Any Human Heart (18 page)

Still here in Paris. I’ve decided to go back at the end of the week. What a waste of a month. I haunt the
bouquinistes
on the quays beside the Seine, buying up anything I can find by Larbaud, Fargue, Dieudonné, Levet, et al. I found Larbaud’s
Poèmes par un riche amateur —
utterly captivating.
The Cosmopolitans
by Logan Mountstuart — I like the sound of it. I wonder what Wallace will think? Geddes Brown actually asked me to dinner but I made an excuse — said I had a cold.

Viens dans mon lit
Viens sur mon cœur
Je vais te conter une histoire
[Blaise Cendrars]

Sex-dreams of Land. Chez Chantal holds nothing for me now. I wander alone in this dusty, sun-basted, beautiful city, staring at the tourists as if they were alien beings from a distant planet. I carry with me my little pile of slim volumes and read the work of Les Cosmopolites in cafés and at my solitary dinners, lost in a world of
wagons-lits,
the Trans-Siberian express, foggy northern cities, the perfect idyll of underpopulated islands in the sun. I dream of being in a sleeping car with Land, lying naked side by side in our bunk, heading south through the night, the champagne bottle chinking in its ice bucket, lulled to sleep by the rhythmic thrum of the wheels on the tracks beneath us.
‘Le doux train-train de notre vie paisible et monotone.’

Land has written: she is coming to Paris on Monday for a dental appointment. Any possibility of us lunching together?

So I decided to stay on, just to have the chance of seeing Land one more time. I met her outside the dentist’s (on the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré), where she had had a large filling replaced, so she told me. We wandered over to the Left Bank and had lunch at the Flore — an omelette, a salad, a bottle of wine. I told her about Dieudonné and Les Cosmopolites. The wine — and the fact that I was going home the next day — emboldened me.

‘Land,’ I said. ‘I have to know about Geddes.’

‘What do you mean? He’s a friend. And I happen to admire him enormously.’

‘But do you love him?’

‘I suppose I must. In a friendly sort of way.’

‘And he loves you, no doubt. How cosy.’

‘I hate it when you’re sarcastic, Logan. You seem a different person.’

‘You can hardly blame me.’

She looked at me with resignation and pity. ‘What’s going on?’

‘You know how I feel about you,’ I said, ‘and yet you flaunt this Geddes Brown at me. If he’s the one for you, then make the choice. Don’t torture me like this.’

She silenced me. ‘I thought you were meant to be the sophisticated, man-of-the-world writer,’ she said, trying not to smile. ‘Geddes is a homosexual.’

‘A homosexual?’

I will never forget this afternoon. Land and I came back to the Hotel Rembrandt. The shutters were closed against the heat. The sheets had been changed and we stripped off our clothes and for a minute enjoyed the bed’s cool starched crispness on our naked bodies before our sweat besmirched it. Land, with her fringe and her girl’s uptilted breasts. Kissing her and tasting on my tongue the metallic spearmint flavour of that morning’s dental work. Watching her dress and noting how her buttocks and haunches were heavier than I had imagined. I savour the fact that I am now a familiar of all the singularities of Land. I saw her off on the train back to Trouville, an oratorio playing in my head.

It’s only now as I sit here that I wonder if I am the first. There is no small bloom of blood on the sheets. I’ve no idea.

Movements. After Land I couldn’t go back to London. To Bandol to stay with Ben. Then London for a fortnight, then to Vienna, a commission for
Time & Tide.
Leisurely journey back: Berlin — Amsterdam — Brussels — Paris (more research on Les Cosmopolites) — London. Land is sharing a flat with two girlfriends in Islington.

Land is downstairs. She’s told her parents and her flatmates she is going to a house party in Carmarthenshire. We have three days to ourselves. Enough food and drink to last a month-long siege and no plans to venture out.

Spent the day going over the proofs of
The Girl Factory.
I feel curiously distanced from the book: it has a certain melodramatic, low-life allure (my hero Lennox Devane is completely under the spell of Lydia — the Anna-figure — she could make him brand himself if she asked) and I think I have the authentic atmosphere of Paris, but, true to its compositional history, it rather fizzles out. There is a nice hinted-at incest theme: the colonel is known as ‘uncle’ in the book and he runs a string of ‘nieces’ — hence the title — in other
maisons de tolérance
around town. At the novel’s end Lennox manages to turn him into the police, allowing Lennox and Lydia to flee to Innsbruck (of all places), where Lydia dies of tuberculosis.

Land telephoned this morning to say she’s been offered the chance of going to India on some parliamentary fact-finding committee — something to do with Gandhi and the Congress Party.
¹²
I magnanimously said she should go, shouldn’t let such an opportunity pass by, and all that. I will miss her, of course, but I do need to concentrate on my work — I’ve about four articles overdue, including a long and rather important one on Cubism for the
Burlington Magazine.

Feeling of contentment pottering around Glebe Place all day. Fire on, proofs spread on the dining-room table. Land was here on Friday and the house still seems redolent of her presence, not least suggested by the powerful scent from the pot of hyacinth she brought — and she left a scarf behind her. Memories of lovemaking on Saturday morning, also, and of our eating toast and marmalade in our rumpled bed, the teapot steaming on the bedside table. After she left I wandered down to the river at lunchtime and had a pint of beer and a steak pie in the Eight Bells. Then back to continue the proofs. I have over £800 in the bank and the prospect of another £50 arriving on publication day (less Wallace’s commission of course). I love Land and she loves me, I have published one book and my second is imminent, and I’m not quite twenty-five years old. When I think of all my doom and gloom on leaving Oxford! H-D was right: after a fortnight your degree ceases to have any bearing on your progress through life. Look at Waugh, look at Connolly, look at Isherwood and myself: it would seem almost
de rigueur
to take a bad degree in order to make your way as a man of letters.

At Sumner Place today I was introduced to an elderly couple, Major and Mrs Irvine, who, it transpires, are now living in my rooms on the top floor. ‘Paying guests,’ Mother says, and she goes on to tell me of other problems engendered by the Crash of ‘29. Mr Prendergast, it seems, had invested almost all her capital in American stocks — which are now more or less worthless.

‘So what do you have left?’ I ask.

‘Well, I have the house, but income is low. I borrow a lot from the bank. Like you told me.’

I persuaded her to sell the motor and let all the staff go except Encarnación. Apparently she had even borrowed money to pay my allowance. I told her I no longer needed any subvention from her and wrote her a cheque for a hundred pounds to cover any immediate shortfall. I asked for Prendergast’s address — he is still in New York, trying to rescue anything from the ruins.

‘He is a broken man,’ she said with tears in her eyes.

‘Don’t cry, Mother. Everything’ll be fine.’

‘Oh yes, I know. But I keep thinking: what would your father say?’

Publication of
The Girl Factory.
The success of
Imaginings
prompted immediate reviews. ‘Tawdry and shameful’ — the
Mail.
‘A nastily unpleasant little shocker’ —
The Times.
‘Mr Mountstuart’s manifest talent lies in the field of biography; we suggest he leaves fiction in surer hands’ — the
Criterion.
Thank God Land is away in India.

Celebratory luncheon at the Savoy Grill: LMS, Wallace, Roderick and Mr Sprymont of Sprymont & Drew himself, come to see his cash-cow with his own eyes. Wallace and I bask comfortably in the flow of compliments. Almost 11,000 copies have been sold in three weeks, a fifth reprint is in hand. On the strength of this Wallace has sold the book to the US (Decker, Pride & Wolfson) and France (Cahier Noir). Sprymont & Drew are begging for another novel. Wallace cleverly allows them to think this might indeed be a possibility (I let him speak for me on these occasions — grand vizier to my emperor) but suggests that before a novel Logan wants to write a book called
The Cosmopolitans,
don’t you, Logan?

‘I do like the title,’ says Roderick.

‘So do I,’ echoes Mr Sprymont, almost reaching for his cheque book. ‘What’s it about? De luxe travel? The millionaire style of life?’

‘It’s a study of a group of French poets before the Great War.’

By the end of the meal they can see there is no hope of dissuading me and they feign a kind of enthusiasm. As Wallace and I stand in Savoy Court, our cigar smoke thick as ectoplasm in the spring sunshine, Wallace says he’s looking forward to the negotiations: he intends to set a new benchmark for the advance paid for a book of literary criticism.

Land is home but has almost immediately gone — with Lee — up north to Durham or Sheffield or somewhere to speak to the starving families of unemployed miners. £500 advance for
The Cosmopolitans. TGF
has sold 17,500 copies and no sign of slowing down. I am despised by my literary peers — but I can cope with their disdain.

Lunch with Land at the Ritz. I want to celebrate, but she says she would have preferred a sandwich in Green Park or a pie in a pub — anywhere but the Ritz. She regales me with the horrors of poverty in the north and the mood is rather cool as a result — she seems not remotely interested in my success or my new wealth. She says Lee has warned her that the German banks are on the verge of collapse
¹³
and if that happens then the whole of Europe could fall apart. I sit and listen and let her rant on as I drink most of the champagne. She comes home with me to Glebe but it can’t be described as a satisfactory night. I am too amorous and, being rebuffed, become clinical. She leaves at six this morning with hardly a word of goodbye. I’ll give her some time.

Today I asked Land Fothergill to marry me and she said no.

[The First London Journal ceases at this point for some sixteen months.
The Girl Factory
continued to sell. LMS made his first visit to New York in September for the American publication and in October he sold the film rights to British Clarion Film Co. for £1,000. He spent much of the first half of 1932 in France, where he continued his researches for
The Cosmopolitans.
In the summer he visited Cyprien Dieudonné in his home in Quercy in the Lot. August saw his return to London and, as had become his habit, he went to Scotland to join Dick Hodge’s shooting party at Kildonnan by Galashiels. Lady Laeticia Edgefield (Lottie) and her brother Lord Angus Cassell were there also. In the weeks and months that followed LMS began to see much more of Lottie Edgefield — they became a well-known couple in London social circles and were frequently mentioned in gossip columns (‘Who’s the Girl in Logan’s Girl Factory?’). He proposed marriage to her in March 1932. The engagement was to be a short one, the wedding being scheduled for Saturday, 26 November 1932, in the parish church, St Andrew’s, in Edgefield, Norfolk.]

To Byrne & Milner
¹⁴
for the final fitting of my dress suit. Seamus Byrne’s flattery just fails to convince, as always: ‘Now that is what I call a perfect fit, Mr Mountstuart.’ Still, I’ve used the visits to be measured for four more suits — a dark charcoal pinstripe, single breasted; a midnight blue, double breasted; a pea-green tweed, three-piece, and a lightweight Prince of Wales check. £300 all in. Lunch with Peter at the Ivy. Tess and the baby
¹⁵
live in a cottage outside Henley and Peter commutes to town, staying up whenever he’s on the night shift. I offered him my sofa at Glebe but he has an arrangement with a bed & breakfast near Paddington Station. He was full of the joys of married life but for me the pleasure was to note that our old friendship had picked up again quite naturally with no residual reserve or bad feeling. It’s true: lives do drift apart for no obvious reason. We’re all busy people, we can’t spend our time simply trying to stay in touch. The test of a friendship is if it can weather these inevitable gaps. He’s full of curiosity about Lottie — ‘An earl’s daughter! My God, moving up in the world, Logan.’ — and Tess, he says, is looking forward to the wedding enormously. Peter has to write a third leader on Mosley and the BUF.
¹⁶
I told him I’d met Mosley and had been impressed with the man — mind you, he’d been a Labour politician then. Why do politicians love uniforms? — all these funny little men in Europe in their pantomime costumes. Still, a fair amount of what Mosley says, in the current climate, can’t be dismissed as fanaticism or bombast — he’s no Mussolini. Peter is not convinced.

Then on to tea with Lottie and Enid (as I must now learn to call her) at Claridge’s. Enid is all smiles — why should it worry me that she likes me so? The wedding looms: how I long for the day to be over and done with. Mother in a panic over what to wear (and I can’t explain to her that I won’t become a Lord by marrying a Lady). The whole of Norfolk seems to be invited. Dick Hodge said he thought I was making a ‘grade-A blunder’ in marrying Lottie. One expects this sort of brutal advice from Dick but not days before the marriage — he really does go too far sometimes.