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Chapter 6


Mr. Barbecue-Smith arrived in time for tea on Saturday afternoon.
He was a short and corpulent man, with a very large head and no
neck. In his earlier middle age he had been distressed by this
absence of neck, but was comforted by reading in Balzac's "Louis
Lambert" that all the world's great men have been marked by the
same peculiarity, and for a simple and obvious reason: Greatness
is nothing more nor less than the harmonious functioning of the
faculties of the head and heart; the shorter the neck, the more
closely these two organs approach one another; argal...It was

Mr. Barbecue-Smith belonged to the old school of journalists. He
sported a leonine head with a greyish-black mane of oddly
unappetising hair brushed back from a broad but low forehead.
And somehow he always seemed slightly, ever so slightly, soiled.
In younger days he had gaily called himself a Bohemian. He did
so no longer. He was a teacher now, a kind of prophet. Some of
his books of comfort and spiritual teaching were in their hundred
and twentieth thousand.

Priscilla received him with every mark of esteem. He had never
been to Crome before; she showed him round the house. Mr.
Barbecue-Smith was full of admiration.

"So quaint, so old-world," he kept repeating. He had a rich,
rather unctuous voice.

Priscilla praised his latest book. "Splendid, I thought it was,"
she said in her large, jolly way.

"I'm happy to think you found it a comfort," said Mr. Barbecue-

"Oh, tremendously! And the bit about the Lotus Pool--I thought
that so beautiful."

"I knew you would like that. It came to me, you know, from
without." He waved his hand to indicate the astral world.

They went out into the garden for tea. Mr. Barbecue-Smith was
duly introduced.

"Mr. Stone is a writer too," said Priscilla, as she introduced

"Indeed!" Mr. Barbecue-Smith smiled benignly, and, looking up at
Denis with an expression of Olympian condescension, "And what
sort of things do you write?"

Denis was furious, and, to make matters worse, he felt himself
blushing hotly. Had Priscilla no sense of proportion? She was
putting them in the same category--Barbecue-Smith and himself.
They were both writers, they both used pen and ink. To Mr.
Barbecue-Smith's question he answered, "Oh, nothing much,
nothing," and looked away.

"Mr. Stone is one of our younger poets." It was Anne's voice.
He scowled at her, and she smiled back exasperatingly.

"Excellent, excellent," said Mr. Barbecue-Smith, and he squeezed
Denis's arm encouragingly. "The Bard's is a noble calling."

As soon as tea was over Mr. Barbecue-Smith excused himself; he
had to do some writing before dinner. Priscilla quite
understood. The prophet retired to his chamber.

Mr. Barbecue-Smith came down to the drawing-room at ten to eight.
He was in a good humour, and, as he descended the stairs, he
smiled to himself and rubbed his large white hands together. In
the drawing-room someone was playing softly and ramblingly on the
piano. He wondered who it could be. One of the young ladies,
perhaps. But no, it was only Denis, who got up hurriedly and
with some embarrassment as he came into the room.

"Do go on, do go on," said Mr. Barbecue-Smith. "I am very fond
of music."

"Then I couldn't possibly go on," Denis replied. "I only make

There was a silence. Mr. Barbecue-Smith stood with his back to
the hearth, warming himself at the memory of last winter's fires.
He could not control his interior satisfaction, but still went on
smiling to himself. At last he turned to Denis.

"You write," he asked, "don't you?"

"Well, yes--a little, you know."

"How many words do you find you can write in an hour?"

"I don't think I've ever counted."

"Oh, you ought to, you ought to. It's most important."

Denis exercised his memory. "When I'm in good form," he said, "I
fancy I do a twelve-hundred-word review in about four hours. But
sometimes it takes me much longer."

Mr. Barbecue-Smith nodded. "Yes, three hundred words an hour at
your best." He walked out into the middle of the room, turned
round on his heels, and confronted Denis again. "Guess how many
words I wrote this evening between five and half-past seven."

"I can't imagine."

"No, but you must guess. Between five and half-past seven--
that's two and a half hours."

"Twelve hundred words," Denis hazarded.

"No, no, no." Mr. Barbecue-Smith's expanded face shone with
gaiety. "Try again."

"Fifteen hundred."


"I give it up," said Denis. He found he couldn't summon up much
interest in Mr. Barbecue-Smith's writing.

"Well, I'll tell you. Three thousand eight hundred."

Denis opened his eyes. "You must get a lot done in a day," he

Mr. Barbecue-Smith suddenly became extremely confidential. He
pulled up a stool to the side of Denis's arm-chair, sat down in
it, and began to talk softly and rapidly.

"Listen to me," he said, laying his hand on Denis's sleeve. "You
want to make your living by writing; you're young, you're
inexperienced. Let me give you a little sound advice."

What was the fellow going to do? Denis wondered: give him an
introduction to the editor of "John o' London's Weekly", or tell
him where he could sell a light middle for seven guineas? Mr.
Barbecue-Smith patted his arm several times and went on.

"The secret of writing," he said, breathing it into the young
man's ear--"the secret of writing is Inspiration."

Denis looked at him in astonishment.

"Inspiration..." Mr. Barbecue-Smith repeated.

"You mean the native wood-note business?"

Mr. Barbecue-Smith nodded.

"Oh, then I entirely agree with you," said Denis. "But what if
one hasn't got Inspiration?"

"That was precisely the question I was waiting for," said Mr.
Barbecue-Smith. "You ask me what one should do if one hasn't got
Inspiration. I answer: you have Inspiration; everyone has
Inspiration. It's simply a question of getting it to function."

The clock struck eight. There was no sign of any of the other
guests; everybody was always late at Crome. Mr. Barbecue-Smith
went on.

"That's my secret," he said. "I give it you freely." (Denis
made a suitably grateful murmur and grimace.) "I'll help you to
find your Inspiration, because I don't like to see a nice, steady
young man like you exhausting his vitality and wasting the best
years of his life in a grinding intellectual labour that could be
completely obviated by Inspiration. I did it myself, so I know
what it's like. Up till the time I was thirty-eight I was a
writer like you--a writer without Inspiration. All I wrote I
squeezed out of myself by sheer hard work. Why, in those days I
was never able to do more than six-fifty words an hour, and
what's more, I often didn't sell what I wrote." He sighed. "We
artists," he said parenthetically, "we intellectuals aren't much
appreciated here in England." Denis wondered if there was any
method, consistent, of course, with politeness, by which he could
dissociate himself from Mr. Barbecue-Smith's "we." There was
none; and besides, it was too late now, for Mr. Barbecue-Smith
was once more pursuing the tenor of his discourse.

"At thirty-eight I was a poor, struggling, tired, overworked,
unknown journalist. Now, at fifty..." He paused modestly and
made a little gesture, moving his fat hands outwards, away from
one another, and expanding his fingers as though in
demonstration. He was exhibiting himself. Denis thought of that
advertisement of Nestle's milk--the two cats on the wall, under
the moon, one black and thin, the other white, sleek, and fat.
Before Inspiration and after.

"Inspiration has made the difference," said Mr. Barbecue-Smith
solemnly. "It came quite suddenly--like a gentle dew from
heaven." He lifted his hand and let it fall back on to his knee
to indicate the descent of the dew. "It was one evening. I was
writing my first little book about the Conduct of Life--'Humble
Heroisms'. You may have read it; it has been a comfort--at least
I hope and think so--a comfort to many thousands. I was in the
middle of the second chapter, and I was stuck. Fatigue,
overwork--I had only written a hundred words in the last hour,
and I could get no further. I sat biting the end of my pen and
looking at the electric light, which hung above my table, a
little above and in front of me." He indicated the position of
the lamp with elaborate care. "Have you ever looked at a bright
light intently for a long time?" he asked, turning to Denis.
Denis didn't think he had. "You can hypnotise yourself that
way," Mr. Barbecue-Smith went on.

The gong sounded in a terrific crescendo from the hall. Still no
sign of the others. Denis was horribly hungry.

"That's what happened to me," said Mr. Barbecue-Smith. "I was
hypnotised. I lost consciousness like that." He snapped his
fingers. "When I came to, I found that it was past midnight, and
I had written four thousand words. Four thousand," he repeated,
opening his mouth very wide on the "ou" of thousand.
"Inspiration had come to me."

"What a very extraordinary thing," said Denis.

"I was afraid of it at first. It didn't seem to me natural. I
didn't feel, somehow, that it was quite right, quite fair, I
might almost say, to produce a literary composition
unconsciously. Besides, I was afraid I might have written

"And had you written nonsense?" Denis asked.

"Certainly not," Mr. Barbecue-Smith replied, with a trace of
annoyance. "Certainly not. It was admirable. Just a few
spelling mistakes and slips, such as there generally are in
automatic writing. But the style, the thought--all the
essentials were admirable. After that, Inspiration came to me
regularly. I wrote the whole of 'Humble Heroisms' like that. It
was a great success, and so has everything been that I have
written since." He leaned forward and jabbed at Denis with his
finger. "That's my secret," he said, "and that's how you could
write too, if you tried--without effort, fluently, well."

"But how?" asked Denis, trying not to show how deeply he had been
insulted by that final "well."

"By cultivating your Inspiration, by getting into touch with your
Subconscious. Have you ever read my little book, 'Pipe-Lines to
the Infinite'?"

Denis had to confess that that was, precisely, one of the few,
perhaps the only one, of Mr. Barbecue-Smith's works he had not

"Never mind, never mind," said Mr. Barbecue-Smith. "It's just a
little book about the connection of the Subconscious with the
Infinite. Get into touch with the Subconscious and you are in
touch with the Universe. Inspiration, in fact. You follow me?"

"Perfectly, perfectly," said Denis. "But don't you find that the
Universe sometimes sends you very irrelevant messages?"

"I don't allow it to," Mr. Barbecue-Smith replied. "I canalise
it. I bring it down through pipes to work the turbines of my
conscious mind."

"Like Niagara," Denis suggested. Some of Mr. Barbecue-Smith's
remarks sounded strangely like quotations--quotations from his
own works, no doubt.

"Precisely. Like Niagara. And this is how I do it." He leaned
forward, and with a raised forefinger marked his points as he
made them, beating time, as it were, to his discourse. "Before I
go off into my trance, I concentrate on the subject I wish to be
inspired about. Let us say I am writing about the humble
heroisms; for ten minutes before I go into the trance I think of
nothing but orphans supporting their little brothers and sisters,
of dull work well and patiently done, and I focus my mind on such
great philosophical truths as the purification and uplifting of
the soul by suffering, and the alchemical transformation of
leaden evil into golden good." (Denis again hung up his little
festoon of quotation marks.) "Then I pop off. Two or three
hours later I wake up again, and find that inspiration has done
its work. Thousands of words, comforting, uplifting words, lie
before me. I type them out neatly on my machine and they are
ready for the printer."

"It all sounds wonderfully simple," said Denis.

"It is. All the great and splendid and divine things of life are
wonderfully simple." (Quotation marks again.) "When I have to
do my aphorisms," Mr. Barbecue-Smith continued, "I prelude my
trance by turning over the pages of any Dictionary of Quotations
or Shakespeare Calendar that comes to hand. That sets the key,
so to speak; that ensures that the Universe shall come flowing
in, not in a continuous rush, but in aphorismic drops. You see
the idea?"

Denis nodded. Mr. Barbecue-Smith put his hand in his pocket and
pulled out a notebook. "I did a few in the train to-day," he
said, turning over the pages. "Just dropped off into a trance in
the corner of my carriage. I find the train very conducive to
good work. Here they are." He cleared his throat and read:

"The Mountain Road may be steep, but the air is pure up there,
and it is from the Summit that one gets the view."

"The Things that Really Matter happen in the Heart."

It was curious, Denis reflected, the way the Infinite sometimes
repeated itself.

"Seeing is Believing. Yes, but Believing is also Seeing. If I
believe in God, I see God, even in the things that seem to be

Mr. Barbecue-Smith looked up from his notebook. "That last one,"
he said, "is particularly subtle and beautiful, don't you think?
Without Inspiration I could never have hit on that." He re-read
the apophthegm with a slower and more solemn utterance.
"Straight from the Infinite," he commented reflectively, then
addressed himself to the next aphorism.

"The flame of a candle gives Light, but it also Burns."

Puzzled wrinkles appeared on Mr. Barbecue-Smith's forehead. "I
don't exactly know what that means," he said. "It's very gnomic.
One could apply it, of course to the Higher Education--
illuminating, but provoking the Lower Classes to discontent and
revolution. Yes, I suppose that's what it is. But it's gnomic,
it's gnomic." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. The gong sounded
again, clamorously, it seemed imploringly: dinner was growing
cold. It roused Mr. Barbecue-Smith from meditation. He turned
to Denis.

"You understand me now when I advise you to cultivate your
Inspiration. Let your Subconscious work for you; turn on the
Niagara of the Infinite."

There was the sound of feet on the stairs. Mr. Barbecue-Smith
got up, laid his hand for an instant on Denis's shoulder, and

"No more now. Another time. And remember, I rely absolutely on
your discretion in this matter. There are intimate, sacred
things that one doesn't wish to be generally known."

"Of course," said Denis. "I quite understand."

Aldous Huxley

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