Complete Works of Ford Madox Ford, page 976
All this clamorous life seemed to call for its organ…. I had discussed that often enough with Ezra…. It was not merely Paris that was alive to the Arts: it was the whole world. If thousands came from Spokane, it was because there a leaven was working. So with Tokio, Petrograd, Budapest, and Portland, Maine. It was the real reaction from the war; the artist making his claim for glory as against the glory of the warrior. Mars was to be disgruntled.
So communication should be established between that Sun, Paris, and the furtherest satellites, and between them and Paris. St. Louis, Mo., must be told what Picasso was doing and Picasso and Mr. Joyce must be enlightened as to the activities of Greenwich Village. And Lenin, reading of these deeds in his palace in Petrograd, would be moved to give the Arts a higher place in his body public. It was a fine idea.
It seemed, however, to be nothing for me. And it was nothing for Ezra, who, at that moment, had become both sculptor and musician. Thus all his thoughts were needed for those arts. He had living above his studio in the rue N. D. des Champs a gentleman whom he suspected of being an ex-enemy, a person obnoxious in himself. He had, therefore, persuaded Mr. George Antheil, who, besides being a great composer, must be the heaviest living piano-player — he had persuaded Mr. Antheil to practise his latest symphony for piano and orchestra in Mr. Pound’s studio. This lasted all day for several weeks. When Mr. Antheil was fatigued, his orchestra played unceasingly Mr. Antheil’s own arrangement of the Wacht am Rhein. In the meanwhile, turning sculptor, Mr. Pound fiercely struck blocks of granite with sledge-hammers.
The rest of his day — his evenings, that is to say — would thus be given up in the court of the local justice of the peace, rebutting the complaints of the gentleman who lived overhead. He had some difficulty, but eventually succeeded in convincing that magistrate that he and Mr. Antheil were two pure young Americans engaged in earning their livings to the greater glory of France, whereas the gentleman upstairs was no more nor less than the worst type produced by a lately enemy nation. So that fellow had to leave Paris.
It was not to be imagined that, with all this on his hands, Mr. Pound could be expected to give time to the conducting of a Review, and there the matter had rested. Or I supposed it to have rested. But I knew that Mr. Pound was passionate to have that Review, and that he was industriously searching for a cat to get those chestnuts out of the fire. He wanted a mild, gentle young man who should provide all the money and do all the work. He, in the meantime, was to extend his length in the office arm-chairs and see that that Review printed nothing but the contributions of his friends for the time being….
So there I sat, at after four in the morning, in a little garden pavilion on the site of the temple of Diana, with the white blackbirds just beginning to warble in the trees. I knew that I was for it. For, even if my brother’s scheme fell through, the public opinion that Ezra had carefully prepared on the boulevards would see to it. Not even white blackbirds — those fabulous and luck-bringing birds of France — not even the merles blancs, not even Diana herself would preserve me from their fury, if I did not provide harbourage for their composition. I should be torn to pieces as was Actæon by the hounds of that Goddess….
Next day we proceeded — my brother, I, the White Russian and Mr. Pound and others, to see fair play — to an office in the Quartier de l’Etoile. There was no doubt that that office represented High Finance. High Financiers passed in and out all the time we were kept waiting in the ante-room. I had even a glimpse of the enormously wealthy man who was said to — and I believe did — own the Review it was proposed to entrust to me. He was the principal winning owner of the French turf that year. I didn’t much like his looks — I mean as owner of a Review — and I gather that he didn’t much like mine or those of the helpers who accompanied me. That is not surprising. The cleft between the Left Bank and that quarter is more impassable than any Mappin Terrace, separating wild beasts from avid sightseers.
We were all shown into the office of a gentleman well known in Paris. He was the head of a firm of solicitors, though I believe he was not actually a solicitor himself. But he employed English lawyers in that office. That is, I believe, a perfectly proper proceeding and the gentleman himself seemed a very-ordinary city man. He certainly knew very little about running reviews, and agreed to every condition that I made with such readiness that I made them as stiff as I could…. The company to be formed to take over the existing, but unsuccessful Review — it was temporarily edited by my brother — was to relieve me absolutely of all business and financial responsibilities. It was to pay my staff, provide a business office at that building, on the first of every month to let me have a cheque sufficient to pay all contributions at a flat rate per page. It was to guarantee to continue for at least three years and to pay me, not a salary, but in shares of the company. In the case of any disagreement between myself and the directors, I was to have the right to purchase a sufficiency of the shares to give me absolute control of the company. Most important of all, I was to have absolute control of what went into the Review, not only in the editorial, but also the advertising pages. The directors were to undertake not even to make suggestions, except at my request. The only channel between them and me was to be my brother, who was appointed business manager. I was to have my own office, which was never to be approached by any of the directors except at my invitation…. I go into these details because we seemed to evolve a model agreement for magazine editorship — from the point of view of the editor.
I then gave Mr. P —— an outline of my proposed editorial policy. It seemed to astonish him mildly, but not in the least to antagonise him. He had never heard of Picasso, Matisse, Brancusi, Mr. Joyce, Miss Stein, nor Mr. Pound. Not even of Conrad or Thomas Hardy. But he said:
“That’s all right. You go ahead. It’s in your hands. You get going as soon as you please. We have every confidence in you.”
He detained me for a minute when the others left. He said that his friend Mr. Q —— , one of the hottest men in Paris or New York, had told him and the race-horse owner an amazing story. Mr. Q —— had never read a book in his life. But one day in Egypt he had been on the dahabeah of Mr. R —— , the hottest man on Wall Street…. I knew Mr. R —— by reputation of course. Mr. R —— had had to go ashore for an evening. He had left Mr. Q —— with a box of his own particular cigars and one of my novels. Mr. Q —— had never read a novel before or since. But he said that that was the happiest evening of his whole life. He couldn’t get over it. He could not believe that a mere book could do that to you. He often thought of it. The happiest evening of his whole life…. Perfectly blissful!
The book had been my most popular novel. The only permanently popular novel I ever wrote. So it was no great shakes. But there it was. Mr. P —— and the race-horse owner had been pondering over what to do with their unprofitable magazine — which they had taken over as against advertising debts. And Mr. Q —— had told them his rapturous story on the evening of the day when my brother had suggested that the editorship should be given to me. And these simple beings had taken that to be evidence of almost divine inspiration.
“Mr. Q —— ,” Mr. P —— said, “is one of the hardest business heads in two continents, and what he says goes…. We feel we can have every confidence in your judgment.”
On the sidewalk I found the White Russian lamenting to Ezra, and Ezra with his hat crushed down over his eyes cutting with his malacca the heads off imaginary poppies.
What was the matter with Ezra I did not discover till later. His beard bristled and he bubbled over with little sibilants of his incomprehensible dialect. Besides, the Russian was filling the air with his laments. He had discovered that every man in that office was a Communist!
He knew it by the looks in the corners of their eyes, by hidden signs that he had interrupted. He must warn General —— whose life would not be safe. He must resign his own appointment.
Ezra dashed into the office, still waving his cane, as if he had been Bertran de Born about to horsewhip Henry II of England. I took the Russian to the Café de la Paix and patiently explained to him that those people were financiers, bankers, commerçants. They were the last people in the world to be Communists!
He said I was no doubt an excellent person for one not born to the Russian purple. But I was too innocent. I did not understand. He was convinced that one of those people had been an Israelite. The Israelites were one gigantic Freemasonry. They had subsidised the Russian as they had subsidised the French Revolution. He must at once warn General —— of this new conspiracy. He must resign his position as my sub-editor. It was just his luck. The Princess, his wife, had not tasted caviare or poulet truffé for several days. That was the work of malignant fate that beset the path of all loyal Russians. No sooner did he get an employment, however lowly, than his employer turned out to be a Communist. His honour forbade him to remain in such a position. It would always be so.
I told him to go to a colony of White Russians, who, he said, had set up a press in the Gobelins quarter. He could also, if he liked, bring me a White Prince, to whom I might offer the nominal post of gérant. The gérant of a periodical in France is a fictitious manager, a man of straw who appears to any summons that may be brought against the paper, and, if necessary, is fined huge sums, which, possessing nothing, he cannot pay. If he goes to prison he gets an arranged indemnity. For these services he receives from five to twenty francs a day.
The Colonel had been the youngest Colonel in the Russian Army, and as a Russian officer he was considered to be of exceptional intelligence. He said:
“That will be a splendid arrangement. I shall show all the proofs to General —— . In that way we can be sure that you print nothing of a communist tendency.”
I went to a reception at Mr. Pound’s studio that afternoon, and there met Mr. John Quinn — who pretended to mistake me for Mr. George Moore. Mr. Joyce was also there and a photographer from the New York Times. So we were all photographed together. Then there came in, bearded, thin, and as nervous as ever, Mr. William Bird IV. With him was the large-framed young man I had seen at the Dôme. I had played lawn tennis one early morning against him and Ezra, with M. Latapie, the painter, for partner. M. Latapie’s studio was next door to mine, and the tennis court was on the further side of the wall. Latapie and I used to get straight out of bed towards seven in the morning, get over the wall, play a set or two, have a shower in the clubhouse, and then go back to breakfast. If anyone else turned up we would play against them. As those who turned up at so matutinal an hour had usually been up all night, we beat them as a rule. I don’t remember how it had been with Ezra and that young man, nor had I caught his name.
I didn’t catch it then, in the studio. I was engaged in avoiding Mr. Quinn, whom I disliked because he had pretended to mistake me for George Moore. I was also engaged in trying not to be near Mr. Joyce. For Mr. Joyce’s work I had the greatest admiration, and for his person the greatest esteem. I also liked his private society very much. He made thin little jokes, told rather simple stories and talked about his work very enlighteningly. But to be anywhere near Mr. Joyce, at any sort of reception or public event, was embarrassing. I should be at once seized on by the hostess, two stiff chairs would be placed side by side and, surrounded by a ring of Mr. Joyce’s faithful, we should be expected to talk. To Mr. Joyce this was by no means embarrassing. He was used to it. But to me, as a young man from the country, it was very trying. Mr. Joyce would maintain an easy but absolute silence, the faithful hanging on his lips. I would try to find topics of conversation, to which the author of Ulysses would reply with a sharp “yes” or a “no.” … At last I found a formula. I used to beseech Mr. Joyce to drink red, not white wine.
I was really very much in earnest and not quite without official warrant. I have always held a brief against white wine. Its whiteness is caused by the absence of tartaric acid, that renders red wine assimilable. I never drink white wine except when politeness demands it and then, if I take only a small glass, I find myself troubled with depression of a gouty nature. And it happened that, on Joyce’s own recommendation, I had gone to a great oculist in Nice. The oculist had operated on Joyce. He told me that there was nothing the matter with my eyes, recommended me when I smoked cigarettes to do so at the end of the longest cigarette-holder possible. The smoke, if it gets into your eyes, will damage them — like any other smoke. Otherwise smoking does no harm at all.
He added: “And never drink white wine. It is ruinous to the eyesight….” And then: “If Mr. Joyce had never drunk white wine his eyes would not be as bad as they are. I beg you, if you have any influence at all with Mr. Joyce, to beseech him never to drink white wine. Let him drink three, five, seven, ten times as much red wine. It will not harm him. But white is poison.” I fancy that oculist was guilty of professional indiscretion. But his concern for his patient was so genuine that it may well be pardoned to him.
I could not, even for his sake, warn Mr. Joyce against drinking white wine on every occasion that I met him. But I thought the topic would be an admirable one for public ceremonials. I was a little guileful too. I imagined that if some of the faithful heard me they might repeat my plea and, being nearer as it were to the throne, might be listened to. I had, of course, misestimated the nature of Faith…. The faithful would rather see their divinity die than that he should be ministered to by a stranger from without the gates. That was seen when Pope Leo, being very sick, called in secret a Saracen leech, who came under safeguard to Rome from Tarascon. The Cardinals poisoned the Pope.
So when on the boulevards I would meet one or other of them and told them that Joyce was dining with me at 7.30 in order to taste my Château Mouton Rothschild, 1885, they could cry with one accord:
“Mr. Joyce never dines with anybody. He never dines before 9.30. He never drinks anything but white wine….”
On the occasion of the Pounds’ reception — it was in honour of Mr. Quinn — the faithful were not present and I found myself at last beside Mr. Joyce. I took the occasion to tell him that I would like to print in my Review some pages of the book he was writing. I was going to devote a section of my magazine to Work in Progress of persons like himself and Picasso, so as to make it a real chronicle of the world’s artistic activities. He said it was a pity that I had not been in time to ask that of Proust. He had been told that a single sentence of Proust would fill a whole magazine. Not that he had read any Proust to speak of. His eyes would not let him read any work of other people. He could just see to correct his own proofs.
I said that I myself had read no Proust. I may add that I have since. A French critic having said that I was one of Proust’s closest imitators I was in a position to say — though of course I did not say it! — that I had never read a word of Proust. And having then worked myself in my mind into the strategic strong point that I desired to occupy, I at once bought a copy of Du Côté de Chez Swann. I read it and A la Recherche du Temps Perdu in one week-end at Guermantes, and I found in Proust’s work all the supernatural hypnosis that his most devoted followers obtain from it. But I do not think I have imitated him since….
When he heard me say that I had read no Proust, he confirmed for me a story of his meeting Proust that I had heard from the lips of the lady in whose house it had happened. Let her be called, in honour of another novelist, Mrs. Leo Hunter…. The lady had asked Joyce to a reception to meet Proust. Joyce, knowing nothing of Proust’s habits and no hour having been named, attended at about eleven. Proust, in those days, rose at four in the morning. But in honour of Mr. Joyce he had got up that night at two, and arrived about two-thirty. Mr. Joyce was then tired.
Two stiff chairs were obtained and placed, facing the one the other, in the aperture of a folding doorway between two rooms. The faithful of Mr. Joyce disposed themselves in a half-circle in one room; those of M. Proust completed the circle in the other. Mr. Joyce and M. Proust sat upright, facing each other, and vertically parallel. They were incited to converse. They did.
Said M. Proust:
“Comme j’ai dit, Monsievir, dans ‘Du Côté de Chez Swann’ que sans doute vous avez lu….”
Mr. Joyce gave a tiny vertical jump on his chair seat and said:
“Non, monsieur….”
Then Mr. Joyce took up the conversation. He said:
“As Mr. Blum says in my Ulysses, which, Monsieur, you have doubtless read….”
M. Proust gave a slightly higher vertical jump on his chair seat. He said:
“Mais non, monsieur.”
Service fell again to M. Proust. He apologised for the lateness of his arrival. He said it was due to a malady of the liver. He detailed clearly and with minuteness the symptoms of his illness.
“… Tiens, monsieur,” Joyce interrupted. “I have almost exactly the same symptoms. Only in my case the analysis….”
So, till eight next morning, in perfect amity and enthusiasm, surrounded by the awed faithful, they discussed their maladies.
CHAPTER TWO.
THE STALWART YOUNG MAN, WHILST JOYCE had been telling me that story, had retired to a distance in the vast dim studio, and was threatening with his fist a relic of Ezra’s Chinese stage — the rendering in silk of a fat and blinking bonze.
“That young man,” I said to Ezra, “appears to have sinophobia. Why does he so dislike that….”
“He’s only getting rid of his superfluous energy,” Ezra said.
It appeared like it. The young man was dancing on his toe-points. Shadow-boxing was what it seemed to be.
Ezra said:
“You ought to have had him for your sub-editor. He’s an experienced journalist. He writes very good verse and he’s the finest prose stylist in the world…. He’s disciplined too.”
I answered:
“He has to be if he’s a prose stylist. It isn’t like verse. You can turn that out in your sleep…. But you told Mrs. Levoir Suarez yesterday that I was the finest prose stylist in the world….”
