30 / CHRONICLESnWhat sort of inner person, I wondered, was behind all thatn”turning, turning, / In mazes of heat and sound”? Apparentlyna tantalizing and very human bundle of contradictions:nHer worldly delight in social pleasures and activitiesn(said Sir Sidney Lee) seemed to be combined with anmystical conviction of their hoUowness and futility. Innspite of marked business aptitude and a capacity tonmake money, she spent more than she could afford,nand failed to husband her resources. With her sincerendevotion to the creed of her adoption, there went andeep despondency … in painful contrast with hernvivacity in social intercourse. . . . Her sensitiveness toncriticism and her eagerness to defend hernwork . . . against public censure are hard to reconcilenwith her claim to be treated as an idealist. . . . Shenwas more ambitious of the reputation of a seriousnthinker than of a witty novelist.nIf only I could meet her son! I thought—the ColonelnCraigie who had put the Hobbes materials in Sotheby’s hands.nWhen he didn’t appear at the auction (“He’s frail,” Sotheby’snsaid, “a kind of recluse”), I wrote him a timorous note, whichnSotheby’s forwarded.nSuddenly there he was on my hotel telephone, calling fromnsomewhere in Hampshire, his voice happily tremulous, apologizingnfor not coming to London “straight away” (“I’m just outnof hospital, you see”), urging me to come to see him innPreston-Candover.nTwo days later I spent several intense hours virtually in PearlnCraigie’s company, so alive was she still to the handsome,ncourtly, fiery, and humorous old man who had never ceased tonadore her. “I’m 76, you know,” he said as he guided me intonthe living room, “exactly twice her age when she died.” Thennhe burst out, “Thirty-eight! Only thirty-eight! It should havenbeen me!” Pictures of every size from formal portrait tonminiature, mostly of her, some of him, covered the living-roomnwalls, mantel, and tabletops. “She was a little bit of a thing, younknow, about your size,” he said, looking down on the top of mynhead as he handed me a sherry before seating me in front ofnthe fire. After a few minutes his wife joined us. Whatever Inasked, he answered eagerly. Sometimes he laughed, sometimesnpaced the room, sometimes sat quietly, head high, brownneyes—so like hers! — gazing beyond the wall, back more thann60 years; sometimes he looked hard at me with eyes full ofntears.nHe told me, first of all, about the shock of learning, at nearlyn16, of his mother’s death. And the cause? “She killed herself. Infeel sure of it. She was terribly upset when she left us. She tookntoo many sleeping pills. And no wonder.” Several long strainsnin her life had become excruciating: poor health, constantnwork, financial anxieties (she supported herself and her childnwith her writing and lecturing), difficult relationships with bothnher parents—her beloved, moody “comic millionaire father,”ncontinually on the verge of bankruptcy, and her eccentric,nincreasingly mad and maddening mother. When I broachednthe subject of her marriage and divorce, he said, “It was a lovenmatch. They were happy at first.” Then he was silent. “Hadn’tnyou better spill the beans, love?” his wife said softly. Henhesitated a little. “Well, yes . . . but,” and looking solemnlyninto my eyes, “this must go no further.” I promised that itnwouldn’t. And he told me a shocking fact about his fathernnn(which I have never seen publicized and have never told).nWhen his mother, then pregnant, had learned the situation,nshe was terrified. “She rode horseback recklessly. Just think!nShe tried to get rid of me!” The Colonel’s revelation explainednthe reticence and disgust in The Times report of the divorcenand filled me with compassion for the young woman who, withnthe baby and his nurse, had fled from her husband andnannounced to her father, on his doorstep, “I will never set footnin my husband’s house again.” Indeed it illuminated as nothingnelse could have done the whole future course of Pearl Craigie’snlife.nWas George Moore right about her hoping to marry LordnCurzon? “Certainly not!” Did she ever consider remarrying?n”Only once, I believe. The painter, Walter Sickert. But shenwas determined not to let anyone pay her debts for her.”nBesides, remarriage would have conflicted with her RomannCatholicism and so with her conscience.nAbout the relationship between his mother and himself, thenColonel spoke with special delight and poignancy. “Before Inwent to Eton we were never apart for long. Do you know, Inslept in my mother’s bedroom until I was 10 years old!”nThrough all his years at Eton she wrote to him nearly everynday—tender, humorous letters. He loved her visits. “She wasnso lovely! I was so proud of her!” When he returned home fornholidays, he would bound up the stairs to her. Her sense of fun,nher humor, never failed her. “Mother taught me religion. Shendid even that with humor.” He recalled with particularnimmediacy being in a box at St. James’s Theatre, in his eighthnyear, for the opening night of John Oliver Hobbes’s play ThenAmbassador (1898). At the final curtain, the audience clappednand called “Author! Author!” Finally his mother—petite andnelegant in white satin—walked onto the stage. The audiencenwas quiet, baffled. Then someone called out, “Oh, prettynJohn! pretty John!” and amid general delight, the clappingnbroke out anew.nAt last, with my taxi at the door, the Colonel handed menZoe Procter’s (Mrs. Craigie’s secretary’s) privately printednautobiography (“It’s hard to find. Borrow mine! Just drop it offnat my club!”) and then, sweeping up the three late letters of hisnmother’s that he had been showing me (too precious to give tonSotheby’s), he put them, too, in my hands, saying, “Keepnthem! I want someone kind to write about my mother!” Thennhe kissed me on the cheek and, as his wife led me to the door,ncalled “Good-bye! Bless you!”nHow could I not feel committed to such a trust? But, alas,nafter a few zealous days in London libraries and bookshops, Inwas back in the United States, unavoidably bound to otherntasks, and once more — except for tracing and buying hernbooks, which had long been out of print — “the dream” had tonyield to “the business.”nWhen, nearly 20 years later, I finally opened the box innwhich I had stored my Craigie books and papers, I had to facenthe question: What if—however interesting Pearl Craigienherself—her works (which I had still not read) actually deserventheir oblivion? Temporarily ignoring her plays, I plunged intonher novels, resolutely unbiased.nWith the first that I read, her final one. The Dream and thenBusiness (1906), excitement banished doubt. Then all the restnfueled my enthusiasm. Here was treasure! — a variety of fresh,ncompelling “good reads” in pure, graceful prose; a world ofnlive and fascinating men and women; and throughout, an