What's your plot like? said he to the young man, one day soon afterwards, when they were sitting in the shade of the fig tree.
Grantly was good enough to recite the whole of his plot. It sounds very trifling, he said, but of course a lot depends on the style.
Style? Style, the hell! observed the gorilla with a toothy sneer.
I thought you'd say that! cried his entertainer. No doubt you have all the vitality that I so consciously lack. I imagine your work as being very close to the mainsprings of life, the sultry passions, the crude lusts, the vital urges, the stark, the raw, the dynamic, the essentially fecund and primitive.
That's it, said the gorilla.
The sentence, continued the rhapsodist, short to the point of curtness, attuned by a self-concealing art to the grunts, groans, and screams of women with great primeval paps, and men
Sure, said the gorilla.
They knock each other down, went on his admirer. As they taste the salt blood flowing over their lips, or see the female form suddenly grow tender under the influence of innumerable upper-cuts, right hooks, straight lefts, they become aware of another emotion
Yes! cried the gorilla with enthusiasm.
And with a cry that is half a sob
Attaboy! cried the gorilla.
They leap, clutch, grapple, and in an ecstasy that is half sheer bursting, burning, grinding, soul-shattering pain
The gorilla, unable to contain himself any longer, bit through the best branch of Mr. Grantly's fig tree. You said it! That's my book, sir! said he, with a mouthful of splinters.
I hate to have to record it: this gorilla then rushed into the house and seized his hostess in a grip of iron. I'm in a creative mood, he muttered thickly.
Mrs. Grantly was not altogether free from hero worship. She had taken her husband's word for it that the gorilla was a genius of the fiercest description. She admired both his complexion and his eyes, and she, too, observed that his grip was of iron.
At the same time, she was a young woman of exquisite refinement. I can't help thinking of Dennis, said she. I should hate to hurt him.
Yeah? cried the ill-bred anthropoid. That poor fish? That ham writer? That bum artist? Don't you worry about him. I'll beat him up, baby! I'll
Mrs. Grantly interrupted him with some dignity. She was one of those truly noble women who would never dream of betraying their husbands, except at the bidding of a genuine passion, and with expressions of the most tender esteem.
Let me go, Ernest, she said, with such an air as compelled the vain ape to obey her. This ape, like all vulgarians, was very sensitive to any hint that he appeared low. You do not raise yourself in my opinion by disparaging Dennis, she continued. It merely shows you are lacking in judgment, not only of men but of women.
Aw, cut it out, Joanna, begged the humiliated gorilla. See here: I only forgot myself. You know what we geniuses are!
If you were not a genius, said Joanna, I should have you turned out of the house. As it is you shall have another chance.
The gorilla had not the spirit to interpret these last words as liberally as some of us might. Perhaps it was because he had lived so long behind bars, but they fell upon his ear as upon that of some brutalized coward snuffling in the dock. The timid husky saw no invitation in Mrs. Grantly's smile, and he was panic-stricken at the thought of losing his snug quarters.
Say, you won't split on me, sister? he muttered.
No, no, said Mrs. Grantly. One takes the commonsense view of these trifles. But you must behave more nicely in future.
Sure, said he, much relieved. I'll start in working right now.
He went straightaway up to his room, looked at himself in the glass, and thus, oddly enough, recovered his damaged self-esteem. I'll show those po' whites how to treat a gentleman, said he.
What did that poor worm say? 'Leap-clutch-grapple ' Oh, boy! Oh, boy! This book's goin' to sell like hot cakes.
He scribbled away like the very devil. His handwriting was atrocious, but what of that? His style was not the best in the world, but he was writing about life in the raw. A succession of iron grips, such as the one he had been forced to loosen, of violent consummations, interruptions, beatings-up, flowed from his pen, interspersed with some bitter attacks on effete civilization, and many eulogies of the primitive.
This'll make 'em sit up, said he. This'll go big.
When he went down to supper, he noticed some little chilliness in Mrs. Grantly's demeanour. This was no doubt due to his cowardly behaviour in the afternoon. He trusted no one, and now became damnably afraid she would report his conduct to her husband; consequently he was the more eager to get his book done, so that he should be independent and in a position to revenge himself. He went upstairs immediately after the meal, and toiled away till past midnight, writing like one who confesses to a Sunday newspaper.
Before many days had passed in this fashion, he was drawing near the end of his work, when the Grantlys announced to him, with all the appearance of repressed excitement, that the best selling of all novelists was coming to dine with them. The gorilla looked forward to the evening with equal eagerness; he looked forward to gleaning a tip or two.
The great man arrived; his limousine was sufficiently resplendent. The big ape eyed him with the very greatest respect all through the meal. Afterwards they sat about and took coffee, just as ordinary people do. I hear, said the Best-Seller to Grantly, that you are just finishing a novel.
Oh, a poor thing! said the good-natured fellow. Simpson, here, is the man who's going to set the Thames on fire. I fear my stuff is altogether too niggling. It is a sort of social satire, I touch a little on the Church, War, Peace, Fascism, Communism one or two things of that sort, but hardly in a full-blooded fashion. I wish I could write something more primitive fecund women, the urge of lust, blood hatred, all that, you know.
Good heavens, my dear Grantly! cried the great man. This comes of living so far out of the world. You really must move to some place more central. Public taste is on the change. I can assure you, that before your book can be printed, Mr. P (he mentioned the critic who makes or breaks) will no longer be engaged, but married, and to a young woman of Junoesque proportions. What chance do you think the urge of lust will have with poor P, after a month of his marriage to this magnificently proportioned young woman? No, no, my boy, stick to social satire. Put a little in about feminism, if you can find room for it. Guy the cult of the he-man, and its effect on deluded women, and you're safe for a record review. You'll be made.
I've got something of that sort in it, said Grantly with much gratification, for authors are like beds; even the most artistic requires to be made.
Who's doing the book for you? continued his benevolent mentor. You must let me give you a letter to my publisher. Nothing is more disheartening than hawking a book round the market, and having it returned unread. But Sykes is good enough to set some weight on my judgment; in fact, I think I may say, without boasting, you can look on the matter as settled.
Say, you might give me a letter, tool cried the gorilla, who had been listening in consternation to the great man's discourse.
I should be delighted, Mr. Simpson, returned that worthy with great suavity. But you know what these publishers are. Pigheaded isn't the word for them. Well, Grantly, I must be getting along. A delightful evening! Mrs. Grantly, said he, slapping his host on the shoulder, this is the man who is going to make us old fossils sit up. Take care of him. Give him some more of that delicious zabaglione. Good night! Good night!