THE NOSE OF CRITICISM A Satirical Novel CHAPTER I In Which a Young Writer Comes to London In the year of Our Lord 1872, when the fog lay thick upon the Thames and the gas-lamps of London cast their sickly yellow glow upon streets ankle-deep in mud and horse-dung, there arrived in the capital a young man from Yorkshire named Edward Winters. He was possessed of a fair education, a small inheritance from a deceased aunt, and—most dangerous of all—an unshakeable conviction that literary merit would, in the end, triumph over all obstacles. Edward had read his Dickens, his Thackeray, and his Trollope. He had devoured the essays of Carlyle and the poetry of Tennyson. And in each volume he had discovered what he believed to be an immutable truth: that England was a nation which honoured genius, which recognized true worth, and which—above all—rewarded those who dedicated themselves to the noble craft of letters. How sadly mistaken he was. The young man took lodgings in a dilapidated house in Bloomsbury, not far from the British Museum, where he hoped to find inspiration among the dusty tomes and ancient manuscripts. His landlady, a Mrs. Pettigrew, was a widow of uncertain age and even more uncertain temperament, who viewed her tenants with the suspicion usually reserved for French spies or tax collectors. "I don't hold with writers," she announced upon their first meeting, fixing Edward with a gimlet eye that seemed to pierce straight through to his meagre savings. "The last one as lodged here took to drink and then to debt, and finally threw himself in the river. Left a note saying the critics had done for him. Very inconsiderate, I call it, making such a mess." Edward assured her that he had no intention of throwing himself into the Thames, and that he was, in fact, possessed of both robust health and an optimistic disposition. Mrs. Pettigrew sniffed—whether in approval or scepticism, he could not tell—and showed him to a small room on the second floor, overlooking a courtyard where three scrawny chickens pecked listlessly at the cobblestones. "Three shillings a week," she said, "and I expect prompt payment. No credit for poets, playwrights, or novelists. I've learned my lesson." Edward paid a week's rent in advance and set about making the room habitable. He purchased paper, ink, and a second-hand writing-desk from a nearby shop, and by the evening of his second day in London, he had already composed the first chapter of what he intended to be a great novel—a work that would expose the hypocrisies of modern society while simultaneously elevating the moral tone of the reading public. He called it "The Triumph of Virtue." It was, he believed, a masterpiece. CHAPTER II In Which Our Hero Encounters a Mysterious Stranger It was on the third day of his residence in Bloomsbury that Edward first encountered the man who would change his life—or rather, his afterlife, though Edward did not know this at the time. He had descended to the ground floor in search of hot water for his morning tea, and was passing through the narrow hallway when he noticed a gentleman seated in the small parlour that Mrs. Pettigrew reserved for the use of her lodgers. The stranger was dressed in the fashion of twenty years past, with a high collar and a waistcoat of faded velvet. He appeared to be in his middle thirties, with dark hair touched at the temples with silver, and eyes of an unusual grey-green colour that seemed to hold both great sadness and great mirth in equal measure. "Good morning," said Edward, for he was not one to pass a fellow creature without acknowledgment. The stranger looked up from the book he had been reading—Edward noted with approval that it was a volume of Shakespeare's sonnets—and smiled. "Good morning to you, sir. You must be the new tenant. Mrs. Pettigrew has been speaking of you." "Nothing good, I warrant," Edward replied with a laugh. "On the contrary. She says you pay your rent on time and do not sing in the bath. In her estimation, this qualifies you for sainthood." Edward chuckled and extended his hand. "Edward Winters, at your service. Late of Yorkshire, and more recently of a small room on the second floor." The stranger rose and took his hand. His grip was firm but curiously cold, as though he had just come in from a winter's walk. "Julian Ashford. I have occupied the attic room these past... well, these past some time." "You are a writer, Mr. Ashford?" Ashford's smile grew melancholy. "I was. Once. Now I am... what is the phrase? Between engagements. Yes, let us say that. Between engagements." There was something in his manner that intrigued Edward—a combination of refinement and weariness, of cultivated intelligence and hidden sorrow. Here, he thought, was a man who had seen something of life, who might serve as a mentor to a young writer newly arrived in the great city. "Perhaps," Edward suggested, "you might be willing to look at some of my work? I should greatly value the opinion of an experienced hand." Ashford regarded him for a long moment, his grey-green eyes searching Edward's face with an intensity that was almost unsettling. "You wish me to read your manuscript?" "If you would be so kind." "Very well. Bring it to my room this evening. But I warn you, Mr. Winters—I am known for my candour. I shall not spare your feelings if I find your work wanting." "I should expect nothing less," Edward replied. "A writer who cannot bear criticism is like a sailor who cannot swim—he will not survive his first voyage." Ashford laughed—a genuine, delighted sound that seemed to transform his whole countenance. "Oh, very good, Mr. Winters! Very good indeed! You may yet prove worth the knowing." CHAPTER III In Which We Are Introduced to an Unpleasant Personage Later that same morning, as Edward was returning from a visit to the stationer's, he encountered another of his fellow lodgers—a young man of perhaps twenty-five years, dressed in the height of fashion, with a silk waistcoat, a gold watch-chain, and a cravat arranged with such elaborate precision that it seemed to Edward a positive work of art. The young man was standing in the hallway, examining his reflection in the small mirror that Mrs. Pettigrew had hung there for the convenience of her tenants. He was making minute adjustments to his hair, which was of a particularly vivid auburn colour and arranged in what Edward believed was called the "Byronic" style. "Good morning," Edward said, as he had to Ashford. The young man turned, and Edward found himself subjected to a scrutiny so thorough and so obviously disapproving that he felt himself colour beneath it. "You are the new fellow," the young man said. It was not a question. "Edward Winters. I arrived three days ago." "From the provinces, I collect." "From Yorkshire, yes." The young man nodded, as though this confirmed some private theory. "I thought as much. The boots, you see. No London man would wear such boots." Edward looked down at his footwear, which seemed to him perfectly serviceable. "They are stout and comfortable." "Quite." The young man's tone suggested that comfort was the last consideration of any gentleman. "I am Reginald Thorne. Perhaps you have heard of me?" Edward confessed that he had not. Thorne's eyebrows rose in theatrical astonishment. "Indeed? How extraordinary. I had thought my name was known in every literary circle in England. I am, you see, a poet. My first volume, 'Sighs of the Soul,' was reviewed most favourably in the Athenaeum. The critic declared that I possessed 'the true fire of genius.'" "I congratulate you," Edward said, though he could not help feeling that anyone who spoke so freely of his own genius might be somewhat lacking in the quality itself. "Thank you. I am currently engaged upon my second volume, which will, I have no doubt, establish my reputation as the foremost poet of our age. The critics are already anticipating its publication with considerable excitement." "You are acquainted with many critics, then?" Thorne smiled—a smile of such self-satisfaction that Edward was reminded of a cat that has cornered a particularly plump mouse. "I am acquainted with those who matter. Lord Pembrooke, for instance—the editor of the Literary Gazette. He has been most supportive of my work. Most supportive. Indeed, he has all but promised me the position of poet laureate when the present incumbent shuffles off this mortal coil." "That is... most impressive," Edward managed. "Yes, is it not?" Thorne agreed. "But then, genius will always find its champions. I have no doubt that when you have been in London a little longer, Mr.—Winters, was it?—you will come to understand how these things are arranged. It is not, I fear, a world in which the merely competent can expect to thrive." With this parting shot, Thorne took his leave, leaving Edward to wonder whether he had just been insulted or merely warned. CHAPTER IV Containing an Extraordinary Encounter That evening, as promised, Edward carried his manuscript to Julian Ashford's room in the attic. He found the door ajar and, knocking softly, was bidden to enter. Ashford's quarters were sparsely furnished but possessed of a certain melancholy elegance. The walls were lined with books—old books, for the most part, their bindings worn and their pages foxed with age. A small fire burned in the grate, though the evening was not particularly cold, and beside it stood a worn armchair that looked as though it had been much sat in. "Sit down, Mr. Winters," Ashford said, indicating a wooden chair near the desk. "May I offer you a glass of sherry? I fear it is not of the first quality, but it is drinkable." Edward accepted the sherry and watched as Ashford settled himself in the armchair and began to read the manuscript of "The Triumph of Virtue." The reading took nearly an hour. Ashford turned the pages slowly, occasionally making a small sound—sometimes of approval, more often of dissatisfaction. Edward sat in an agony of suspense, trying to read his companion's expression but finding it as inscrutable as a sphinx. At last Ashford set down the final page and regarded Edward with those strange grey-green eyes. "Well?" Edward asked, unable to bear the silence any longer. "You have talent," Ashford said. "That much is evident. Your prose is clear, your characters are not without interest, and your plot—though somewhat melodramatic—holds the reader's attention. But..." "But?" "But you are writing for the wrong reasons. You are writing to please, Mr. Winters. You are writing what you believe the public wishes to read, rather than what you yourself feel compelled to write. Your virtuous heroine is too virtuous by half. Your villainous seducer is a caricature. And your moral lessons are laid on with a trowel." Edward felt his face grow hot. "I had thought—" "You had thought that literature should improve its readers. A noble sentiment, but a mistaken one. Literature should reveal truth, Mr. Winters. Not the comfortable truths that people wish to hear, but the uncomfortable truths that they would prefer to ignore." "And what truths are those?" Ashford was silent for a moment, staring into the fire. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, almost as though he were speaking to himself. "That the world is not just. That merit is not always rewarded. That the men who sit in judgment upon our works are often blind—sometimes literally so—to true worth." "You speak from experience," Edward ventured. Ashford turned to face him, and in the firelight his face seemed suddenly older, more haggard. "I speak from the grave, Mr. Winters. Or rather, from a place very near to it. But that is a story for another time. For now, let me simply say this: if you wish to succeed in London's literary world, you must learn to see it as it truly is. Not as it pretends to be." "And how is it, truly?" "Corrupt, Mr. Winters. Corrupt from top to bottom. The prizes are awarded by men who have not read the books they judge. The reviews are written by hacks who praise whichever publisher pays them most generously. The literary societies are clubs for mutual admiration, where the members take turns lauding each other's mediocrity. And the public—poor, deluded public—buys whatever it is told to buy, reads whatever it is told to read, and believes whatever it is told to believe." Edward was shocked by the bitterness in Ashford's voice. "Surely it cannot be as bad as all that?" "It is worse." Ashford rose and walked to the window, looking out at the darkening sky. "But there is one man in London who sees through it all. One man who cannot be deceived by fine words or famous names." "Who is that?" "His name is Aldous Blackwell. He is an old man now—blind, and living in poverty near St. Giles. But he was once, I am told, the most feared critic in England." "Feared? Why feared?" Ashford turned back from the window, and his smile was enigmatic. "Because he could smell a bad book, Mr. Winters. Quite literally. With his nose." CHAPTER V In Which We Meet the Blind Critic The following morning, Edward set out to find this extraordinary personage. Julian Ashford had given him directions to a narrow alley off Drury Lane, where Blackwell was said to keep a small shop selling medicinal herbs and nostrums. The journey took him through some of London's less savoury districts. He passed gin-shops and brothels, workhouses and debtor's prisons, and saw sights that would have given his mother palpitations had she known of them. But Edward was not easily deterred. He had set his mind upon meeting the blind critic, and meet him he would. At length he found the shop—a dim, low-ceilinged establishment that smelled powerfully of dried lavender, camphor, and something else, something sharp and medicinal that Edward could not identify. Behind the counter sat an old man, his eyes covered with a dark cloth, his hands moving with practiced ease among the jars and bottles that lined the shelves. "Good morning," Edward said. "Are you Mr. Blackwell?" The old man turned his sightless face toward the sound of Edward's voice. "I am. And who might you be, young man? You have the accent of the North Country—Yorkshire, unless I mistake me." "You are correct, sir. I am Edward Winters, lately of York." "And what brings a young writer from Yorkshire to my humble establishment? For you are a writer, are you not? I can smell the ink on your fingers." Edward started. "How did you know?" Blackwell chuckled—a dry, rustling sound like autumn leaves. "I have my methods, Mr. Winters. Now, what is it you want of me?" "I was told—Mr. Ashford told me—that you possess a most unusual gift. That you can... that you can judge the quality of a manuscript by... by smelling it." The old man's expression grew grave. "So. Julian Ashford sent you. I might have known." He was silent for a moment, then sighed. "Very well. Do you have a manuscript with you?" "I do." Edward produced the pages of "The Triumph of Virtue" from his coat pocket. "Place it on the counter." Edward did so. Blackwell reached out and took the manuscript in his hands, running his fingers over the pages as though reading them by touch. Then, to Edward's astonishment, he raised the papers to his nose and inhaled deeply. "Hmm," the old man murmured. "Interesting. Very interesting." He sniffed again, more carefully this time, moving his nose along the pages as a bloodhound might follow a scent. His face contorted—now in apparent pleasure, now in something like distaste. "Well?" Edward asked, unable to contain his curiosity. Blackwell set down the manuscript. "You have written a novel, Mr. Winters. A novel about virtue rewarded and vice punished. Your heroine is named—let me guess—Cecilia? Or perhaps Clarissa?" "Cecilia," Edward admitted, astonished. "Your villain is a baronet with a secret in his past. Your hero is a poor but honest curate. And your moral is that good women should forgive the men who wrong them, while bad women should die of consumption in garrets." "That is... broadly accurate." Blackwell shook his head. "The scent is confused, Mr. Winters. There is the sweetness of genuine feeling here—yes, I can smell it, faint but distinct, like lavender among weeds. But it is overwhelmed by the stench of calculation. You are trying too hard to please. You are writing what you think will sell, not what you truly believe." Edward felt his hopes crumble. "Then it is worthless?" "Not worthless. But not what it might be." Blackwell leaned forward, his blind eyes seeming to stare straight into Edward's soul. "Tell me, young man—why do you write?" "I... I wish to make my mark upon the world. To create something that will outlast me." "A noble ambition. But incomplete." Blackwell settled back in his chair. "You must write because you cannot help but write. Because the words burn in your brain and demand to be set down. Because you have seen something true about the world, and you must share that truth with others, whether they wish to hear it or not." "And if they do not wish to hear it?" "Then so much the worse for them." Blackwell smiled—a smile of surprising sweetness. "But come, Mr. Winters. You did not seek me out to be lectured on the philosophy of composition. You wished to see my gift demonstrated. Very well—I shall demonstrate it. Do you know the work of Mr. Reginald Thorne?" "I have met him. He lodges in the same house as I." "Indeed? Then perhaps you can obtain for me a sample of his poetry. I should very much like to smell it." CHAPTER VI In Which a Poet's Work Is Subjected to an Unusual Examination Edward did not find it difficult to obtain a specimen of Thorne's verse. The poet was only too happy to lend him a copy of "Sighs of the Soul," which he presented with the air of a cardinal bestowing a papal blessing. "I shall value your opinion most highly," Thorne said, though his tone suggested that any opinion less than adulatory would be regarded as a species of blasphemy. Edward carried the volume to Blackwell's shop the following morning. The old man was expecting him, and took the book with an eagerness that Edward found somewhat unsettling. "This is the work that has been so praised in the Literary Gazette?" Blackwell asked. "So the author informs me." "We shall see." Blackwell opened the book and brought his face close to the pages. He inhaled once, sharply, then again, more slowly. His expression changed—first to surprise, then to something like disgust, and finally to a grim amusement. "Well?" Edward asked. "Burn it," Blackwell said. "I beg your pardon?" "Burn it, Mr. Winters. Burn it and scatter the ashes in the Thames. It would be a kindness to literature." "But the critics—" "The critics are fools or knaves. Probably both." Blackwell held the book at arm's length, as though it emitted a physical odour. "This is not poetry, Mr. Winters. This is—how shall I describe it?—it is the literary equivalent of a chamber-pot that has not been emptied in a week. It reeks of self-indulgence, of sentimentality, of a complete and utter absence of genuine feeling." "But the reviewer in the Athenaeum—" "Was paid to praise it. Or else he has no nose." Blackwell sniffed again. "There is something else here, too. Something familiar. I have smelled this particular stench before." "What do you mean?" "I mean, Mr. Winters, that this poetry has been... assisted. It carries the odour of another hand. A more experienced hand, though not necessarily a better one." "You believe Thorne had help in writing it?" "I am certain of it. The style is inconsistent. Some verses are merely bad—clumsy, derivative, the work of an amateur. But others..." Blackwell paused, his nose twitching. "Others carry the scent of professional mediocrity. The kind of competent hackwork that one might purchase from a Grub Street scribbler for a few shillings a page." Edward was shocked. "You are suggesting that Thorne employed a ghost-writer?" "I am suggesting nothing. I am stating a fact." Blackwell closed the book and handed it back to Edward. "Take this back to its owner, Mr. Winters. And tell him—if you wish—that Aldous Blackwell sends his compliments, and his condolences." "Condolences?" "For his talent, which is nonexistent, and his reputation, which is built upon sand." Blackwell's voice grew sombre. "The literary world is a cesspool, Mr. Winters. And men like your Mr. Thorne are the rats that swim in it." CHAPTER VII In Which the Nature of Literary Corruption Is Revealed Edward did not tell Thorne what Blackwell had said. He was not a malicious man, and he saw no profit in wounding the poet's vanity, however inflated it might be. But he could not forget the blind critic's words, and he found himself looking at London's literary world with new eyes. He began to notice things that had previously escaped his attention. He saw how the same names appeared again and again in the review columns, praised by the same critics, awarded the same prizes. He observed how the literary societies—the Athenaeum Club, the Royal Society of Literature, the various academies and associations—were composed almost entirely of men who had known each other since childhood, who had attended the same schools and universities, who married each other's sisters and promoted each other's careers. And he saw, most clearly of all, how the system was designed to exclude anyone who did not belong to this charmed circle. "You are beginning to understand," Julian Ashford said, when Edward shared these observations with him. "The literary world is not a meritocracy, my friend. It is a closed shop, a private club, a conspiracy of the mediocre against the truly gifted." "But surely there must be some genuine talent?" "Oh, there is. Here and there. But it is the exception, not the rule. And it is seldom recognized until its possessor is safely dead." Ashford smiled bitterly. "Death, you see, is the only reliable critic. A dead author cannot embarrass his patrons by writing something new and unexpected. He cannot change his political opinions, or his religious views, or his style. He is fixed, immutable, safe. That is why the dead are so much more highly valued than the living." "What of the prizes?" Edward asked. "The awards? The honours?" "Bought and sold, every one." Ashford ticked them off on his fingers. "The Hawthorne Prize is controlled by Lord Pembrooke, who awards it to whichever of his protégés has been most assiduous in flattering him. The Gold Medal of the Royal Society is reserved for members of the Society, which means, in practice, for men who have already received the Gold Medal. The Poet Laureateship—" he laughed "—the Poet Laureateship is a joke, a sinceure, a reward for political loyalty masquerading as literary merit." "And the critics?" "The critics are the worst of all. They are the gatekeepers, the tastemakers, the men who decide what shall be read and what shall be forgotten. And they are, almost without exception, corrupt." "All of them?" "All who matter." Ashford rose and walked to the window. "There was a time, Mr. Winters, when I believed that talent would triumph. That if I wrote truly, if I wrote honestly, the world would recognize my gift and reward it. I was wrong. I wrote a novel—a good novel, I believe—and I submitted it to every publisher in London. It was rejected by all of them. Not because it was bad, but because I had no connections, no patrons, no one to speak for me." "What happened to the novel?" "It was published, eventually, at my own expense. It sold seventeen copies." Ashford turned back from the window, and his face was a mask of pain. "Seventeen copies, Mr. Winters. While the collected works of Reginald Thorne—Reginald Thorne!—go into a third edition." Edward did not know what to say. "I am sorry," he managed at last. "Do not be sorry. Be angry. Be angry on behalf of all the writers who have been silenced, all the books that have been stillborn, all the talents that have been crushed beneath the heel of this corrupt and corrupting system." Ashford's voice rose, and his eyes blazed with a fierce light. "That is why I sent you to Blackwell. Because he sees what others cannot. Because he knows what others refuse to know. And because he may yet—if we are clever, if we are careful—help us to expose the rot that lies at the heart of English letters." CHAPTER VIII In Which a Test Is Proposed Edward returned to Blackwell's shop the next day, his mind full of what Ashford had said. He found the old man preparing a tincture of valerian root, his blind fingers measuring ingredients with the precision of a chemist. "Mr. Winters," Blackwell said, without turning around. "I expected you. You have been speaking with Julian Ashford." "How did you know?" "The scent of the grave clings to you." Blackwell chuckled at Edward's startled expression. "A figure of speech, young man. But Ashford has a way of leaving his mark upon those he converses with. He is a passionate man. Or was." "He told me about the corruption in the literary world." "Did he? And what do you think of his conclusions?" "I think..." Edward hesitated. "I think there may be some truth in what he says." "Some truth?" Blackwell turned to face him, his blind eyes seeming to pierce through to Edward's very thoughts. "There is nothing but truth in what he says. The literary world is corrupt from top to bottom. The prizes are rigged, the critics are bought, and the public is deceived. But knowing this is one thing. Proving it is another." "Can it be proven?" "It can." Blackwell set down his mortar and pestle. "But it requires a test. A test that will demonstrate, beyond all possibility of doubt, that the men who sit in judgment upon our literature are not merely misguided, but actively corrupt." "What kind of test?" Blackwell smiled—a slow, knowing smile. "You have met Lord Pembrooke's protégé, Mr. Thorne. You have seen his work, and you have heard my opinion of it. But what of Lord Pembrooke himself? He is, I am told, a writer of considerable reputation. His essays appear in all the best journals. His opinions are sought by all the most respectable publications." "I have read some of his work," Edward admitted. "I found it... competent." "Competent. Yes. That is the word." Blackwell reached beneath the counter and produced a sheaf of papers. "These are copies of Lord Pembrooke's most recent essays. I obtained them from a friend who works in the offices of the Literary Gazette. I should like you to bring them to me, along with a quantity of good, dry kindling." "Kindling?" "We are going to burn them, Mr. Winters. And I am going to smell the smoke." CHAPTER IX In Which the Test Is Conducted The experiment took place that evening, in the small courtyard behind Blackwell's shop. The old man had cleared a space among the medicinal herbs that grew there, and had set up a brazier of cast iron, such as might be used for heating a room. "Now then," Blackwell said, when Edward arrived with the essays and the kindling. "Place one of the papers in the brazier and set it alight." Edward did so. The paper caught quickly, and a thin column of smoke rose into the evening air. Blackwell leaned forward and inhaled deeply, his nose twitching like a rabbit's. "Hmm," he murmured. "Competent, as you say. Professional. The work of a man who knows how to construct a sentence and arrange a paragraph. But nothing more." "Is it good?" "It is not bad. It is also not good. It is..." Blackwell searched for the word. "It is tepid, Mr. Winters. Lukewarm. The literary equivalent of gruel." Edward placed another essay in the brazier. Again Blackwell sniffed the smoke, and again he pronounced his verdict. "The same. Consistently mediocre. The work of a man who has read much and thought little." They burned three more essays, with similar results. But when Edward placed the sixth paper in the brazier, something extraordinary happened. Blackwell had been leaning forward, his face close to the rising smoke. Suddenly he recoiled, his hands flying to his nose, his whole body convulsing in a violent fit of coughing. "Mr. Blackwell!" Edward cried, rushing to his side. "What is it? Are you ill?" The old man waved him away, gasping for breath. "No," he choked out. "Not ill. But this—this is something else entirely." "What do you mean?" Blackwell straightened slowly, his face pale and his hands trembling. "This essay, Mr. Winters. This essay was not written by Lord Pembrooke." "How can you be certain?" "Because I know the scent. I have smelled it before." Blackwell's voice was hollow with shock. "This essay was written by the same hand that wrote Mr. Thorne's poetry. The same ghost-writer. The same hired hack." Edward stared at him. "You mean—" "I mean that Lord Pembrooke, the great critic, the arbiter of literary taste, the man who decides which books shall be praised and which shall be damned—I mean that this paragon of the literary world has been passing off another man's work as his own." Blackwell began to laugh—a bitter, mirthless sound. "Oh, the irony! The delicious, terrible irony! The blind critic exposes the fraudulent critic!" "But surely this is impossible?" "Is it?" Blackwell wiped his eyes. "Think, Mr. Winters. Lord Pembrooke is a busy man. He has his journal to edit, his society duties to perform, his political connections to maintain. When would he find time to write his essays? Much easier to employ some starving Grub Street scribbler to do the work for him, and then to put his own name to the result." "But the scandal—" "There will be no scandal. Because no one will believe you." Blackwell's voice grew sombre. "Who are you, Mr. Winters? A young man from Yorkshire, unknown, unconnected, without reputation or influence. And who is Lord Pembrooke? One of the most powerful men in London. If you were to accuse him of such a thing, you would be laughed at. Or worse, you would be sued for libel." "Then what can be done?" Blackwell was silent for a long moment. When he spoke again, his voice was low and intense. "There is one thing. One test that will prove, beyond all doubt, that the literary world is corrupt. But it is dangerous. Very dangerous." "What is it?" "The Hawthorne Prize." Blackwell leaned forward, his blind eyes gleaming. "It is to be awarded next month. And I have reason to believe that Mr. Thorne is the favourite to win it." "But his poetry is terrible!" "Exactly. And if he wins—if he wins with such work as I have smelled—then we shall have our proof. Not proof that will stand in a court of law, perhaps. But proof that will open the eyes of all who are not willfully blind." CHAPTER X In Which the Prize Is Awarded The ceremony took place in the great hall of the Athenaeum Club, that temple of literary respectability that stands like a fortress against the encroachments of the vulgar and the new. Edward attended as the guest of Julian Ashford, who seemed to possess some mysterious influence that allowed him entry to places where ordinary mortals would be turned away at the door. The hall was filled with the great and the good of London's literary world. There were editors and publishers, critics and reviewers, novelists and poets and essayists, all dressed in their finest, all talking in the loud, self-important voices of those who believe themselves to be the guardians of culture. Edward recognized many of them from their portraits in the illustrated papers. There was Mr. Mudie, the great circulating library proprietor, whose power to make or break a novel was legendary. There was Mr. Bentley, the publisher, whose list included some of the most successful authors of the age. There was Mr. Forster, the novelist, whose latest work had been praised to the skies by every critic in London. And there, at the centre of it all, was Lord Pembrooke himself. He was a tall man, thin and elegant, with a long face and a longer nose, and an expression of permanent superiority that suggested he had never in his life been contradicted. He moved through the crowd like a ship through water, leaving a wake of deference and flattery behind him. "The great man himself," Ashford murmured in Edward's ear. "Observe how the waters part before him." "He does not look like a fraud," Edward observed. "The best frauds never do. That is what makes them successful." The ceremony began with a speech by the President of the Athenaeum Club, a long and tedious oration about the importance of literature to the moral health of the nation. Edward found his attention wandering, and he amused himself by observing the faces of the audience. They wore expressions of rapt attention, but their eyes were glazed and their thoughts—he was certain—were elsewhere. At last the President concluded, and Lord Pembrooke rose to announce the winner of the Hawthorne Prize. "It is my great pleasure," he said, in a voice that suggested the pleasure was entirely his own, "to present this year's award to a young poet whose work has already brought him considerable acclaim. A poet who, I am confident, will be remembered as one of the greatest of our age. I refer, of course, to Mr. Reginald Thorne." The applause was thunderous. Thorne rose from his seat and made his way to the podium, his face glowing with triumph. He accepted the prize—a gold medal and a cheque for one hundred guineas—with a little speech of thanks that was remarkable for its combination of false modesty and self-congratulation. "I am overwhelmed," Thorne said, though he looked anything but. "To be recognized by one's peers, to be welcomed into the company of the immortals—this is the dream of every poet. I can only hope that my humble verses will continue to deserve the favour that has been shown them today." More applause. More speeches. And then, at last, the ceremony was over, and the guests dispersed to the supper room for refreshments. Edward found himself standing next to Aldous Blackwell, who had somehow made his way into the hall despite his blindness and his poverty. "Well?" the old man asked. "What did you think?" "I think," Edward said slowly, "that I have seen enough." "Then you are ready?" "Ready for what?" "Ready to leave all this behind." Blackwell's voice was low and urgent. "The literary world is rotten, Mr. Winters. It cannot be reformed. It can only be abandoned." "Abandoned?" "Come with me. Tomorrow. I am leaving London, going to a place where a man may live simply and think clearly, without the constant noise of this corrupt and corrupting world." "Where?" "To the country. To the hills. To a place where the air is clean and the water is pure and a man may judge a book by what is in it, not by who wrote it." Blackwell's blind face turned toward Edward with an expression of intense longing. "Will you come?" Edward looked around the hall, at the self-satisfied faces of the literary establishment, at the men who had just awarded a major prize to a poet whose work a blind man could smell was worthless. He thought of his manuscript, "The Triumph of Virtue," still unsold and probably unsellable. He thought of Julian Ashford, with his bitter wisdom and his unfulfilled dreams. "Yes," he said. "I will come." CHAPTER XI In Which Our Hero Makes His Choice They left London at dawn the next morning—Edward Winters and Aldous Blackwell, together with a small cart loaded with Blackwell's medicinal herbs and Edward's few possessions. Julian Ashford came to see them off, standing in the grey morning light with a smile that was both sad and glad. "You are doing the right thing," he said. "The only thing." "Will you not come with us?" Edward asked. Ashford shook his head. "I cannot. My place is here, in the city. There is work to be done—work that only the dead can do." "The dead?" But Ashford only smiled and pressed Edward's hand. "Go with God, my friend. Write the truth. That is all that matters." They travelled north and west, away from the smoke and the stench of London, into country that grew progressively wilder and more beautiful. They passed through villages where the people still spoke in the old ways, where the pace of life was measured by the seasons rather than the stock exchange. They climbed hills from which they could see for miles across valleys and forests, and they descended into valleys where the silence was broken only by the sound of running water. At last they came to a place that seemed to Edward like the end of the world—a small cottage on the edge of a wood, looking out over a landscape of hills and streams that stretched away to the horizon. "Here," Blackwell said. "This is where I lived, many years ago, before I went to London. Before I became... what I became." "It is beautiful," Edward said. "It is honest." Blackwell led the way into the cottage, which was small and simple but clean and dry. "Here a man may think. Here a man may write. Here a man may be judged by his work, not by his connections." They settled into a routine that was as different from London life as anything Edward could have imagined. They rose with the sun and worked in the garden, growing vegetables and herbs. They read and wrote in the afternoons, and in the evenings they talked—long, rambling conversations about literature and philosophy, about the nature of truth and the purpose of art. Blackwell taught Edward to trust his own judgment, to write what he felt rather than what he thought would please. And Edward, in turn, helped the old man with his blindness, reading to him and guiding him through the unfamiliar terrain. Months passed. Edward wrote a new novel—not "The Triumph of Virtue," but something darker, more honest, more true. He called it "The Corridors of Power," and it was a satire of the literary world he had left behind, a biting, brilliant exposé of the corruption and hypocrisy that he had witnessed. He sent it to a publisher in Edinburgh—a small firm with no connection to the London establishment—and to his astonishment, they accepted it. "It is good," Blackwell said, when Edward read him the letter. "Very good. But you must be prepared." "Prepared for what?" "For the attacks that will come. The London critics will not forgive you for telling the truth. They will call you envious, resentful, a failed writer lashing out at his betters." "Let them." Blackwell smiled. "You have learned your lesson well, Mr. Winters." CHAPTER XII In Which the Truth Is Told "The Corridors of Power" was published in the spring of 1873. It caused a sensation. The London critics were furious. They denounced it as libellous, scurrilous, the work of a diseased mind. They questioned Edward's sanity, his morality, his right to call himself a writer. Lord Pembrooke himself wrote a review in the Literary Gazette that dismissed the novel as "the petulant outburst of a disappointed provincial who lacks the talent to succeed in the competitive world of letters." But the public thought otherwise. The novel sold and sold, going through edition after edition, until the publisher could hardly keep up with the demand. Readers recognized the truth in Edward's satire—the truth about the literary world that they had always suspected but never dared to voice. And then, something extraordinary happened. A young journalist, investigating the claims made in Edward's novel, discovered evidence that Lord Pembrooke had indeed been employing a ghost-writer. The scandal rocked London's literary world. Lord Pembrooke was forced to resign from the Literary Gazette. The Hawthorne Prize was suspended. And Reginald Thorne—whose poetry had been exposed as largely the work of the same hired hack—found himself a laughing-stock, his reputation in ruins. Edward read the news in a newspaper that reached him a week after the events it described. He showed it to Blackwell, who smiled his slow, knowing smile. "You have done it, Mr. Winters. You have opened their eyes." "Not all of them." "Enough. Enough to make a difference." Blackwell leaned back in his chair, his blind face turned toward the sun that streamed through the cottage window. "The literary world will not change overnight. The corruption is too deep, the habits too ingrained. But you have shown that it can be challenged. You have shown that the truth can be told." "And what now?" "Now?" Blackwell chuckled. "Now you write another book. And another. You write the truth, Mr. Winters, as only you can write it. And I shall be here, smelling your pages, telling you when you have got it right and when you have gone astray." "And if they come for me? If they try to silence me?" "Then you will be here, in this place, where they cannot reach you." Blackwell's voice grew soft. "This is our sanctuary, Mr. Winters. Our refuge from the world. Here we may write what we please, think what we please, be what we please. And no Lord Pembrooke, no Reginald Thorne, no corrupt critic or bought reviewer can touch us." Edward looked out at the landscape of hills and forests, at the clean air and the open sky. He thought of London, with its fog and its filth, its corruption and its lies. And he knew that he had made the right choice. "Thank you," he said to Blackwell. "For showing me the way." "Thank yourself," the old man replied. "You had the courage to take it." EPILOGUE In Which All Is Resolved Edward Winters lived for another forty years, writing novels and essays that were read throughout the English-speaking world. He never returned to London, never sought the approval of the literary establishment, never compromised his vision to please the critics. And he never forgot the lessons he had learned from Aldous Blackwell—the blind critic who could smell the truth. Blackwell himself lived to the age of ninety, dying peacefully in his sleep one winter's night, with Edward at his side. He was buried in the churchyard of the village nearby, and Edward composed his epitaph: "Here lies Aldous Blackwell, who could not see but could perceive, who could not read but could understand, who could not judge by appearances but could smell the truth." As for the others: Lord Pembrooke retired to the country, a broken man, and died in obscurity. His ghost-written essays were forgotten within a year of his disgrace. Reginald Thorne attempted to write poetry under his own name, but without the assistance of his hired hack, his verses were exposed as the drivel they had always been. He ended his days as a clerk in a shipping office, dreaming of the fame that had once been his. And Julian Ashford? Edward never saw him again after that morning in Bloomsbury. But sometimes, late at night, he would feel a presence in the cottage, a cold breath on his neck, a whisper in his ear. And he would know that his friend was still there, still watching, still waiting for the day when the literary world would finally be cleansed of its corruption. But that, as they say, is another story. THE END