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Authors: Barbara Pym
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linguistics, and the trunks of notes up in his attic, which he had never even sorted out, were a constant reproach to him. He felt also that he was disliked by most of his acquaintances because he found himself unable to make small talk or even to bring out the pleasant harmless little insincerities which help everyday life to run smoothly.
In one field, however, Alaric had achieved a mild though limited fame. He was well-known as a writer of sarcastic reviews, and he was engaged this night in completing one for a learned journal. The fact that he had not been able to produce an original work himself was perhaps responsible for his harsh treatment of those who had.
He had been pacing about the room, seeking fresh inspiration, but now he flung off his mask and returned to his desk.
‘It is a pity,’ he wrote, ‘that the author did not take the trouble to inform himself of some of the elementary facts underlying the social structure of these peoples. He would then have been less likely to perpetrate such howlers as “the clan-head” (when there are, in fact, no clans), “the part played by the mother’s brother in marriage transactions” (when it is the father’s brother who plays the chief role here) …’ He searched the pages of the book to find more howlers, incensed at the idea of ‘these anthropologists’-he gave the words heavy scornful quotation marks in his own mind—thinking they could study a tribe in three weeks when his own eleven years of life and work among them had produced nothing more than a few articles on such minor aspects of their culture as incised calabashes and enigmatic iron objects.
In his search he came upon a native word wrongly spelt. His pen gathered speed. ‘ It is a pitv,’ he went on, ‘ that the proofs were not read by somebody with even a slight knowledge of the language, so that the consistent misspellings of vernacular terms in everyday use might have been avoided.’
In unfavourable reviews it is sometimes customary for the reviewer to relent towards the end, to throw some crumb of consolation to the author, but this was not Alaric Lydgate’s practice. His last paragraph was no less harsh. ‘ It is a pity,’ he concluded, ‘that such a reputable institution should have allowed a work of this nature to appear under its auspices. Its reputation will certainly not be enhanced by unscholarly rubbish of this kind, and it can hardly be gratified to learn that its funds, which are known to be limited, have been squandered to no purpose.’
He drew a heavy line on the paper, folded the sheets and put them into an envelope. In a day or two the editor of the journal, who was a gentle patient man, would set to work to improve the English and tone it down a little. ‘It is a pitv,’ he would say to himself, ‘to have three consecutive paragraphs beginning “It is a pity”.’ He might even remember that Alaric Lydgate had once been refused a grant from the reputable institution whose limited funds had been squandered to no purpose. He might then go on to ask himself whether funds can be squandered to no purpose, whether indeed ihey can be squandered to any purpose. Certainly, as editor, he would feel none of the exhilaration which Alaric felt on finishing his review.
He leapt up from his desk and hurried from the room. His housekeeper Mrs. Skinner, who was a light sleeper, woke suddenly and turned on her bedside lamp. Then she realized that it was only Mr. Lydgate going up to the attic, and although this seemed an odd thing to be doing in the middle of the night, she was used to him by now and composed herself for sleep again.
Alaric pushed open the door and turned on the light. The room was filled with tea-chests, containing masks and pottery and other relics of his life in Africa; there were also several black tin trunks and wooden boxes, filled with his tropical kit and the accumulation of eleven years’ note-taking. He pulled at the lock of one of the tin trunks.
In one field, however, Alaric had achieved a mild though limited fame. He was well-known as a writer of sarcastic reviews, and he was engaged this night in completing one for a learned journal. The fact that he had not been able to produce an original work himself was perhaps responsible for his harsh treatment of those who had.
He had been pacing about the room, seeking fresh inspiration, but now he flung off his mask and returned to his desk.
‘It is a pity,’ he wrote, ‘that the author did not take the trouble to inform himself of some of the elementary facts underlying the social structure of these peoples. He would then have been less likely to perpetrate such howlers as “the clan-head” (when there are, in fact, no clans), “the part played by the mother’s brother in marriage transactions” (when it is the father’s brother who plays the chief role here) …’ He searched the pages of the book to find more howlers, incensed at the idea of ‘these anthropologists’-he gave the words heavy scornful quotation marks in his own mind—thinking they could study a tribe in three weeks when his own eleven years of life and work among them had produced nothing more than a few articles on such minor aspects of their culture as incised calabashes and enigmatic iron objects.
In his search he came upon a native word wrongly spelt. His pen gathered speed. ‘ It is a pitv,’ he went on, ‘ that the proofs were not read by somebody with even a slight knowledge of the language, so that the consistent misspellings of vernacular terms in everyday use might have been avoided.’
In unfavourable reviews it is sometimes customary for the reviewer to relent towards the end, to throw some crumb of consolation to the author, but this was not Alaric Lydgate’s practice. His last paragraph was no less harsh. ‘ It is a pity,’ he concluded, ‘that such a reputable institution should have allowed a work of this nature to appear under its auspices. Its reputation will certainly not be enhanced by unscholarly rubbish of this kind, and it can hardly be gratified to learn that its funds, which are known to be limited, have been squandered to no purpose.’
He drew a heavy line on the paper, folded the sheets and put them into an envelope. In a day or two the editor of the journal, who was a gentle patient man, would set to work to improve the English and tone it down a little. ‘It is a pitv,’ he would say to himself, ‘to have three consecutive paragraphs beginning “It is a pity”.’ He might even remember that Alaric Lydgate had once been refused a grant from the reputable institution whose limited funds had been squandered to no purpose. He might then go on to ask himself whether funds can be squandered to no purpose, whether indeed ihey can be squandered to any purpose. Certainly, as editor, he would feel none of the exhilaration which Alaric felt on finishing his review.
He leapt up from his desk and hurried from the room. His housekeeper Mrs. Skinner, who was a light sleeper, woke suddenly and turned on her bedside lamp. Then she realized that it was only Mr. Lydgate going up to the attic, and although this seemed an odd thing to be doing in the middle of the night, she was used to him by now and composed herself for sleep again.
Alaric pushed open the door and turned on the light. The room was filled with tea-chests, containing masks and pottery and other relics of his life in Africa; there were also several black tin trunks and wooden boxes, filled with his tropical kit and the accumulation of eleven years’ note-taking. He pulled at the lock of one of the tin trunks.
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