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| New York : Smith and Hass, 1933 |
"We could go away to Mont-St.-Michel," said Ayton softly. "We could go away together."
"You've gone off too many times," said Munday bitterly. And here was the truth of all his preaching, he thought suddenly in anguish. He was shamed now by the revelation, but now it was too late to falter. "I can't bear to think of you having no choice or discrimination. You've gone off with too many people. You have no pride."
"But a strong man," said Ayton humbly, and he drew nearer, "could teach me pride, Munday."
The little man came close to him, and if he moved a finger, thought Munday, his own pride would shatter like crystal. He stood looking down for courage upon the pure flight of keys.
"We could go off together," said Ayton, "it would be like a pilgrimage together. I would go humbly to the church, very humble, and very grateful for the good that you'll bring to my soul."
"You've gone off too many times," said Munday again.
"But never with you," said Ayton.
"No, never with me," said Munday, but he knew the tower of strength was crumbling in him. It was Ayton who moved, who took up his hand and embraced it; he felt the warm childish lips pressed wildly on his flesh.
"I want to be saved," Ayton cried out, and he fell on his knees before him. "I can't be damned forever, I'm not an evil man," he said. "I have to be saved, Munday, and it's only you that can save me. I want to be by you always, I want to live my life with you."
"How many times have you said that before?" said Munday, and his voice was wrung small and strange in his throat.
"But never to you!" cried Ayton.
"No, never to me," said Munday in torment. "But now you have said this to me, Ayton, now you have said those words to me."
He saw the little man's face turned up to him in wonder, and he put out his hands to him, whispering in torment, and followed blindly where he led.
(1st edition (1933), p.105-6)
In 1991, a revised edition of Gentlemen, I Address You Privately was released by Capra Press. Ms. Boyle had completed the revised text shortly before her death. One key change is the transposition of chapters two and three. Apparently, reversed in the original edition, this change corrects an obvious continuity issue within the story. According to a note in the new edition, she had always wanted to revisit this text as she felt that her younger self had 'over-written' it. It's easy to see that she has tightened up the language and removed much of its floweriness (although I rather prefer the floweriness). Part of her discomfort with the original edition may have been due to how open it was, which can particularly be seen in the following passage. In this scene, Munday and Ayton are preparing the ground for planting on Quespelle's farm where they are hiding from the authorities. I've included the quote from the 1933 edition, followed by a conflated quote with strikethroughs showing excisions of the 1933 text and bold red text showing additions from the 1991 text and finally the quote as it appears in the revised 1991 edition.
(1st edition, 1933)
Munday thrust his spade into the ground, and slowly turned the clots over: deep to the hilt with his foot borne down on the rim, as Ayton had shown him. The earth was rich and full of promise, unused, youthful earth that, for all they knew, had never been sown before. But everything was halted in his body, as though a heavy hand had been laid upon him. A great weight of spring had fallen far and near, and Munday could no longer hasten. He learned to cast the rocks out with his hands, slowly, endlessly striking and turning the soil.
It was Ayton's strong rhythmic action, he thought, that made his own seem labored. The man moved from tree to tree, dividing his work between two trunks in this fashion, driving deep and pitching out the clumps as though he were devouring the soil. Even the spread and grip of his legs, planted wide and balancing the iron power, seemed braced for subduing an element that ran between. He was no ordinary man preparing the soil for growth, but a wild master of mount, and man, and weather, riding hard the untamed mustang that strained between his thighs.
(1st edition (1933), p.178-9)
(Conflated, 1933 & 1991)
Munday thrust his spade into the ground, and slowly turned the clots over: deep to the hilt it went with his foot
It was perhaps Ayton's strong rhythmic action
It was the supreme authority in Ayton's flesh that humbled Munday, this appalling, almost brutal power of the penetration into the land. Each thrust of the shovel gave increased fervor to his impassioned advance, and in the end he would have the whole universe, clump on clump, uprooted and turned to fallow land. He had no time for speech, no time to turn his head toward Munday. The urgency of every fiber of his being drove each thrust to the subduing of the earth, yet he was still not appeased when each attack was through.
(1st edition (1933), p.178-9 & Revised edition (1991), p.119)
(Revised edition, 1991)
Munday thrust his spade into the ground, and slowly turned the clots over: deep to the hilt it went with his foot pressing down on the rim, as Ayton had shown him. The earth was rich and full of promise, unused, virgin soil that, for all they knew, had never been sown before. But everything was halted in his body, as though a heavy hand had been laid upon him. The great weight of spring seemed to have fallen far and wide, and Munday found it difficult to make haste. Now and then he leaned over to cast the rocks aside, and then returned to endlessly turning the soil.
It was perhaps Ayton's strong, rhythmic action that made his own seem labored. The man moved from tree to tree, pursuing his work between two trunks and pitching out the clumps of earth, he and his spade seeming to devour the soil. The spread and grip of his legs, planted wide and balancing his weight, were braced for subduing whatever stood in the way. He was no ordinary workman preparing the soil for growth, but a master of all men and of all seasons of the year.
It was the supreme authority in Ayton's flesh that humbled Munday, this appalling, almost brutal power of the penetration into the land. Each thrust of the shovel gave increased fervor to his impassioned advance, and in the end he would have the whole universe, clump on clump, uprooted and turned to fallow land. He had no time for speech, no time to turn his head toward Munday. The urgency of every fiber of his being drove each thrust to the subduing of the earth, yet he was still not appeased when each attack was through.
(Revised edition (1991), p.119)
Bibliographies & Ratings: Cory (IV); Garde (Primary, *); Mattachine Review (IV); Young (387)
