Complete Works of Ford Madox Ford, page 977
“You!” Ezra exclaimed. “You’re like, all English swine….”
Ezra a few years before had been called the greatest bore in Philadelphia, so ceaselessly had he raved about London and Yeats and myself to uninterested Pennsylvanians. Now he was Anglophobe.
“It’s just like you to miss the chance of a sub-editor like that,” Ezra fulminated: “Disciplined! Energetic! Trained!”
I said that yesterday he had insisted on my engaging the Russian Colonel. I had engaged him. Ezra said:
“Isn’t that like you! … of course I was only recommending him. How could you think I wanted you to engage him? … Engage Kokulof! … You must be mad. He’s a Russian Colonel — a Colonel Completely illiterate….”
I said I would engage the young man too. I could easily do with two sub-editors. The young man certainly looked disciplined in a Herculean way. Ezra confirmed my suspicion that he must have been in the Army. I took him to be one of those Harrow-Cambridge-General Staff young Englishmen who make such admirable secretaries until they let you down.
I asked where Ezra’s Conscientious Objector was. He ought to have brought those MSS. round to me that morning. Ezra said:
“Oh, he…. That’ll be all right…. You mustn’t keep his nose too close to the grindstone…. He’s not used to discipline. But he’ll be invaluable…. That’s what he’ll be…. Only your excremental Review will be in the gutter to-morrow….”
Mr. Quinn, who had been looking at me over Ezra’s shoulder, said:
“Poor fellow…. Poor fellow…. I’m sorry for you….”
Mr. Quinn, tall, lean, perpetually indignant, had, as Mæcenas, conversational licence.
Ezra said:
“I’d never think of letting Ernest engage himself under those English diarrhœas…. Why couldn’t you have found French backers? The French are the only people who have any guts…. Look at Tristan Tsara! … Why didn’t you go to him? …”
I said that M. Tsara was a Rumanian and, as far as I knew, was no Crœsus.
Mr. Quinn said:
“Poor fellow…. You’re an honest man…. I hate to see you in that position….”
Ezra said:
“The damn fool deserves it…. He can’t see the difference in merit between Arnault Daniel and Guillem de Cabestanh…. He prefers Guillem…. What could you expect? …”
Mr. Quinn’s resentful eyes fixed me for a long time. He repeated:
“I just hate to see you in that position.”
I said it was not as uncomfortable as it looked. The chair I was in had been made by Mr. Pound during his cabinet-making stage. It was enormous, compounded of balks of white pine, and had a slung canvas seat so large that, once you sat down, there you lay until someone pulled you out.
Mr. Quinn said:
“I’ll send Mrs. Foster to you…. Have a cigar …”
I struggled on that chair-bottom like a horse that had fallen down on a slippery street. Mrs. Foster gave me a hand. I avoided Mr. Quinn’s cigar. It was as large as a crowbar, black and minatory. It had cost a dollar. I was not man enough for that. I smoked Alsatians that cost 40 centimes — say three farthings.
I said I should just love to have Mrs. Foster come and see me…. But I had no pictures to sell. I wasn’t, I explained, a painter. When I had nothing else to do I wrote a book….
“And fall among thieves,” Mr. Quinn said. “I hate to see it. You’re an honest man…. I’ll send Mrs. Foster to see you.”
Mrs. Foster was the ravishingly beautiful lady who bought Mr. Quinn’s pictures for him. She was an admirable business woman and, as far as they were susceptible of management, she managed the American side of the transatlantic review to perfection. But I had only met her that afternoon when she had taken the opportunity to warn me that Mr. Quinn was very irritable — as I afterwards knew, because of a painful illness — and that I must not mention Conrad to him. At the moment I only knew her as the picture-buyer of genius, who advised a millionaire. And I thought then that Mr. Quinn took me for a painter.
Mr. Quinn said:
“Hang it, you mustn’t swear at me…. I only mean your good…. Conrad told me what a violent fellow you are…. But I’ve done nothing to be sworn at for.”
I had sworn actually at a piece of Ezra’s sculpture. As sculptor Ezra was of the school of Brancusi. He acquired pieces of stone as nearly egg-shaped as possible, hit them with hammers, and then laid them about on the floor. The particular piece that had distressed me had, to be appreciated, to be seen from a reclining position in the chair from which Mrs. Foster had just extricated me. In my struggles I had forgotten that piece of work. One should never forget works of Art.
I limped away with the assistance of Mr. Bird. The Mr. Bird of those days was everybody’s uncle. He knew everything, and could get you everything that you wanted. He was what the Assistance Publique would be if it were worthy of its name. In public he was a stern and incorruptible head of a news-agency, with the aspect of a peak-bearded banker. In private he had a passion for a hand-printing press that he owned, and his hands and even his hair would be decorated with printer’s ink.
On that occasion I asked him if he could find me a private office. That seemed impossible. Paris in those days was as crowded as a swallow’s nest that expands and contracts as the young brood breathes inside. You advertised that you would pay thousands of francs to anyone who would find you an apartment. No young couples could get married. Middle-class people slept under the arches of bridges over the Seine. Six artists slept in the kitchen of the Rotonde — by courtesy of the chef.
Bird said:
“Certainly. I am taking a second office to-morrow. There will be plenty of room for you.”
The next day was Saturday. I sent the White Russian down to the office of the Review Company for the first week’s salary of himself and the Conscientious Objector. The Conscientious Objector’s spectacles had not yet again beamed on me, but I thought he might like a little salary.
The Colonel came back from that office raving like a lunatic and unable to speak any language but Russian. I gathered that he had not received his salary, and that he was afraid that the Princess would have to go without caviare for another week-end. When he could again speak French, he asserted that Mr. P —— the financier had confessed himself a Communist, and had threatened to have General —— murdered.
He remembered at last that he had a note from Mr. P. Mr. P —— said that the articles of the Company not having been signed, he was not really empowered to pay out anything and the banks were closed. He would, however, send me a small sum for salaries and petty cash by my brother on Monday morning….
That seemed good enough. I engaged that evening an advertising manager….
I was not as green as I seemed. It was quite possible that that company might never take shape. I knew enough of business men to know, even then, that it never might. If those were business men the chances were that they would wriggle out of the arrangement somehow or other. Business men have to have enthusiasms — but they have also to have cold feet…. If they weren’t business men, or if, for the moment, they were not in business frames of mind, they might keep their word.
On the other hand, the date when the public renews its magazine subscriptions or makes new ones was rapidly approaching. It was important, if the review was to come out, to get out some sort of programme and some sort of prospectus. If the review went on, we should then be in a much stronger position. If it did not, I should look like a fool, but no one else would be hurt. With the exception of the advertising manager, the people I had engaged were nearly useless, but they had no employment and, as far as I could see, had no early chance of ever being employed. So it did them no harm to give them work that might not be lasting, and it would keep them going for a week or two. And the loss would actually be very little, for there was then so much distress amongst the thousands of incapable foreign artists who had flocked to Paris, that one was forced to dispense in charity a weekly sum about equal to what I was to dispense in salaries. It was thus merely concentrating a weekly expense on one or two people, instead of doling it out by francs to innumerable beggars at café tables…. In the upshot one had to dole out at least as much to the beggars too…. But that was human weakness rather than any defect in my possible balance-sheet.
The case of the advertising manager was very different. This was Miss Marjorie Reid, now Mrs. Robert Rodes. She was an exceedingly capable journalist and had occupied a number of important posts on New York and Paris papers. At the time she was not working owing to sickness occasioned by domestic or other troubles. She needed distraction rather than employment, and was perfectly willing to take the chance of the Review coming to an untimely end. Thus no one risked anything save myself. And I was ready to risk looking like a fool. There was too much need for such a magazine….
On Monday, at an amazingly early hour, Miss Reid turned up with a highly lucrative serial advertisement contract from the French Line … the Compagnie Transatlantique. How she had got it or at what hour that company opens its Paris offices I have never known. There was great joy in our office — which was an empty bedroom I had hired in another pavilion in the garden of white blackbirds…. Miss Reid brought also the almost equally astonishing news that someone else, apparently acting for the existing but moribund review, had secured at least half a dozen quite good serial advertisements for banks, railway companies and fashion houses.
I didn’t know whether that money would go to my review or not. But it was at least good news. It seemed to show that advertisements were easily obtainable in Paris….
On the strength of it, I authorised the jubilant White Russian Colonel to order some dummy copies from his White Russian printers. He left me with the speed of an antelope that scents new pastures.
It seemed to me then that everything would turn on the amount of money that my brother would bring from Mr. P.’s office for the salaries and petty cash. If it was a fair sum I might be satisfied that those business men intended to behave according to the generous letter of the agreement. If it were derisively small, I determined, I would at once look for new capitalists. The advertising position had heartened me to that…. Miss Reid came in just after lunch with another advertisement from an American bank.
In spite of vigorous telephoning my brother did not arrive till past seven in the evening. He had been away for the week-end. The cheque that he brought was insufficient to cover the costs of the postage stamps I had used. He said that he had had great difficulty in getting it. Mr. P —— was exceedingly irritated by the commotion that the White Russian had made in his office on the Saturday. He was convinced that the Russian was a Communist of a violent and dangerous kind. The company absolutely refused to subsidise agents of the Soviet Republic.
That appeared to me to be reasonable as far as it went. But Mr. P —— had himself seen General K —— . (The White Russian was a courtesy general.) He had seen General K —— at our business meeting, and had consented to my engaging him. Of course, he could not be expected to distinguish between Russians, but I could not be expected to allow him to interfere with my staff.
My brother said:
“But he’s a very rich man.”
I pointed out that if he wanted to be useful to me Mr. P —— had better forget it except when he was signing cheques.
My brother repeated shockedly:
“But he’s a very rich man.”
He had a certain engaging naïveté that made him see an aura round the heads of the very rich. I am bound to confess that to some extent I share it. When I see very rich men of no special intelligence I feel a certain awe. I feel that they are favourites of the gods since they are rich without the intelligence to earn their riches. And a certain reverence should attach to the favourites of the gods, lest the heart of the gods should be turned against you. They must have some qualities or the gods would not show favours to them.
“Besides,” my brother said, “it’s his view that you should be of service to him.” His expressive brow was furrowed as he added: “Mr. P —— is not too pleased with you either. He says you did not treat him with the respect to which he is entitled. He’s very rich as I’ve told you. He says he went out of his way to be complimentary to you, and you did not show the least empressement. In fact he said he almost believed …”
I asked if Mr. P —— believed that I too was a Communist….
My brother’s embarrassment increased. He said he must say that I had treated Mr. P —— very much de haut en bas…. As if he had been the dirt beneath my feet.
I said that when it came to the Arts he probably was. But did that matter? I need never see him again. He was not coming to my private office and I certainly should not go near his. There was he, my brother, to act as a buffer. And well padded.
His distress increased. He said that they had de cided that I could not have a private office. I must work in their building. They thought they must keep an eye on me. The race-horse owner, passing through the room, had not liked my looks much. As for Mr. Pound…. Look at his slouch hat, his forked beard, his spectacles. And his extraordinary tie. His malacca cane certainly contained a sword-stick. What else could make you carry anything so out of date as a malacca cane? … And his pockets! Why did they bulge? Probably because they contained bombs…. And he mumbled. Incomprehensible words! To himself.
That is how the Left Bank looks to the Right.
In short, my brother said, they thought that I might be a worthy person. I dressed passably. My hat, of course, was a last year’s model. Brims were not so wide that year. They had suggested that Oliver should hint that to me. They thought that I was weak. Worthy, but easily led astray…. I was in the hands of the red-bearded Anarchist and the sham Russian General….
I said: “Get it out….”
“In short,” Oliver said, “Mr. X — —” — the race-horse owner—”insists that he shall censor the review himself. You must give an undertaking not to print a word that he has not O.K.’d…. That seems reasonable. He’s finding the money. But fine pie he’ll make of Joyce and Pound and Conrad…. Not to mention you!”
I felt like cold steel. I said:
“I suppose Mr. X —— wants to insert an article a month. On racing form?”
My brother said:
“Two! He wants to have space for two articles every month. One by himself; on racing form. The other by Mr. P —— . That will be on finance…. Be reasonable. They’re finding the money. They’ve surely a right to some say about how it’s spent. After all they’re as keen on their subjects as you are on what you call the Arts….”
Half an hour afterwards Mrs. Foster came in. She said Mr. Quinn wanted me to go to him. He was rather sick. In a hotel on the Champs-Elysées. I said:
“No. Let’s all go and have dinner somewhere. I’ve shut the Review down.”
She said that that was why Mr. Quinn wanted to see me. He had known I should shut the Review down. He didn’t want me to.
When we were in the taxi she said she wanted to tell me something about Mr. Quinn. After she had said it several times I understood. It was a very old taxi: it must have been in the battle of the Marne. It was no good trying.
We stopped in the rue de Rivoli and went into the Bodega. At least a hundred Americans who were reacting from Prohibition and at least a hundred others of assorted nationalities who had never known the effects of Prohibition were there already. I could not have learned anything about Mr. Quinn there, even if Mrs. Foster had roared in my ears with the voice of Stentor….
We decided to walk the rest of the way. In the Champs-Elysées, at least, it was reasonable to hope for quiet. Alas! … I was sufficiently a young man from the country — or an old Parisian — to imagine that one ought to be able to cross the Place de la Concorde, as in my day one had done it — from the Tuileries gates to Cleopatra’s Needle, and from there to one or other of the pavements of the Avenue des Champs-Elysées. … I was used to seeing two or three fiacres drooling along, and a three-horse bus a quarter of a mile off…. It was not like that.
We got as far as the base of the Needle and Mrs. Foster began telling me about Mr. Quinn.
I was watching for an opportunity to cross. I realised that it would not be too easy. I had never seen so many motor vehicles, travelling so fast and in four concentric streams. It was, perhaps, all the worse that it was night…. Mrs. Foster went on telling me about Mr. Quinn. We left the kerb and, crossing a stream of motors coming from the right, we were halted by another that came from the left. I knew some of the fables recounted of Mr. Quinn and perhaps a little more. A car bearing directly down on us just brushed my trousers…. Mr. Quinn was reported to have thrown fabulous sums into the laps of Conrad, Yeats, Joyce, Ezra, Picasso, George Moore, Matisse, Seurat, Modigliani — in return, of course, for MSS. and pictures. Mrs. Foster told me that Mr. Quinn had come over from Ireland as an emigrant. He was a wonderful lawyer…. We got across a stream of traffic to find another coming from the left. We had to stand between the two. I said:
“You’d better take my arm. There’s nothing really to be alarmed at. The Paris motorists are fiendishly skilful….”
She said:
“What with domestic worries and business worries he’s not….”
I said:
“Now,” and we got across the penultimate stream. … That was the worst place of all. We seemed farther than ever from anywhere. The space between us and the pavement was greater and cars raced each other instead of going in single file. It was also darker, we being further from the lights at the base of the Needle. The drivers, therefore, would see us less plainly.
Mrs. Foster said:
“So you mustn’t think if he talks to you oddly or sharply it’s out of disrespect for you. On the contrary, he has the very greatest respect for you, because of what Conrad and Yeats….”
I started to make a break for the pavement. I succeeded in dragging Mrs. Foster from in front of an immense, racing limousine. There we were back again…. Mrs. Foster said:
