paying you any more? Youâd never write the kind of review I want.â
âIf you mean, write a column of unctuous praise every week on behalf of your biggest advertisers, all full of nice, fat quotable sentences, no, I wouldnât,â said the other nastily. âIâve told you before, Iâm not that kind of reviewer.â
âAnd Iâve told you before, young fellow, that youâll come to a bad end. You have to take things as you find them in this world.â
The reviewer made a rude noise and turned back to his novels.
Mr Todhunter opened the doors of the big bookcase in which the nonfiction books were kept, but for once his eye did not light up. He was one of those unfortunate people who, against all reason, feel a kind of responsibility for those in distress or trouble; and the present plight and future predicament of Ogilvie were worrying him already. Mr Todhunter felt that he ought to do something about it.
âIt was Armstrong who dismissed Ogilvie?â he asked, turning back to Ferrers. Armstrong was the new managing editor of Consolidated Periodicals Ltd.
Ferrers, who had got busy with his blue pencil again, looked up patiently. âArmstrong? Oh no. Heâs got no say in that kind of thing at present.â
âLord Felixbourne, then?â Lord Felixbourne was the owner.
âNo. It was . . . Oh well, I suppose I ought not to talk about it. But itâs a dirty business.â
âAny chance of you being next, Ferrers?â asked the fiction reviewer. âI mean, it would be rather jolly if we could have a literary editor whoâd let me say, just once a month or so, that a novel is bad when it is.â
âYou say what you like, donât you? I donât interfere with you.â
âNo, you merely cut out all my best bits.â The fiction reviewer strolled across the room and stood behind his editorâs shoulder. He uttered a wail of despair and stabbed at the copy on the desk. âOh, my lord, you havenât cut that paragraph, have you? But, good heavens, man, why? It isnât even rude. It only amounts to saying thatâââ
âListen, Todhunter. This is what Byleâs written: âIf this were Mr Firkinâs first novel there might be some excuse for this turgid spate of words, curdled with cliches like cream with clots, for it might only mean that he had not thought it necessary to find out how to handle his tools before using them; but by his sixth attempt Mr Firkin should at least have learned his English grammar. For the rest, if there is any meaning hidden away under the deluge of his verbosity, I could not find it. Perhaps those of my colleagues who, impressed no doubt by Mr Firkinâs powers of drooling on to any given length without saying anything at all, have bestowed such generous praise on his earlier books will oblige with an explanation of why this one should ever have been written. Or is that a secret known only to Mr Firkinâs publishers?â And he says it isnât even rude. What would you do in my place?â
Mr Todhunter gave his deprecating, almost guilty little smile. âPerhaps it is a little outspoken.â
âIâll say it is,â agreed Ferrers and drew two more large blue crosses over the offending paragraph.
The reviewer, a man of violent passion, stamped with rage. âI canât understand you. Damn it, Todhunter, you ought to back me up. Of course itâs outspoken. And why the hell shouldnât it be? Itâs time something like that was said about Firkin. The manâs reputation is absurdly inflated. Heâs not good at all; damn it, heâs bad! And he gets all this sickening praise because half the reviewers canât be bothered to plough through his stuff at all and so find it easier to praise than criticise, and the other half really do think that inordinate length is a sign of genius, instead of being impressed as they should be