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Updated: June 25, 2025
There was not an editor in London to whom the initials S.K.R. conveyed the unique significance they did to Jewdwine, to Maddox and to Rankin. He now thought with regret of the introductions he had refused in the insolence of his youth. To Hanson for instance. Hanson was a good sort, and he might have come in very handy now.
"Talk about absolute beauty, any fool can show you the beauty of a beautiful thing, or the ugliness of an ugly one; but it takes a clever beast like Crawley to show you beauty in anything so absolutely repulsive as that woman's face. Look at it! He's got hold of something. He's caught the lurking fascination, the the leer of life." Jewdwine made a gesture of disgust.
"When did you come up?" "Three hours ago." "Then you weren't prepared for that?" Jewdwine followed his fascinated gaze. He smiled faintly. "You haven't noticed our new departure? We not only purchase Gentlemen's Libraries, but we sell the works of persons who may or may not be gentlemen." Jewdwine felt profoundly uncomfortable.
"Still, the result isn't exactly a flattering portrait of your Muse." "She is a caution. It's quite enough to make you and Hanson lump me with Letheby and that lot." This touched Jewdwine in two sensitive places at once. He objected to being "lumped" with Hanson. He also felt that his generosity had been called in question.
He saw one eternal nature and a thousand forms of art, differing according to the virile soul. And what he saw he endeavoured to describe to Jewdwine. "That means, mind you, that your poet is a grown-up man and not a slobbering infant." "Exactly. And Nature will be the mother of his art, as I said." "As you didn't say The mother only. There isn't any immaculate conception of truth.
The clumsy hand of Maddox had brushed the first bloom from his Rickman, that once delightful youth. He was no longer Jewdwine's Rickman, his disciple, his discovery. But though Jewdwine felt bitter, he was careful that no tinge of this personal feeling should appear in his review of Rickman's poems. It was exceedingly difficult for him to review them at all.
But if you had to publish, why couldn't you bring out your Helen in Leuce? It was far finer than anything you have here." "Yes. Helen's all right now." His tone implied only too plainly that she was not all right when Jewdwine had approved of her. "Now? What on earth have you been doing to her?" "Only putting a little life into her limbs. But Vaughan wouldn't have her at any price."
"Salary apart," said Maddox, with the least touch of resentment, "it's a better thing for you to edit The Planet than to sub-edit Metropolis." "Of course it is. Still, I should like to know why you want me to throw Jewdwine over." "Hang Jewdwine. I said Metropolis." "I'm glad you admit the distinction." "I don't admit it." "Why do you want me to throw the thing over, then?
He came to a sudden standstill, and turned on Jewdwine the sudden leaping light of the blue eyes that seemed to see through Jewdwine and beyond him. No formula could ever frame and hold for him that vision of his calling which had come to him four years ago on Harcombe Hill.
I believe, you know, that most poets would grow into dramatic poets if they lived long enough. Only sometimes they don't live; and sometimes they don't grow. Lyric poets are cases of arrested development, that's all." Jewdwine listened with considerable amusement as his subordinate propounded to him this novel view. He wondered what literary enormity Rickman might be contemplating now.
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