The Map of Time (Trilogía Victoriana #1)(105)
Was Gilliam a block of ice? He watched Murray’s attempts to overcome his bewilderment; chewing on his lip, opening then clenching his fists, as though he were milking an invisible udder, and predicted that he was about to find out.
“What are you talking about?” Murray finally burst out, sitting up straight, seized by a rage that made the tendons on his neck bulge. “What kind of reading have you given my work?” No, Gilliam was not a block of ice. He was pure fire, and Wells instantly realized he would not fall apart. His visitor was one of those people whose pride was so monumental that in the long run they were morally invincible; they were so full of themselves they believed they could achieve anything through simple pigheadedness, whether this was building a bird box or writing a science-fiction novel. Unfortunately for Wells, Gilliam had not been content to build a bird box. He had decided to employ his efforts in showing the world what an extraordinary imagination he had, how easily he was able to juggle with the words accumulated in a dictionary, and that he had been endowed with many if not all the writerly characteristics that appealed to him.
Wells tried hard to remain poised while his guest, shaking with rage, labeled his remarks as foolish. Watching him waving his arms about wildly, Wells began to regret the choice he had made.
Clearly, if he carried on in that vein, demolishing his novel with scathing remarks, the situation could only get worse. But what else could he do? Must he retract everything he had said for fear the fellow might tear his head off in a fit of rage? Luckily for Wells, Gilliam suddenly appeared to calm down.
He took a few breaths, twisted his head from side to side, and rested his hands in his lap in a stubborn attempt to regain his composure. His painstaking effort at controlling himself felt to Wells like a sort of caricature of the actor Richard Mansfield’s amazing transformation at the Lyceum Theatre during the performance of the play Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hyde a few years earlier.
He let him go on without interruption, secretly relieved. Gilliam seemed ashamed at having lost his temper, and the author realized that here was an intelligent man burdened with a passionate temperament, a fiery nature which drove him to those accesses of rage that he had undoubtedly learned to control over the years, achieving a level of restraint of which he should feel proud. But Wells had touched his sore point, wounded his vanity, reminding him his self-control was by no means infallible.
“You may have been lucky enough to write a nice novel everybody likes,” Gilliam said when he had managed to calm down, although the tone of his voice was still belligerent, “but clearly you are incapable of judging the work of others. And I wonder whether this might not be because of envy. Is the king afraid the jester might usurp his throne and do a better job as ruler than he?” Wells smiled to himself. After the outpouring of rage, came a false serenity and a change in strategy. He had just reduced Wells’s novel—praised to the skies days before—to the category of popular fiction and had found an explanation for Wells’s opinions that bore no relation to his own lack of literary talent—in this case envy. However, this was preferable to having to put up with his angry outbursts. They were now entering the domain of verbal sparring, and Wells felt a rush of excitement, for this was an area in which he felt particularly at ease. He decided to speak even more plainly.
“You are perfectly at liberty to think what you like about your own work, Mr. Murray,” he said calmly. “But I imagine that if you came to my house to ask my opinion, it is because you deemed me sufficiently knowledgeable in such matters to value my judgment.
I regret not having told you what you wanted to hear, but those are my thoughts. For the reasons I already mentioned, I doubt that your novel would appeal to anyone, although in my view the main problem with it is the implausibility of your idea. Nobody would believe in the future you have described.” Gilliam tilted his head to one side, as though he had not heard properly.
“Are you saying the future I describe is implausible?” he asked.
“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying, and for various reasons,” Wells coolly replied. “The notion that a mechanical toy, however sophisticated, could come to life is unimaginable, not to say ludicrous. Equally implausible is the suggestion that a world war could take place in the coming century. It will never happen. Not to mention other details you have overlooked, for example that the inhabitants of the year 2000 are still using oil lamps, when anybody can see that it is only a matter of time before electricity takes over. Even fantasy must be plausible, Mr. Murray. Allow me to take my own novel as an example. In order to describe the year 802,701 all I did was to think logically. The division of the human race into two species, the Eloi, languishing in their mindless hedonism, and the Morlocks, the monsters living below ground, is an example of one possible outcome of our rigid capitalist society. By the same token, the future demise of the planet, however demoralizing, is based on complex predictions made by astronomers and geologists and published daily in journals. This constitutes true speculation, Mr. Murray. Nobody could accuse my 802,701 of being implausible. Things may turn out quite differently, of course, especially if other as yet unforeseeable factors come into play, but nobody can rule out my vision. Yours, on the other hand, does not bear up under scrutiny.” Gilliam Murray looked at him in silence for a long time, until finally he said: “Perhaps you are right, Mr. Wells, and my novel does need a thorough overhaul in terms of style and structure. It is a first attempt, and naturally I couldn’t possibly expect the result to be excellent or even passable. But what I cannot tolerate is that you cast doubt on my speculations about the year 2000. Because in that case you are no longer judging my literary abilities, you are simply insulting my intelligence. Admit it; my vision of the future is as plausible as any other.” “Permit me to disagree,” Wells replied coldly, judging that at this point in the conversation the time for mercy had passed.