RSS

Contact us

Sunday 7 September 2008

Christmas short story

Humiliation

The Spectator's short story for the holidays

Yet after the humiliation of the divorce came the further humiliation of the publication of my fourth novel, Oblong (Dunn & Melhuish, 10s 6d) and the sudden, brutal auto-da-fé of my long-nurtured reputation. Does it seem crass to admit that I felt this last humiliation more keenly than the first? I am still an artist, after all: I have stopped being a husband. The pain I felt, the physical pain in my belly, as I read review after hostile, bile-charged review (why do they hate me so, these strangers?) still lingers. What is an artist to do in this ghastly situation? Why, go to Paris, city of artists, city of Degas, Proust, Larbaud, Jean-Paul and Simone. I took the boat-train that night, played records in my solitary compartment, dreaming of Paris and the Paris-cure. But the city was slow to work its magic, this time. First, there was the flaccid and embarrassing session in the maison de tolérance, followed by a melancholy solitary meal and far too much drink. Crapulous, angry with myself the next morning, I sat in the Café Flore contemplating a spitting glass of mineral water (liver salts fizzing within) and wondering vaguely about my life. Why do they call that potent liqueur eau de vie? Eau de mort is more apt. Why are paid women so understanding of a man’s temporary physical inadequacies? (Answer: relief). What was I to do? What was Yves ‘Humiliated’ Hill to do with his miserable life? Halfway through my fourth decade and all was ashes around me. Felicity and Gerald — good God — to be cuckolded by Gerald Laing-Turner.... How had the Times reviewer described Oblong? ‘A turbid, horizonless sea of utter tedium.’ And what had possessed George to give the book to Raleigh Maltravers, of all people? Somehow, one of Maltravers’s sentences came at once unbidden to my mind: ‘A talent so nugatory it casts not the faintest shadow.’ ‘Casts not’? ‘Casts not’ — what middle-class pretension. How could George let that go by?

I looked around the Flore and signalled for the waiter: time for some hair of the dog — a Fernet or a Dubonnet, I thought. Early June in Paris and the place seemed full of English tourists: what a loud harsh unpleasant tongue we have. And they were all reading English newspapers and magazines, no doubt containing further humiliating notices of my failed marriage and failed novel. I knew at once what I had to do: I had to work. I had to get out of Paris immediately and write something, anything. Anything that paid, that was. Rio, the Atlas Mountains, Shanghai — far away. I asked the waiter (a surly fellow) for some jetons for the telephone. He replied in English even though my French is fluent and colloquial. I had decided to call my agent, Findlay McHarg. Get me a job, Findlay, I would say: one that will take me away from here and will recompense my literary abilities handsomely.

Sainte Radegonde is a modestly sized provincial town and is the ideal starting point for one’s peregrinations in this most verdant and delightful of the south-western riverine valleys. It sits on the Dordogne a few miles east of Sarlat and is serviced by the autorail from Bordeaux (trains for Paris may be had at nearby Brive), contains three excellent garages, an adequate hotel (Hôtel de la Gare ***) and two large brasseries on the charming central square, La Place de la Republique.

‘By automobile through the Dordogne Valley’ by Yves P. Hill. The English Motorist, July 1952.

I was cross with Findlay. No, that is unfair. I appreciate his bluntness, his northern candour, I need it. But, really, the English Motorist? A 20 guinea fee and expenses of no more than ten pounds. Plain robbery: my fee would go to pay my extra expenses while I researched the article. ‘It’s the best I can do at this short notice,’ Findlay said. ‘The Oblong fiasco is still the talk of the town.’ He does not pull his Caledonian punches, dear Findlay.

More articles from: William Boyd | this section

Print this article  |  Email to a friend  |  Permalink  |   Comment

Post this entry to:   del.icio.us | Digg | Newsvine | NowPublic | Reddit

Advertisement

Spectator Business | Apollo Magazine

Corporate | Advertising | Privacy | Terms

Spectator, 22 Old Queen Street, London, SW1H 9HP

All Articles and Content Copyright ©2008 by The Spectator | All Rights Reserved