The Critics

‘The Critics,’ (1922) is recognised as one of Harold Harvey’s best interior scenes.

“Where did you say you got this?”  The speaker, Gertrude, was slumped in her usual languorous pose, one arm draped over the back of her straight-back chair, affecting her usual insouciance.  She held her eyes on the manuscript in front of her as she spoke.

Elspeth, sitting catty-corner at the end of the table, chin resting in her hands, replied, “It came by post, the other day.  From Canada, of all places!  I thought it might be amusing for our ladies’ book club to read something from the colonies.”

“Who is the writer” Gertrude asked.

“His covering letter was signed B. Burt, Esq.,” Elspeth said.  “He fancies himself a gentleman, at least.  Beyond that, I know nothing of him, save his return address.”

Ella, who had not bothered to remove her hat, was standing with her hands on Gertrude’s shoulders, squinting slightly to read the manuscript, impatient for her turn.  “Whatever possessed the man to send it to you, I wonder?”

“His letter professes an acquaintance with my cousin, Jeremy, who, as you may recall, spent several years in Canada during the war.  Apparently, dear Jeremy told him all about our literary salon, and encouraged him to send along some of his work.  I wanted to share it with the two of you before recommending it to the other ladies.”

“Has Jeremy vouched for him?” Ella enquired.

Both Gertrude and Ella, spinsters at the advanced age of thirty-six, were more than slightly enamored of Elspeth’s cousin, an eligible bachelor—although one who had shown no overt interest in marriage, given he had no lack of female company.  Not yet desperate enough to be each other’s rivals for his attentions, Gertrude and Ella were nonetheless aware of their mutual interest in the man.  Jeremy’s abrupt departure for Canada in 1914 to avoid fighting the Kaiser’s hordes had tarnished his reputation, but his money had held its lustre upon his return.

“Alas, he is travelling on the continent,” Elspeth said, herself comfortably married to a much older pillar of the London banking community.  “But I see no reason to doubt Mr. Burt’s assertion.  Surely he would be too clever to falsely claim a relationship that I could so easily disprove.”

“His script is lovely, at least,” Gertrude said, finished the first page, passing it over her shoulder where Ella eagerly accepted it.  “He is obviously well-educated to write in such a flowing hand.”

“He must have attended a British school at some point,” Ella said knowingly, taking another chair.  “Perhaps his family emigrated from here.  Do we know any Burt families of substance?”

The table around which they sat was adorned with a bowl of colourful posies in the centre, a dish of nuts, and assorted teacups and sherry glasses, all reflecting in the polished walnut.  A small box of biscuits was open beside Elspeth.  The drawing room was well-lit from a large window behind her.

“There is a Burt family of brewers,” Elspeth said, “but they would hardly be of accepted social standing.”

“Wealth and social standing do not always go hand in hand,” Gertrude observed as she handed the second page of the manuscript to Ella.  “But one does often lead to the other, opening doors as it were.  Our Canadian author here may be harbouring ambitions to translate his family’s pecuniary means to one of elevated influence.”

“Well, God preserve him if he thinks our ladies’ literary salon can do that for him,” Elspeth laughed gaily.  “And let’s face it, he may be nothing more than a poseur.  In his letter, he asked—assuming we like his work—if we might consider recommending the manuscript to a publishing house.  He obviously thinks we’re well-connected.”

“The only people named Burt I know of are servants or shopkeepers,” Gertrude sniffed.  “I should have to know more about the man before I would recommend him to anyone.”

“Well, enough about him and his personal provenance,” Elspeth said.  “What is your opinion of what he has written?”

“It is certainly saucy,” Ella said, her cheeks blushing more than usual.  “I’m not sure I would want dear Mama to know I’m reading such lurid prose.”

Gertrude handed over the third page before responding.  “Your mother has forgotten more, I’m sure, than you shall ever know about such matters, my dear.”  Then, careful that no offense would be taken, she added, “She is one of the most liberated women it has been my pleasure to know.”

Ella was too engrossed in her reading to consider if a slight was intended, but Elspeth said, “I wonder if sex is so casual a topic among the colonials as Mr. Burt represents it in his writing?  Are Canadian men and women such heathens as to speak so openly of these matters to each other?  I can’t imagine it.”

“No,” Gertrude agreed, “nor can I.  And neither can I recommend that we ask the other ladies of our group to read this manuscript.  It is altogether too raw, too common, too…well, bawdy, if I really must say it.”  She handed the final page to Ella.

“Well, if we are all in agreement, then that is what we shall do,” Elspeth said.  “I shall see that the manuscript is safely dispatched, and we shall continue to search for something more appropriate for our next full meeting.”

As the three women stood to leave, Gertrude reached for the pages lying akimbo on the table.  Clutching them firmly in her hand, she said, “Before you have them destroyed, I should like to give them one more perusal.”  Before anyone could object, she said,  “You know, just in case I might have misjudged the man and his intentions.”

“In that case,” Ella declared, “I insist that you pass them along to me when you are finished.  I do think the very rapid reading I gave them today was altogether too brief to render an objective opinion.”

None of the women had the temerity to look directly at each other as Elspeth ushered them to the door.

_{© J. Bradley Burt 2021}