The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(69)

Wells, who thanks to the success of his novels no longer suffered the past hardships, could also abandon himself in a controlled way to that placid and deceptively carefree existence. Above all, he enjoyed seeing Murray and Emma comfortably integrated into their circle of friends. He was proud to have introduced them to that stimulating, creative world that they would otherwise not have had access to, and—why deny it?—he felt thrilled to arrive at those gatherings accompanied by the famous millionaire, to introduce him to his acquaintances as he might a species of exotic bird, leaving everyone to puzzle over how their paths had crossed and the extent of their friendship. Occasionally, in the middle of one of those gatherings, Wells would pause during a conversation and observe with delight how Murray endeared himself to the others with his sardonic remarks, or how within minutes he managed to make everyone forget he was a millionaire by rolling up his sleeves and helping out with the chores, whether it be pruning hedges or fetching logs.

But the one thing Murray really enjoyed was conversing with the authors who would turn up from time to time. Thus he met Bob Stevenson, Robert Louis’s cousin, Ford Madox Ford, and Józef Teodor Konrad Korzeniowski, a diminutive, unassuming Pole who had abbreviated his name to Joseph Conrad for the benefit of his English readers. Murray had read all of them and at the least opportunity would give them his brutally honest opinions without provoking an outcry, much to the astonishment of Wells, who had warned Murray about the fragile vanity of authors. On the contrary: many of them would smile as Murray painstakingly pulled their works apart, and some even ended up agreeing with him and asking his advice on some creative problem. Wells was never sure if his colleagues’ submissive attitude toward Murray was a result of the protection of his immense fortune or the extraordinary insightfulness of his remarks. Whatever the case, Murray seemed more at ease in their company than Wells did, possibly because he had produced no body of work and so was not open to attack, unlike the unfortunate Wells, who would go on the defensive whenever there was any talk of the exact mode of expression or the most suitable word.

One of the things that most irritated Wells, for example, was Conrad’s insistence on discovering what his true aims were when he set about writing a novel—a question to which Wells could give no clear or satisfactory answer. Yet it was the Pole’s very stubbornness that allowed Wells to realize that during those past few months Murray had become one of his closest friends.

This was how it happened. Wells and Conrad had been lying on the beach at Sandgate one afternoon, discussing how best to describe a ship that had appeared on the horizon, and after a couple of hours during which neither had managed to convince the other, Conrad had withdrawn with the air of a swordsman who has just won a duel. Then Murray had gone over to Wells, had sat down beside him and tried to lift his spirits, telling him that Conrad only wrote about the horror of strange places and only enjoyed the favor of the critics because of the inevitable exoticism the Anglo-Saxon mind always imagined it perceived when a foreigner used the English language. Personally, he found Conrad’s prose as exasperatingly elaborate as a piece of Indian carving. Murray’s comparison made Wells burst out laughing, and before he knew it, he found himself admitting that more than once he had asked himself whether his own lack of attention to style didn’t make him less of a writer. Murray was shocked. Surely he wasn’t serious. Of course not! Wells simply wasn’t like Conrad and other authors who were adept at grandiloquent prose, and why should he be? His only aim when starting a novel was to finish it, employing the simplest vocabulary possible to describe his vision of the world without too much fuss. He only sought to create entertaining stories with which to criticize what he thought was wrong with the world, in a language that didn’t distract the reader’s attention. Wells was astonished by Murray’s accurate definition of him as a writer, and he remained silent, looking out to sea, where the contentious vessel still cleaved the waters. Then he glanced at Murray, who was still sitting beside him, smiling as he watched Emma cavorting with Jane down by the water’s edge. Wells stifled a sudden urge to embrace Murray and instead heard himself saying that as soon as he could, he would introduce him to James Brand Pinker, his literary agent, who would help him publish his novel, the futuristic love story that had sparked their now-distant enmity. Wells’s offer came four years too late, but Murray thanked him for his tardy gesture without alluding to that and wagged his head. He no longer had any interest in publishing that novel, nor did he intend to write another. He didn’t need to. He was quite content to do nothing now except bask in Emma’s love. And with that Murray stood up and strolled jauntily down toward the two women. Wells felt a slight pang of envy as he watched him. There went a man brimming with happiness who asked nothing more of life except perhaps that no one should take away what he had.





13


AND NOW PERMIT ME, AFTER riffling through those last two years like a cardsharp shuffling his deck, to choose one from the pack and place it on the table for all to see, because it behooves our tale to describe the events that follow in greater detail. Let us then take a closer look at one frosty February afternoon in 1900, when, in an unprecedented gesture of altruism, Wells had invited one of the most celebrated authors of the day to Arnold House as a surprise for Murray, who was a keen admirer of the man’s work.

At the agreed hour, the carriage with the pompous “G” announced its arrival with the slow clatter of hooves imposed by its old coachman. When it finally reached the entrance to Arnold House, Emma and Murray stepped out, enveloped in that happiness they had that never faded. The Wellses came out to welcome them, and after the usual polite greetings they walked toward the house. But the coachman detained Wells with a question.