A FAILURE

Auckland Star, Volume LXVIII, Issue 291, 8 December 1937, Page 27

A FAILURE

By C. HEDLEY BARKER

Short Story

ALL things considered, it was unfortunate for Tyler that George Gow should have given him his friendship. W hat with any other man might have been a beneficent influence was soured by Tyler's essential littleness. What might have been a lasting good wa's turned by Tyler's umall mind, his petty outlook, into a jealousy, dark and brooding, that warped his whole life. And the secret behind all this was, of course, George Gow's greatness; his greatness, that is, ae a writer, combined with his stupidity as a man. For it is one of the paradoxes of human nature that a man may be stupid beyond all computation, and yet write like an angel. Xo doubt about it, George Gow was a P ow er in the world of books, and his name was one, as the cliche to conjure with.

Doubly unfortunate for Tyler, of course, that he, too, was a writer. Tyler was an all-round clever man who wrote rather pedestrian stuff. Up t<j the time when George Gow came into life he was reasonably happv, resigned, it seemed, to selling ten thousand copies of each novel, turning out two novels a year with the regularity of the seasons, making a comfortable living. He was' saving. His income kept pace with his ambition. He lived cheaply in the country with his wife, rented a bit of a shoot, fished, and generally lived a pleasant home life.

A big, back-slapping, boisterous, healthy man, moderately good at his job, an excellent pianist, and no me«n exponent of the graphic arts. When he felt in the mood, he would throw off a picture or two, and he never found much difficulty in selling them. Talented stnff, but just not great, his agent said. Tyler accepted this docilely, as being ho less than the truth. If he knew his owa limitations, the extent of his powers were visible in his bank balance. He was content. Until, of course, George Gow came along.

Pcrh«ps Gow's natural appearance liatl a lot to do with Tyler's final attitude; which appearance was the very negation of what might be expccted from a great man. His meapre frame carried an insignificant head, out of which two lack-lustre evee peered somewhat vacantly above an unimportant nose which continued colds had teased to a shiny carmine. His voice was almost * falsetto, and he used it sparingly, at long intervals. "For all the world," said Tyler, indignantly (as if the man were a fraud), "like a (Consumptive journeyman tailor: that's what he looks like. It's inconceivable that he should have written a book like 'The Two Grandees.'"

As Gow had come to live within a stone's throw of Tyler, the two men, having writing in common, naturally saw much of each other. Gow was *a bachelor (and what else woifld he be' demanded Tyler) and he found the evenings spent at Tyler's place verv congenial. It was difficult to coax 'a remark out of him; apd when the remark materialised, it was commonplace.

After a fortnight of these one-eidcd conversations Tyler had gathered that Gow hrfd a groggy heart, that his knowledge of the world, of architecture, of music, of painting, was negligible. A remarkably ignorant man, with absolutely no conversational resources—until lie took a pen in his fingers, when he would confound one with a masterpiece like "Conversations with an Imaginary Xephew." Still, there was a sympathetic aura about Gow: one felt that the man was generous and kindly, and for a while Tyler and he got well together.

Then Gow bought a Rolls-Hovce and it was brought home to Tyler" what it really meant to have a world audience. He began to be jealous of Gow. not so much of his material poMeseions as of Bis genius. Gow was an insignificantooking chap, inferior to Tyler in looks, build and accomplishments. It began to g*t on Tyler's nerves that a fellow who was eo obviously designed for the comic strip should turn out work so far away superior both in stvle and content to his own. His jealousy' became an obsession, and Gow unwittingly heaped fuel on the flames by his halting descriptions of Americans and others who from time to time called to pay him homage. Also, the respect of the loco Is (obsequious toadying in. a good many cases) was diverted from* him to Gow.

To round off matters, Tvler's wife began to voice thoughts which had been tioubling her, it seemed, for some time. I he gist of her complaints was that she felt humiliated when acquaintances harped on the greatness of Geor«e Gow One of them had put it that Tt must be nice for Tyler to know Gow; Gow would be able to help hiin in his work. "As if you need his help!" said Mr* Tyler, scornfully. "Why, you're twice the man he is, in every way. A dolt can see who s got the best brain. If he can do it, so can you. It hurts me, Bill, to see you left behind in the race. ~. were you I should take a different line with my next book. You've got to if only to give me something about.

It cannot be said of Gow that he was not modest about his work. He was, indeed, so fantastically modest that he attributed it to something else; some power outside himself of which he was the mere instrument. In any case, he would hold, no man had the right to puff himself up on account of something that was a gift from Providence. And. with perfect sincerity, he would envy Tyler's command of certain facilitie's which, if natural to himself, would result in an improvement of his work. And. as a recognition of Tyler's critical powers, nothing could 'have been more flattering than the eagerness with which Gow sought his opinion and advice.

Of course, Tyler was ready by this time to impute to Gow anv motive but that of sincerity. attitude of modesty was a fraud. Gow brought him this stuff to read knowing very well that it was fifty times better than he could ever accomplish. What Gow wanted was admiration; the admiration which he knew must be felt by a man of Tyler's intellect, even if it weren't expressed. / Tyler soon began to wish that Gow had never been born, for there is no feeling more bitter than admiration mixed with envy. Tyler not only wanted to write like Gow for his own sake; he wanted it for the sake of his wife. Here was a plain duffer (for Gow was no less at most things) who was giving him a lesson in the art of composition every day. Here was a nonentity who was sitting on top of the world, whilst he, Tyler . . . • It occurred to Tyler with a shock that this fellow was upsetting his home life. For the first time in bis experience he

was at odds with his wife. His resentment turned to hatred. And, at the moment when such an event must have been most welcome to Tyler, Gow's groggy heart pulsed for the last time. Tyler heard the news with relief. His next feeling was one of excitement. The book! 'low's latest book, locked his desk. Tyler's wife was away. Gow had lived alone with a manservant. Why not'! Tyler's wife was delighted when he told her about the new book he was just finishing. "It's a winner," he said. "As good as anything Gow ever did. Mark my words, Enid, it'll establish me for all time." So "She Walked in Beauty," by William Tyler, went to Gow's publisher. In due course, Tyler received a letter. Thus: "Dear Sir, —Thank you for letting us see the MS. of your novel, "She Walked in Beauty." We regret that we cannot foresee a success with it, and we have returned it under separate cover. We should, however, be very pleased to sec any future work from your pen, and, as a guide to our requirements, a study of the works of George Gow might be helpful to you. —Yours faithfully, George Gabriel and Co., Ltd."