want to show you, Andy pet, is that you’ve got to keep your chin up. Life’s nothing but a succession of kicks in the jaw, anyway.”
Anderson joggled the beer in his glass. “What else have I got to worry about?” he asked Wyvern.
“Eh?”
“You said partly my wife. What’s the other part of my worry?”
Wyvern bent his narrow head forward until Anderson saw, fascinated, the small pockmarks and blemishes in the sallow skin “Somebody’s whispering things in the office. Somebody’s saying you’re slipping and need a rest.”
“Who’s saying that?” Anderson was surprised by the sharpness of his own voice.
“A little birdie told me.” Wyvern put his head to one side. “I’d look out on this shave-me-quick account if I were you.”
“Rev suggested I should handle it.”
“Good old Rev, dear old Rev.” Wyvern’s smile was lopsided. “Know what he said to me the other day, with his pipe sticking out of his mouth. ‘Andy’s a good scout – puff puff – but he doesn’t quite – puff puff – believe in his work.’ When Rev says you’re not believing in your work, boy, that’s the time to look out.”
“But how can you believe in your work?” Molly asked. “You can only do it. Don’t tell me VV and Rev believe the stuff that goes in their own advertisements.”
“I know what they mean,” Anderson said. He remembered Rev’s head by the side of VV’s, the sombre faces quickly changing to false geniality.
“You not only know what they mean; you know they’re right.” Wyvern tapped a nicotine-stained finger on the dirty knee of his trousers. “You want to be a successful advertising man. All right. You’ve got to be able to draw or write a bit. But that’s not much. You’ve got to be intelligent, so that you see it’s parasitic, you see it’s a bloody fleecing of the public. All right. But that’s not all. In fact, that’s not much. Because then you’ve got to believe it all while you’re working on it. You’ve got to believe that Crunchy-Munch is the most nutritious and delicious chocolate bar ever made, that Kiddy Modes really make the best baby clothes. That some stinking patent medicine which can be made for a penny a bottle is really a remedy for physical states that should he treated by a doctor, that this bloody little device for avoiding shaving in the morning is something that can revolutionise people’s lives. And it’s because he can see through advertising and be deceived by it at the same time that VV’s a bloody perfect advertising man.” He ordered more beer.
“What about you?” Anderson said. “I’ve never noticed you showing much belief in blessings of advertising.”
“Don’t talk about me,” Wyvern cried in a passion of delighted frustration. “I’m no advertising man. I’m just a painter who took to commercial hack work because he had to keep his mother. And Molly is just doing a job. We don’t have to believe; we aren’t inside the charmed circle. I can afford a bit of irresponsibility, a few drinks too many, dirty trousers and an old jacket. But you’re different, Andy boy, you’re it . You’re the next best thing to a director. You talk to clients and soothe them down. You’re a big boy, not just a technician like Molly and me. You’re all set for your directorship if Rev doesn’t trip you up before you get it. You’ve got to wear that black hat, you’ve got to be serious. I can stay silent in a conference if I want to, but you’ve got to have an opinion of everything. In short,” Wyvern croaked happily, “if you want to be saved you’ve got to believe.”
Anderson drank his beer, ordered another round, and argued it out as he was expected to argue it out. The same discussion, he reflected, was going on between hundreds of advertising men over lunch-time drinks. Dozens of commercial artists were blaming the mothers or wives or children who had made them take the road to commercialism instead of the road to high art, a
Anderson joggled the beer in his glass. “What else have I got to worry about?” he asked Wyvern.
“Eh?”
“You said partly my wife. What’s the other part of my worry?”
Wyvern bent his narrow head forward until Anderson saw, fascinated, the small pockmarks and blemishes in the sallow skin “Somebody’s whispering things in the office. Somebody’s saying you’re slipping and need a rest.”
“Who’s saying that?” Anderson was surprised by the sharpness of his own voice.
“A little birdie told me.” Wyvern put his head to one side. “I’d look out on this shave-me-quick account if I were you.”
“Rev suggested I should handle it.”
“Good old Rev, dear old Rev.” Wyvern’s smile was lopsided. “Know what he said to me the other day, with his pipe sticking out of his mouth. ‘Andy’s a good scout – puff puff – but he doesn’t quite – puff puff – believe in his work.’ When Rev says you’re not believing in your work, boy, that’s the time to look out.”
“But how can you believe in your work?” Molly asked. “You can only do it. Don’t tell me VV and Rev believe the stuff that goes in their own advertisements.”
“I know what they mean,” Anderson said. He remembered Rev’s head by the side of VV’s, the sombre faces quickly changing to false geniality.
“You not only know what they mean; you know they’re right.” Wyvern tapped a nicotine-stained finger on the dirty knee of his trousers. “You want to be a successful advertising man. All right. You’ve got to be able to draw or write a bit. But that’s not much. You’ve got to be intelligent, so that you see it’s parasitic, you see it’s a bloody fleecing of the public. All right. But that’s not all. In fact, that’s not much. Because then you’ve got to believe it all while you’re working on it. You’ve got to believe that Crunchy-Munch is the most nutritious and delicious chocolate bar ever made, that Kiddy Modes really make the best baby clothes. That some stinking patent medicine which can be made for a penny a bottle is really a remedy for physical states that should he treated by a doctor, that this bloody little device for avoiding shaving in the morning is something that can revolutionise people’s lives. And it’s because he can see through advertising and be deceived by it at the same time that VV’s a bloody perfect advertising man.” He ordered more beer.
“What about you?” Anderson said. “I’ve never noticed you showing much belief in blessings of advertising.”
“Don’t talk about me,” Wyvern cried in a passion of delighted frustration. “I’m no advertising man. I’m just a painter who took to commercial hack work because he had to keep his mother. And Molly is just doing a job. We don’t have to believe; we aren’t inside the charmed circle. I can afford a bit of irresponsibility, a few drinks too many, dirty trousers and an old jacket. But you’re different, Andy boy, you’re it . You’re the next best thing to a director. You talk to clients and soothe them down. You’re a big boy, not just a technician like Molly and me. You’re all set for your directorship if Rev doesn’t trip you up before you get it. You’ve got to wear that black hat, you’ve got to be serious. I can stay silent in a conference if I want to, but you’ve got to have an opinion of everything. In short,” Wyvern croaked happily, “if you want to be saved you’ve got to believe.”
Anderson drank his beer, ordered another round, and argued it out as he was expected to argue it out. The same discussion, he reflected, was going on between hundreds of advertising men over lunch-time drinks. Dozens of commercial artists were blaming the mothers or wives or children who had made them take the road to commercialism instead of the road to high art, a
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