put his spare pair of tennis shoesin the incubator to dry them, and permanently spoiled the future ofhalf-a-dozen eggs which happened to have got there first. Chickenskept straying into the wrong coops, where they got badly pecked by theresidents. Edwin slew a couple of Wyandottes, and was only saved fromexecution by the tears of Mrs. Ukridge.
In spite of these occurrences, however, his buoyant optimism neverdeserted Ukridge.
"After all," he said, "What's one bird more or less? Yes, I know Imade a fuss when that beast of a cat lunched off those two, but thatwas simply the principle of the thing. I'm not going to pay large sumsfor chickens purely in order that a cat which I've never liked canlunch well. Still, we've plenty left, and the eggs are coming inbetter now, though we've still a deal of leeway to make up yet in thatline. I got a letter from Whiteley's this morning asking when my firstconsignment was going to arrive. You know, these people make a mistakein hurrying a man. It annoys him. It irritates him. When we really getgoing, Garny, my boy, I shall drop Whiteley's. I shall cut them out ofmy list and send my eggs to their trade rivals. They shall have asharp lesson. It's a little hard. Here am I, worked to death lookingafter things down here, and these men have the impertinence to botherme about their wretched business. Come in and have a drink, laddie,and let's talk it over."It was on the morning after this that I heard him calling me in avoice in which I detected agitation. I was strolling about thepaddock, as was my habit after breakfast, thinking about Phyllis andtrying to get my novel into shape. I had just framed a more thanusually murky scene for use in the earlier part of the book, whenUkridge shouted to me from the fowl-run.
"Garny, come here. I want you to see the most astounding thing.""What's the matter?" I asked.
"Blast if I know. Look at those chickens. They've been doing that forthe last half-hour."I inspected the chickens. There was certainly something the matterwith them. They were yawning--broadly, as if we bored them. They stoodabout singly and in groups, opening and shutting their beaks. It wasan uncanny spectacle.
"What's the matter with them?""Can a chicken get a fit of the blues?" I asked. "Because if so,that's what they've got. I never saw a more bored-looking lot ofbirds.""Oh, do look at that poor little brown one by the coop," said Mrs.
Ukridge sympathetically; "I'm sure it's not well. See, it's lyingdown. What /can/ be the matter with it?""I tell you what we'll do," said Ukridge. "We'll ask Beale. He oncelived with an aunt who kept fowls. He'll know all about it. Beale!"No answer.
"Beale!!"A sturdy form in shirt-sleeves appeared through the bushes, carrying aboot. We seemed to have interrupted him in the act of cleaning it.
"Beale, you know all about fowls. What's the matter with thesechickens?"The Hired Retainer examined the blase birds with a wooden expressionon his face.
"Well?" said Ukridge.
"The 'ole thing 'ere," said the Hired Retainer, "is these 'ere fowlshave been and got the roop."I had never heard of the disease before, but it sounded bad.
"Is that what makes them yawn like that?" said Mrs. Ukridge.
"Yes, ma'am.""Poor things!""Yes, ma'am.""And have they all got it?""Yes, ma'am.""What ought we to do?" asked Ukridge.
"Well, my aunt, sir, when 'er fowls 'ad the roop, she gave themsnuff.""Give them snuff, she did," he repeated, with relish, "every morning.""Snuff!" said Mrs. Ukridge.
"Yes, ma'am. She give 'em snuff till their eyes bubbled."Mrs. Ukridge uttered a faint squeak at this vivid piece of word-painting.
"And did it cure them?" asked Ukridge.
"No, sir," responded the expert soothingly.
"Oh, go away, Beale, and clean your beastly boots," said Ukridge.
"You're no use. Wait a minute. Who would know about this infernal roopthing? One of those farmer chaps would, I suppose. Beale, go off tothe nearest farmer, and give him my compliments, and ask him what hedoes when his fowls get the roop.""Yes, sir.""No, I'll go, Ukridge," I said. "I want some exercise."I whistled to Bob, who was investigating a mole-heap in the paddock,and set off in the direction of the village of Up Lyme to consultFarmer Leigh on the matter. He had sold us some fowls shortly afterour arrival, so might be expected to feel a kindly interest in theirailing families.
The path to Up Lyme lies across deep-grassed meadows. At intervals itpasses over a stream by means of a footbridge. The stream curlsthrough the meadows like a snake.
And at the first of these bridges I met Phyllis.
I came upon her quite suddenly. The other end of the bridge was hiddenfrom my view. I could hear somebody coming through the grass, but nottill I was on the bridge did I see who it was. We reached the bridgesimultaneously. She was alone. She carried a sketching-block. All nicegirls sketch a little.
There was room for one alone on the footbridge, and I drew back to lether pass.
It being the privilege of woman to make the first sign of recognition,I said nothing. I merely lifted my hat in a non-committing fashion.
"Are you going to cut me, I wonder?" I said to myself. She answeredthe unspoken question as I hoped it would be answered.
"Mr. Garnet," she said, stopping at the end of the bridge. A pause.
"I couldn't tell you so before, but I am so sorry this has happened.""Oh, thanks awfully," I said, realising as I said it the miserableinadequacy of the English language. At a crisis when I would havegiven a month's income to have said something neat, epigrammatic,suggestive, yet withal courteous and respectful, I could only find ahackneyed, unenthusiastic phrase which I should have used in acceptingan invitation from a bore to lunch with him at his club.
