Melissa by Taylor Caldwell
Ravel thought: I hate him. I hated him the moment I saw him, the gross and insensate fool.
Geoffrey finished the carving and gravely deposited the red meat on the plates near his hand. The guests watched him, relieved, though they did not know why. Then Ravel said, in an amused voice: “Dunham, I have just finished reading a book which your house published recently, and which I understand is extraordinarily successful, though God knows why, unless it be because of the general imbecility of the American public.”
Geoffrey smiled. “I assume you are referring to Mrs. Lydia Bainbridge’s Lady Cecily’s Secret Heart? Yes, it is very successful. It will balance our ledgers this year, especially as we pirated it from England and don’t have to pay royalties to the authoress.”
He added, raising his brows, and looking at Ravel with a disagreeable smile: “‘Imbecility of the American public’?”
Ravel always prided himself on a calm and judicial detachment from the coarser passions of lesser men, such as anger and petty irascibilities. But now he could not control a quite healthy umbrage against Geoffrey, a certain powerful if obscure combativeness.
He tried to speak tolerantly: “Perhaps I was a little hasty in making that remark. I should, rather, have expressed resentment that you publishers serve the American people in the name of literature such unmitigated trash.”
Geoffrey glanced at the servant beside him, and said concisely: “Mr. Littlefield will now have some cabbage.”
Ravel turned a fiery red, but he still smiled at his host. Geoffrey, having completed the carving, inclined his head courteously toward the younger man. Everyone listened eagerly. Mr. Littlefield, remembering his wife’s careful coaching, said to himself: Bad taste, all this. But he felt that he was about to enjoy himself.
Geoffrey said: “There will be better books when there are better readers. When the public no longer buys ‘trash,’ as you call it, we shan’t publish it. We are business men, and we merely supply the demand.”
Ravel’s angry color faded, and he gave Geoffrey a long, politely offensive stare. “And I accuse you of debasing the public’s taste—for money, in spite of your apologia. Haven’t you any sense of responsibility towards the people of America? Are you publishers unaware of the fact that men can be corrupted by unscrupulous panderers to their bestial tastes?”
“That,” said Geoffrey, consideringly, “is nonsense, and only idiots, poets, and transcendental idealists believe it. They, like Rousseau, believe that it is man’s institutions and environment which are vile, not man. As well accuse a man’s reflection of wickedness, or frivolity, or stupidity, and not the man who casts it in the mirror. What the people buy, and want, is the reflection of their taste, or their desires, or their souls, if you will. Publishers, like any other businessmen, merely, as I said before, supply the demand.” He turned to Mr. Eldridge, whose round rosy face had become grave and intent. “What have you got to say about this, Eldridge, you are also a publisher?”
Mr. Eldridge pondered, his childlike blue eyes unusually sober and thoughtful. Everyone felt the strange and urgent hostility between Geoffrey and Ravel, and now every eye and ear was turned towards them, oblivious of Melissa. Had they looked at the girl, they would have seen that she had lost her immobile appearance, her far abstraction, and that she was now listening with painful attention, her hands clenched together in the folds of her gown, and that she was gazing fixedly at her husband and at Ravel.
Mr. Eldridge spoke in a tone very different from his usual jovial one: “I agree with Dunham, Ravel. Some—misguided —people think there are more good books unprinted than printed, and that publishers deny a hearing to talented unknowns, preferring the third-rate drivellings of known and established writers. That is absurd. Many bad books are published—yes—but only for the want of better. Every publisher shouts with delight on the rare occasion when a good manuscript comes to his desk, whoever the writer. After all,” and because he was a very kindly man he gave Ravel a mollifying smile, “publishers have no aversion to money, and we always hope to find the happy combination of a good book and a good sale.”
“But you would not publish a good book, if you thought it would not sell well?” said Ravel with contempt. “You would deny the people a book of worth, merely because it might not bring you profitable returns.”
Mr. Eldridge’s forehead, made only for amiability, had difficulty in wrinkling. He shook his head. “My dear boy, if a book is ‘good,’ it will sell. I doubt whether any book of considerable excellence has died for want of readers, or of cash. You are talking in paradoxes. As the Greeks said, what is good survives. If a book, or anything else, is bad, it will not survive. So ‘good’ and ‘acceptance’ are practically the same thing, with perhaps a few, very rare exceptions.”
Melissa whispered passionately: “No, you are wrong!” But no one heard her. Everyone was deliciously absorbed in the sight of Ravel’s suffused face, Geoffrey’s cynical smile, and Mr. Eldridge’s obvious distress at being forced into an argument which had powerful undercurrents he could not name or analyze.
Geoffrey said, in a deliberately patronizing and hypocritical voice: “It would appear that Ravel has been unsuccessful in marketing his wares. I should be glad to look them over, Ravel, if you’d care to send them to me.”
Ravel bowed elaborately to his host. His eyes were furious, though he said negligently: “Oh, I am afraid they would not fill your coffers, Dunham.”
“That would be unfortunate,” said Geoffrey, with an air of regret. “I like, love, and cherish money, because it gives me time to do some of the things I want to do. Do you remember what Aristotle said: ‘Money is a guarantee that we may have what we want, in the future.’ Every sensible man respects, and desires, money. Eldridge, did I ever mention to you the letter Thomas Macaulay once wrote my father? Very interesting. He wrote: ‘I am not fond of money or anxious about it. But—every day shows me more and more strongly how necessary a competence is to a man who desires to be either great or useful.’ Of course, such a desire is held contemptible by our more delicate souls.” He smiled at Ravel affectionately.
Mrs. Littlefield bridled, and cast a deeply loving glance at Ravel, in acknowledgment of the compliment dear Geoffrey had paid him. But she was startled to see her beloved son’s face so black, as he stared at Geoffrey. Alarmed, she looked at the others. Her husband was smiling in a very odious fashion; Mrs. Eldridge (whom she, Mrs. Littlefield, had “never really liked”) was smiling also, in a scarcely less offensive fashion. The Bertrams were silent, but palely hard of lip, and were tossing their heads pointedly. Mr. Holland and his lady sat in grave silence, very attentive, but neutral. No one appeared to hear Geoffrey’s compliment, nor to understand it. Mrs. Littlefield’s bewildered eye touched Melissa. She was freshly startled. The girl appeared about to leap from her seat; she was bent forward, and her whole face was wildly intolerant and expressive. There is something here I do not quite understand, thought Mrs. Littlefield in confusion.
Ravel said, in an oddly stifled voice, which contrasted with his fixed smile: “I deny that I am a ‘delicate’ soul. It is only that I have a high respect for the arts and think they ought not to be debased merely for money. Probably you would call me sentimental, Dunham. I notice that there is a general tendency to sneer at everything beautiful and call it sentimentality. Doubtless because of the war, for war generally re-creates bestiality in men and blunts them to finer things. But let us return to Mrs. Bainbridge’s delightful opus: Lady Cecily’s Secret Heart. Would you, under any circumstances, call that art?”
Geoffrey laid a fresh slice of meat on Melissa’s plate, though she had hardly touched the food already upon it. He felt vaguely her wild and intense interest. He had never liked Ravel Littlefield, but the younger man had amused him with his airs and his languors and his gallant attentions to the ladies. Privately, he thought Ravel a popinjay and jackanapes, a determined blackguard, and had dismissed him as irrelevant as well as absurd. But, all at once, in the last
But now he felt his gorge rising against his guest, and a quite primitive desire to get up and knock Ravel out of his chair and, quite probably, kick him. His surprise quickened; he saw that his big fingers had clenched over the handle of the knife, and he felt the thick and furious blood in his throat and face. His instincts, he reflected, were certainly on the rampage, and for no discernible reason except that he had mildly disliked Ravel Littlefield and was impatient at the latter’s maudlin opinions on publishing!
Baffled at his own sensations, and still trying to rationalize them, he answered Ravel: “What do you mean by ‘art’? What is not art to you might be art to someone else. To paraphrase an old poem:
“If it be not art to me,
What care I what art it be?”
“What is wrong with Lady Cecily’s Secret Heart? It’s a thumping good love story, and that is of universal interest to all people. A touch of—indiscretion here and there—a good love scene—a dramatic moment or two when the misguided lady is discovered in a compromising position by her husband—what more would a reader want, especially when the book is well-written, as novels go?” He gave Ravel an unpleasant smile. “After all, the average reader is not uninterested in whether or not the hero and heroine go to bed together.”
At this indelicate remark, every lady, with the exception of Melissa and Mrs. Eldridge, felt it incumbent upon herself to utter a faint gasp and cover her mouth with shocked fingers. The remark flew by Melissa’s ears like an inconsequential breeze, so aroused was she, so trembling with her passionate desire to cry out against Geoffrey’s demeaning remarks regarding the sacred world of books. Mrs. Eldridge, however, joined in the hearty laughter of the gentlemen, and she was immediately followed in her mirth by Mrs. Holland.
“Your language, sir,” said Ravel.
“Oh, h—, I mean, nonsense!” said Geoffrey. “Women are really much more earthy than men, and only pretend to be shocked because we expect them to be. Ladies, I do not expect you to be shocked by anything said around this table, so you may relax and be your very intelligent natural selves.”
The ladies laughed uncertainly, wondering whether to be offended or complimented. While they considered, Ravel continued the argument with his host, and attention was again drawn to the two infuriated faces of the contestants.
“You said something about the war ‘debasing’ art, Ravel,” said Dunham. “But wasn’t it Homer who said the arts languish in days of peace, and rise to their most brilliant crescendo in days of war? But then, you would not know about that, would you? When we were fighting the South, you were abroad, I believe, snug in Paris. Now, I am not impugning your patriotism. In fact, I should like to commend you on your common-sense.”
Ravel half rose in his chair. Alarmed, the others turned towards him, but Geoffrey only smiled. Mr. Eldridge said
>- hastily: “Ravel, I am afraid this argument is degenerating into a brawl. Perhaps I can clarify what Dunham means—”
“Sit down, you damn fool,” said Mr. Littlefield, in a tone of harsh authority. “Remember your manners.”
Ravel sat down. He became very pale. He said, quietly: “It is not I who have forgotten my manners.”
Geoffrey suddenly felt considerably more good-natured. “No offense,” he remarked. “But I’m touchy on the subject of books, Ravel. Shall we discontinue the argument?”
“No, if you please. Unless I bore anybody?” Ravel’s eyes travelled swiftly about the table. The ladies ardently disclaimed any sensation of ennui. The gentlemen said, of course not, but perhaps the ladies would prefer—. The ladies urgently said that they did not “prefer—.” It was all so interesting. It quite broadened the mind, added Mrs. Littlefield. It was most enlightening, observed Mrs. Bertram.
Melissa said nothing. She stared at Ravel, and he felt her impetuousness spurring him on, as if what he would say was the only thing of importance to her. It was as if she had taken his arm and was pressing it; she had no concealments. Her eagerness blazed from her. It became very necessary to him not to disappoint her, and so it was as if he were her spokesman when he said:
“It is an old story, this, of the neglect of a truly great artist in favor of the cheap and trashy and sensational scribbler. I should be disparaging your intelligence, Dunham, if I thought you did not secretly agree with me. In a way, I see your point of view,” and he smiled disarmingly. “You are a businessman. May I diverge for a moment and remark that it is regrettable that art needs businessmen? (Or does it?) As a businessman, you need customers, and you supply the customers with what they demand. But suppose, for a moment, that a businessman, a publisher, decided that he would publish no more tripe, and that his list should contain nothing but the finest in literature? What would happen then? I say that the public would buy good literature, for want of bad.”
“And I say that publishers would soon find themselves bankrupt,” replied Geoffrey, with open contempt for this childish reasoning. “You can’t sell the public what it doesn’t want.” He paused, and smiled. “By the way, who is to set up the standard as to what is good and what is bad in literature? What is the measuring rod? I say it is what the people acclaim or ignore. There is no other standard but man himself.” He smiled again, nastily. “Would you be able to say, with con viction, that your own taste was impeccable, that you were competent to judge?”
“I think I am competent, in a small way, to judge poetry,” answered Ravel steadily.
Geoffrey sighed. “It was only recently that Shelley was admitted to be a poet. Now no one can get enough of him. He was called a rhymster only a short time ago.”
Before Ravel could speak again, Geoffrey asked: “We are going to publish three of Balzac’s books this year. What do you think of Balzac, Ravel?”
Ravel sensed a trap. Geoffrey’s face was too bland. But he said uncertainly: “I think France has produced no finer writer in his generation.” He added: “I congratulate you on your coming venture.”
He knew it had been a trap when Geoffrey smiled broadly. The older man laid down his knife and fork, felt in an inner pocket and brought out a newspaper clipping. He showed it to his guests as a magician shows a rabbit he has just lifted from a hat. “This,” he said, “is a criticism of Balzac by one of Paris’s most distinguished critics. It was sent to me recently and arrived only today in the post. My chief editor, who violently dislikes Balzac, thought I ought to see it, as a deterrent to my plan for publishing Balzac. Occasionally my editor has an attack of ‘art,’ too. Let me see: yes, it was printed in Le Temps. My French is rather a cumbersome thing, so I shall translate slowly. Let me see—
“‘Balzac was a literary prostitute of the first order, and cannot, under any circumstances, be considered an artist. Did he write from inspiration, from a divine moving of the spirit? Nol He wrote for moneyl Let him need a new house, or a new fence, or a new piece of land, let the money-lenders be hot on his trail, or let him wish for jewels, objets d’art, furniture for another of his apartments, or to buy a wardrobe for a petit ami, and immediately he sat down and dashed off two or three of his execrable novels a year to satisfy his base cravings! Is that art? Is that dedication? Is that seeking the lonely stars to shine upon the soul? No, that is degradation. The only comfort which comes to your critic’s heart is the realization that this popular so-called writer’s fame will not survive the test of time, that his vulgar scribblings will be used only to stuff up rat-holes in the benighted dens of those who buy his works. A book written for money is a book desti
Geoffrey folded the clipping in a complete silence. He bowed, and smiled at Ravel. “I congratulate you upon your literary taste, which is so at variance with this famous critic’s.”
Ravel’s mortification was complete. Anything he might say now would only tumble him deeper into the trap. His father was grinning; the Eldridges were smiling broadly; Mr. and Mrs. Holland, being kindly folk, were embarrassed in sympathy. Mrs. Littlefield was staring at Geoffrey with malevolence. But Melissa, full of fierceness, regarded Geoffrey with flashing eyes. She exclaimed:
“It isn’t a new story when an artist is misunderstood even by eminent critics! You have taken an unfair advantage, sir!” Her voice, unrestrained, rushed out vehemently: “I wish to bring to your attention my father’s own distinguished works. The critics unanimously acclaim him a great scholar, a great writer and artist. There is no dissenting voice, yet, in spite of the praises heaped upon him by the critics, an obdurate and stupid people, unlettered and ignorant, refuse to buy his books in any quantity.” Her agitation and fury choked her; she leaned stiffly forward in her chair towards her husband, and her face glowed with anger. “Or am I not to believe that my father’s books have sold as poorly as you have always claimed!”
Now there was silence and everyone, including Ravel, was bathed in complete embarrassment at Melissa’s raw crude passion, ingenuous but atrocious bad manners, and the implied insult she had flung at Geoffrey. Had she stood up and began to hurl dinnerware about, had she become drunk, they could not have been more outraged and ashamed. Even Mr. Holland and his wife, gentle and tolerant though they were, were distressed. Arabella gasped, then her eyes gleamed with a small and vicious triumph as she furtively studied the faces of her guests. She glanced at her brother, who was a study, and the gleam of triumph slid over her features.
Moment after moment went by, filled with the loud fast breath of poor Melissa, until at last, becoming aware, even in her passion, of averted eyes and shut mouths, she subsided in her seat. Her heart was beating tumultuously; slowly, it calmed. She had never before cared for, nor considered, the reaction of herself upon others, but now it was borne in upon her that everyone adjudged her disgraceful, beneath contempt, and that in some obscure and baffling way she had hurt Geoffrey. But what had she done? She had merely joined an argument which seemed to her more important than anything in the world, for what could be more important than books? Did these fools believe women had no minds, that they should not speak? That must be it! Her indignation struggled to rise, then collapsed. No, it was something else. She was accus tomed, at home, to break fiercely into speech, to argue heatedly whenever she desired, to declare herself roundly, and no one had thought it unnatural. So what was wrong with these strangers? Had she done something reprehensible?