Chapter VI.

by Aldous Huxley

　　Mr. Barbecue-Smith arrived in time for tea on Saturday afternoon.He was a short and corpulent man, with a very large head and noneck. In his earlier middle age he had been distressed by thisabsence of neck, but was comforted by reading in Balzac's "LouisLambert" that all the world's great men have been marked by thesame peculiarity, and for a simple and obvious reason: Greatnessis nothing more nor less than the harmonious functioning of thefaculties of the head and heart; the shorter the neck, the moreclosely these two organs approach one another; argal...It wasconvincing.Mr. Barbecue-Smith belonged to the old school of journalists. Hesported a leonine head with a greyish-black mane of oddlyunappetising hair brushed back from a broad but low forehead.And somehow he always seemed slightly, ever so slightly, soiled.In younger days he had gaily called himself a Bohemian. He didso no longer. He was a teacher now, a kind of prophet. Some ofhis books of comfort and spiritual teaching were in their hundredand twentieth thousand.Priscilla received him with every mark of esteem. He had neverbeen to Crome before; she showed him round the house. Mr.Barbecue-Smith was full of admiration."So quaint, so old-world," he kept repeating. He had a rich,rather unctuous voice.Priscilla praised his latest book. "Splendid, I thought it was,"she said in her large, jolly way."I'm happy to think you found it a comfort," said Mr. Barbecue-Smith."Oh, tremendously! And the bit about the Lotus Pool--I thoughtthat so beautiful.""I knew you would like that. It came to me, you know, fromwithout." He waved his hand to indicate the astral world.They went out into the garden for tea. Mr. Barbecue-Smith wasduly introduced."Mr. Stone is a writer too," said Priscilla, as she introducedDenis."Indeed!" Mr. Barbecue-Smith smiled benignly, and, looking up atDenis with an expression of Olympian condescension, "And whatsort of things do you write?"Denis was furious, and, to make matters worse, he felt himselfblushing hotly. Had Priscilla no sense of proportion? She wasputting them in the same category--Barbecue-Smith and himself.They were both writers, they both used pen and ink. To Mr.Barbecue-Smith's question he answered, "Oh, nothing much,nothing," and looked away."Mr. Stone is one of our younger poets." It was Anne's voice.He scowled at her, and she smiled back exasperatingly."Excellent, excellent," said Mr. Barbecue-Smith, and he squeezedDenis's arm encouragingly. "The Bard's is a noble calling."As soon as tea was over Mr. Barbecue-Smith excused himself; hehad to do some writing before dinner. Priscilla quiteunderstood. The prophet retired to his chamber.Mr. Barbecue-Smith came down to the drawing-room at ten to eight.He was in a good humour, and, as he descended the stairs, hesmiled to himself and rubbed his large white hands together. Inthe drawing-room someone was playing softly and ramblingly on thepiano. He wondered who it could be. One of the young ladies,perhaps. But no, it was only Denis, who got up hurriedly andwith some embarrassment as he came into the room."Do go on, do go on," said Mr. Barbecue-Smith. "I am very fondof music.""Then I couldn't possibly go on," Denis replied. "I only makenoises."There was a silence. Mr. Barbecue-Smith stood with his back tothe hearth, warming himself at the memory of last winter's fires.He could not control his interior satisfaction, but still went onsmiling to himself. At last he turned to Denis."You write," he asked, "don't you?""Well, yes--a little, you know.""How many words do you find you can write in an hour?""I don't think I've ever counted.""Oh, you ought to, you ought to. It's most important."Denis exercised his memory. "When I'm in good form," he said, "Ifancy I do a twelve-hundred-word review in about four hours. Butsometimes it takes me much longer."Mr. Barbecue-Smith nodded. "Yes, three hundred words an hour atyour best." He walked out into the middle of the room, turnedround on his heels, and confronted Denis again. "Guess how manywords I wrote this evening between five and half-past seven.""I can't imagine.""No, but you must guess. Between five and half-past seven--that's two and a half hours.""Twelve hundred words," Denis hazarded."No, no, no." Mr. Barbecue-Smith's expanded face shone withgaiety. "Try again.""Fifteen hundred.""No.""I give it up," said Denis. He found he couldn't summon up muchinterest in Mr. Barbecue-Smith's writing."Well, I'll tell you. Three thousand eight hundred."Denis opened his eyes. "You must get a lot done in a day," hesaid.Mr. Barbecue-Smith suddenly became extremely confidential. Hepulled up a stool to the side of Denis's arm-chair, sat down init, and began to talk softly and rapidly."Listen to me," he said, laying his hand on Denis's sleeve. "Youwant to make your living by writing; you're young, you'reinexperienced. Let me give you a little sound advice."What was the fellow going to do? Denis wondered: give him anintroduction to the editor of "John o' London's Weekly", or tellhim where he could sell a light middle for seven guineas? Mr.Barbecue-Smith patted his arm several times and went on."The secret of writing," he said, breathing it into the youngman's ear--"the secret of writing is Inspiration."Denis looked at him in astonishment."Inspiration..." Mr. Barbecue-Smith repeated."You mean the native wood-note business?"Mr. Barbecue-Smith nodded."Oh, then I entirely agree with you," said Denis. "But what ifone hasn't got Inspiration?""That was precisely the question I was waiting for," said Mr.Barbecue-Smith. "You ask me what one should do if one hasn't gotInspiration. I answer: you have Inspiration; everyone hasInspiration. It's simply a question of getting it to function."The clock struck eight. There was no sign of any of the otherguests; everybody was always late at Crome. Mr. Barbecue-Smithwent on."That's my secret," he said. "I give it you freely." (Denismade a suitably grateful murmur and grimace.) "I'll help you tofind your Inspiration, because I don't like to see a nice, steadyyoung man like you exhausting his vitality and wasting the bestyears of his life in a grinding intellectual labour that could becompletely obviated by Inspiration. I did it myself, so I knowwhat it's like. Up till the time I was thirty-eight I was awriter like you--a writer without Inspiration. All I wrote Isqueezed out of myself by sheer hard work. Why, in those days Iwas never able to do more than six-fifty words an hour, andwhat's more, I often didn't sell what I wrote." He sighed. "Weartists," he said parenthetically, "we intellectuals aren't muchappreciated here in England." Denis wondered if there was anymethod, consistent, of course, with politeness, by which he coulddissociate himself from Mr. Barbecue-Smith's "we." There wasnone; and besides, it was too late now, for Mr. Barbecue-Smithwas once more pursuing the tenor of his discourse."At thirty-eight I was a poor, struggling, tired, overworked,unknown journalist. Now, at fifty..." He paused modestly andmade a little gesture, moving his fat hands outwards, away fromone another, and expanding his fingers as though indemonstration. He was exhibiting himself. Denis thought of thatadvertisement of Nestle's milk--the two cats on the wall, underthe moon, one black and thin, the other white, sleek, and fat.Before Inspiration and after."Inspiration has made the difference," said Mr. Barbecue-Smithsolemnly. "It came quite suddenly--like a gentle dew fromheaven." He lifted his hand and let it fall back on to his kneeto indicate the descent of the dew. "It was one evening. I waswriting my first little book about the Conduct of Life--'HumbleHeroisms'. You may have read it; it has been a comfort--at leastI hope and think so--a comfort to many thousands. I was in themiddle of the second chapter, and I was stuck. Fatigue,overwork--I had only written a hundred words in the last hour,and I could get no further. I sat biting the end of my pen andlooking at the electric light, which hung above my table, alittle above and in front of me." He indicated the position ofthe lamp with elaborate care. "Have you ever looked at a brightlight intently for a long time?" he asked, turning to Denis.Denis didn't think he had. "You can hypnotise yourself thatway," Mr. Barbecue-Smith went on.The gong sounded in a terrific crescendo from the hall. Still nosign of the others. Denis was horribly hungry."That's what happened to me," said Mr. Barbecue-Smith. "I washypnotised. I lost consciousness like that." He snapped hisfingers. "When I came to, I found that it was past midnight, andI had written four thousand words. Four thousand," he repeated,opening his mouth very wide on the "ou" of thousand."Inspiration had come to me.""What a very extraordinary thing," said Denis."I was afraid of it at first. It didn't seem to me natural. Ididn't feel, somehow, that it was quite right, quite fair, Imight almost say, to produce a literary compositionunconsciously. Besides, I was afraid I might have writtennonsense.""And had you written nonsense?" Denis asked."Certainly not," Mr. Barbecue-Smith replied, with a trace ofannoyance. "Certainly not. It was admirable. Just a fewspelling mistakes and slips, such as there generally are inautomatic writing. But the style, the thought--all theessentials were admirable. After that, Inspiration came to meregularly. I wrote the whole of 'Humble Heroisms' like that. Itwas a great success, and so has everything been that I havewritten since." He leaned forward and jabbed at Denis with hisfinger. "That's my secret," he said, "and that's how you couldwrite too, if you tried--without effort, fluently, well.""But how?" asked Denis, trying not to show how deeply he had beeninsulted by that final "well.""By cultivating your Inspiration, by getting into touch with yourSubconscious. Have you ever read my little book, 'Pipe-Lines tothe Infinite'?"Denis had to confess that that was, precisely, one of the few,perhaps the only one, of Mr. Barbecue-Smith's works he had notread."Never mind, never mind," said Mr. Barbecue-Smith. "It's just alittle book about the connection of the Subconscious with theInfinite. Get into touch with the Subconscious and you are intouch with the Universe. Inspiration, in fact. You follow me?""Perfectly, perfectly," said Denis. "But don't you find that theUniverse sometimes sends you very irrelevant messages?""I don't allow it to," Mr. Barbecue-Smith replied. "I canaliseit. I bring it down through pipes to work the turbines of myconscious mind.""Like Niagara," Denis suggested. Some of Mr. Barbecue-Smith'sremarks sounded strangely like quotations--quotations from hisown works, no doubt."Precisely. Like Niagara. And this is how I do it." He leanedforward, and with a raised forefinger marked his points as hemade them, beating time, as it were, to his discourse. "Before Igo off into my trance, I concentrate on the subject I wish to beinspired about. Let us say I am writing about the humbleheroisms; for ten minutes before I go into the trance I think ofnothing but orphans supporting their little brothers and sisters,of dull work well and patiently done, and I focus my mind on suchgreat philosophical truths as the purification and uplifting ofthe soul by suffering, and the alchemical transformation ofleaden evil into golden good." (Denis again hung up his littlefestoon of quotation marks.) "Then I pop off. Two or threehours later I wake up again, and find that inspiration has doneits work. Thousands of words, comforting, uplifting words, liebefore me. I type them out neatly on my machine and they areready for the printer.""It all sounds wonderfully simple," said Denis."It is. All the great and splendid and divine things of life arewonderfully simple." (Quotation marks again.) "When I have todo my aphorisms," Mr. Barbecue-Smith continued, "I prelude mytrance by turning over the pages of any Dictionary of Quotationsor Shakespeare Calendar that comes to hand. That sets the key,so to speak; that ensures that the Universe shall come flowingin, not in a continuous rush, but in aphorismic drops. You seethe idea?"Denis nodded. Mr. Barbecue-Smith put his hand in his pocket andpulled out a notebook. "I did a few in the train to-day," hesaid, turning over the pages. "Just dropped off into a trance inthe corner of my carriage. I find the train very conducive togood work. Here they are." He cleared his throat and read:"The Mountain Road may be steep, but the air is pure up there,and it is from the Summit that one gets the view.""The Things that Really Matter happen in the Heart."It was curious, Denis reflected, the way the Infinite sometimesrepeated itself."Seeing is Believing. Yes, but Believing is also Seeing. If Ibelieve in God, I see God, even in the things that seem to beevil."Mr. Barbecue-Smith looked up from his notebook. "That last one,"he said, "is particularly subtle and beautiful, don't you think?Without Inspiration I could never have hit on that." He re-readthe apophthegm with a slower and more solemn utterance."Straight from the Infinite," he commented reflectively, thenaddressed himself to the next aphorism."The flame of a candle gives Light, but it also Burns."Puzzled wrinkles appeared on Mr. Barbecue-Smith's forehead. "Idon't exactly know what that means," he said. "It's very gnomic.One could apply it, of course to the Higher Education--illuminating, but provoking the Lower Classes to discontent andrevolution. Yes, I suppose that's what it is. But it's gnomic,it's gnomic." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. The gong soundedagain, clamorously, it seemed imploringly: dinner was growingcold. It roused Mr. Barbecue-Smith from meditation. He turnedto Denis."You understand me now when I advise you to cultivate yourInspiration. Let your Subconscious work for you; turn on theNiagara of the Infinite."There was the sound of feet on the stairs. Mr. Barbecue-Smithgot up, laid his hand for an instant on Denis's shoulder, andsaid:"No more now. Another time. And remember, I rely absolutely onyour discretion in this matter. There are intimate, sacredthings that one doesn't wish to be generally known.""Of course," said Denis. "I quite understand."