"I'm not going to say that again for anybody."
"Well, may I have the pencil?"
I gave her the pencil and a sheet of paper, and settled her in a chair.
"B–a–b–y," said Margery to herself, planning out her weekly article for the Reviews. "B–a–b–y, baby." She squared her elbows and began to write….
"There!" she said, after five minutes' composition.
The manuscript was brought over to the critic, and the author stood proudly by to point out subtleties that might have been overlooked at a first reading.
"B–a–b–y," explained the author. "Baby."
"Yes, that's very good; very neatly expressed. 'Baby'—I like that."
"Shall I write some more?" said Margery eagerly.
"Yes, do write some more. This is good, but it's not long enough."
The author retired again, and in five minutes produced this:
B A B Y
"That's 'baby,'" explained Margery.
"Yes, I like that baby better than the other one. It's more spread out. And it's bigger—it's one of the biggest babies I've seen."
"Shall I write some more?"
"Don't you write anything else ever?"
"I like writing 'baby,'" said Margery carelessly. "B–a–b–y."
"Yes, but you can't do much with just that one word. Suppose you wanted to write to a man at a shop—'Dear Sir, You never sent me my boots. Please send them at once as I want to go out this afternoon. I am yours faithfully, Margery'—it would be no good simply putting 'B–a–b–y,' because he wouldn't know what you meant."
"Well, what would it be good putting?"
"Ah, that's the whole art of writing—to know what it would be any good putting. You want to learn lots and lots of new words, so as to be ready. Now here's a jolly little one that you ought to meet." I took the pencil and wrote G O T. "Got. G–o–t, got."
Margery, her elbows on my knee and her chin resting on her hands, studied the position.
"Yes, that's old 'got,'" she said.
"He's always coming in. When you want to say, 'I've got a bad pain, so I can't accept your kind invitation'; or when you want to say, 'Excuse more, as I've got to go to bed now'; or quite simply, 'You've got my pencil.'"
"G–o–t, got," said Margery. "G–o–t, got. G–o–t, got."
"With appropriate action it makes a very nice recitation."
"Is that a 'g'?" said Margery, busy with the pencil, which she had snatched from me.
"The gentleman with the tail. You haven't made his tail quite long enough…. That's better."
Margery retired to her study charged with an entirely new inspiration, and wrote her second manifesto. It was this:
G O T
"Got," she pointed out.
I inspected it carefully. Coming fresh to the idea Margery had treated it more spontaneously than the other. But it was distinctly a "got." One of the gots.
"Have you any more words?" she asked, holding tight to the pencil.
"You've about exhausted me, Margery."
"What was that one you said just now? The one you said you wouldn't say again?"
"Oh, you mean 'inveigle'?" I said, pronouncing it differently this time.
"Yes; write that for me."
"It hardly ever comes in. Only when you are writing to your solicitor."
"What's 'solicitor'?"
"He's the gentleman who takes the money. He's always coming in."
"Then write 'solicitor.'"
I took the pencil (it was my turn for it) and wrote SOLICITOR. Then I read it out slowly to Margery, spelt it to her three times very carefully, and wrote SOLICITOR again. Then I said it thoughtfully to myself half–a–dozen times—"Solicitor." Then I looked at it wonderingly.
"I am not sure now," I said, "that there is such a word."
"Why?"
"I thought there was when I began, but now I don't think there can be. 'Solicitor'—it seems so silly."
"Let me write it," said Margery, eagerly taking the paper and pencil, "and see if it looks silly."
She retired, and—as well as she could for her excitement—copied the word down underneath. The combined effort then read as follows:
SOLICITOR SOLICITOR SOLCTOR
"Yes, you've done it a lot of good," I said. "You've taken some of the creases out. I like that much better."
"Do you think there is such a word now?"
"I'm beginning to feel more easy about it. I'm not certain, but I hope."
"So do I," said Margery. With the pencil in one hand and the various scraps of paper in the other, she climbed on to the writing desk and gave herself up to literature….
And it seems to me that she is well equipped for the task. For besides having my pencil still (of which I say nothing for the moment) she has now three separate themes upon which to ring the changes—a range wide enough for any writer. These are, "Baby got solicitor" (supposing that there is such a word), "Solicitor got baby," and "Got baby solicitor." Indeed, there are really four themes here, for the last one can have two interpretations. It might mean that you had obtained an ordinary solicitor for Baby or it might mean that you had got a specially small one for yourself. It lacks, therefore, the lucidity of the best authors, but in a woman writer this may be forgiven.
VIII
My Secretary
When, five years ago, I used to write long letters to Margery, for some reason or other she never wrote back. To save her face I had to answer the letters myself—a tedious business. Still, I must admit that the warmth and geniality of the replies gave me a certain standing with my friends, who had not looked for me to be so popular. After some months, however, pride stepped in. One cannot pour out letter after letter to a lady without any acknowledgment save from oneself. And when even my own acknowledgments began to lose their first warmth—when, for instance, I answered four pages about my new pianola with the curt reminder that I was learning to walk and couldn't be bothered with music, why, then at last I saw that a correspondence so one–sided would have to come to an end. I wrote a farewell letter and replied to it with tears….
But, bless you, that was nearly five years ago. Each morning now, among the usual pile of notes on my plate from duchesses, publishers, moneylenders, actor–managers and what–not, I find, likely enough, an envelope in Margery's own handwriting.
Not only is my address printed upon it legibly, but there are also such extra directions to the postman as "England" and "Important" for its more speedy arrival. And inside—well, I give you the last but seven.
"MY DEAR UNCLE I thot you wher coming to see me to night but you didnt why didnt you baby has p t o hurt her knee isnt that a pity I have some new toys isnt that jolly we didnt have our five minutes so will you krite to me and tell me all about p t o your work from your loving little MARGIE."
I always think that footnotes to a letter are a mistake, but there are one or two things I should like to explain.
(a) Just as some journalists feel that without the word "economic" a leading article lacks tone, so Margery feels, and I agree with her, that a certain cachet is lent to a letter by a p. t. o. at the bottom of each page.
(b) There are lots of grown–up people who think that "write" is spelt "rite." Margery knows that this is not so. She knows that there is a silent letter in front of the "r," which doesn't do anything, but likes to be there. Obviously, if nobody is going to take any notice of this extra letter, it doesn't much matter what it is. Margery happened to want to make a "k" just then; at a pinch it could be as silent as a "w." You will please, therefore, regard the "k" in "Krite" as absolutely noiseless.
(c) Years ago I claimed the privilege to monopolise on the occasional evenings when I was there, Margery's last ten minutes before she goes back to some heaven of her own each night. This privilege was granted; it being felt, no doubt, that she owed me some compensation for my early secretarial work on her behalf. We used to spend the ten minutes in listening to my telling a fairy story, always the same one. One day the authorities stepped in and announced that in future the ten minutes would be reduced to five. The procedure seemed to me absolutely illegal (and I should like to bring an action against somebody) but it certainly did put the lid on my fairy story, of which I was getting more than a little tired.