diff options
Diffstat (limited to 'old')
| -rw-r--r-- | old/1306-0.txt | 4103 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/1306-0.zip | bin | 0 -> 84594 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/1306-h.zip | bin | 0 -> 88629 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/1306-h/1306-h.htm | 4516 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/1306.txt | 4102 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/1306.zip | bin | 0 -> 84015 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/old/svnmn10.txt | 4141 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/old/svnmn10.zip | bin | 0 -> 82181 bytes |
8 files changed, 16862 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/old/1306-0.txt b/old/1306-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a57e7db --- /dev/null +++ b/old/1306-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4103 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Seven Men, by Max Beerbohm + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Seven Men + +Author: Max Beerbohm + +Posting Date: September 15, 2008 [EBook #1306] +Release Date: May, 1998 +Last Updated: October 18, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SEVEN MEN *** + + + + +Produced by Tom Weiss + + + + + + + + + +SEVEN MEN + +by Max Beerbohm + + + + + Transcriber’s Note: + From the version of “Seven Men” published in 1919 by William + Heinemann (London). Two of the stories have been omitted + (“James Pethel” and “A.V. Laider”) since they are available + separately from Project Gutenberg. + + In this plain ASCII version, emphasis and syllable + stress italics have been converted to capitals; foreign italics and accents + have been removed + + In “Enoch Soames:” + I added a missing closing quotation mark in the following + phrase: ‘Ten past two,’ he said. + + In “Hilary Maltby and Stephen Braxton:” + I changed the opening double quote to a single quote in: + ‘I wondered what old Mr. Abraham Hayward... + and + ‘I knew that if I leaned forward... + + + + +ENOCH SOAMES + + + + +When a book about the literature of the eighteen-nineties was given by +Mr. Holbrook Jackson to the world, I looked eagerly in the index for +SOAMES, ENOCH. I had feared he would not be there. He was not there. +But everybody else was. Many writers whom I had quite forgotten, or +remembered but faintly, lived again for me, they and their work, in Mr. +Holbrook Jackson’s pages. The book was as thorough as it was brilliantly +written. And thus the omission found by me was an all the deadlier +record of poor Soames’ failure to impress himself on his decade. + +I daresay I am the only person who noticed the omission. Soames had +failed so piteously as all that! Nor is there a counterpoise in the +thought that if he had had some measure of success he might have passed, +like those others, out of my mind, to return only at the historian’s +beck. It is true that had his gifts, such as they were, been +acknowledged in his life-time, he would never have made the bargain I +saw him make--that strange bargain whose results have kept him always in +the foreground of my memory. But it is from those very results that the +full piteousness of him glares out. + +Not my compassion, however, impels me to write of him. For his sake, +poor fellow, I should be inclined to keep my pen out of the ink. It is +ill to deride the dead. And how can I write about Enoch Soames without +making him ridiculous? Or rather, how am I to hush up the horrid fact +that he WAS ridiculous? I shall not be able to do that. Yet, sooner or +later, write about him I must. You will see, in due course, that I have +no option. And I may as well get the thing done now. + + +In the Summer Term of ‘93 a bolt from the blue flashed down on Oxford. +It drove deep, it hurtlingly embedded itself in the soil. Dons and +undergraduates stood around, rather pale, discussing nothing but it. +Whence came it, this meteorite? From Paris. Its name? Will Rothenstein. +Its aim? To do a series of twenty-four portraits in lithograph. These +were to be published from the Bodley Head, London. The matter was +urgent. Already the Warden of A, and the Master of B, and the Regius +Professor of C, had meekly ‘sat.’ Dignified and doddering old men, who +had never consented to sit to any one, could not withstand this dynamic +little stranger. He did not sue: he invited; he did not invite: he +commanded. He was twenty-one years old. He wore spectacles that flashed +more than any other pair ever seen. He was a wit. He was brimful of +ideas. He knew Whistler. He knew Edmond de Goncourt. He knew every one +in Paris. He knew them all by heart. He was Paris in Oxford. It was +whispered that, so soon as he had polished off his selection of dons, +he was going to include a few undergraduates. It was a proud day for me +when I--I--was included. I liked Rothenstein not less than I feared him; +and there arose between us a friendship that has grown ever warmer, and +been more and more valued by me, with every passing year. + +At the end of Term he settled in--or rather, meteoritically +into--London. It was to him I owed my first knowledge of that forever +enchanting little world-in-itself, Chelsea, and my first acquaintance +with Walter Sickert and other august elders who dwelt there. It was +Rothenstein that took me to see, in Cambridge Street, Pimlico, a young +man whose drawings were already famous among the few--Aubrey Beardsley, +by name. With Rothenstein I paid my first visit to the Bodley Head. +By him I was inducted into another haunt of intellect and daring, the +domino room of the Cafe Royal. + +There, on that October evening--there, in that exuberant vista of +gilding and crimson velvet set amidst all those opposing mirrors and +upholding caryatids, with fumes of tobacco ever rising to the painted +and pagan ceiling, and with the hum of presumably cynical conversation +broken into so sharply now and again by the clatter of dominoes shuffled +on marble tables, I drew a deep breath, and ‘This indeed,’ said I to +myself, ‘is life!’ + +It was the hour before dinner. We drank vermouth. Those who knew +Rothenstein were pointing him out to those who knew him only by name. +Men were constantly coming in through the swing-doors and wandering +slowly up and down in search of vacant tables, or of tables occupied by +friends. One of these rovers interested me because I was sure he wanted +to catch Rothenstein’s eye. He had twice passed our table, with a +hesitating look; but Rothenstein, in the thick of a disquisition on +Puvis de Chavannes, had not seen him. He was a stooping, shambling +person, rather tall, very pale, with longish and brownish hair. He had +a thin vague beard--or rather, he had a chin on which a large number +of hairs weakly curled and clustered to cover its retreat. He was an +odd-looking person; but in the ‘nineties odd apparitions were more +frequent, I think, than they are now. The young writers of that era--and +I was sure this man was a writer--strove earnestly to be distinct in +aspect. This man had striven unsuccessfully. He wore a soft black hat +of clerical kind but of Bohemian intention, and a grey waterproof cape +which, perhaps because it was waterproof, failed to be romantic. I +decided that ‘dim’ was the mot juste for him. I had already essayed to +write, and was immensely keen on the mot juste, that Holy Grail of the +period. + +The dim man was now again approaching our table, and this time he made +up his mind to pause in front of it. ‘You don’t remember me,’ he said in +a toneless voice. + +Rothenstein brightly focussed him. ‘Yes, I do,’ he replied after a +moment, with pride rather than effusion--pride in a retentive memory. +‘Edwin Soames.’ + +‘Enoch Soames,’ said Enoch. + +‘Enoch Soames,’ repeated Rothenstein in a tone implying that it was +enough to have hit on the surname. ‘We met in Paris two or three times +when you were living there. We met at the Cafe Groche.’ + +‘And I came to your studio once.’ + +‘Oh yes; I was sorry I was out.’ + +‘But you were in. You showed me some of your paintings, you know.... I +hear you’re in Chelsea now.’ + +‘Yes.’ + +I almost wondered that Mr. Soames did not, after this monosyllable, pass +along. He stood patiently there, rather like a dumb animal, rather like +a donkey looking over a gate. A sad figure, his. It occurred to me that +‘hungry’ was perhaps the mot juste for him; but--hungry for what? He +looked as if he had little appetite for anything. I was sorry for him; +and Rothenstein, though he had not invited him to Chelsea, did ask him +to sit down and have something to drink. + +Seated, he was more self-assertive. He flung back the wings of his cape +with a gesture which--had not those wings been waterproof--might +have seemed to hurl defiance at things in general. And he ordered an +absinthe. ‘Je me tiens toujours fidele,’ he told Rothenstein, ‘a la +sorciere glauque.’ + +‘It is bad for you,’ said Rothenstein dryly. + +‘Nothing is bad for one,’ answered Soames. ‘Dans ce monde il n’y a ni de +bien ni de mal.’ + +‘Nothing good and nothing bad? How do you mean?’ + +‘I explained it all in the preface to “Negations.”’ + +‘“Negations”?’ + +‘Yes; I gave you a copy of it.’ + +‘Oh yes, of course. But did you explain--for instance--that there was no +such thing as bad or good grammar?’ + +‘N-no,’ said Soames. ‘Of course in Art there is the good and the evil. +But in Life--no.’ He was rolling a cigarette. He had weak white hands, +not well washed, and with finger-tips much stained by nicotine. ‘In Life +there are illusions of good and evil, but’--his voice trailed away to a +murmur in which the words ‘vieux jeu’ and ‘rococo’ were faintly audible. +I think he felt he was not doing himself justice, and feared that +Rothenstein was going to point out fallacies. Anyhow, he cleared his +throat and said ‘Parlons d’autre chose.’ + +It occurs to you that he was a fool? It didn’t to me. I was young, and +had not the clarity of judgment that Rothenstein already had. Soames was +quite five or six years older than either of us. Also, he had written a +book. + +It was wonderful to have written a book. + +If Rothenstein had not been there, I should have revered Soames. Even as +it was, I respected him. And I was very near indeed to reverence when +he said he had another book coming out soon. I asked if I might ask what +kind of book it was to be. + +‘My poems,’ he answered. Rothenstein asked if this was to be the title +of the book. The poet meditated on this suggestion, but said he rather +thought of giving the book no title at all. ‘If a book is good in +itself--’ he murmured, waving his cigarette. + +Rothenstein objected that absence of title might be bad for the sale +of a book. ‘If,’ he urged, ‘I went into a bookseller’s and said simply +“Have you got?” or “Have you a copy of?” how would they know what I +wanted?’ + +‘Oh, of course I should have my name on the cover,’ Soames answered +earnestly. ‘And I rather want,’ he added, looking hard at Rothenstein, +‘to have a drawing of myself as frontispiece.’ Rothenstein admitted +that this was a capital idea, and mentioned that he was going into the +country and would be there for some time. He then looked at his watch, +exclaimed at the hour, paid the waiter, and went away with me to dinner. +Soames remained at his post of fidelity to the glaucous witch. + +‘Why were you so determined not to draw him?’ I asked. + +‘Draw him? Him? How can one draw a man who doesn’t exist?’ + +‘He is dim,’ I admitted. But my mot juste fell flat. Rothenstein +repeated that Soames was non-existent. + +Still, Soames had written a book. I asked if Rothenstein had read +‘Negations.’ He said he had looked into it, ‘but,’ he added crisply, +‘I don’t profess to know anything about writing.’ A reservation very +characteristic of the period! Painters would not then allow that any one +outside their own order had a right to any opinion about painting. This +law (graven on the tablets brought down by Whistler from the summit of +Fujiyama) imposed certain limitations. If other arts than painting were +not utterly unintelligible to all but the men who practised them, +the law tottered--the Monroe Doctrine, as it were, did not hold good. +Therefore no painter would offer an opinion of a book without warning +you at any rate that his opinion was worthless. No one is a better judge +of literature than Rothenstein; but it wouldn’t have done to tell him +so in those days; and I knew that I must form an unaided judgment on +‘Negations.’ + +Not to buy a book of which I had met the author face to face would +have been for me in those days an impossible act of self-denial. When +I returned to Oxford for the Christmas Term I had duly secured +‘Negations.’ I used to keep it lying carelessly on the table in my room, +and whenever a friend took it up and asked what it was about I would +say ‘Oh, it’s rather a remarkable book. It’s by a man whom I know.’ Just +‘what it was about’ I never was able to say. Head or tail was just what +I hadn’t made of that slim green volume. I found in the preface no clue +to the exiguous labyrinth of contents, and in that labyrinth nothing to +explain the preface. + + +‘Lean near to life. Lean very near--nearer. + +‘Life is web, and therein nor warp nor woof is, but web only. + +‘It is for this I am Catholick in church and in thought, yet do let +swift Mood weave there what the shuttle of Mood wills.’ + + +These were the opening phrases of the preface, but those which followed +were less easy to understand. Then came ‘Stark: A Conte,’ about a +midinette who, so far as I could gather, murdered, or was about to +murder, a mannequin. It was rather like a story by Catulle Mendes in +which the translator had either skipped or cut out every alternate +sentence. Next, a dialogue between Pan and St. Ursula--lacking, I felt, +in ‘snap.’ Next, some aphorisms (entitled ‘Aphorismata’ [spelled in +Greek]). Throughout, in fact, there was a great variety of form; and +the forms had evidently been wrought with much care. It was rather the +substance that eluded me. Was there, I wondered, any substance at all? +It did now occur to me: suppose Enoch Soames was a fool! Up cropped a +rival hypothesis: suppose _I_ was! I inclined to give Soames the benefit +of the doubt. I had read ‘L’Apres-midi d’un Faune’ without extracting a +glimmer of meaning. Yet Mallarme--of course--was a Master. How was I to +know that Soames wasn’t another? There was a sort of music in his +prose, not indeed arresting, but perhaps, I thought, haunting, and laden +perhaps with meanings as deep as Mallarme’s own. I awaited his poems +with an open mind. + +And I looked forward to them with positive impatience after I had had a +second meeting with him. This was on an evening in January. Going into +the aforesaid domino room, I passed a table at which sat a pale man with +an open book before him. He looked from his book to me, and I looked +back over my shoulder with a vague sense that I ought to have recognised +him. I returned to pay my respects. After exchanging a few words, I said +with a glance to the open book, ‘I see I am interrupting you,’ and was +about to pass on, but ‘I prefer,’ Soames replied in his toneless voice, +‘to be interrupted,’ and I obeyed his gesture that I should sit down. + +I asked him if he often read here. ‘Yes; things of this kind I read +here,’ he answered, indicating the title of his book--‘The Poems of +Shelley.’ + +‘Anything that you really’--and I was going to say ‘admire?’ But I +cautiously left my sentence unfinished, and was glad that I had done so, +for he said, with unwonted emphasis, ‘Anything second-rate.’ + +I had read little of Shelley, but ‘Of course,’ I murmured, ‘he’s very +uneven.’ + +‘I should have thought evenness was just what was wrong with him. A +deadly evenness. That’s why I read him here. The noise of this place +breaks the rhythm. He’s tolerable here.’ Soames took up the book and +glanced through the pages. He laughed. Soames’ laugh was a short, single +and mirthless sound from the throat, unaccompanied by any movement of +the face or brightening of the eyes. ‘What a period!’ he uttered, laying +the book down. And ‘What a country!’ he added. + +I asked rather nervously if he didn’t think Keats had more or less held +his own against the drawbacks of time and place. He admitted that there +were ‘passages in Keats,’ but did not specify them. Of ‘the older men,’ +as he called them, he seemed to like only Milton. ‘Milton,’ he said, +‘wasn’t sentimental.’ Also, ‘Milton had a dark insight.’ And again, ‘I +can always read Milton in the reading-room.’ + +‘The reading-room?’ + +‘Of the British Museum. I go there every day.’ + +‘You do? I’ve only been there once. I’m afraid I found it rather a +depressing place. It--it seemed to sap one’s vitality.’ + +‘It does. That’s why I go there. The lower one’s vitality, the more +sensitive one is to great art. I live near the Museum. I have rooms in +Dyott Street.’ + +‘And you go round to the reading-room to read Milton?’ + +‘Usually Milton.’ He looked at me. ‘It was Milton,’ he certificatively +added, ‘who converted me to Diabolism.’ + +‘Diabolism? Oh yes? Really?’ said I, with that vague discomfort and that +intense desire to be polite which one feels when a man speaks of his own +religion. ‘You--worship the Devil?’ + +Soames shook his head. ‘It’s not exactly worship,’ he qualified, sipping +his absinthe. ‘It’s more a matter of trusting and encouraging.’ + +‘Ah, yes.... But I had rather gathered from the preface to “Negations” + that you were a--a Catholic.’ + +‘Je l’etais a cette epoque. Perhaps I still am. Yes, I’m a Catholic +Diabolist.’ + +This profession he made in an almost cursory tone. I could see that what +was upmost in his mind was the fact that I had read ‘Negations.’ His +pale eyes had for the first time gleamed. I felt as one who is about to +be examined, viva voce, on the very subject in which he is shakiest. I +hastily asked him how soon his poems were to be published. ‘Next week,’ +he told me. + +‘And are they to be published without a title?’ + +‘No. I found a title, at last. But I shan’t tell you what it is,’ as +though I had been so impertinent as to inquire. ‘I am not sure that +it wholly satisfies me. But it is the best I can find. It suggests +something of the quality of the poems.... Strange growths, natural and +wild, yet exquisite,’ he added, ‘and many-hued, and full of poisons.’ + +I asked him what he thought of Baudelaire. He uttered the snort that +was his laugh, and ‘Baudelaire,’ he said, ‘was a bourgeois malgre lui.’ +France had had only one poet: Villon; ‘and two-thirds of Villon were +sheer journalism.’ Verlaine was ‘an epicier malgre lui.’ Altogether, +rather to my surprise, he rated French literature lower than English. +There were ‘passages’ in Villiers de l’Isle-Adam. But ‘I,’ he summed up, +‘owe nothing to France.’ He nodded at me. ‘You’ll see,’ he predicted. + +I did not, when the time came, quite see that. I thought the author of +‘Fungoids’ did--unconsciously, of course--owe something to the young +Parisian decadents, or to the young English ones who owed something to +THEM. I still think so. The little book--bought by me in Oxford--lies +before me as I write. Its pale grey buckram cover and silver lettering +have not worn well. Nor have its contents. Through these, with a +melancholy interest, I have again been looking. They are not much. But +at the time of their publication I had a vague suspicion that they MIGHT +be. I suppose it is my capacity for faith, not poor Soames’ work, that +is weaker than it once was.... + + + TO A YOUNG WOMAN. + + Thou art, who hast not been! + Pale tunes irresolute + And traceries of old sounds + Blown from a rotted flute + Mingle with noise of cymbals rouged with rust, + Nor not strange forms and epicene + Lie bleeding in the dust, + Being wounded with wounds. + + For this it is + That in thy counterpart + Of age-long mockeries + Thou hast not been nor art! + + +There seemed to me a certain inconsistency as between the first and last +lines of this. I tried, with bent brows, to resolve the discord. But I +did not take my failure as wholly incompatible with a meaning in Soames’ +mind. Might it not rather indicate the depth of his meaning? As for the +craftsmanship, ‘rouged with rust’ seemed to me a fine stroke, and ‘nor +not’ instead of ‘and’ had a curious felicity. I wondered who the Young +Woman was, and what she had made of it all. I sadly suspect that Soames +could not have made more of it than she. Yet, even now, if one doesn’t +try to make any sense at all of the poem, and reads it just for the +sound, there is a certain grace of cadence. Soames was an artist--in so +far as he was anything, poor fellow! + +It seemed to me, when first I read ‘Fungoids,’ that, oddly enough, the +Diabolistic side of him was the best. Diabolism seemed to be a cheerful, +even a wholesome, influence in his life. + + + NOCTURNE. + + Round and round the shutter’d Square + I stroll’d with the Devil’s arm in mine. + No sound but the scrape of his hoofs was there + And the ring of his laughter and mine. + We had drunk black wine. + + I scream’d, ‘I will race you, Master!’ + ‘What matter,’ he shriek’d, ‘to-night + Which of us runs the faster? + There is nothing to fear to-night + In the foul moon’s light!’ + + Then I look’d him in the eyes, + And I laugh’d full shrill at the lie he told + And the gnawing fear he would fain disguise. + It was true, what I’d time and again been told: + He was old--old. + + +There was, I felt, quite a swing about that first stanza--a joyous +and rollicking note of comradeship. The second was slightly hysterical +perhaps. But I liked the third: it was so bracingly unorthodox, even +according to the tenets of Soames’ peculiar sect in the faith. Not much +‘trusting and encouraging’ here! Soames triumphantly exposing the Devil +as a liar, and laughing ‘full shrill,’ cut a quite heartening figure, +I thought--then! Now, in the light of what befell, none of his poems +depresses me so much as ‘Nocturne.’ + +I looked out for what the metropolitan reviewers would have to say. They +seemed to fall into two classes: those who had little to say and those +who had nothing. The second class was the larger, and the words of the +first were cold; insomuch that + + Strikes a note of modernity throughout.... These tripping + numbers.--Preston Telegraph + +was the only lure offered in advertisements by Soames’ publisher. I had +hopes that when next I met the poet I could congratulate him on having +made a stir; for I fancied he was not so sure of his intrinsic greatness +as he seemed. I was but able to say, rather coarsely, when next I did +see him, that I hoped ‘Fungoids’ was ‘selling splendidly.’ He looked at +me across his glass of absinthe and asked if I had bought a copy. His +publisher had told him that three had been sold. I laughed, as at a +jest. + +‘You don’t suppose I CARE, do you?’ he said, with something like a +snarl. I disclaimed the notion. He added that he was not a tradesman. I +said mildly that I wasn’t, either, and murmured that an artist who gave +truly new and great things to the world had always to wait long for +recognition. He said he cared not a sou for recognition. I agreed that +the act of creation was its own reward. + +His moroseness might have alienated me if I had regarded myself as a +nobody. But ah! hadn’t both John Lane and Aubrey Beardsley suggested +that I should write an essay for the great new venture that was +afoot--‘The Yellow Book’? And hadn’t Henry Harland, as editor, accepted +my essay? And wasn’t it to be in the very first number? At Oxford I +was still in statu pupillari. In London I regarded myself as very much +indeed a graduate now--one whom no Soames could ruffle. Partly to show +off, partly in sheer good-will, I told Soames he ought to contribute to +‘The Yellow Book.’ He uttered from the throat a sound of scorn for that +publication. + +Nevertheless, I did, a day or two later, tentatively ask Harland if he +knew anything of the work of a man called Enoch Soames. Harland paused +in the midst of his characteristic stride around the room, threw up his +hands towards the ceiling, and groaned aloud: he had often met ‘that +absurd creature’ in Paris, and this very morning had received some poems +in manuscript from him. + +‘Has he NO talent?’ I asked. + +‘He has an income. He’s all right.’ Harland was the most joyous of men +and most generous of critics, and he hated to talk of anything about +which he couldn’t be enthusiastic. So I dropped the subject of Soames. +The news that Soames had an income did take the edge off solicitude. I +learned afterwards that he was the son of an unsuccessful and deceased +bookseller in Preston, but had inherited an annuity of 300 pounds from +a married aunt, and had no surviving relatives of any kind. Materially, +then, he was ‘all right.’ But there was still a spiritual pathos about +him, sharpened for me now by the possibility that even the praises of +The Preston Telegraph might not have been forthcoming had he not been +the son of a Preston man. He had a sort of weak doggedness which I +could not but admire. Neither he nor his work received the slightest +encouragement; but he persisted in behaving as a personage: always +he kept his dingy little flag flying. Wherever congregated the +jeunes feroces of the arts, in whatever Soho restaurant they had just +discovered, in whatever music-hall they were most frequenting, there was +Soames in the midst of them, or rather on the fringe of them, a dim but +inevitable figure. He never sought to propitiate his fellow-writers, +never bated a jot of his arrogance about his own work or of his contempt +for theirs. To the painters he was respectful, even humble; but for the +poets and prosaists of ‘The Yellow Book,’ and later of ‘The Savoy,’ he +had never a word but of scorn. He wasn’t resented. It didn’t occur to +anybody that he or his Catholic Diabolism mattered. When, in the autumn +of ‘96, he brought out (at his own expense, this time) a third book, his +last book, nobody said a word for or against it. I meant, but forgot, to +buy it. I never saw it, and am ashamed to say I don’t even remember +what it was called. But I did, at the time of its publication, say to +Rothenstein that I thought poor old Soames was really a rather +tragic figure, and that I believed he would literally die for want of +recognition. Rothenstein scoffed. He said I was trying to get credit for +a kind heart which I didn’t possess; and perhaps this was so. But at the +private view of the New English Art Club, a few weeks later, I beheld a +pastel portrait of ‘Enoch Soames, Esq.’ It was very like him, and very +like Rothenstein to have done it. Soames was standing near it, in his +soft hat and his waterproof cape, all through the afternoon. Anybody who +knew him would have recognised the portrait at a glance, but nobody who +didn’t know him would have recognised the portrait from its bystander: +it ‘existed’ so much more than he; it was bound to. Also, it had not +that expression of faint happiness which on this day was discernible, +yes, in Soames’ countenance. Fame had breathed on him. Twice again in +the course of the month I went to the New English, and on both occasions +Soames himself was on view there. Looking back, I regard the close of +that exhibition as having been virtually the close of his career. He had +felt the breath of Fame against his cheek--so late, for such a little +while; and at its withdrawal he gave in, gave up, gave out. He, who had +never looked strong or well, looked ghastly now--a shadow of the shade +he had once been. He still frequented the domino room, but, having lost +all wish to excite curiosity, he no longer read books there. ‘You read +only at the Museum now?’ asked I, with attempted cheerfulness. He said +he never went there now. ‘No absinthe there,’ he muttered. It was the +sort of thing that in the old days he would have said for effect; but it +carried conviction now. Absinthe, erst but a point in the ‘personality’ +he had striven so hard to build up, was solace and necessity now. He no +longer called it ‘la sorciere glauque.’ He had shed away all his French +phrases. He had become a plain, unvarnished, Preston man. + +Failure, if it be a plain, unvarnished, complete failure, and even +though it be a squalid failure, has always a certain dignity. I avoided +Soames because he made me feel rather vulgar. John Lane had published, +by this time, two little books of mine, and they had had a pleasant +little success of esteem. I was a--slight but definite--‘personality.’ +Frank Harris had engaged me to kick up my heels in The Saturday Review, +Alfred Harmsworth was letting me do likewise in The Daily Mail. I was +just what Soames wasn’t. And he shamed my gloss. Had I known that he +really and firmly believed in the greatness of what he as an artist +had achieved, I might not have shunned him. No man who hasn’t lost his +vanity can be held to have altogether failed. Soames’ dignity was an +illusion of mine. One day in the first week of June, 1897, that illusion +went. But on the evening of that day Soames went too. + +I had been out most of the morning, and, as it was too late to reach +home in time for luncheon, I sought ‘the Vingtieme.’ This little +place--Restaurant du Vingtieme Siecle, to give it its full title--had +been discovered in ‘96 by the poets and prosaists, but had now been more +or less abandoned in favour of some later find. I don’t think it lived +long enough to justify its name; but at that time there it still was, in +Greek Street, a few doors from Soho Square, and almost opposite to that +house where, in the first years of the century, a little girl, and with +her a boy named De Quincey, made nightly encampment in darkness and +hunger among dust and rats and old legal parchments. The Vingtieme was +but a small whitewashed room, leading out into the street at one end and +into a kitchen at the other. The proprietor and cook was a Frenchman, +known to us as Monsieur Vingtieme; the waiters were his two daughters, +Rose and Berthe; and the food, according to faith, was good. The tables +were so narrow, and were set so close together, that there was space for +twelve of them, six jutting from either wall. + +Only the two nearest to the door, as I went in, were occupied. On one +side sat a tall, flashy, rather Mephistophelian man whom I had seen from +time to time in the domino room and elsewhere. On the other side sat +Soames. They made a queer contrast in that sunlit room--Soames sitting +haggard in that hat and cape which nowhere at any season had I seen him +doff, and this other, this keenly vital man, at sight of whom I more +than ever wondered whether he were a diamond merchant, a conjurer, or +the head of a private detective agency. I was sure Soames didn’t want my +company; but I asked, as it would have seemed brutal not to, whether +I might join him, and took the chair opposite to his. He was smoking +a cigarette, with an untasted salmi of something on his plate and a +half-empty bottle of Sauterne before him; and he was quite silent. I +said that the preparations for the Jubilee made London impossible. (I +rather liked them, really.) I professed a wish to go right away till +the whole thing was over. In vain did I attune myself to his gloom. He +seemed not to hear me nor even to see me. I felt that his behaviour made +me ridiculous in the eyes of the other man. The gangway between the two +rows of tables at the Vingtieme was hardly more than two feet wide (Rose +and Berthe, in their ministrations, had always to edge past each other, +quarrelling in whispers as they did so), and any one at the table +abreast of yours was practically at yours. I thought our neighbour was +amused at my failure to interest Soames, and so, as I could not explain +to him that my insistence was merely charitable, I became silent. +Without turning my head, I had him well within my range of vision. I +hoped I looked less vulgar than he in contrast with Soames. I was sure +he was not an Englishman, but what WAS his nationality? Though his +jet-black hair was en brosse, I did not think he was French. To Berthe, +who waited on him, he spoke French fluently, but with a hardly native +idiom and accent. I gathered that this was his first visit to the +Vingtieme; but Berthe was off-hand in her manner to him: he had not made +a good impression. His eyes were handsome, but--like the Vingtieme’s +tables--too narrow and set too close together. His nose was predatory, +and the points of his moustache, waxed up beyond his nostrils, gave +a fixity to his smile. Decidedly, he was sinister. And my sense of +discomfort in his presence was intensified by the scarlet waistcoat +which tightly, and so unseasonably in June, sheathed his ample chest. +This waistcoat wasn’t wrong merely because of the heat, either. It was +somehow all wrong in itself. It wouldn’t have done on Christmas morning. +It would have struck a jarring note at the first night of ‘Hernani.’ +I was trying to account for its wrongness when Soames suddenly and +strangely broke silence. ‘A hundred years hence!’ he murmured, as in a +trance. + +‘We shall not be here!’ I briskly but fatuously added. + +‘We shall not be here. No,’ he droned, ‘but the Museum will still be +just where it is. And the reading-room, just where it is. And people +will be able to go and read there.’ He inhaled sharply, and a spasm as +of actual pain contorted his features. + +I wondered what train of thought poor Soames had been following. He did +not enlighten me when he said, after a long pause, ‘You think I haven’t +minded.’ + +‘Minded what, Soames?’ + +‘Neglect. Failure.’ + +‘FAILURE?’ I said heartily. ‘Failure?’ I repeated vaguely. +‘Neglect--yes, perhaps; but that’s quite another matter. Of course you +haven’t been--appreciated. But what then? Any artist who--who gives--’ +What I wanted to say was, ‘Any artist who gives truly new and great +things to the world has always to wait long for recognition’; but the +flattery would not out: in the face of his misery, a misery so genuine +and so unmasked, my lips would not say the words. + +And then--he said them for me. I flushed. ‘That’s what you were going to +say, isn’t it?’ he asked. + +‘How did you know?’ + +‘It’s what you said to me three years ago, when “Fungoids” was +published.’ I flushed the more. I need not have done so at all, for +‘It’s the only important thing I ever heard you say,’ he continued. +‘And I’ve never forgotten it. It’s a true thing. It’s a horrible truth. +But--d’you remember what I answered? I said “I don’t care a sou for +recognition.” And you believed me. You’ve gone on believing I’m above +that sort of thing. You’re shallow. What should YOU know of the feelings +of a man like me? You imagine that a great artist’s faith in himself and +in the verdict of posterity is enough to keep him happy.... You’ve never +guessed at the bitterness and loneliness, the’--his voice broke; but +presently he resumed, speaking with a force that I had never known in +him. ‘Posterity! What use is it to ME? A dead man doesn’t know that +people are visiting his grave--visiting his birthplace--putting up +tablets to him--unveiling statues of him. A dead man can’t read the +books that are written about him. A hundred years hence! Think of it! +If I could come back to life then--just for a few hours--and go to the +reading-room, and READ! Or better still: if I could be projected, now, +at this moment, into that future, into that reading-room, just for this +one afternoon! I’d sell myself body and soul to the devil, for +that! Think of the pages and pages in the catalogue: “SOAMES, +ENOCH” endlessly--endless editions, commentaries, prolegomena, +biographies’--but here he was interrupted by a sudden loud creak of the +chair at the next table. Our neighbour had half risen from his place. He +was leaning towards us, apologetically intrusive. + +‘Excuse--permit me,’ he said softly. ‘I have been unable not to hear. +Might I take a liberty? In this little restaurant-sans-facon’--he spread +wide his hands--‘might I, as the phrase is, “cut in”?’ + +I could but signify our acquiescence. Berthe had appeared at the kitchen +door, thinking the stranger wanted his bill. He waved her away with his +cigar, and in another moment had seated himself beside me, commanding a +full view of Soames. + +‘Though not an Englishman,’ he explained, ‘I know my London well, Mr. +Soames. Your name and fame--Mr. Beerbohm’s too--very known to me. Your +point is: who am _I_?’ He glanced quickly over his shoulder, and in a +lowered voice said ‘I am the Devil.’ + +I couldn’t help it: I laughed. I tried not to, I knew there was nothing +to laugh at, my rudeness shamed me, but--I laughed with increasing +volume. The Devil’s quiet dignity, the surprise and disgust of his +raised eyebrows, did but the more dissolve me. I rocked to and fro, I +lay back aching. I behaved deplorably. + +‘I am a gentleman, and,’ he said with intense emphasis, ‘I thought I was +in the company of GENTLEMEN.’ + +‘Don’t!’ I gasped faintly. ‘Oh, don’t!’ + +‘Curious, nicht wahr?’ I heard him say to Soames. ‘There is a type of +person to whom the very mention of my name is--oh-so-awfully-funny! In +your theatres the dullest comedian needs only to say “The Devil!” and +right away they give him “the loud laugh that speaks the vacant mind.” + Is it not so?’ + +I had now just breath enough to offer my apologies. He accepted them, +but coldly, and re-addressed himself to Soames. + +‘I am a man of business,’ he said, ‘and always I would put things +through “right now,” as they say in the States. You are a poet. Les +affaires--you detest them. So be it. But with me you will deal, eh? What +you have said just now gives me furiously to hope.’ + +Soames had not moved, except to light a fresh cigarette. He sat crouched +forward, with his elbows squared on the table, and his head just above +the level of his hands, staring up at the Devil. ‘Go on,’ he nodded. I +had no remnant of laughter in me now. + +‘It will be the more pleasant, our little deal,’ the Devil went on, +‘because you are--I mistake not?--a Diabolist.’ + +‘A Catholic Diabolist,’ said Soames. + +The Devil accepted the reservation genially. ‘You wish,’ he resumed, ‘to +visit now--this afternoon as-ever-is--the reading-room of the British +Museum, yes? but of a hundred years hence, yes? Parfaitement. Time--an +illusion. Past and future--they are as ever-present as the present, or +at any rate only what you call “just-round-the-corner.” I switch you +on to any date. I project you--pouf! You wish to be in the reading-room +just as it will be on the afternoon of June 3, 1997? You wish to find +yourself standing in that room, just past the swing-doors, this very +minute, yes? and to stay there till closing time? Am I right?’ + +Soames nodded. + +The Devil looked at his watch. ‘Ten past two,’ he said. ‘Closing time in +summer same then as now: seven o’clock. That will give you almost five +hours. At seven o’clock--pouf!--you find yourself again here, sitting +at this table. I am dining to-night dans le monde--dans le higlif. That +concludes my present visit to your great city. I come and fetch you +here, Mr. Soames, on my way home.’ + +‘Home?’ I echoed. + +‘Be it never so humble!’ said the Devil lightly. + +‘All right,’ said Soames. + +‘Soames!’ I entreated. But my friend moved not a muscle. + +The Devil had made as though to stretch forth his hand across the table +and touch Soames’ forearm; but he paused in his gesture. + +‘A hundred years hence, as now,’ he smiled, ‘no smoking allowed in the +reading-room. You would better therefore----’ + +Soames removed the cigarette from his mouth and dropped it into his +glass of Sauterne. + +‘Soames!’ again I cried. ‘Can’t you’--but the Devil had now stretched +forth his hand across the table. He brought it slowly down on--the +tablecloth. Soames’ chair was empty. His cigarette floated sodden in his +wine-glass. There was no other trace of him. + +For a few moments the Devil let his hand rest where it lay, gazing at me +out of the corners of his eyes, vulgarly triumphant. + +A shudder shook me. With an effort I controlled myself and rose from my +chair. ‘Very clever,’ I said condescendingly. ‘But--“The Time Machine” + is a delightful book, don’t you think? So entirely original!’ + +‘You are pleased to sneer,’ said the Devil, who had also risen, ‘but it +is one thing to write about an impossible machine; it is a quite other +thing to be a Supernatural Power.’ All the same, I had scored. + +Berthe had come forth at the sound of our rising. I explained to her +that Mr. Soames had been called away, and that both he and I would be +dining here. It was not until I was out in the open air that I began to +feel giddy. I have but the haziest recollection of what I did, where I +wandered, in the glaring sunshine of that endless afternoon. I remember +the sound of carpenters’ hammers all along Piccadilly, and the bare +chaotic look of the half-erected ‘stands.’ Was it in the Green Park, or +in Kensington Gardens, or WHERE was it that I sat on a chair beneath a +tree, trying to read an evening paper? There was a phrase in the leading +article that went on repeating itself in my fagged mind--‘Little is +hidden from this august Lady full of the garnered wisdom of sixty years +of Sovereignty.’ I remember wildly conceiving a letter (to reach Windsor +by express messenger told to await answer): + + +‘MADAM,--Well knowing that your Majesty is full of the garnered wisdom +of sixty years of Sovereignty, I venture to ask your advice in the +following delicate matter. Mr. Enoch Soames, whose poems you may or may +not know,’.... + + +Was there NO way of helping him--saving him? A bargain was a bargain, +and I was the last man to aid or abet any one in wriggling out of a +reasonable obligation. I wouldn’t have lifted a little finger to save +Faust. But poor Soames!--doomed to pay without respite an eternal price +for nothing but a fruitless search and a bitter disillusioning.... + +Odd and uncanny it seemed to me that he, Soames, in the flesh, in the +waterproof cape, was at this moment living in the last decade of the +next century, poring over books not yet written, and seeing and seen by +men not yet born. Uncannier and odder still, that to-night and evermore +he would be in Hell. Assuredly, truth was stranger than fiction. + +Endless that afternoon was. Almost I wished I had gone with Soames--not +indeed to stay in the reading-room, but to sally forth for a brisk +sight-seeing walk around a new London. I wandered restlessly out of the +Park I had sat in. Vainly I tried to imagine myself an ardent tourist +from the eighteenth century. Intolerable was the strain of the +slow-passing and empty minutes. Long before seven o’clock I was back at +the Vingtieme. + +I sat there just where I had sat for luncheon. Air came in listlessly +through the open door behind me. Now and again Rose or Berthe appeared +for a moment. I had told them I would not order any dinner till Mr. +Soames came. A hurdy-gurdy began to play, abruptly drowning the noise +of a quarrel between some Frenchmen further up the street. Whenever the +tune was changed I heard the quarrel still raging. I had bought another +evening paper on my way. I unfolded it. My eyes gazed ever away from it +to the clock over the kitchen door.... + +Five minutes, now, to the hour! I remembered that clocks in restaurants +are kept five minutes fast. I concentrated my eyes on the paper. I vowed +I would not look away from it again. I held it upright, at its full +width, close to my face, so that I had no view of anything but it.... +Rather a tremulous sheet? Only because of the draught, I told myself. + +My arms gradually became stiff; they ached; but I could not drop +them--now. I had a suspicion, I had a certainty. Well, what then?... +What else had I come for? Yet I held tight that barrier of newspaper. +Only the sound of Berthe’s brisk footstep from the kitchen enabled me, +forced me, to drop it, and to utter: + +‘What shall we have to eat, Soames?’ + +‘Il est souffrant, ce pauvre Monsieur Soames?’ asked Berthe. + +‘He’s only--tired.’ I asked her to get some wine--Burgundy--and whatever +food might be ready. Soames sat crouched forward against the table, +exactly as when last I had seen him. It was as though he had never +moved--he who had moved so unimaginably far. Once or twice in the +afternoon it had for an instant occurred to me that perhaps his journey +was not to be fruitless--that perhaps we had all been wrong in our +estimate of the works of Enoch Soames. That we had been horribly right +was horribly clear from the look of him. But ‘Don’t be discouraged,’ I +falteringly said. ‘Perhaps it’s only that you--didn’t leave enough time. +Two, three centuries hence, perhaps--’ + +‘Yes,’ his voice came. ‘I’ve thought of that.’ + +‘And now--now for the more immediate future! Where are you going to +hide? How would it be if you caught the Paris express from Charing +Cross? Almost an hour to spare. Don’t go on to Paris. Stop at Calais. +Live in Calais. He’d never think of looking for you in Calais.’ + +‘It’s like my luck,’ he said, ‘to spend my last hours on earth with +an ass.’ But I was not offended. ‘And a treacherous ass,’ he strangely +added, tossing across to me a crumpled bit of paper which he had been +holding in his hand. I glanced at the writing on it--some sort of +gibberish, apparently. I laid it impatiently aside. + +‘Come, Soames! pull yourself together! This isn’t a mere matter of life +and death. It’s a question of eternal torment, mind you! You don’t mean +to say you’re going to wait limply here till the Devil comes to fetch +you?’ + +‘I can’t do anything else. I’ve no choice.’ + +‘Come! This is “trusting and encouraging” with a vengeance! This is +Diabolism run mad!’ I filled his glass with wine. ‘Surely, now that +you’ve SEEN the brute--’ + +‘It’s no good abusing him.’ + +‘You must admit there’s nothing Miltonic about him, Soames.’ + +‘I don’t say he’s not rather different from what I expected.’ + +‘He’s a vulgarian, he’s a swell-mobsman, he’s the sort of man who hangs +about the corridors of trains going to the Riviera and steals ladies’ +jewel-cases. Imagine eternal torment presided over by HIM!’ + +‘You don’t suppose I look forward to it, do you?’ + +‘Then why not slip quietly out of the way?’ + +Again and again I filled his glass, and always, mechanically, he emptied +it; but the wine kindled no spark of enterprise in him. He did not eat, +and I myself ate hardly at all. I did not in my heart believe that any +dash for freedom could save him. The chase would be swift, the capture +certain. But better anything than this passive, meek, miserable waiting. +I told Soames that for the honour of the human race he ought to make +some show of resistance. He asked what the human race had ever done for +him. ‘Besides,’ he said, ‘can’t you understand that I’m in his power? +You saw him touch me, didn’t you? There’s an end of it. I’ve no will. +I’m sealed.’ + +I made a gesture of despair. He went on repeating the word ‘sealed.’ +I began to realise that the wine had clouded his brain. No wonder! +Foodless he had gone into futurity, foodless he still was. I urged him +to eat at any rate some bread. It was maddening to think that he, who +had so much to tell, might tell nothing. ‘How was it all,’ I asked, +‘yonder? Come! Tell me your adventures.’ + +‘They’d make first-rate “copy,” wouldn’t they?’ + +‘I’m awfully sorry for you, Soames, and I make all possible allowances; +but what earthly right have you to insinuate that I should make “copy,” + as you call it, out of you?’ + +The poor fellow pressed his hands to his forehead. ‘I don’t know,’ he +said. ‘I had some reason, I know.... I’ll try to remember.’ + +‘That’s right. Try to remember everything. Eat a little more bread. What +did the reading-room look like?’ + +‘Much as usual,’ he at length muttered. + +‘Many people there?’ + +‘Usual sort of number.’ + +‘What did they look like?’ + +Soames tried to visualise them. ‘They all,’ he presently remembered, +‘looked very like one another.’ + +My mind took a fearsome leap. ‘All dressed in Jaeger?’ + +‘Yes. I think so. Greyish-yellowish stuff.’ + +‘A sort of uniform?’ He nodded. ‘With a number on it, perhaps?--a number +on a large disc of metal sewn on to the left sleeve? DKF 78,910--that +sort of thing?’ It was even so. ‘And all of them--men and women +alike--looking very well-cared-for? very Utopian? and smelling rather +strongly of carbolic? and all of them quite hairless?’ I was right every +time. Soames was only not sure whether the men and women were hairless +or shorn. ‘I hadn’t time to look at them very closely,’ he explained. + +‘No, of course not. But----’ + +‘They stared at ME, I can tell you. I attracted a great deal of +attention.’ At last he had done that! ‘I think I rather scared them. +They moved away whenever I came near. They followed me about at a +distance, wherever I went. The men at the round desk in the middle +seemed to have a sort of panic whenever I went to make inquiries.’ + +‘What did you do when you arrived?’ + +Well, he had gone straight to the catalogue, of course--to the S +volumes, and had stood long before SN--SOF, unable to take this volume +out of the shelf, because his heart was beating so.... At first, +he said, he wasn’t disappointed--he only thought there was some new +arrangement. He went to the middle desk and asked where the catalogue of +TWENTIETH-century books was kept. He gathered that there was still only +one catalogue. Again he looked up his name, stared at the three little +pasted slips he had known so well. Then he went and sat down for a long +time.... + +‘And then,’ he droned, ‘I looked up the “Dictionary of National +Biography” and some encyclopedias.... I went back to the middle desk +and asked what was the best modern book on late nineteenth-century +literature. They told me Mr. T. K. Nupton’s book was considered the +best. I looked it up in the catalogue and filled in a form for it. It +was brought to me. My name wasn’t in the index, but--Yes!’ he said with +a sudden change of tone. ‘That’s what I’d forgotten. Where’s that bit of +paper? Give it me back.’ + +I, too, had forgotten that cryptic screed. I found it fallen on the +floor, and handed it to him. + +He smoothed it out, nodding and smiling at me disagreeably. ‘I found +myself glancing through Nupton’s book,’ he resumed. ‘Not very easy +reading. Some sort of phonetic spelling.... All the modern books I saw +were phonetic.’ + +‘Then I don’t want to hear any more, Soames, please.’ + +‘The proper names seemed all to be spelt in the old way. But for that, I +mightn’t have noticed my own name.’ + +‘Your own name? Really? Soames, I’m VERY glad.’ + +‘And yours.’ + +‘No!’ + +‘I thought I should find you waiting here to-night. So I took the +trouble to copy out the passage. Read it.’ + +I snatched the paper. Soames’ handwriting was characteristically dim. +It, and the noisome spelling, and my excitement, made me all the slower +to grasp what T. K. Nupton was driving at. + +The document lies before me at this moment. Strange that the words +I here copy out for you were copied out for me by poor Soames just +seventy-eight years hence.... + + +From p. 234 of ‘Inglish Littracher 1890-1900’ bi T. K. Nupton, publishd +bi th Stait, 1992: + +‘Fr egzarmpl, a riter ov th time, naimd Max Beerbohm, hoo woz stil alive +in th twentieth senchri, rote a stauri in wich e pautraid an immajnari +karrakter kauld “Enoch Soames”--a thurd-rait poit hoo beleevz imself +a grate jeneus an maix a bargin with th Devvl in auder ter no wot +posterriti thinx ov im! It iz a sumwot labud sattire but not without +vallu az showing hou seriusli the yung men ov th aiteen-ninetiz took +themselvz. Nou that the littreri profeshn haz bin auganized az a +departmnt of publik servis, our riters hav found their levvl an hav +lernt ter doo their duti without thort ov th morro. “Th laibrer iz +werthi ov hiz hire,” an that iz aul. Thank hevvn we hav no Enoch +Soameses amung us to-dai!’ + + +I found that by murmuring the words aloud (a device which I commend to +my reader) I was able to master them, little by little. The clearer they +became, the greater was my bewilderment, my distress and horror. The +whole thing was a nightmare. Afar, the great grisly background of what +was in store for the poor dear art of letters; here, at the table, +fixing on me a gaze that made me hot all over, the poor fellow +whom--whom evidently... but no: whatever down-grade my character might +take in coming years, I should never be such a brute as to---- + +Again I examined the screed. ‘Immajnari’--but here Soames was, no more +imaginary, alas! than I. And ‘labud’--what on earth was that? (To this +day, I have never made out that word.) ‘It’s all very--baffling,’ I at +length stammered. + +Soames said nothing, but cruelly did not cease to look at me. + +‘Are you sure,’ I temporised, ‘quite sure you copied the thing out +correctly?’ + +‘Quite.’ + +‘Well, then it’s this wretched Nupton who must have made--must be going +to make--some idiotic mistake.... Look here, Soames! you know me better +than to suppose that I.... After all, the name “Max Beerbohm” is not at +all an uncommon one, and there must be several Enoch Soameses running +around--or rather, “Enoch Soames” is a name that might occur to any +one writing a story. And I don’t write stories: I’m an essayist, an +observer, a recorder.... I admit that it’s an extraordinary coincidence. +But you must see----’ + +‘I see the whole thing,’ said Soames quietly. And he added, with a touch +of his old manner, but with more dignity than I had ever known in him, +‘Parlons d’autre chose.’ + +I accepted that suggestion very promptly. I returned straight to the +more immediate future. I spent most of the long evening in renewed +appeals to Soames to slip away and seek refuge somewhere. I remember +saying at last that if indeed I was destined to write about him, the +supposed ‘stauri’ had better have at least a happy ending. Soames +repeated those last three words in a tone of intense scorn. ‘In Life and +in Art,’ he said, ‘all that matters is an INEVITABLE ending.’ + +‘But,’ I urged, more hopefully than I felt, ‘an ending that can be +avoided ISN’T inevitable.’ + +‘You aren’t an artist,’ he rasped. ‘And you’re so hopelessly not an +artist that, so far from being able to imagine a thing and make it seem +true, you’re going to make even a true thing seem as if you’d made it +up. You’re a miserable bungler. And it’s like my luck.’ + +I protested that the miserable bungler was not I--was not going to be +I--but T. K. Nupton; and we had a rather heated argument, in the thick +of which it suddenly seemed to me that Soames saw he was in the wrong: +he had quite physically cowered. But I wondered why--and now I guessed +with a cold throb just why--he stared so, past me. The bringer of that +‘inevitable ending’ filled the doorway. + +I managed to turn in my chair and to say, not without a semblance of +lightness, ‘Aha, come in!’ Dread was indeed rather blunted in me by +his looking so absurdly like a villain in a melodrama. The sheen of his +tilted hat and of his shirt-front, the repeated twists he was giving to +his moustache, and most of all the magnificence of his sneer, gave token +that he was there only to be foiled. + +He was at our table in a stride. ‘I am sorry,’ he sneered witheringly, +‘to break up your pleasant party, but--’ + +‘You don’t: you complete it,’ I assured him. ‘Mr. Soames and I want +to have a little talk with you. Won’t you sit? Mr. Soames got +nothing--frankly nothing--by his journey this afternoon. We don’t wish +to say that the whole thing was a swindle--a common swindle. On the +contrary, we believe you meant well. But of course the bargain, such as +it was, is off.’ + +The Devil gave no verbal answer. He merely looked at Soames and pointed +with rigid forefinger to the door. Soames was wretchedly rising from +his chair when, with a desperate quick gesture, I swept together two +dinner-knives that were on the table, and laid their blades across +each other. The Devil stepped sharp back against the table behind him, +averting his face and shuddering. + +‘You are not superstitious!’ he hissed. + +‘Not at all,’ I smiled. + +‘Soames!’ he said as to an underling, but without turning his face, ‘put +those knives straight!’ + +With an inhibitive gesture to my friend, ‘Mr. Soames,’ I said +emphatically to the Devil, ‘is a CATHOLIC Diabolist’; but my poor friend +did the Devil’s bidding, not mine; and now, with his master’s eyes again +fixed on him, he arose, he shuffled past me. I tried to speak. It was +he that spoke. ‘Try,’ was the prayer he threw back at me as the Devil +pushed him roughly out through the door, ‘TRY to make them know that I +did exist!’ + +In another instant I too was through that door. I stood staring all +ways--up the street, across it, down it. There was moonlight and +lamplight, but there was not Soames nor that other. + +Dazed, I stood there. Dazed, I turned back, at length, into the little +room; and I suppose I paid Berthe or Rose for my dinner and luncheon, +and for Soames’: I hope so, for I never went to the Vingtieme again. +Ever since that night I have avoided Greek Street altogether. And for +years I did not set foot even in Soho Square, because on that same night +it was there that I paced and loitered, long and long, with some such +dull sense of hope as a man has in not straying far from the place where +he has lost something.... ‘Round and round the shutter’d Square’--that +line came back to me on my lonely beat, and with it the whole stanza, +ringing in my brain and bearing in on me how tragically different from +the happy scene imagined by him was the poet’s actual experience of that +prince in whom of all princes we should put not our trust. + +But--strange how the mind of an essayist, be it never so stricken, roves +and ranges!--I remember pausing before a wide doorstep and wondering if +perchance it was on this very one that the young De Quincey lay ill and +faint while poor Ann flew as fast as her feet would carry her to Oxford +Street, the ‘stony-hearted stepmother’ of them both, and came back +bearing that ‘glass of port wine and spices’ but for which he might, so +he thought, actually have died. Was this the very doorstep that the old +De Quincey used to revisit in homage? I pondered Ann’s fate, the cause +of her sudden vanishing from the ken of her boy-friend; and presently I +blamed myself for letting the past over-ride the present. Poor vanished +Soames! + +And for myself, too, I began to be troubled. What had I better do? Would +there be a hue and cry--Mysterious Disappearance of an Author, and all +that? He had last been seen lunching and dining in my company. Hadn’t I +better get a hansom and drive straight to Scotland Yard?... They would +think I was a lunatic. After all, I reassured myself, London was a +very large place, and one very dim figure might easily drop out of it +unobserved--now especially, in the blinding glare of the near Jubilee. +Better say nothing at all, I thought. + +And I was right. Soames’ disappearance made no stir at all. He was +utterly forgotten before any one, so far as I am aware, noticed that he +was no longer hanging around. Now and again some poet or prosaist may +have said to another, ‘What has become of that man Soames?’ but I never +heard any such question asked. The solicitor through whom he was paid +his annuity may be presumed to have made inquiries, but no echo of +these resounded. There was something rather ghastly to me in the general +unconsciousness that Soames had existed, and more than once I caught +myself wondering whether Nupton, that babe unborn, were going to be +right in thinking him a figment of my brain. + +In that extract from Nupton’s repulsive book there is one point which +perhaps puzzles you. How is it that the author, though I have here +mentioned him by name and have quoted the exact words he is going to +write, is not going to grasp the obvious corollary that I have invented +nothing? The answer can be only this: Nupton will not have read the +later passages of this memoir. Such lack of thoroughness is a serious +fault in any one who undertakes to do scholar’s work. And I hope these +words will meet the eye of some contemporary rival to Nupton and be the +undoing of Nupton. + +I like to think that some time between 1992 and 1997 somebody will have +looked up this memoir, and will have forced on the world his inevitable +and startling conclusions. And I have reasons for believing that this +will be so. You realise that the reading-room into which Soames was +projected by the Devil was in all respects precisely as it will be on +the afternoon of June 3, 1997. You realise, therefore, that on that +afternoon, when it comes round, there the self-same crowd will be, and +there Soames too will be, punctually, he and they doing precisely what +they did before. Recall now Soames’ account of the sensation he made. +You may say that the mere difference of his costume was enough to make +him sensational in that uniformed crowd. You wouldn’t say so if you had +ever seen him. I assure you that in no period could Soames be anything +but dim. The fact that people are going to stare at him, and follow him +around, and seem afraid of him, can be explained only on the hypothesis +that they will somehow have been prepared for his ghostly visitation. +They will have been awfully waiting to see whether he really would come. +And when he does come the effect will of course be--awful. + +An authentic, guaranteed, proven ghost, but--only a ghost, alas! Only +that. In his first visit, Soames was a creature of flesh and blood, +whereas the creatures into whose midst he was projected were but ghosts, +I take it--solid, palpable, vocal, but unconscious and automatic ghosts, +in a building that was itself an illusion. Next time, that building and +those creatures will be real. It is of Soames that there will be but +the semblance. I wish I could think him destined to revisit the world +actually, physically, consciously. I wish he had this one brief escape, +this one small treat, to look forward to. I never forget him for long. +He is where he is, and forever. The more rigid moralists among you may +say he has only himself to blame. For my part, I think he has been +very hardly used. It is well that vanity should be chastened; and Enoch +Soames’ vanity was, I admit, above the average, and called for special +treatment. But there was no need for vindictiveness. You say he +contracted to pay the price he is paying; yes; but I maintain that he +was induced to do so by fraud. Well-informed in all things, the Devil +must have known that my friend would gain nothing by his visit to +futurity. The whole thing was a very shabby trick. The more I think of +it, the more detestable the Devil seems to me. + +Of him I have caught sight several times, here and there, since that day +at the Vingtieme. Only once, however, have I seen him at close quarters. +This was in Paris. I was walking, one afternoon, along the Rue d’Antin, +when I saw him advancing from the opposite direction--over-dressed as +ever, and swinging an ebony cane, and altogether behaving as though +the whole pavement belonged to him. At thought of Enoch Soames and the +myriads of other sufferers eternally in this brute’s dominion, a great +cold wrath filled me, and I drew myself up to my full height. But--well, +one is so used to nodding and smiling in the street to anybody whom one +knows that the action becomes almost independent of oneself: to prevent +it requires a very sharp effort and great presence of mind. I was +miserably aware, as I passed the Devil, that I nodded and smiled to him. +And my shame was the deeper and hotter because he, if you please, stared +straight at me with the utmost haughtiness. + +To be cut--deliberately cut--by HIM! I was, I still am, furious at +having had that happen to me. + + + + + +HILARY MALTBY AND STEPHEN BRAXTON + + +People still go on comparing Thackeray and Dickens, quite cheerfully. +But the fashion of comparing Maltby and Braxton went out so long ago as +1795. No, I am wrong. But anything that happened in the bland old days +before the war does seem to be a hundred more years ago than actually +it is. The year I mean is the one in whose spring-time we all went +bicycling (O thrill!) in Battersea Park, and ladies wore sleeves that +billowed enormously out from their shoulders, and Lord Rosebery was +Prime Minister. + +In that Park, in that spring-time, in that sea of sleeves, there was +almost as much talk about the respective merits of Braxton and Maltby as +there was about those of Rudge and Humber. For the benefit of my younger +readers, and perhaps, so feeble is human memory, for the benefit of +their elders too, let me state that Rudge and Humber were rival makers +of bicycles, that Hilary Maltby was the author of ‘Ariel in Mayfair,’ +and Stephen Braxton of ‘A Faun on the Cotswolds.’ + +‘Which do you think is REALLY the best--“Ariel” or “A Faun”?’ Ladies +were always asking one that question. ‘Oh, well, you know, the two are +so different. It’s really very hard to compare them.’ One was always +giving that answer. One was not very brilliant perhaps. + +The vogue of the two novels lasted throughout the summer. As both were +‘firstlings,’ and Great Britain had therefore nothing else of Braxton’s +or Maltby’s to fall back on, the horizon was much scanned for what +Maltby, and what Braxton, would give us next. In the autumn Braxton +gave us his secondling. It was an instantaneous failure. No more was he +compared with Maltby. In the spring of ‘96 came Maltby’s secondling. +Its failure was instantaneous. Maltby might once more have been compared +with Braxton. But Braxton was now forgotten. So was Maltby. + +This was not kind. This was not just. Maltby’s first novel, and +Braxton’s, had brought delight into many thousands of homes. People +should have paused to say of Braxton “Perhaps his third novel will be +better than his second,” and to say as much for Maltby. I blame people +for having given no sign of wanting a third from either; and I blame +them with the more zest because neither ‘A Faun on the Cotswolds’ nor +‘Ariel in Mayfair’ was a merely popular book: each, I maintain, was a +good book. I don’t go so far as to say that the one had ‘more of natural +magic, more of British woodland glamour, more of the sheer joy of life +in it than anything since “As You Like It,”’ though Higsby went so far +as this in the Daily Chronicle; nor can I allow the claim made for the +other by Grigsby in the Globe that ‘for pungency of satire there has +been nothing like it since Swift laid down his pen, and for sheer +sweetness and tenderness of feeling--ex forti dulcedo--nothing to be +mentioned in the same breath with it since the lute fell from the tired +hand of Theocritus.’ These were foolish exaggerations. But one must not +condemn a thing because it has been over-praised. Maltby’s ‘Ariel’ was +a delicate, brilliant work; and Braxton’s ‘Faun,’ crude though it was +in many ways, had yet a genuine power and beauty. This is not a mere +impression remembered from early youth. It is the reasoned and seasoned +judgment of middle age. Both books have been out of print for many +years; but I secured a second-hand copy of each not long ago, and found +them well worth reading again. + +From the time of Nathaniel Hawthorne to the outbreak of the war, current +literature did not suffer from any lack of fauns. But when Braxton’s +first book appeared fauns had still an air of novelty about them. We had +not yet tired of them and their hoofs and their slanting eyes and their +way of coming suddenly out of woods to wean quiet English villages from +respectability. We did tire later. But Braxton’s faun, even now, seems +to me an admirable specimen of his class--wild and weird, earthy, +goat-like, almost convincing. And I find myself convinced altogether by +Braxton’s rustics. I admit that I do not know much about rustics, +except from novels. But I plead that the little I do know about them by +personal observation does not confirm much of what the many novelists +have taught me. I plead also that Braxton may well have been right about +the rustics of Gloucestershire because he was (as so many interviewers +recorded of him in his brief heyday) the son of a yeoman farmer at Far +Oakridge, and his boyhood had been divided between that village and the +Grammar School at Stroud. Not long ago I happened to be staying in the +neighbourhood, and came across several villagers who might, I assure +you, have stepped straight out of Braxton’s pages. For that matter, +Braxton himself, whom I met often in the spring of ‘95, might have +stepped straight out of his own pages. + +I am guilty of having wished he would step straight back into them. He +was a very surly fellow, very rugged and gruff. He was the antithesis of +pleasant little Maltby. I used to think that perhaps he would have been +less unamiable if success had come to him earlier. He was thirty years +old when his book was published, and had had a very hard time since +coming to London at the age of sixteen. Little Maltby was a year +older, and so had waited a year longer; but then, he had waited under +a comfortable roof at Twickenham, emerging into the metropolis for no +grimmer purpose than to sit and watch the fashionable riders and +walkers in Rotten Row, and then going home to write a little, or to play +lawn-tennis with the young ladies of Twickenham. He had been the only +child of his parents (neither of whom, alas, survived to take pleasure +in their darling’s sudden fame). He had now migrated from Twickenham and +taken rooms in Ryder Street. Had he ever shared with Braxton the bread +of adversity--but no, I think he would in any case have been pleasant. +And conversely I cannot imagine that Braxton would in any case have been +so. + +No one seeing the two rivals together, no one meeting them at Mr. +Hookworth’s famous luncheon parties in the Authors’ Club, or at Mrs. +Foster-Dugdale’s not less famous garden parties in Greville Place, +would have supposed off-hand that the pair had a single point in common. +Dapper little Maltby--blond, bland, diminutive Maltby, with his monocle +and his gardenia; big black Braxton, with his lanky hair and his square +blue jaw and his square sallow forehead. Canary and crow. Maltby had a +perpetual chirrup of amusing small-talk. Braxton was usually silent, but +very well worth listening to whenever he did croak. He had distinction, +I admit it; the distinction of one who steadfastly refuses to adapt +himself to surroundings. He stood out. He awed Mr. Hookworth. Ladies +were always asking one another, rather intently, what they thought of +him. One could imagine that Mr. Foster-Dugdale, had he come home from +the City to attend the garden parties, might have regarded him as +one from whom Mrs. Foster-Dugdale should be shielded. But the casual +observer of Braxton and Maltby at Mrs. Foster-Dugdale’s or elsewhere was +wrong in supposing that the two were totally unlike. He overlooked one +simple and obvious point. This was that he had met them both at Mrs. +Foster-Dugdale’s or elsewhere. Wherever they were invited, there +certainly, there punctually, they would be. They were both of them +gluttons for the fruits and signs of their success. + +Interviewers and photographers had as little reason as had hostesses to +complain of two men so earnestly and assiduously ‘on the make’ as Maltby +and Braxton. Maltby, for all his sparkle, was earnest; Braxton, for all +his arrogance, assiduous. + +‘A Faun on the Cotswolds’ had no more eager eulogist than the author of +‘Ariel in Mayfair.’ When any one praised his work, Maltby would lightly +disparage it in comparison with Braxton’s--‘Ah, if I could write like +THAT!’ Maltby won golden opinions in this way. Braxton, on the +other hand, would let slip no opportunity for sneering at Maltby’s +work--‘gimcrack,’ as he called it. This was not good for Maltby. +Different men, different methods. + +‘The Rape of the Lock’ was ‘gimcrack,’ if you care to call it so; but it +was a delicate, brilliant work; and so, I repeat, was Maltby’s ‘Ariel.’ +Absurd to compare Maltby with Pope? I am not so sure. I have read +‘Ariel,’ but have never read ‘The Rape of the Lock.’ Braxton’s +opprobrious term for ‘Ariel’ may not, however, have been due to jealousy +alone. Braxton had imagination, and his rival did not soar above fancy. +But the point is that Maltby’s fancifulness went far and well. In +telling how Ariel re-embodied himself from thin air, leased a small +house in Chesterfield Street, was presented at a Levee, played the part +of good fairy in a matter of true love not running smooth, and worked +meanwhile all manner of amusing changes among the aristocracy before he +vanished again, Maltby showed a very pretty range of ingenuity. In one +respect, his work was a more surprising achievement than Braxton’s. For +whereas Braxton had been born and bred among his rustics, Maltby knew +his aristocrats only through Thackeray, through the photographs and +paragraphs in the newspapers, and through those passionate excursions +of his to Rotten Row. Yet I found his aristocrats as convincing as +Braxton’s rustics. It is true that I may have been convinced wrongly. +That is a point which I could settle only by experience. I shift my +ground, claiming for Maltby’s aristocrats just this: that they pleased +me very much. + +Aristocrats, when they are presented solely through a novelist’s sense +of beauty, do not satisfy us. They may be as beautiful as all that, +but, for fear of thinking ourselves snobbish, we won’t believe it. We do +believe it, however, and revel in it, when the novelist saves his face +and ours by a pervading irony in the treatment of what he loves. The +irony must, mark you, be pervading and obvious. Disraeli’s great ladies +and lords won’t do, for his irony was but latent in his homage, and +thus the reader feels himself called on to worship and in duty bound +to scoff. All’s well, though, when the homage is latent in the irony. +Thackeray, inviting us to laugh and frown over the follies of Mayfair, +enables us to reel with him in a secret orgy of veneration for those +fools. + +Maltby, too, in his measure, enabled us to reel thus. That is mainly +why, before the end of April, his publisher was in a position to state +that ‘the Seventh Large Impression of “Ariel in Mayfair” is almost +exhausted.’ Let it be put to our credit, however, that at the same +moment Braxton’s publisher had ‘the honour to inform the public that +an Eighth Large Impression of “A Faun on the Cotswolds” is in instant +preparation.’ + +Indeed, it seemed impossible for either author to outvie the other in +success and glory. Week in, week out, you saw cancelled either’s every +momentary advantage. A neck-and-neck race. As thus:--Maltby appears as +a Celebrity At Home in the World (Tuesday). Ha! No, Vanity +Fair (Wednesday) has a perfect presentment of Braxton by ‘Spy.’ +Neck-and-neck! No, Vanity Fair says ‘the subject of next week’s cartoon +will be Mr. Hilary Maltby.’ Maltby wins! No, next week Braxton’s in the +World. + +Throughout May I kept, as it were, my eyes glued to my field-glasses. +On the first Monday in June I saw that which drew from me a hoarse +ejaculation. + +Let me explain that always on Monday mornings at this time of year, when +I opened my daily paper, I looked with respectful interest to see what +bevy of the great world had been entertained since Saturday at Keeb +Hall. The list was always august and inspiring. Statecraft and Diplomacy +were well threaded there with mere Lineage and mere Beauty, with Royalty +sometimes, with mere Wealth never, with privileged Genius now and then. +A noble composition always. It was said that the Duke of Hertfordshire +cared for nothing but his collection of birds’ eggs, and that the +collections of guests at Keeb were formed entirely by his young +Duchess. It was said that he had climbed trees in every corner of every +continent. The Duchess’ hobby was easier. She sat aloft and beckoned +desirable specimens up. + +The list published on that first Monday in June began ordinarily enough, +began with the Austro-Hungarian Ambassador and the Portuguese Minister. +Then came the Duke and Duchess of Mull, followed by four lesser Peers +(two of them Proconsuls, however) with their Peeresses, three Peers +without their Peeresses, four Peeresses without their Peers, and a dozen +bearers of courtesy-titles with or without their wives or husbands. The +rear was brought up by ‘Mr. A. J. Balfour, Mr. Henry Chaplin, and Mr. +Hilary Maltby.’ + +Youth tends to look at the darker side of things. I confess that my +first thought was for Braxton. + +I forgave and forgot his faults of manner. Youth is generous. It does +not criticise a strong man stricken. + +And anon, so habituated was I to the parity of those two strivers, I +conceived that there might be some mistake. Daily newspapers are printed +in a hurry. Might not ‘Henry Chaplin’ be a typographical error for +‘Stephen Braxton’? I went out and bought another newspaper. But Mr. +Chaplin’s name was in that too. + +‘Patience!’ I said to myself. ‘Braxton crouches only to spring. He will +be at Keeb Hall on Saturday next.’ + +My mind was free now to dwell with pleasure on Maltby’s great +achievement. I thought of writing to congratulate him, but feared this +might be in bad taste. I did, however, write asking him to lunch with +me. He did not answer my letter. I was, therefore, all the more sorry, +next Monday, at not finding ‘and Mr. Stephen Braxton’ in Keeb’s week-end +catalogue. + +A few days later I met Mr. Hookworth. He mentioned that Stephen Braxton +had left town. ‘He has taken,’ said Hookworth, ‘a delightful bungalow on +the east coast. He has gone there to WORK.’ He added that he had a great +liking for Braxton--‘a man utterly UNSPOILT.’ I inferred that he, too, +had written to Maltby and received no answer. + +That butterfly did not, however, appear to be hovering from flower +to flower in the parterres of rank and fashion. In the daily lists of +guests at dinners, receptions, dances, balls, the name of Maltby figured +never. Maltby had not caught on. + +Presently I heard that he, too, had left town. I gathered that he had +gone quite early in June--quite soon after Keeb. Nobody seemed to know +where he was. My own theory was that he had taken a delightful bungalow +on the west coast, to balance Braxton. Anyhow, the parity of the two +strivers was now somewhat re-established. + +In point of fact, the disparity had been less than I supposed. While +Maltby was at Keeb, there Braxton was also--in a sense.... It was a +strange story. I did not hear it at the time. Nobody did. I heard it +seventeen years later. I heard it in Lucca. + + +Little Lucca I found so enchanting that, though I had only a day or two +to spare, I stayed there a whole month. I formed the habit of walking, +every morning, round that high-pitched path which girdles Lucca, that +wide and tree-shaded path from which one looks down over the city wall +at the fertile plains beneath Lucca. There were never many people there; +but the few who did come came daily, so that I grew to like seeing them +and took a mild personal interest in them. + +One of them was an old lady in a wheeled chair. She was not less than +seventy years old, and might or might not have once been beautiful. +Her chair was slowly propelled by an Italian woman. She herself was +obviously Italian. Not so, however, the little gentleman who walked +assiduously beside her. Him I guessed to be English. He was a very stout +little gentleman, with gleaming spectacles and a full blond beard, and +he seemed to radiate cheerfulness. I thought at first that he might be +the old lady’s resident physician; but no, there was something subtly +un-professional about him: I became sure that his constancy was +gratuitous, and his radiance real. And one day, I know not how, there +dawned on me a suspicion that he was--who?--some one I had known--some +writer--what’s-his-name--something with an M--Maltby--Hilary Maltby of +the long-ago! + +At sight of him on the morrow this suspicion hardened almost to +certainty. I wished I could meet him alone and ask him if I were not +right, and what he had been doing all these years, and why he had left +England. He was always with the old lady. It was only on my last day in +Lucca that my chance came. + +I had just lunched, and was seated on a comfortable bench outside my +hotel, with a cup of coffee on the table before me, gazing across the +faded old sunny piazza and wondering what to do with my last afternoon. +It was then that I espied yonder the back of the putative Maltby. I +hastened forth to him. He was buying some pink roses, a great bunch of +them, from a market-woman under an umbrella. He looked very blank, he +flushed greatly, when I ventured to accost him. He admitted that his +name was Hilary Maltby. I told him my own name, and by degrees he +remembered me. He apologised for his confusion. He explained that he had +not talked English, had not talked to an Englishman, ‘for--oh, hundreds +of years.’ He said that he had, in the course of his long residence in +Lucca, seen two or three people whom he had known in England, but that +none of them had recognised him. He accepted (but as though he were +embarking on the oddest adventure in the world) my invitation that +he should come and sit down and take coffee with me. He laughed with +pleasure and surprise at finding that he could still speak his native +tongue quite fluently and idiomatically. ‘I know absolutely nothing,’ he +said, ‘about England nowadays--except from stray references to it in the +Corriere della Sera; nor did he show the faintest desire that I should +enlighten him. ‘England,’ he mused, ‘--how it all comes back to me!’ + +‘But not you to it?’ + +‘Ah, no indeed,’ he said gravely, looking at the roses which he had laid +carefully on the marble table. ‘I am the happiest of men.’ + +He sipped his coffee, and stared out across the piazza, out beyond it +into the past. + +‘I am the happiest of men,’ he repeated. I plied him with the spur of +silence. + +‘And I owe it all to having once yielded to a bad impulse. Absurd, the +threads our destinies hang on!’ + +Again I plied him with that spur. As it seemed not to prick him, I +repeated the words he had last spoken. ‘For instance?’ I added. + +‘Take,’ he said, ‘a certain evening in the spring of ‘95. If, on that +evening, the Duchess of Hertfordshire had had a bad cold; or if she +had decided that it WOULDN’T be rather interesting to go on to that +party--that Annual Soiree, I think it was--of the Inkwomen’s Club; or +again--to go a step further back--if she hadn’t ever written that one +little poem, and if it HADN’T been printed in “The Gentlewoman,” and if +the Inkwomen’s committee HADN’T instantly and unanimously elected her an +Honorary Vice-President because of that one little poem; or if--well, +if a million-and-one utterly irrelevant things hadn’t happened, +don’t-you-know, I shouldn’t be here.... I might be THERE,’ he smiled, +with a vague gesture indicating England. + +‘Suppose,’ he went on, ‘I hadn’t been invited to that Annual Soiree; or +suppose that other fellow,-- + +‘Braxton?’ I suggested. I had remembered Braxton at the moment of +recognising Maltby. + +‘Suppose HE hadn’t been asked.... But of course we both were. It +happened that I was the first to be presented to the Duchess.... It was +a great moment. I hoped I should keep my head. She wore a tiara. I had +often seen women in tiaras, at the Opera. But I had never talked to +a woman in a tiara. Tiaras were symbols to me. Eyes are just a human +feature. I fixed mine on the Duchess’s. I kept my head by not looking +at hers. I behaved as one human being to another. She seemed very +intelligent. We got on very well. Presently she asked whether I should +think her VERY bold if she said how PERFECTLY divine she thought my +book. I said something about doing my best, and asked with animation +whether she had read “A Faun on the Cotswolds.” She had. She said it was +TOO wonderful, she said it was TOO great. If she hadn’t been a Duchess, +I might have thought her slightly hysterical. Her innate good-sense +quickly reasserted itself. She used her great power. With a wave of her +magic wand she turned into a fact the glittering possibility that had +haunted me. She asked me down to Keeb. + +‘She seemed very pleased that I would come. Was I, by any chance, free +on Saturday week? She hoped there would be some amusing people to meet +me. Could I come by the 3.30? It was only an hour-and-a-quarter from +Victoria. On Saturday there were always compartments reserved for people +coming to Keeb by the 3.30. She hoped I would bring my bicycle with me. +She hoped I wouldn’t find it very dull. She hoped I wouldn’t forget to +come. She said how lovely it must be to spend one’s life among clever +people. She supposed I knew everybody here to-night. She asked me to +tell her who everybody was. She asked who was the tall, dark man, over +there. I told her it was Stephen Braxton. She said they had promised to +introduce her to him. She added that he looked rather wonderful. “Oh, he +is, very,” I assured her. She turned to me with a sudden appeal: “DO you +think, if I took my courage in both hands and asked him, he’d care to +come to Keeb?” + +‘I hesitated. It would be easy to say that Satan answered FOR me; easy +but untrue; it was I that babbled: “Well--as a matter of fact--since you +ask me--if I were you--really I think you’d better not. He’s very odd in +some ways. He has an extraordinary hatred of sleeping out of London. He +has the real Gloucestershire LOVE of London. At the same time, he’s very +shy; and if you asked him he wouldn’t very well know how to refuse. I +think it would be KINDER not to ask him.” + +‘At that moment, Mrs. Wilpham--the President--loomed up to us, bringing +Braxton. He bore himself well. Rough dignity with a touch of mellowness. +I daresay you never saw him smile. He smiled gravely down at the +Duchess, while she talked in her pretty little quick humble way. He made +a great impression. + +‘What I had done was not merely base: it was very dangerous. I was in +terror that she might rally him on his devotion to London. I didn’t dare +to move away. I was immensely relieved when at length she said she must +be going. + +‘Braxton seemed loth to relax his grip on her hand at parting. I feared +she wouldn’t escape without uttering that invitation. But all was +well.... In saying good night to me, she added in a murmur, “Don’t +forget Keeb--Saturday week--the 3.30.” Merely an exquisite murmur. +But Braxton heard it. I knew, by the diabolical look he gave me, that +Braxton had heard it.... If he hadn’t, I shouldn’t be here. + +‘Was I a prey to remorse? Well, in the days between that Soiree and that +Saturday, remorse often claimed me, but rapture wouldn’t give me up. +Arcady, Olympus, the right people, at last! I hadn’t realised how good +my book was--not till it got me this guerdon; not till I got it this +huge advertisement. I foresaw how pleased my publisher would be. In some +great houses, I knew, it was possible to stay without any one knowing +you had been there. But the Duchess of Hertfordshire hid her light under +no bushel. Exclusive she was, but not of publicity. Next to Windsor +Castle, Keeb Hall was the most advertised house in all England. + +‘Meanwhile, I had plenty to do. I rather thought of engaging a valet, +but decided that this wasn’t necessary. On the other hand, I felt a need +for three new summer suits, and a new evening suit, and some new white +waistcoats. Also a smoking suit. And had any man ever stayed at Keeb +without a dressing-case? Hitherto I had been content with a pair of +wooden brushes, and so forth. I was afraid these would appal the footman +who unpacked my things. I ordered, for his sake, a large dressing-case, +with my initials engraved throughout it. It looked compromisingly new +when it came to me from the shop. I had to kick it industriously, and +throw it about and scratch it, so as to avert possible suspicion. The +tailor did not send my things home till the Friday evening. I had to sit +up late, wearing the new suits in rotation. + +‘Next day, at Victoria, I saw strolling on the platform many people, +male and female, who looked as if they were going to Keeb--tall, +cool, ornate people who hadn’t packed their own things and had reached +Victoria in broughams. I was ornate, but not tall nor cool. My porter +was rather off-hand in his manner as he wheeled my things along to +the 3.30. I asked severely if there were any compartments reserved for +people going to stay with the Duke of Hertfordshire. This worked an +instant change in him. Having set me in one of those shrines, he seemed +almost loth to accept a tip. A snob, I am afraid. + +‘A selection of the tall, the cool, the ornate, the intimately +acquainted with one another, soon filled the compartment. There I +was, and I think they felt they ought to try to bring me into the +conversation. As they were all talking about a cotillion of the previous +night, I shouldn’t have been able to shine. I gazed out of the window, +with middle-class aloofness. Presently the talk drifted on to the topic +of bicycles. But by this time it was too late for me to come in. + +‘I gazed at the squalid outskirts of London as they flew by. I doubted, +as I listened to my fellow-passengers, whether I should be able to shine +at Keeb. I rather wished I were going to spend the week-end at one of +those little houses with back-gardens beneath the railway-line. I was +filled with fears. + +‘For shame! thought I. Was I nobody? Was the author of “Ariel in +Mayfair” nobody? + +‘I reminded myself how glad Braxton would be if he knew of my +faint-heartedness. I thought of Braxton sitting, at this moment, in his +room in Clifford’s Inn and glowering with envy of his hated rival in the +3.30. And after all, how enviable I was! My spirits rose. I would acquit +myself well.... + +‘I much admired the scene at the little railway station where we +alighted. It was like a fete by Lancret. I knew from the talk of my +fellow-passengers that some people had been going down by an earlier +train, and that others were coming by a later. But the 3.30 had brought +a full score of us. Us! That was the final touch of beauty. + +‘Outside there were two broughams, a landau, dog-carts, a phaeton, a +wagonette, I know not what. But almost everybody, it seemed, was going +to bicycle. Lady Rodfitten said SHE was going to bicycle. Year after +year, I had seen that famous Countess riding or driving in the Park. +I had been told at fourth hand that she had a masculine intellect and +could make and unmake Ministries. She was nearly sixty now, a trifle +dyed and stout and weather-beaten, but still tremendously handsome, and +hard as nails. One would not have said she had grown older, but merely +that she belonged now to a rather later period of the Roman Empire. I +had never dreamed of a time when one roof would shelter Lady Rodfitten +and me. Somehow, she struck my imagination more than any of these +others--more than Count Deym, more than Mr. Balfour, more than the +lovely Lady Thisbe Crowborough. + +‘I might have had a ducal vehicle all to myself, and should have liked +that; but it seemed more correct that I should use my bicycle. On the +other hand, I didn’t want to ride with all these people--a stranger in +their midst. I lingered around the luggage till they were off, and then +followed at a long distance. + +‘The sun had gone behind clouds. But I rode slowly, so as to be sure not +to arrive hot. I passed, not without a thrill, through the massive +open gates into the Duke’s park. A massive man with a cockade saluted +me--hearteningly--from the door of the lodge. The park seemed endless. +I came, at length, to a long straight avenue of elms that were almost +blatantly immemorial. At the end of it was--well, I felt like a gnat +going to stay in a public building. + +‘If there had been turnstiles--IN and OUT--and a shilling to pay, +I should have felt easier as I passed into that hall--that +Palladio-Gargantuan hall. Some one, some butler or groom-of-the-chamber, +murmured that her Grace was in the garden. I passed out through the +great opposite doorway on to a wide spectacular terrace with lawns +beyond. Tea was on the nearest of these lawns. In the central group of +people--some standing, others sitting--I espied the Duchess. She sat +pouring out tea, a deft and animated little figure. I advanced firmly +down the steps from the terrace, feeling that all would be well so soon +as I had reported myself to the Duchess. + +‘But I had a staggering surprise on my way to her. I espied in one of +the smaller groups--whom d’you think? Braxton. + +‘I had no time to wonder how he had got there--time merely to grasp the +black fact that he WAS there. + +‘The Duchess seemed really pleased to see me. She said it was TOO +splendid of me to come. “You know Mr. Maltby?” she asked Lady Rodfitten, +who exclaimed “Not Mr. HILARY Maltby?” with a vigorous grace that +was overwhelming. Lady Rodfitten declared she was the greatest of my +admirers; and I could well believe that in whatever she did she excelled +all competitors. On the other hand, I found it hard to believe she was +afraid of me. Yet I had her word for it that she was. + +‘Her womanly charm gave place now to her masculine grip. She +eulogised me in the language of a seasoned reviewer on the staff of a +long-established journal--wordy perhaps, but sound. I revered and loved +her. I wished I could give her my undivided attention. But, whilst I sat +there, teacup, in hand, between her and the Duchess, part of my brain +was fearfully concerned with that glimpse I had had of Braxton. It +didn’t so much matter that he was here to halve my triumph. But suppose +he knew what I had told the Duchess! And suppose he had--no, surely if +he HAD shown me up in all my meanness she wouldn’t have received me +so very cordially. I wondered where she could have met him since that +evening of the Inkwomen. I heard Lady Rodfitten concluding her review +of “Ariel” with two or three sentences that might have been framed +specially to give the publisher an easy “quote.” And then I heard myself +asking mechanically whether she had read “A Faun on the Cotswolds.” The +Duchess heard me too. She turned from talking to other people and said +“I did like Mr. Braxton so VERY much.” + +‘“Yes,” I threw out with a sickly smile, “I’m so glad you asked him to +come.” + +‘“But I didn’t ask him. I didn’t DARE.” + +‘“But--but--surely he wouldn’t be--be HERE if--” We stared at each other +blankly. “Here?” she echoed, glancing at the scattered little groups of +people on the lawn. I glanced too. I was much embarrassed. I explained +that I had seen Braxton “standing just over there” when I arrived, and +had supposed he was one of the people who came by the earlier train. +“Well,” she said with a slightly irritated laugh, “you must have +mistaken some one else for him.” She dropped the subject, talked to +other people, and presently moved away. + +‘Surely, thought I, she didn’t suspect me of trying to make fun of her? +On the other hand, surely she hadn’t conspired with Braxton to make a +fool of ME? And yet, how could Braxton be here without an invitation, +and without her knowledge? My brain whirled. One thing only was clear. +I could NOT have mistaken anybody for Braxton. There Braxton had +stood--Stephen Braxton, in that old pepper-and-salt suit of his, with +his red tie all askew, and without a hat--his hair hanging over his +forehead. All this I had seen sharp and clean-cut. There he had stood, +just beside one of the women who travelled down in the same compartment +as I; a very pretty woman in a pale blue dress; a tall woman--but I had +noticed how small she looked beside Braxton. This woman was now walking +to and fro, yonder, with M. de Soveral. I had seen Braxton beside her as +clearly as I now saw M. de Soveral. + +‘Lady Rodfitten was talking about India to a recent Viceroy. She seemed +to have as firm a grip of India as of “Ariel.” I sat forgotten. I wanted +to arise and wander off--in a vague search for Braxton. But I feared +this might look as if I were angry at being ignored. Presently Lady +Rodfitten herself arose, to have what she called her “annual look +round.” She bade me come too, and strode off between me and the +recent Viceroy, noting improvements that had been made in the grounds, +suggesting improvements that might be made, indicating improvements that +MUST be made. She was great on landscape-gardening. The recent Viceroy +was less great on it, but great enough. I don’t say I walked forgotten: +the eminent woman constantly asked my opinion; but my opinion, though of +course it always coincided with hers, sounded quite worthless, somehow. +I longed to shine. I could only bother about Braxton. + +‘Lady Rodfitten’s voice sounded over-strong for the stillness of +evening. The shadows lengthened. My spirits sank lower and lower, with +the sun. I was a naturally cheerful person, but always, towards sunset, +I had a vague sense of melancholy: I seemed always to have grown weaker; +morbid misgivings would come to me. On this particular evening there was +one such misgiving that crept in and out of me again and again... a very +horrible misgiving as to the NATURE of what I had seen. + +‘Well, dressing for dinner is a great tonic. Especially if one shaves. +My spirits rose as I lathered my face. I smiled to my reflection in +the mirror. The afterglow of the sun came through the window behind +the dressing-table, but I had switched on all the lights. My new +silver-topped bottles and things made a fine array. To-night _I_ was +going to shine, too. I felt I might yet be the life and soul of the +party. Anyway, my new evening suit was without a fault. And meanwhile +this new razor was perfect. Having shaved “down,” I lathered myself +again and proceeded to shave “up.” It was then that I uttered a sharp +sound and swung round on my heel. + +‘No one was there. Yet this I knew: Stephen Braxton had just looked over +my shoulder. I had seen the reflection of his face beside mine--craned +forward to the mirror. I had met his eyes. + +‘He had been with me. This I knew. + +‘I turned to look again at that mirror. One of my cheeks was all covered +with blood. I stanched it with a towel. Three long cuts where the razor +had slipped and skipped. I plunged the towel into cold water and held it +to my cheek. The bleeding went on--alarmingly. I rang the bell. No one +came. I vowed I wouldn’t bleed to death for Braxton. I rang again. At +last a very tall powdered footman appeared--more reproachful-looking +than sympathetic, as though I hadn’t ordered that dressing-case +specially on his behalf. He said he thought one of the housemaids would +have some sticking-plaster. He was very sorry he was needed downstairs, +but he would tell one of the housemaids. I continued to dab and to +curse. The blood flowed less. I showed great spirit. I vowed Braxton +should not prevent me from going down to dinner. + +‘But--a pretty sight I was when I did go down. Pale but determined, with +three long strips of black sticking-plaster forming a sort of Z on my +left cheek. Mr. Hilary Maltby at Keeb. Literature’s Ambassador. + +‘I don’t know how late I was. Dinner was in full swing. Some servant +piloted me to my place. I sat down unobserved. The woman on either side +of me was talking to her other neighbour. I was near the Duchess’ end of +the table. Soup was served to me--that dark-red soup that you pour cream +into--Bortsch. I felt it would steady me. I raised the first spoonful to +my lips, and--my hand gave a sudden jerk. + +‘I was aware of two separate horrors--a horror that had been, a horror +that was. Braxton had vanished. Not for more than an instant had he +stood scowling at me from behind the opposite diners. Not for more than +the fraction of an instant. But he had left his mark on me. I gazed down +with a frozen stare at my shirtfront, at my white waistcoat, both dark +with Bortsch. I rubbed them with a napkin. I made them worse. + +‘I looked at my glass of champagne. I raised it carefully and drained +it at one draught. It nerved me. But behind that shirtfront was a broken +heart. + +‘The woman on my left was Lady Thisbe Crowborough. I don’t know who was +the woman on my right. She was the first to turn and see me. I thought +it best to say something about my shirtfront at once. I said it to her +sideways, without showing my left cheek. Her handsome eyes rested on the +splashes. She said, after a moment’s thought, that they looked “rather +gay.” She said she thought the eternal black and white of men’s +evening clothes was “so very dreary.” She did her best.... Lady Thisbe +Crowborough did her best, too, I suppose; but breeding isn’t proof +against all possible shocks: she visibly started at sight of me and my +Z. I explained that I had cut myself shaving. I said, with an attempt at +lightness, that shy men ought always to cut themselves shaving: it +made such a good conversational opening. “But surely,” she said after a +pause, “you don’t cut yourself on purpose?” She was an abysmal fool. I +didn’t think so at the time. She was Lady Thisbe Crowborough. This fact +hallowed her. That we didn’t get on at all well was a misfortune +for which I blamed only myself and my repulsive appearance and--the +unforgettable horror that distracted me. Nor did I blame Lady Thisbe for +turning rather soon to the man on her other side. + +‘The woman on my right was talking to the man on HER other side; so that +I was left a prey to secret memory and dread. I wasn’t wondering, wasn’t +attempting to explain; I was merely remembering--and dreading. And--how +odd one is!--on the top-layer of my consciousness I hated to be seen +talking to no one. Mr. Maltby at Keeb. I caught the Duchess’ eye once +or twice, and she nodded encouragingly, as who should say “You do look +rather awful, and you do seem rather out of it, but I don’t for a moment +regret having asked you to come.” Presently I had another chance of +talking. I heard myself talk. My feverish anxiety to please rather +touched ME. But I noticed that the eyes of my listener wandered. And +yet I was sorry when the ladies went away. I had a sense of greater +exposure. Men who hadn’t seen me saw me now. The Duke, as he came round +to the Duchess’ end of the table, must have wondered who I was. But he +shyly offered me his hand as he passed, and said it was so good of me +to come. I had thought of slipping away to put on another shirt and +waistcoat, but had decided that this would make me the more ridiculous. +I sat drinking port--poison to me after champagne, but a lulling +poison--and listened to noblemen with unstained shirtfronts talking +about the Australian cricket match.... + +‘Is Rubicon Bezique still played in England? There was a mania for it at +that time. The floor of Keeb’s Palladio-Gargantuan hall was dotted with +innumerable little tables. I didn’t know how to play. My hostess told me +I must “come and amuse the dear old Duke and Duchess of Mull,” and led +me to a remote sofa on which an old gentleman had just sat down beside +an old lady. They looked at me with a dim kind interest. My hostess had +set me and left me on a small gilt chair in front of them. Before going +she had conveyed to them loudly--one of them was very deaf--that I was +“the famous writer.” It was a long time before they understood that I +was not a political writer. The Duke asked me, after a troubled pause, +whether I had known “old Mr. Abraham Hayward.” The Duchess said I was +too young to have known Mr. Hayward, and asked if I knew her “clever +friend Mr. Mallock.” I said I had just been reading Mr. Mallock’s new +novel. I heard myself shouting a confused precis of the plot. The place +where we were sitting was near the foot of the great marble staircase. +I said how beautiful the staircase was. The Duchess of Mull said she had +never cared very much for that staircase. The Duke, after a pause, said +he had “often heard old Mr. Abraham Hayward hold a whole dinner table.” + There were long and frequent pauses--between which I heard myself +talking loudly, frantically, sinking lower and lower in the esteem of my +small audience. I felt like a man drowning under the eyes of an elderly +couple who sit on the bank regretting that they can offer NO assistance. +Presently the Duke looked at his watch and said to the Duchess that it +was “time to be thinking of bed.” + +‘They rose, as it were from the bank, and left me, so to speak, under +water. I watched them as they passed slowly out of sight up the marble +staircase which I had mispraised. I turned and surveyed the brilliant, +silent scene presented by the card-players. + +‘I wondered what old Mr. Abraham Hayward would have done in my place. +Would he have just darted in among those tables and “held” them? I +presumed that he would not have stolen silently away, quickly and +cravenly away, up the marble staircase--as _I_ did. + +‘I don’t know which was the greater, the relief or the humiliation of +finding myself in my bedroom. Perhaps the humiliation was the greater. +There, on a chair, was my grand new smoking-suit, laid out for me--what +a mockery! Once I had foreseen myself wearing it in the smoking-room +at a late hour--the centre of a group of eminent men entranced by the +brilliancy of my conversation. And now--! I was nothing but a small, +dull, soup-stained, sticking-plastered, nerve-racked recluse. Nerves, +yes. I assured myself that I had not seen--what I had seemed to see. All +very odd, of course, and very unpleasant, but easily explained. Nerves. +Excitement of coming to Keeb too much for me. A good night’s rest: that +was all I needed. To-morrow I should laugh at myself. + +‘I wondered that I wasn’t tired physically. There my grand new silk +pyjamas were, yet I felt no desire to go to bed... none while it was +still possible for me to go. The little writing-table at the foot of my +bed seemed to invite me. I had brought with me in my portmanteau a sheaf +of letters, letters that I had purposely left unanswered in order that I +might answer them on KEEB HALL note-paper. These the footman had neatly +laid beside the blotting-pad on that little writing-table at the foot +of the bed. I regretted that the notepaper stacked there had no ducal +coronet on it. What matter? The address sufficed. If I hadn’t yet made a +good impression on the people who were staying here, I could at any rate +make one on the people who weren’t. I sat down. I set to work. I wrote a +prodigious number of fluent and graceful notes. + +‘Some of these were to strangers who wanted my autograph. I was always +delighted to send my autograph, and never perfunctory in the manner of +sending it.... “Dear Madam,” I remember writing to somebody that night, +“were it not that you make your request for it so charmingly, I should +hesitate to send you that which rarity alone can render valuable.--Yours +truly, Hilary Maltby.” I remember reading this over and wondering +whether the word “render” looked rather commercial. It was in the act +of wondering thus that I raised my eyes from the note-paper and saw, +through the bars of the brass bedstead, the naked sole of a large human +foot--saw beyond it the calf of a great leg; a nightshirt; and the face +of Stephen Braxton. I did not move. + + +‘I thought of making a dash for the door, dashing out into the corridor, +shouting at the top of my voice for help. I sat quite still. + +‘What kept me to my chair was the fear that if I tried to reach the door +Braxton would spring off the bed to intercept me. If I sat quite still +perhaps he wouldn’t move. I felt that if he moved I should collapse +utterly. + +‘I watched him, and he watched me. He lay there with his body +half-raised, one elbow propped on the pillow, his jaw sunk on his +breast; and from under his black brows he watched me steadily. + +‘No question of mere nerves now. That hope was gone. No mere optical +delusion, this abiding presence. Here Braxton was. He and I were +together in the bright, silent room. How long would he be content to +watch me? + +‘Eleven nights ago he had given me one horrible look. It was this look +that I had to meet, in infinite prolongation, now, not daring to shift +my eyes. He lay as motionless as I sat. I did not hear him breathing, +but I knew, by the rise and fall of his chest under his nightshirt, +that he was breathing heavily. Suddenly I started to my feet. For he had +moved. He had raised one hand slowly. He was stroking his chin. And +as he did so, and as he watched me, his mouth gradually slackened to a +grin. It was worse, it was more malign, this grin, than the scowl that +remained with it; and its immediate effect on me was an impulse that was +as hard to resist as it was hateful. The window was open. It was nearer +to me than the door. I could have reached it in time.... + +‘Well, I live to tell the tale. I stood my ground. And there dawned on +me now a new fact in regard to my companion. I had all the while been +conscious of something abnormal in his attitude--a lack of ease in his +gross possessiveness. I saw now the reason for this effect. The pillow +on which his elbow rested was still uniformly puffed and convex; like +a pillow untouched. His elbow rested but on the very surface of it, +not changing the shape of it at all. His body made not the least furrow +along the bed.... He had no weight. + +‘I knew that if I leaned forward and thrust my hand between those brass +rails, to clutch his foot, I should clutch--nothing. He wasn’t tangible. +He was realistic. He wasn’t real. He was opaque. He wasn’t solid. + +‘Odd as it may seem to you, these certainties took the edge off my +horror. During that walk with Lady Rodfitten, I had been appalled by the +doubt that haunted me. But now the very confirmation of that doubt gave +me a sort of courage: I could cope better with anything to-night than +with actual Braxton. And the measure of the relief I felt is that I sat +down again on my chair. + +‘More than once there came to me a wild hope that the thing might be an +optical delusion, after all. Then would I shut my eyes tightly, shaking +my head sharply; but, when I looked again, there the presence was, of +course. It--he--not actual Braxton but, roughly speaking, Braxton--had +come to stay. I was conscious of intense fatigue, taut and alert though +every particle of me was; so that I became, in the course of that +ghastly night, conscious of a great envy also. For some time before the +dawn came in through the window, Braxton’s eyes had been closed; little +by little now his head drooped sideways, then fell on his forearm and +rested there. He was asleep. + +‘Cut off from sleep, I had a great longing for smoke. I had cigarettes +on me, I had matches on me. But I didn’t dare to strike a match. The +sound might have waked Braxton up. In slumber he was less terrible, +though perhaps more odious. I wasn’t so much afraid now as indignant. +“It’s intolerable,” I sat saying to myself, “utterly intolerable!” + +‘I had to bear it, nevertheless. I was aware that I had, in some degree, +brought it on myself. If I hadn’t interfered and lied, actual Braxton +would have been here at Keeb, and I at this moment sleeping soundly. But +this was no excuse for Braxton. Braxton didn’t know what I had done. He +was merely envious of me. And--wanly I puzzled it out in the dawn--by +very force of the envy, hatred, and malice in him he had projected +hither into my presence this simulacrum of himself. I had known that he +would be thinking of me. I had known that the thought of me at Keeb Hall +would be of the last bitterness to his most sacred feelings. But--I had +reckoned without the passionate force and intensity of the man’s nature. + +‘If by this same strength and intensity he had merely projected himself +as an invisible guest under the Duchess’ roof--if his feat had been +wholly, as perhaps it was in part, a feat of mere wistfulness and +longing--then I should have felt really sorry for him; and my conscience +would have soundly rated me in his behalf. But no; if the wretched +creature HAD been invisible to me, I shouldn’t have thought of Braxton +at all--except with gladness that he wasn’t here. That he was visible to +me, and to me alone, wasn’t any sign of proper remorse within me. It was +but the gauge of his incredible ill-will. + +‘Well, it seemed to me that he was avenged--with a vengeance. There I +sat, hot-browed from sleeplessness, cold in the feet, stiff in the legs, +cowed and indignant all through--sat there in the broadening daylight, +and in that new evening suit of mine with the Braxtonised shirtfront +and waistcoat that by day were more than ever loathsome. Literature’s +Ambassador at Keeb.... I rose gingerly from my chair, and caught +sight of my face, of my Braxtonised cheek, in the mirror. I heard +the twittering of birds in distant trees. I saw through my window the +elaborate landscape of the Duke’s grounds, all soft in the grey bloom of +early morning. I think I was nearer to tears than I had ever been since +I was a child. But the weakness passed. I turned towards the personage +on my bed, and, summoning all such power as was in me, WILLED him to be +gone. My effort was not without result--an inadequate result. Braxton +turned in his sleep. + +‘I resumed my seat, and... and... sat up staring and blinking, at a tall +man with red hair. “I must have fallen asleep,” I said. “Yessir,” he +replied; and his toneless voice touched in me one or two springs +of memory: I was at Keeb; this was the footman who looked after me. +But--why wasn’t I in bed? Had I--no, surely it had been no nightmare. +Surely I had SEEN Braxton on that white bed. + +‘The footman was impassively putting away my smoking-suit. I was too +dazed to wonder what he thought of me. Nor did I attempt to stifle a +cry when, a moment later, turning in my chair, I beheld Braxton leaning +moodily against the mantelpiece. “Are you unwell sir?” asked the footman. +“No,” I said faintly, “I’m quite well.”--“Yessir. Will you wear the blue +suit or the grey?”--“The grey.”--“Yessir.”--It seemed almost incredible +that HE didn’t see Braxton; HE didn’t appear to me one whit more solid +than the night-shirted brute who stood against the mantelpiece and +watched him lay out my things.--“Shall I let your bath-water run +now sir?”--“Please, yes.”--“Your bathroom’s the second door to the left +sir.”--He went out with my bath-towel and sponge, leaving me alone with +Braxton. + +‘I rose to my feet, mustering once more all the strength that was in +me. Hoping against hope, with set teeth and clenched hands, I faced him, +thrust forth my will at him, with everything but words commanded him to +vanish--to cease to be. + +‘Suddenly, utterly, he vanished. And you can imagine the truly exquisite +sense of triumph that thrilled me and continued to thrill me till I went +into the bathroom and found him in my bath. + +‘Quivering with rage, I returned to my bedroom. “Intolerable,” I heard +myself repeating like a parrot that knew no other word. A bath was just +what I had needed. Could I have lain for a long time basking in very +hot water, and then have sponged myself with cold water, I should have +emerged calm and brave; comparatively so, at any rate. I should have +looked less ghastly, and have had less of a headache, and something of +an appetite, when I went down to breakfast. Also, I shouldn’t have been +the very first guest to appear on the scene. There were five or six +round tables, instead of last night’s long table. At the further end +of the room the butler and two other servants were lighting the little +lamps under the hot dishes. I didn’t like to make myself ridiculous by +running away. On the other hand, was it right for me to begin breakfast +all by myself at one of these round tables? I supposed it was. But +I dreaded to be found eating, alone in that vast room, by the first +downcomer. I sat dallying with dry toast and watching the door. It +occurred to me that Braxton might occur at any moment. Should I be able +to ignore him? + +‘Some man and wife--a very handsome couple--were the first to appear. +They nodded and said “good morning” when they noticed me on their way to +the hot dishes. I rose--uncomfortably, guiltily--and sat down again. I +rose again when the wife drifted to my table, followed by the husband +with two steaming plates. She asked me if it wasn’t a heavenly morning, +and I replied with nervous enthusiasm that it was. She then ate kedgeree +in silence. “You just finishing, what?” the husband asked, looking at +my plate. “Oh, no--no--only just beginning,” I assured him, and helped +myself to butter. He then ate kedgeree in silence. He looked like some +splendid bull, and she like some splendid cow, grazing. I envied them +their eupeptic calm. I surmised that ten thousand Braxtons would not +have prevented THEM from sleeping soundly by night and grazing steadily +by day. Perhaps their stolidity infected me a little. Or perhaps what +braced me was the great quantity of strong tea that I consumed. Anyhow +I had begun to feel that if Braxton came in now I shouldn’t blench nor +falter. + +‘Well, I wasn’t put to the test. Plenty of people drifted in, but +Braxton wasn’t one of them. Lady Rodfitten--no, she didn’t drift, she +marched, in; and presently, at an adjacent table, she was drawing a +comparison, in clarion tones, between Jean and Edouard de Reszke. It +seemed to me that her own voice had much in common with Edouard’s. Even +more was it akin to a military band. I found myself beating time to it +with my foot. Decidedly, my spirits had risen. I was in a mood to face +and outface anything. When I rose from the table and made my way to the +door, I walked with something of a swing--to the tune of Lady Rodfitten. + +‘My buoyancy didn’t last long, though. There was no swing in my walk +when, a little later, I passed out on to the spectacular terrace. I had +seen my enemy again, and had beaten a furious retreat. No doubt I should +see him yet again soon--here, perhaps, on this terrace. Two of the +guests were bicycling slowly up and down the long paven expanse, both of +them smiling with pride in the new delicious form of locomotion. There +was a great array of bicycles propped neatly along the balustrade. I +recognised my own among them. I wondered whether Braxton had projected +from Clifford’s Inn an image of his own bicycle. He may have done so; +but I’ve no evidence that he did. I myself was bicycling when next I saw +him; but he, I remember, was on foot. + +‘This was a few minutes later. I was bicycling with dear Lady Rodfitten. +She seemed really to like me. She had come out and accosted me heartily +on the terrace, asking me, because of my sticking-plaster, with whom I +had fought a duel since yesterday. I did not tell her with whom, and +she had already branched off on the subject of duelling in general. She +regretted the extinction of duelling in England, and gave cogent +reasons for her regret. Then she asked me what my next book was to be. +I confided that I was writing a sort of sequel--“Ariel Returns to +Mayfair.” She shook her head, said with her usual soundness that sequels +were very dangerous things, and asked me to tell her “briefly” the lines +along which I was working. I did so. She pointed out two or three weak +points in my scheme. She said she could judge better if I would let +her see my manuscript. She asked me to come and lunch with her next +Friday--“just our two selves”--at Rodfitten House, and to bring my +manuscript with me. Need I say that I walked on air? + +‘“And now,” she said strenuously, “let us take a turn on our bicycles.” + By this time there were a dozen riders on the terrace, all of them +smiling with pride and rapture. We mounted and rode along together. The +terrace ran round two sides of the house, and before we came to the end +of it these words had provisionally marshalled themselves in my mind: + + + TO + ELEANOR + COUNTESS OF RODFITTEN + THIS BOOK WHICH OWES ALL + TO HER WISE COUNSEL + AND UNWEARYING SUPERVISION + IS GRATEFULLY DEDICATED + BY HER FRIEND + THE AUTHOR + + +‘Smiled to masonically by the passing bicyclists, and smiling +masonically to them in return, I began to feel that the rest of my visit +would run smooth, if only-- + +‘“Let’s go a little faster. Let’s race!” said Lady Rodfitten; and we did +so--“just our two selves.” I was on the side nearer to the balustrade, +and it was on that side that Braxton suddenly appeared from nowhere, +solid-looking as a rock, his arms akimbo, less than three yards ahead +of me, so that I swerved involuntarily, sharply, striking broadside the +front wheel of Lady Rodfitten and collapsing with her, and with a crash +of machinery, to the ground. + +‘I wasn’t hurt. She had broken my fall. I wished I was dead. She +was furious. She sat speechless with fury. A crowd had quickly +collected--just as in the case of a street accident. She accused me now +to the crowd. She said I had done it on purpose. She said such terrible +things of me that I think the crowd’s sympathy must have veered towards +me. She was assisted to her feet. I tried to be one of the assistants. +“Don’t let him come near me!” she thundered. I caught sight of Braxton +on the fringe of the crowd, grinning at me. “It was all HIS fault,” + I madly cried, pointing at him. Everybody looked at Mr. Balfour, +just behind whom Braxton was standing. There was a general murmur +of surprise, in which I have no doubt Mr. Balfour joined. He gave a +charming, blank, deprecating smile. “I mean--I can’t explain what I +mean,” I groaned. Lady Rodfitten moved away, refusing support, limping +terribly, towards the house. The crowd followed her, solicitous. I stood +helplessly, desperately, where I was. + +‘I stood an outlaw, a speck on the now empty terrace. Mechanically +I picked up my straw hat, and wheeled the two bent bicycles to the +balustrade. I suppose Mr. Balfour has a charming nature. For he +presently came out again--on purpose, I am sure, to alleviate my misery. +He told me that Lady Rodfitten had suffered no harm. He took me for a +stroll up and down the terrace, talking thoughtfully and enchantingly +about things in general. Then, having done his deed of mercy, this Good +Samaritan went back into the house. My eyes followed him with gratitude; +but I was still bleeding from wounds beyond his skill. I escaped down +into the gardens. I wanted to see no one. Still more did I want to be +seen by no one. I dreaded in every nerve of me my reappearance among +those people. I walked ever faster and faster, to stifle thought; but in +vain. Why hadn’t I simply ridden THROUGH Braxton? I was aware of being +now in the park, among great trees and undulations of wild green ground. +But Nature did not achieve the task that Mr. Balfour had attempted; and +my anguish was unassuaged. + +‘I paused to lean against a tree in the huge avenue that led to the huge +hateful house. I leaned wondering whether the thought of re-entering +that house were the more hateful because I should have to face my +fellow-guests or because I should probably have to face Braxton. A +church bell began ringing somewhere. And anon I was aware of another +sound--a twitter of voices. A consignment of hatted and parasoled ladies +was coming fast adown the avenue. My first impulse was to dodge behind +my tree. But I feared that I had been observed; so that what was left to +me of self-respect compelled me to meet these ladies. + +‘The Duchess was among them. I had seen her from afar at breakfast, +but not since. She carried a prayer-book, which she waved to me as I +approached. I was a disastrous guest, but still a guest, and nothing +could have been prettier than her smile. “Most of my men this week,” + she said, “are Pagans, and all the others have dispatch-boxes to go +through--except the dear old Duke of Mull, who’s a member of the Free +Kirk. You’re Pagan, of course?” + +‘I said--and indeed it was a heart-cry--that I should like very much to +come to church. “If I shan’t be in the way,” I rather abjectly added. +It didn’t strike me that Braxton would try to intercept me. I don’t know +why, but it never occurred to me, as I walked briskly along beside the +Duchess, that I should meet him so far from the house. The church was in +a corner of the park, and the way to it was by a side path that branched +off from the end of the avenue. A little way along, casting its shadow +across the path, was a large oak. It was from behind this tree, when we +came to it, that Braxton sprang suddenly forth and tripped me up with +his foot. + +‘Absurd to be tripped up by the mere semblance of a foot? But remember, +I was walking quickly, and the whole thing happened in a flash of +time. It was inevitable that I should throw out my hands and come down +headlong--just as though the obstacle had been as real as it looked. +Down I came on palms and knee-caps, and up I scrambled, very much hurt +and shaken and apologetic. “POOR Mr. Maltby! REALLY--!” the Duchess +wailed for me in this latest of my mishaps. Some other lady chased my +straw hat, which had bowled far ahead. Two others helped to brush me. +They were all very kind, with a quaver of mirth in their concern for me. +I looked furtively around for Braxton, but he was gone. The palms of my +hands were abraded with gravel. The Duchess said I must on no account +come to church NOW. I was utterly determined to reach that sanctuary. I +marched firmly on with the Duchess. Come what might on the way, I wasn’t +going to be left out here. I was utterly bent on winning at least one +respite. + +‘Well, I reached the little church without further molestation. To be +there seemed almost too good to be true. The organ, just as we entered, +sounded its first notes. The ladies rustled into the front pew. I, +being the one male of the party, sat at the end of the pew, beside the +Duchess. I couldn’t help feeling that my position was a proud one. But I +had gone through too much to take instant pleasure in it, and was beset +by thoughts of what new horror might await me on the way back to +the house. I hoped the Service would not be brief. The swelling and +dwindling strains of the “voluntary” on the small organ were strangely +soothing. I turned to give an almost feudal glance to the simple +villagers in the pews behind, and saw a sight that cowed my soul. + +‘Braxton was coming up the aisle. He came slowly, casting a tourist’s +eye at the stained-glass windows on either side. Walking heavily, yet +with no sound of boots on the pavement, he reached our pew. There, +towering and glowering, he halted, as though demanding that we should +make room for him. A moment later he edged sullenly into the pew. +Instinctively I had sat tight back, drawing my knees aside, in a shudder +of revulsion against contact. But Braxton did not push past me. What he +did was to sit slowly and fully down on me. + +‘No, not down ON me. Down THROUGH me--and around me. What befell me +was not mere ghastly contact with the intangible. It was inclusion, +envelopment, eclipse. What Braxton sat down on was not I, but the seat +of the pew; and what he sat back against was not my face and chest, but +the back of the pew. I didn’t realise this at the moment. All I knew was +a sudden black blotting-out of all things; an infinite and impenetrable +darkness. I dimly conjectured that I was dead. What was wrong with me, +in point of fact, was that my eyes, with the rest of me, were inside +Braxton. You remember what a great hulking fellow Braxton was. I +calculate that as we sat there my eyes were just beneath the roof of his +mouth. Horrible! + +‘Out of the unfathomable depths of that pitch darkness, I could yet hear +the “voluntary” swelling and dwindling, just as before. It was by this +I knew now that I wasn’t dead. And I suppose I must have craned my head +forward, for I had a sudden glimpse of things--a close quick downward +glimpse of a pepper-and-salt waistcoat and of two great hairy hands +clasped across it. Then darkness again. Either I had drawn back my head, +or Braxton had thrust his forward; I don’t know which. “Are you all +right?” the Duchess’ voice whispered, and no doubt my face was ashen. +“Quite,” whispered my voice. But this pathetic monosyllable was the last +gasp of the social instinct in me. Suddenly, as the “voluntary” swelled +to its close, there was a great sharp shuffling noise. The congregation +had risen to its feet, at the entry of choir and vicar. Braxton had +risen, leaving me in daylight. I beheld his towering back. The Duchess, +beside him, glanced round at me. But I could not, dared not, stand up +into that presented back, into that great waiting darkness. I did but +clutch my hat from beneath the seat and hurry distraught down the aisle, +out through the porch, into the open air. + +‘Whither? To what goal? I didn’t reason. I merely fled--like Orestes; +fled like an automaton along the path we had come by. And was followed? +Yes, yes. Glancing back across my shoulder, I saw that brute some +twenty yards behind me, gaining on me. I broke into a sharper run. A few +sickening moments later, he was beside me, scowling down into my face. + +‘I swerved, dodged, doubled on my tracks, but he was always at me. Now +and again, for lack of breath, I halted, and he halted with me. And +then, when I had got my wind, I would start running again, in the insane +hope of escaping him. We came, by what twisting and turning course +I know not, to the great avenue, and as I stood there in an agony of +panting I had a dazed vision of the distant Hall. Really I had quite +forgotten I was staying at the Duke of Hertfordshire’s. But Braxton +hadn’t forgotten. He planted himself in front of me. He stood between me +and the house. + +‘Faint though I was, I could almost have laughed. Good heavens! was THAT +all he wanted: that I shouldn’t go back there? Did he suppose I wanted +to go back there--with HIM? Was I the Duke’s prisoner on parole? What +was there to prevent me from just walking off to the railway station? I +turned to do so. + +‘He accompanied me on my way. I thought that when once I had passed +through the lodge gates he might vanish, satisfied. But no, he didn’t +vanish. It was as though he suspected that if he let me out of his +sight I should sneak back to the house. He arrived with me, this quiet +companion of mine, at the little railway station. Evidently he meant to +see me off. I learned from an elderly and solitary porter that the next +train to London was the 4.3. + +‘Well, Braxton saw me off by the 4.3. I reflected, as I stepped up into +an empty compartment, that it wasn’t yet twenty-four hours ago since I, +or some one like me, had alighted at that station. + +‘The guard blew his whistle; the engine shrieked, and the train jolted +forward and away; but I did not lean out of the window to see the last +of my attentive friend. + +‘Really not twenty-four hours ago? Not twenty-four years?’ + + +Maltby paused in his narrative. ‘Well, well,’ he said, ‘I don’t want you +to think I overrate the ordeal of my visit to Keeb. A man of stronger +nerve than mine, and of greater resourcefulness, might have coped +successfully with Braxton from first to last--might have stayed on till +Monday, making a very favourable impression on every one all the while. +Even as it was, even after my manifold failures and sudden flight, I +don’t say my position was impossible. I only say it seemed so to me. A +man less sensitive than I, and less vain, might have cheered up after +writing a letter of apology to his hostess, and have resumed his normal +existence as though nothing very terrible had happened, after all. I +wrote a few lines to the Duchess that night; but I wrote amidst the +preparations for my departure from England: I crossed the Channel next +morning. Throughout that Sunday afternoon with Braxton at the Keeb +railway station, pacing the desolate platform with him, waiting in +the desolating waiting-room with him, I was numb to regrets, and was +thinking of nothing but the 4.3. On the way to Victoria my brain worked +and my soul wilted. Every incident in my stay at Keeb stood out clear +to me; a dreadful, a hideous pattern. I had done for myself, so far as +THOSE people were concerned. And now that I had sampled THEM, what cared +I for others? “Too low for a hawk, too high for a buzzard.” That homely +old saying seemed to sum me up. And suppose I COULD still take pleasure +in the company of my own old upper-middle class, how would that class +regard me now? Gossip percolates. Little by little, I was sure, the +story of my Keeb fiasco would leak down into the drawing-room of Mrs. +Foster-Dugdale. I felt I could never hold up my head in any company +where anything of that story was known. Are you quite sure you never +heard anything?’ + +I assured Maltby that all I had known was the great bare fact of his +having stayed at Keeb Hall. + +‘It’s curious,’ he reflected. ‘It’s a fine illustration of the loyalty +of those people to one another. I suppose there was a general agreement +for the Duchess’ sake that nothing should be said about her queer guest. +But even if I had dared hope to be so efficiently hushed up, I couldn’t +have not fled. I wanted to forget. I wanted to leap into some void, +far away from all reminders. I leapt straight from Ryder Street into +Vaule-la-Rochette, a place of which I had once heard that it was +the least frequented seaside-resort in Europe. I leapt leaving no +address--leapt telling my landlord that if a suit-case and a portmanteau +arrived for me he could regard them, them and their contents, as his own +for ever. I daresay the Duchess wrote me a kind little letter, forcing +herself to express a vague hope that I would come again “some other +time.” I daresay Lady Rodfitten did NOT write reminding me of my promise +to lunch on Friday and bring “Ariel Returns to Mayfair” with me. I +left that manuscript at Ryder Street; in my bedroom grate; a shuffle of +ashes. Not that I’d yet given up all thought of writing. But I certainly +wasn’t going to write now about the two things I most needed to forget. +I wasn’t going to write about the British aristocracy, nor about any +kind of supernatural presence.... I did write a novel--my last--while I +was at Vaule. “Mr. and Mrs. Robinson.” Did you ever come across a copy +of it? + +I nodded gravely. + +‘Ah; I wasn’t sure,’ said Maltby, ‘whether it was ever published. A +dreary affair, wasn’t it? I knew a great deal about suburban life. +But--well, I suppose one can’t really understand what one doesn’t love, +and one can’t make good fun without real understanding. Besides, what +chance of virtue is there for a book written merely to distract +the author’s mind? I had hoped to be healed by sea and sunshine and +solitude. These things were useless. The labour of “Mr. and Mrs. +Robinson” did help, a little. When I had finished it, I thought I might +as well send it off to my publisher. He had given me a large sum of +money, down, after “Ariel,” for my next book--so large that I was rather +loth to disgorge. In the note I sent with the manuscript, I gave no +address, and asked that the proofs should be read in the office. I +didn’t care whether the thing were published or not. I knew it would be +a dead failure if it were. What mattered one more drop in the foaming +cup of my humiliation? I knew Braxton would grin and gloat. I didn’t +mind even that.’ + +‘Oh, well,’ I said, ‘Braxton was in no mood for grinning and gloating. +“The Drones” had already appeared.’ + +Maltby had never heard of ‘The Drones’--which I myself had remembered +only in the course of his disclosures. I explained to him that it was +Braxton’s second novel, and was by way of being a savage indictment +of the British aristocracy; that it was written in the worst possible +taste, but was so very dull that it fell utterly flat; that Braxton +had forthwith taken, with all of what Maltby had called ‘the passionate +force and intensity of his nature,’ to drink, and had presently gone +under and not re-emerged. + +Maltby gave signs of genuine, though not deep, emotion, and cited two +or three of the finest passages from ‘A Faun on the Cotswolds.’ He even +expressed a conviction that ‘The Drones’ must have been misjudged. He +said he blamed himself more than ever for yielding to that bad impulse +at that Soiree. + +‘And yet,’ he mused, ‘and yet, honestly, I can’t find it in my heart +to regret that I did yield. I can only wish that all had turned out as +well, in the end, for Braxton as for me. I wish he could have won out, +as I did, into a great and lasting felicity. For about a year after I +had finished “Mr. and Mrs. Robinson” I wandered from place to place, +trying to kill memory, shunning all places frequented by the English. +At last I found myself in Lucca. Here, if anywhere, I thought, might a +bruised and tormented spirit find gradual peace. I determined to move +out of my hotel into some permanent lodging. Not for felicity, not for +any complete restoration of self-respect, was I hoping; only for peace. +A “mezzano” conducted me to a noble and ancient house, of which, he +told me, the owner was anxious to let the first floor. It was in much +disrepair, but even so seemed to me very cheap. According to the simple +Luccan standard, I am rich. I took that first floor for a year, had it +repaired, and engaged two servants. My “padrona” inhabited the ground +floor. From time to time she allowed me to visit her there. She was +the Contessa Adriano-Rizzoli, the last of her line. She is the Contessa +Adriano-Rizzoli-Maltby. We have been married fifteen years.’ + +Maltby looked at his watch. He rose and took tenderly from the table +his great bunch of roses. ‘She is a lineal descendant,’ he said, ‘of the +Emperor Hadrian.’ + + + + + +‘SAVONAROLA’ BROWN + + +I like to remember that I was the first to call him so, for, though he +always deprecated the nickname, in his heart he was pleased by it, I +know, and encouraged to go on. + +Quite apart from its significance, he had reason to welcome it. He had +been unfortunate at the font. His parents, at the time of his birth, +lived in Ladbroke Crescent, XV. They must have been an extraordinarily +unimaginative couple, for they could think of no better name for their +child than Ladbroke. This was all very well for him till he went to +school. But you can fancy the indignation and delight of us boys at +finding among us a newcomer who, on his own confession, had been named +after a Crescent. I don’t know how it is nowadays, but thirty-five years +ago, certainly, schoolboys regarded the possession of ANY Christian name +as rather unmanly. As we all had these encumbrances, we had to wreak our +scorn on any one who was cumbered in a queer fashion. I myself, bearer +of a Christian name adjudged eccentric though brief, had had much to put +up with in my first term. Brown’s arrival, therefore, at the beginning +of my second term, was a good thing for me, and I am afraid I was very +prominent among his persecutors. Trafalgar Brown, Tottenham Court Brown, +Bond Brown--what names did we little brutes NOT cull for him from +the London Directory? Except how miserable we made his life, I do not +remember much about him as he was at that time, and the only important +part of the little else that I do recall is that already he showed +a strong sense for literature. For the majority of us Carthusians, +literature was bounded on the north by Whyte Melville, on the south by +Hawley Smart, on the east by the former, and on the west by the latter. +Little Brown used to read Harrison Ainsworth, Wilkie Collins, and other +writers whom we, had we assayed them, would have dismissed as ‘deep.’ It +has been said by Mr. Arthur Symons that ‘all art is a mode of escape.’ +The art of letters did not, however, enable Brown to escape so far from +us as he would have wished. In my third term he did not reappear among +us. His parents had in some sort atoned. Unimaginative though they +were, it seems they could understand a tale of woe laid before them +circumstantially, and had engaged a private tutor for their boy. Fifteen +years elapsed before I saw him again. + +This was at the second night of some play. I was dramatic critic for the +Saturday Review, and, weary of meeting the same lot of people over and +over again at first nights, had recently sent a circular to the managers +asking that I might have seats for second nights instead. I found that +there existed as distinct and invariable a lot of second-nighters as of +first-nighters. The second-nighters were less ‘showy’; but then, they +came rather to see than to be seen, and there was an air, that I liked, +of earnestness and hopefulness about them. I used to write a great deal +about the future of the British drama, and they, for their part, used +to think and talk a great deal about it. People who care about books +and pictures find much to interest and please them in the present. It +is only the students of the theatre who always fall back, or rather +forward, on the future. Though second-nighters do come to see, they +remain rather to hope and pray. I should have known anywhere, by the +visionary look in his eyes, that Brown was a confirmed second-nighter. + +What surprises me is that I knew he was Brown. It is true that he +had not grown much in those fifteen years: his brow was still +disproportionate to his body, and he looked young to have become +‘confirmed’ in any habit. But it is also true that not once in the past +ten years, at any rate, had he flitted through my mind and poised on my +conscience. + +I hope that I and those other boys had long ago ceased from recurring to +him in nightmares. Cordial though the hand was that I offered him, and +highly civilised my whole demeanour, he seemed afraid that at any moment +I might begin to dance around him, shooting out my lips at him and +calling him Seven-Sisters Brown or something of that kind. It was only +after constant meetings at second nights, and innumerable entr’acte +talks about the future of the drama, that he began to trust me. In +course of time we formed the habit of walking home together as far as +Cumberland Place, at which point our ways diverged. I gathered that he +was still living with his parents, but he did not tell me where, for +they had not, as I learned by reference to the Red Book, moved from +Ladbroke Crescent. + +I found his company restful rather than inspiring. His days were +spent in clerkship at one of the smaller Government Offices, his +evenings--except when there was a second night--in reading and writing. +He did not seem to know much, or to wish to know more, about life. Books +and plays, first editions and second nights, were what he cared for. On +matters of religion and ethics he was as little keen as he seemed to be +on human character in the raw; so that (though I had already suspected +him of writing, or meaning to write, a play) my eyebrows did rise when +he told me he meant to write a play about Savonarola. + +He made me understand, however, that it was rather the name than the +man that had first attracted him. He said that the name was in itself a +great incentive to blank-verse. He uttered it to me slowly, in a voice +so much deeper than his usual voice, that I nearly laughed. For the +actual bearer of the name he had no hero-worship, and said it was by a +mere accident that he had chosen him as central figure. He had +thought of writing a tragedy about Sardanapalus; but the volume of the +“Encyclopedia Britannica” in which he was going to look up the main +facts about Sardanapalus happened to open at Savonarola. Hence a sudden +and complete peripety in the student’s mind. He told me he had read the +Encyclopedia’s article carefully, and had dipped into one or two of +the books there mentioned as authorities. He seemed almost to wish he +hadn’t. ‘Facts get in one’s way so,’ he complained. ‘History is one +thing, drama is another. Aristotle said drama was more philosophic than +history because it showed us what men WOULD do, not just what they DID. +I think that’s so true, don’t you? I want to show what Savonarola WOULD +have done if--’ He paused. + +‘If what?’ + +‘Well, that’s just the point. I haven’t settled that yet. When I’ve +thought of a plot, I shall go straight ahead.’ + +I said I supposed he intended his tragedy rather for the study than for +the stage. This seemed to hurt him. I told him that what I meant was +that managers always shied at anything without ‘a strong feminine +interest.’ This seemed to worry him. I advised him not to think about +managers. He promised that he would think only about Savonarola. + +I know now that this promise was not exactly kept by him; and he may +have felt slightly awkward when, some weeks later, he told me he had +begun the play. ‘I’ve hit on an initial idea,’ he said, ‘and that’s +enough to start with. I gave up my notion of inventing a plot in +advance. I thought it would be a mistake. I don’t want puppets on wires. +I want Savonarola to work out his destiny in his own way. Now that I +have the initial idea, what I’ve got to do is to make Savonarola LIVE. +I hope I shall be able to do this. Once he’s alive, I shan’t interfere +with him. I shall just watch him. Won’t it be interesting? He isn’t +alive yet. But there’s plenty of time. You see, he doesn’t come on at +the rise of the curtain. A Friar and a Sacristan come on and talk about +him. By the time they’ve finished, perhaps he’ll be alive. But they +won’t have finished yet. Not that they’re going to say very much. But I +write slowly.’ + +I remember the mild thrill I had when, one evening, he took me aside and +said in an undertone, ‘Savonarola has come on. Alive!’ For me the MS. +hereinafter printed has an interest that for you it cannot have, so +a-bristle am I with memories of the meetings I had with its author +throughout the nine years he took over it. He never saw me without +reporting progress, or lack of progress. Just what was going on, or +standing still, he did not divulge. After the entry of Savonarola, +he never told me what characters were appearing. ‘All sorts of people +appear,’ he would say rather helplessly. ‘They insist. I can’t prevent +them.’ I used to say it must be great fun to be a creative artist; but +at this he always shook his head: ‘I don’t create. THEY do. Savonarola +especially, of course. I just look on and record. I never know what’s +going to happen next.’ He had the advantage of me in knowing at any rate +what had happened last. But whenever I pled for a glimpse he would again +shake his head: + +‘The thing MUST be judged as a whole. Wait till I’ve come to the end of +the Fifth Act.’ + +So impatient did I become that, as the years went by, I used rather to +resent his presence at second nights. I felt he ought to be at his +desk. His, I used to tell him, was the only drama whose future ought +to concern him now. And in point of fact he had, I think, lost the true +spirit of the second-nighter, and came rather to be seen than to see. +He liked the knowledge that here and there in the auditorium, when he +entered it, some one would be saying ‘Who is that?’ and receiving the +answer ‘Oh, don’t you know? That’s “Savonarola” Brown.’ This sort of +thing, however, did not make him cease to be the modest, unaffected +fellow I had known. He always listened to the advice I used to offer +him, though inwardly he must have chafed at it. Myself a fidgety and +uninspired person, unable to begin a piece of writing before I know just +how it shall end, I had always been afraid that sooner or later Brown +would take some turning that led nowhither--would lose himself and come +to grief. This fear crept into my gladness when, one evening in the +spring of 1909, he told me he had finished the Fourth Act. Would he win +out safely through the Fifth? + +He himself was looking rather glum; and, as we walked away from the +theatre, I said to him, ‘I suppose you feel rather like Thackeray when +he’d “killed the Colonel”: you’ve got to kill the Monk.’ + +‘Not quite that,’ he answered. ‘But of course he’ll die very soon now. A +couple of years or so. And it does seem rather sad. It’s not merely that +he’s so full of life. He has been becoming much more HUMAN lately. At +first I only respected him. Now I have a real affection for him.’ + +This was an interesting glimpse at last, but I turned from it to my +besetting fear. + +‘Haven’t you,’ I asked, ‘any notion of HOW he is to die?’ + +Brown shook his head. + +‘But in a tragedy,’ I insisted, ‘the catastrophe MUST be led up to, +step by step. My dear Brown, the end of the hero MUST be logical and +rational.’ + +‘I don’t see that,’ he said, as we crossed Piccadilly Circus. ‘In actual +life it isn’t so. What is there to prevent a motor-omnibus from knocking +me over and killing me at this moment?’ + +At that moment, by what has always seemed to me the strangest of +coincidences, and just the sort of thing that playwrights ought to +avoid, a motor-omnibus knocked Brown over and killed him. + +He had, as I afterwards learned, made a will in which he appointed me +his literary executor. Thus passed into my hands the unfinished play by +whose name he had become known to so many people. + + +I hate to say that I was disappointed in it, but I had better confess +quite frankly that, on the whole, I was. Had Brown written it quickly +and read it to me soon after our first talk about it, it might in some +ways have exceeded my hopes. But he had become for me, by reason of that +quiet and unhasting devotion to his work while the years came and went, +a sort of hero; and the very mystery involving just what he was about +had addicted me to those ideas of magnificence which the unknown is said +always to foster. + +Even so, however, I am not blind to the great merits of the play as it +stands. It is well that the writer of poetic drama should be a dramatist +and a poet. Here is a play that abounds in striking situations, and I +have searched it vainly for one line that does not scan. What I nowhere +feel is that I have not elsewhere been thrilled or lulled by the same +kind of thing. I do not go so far as to say that Brown inherited his +parents’ deplorable lack of imagination. But I do wish he had been less +sensitive than he was to impressions, or else had seen and read fewer +poetic dramas ancient and modern. Remembering that visionary look in +his eyes, remembering that he was as displeased as I by the work of all +living playwrights, and as dissatisfied with the great efforts of the +Elizabethans, I wonder that he was not more immune from influences. + +Also, I cannot but wish still that he had faltered in his decision +to make no scenario. There is much to be said for the theory that a +dramatist should first vitalise his characters and then leave them +unfettered; but I do feel that Brown’s misused the confidence he reposed +in them. The labour of so many years has somewhat the air of being +a mere improvisation. Savonarola himself, after the First Act or so, +strikes me as utterly inconsistent. It may be that he is just complex, +like Hamlet. He does in the Fourth Act show traces of that Prince. I +suppose this is why he struck Brown as having become ‘more human.’ To me +he seems merely a poorer creature. + +But enough of these reservations. In my anxiety for poor Brown’s sake +that you should not be disappointed, perhaps I have been carrying +tactfulness too far and prejudicing you against that for which I +specially want your favour. Here, without more ado, is + + + + +SAVONAROLA + +A TRAGEDY + +By L. Brown + + + ACT I + + SCENE: A Room in the Monastery of San Marco, Florence. + TIME: 1490, A.D. A summer morning. + + Enter the SACRISTAN and a FRIAR. + + SACR. + Savonarola looks more grim to-day + Than ever. Should I speak my mind, I’d say + That he was fashioning some new great scourge + To flay the backs of men. + + FRI. + ‘Tis even so. + Brother Filippo saw him stand last night + In solitary vigil till the dawn + Lept o’er the Arno, and his face was such + As men may wear in Purgatory--nay, + E’en in the inmost core of Hell’s own fires. + + SACR. + I often wonder if some woman’s face, + Seen at some rout in his old worldling days, + Haunts him e’en now, e’en here, and urges him + To fierier fury ‘gainst the Florentines. + + FRI. + Savonarola love-sick! Ha, ha, ha! + Love-sick? He, love-sick? ‘Tis a goodly jest! + The CONfirm’d misogyn a ladies’ man! + Thou must have eaten of some strange red herb + That takes the reason captive. I will swear + Savonarola never yet hath seen + A woman but he spurn’d her. Hist! He comes. + + [Enter SAVONAROLA, rapt in thought.] + + Give thee good morrow, Brother. + + SACR. + And therewith + A multitude of morrows equal-good + Till thou, by Heaven’s grace, hast wrought the work + Nearest thine heart. + + SAV. + I thank thee, Brother, yet + I thank thee not, for that my thankfulness + (An such there be) gives thanks to Heaven alone. + + FRI. [To SACR.] + ‘Tis a right answer he hath given thee. + Had Sav’narola spoken less than thus, + Methinks me, the less Sav’narola he. + As when the snow lies on yon Apennines, + White as the hem of Mary Mother’s robe, + And insusceptible to the sun’s rays, + Being harder to the touch than temper’d steel, + E’en so this great gaunt monk white-visaged + Upstands to Heaven and to Heav’n devotes + The scarped thoughts that crown the upper slopes + Of his abrupt and AUStere nature. + + SACR. + Aye. + + [Enter LUCREZIA BORGIA, ST. FRANCIS OF ASSISI, and LEONARDO + DA VINCI. LUC. is thickly veiled.] + + ST. FRAN. + This is the place. + + LUC. [Pointing at SAV.] + And this the man! [Aside.] And I-- + By the hot blood that courses i’ my veins + I swear it ineluctably--the woman! + + SAV. + Who is this wanton? + [LUC. throws back her hood, revealing her face. SAV. starts back, + gazing at her.] + + ST. FRAN. + Hush, Sir! ‘Tis my little sister + The poisoner, right well-belov’d by all + Whom she as yet hath spared. Hither she came + Mounted upon another little sister of mine-- + A mare, caparison’d in goodly wise. + She--I refer now to Lucrezia-- + Desireth to have word of thee anent + Some matter that befrets her. + + SAV. [To LUC.] + Hence! Begone! + Savonarola will not tempted be + By face of woman e’en tho’ ‘t be, tho’ ‘tis, + Surpassing fair. All hope abandon therefore. + I charge thee: Vade retro, Satanas. + + LEONARDO + Sirrah, thou speakst in haste, as is the way + Of monkish men. The beauty of Lucrezia + Commends, not discommends, her to the eyes + Of keener thinkers than I take thee for. + I am an artist and an engineer, + Giv’n o’er to subtile dreams of what shall be + On this our planet. I foresee a day + When men shall skim the earth i’ certain chairs + Not drawn by horses but sped on by oil + Or other matter, and shall thread the sky + Birdlike. + + LUC. + It may be as thou sayest, friend, + Or may be not. [To SAV.] As touching this our errand, + I crave of thee, Sir Monk, an audience + Instanter. + + FRI. + Lo! Here Alighieri comes. + I had methought me he was still at Parma. + + [Enter DANTE.] + + ST. FRAN. [To DAN.] + How fares my little sister Beatrice? + + DAN. + She died, alack, last sennight. + + ST. FRAN. + Did she so? + If the condolences of men avail + Thee aught, take mine. + + DAN. + They are of no avail. + + SAV. [To LUC.] + I do refuse thee audience. + + LUC. + Then why + Didst thou not say so promptly when I ask’d it? + + SAV. + Full well thou knowst that I was interrupted + By Alighieri’s entry. + [Noise without. Enter Guelfs and Ghibellines fighting.] + What is this? + + LUC. + I did not think that in this cloister’d spot + There would be so much doing. I had look’d + To find Savonarola all alone + And tempt him in his uneventful cell. + Instead o’ which--Spurn’d am I? I am I. + There was a time, Sir, look to ‘t! O damnation! + What is ‘t? Anon then! These my toys, my gauds, + That in the cradle--aye, ‘t my mother’s breast-- + I puled and lisped at,--‘Tis impossible, + Tho’, faith, ‘tis not so, forasmuch as ‘tis. + And I a daughter of the Borgias!-- + Or so they told me. Liars! Flatterers! + Currying lick-spoons! Where’s the Hell of ‘t then? + ‘Tis time that I were going. Farewell, Monk, + But I’ll avenge me ere the sun has sunk. + [Exeunt LUC., ST. FRAN., and LEONARDO, followed by DAN. SAV., having + watched LUC. out of sight, sinks to his knees, sobbing. FRI. and SACR. + watch him in amazement. Guelfs and Ghibellines continue fighting as + the Curtain falls.] + + + ACT II + + TIME: Afternoon of same day. + SCENE: Lucrezia’s Laboratory. Retorts, test-tubes, etc. On small + Renaissance table, up c., is a great poison-bowl, the contents of + which are being stirred by the FIRST APPRENTICE. The SECOND APPRENTICE + stands by, watching him. + + SECOND APP. + For whom is the brew destin’d? + + FIRST APP. + I know not. + Lady Lucrezia did but lay on me + Injunctions as regards the making of ‘t, + The which I have obey’d. It is compounded + Of a malignant and a deadly weed + Found not save in the Gulf of Spezia, + And one small phial of ‘t, I am advis’d, + Were more than ‘nough to slay a regiment + Of Messer Malatesta’s condottieri + In all their armour. + + SECOND APP. + I can well believe it. + Mark how the purple bubbles froth upon + The evil surface of its nether slime! + + [Enter LUC.] + + LUC. [To FIRST APP.] + Is ‘t done, Sir Sluggard? + + FIRST APP. + Madam, to a turn. + + LUC. + Had it not been so, I with mine own hand + Would have outpour’d it down thy gullet, knave. + See, here’s a ring of cunningly-wrought gold + + That I, on a dark night, did purchase from + A goldsmith on the Ponte Vecchio. + Small was his shop, and hoar of visage he. + I did bemark that from the ceiling’s beams + Spiders had spun their webs for many a year, + The which hung erst like swathes of gossamer + Seen in the shadows of a fairy glade, + But now most woefully were weighted o’er + With gather’d dust. Look well now at the ring! + Touch’d here, behold, it opes a cavity + Capacious of three drops of yon fell stuff. + Dost heed? Whoso then puts it on his finger + Dies, and his soul is from his body rapt + To Hell or Heaven as the case may be. + Take thou this toy and pour the three drops in. + + [Hands ring to FIRST APP. and comes down c.] + + So, Sav’narola, thou shalt learn that I + Utter no threats but I do make them good. + Ere this day’s sun hath wester’d from the view + Thou art to preach from out the Loggia + Dei Lanzi to the cits in the Piazza. + I, thy Lucrezia, will be upon the steps + To offer thee with phrases seeming-fair + That which shall seal thine eloquence for ever. + O mighty lips that held the world in spell + But would not meet these little lips of mine + In the sweet way that lovers use--O thin, + Cold, tight-drawn, bloodless lips, which natheless I + Deem of all lips the most magnifical + In this our city-- + + [Enter the Borgias’ FOOL.] + + Well, Fool, what’s thy latest? + + FOOL + Aristotle’s or Zeno’s, Lady--‘tis neither latest nor last. For, + marry, if the cobbler stuck to his last, then were his latest his last + in rebus ambulantibus. Argal, I stick at nothing but cobble-stones, + which, by the same token, are stuck to the road by men’s fingers. + + LUC. + How many crows may nest in a grocer’s jerkin? + + FOOL + A full dozen at cock-crow, and something less under the dog-star, by + reason of the dew, which lies heavy on men taken by the scurvy. + + LUC. [To FIRST APP.] + Methinks the Fool is a fool. + + FOOL + And therefore, by auricular deduction, am I own twin to the Lady + Lucrezia! + + [Sings.] + + When pears hang green on the garden wall + With a nid, and a nod, and a niddy-niddy-o + Then prank you, lads and lasses all, + With a yea and a nay and a niddy-o. + + But when the thrush flies out o’ the frost + With a nid, [etc.] + ‘Tis time for loons to count the cost, + With a yea [etc.] + + [Enter the PORTER.] + + PORTER + O my dear Mistress, there is one below + Demanding to have instant word of thee. + I told him that your Ladyship was not + At home. Vain perjury! He would not take + Nay for an answer. + + LUC. + Ah? What manner of man + Is he? + + PORTER + A personage the like of whom + Is wholly unfamiliar to my gaze. + Cowl’d is he, but I saw his great eyes glare + From their deep sockets in such wise as leopards + Glare from their caverns, crouching ere they spring + On their reluctant prey. + + LUC. + And what name gave he? + + PORTER [After a pause.] + Something-arola. + + LUC. + Savon-? [PORTER nods.] Show him up. [Exit PORTER.] + + FOOL + If he be right astronomically, Mistress, then is he the greater dunce + in respect of true learning, the which goes by the globe. Argal, + ‘twere better he widened his wind-pipe. + + [Sings.] + Fly home, sweet self, + Nothing’s for weeping, + Hemp was not made + For lovers’ keeping, Lovers’ keeping, + Cheerly, cheerly, fly away. + Hew no more wood + While ash is glowing, + The longest grass + Is lovers’ mowing, + Lovers’ mowing, + Cheerly, [etc.] + + [Re-enter PORTER, followed by SAV. Exeunt PORTER, FOOL, and FIRST and + SECOND APPS.] + + SAV. + I am no more a monk, I am a man + O’ the world. + [Throws off cowl and frock, and stands forth in the costume of a + Renaissance nobleman. LUCREZIA looks him up and down.] + + LUC. + Thou cutst a sorry figure. + + SAV. + That + Is neither here nor there. I love you, Madam. + + LUC. + And this, methinks, is neither there nor here, + For that my love of thee hath vanished, + Seeing thee thus beprankt. Go pad thy calves! + Thus mightst thou, just conceivably, with luck, + Capture the fancy of some serving-wench. + + SAV. + And this is all thou hast to say to me? + + LUC. + It is. + + SAV. + I am dismiss’d? + + LUC. + Thou art. + + SAV. + ‘Tis well. + [Resumes frock and cowl.] + Savonarola is himself once more. + + LUC. + And all my love for him returns to me + A thousandfold! + + SAV. + Too late! My pride of manhood + Is wounded irremediably. I’ll + To the Piazza, where my flock awaits me. + Thus do we see that men make great mistakes + But may amend them when the conscience wakes. + [Exit.] + + LUC. + I’m half avenged now, but only half: + ‘Tis with the ring I’ll have the final laugh! + Tho’ love be sweet, revenge is sweeter far. + To the Piazza! Ha, ha, ha, ha, har! + [Seizes ring, and exit. Through open door are heard, as the Curtain + falls, sounds of a terrific hubbub in the Piazza.] + + + ACT III + + SCENE: The Piazza. + TIME: A few minutes anterior to close of preceding Act. + + The Piazza is filled from end to end with a vast seething crowd that + is drawn entirely from the lower orders. There is a sprinkling of + wild-eyed and dishevelled women in it. The men are lantern-jawed, + with several days’ growth of beard. Most of them carry rude weapons-- + staves, bill-hooks, crow-bars, and the like--and are in as excited a + condition as the women. Some of them are bare-headed, others affect a + kind of Phrygian cap. Cobblers predominate. + + Enter LORENZO DE MEDICI and COSIMO DE MEDICI. They wear cloaks of scarlet + brocade, and, to avoid notice, hold masks to their faces. + + COS. + What purpose doth the foul and greasy plebs + Ensue to-day here? + + LOR. + I nor know nor care. + + COS. + How thrall’d thou art to the philosophy + Of Epicurus! Naught that’s human I + Deem alien from myself. [To a COBBLER.] Make answer, fellow! + What empty hope hath drawn thee by a thread + Forth from the OBscene hovel where thou starvest? + + COB. + No empty hope, your Honour, but the full + Assurance that to-day, as yesterday, + Savonarola will let loose his thunder + Against the vices of the idle rich + And from the brimming cornucopia + Of his immense vocabulary pour + Scorn on the lamentable heresies + Of the New Learning and on all the art + Later than Giotto. + + COS. + Mark how absolute + The knave is! + + LOR. + Then are parrots rational + When they regurgitate the thing they hear! + This fool is but an unit of the crowd, + And crowds are senseless as the vasty deep + That sinks or surges as the moon dictates. + I know these crowds, and know that any man + That hath a glib tongue and a rolling eye + Can as he willeth with them. + [Removes his mask and mounts steps of Loggia.] + Citizens! + [Prolonged yells and groans from the crowd.] + Yes, I am he, I am that same Lorenzo + Whom you have nicknamed the Magnificent. + [Further terrific yells, shakings of fists, brandishings of bill- + hooks, insistent cries of ‘Death to Lorenzo!’ ‘Down with the + Magnificent!’ Cobblers on fringe of crowd, down c., exhibit especially + all the symptoms of epilepsy, whooping-cough, and other ailments.] + You love not me. + [The crowd makes an ugly rush. LOR. appears likely to be dragged down + and torn limb from limb, but raises one hand in nick of time, and + continues:] + Yet I deserve your love. + [The yells are now variegated with dubious murmurs. A cobbler down c. + thrusts his face feverishly in the face of another and repeats, in a + hoarse interrogative whisper, ‘Deserves our love?’] + Not for the sundry boons I have bestow’d + And benefactions I have lavished + Upon Firenze, City of the Flowers, + But for the love that in this rugged breast + I bear you. + [The yells have now died away, and there is a sharp fall in dubious + murmurs. The cobbler down c. says, in an ear-piercing whisper, ‘The + love he bears us,’ drops his lower jaw, nods his head repeatedly, and + awaits in an intolerable state of suspense the orator’s next words.] + I am not a blameless man, + [Some dubious murmurs.] + Yet for that I have lov’d you passing much, + Shall some things be forgiven me. + [Noises of cordial assent.] + There dwells + In this our city, known unto you all, + A man more virtuous than I am, and + A thousand times more intellectual; + Yet envy not I him, for--shall I name him?-- + He loves not you. His name? I will not cut + Your hearts by speaking it. Here let it stay + On tip o’ tongue. + [Insistent clamour.] + Then steel you to the shock!-- + Savonarola. + [For a moment or so the crowd reels silently under the shock. Cobbler + down c. is the first to recover himself and cry ‘Death to Savonarola!’ + The cry instantly becomes general. LOR. holds up his hand and + gradually imposes silence.] + His twin bug-bears are + Yourselves and that New Learning which I hold + Less dear than only you. + [Profound sensation. Everybody whispers ‘Than only you’ to everybody + else. A woman near steps of Loggia attempts to kiss hem of LOR.’s + garment.] + Would you but con + With me the old philosophers of Hellas, + Her fervent bards and calm historians, + You would arise and say ‘We will not hear + Another word against them!’ + [The crowd already says this, repeatedly, with great emphasis.] + Take the Dialogues + Of Plato, for example. You will find + A spirit far more truly Christian + In them than in the ravings of the sour-soul’d + Savonarola. + [Prolonged cries of ‘Death to the Sour-Souled Savonarola!’ Several + cobblers detach themselves from the crowd and rush away to read the + Platonic Dialogues. Enter SAVONAROLA. The crowd, as he makes his way + through it, gives up all further control of its feelings, and makes a + noise for which even the best zoologists might not find a good + comparison. The staves and bill-hooks wave like twigs in a storm. + One would say that SAV. must have died a thousand deaths already. He + is, however, unharmed and unruffled as he reaches the upper step of + the Loggia. LOR. meanwhile has rejoined COS. in the Piazza.] + + SAV. + Pax vobiscum, brothers! + [This does but exacerbate the crowd’s frenzy.] + + VOICE OF A COBBLER + Hear his false lips cry Peace when there is no + Peace! + + SAV. + Are not you ashamed, O Florentines, + [Renewed yells, but also some symptoms of manly shame.] + That hearken’d to Lorenzo and now reel + Inebriate with the exuberance + Of his verbosity? + [The crowd makes an obvious effort to pull itself together.] + A man can fool + Some of the people all the time, and can + Fool all the people sometimes, but he cannot + Fool ALL the people ALL the time. + [Loud cheers. Several cobblers clap one another on the back. Cries + of ‘Death to Lorenzo!’ The meeting is now well in hand.] + To-day + I must adopt a somewhat novel course + In dealing with the awful wickedness + At present noticeable in this city. + I do so with reluctance. Hitherto + I have avoided personalities. + But now my sense of duty forces me + To a departure from my custom of + Naming no names. One name I must and shall + Name. + [All eyes are turned on LOR., who smiles uncomfortably.] + No, I do not mean Lorenzo. He + Is ‘neath contempt. + [Loud and prolonged laughter, accompanied with hideous grimaces at LOR. + Exeunt LOR. and COS.] + I name a woman’s name, + [The women in the crowd eye one another suspiciously.] + A name known to you all--four-syllabled, + Beginning with an L. + [Pause. Enter hurriedly LUC., carrying the ring. She stands, + unobserved by any one, on outskirt of crowd. SAV. utters the name:] + Lucrezia! + + LUC. [With equal intensity.] + Savonarola! + [SAV. starts violently and stares in direction of her voice.] + Yes, I come, I come! + [Forces her way to steps of Loggia. The crowd is much bewildered, and + the cries of ‘Death to Lucrezia Borgia!’ are few and sporadic.] + Why didst thou call me? + [SAV. looks somewhat embarrassed.] + What is thy distress? + I see it all! The sanguinary mob + Clusters to rend thee! As the antler’d stag, + With fine eyes glazed from the too-long chase, + Turns to defy the foam-fleck’d pack, and thinks, + In his last moment, of some graceful hind + Seen once afar upon a mountain-top, + E’en so, Savonarola, didst thou think, + In thy most dire extremity, of me. + And here I am! Courage! The horrid hounds + Droop tail at sight of me and fawn away + Innocuous. + [The crowd does indeed seem to have fallen completely under the sway + of LUC.’s magnetism, and is evidently convinced that it had been about + to make an end of the monk.] + Take thou, and wear henceforth, + As a sure talisman ‘gainst future perils, + This little, little ring. + [SAV. makes awkward gesture of refusal. Angry murmurs from the crowd. + Cries of ‘Take thou the ring!’ ‘Churl!’ ‘Put it on!’ etc. + Enter the Borgias’ FOOL and stands unnoticed on fringe of crowd.] + I hoped you ‘ld like it-- + Neat but not gaudy. Is my taste at fault? + I’d so look’d forward to-- + [Sob.] No, I’m not crying, + But just a little hurt. + [Hardly a dry eye in the crowd. Also swayings and snarlings + indicative that SAV.’s life is again not worth a moment’s purchase. + SAV. makes awkward gesture of acceptance, but just as he is about to + put ring on finger, the FOOL touches his lute and sings:--] + + Wear not the ring, + It hath an unkind sting, + Ding, dong, ding. + Bide a minute, + There’s poison in it, + Poison in it, + Ding-a-dong, dong, ding. + + LUC. + The fellow lies. + [The crowd is torn with conflicting opinions. Mingled cries of ‘Wear + not the ring!’ ‘The fellow lies!’ ‘Bide a minute!’ ‘Death to the + Fool!’ ‘Silence for the Fool!’ ‘Ding-a-dong, dong, ding!’ etc.] + + FOOL [Sings.] + Wear not the ring, + For Death’s a robber-king, + Ding, [etc.] + There’s no trinket + Is what you think it, + What you think it, + Ding-a-dong, [etc.] + + [SAV. throws ring in LUC.’s face. Enter POPE JULIUS II, with Papal + army.] + POPE + Arrest that man and woman! + [Re-enter Guelfs and Ghibellines fighting. SAV. and LUC. are arrested + by Papal officers. Enter MICHAEL ANGELO. ANDREA DEL SARTO appears for a + moment at a window. PIPPA passes. Brothers of the Misericordia go by, + singing a Requiem for Francesca da Rimini. Enter BOCCACCIO, BENVENUTO + CELLINI, and many others, making remarks highly characteristic of + themselves but scarcely audible through the terrific thunderstorm + which now bursts over Florence and is at its loudest and darkest + crisis as the Curtain falls.] + + + ACT IV + + TIME: Three hours later. + SCENE: A Dungeon on the ground-floor of the Palazzo Civico. + + The stage is bisected from top to bottom by a wall, on one side of + which is seen the interior of LUCREZIA’S cell, on the other that of + SAVONAROLA’S. + + Neither he nor she knows that the other is in the next cell. The + audience, however, knows this. + + Each cell (because of the width and height of the proscenium) is of + more than the average Florentine size, but is bare even to the point + of severity, its sole amenities being some straw, a hunk of bread, and + a stone pitcher. The door of each is facing the audience. Dimish + light. + + LUCREZIA wears long and clanking chains on her wrists, as does also + SAVONAROLA. Imprisonment has left its mark on both of them. SAVONAROLA’S + hair has turned white. His whole aspect is that of a very old, old + man. LUCREZIA looks no older than before, but has gone mad. + + SAV. + Alas, how long ago this morning seems + This evening! A thousand thousand eons + Are scarce the measure of the gulf betwixt + My then and now. Methinks I must have been + Here since the dim creation of the world + And never in that interval have seen + The tremulous hawthorn burgeon in the brake, + Nor heard the hum o’ bees, nor woven chains + Of buttercups on Mount Fiesole + What time the sap lept in the cypresses, + Imbuing with the friskfulness of Spring + Those melancholy trees. I do forget + The aspect of the sun. Yet I was born + A freeman, and the Saints of Heaven smiled + Down on my crib. What would my sire have said, + And what my dam, had anybody told them + The time would come when I should occupy + A felon’s cell? O the disgrace of it + The scandal, the incredible come-down! + It masters me. I see i’ my mind’s eye + The public prints--‘Sharp Sentence on a Monk.’ + What then? I thought I was of sterner stuff + Than is affrighted by what people think. + Yet thought I so because ‘twas thought of me, + And so ‘twas thought of me because I had + A hawk-like profile and a baleful eye. + Lo! my soul’s chin recedes, soft to the touch + As half-churn’d butter. Seeming hawk is dove, + And dove’s a gaol-bird now. Fie out upon ‘t! + + LUC. + How comes it? I am Empress Dowager + Of China--yet was never crown’d. This must + Be seen to. + [Quickly gathers some straw and weaves a crown, which she puts on.] + + SAV. + O, what a degringolade! + The great career I had mapp’d out for me-- + Nipp’d i’ the bud. What life, when I come out, + Awaits me? Why, the very Novices + And callow Postulants will draw aside + As I pass by, and say ‘That man hath done + Time!’ And yet shall I wince? The worst of Time + Is not in having done it, but in doing ‘t. + + LUC. + Ha, ha, ha, ha! Eleven billion pig-tails + Do tremble at my nod imperial,-- + The which is as it should be. + + SAV. + I have heard + That gaolers oft are willing to carouse + With them they watch o’er, and do sink at last + Into a drunken sleep, and then’s the time + To snatch the keys and make a bid for freedom. + Gaoler! Ho, Gaoler! + [Sounds of lock being turned and bolts withdrawn. Enter the Borgias’ + FOOL, in plain clothes, carrying bunch of keys.] + I have seen thy face + Before. + + FOOL + I saved thy life this afternoon, Sir. + + SAV. + Thou art the Borgias’ Fool? + + FOOL + Say rather, was. + Unfortunately I have been discharg’d + For my betrayal of Lucrezia, + So that I have to speak like other men-- + Decasyllabically, and with sense. + An hour ago the gaoler of this dungeon + Died of an apoplexy. Hearing which, + I ask’d for and obtain’d his billet. + + SAV. + Fetch + A stoup o’ liquor for thyself and me. + [Exit GAOLER.] + Freedom! there’s nothing that thy votaries + Grudge in the cause of thee. That decent man + Is doom’d by me to lose his place again + To-morrow morning when he wakes from out + His hoggish slumber. Yet I care not. + [Re-enter GAOLER with a leathern bottle and two glasses.] + Ho! + This is the stuff to warm our vitals, this + The panacea for all mortal ills + And sure elixir of eternal youth. + Drink, bonniman! + [GAOLER drains a glass and shows signs of instant intoxication. SAV. + claps him on shoulder and replenishes glass. GAOLER drinks again, lies + down on floor, and snores. SAV. snatches the bunch of keys, laughs + long but silently, and creeps out on tip-toe, leaving door ajar. + LUC. meanwhile has lain down on the straw in her cell, and fallen + asleep. + Noise of bolts being shot back, jangling of keys, grating of lock, and + the door of LUC.’S cell flies open. SAV. takes two steps across the + threshold, his arms outstretched and his upturned face transfigured + with a great joy.] + How sweet the open air + Leaps to my nostrils! O the good brown earth + That yields once more to my elastic tread + And laves these feet with its remember’d dew! + [Takes a few more steps, still looking upwards.] + Free!--I am free! O naked arc of heaven, + Enspangled with innumerable--no, + Stars are not there. Yet neither are there clouds! + The thing looks like a ceiling! [Gazes downward.] And this thing + Looks like a floor. [Gazes around.] And that white bundle yonder + Looks curiously like Lucrezia. + [LUC. awakes at sound of her name, and sits up sane.] + There must be some mistake. + + LUC. [Rises to her feet.] + There is indeed! + A pretty sort of prison I have come to, + In which a self-respecting lady’s cell + Is treated as a lounge! + + SAV. + I had no notion + You were in here. I thought I was out there. + I will explain--but first I’ll make amends. + Here are the keys by which your durance ends. + The gate is somewhere in this corridor, + And so good-bye to this interior! + [Exeunt SAV. and LUC. Noise, a moment later, of a key grating in a + lock, then of gate creaking on its hinges; triumphant laughs of + fugitives; loud slamming of gate behind them. + In SAV.’s cell the GAOLER starts in his sleep, turns his face to the + wall, and snores more than ever deeply. Through open door comes a + cloaked figure.] + + CLOAKED FIGURE + Sleep on, Savonarola, and awake + Not in this dungeon but in ruby Hell! + [Stabs Gaoler, whose snores cease abruptly. Enter POPE JULIUS II, with + Papal retinue carrying torches. MURDERER steps quickly back into + shadow.] + + POPE [To body of GAOLER.] + Savonarola, I am come to taunt + Thee in thy misery and dire abjection. + Rise, Sir, and hear me out. + + MURD. [Steps forward.] + Great Julius, + Waste not thy breath. Savonarola’s dead. + I murder’d him. + + POPE + Thou hadst no right to do so. + Who art thou, pray? + + MURD. + Cesare Borgia, + Lucrezia’s brother, and I claim a brother’s + Right to assassinate whatever man + Shall wantonly and in cold blood reject + Her timid offer of a poison’d ring. + + POPE + Of this anon. + [Stands over body of GAOLER.] + Our present business + Is general woe. No nobler corse hath ever + Impress’d the ground. O let the trumpets speak it! + [Flourish of trumpets.] + This was the noblest of the Florentines. + His character was flawless, and the world + Held not his parallel. O bear him hence + With all such honours as our State can offer. + He shall interred be with noise of cannon, + As doth befit so militant a nature. + Prepare these obsequies. + [Papal officers lift body of GAOLER.] + + A PAPAL OFFICER + But this is not + Savonarola. It is some one else. + + CESARE + Lo! ‘tis none other than the Fool that I + Hoof’d from my household but two hours agone. + I deem’d him no good riddance, for he had + The knack of setting tables on a roar. + What shadows we pursue! Good night, sweet Fool, + And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest! + + POPE + Interred shall he be with signal pomp. + No honour is too great that we can pay him. + He leaves the world a vacuum. Meanwhile, + Go we in chase of the accursed villain + That hath made escapado from this cell. + To horse! Away! We’ll scour the country round + For Sav’narola till we hold him bound. + Then shall you see a cinder, not a man, + Beneath the lightnings of the Vatican! + [Flourish, alarums and excursions, flashes of Vatican lightning, roll + of drums, etc. Through open door of cell is led in a large milk-white + horse, which the POPE mounts as the Curtain falls.] + + +Remember, please, before you formulate your impressions, that saying +of Brown’s: ‘The thing must be judged as a whole.’ I like to think that +whatever may seem amiss to us in these Four Acts of his would have been +righted by collation with that Fifth which he did not live to achieve. + +I like, too, to measure with my eyes the yawning gulf between stage and +study. Very different from the message of cold print to our imagination +are the messages of flesh and blood across footlights to our eyes and +ears. In the warmth and brightness of a crowded theatre ‘Savonarola’ +might, for aught one knows, seem perfect. ‘Then why,’ I hear my gentle +readers asking, ‘did you thrust the play on US, and not on a theatrical +manager?’ + +That question has a false assumption in it. In the course of the past +eight years I have thrust ‘Savonarola’ on any number of theatrical +managers. They have all of them been (to use the technical phrase) ‘very +kind.’ All have seen great merits in the work; and if I added +together all the various merits thus seen I should have no doubt that +‘Savonarola’ was the best play never produced. The point on which all +the managers are unanimous is that they have no use for a play without +an ending. This is why I have fallen back, at last, on gentle readers, +whom now I hear asking why I did not, as Brown’s literary executor, try +to finish the play myself. Can they never ask a question without a false +assumption in it? I did try, hard, to finish ‘Savonarola.’ + +Artistically, of course, the making of such an attempt was indefensible. +Humanly, not so. It is clear throughout the play--especially perhaps in +Acts III and IV--that if Brown had not steadfastly in his mind the hope +of production on the stage, he had nothing in his mind at all. Horrified +though he would have been by the idea of letting me kill his Monk, +he would rather have done even this than doom his play to everlasting +unactedness. I took, therefore, my courage in both hands, and made out a +scenario.... + +Dawn on summit of Mount Fiesole. Outspread view of Florence (Duomo, +Giotto’s Tower, etc.) as seen from that eminence.--NICCOLO MACHIAVELLI, +asleep on grass, wakes as sun rises. Deplores his exile from Florence, +LORENZO’S unappeasable hostility, etc. Wonders if he could not somehow +secure the POPE’S favour. Very cynical. Breaks off: But who are these +that scale the mountain-side? | Savonarola and Lucrezia | Borgia!--Enter +through a trap-door, back c. [trap-door veiled from audience by a +grassy ridge], SAV. and LUC. Both gasping and footsore from their climb. +[Still, with chains on their wrists? or not?]--MACH. steps unobserved +behind a cypress and listens.--SAV. has a speech to the rising sun--Th’ +effulgent hope that westers from the east | Daily. Says that his hope, +on the contrary, lies in escape To that which easters not from out +the west, | That fix’d abode of freedom which men call | America! Very +bitter against POPE.--LUC. says that she, for her part, means To start +afresh in that uncharted land | Which austers not from out the antipod, +| Australia!--Exit MACH., unobserved, down trap-door behind ridge, to +betray LUC. and SAV.--Several longish speeches by SAV. and LUC. Time is +thus given for MACH. to get into touch with POPE, and time for POPE and +retinue to reach the slope of Fiesole. SAV., glancing down across ridge, +sees these sleuth-hounds, points them out to LUC. and cries Bewray’d! +LUC. By whom? SAV. I know not, but suspect | The hand of that sleek +serpent Niccolo | Machiavelli.--SAV. and LUC. rush down c., but find +their way barred by the footlights.--LUC. We will not be ta’en Alive. +And here availeth us my lore | In what pertains to poison. Yonder herb +| [points to a herb growing down r.] Is deadly nightshade. Quick, +Monk! Pluck we it!--SAV. and LUC. die just as POPE appears over ridge, +followed by retinue in full cry.--POPE’S annoyance at being foiled +is quickly swept away on the great wave of Shakespearean chivalry and +charity that again rises in him. He gives SAV. a funeral oration similar +to the one meant for him in Act IV, but even more laudatory and more +stricken. Of LUC., too, he enumerates the virtues, and hints that the +whole terrestrial globe shall be hollowed to receive her bones. Ends +by saying: In deference to this our double sorrow | Sun shall not shine +to-day nor shine to-morrow.--Sun drops quickly back behind eastern +horizon, leaving a great darkness on which the Curtain slowly falls. + + +All this might be worse, yes. The skeleton passes muster. But in the +attempt to incarnate and ensanguine it I failed wretchedly. I saw that +Brown was, in comparison with me, a master. Thinking I might possibly +fare better in his method of work than in my own, I threw the skeleton +into a cupboard, sat down, and waited to see what Savonarola and those +others would do. + +They did absolutely nothing. I sat watching them, pen in hand, ready to +record their slightest movement. Not a little finger did they raise. +Yet I knew they must be alive. Brown had always told me they were quite +independent of him. Absurd to suppose that by the accident of his +own death they had ceased to breathe.... Now and then, overcome with +weariness, I dozed at my desk, and whenever I woke I felt that these +rigid creatures had been doing all sorts of wonderful things while my +eyes were shut. I felt that they disliked me. I came to dislike them in +return, and forbade them my room. + +Some of you, my readers, might have better luck with them than I. Invite +them, propitiate them, watch them! The writer of the best Fifth Act sent +to me shall have his work tacked on to Brown’s; and I suppose I could +get him a free pass for the second night. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Seven Men, by Max Beerbohm + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SEVEN MEN *** + +***** This file should be named 1306-0.txt or 1306-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/3/0/1306/ + +Produced by Tom Weiss + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project +Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at +http://gutenberg.org/license). + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation” + or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project +Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +“Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.” + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +“Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right +of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’ WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm’s +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org. + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at +http://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws. + +The Foundation’s principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at +809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email +business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact +information can be found at the Foundation’s web site and official +page at http://pglaf.org + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit http://pglaf.org + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. +To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + http://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/old/1306-0.zip b/old/1306-0.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..16227f5 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/1306-0.zip diff --git a/old/1306-h.zip b/old/1306-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..bbfdfd3 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/1306-h.zip diff --git a/old/1306-h/1306-h.htm b/old/1306-h/1306-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e93e2b3 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/1306-h/1306-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,4516 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + Seven Men, by Max Beerbohm + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Seven Men, by Max Beerbohm + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Seven Men + +Author: Max Beerbohm + +Release Date: September 15, 2008 [EBook #1306] +Last Updated: October 18, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SEVEN MEN *** + + + + +Produced by Tom Weiss, and David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + SEVEN MEN + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + by Max Beerbohm + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <div class="mynote"> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Transcriber’s Note: + From the version of “Seven Men” published in 1919 by William + Heinemann (London). Two of the stories have been omitted + (“James Pethel” and “A.V. Laider”) since they are available + separately from Project Gutenberg. + + In this plain ASCII version, emphasis and syllable + stress italics have been converted to capitals; foreign italics and accents + have been removed + + In “Enoch Soames:” + I added a missing closing quotation mark in the following + phrase: ‘Ten past two,’ he said. + + In “Hilary Maltby and Stephen Braxton:” + I changed the opening double quote to a single quote in: + ‘I wondered what old Mr. Abraham Hayward... + and + ‘I knew that if I leaned forward... +</pre> + <br /> + </div> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h2> + Contents + </h2> + <table summary="" style="margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto"> + <tr> + <td> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> ENOCH SOAMES </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> HILARY MALTBY AND STEPHEN BRAXTON </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> ‘SAVONAROLA’ BROWN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> SAVONAROLA </a> + </p> + </td> + </tr> + </table> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ENOCH SOAMES + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <p> + When a book about the literature of the eighteen-nineties was given by Mr. + Holbrook Jackson to the world, I looked eagerly in the index for SOAMES, + ENOCH. I had feared he would not be there. He was not there. But everybody + else was. Many writers whom I had quite forgotten, or remembered but + faintly, lived again for me, they and their work, in Mr. Holbrook + Jackson’s pages. The book was as thorough as it was brilliantly written. + And thus the omission found by me was an all the deadlier record of poor + Soames’ failure to impress himself on his decade. + </p> + <p> + I daresay I am the only person who noticed the omission. Soames had failed + so piteously as all that! Nor is there a counterpoise in the thought that + if he had had some measure of success he might have passed, like those + others, out of my mind, to return only at the historian’s beck. It is true + that had his gifts, such as they were, been acknowledged in his life-time, + he would never have made the bargain I saw him make—that strange + bargain whose results have kept him always in the foreground of my memory. + But it is from those very results that the full piteousness of him glares + out. + </p> + <p> + Not my compassion, however, impels me to write of him. For his sake, poor + fellow, I should be inclined to keep my pen out of the ink. It is ill to + deride the dead. And how can I write about Enoch Soames without making him + ridiculous? Or rather, how am I to hush up the horrid fact that he WAS + ridiculous? I shall not be able to do that. Yet, sooner or later, write + about him I must. You will see, in due course, that I have no option. And + I may as well get the thing done now. + </p> + <p> + In the Summer Term of ‘93 a bolt from the blue flashed down on Oxford. It + drove deep, it hurtlingly embedded itself in the soil. Dons and + undergraduates stood around, rather pale, discussing nothing but it. + Whence came it, this meteorite? From Paris. Its name? Will Rothenstein. + Its aim? To do a series of twenty-four portraits in lithograph. These were + to be published from the Bodley Head, London. The matter was urgent. + Already the Warden of A, and the Master of B, and the Regius Professor of + C, had meekly ‘sat.’ Dignified and doddering old men, who had never + consented to sit to any one, could not withstand this dynamic little + stranger. He did not sue: he invited; he did not invite: he commanded. He + was twenty-one years old. He wore spectacles that flashed more than any + other pair ever seen. He was a wit. He was brimful of ideas. He knew + Whistler. He knew Edmond de Goncourt. He knew every one in Paris. He knew + them all by heart. He was Paris in Oxford. It was whispered that, so soon + as he had polished off his selection of dons, he was going to include a + few undergraduates. It was a proud day for me when I—I—was + included. I liked Rothenstein not less than I feared him; and there arose + between us a friendship that has grown ever warmer, and been more and more + valued by me, with every passing year. + </p> + <p> + At the end of Term he settled in—or rather, meteoritically into—London. + It was to him I owed my first knowledge of that forever enchanting little + world-in-itself, Chelsea, and my first acquaintance with Walter Sickert + and other august elders who dwelt there. It was Rothenstein that took me + to see, in Cambridge Street, Pimlico, a young man whose drawings were + already famous among the few—Aubrey Beardsley, by name. With + Rothenstein I paid my first visit to the Bodley Head. By him I was + inducted into another haunt of intellect and daring, the domino room of + the Cafe Royal. + </p> + <p> + There, on that October evening—there, in that exuberant vista of + gilding and crimson velvet set amidst all those opposing mirrors and + upholding caryatids, with fumes of tobacco ever rising to the painted and + pagan ceiling, and with the hum of presumably cynical conversation broken + into so sharply now and again by the clatter of dominoes shuffled on + marble tables, I drew a deep breath, and ‘This indeed,’ said I to myself, + ‘is life!’ + </p> + <p> + It was the hour before dinner. We drank vermouth. Those who knew + Rothenstein were pointing him out to those who knew him only by name. Men + were constantly coming in through the swing-doors and wandering slowly up + and down in search of vacant tables, or of tables occupied by friends. One + of these rovers interested me because I was sure he wanted to catch + Rothenstein’s eye. He had twice passed our table, with a hesitating look; + but Rothenstein, in the thick of a disquisition on Puvis de Chavannes, had + not seen him. He was a stooping, shambling person, rather tall, very pale, + with longish and brownish hair. He had a thin vague beard—or rather, + he had a chin on which a large number of hairs weakly curled and clustered + to cover its retreat. He was an odd-looking person; but in the ‘nineties + odd apparitions were more frequent, I think, than they are now. The young + writers of that era—and I was sure this man was a writer—strove + earnestly to be distinct in aspect. This man had striven unsuccessfully. + He wore a soft black hat of clerical kind but of Bohemian intention, and a + grey waterproof cape which, perhaps because it was waterproof, failed to + be romantic. I decided that ‘dim’ was the mot juste for him. I had already + essayed to write, and was immensely keen on the mot juste, that Holy Grail + of the period. + </p> + <p> + The dim man was now again approaching our table, and this time he made up + his mind to pause in front of it. ‘You don’t remember me,’ he said in a + toneless voice. + </p> + <p> + Rothenstein brightly focussed him. ‘Yes, I do,’ he replied after a moment, + with pride rather than effusion—pride in a retentive memory. ‘Edwin + Soames.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Enoch Soames,’ said Enoch. + </p> + <p> + ‘Enoch Soames,’ repeated Rothenstein in a tone implying that it was enough + to have hit on the surname. ‘We met in Paris two or three times when you + were living there. We met at the Cafe Groche.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And I came to your studio once.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh yes; I was sorry I was out.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But you were in. You showed me some of your paintings, you know.... I + hear you’re in Chelsea now.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes.’ + </p> + <p> + I almost wondered that Mr. Soames did not, after this monosyllable, pass + along. He stood patiently there, rather like a dumb animal, rather like a + donkey looking over a gate. A sad figure, his. It occurred to me that + ‘hungry’ was perhaps the mot juste for him; but—hungry for what? He + looked as if he had little appetite for anything. I was sorry for him; and + Rothenstein, though he had not invited him to Chelsea, did ask him to sit + down and have something to drink. + </p> + <p> + Seated, he was more self-assertive. He flung back the wings of his cape + with a gesture which—had not those wings been waterproof—might + have seemed to hurl defiance at things in general. And he ordered an + absinthe. ‘Je me tiens toujours fidele,’ he told Rothenstein, ‘a la + sorciere glauque.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It is bad for you,’ said Rothenstein dryly. + </p> + <p> + ‘Nothing is bad for one,’ answered Soames. ‘Dans ce monde il n’y a ni de + bien ni de mal.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Nothing good and nothing bad? How do you mean?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I explained it all in the preface to “Negations.”’ + </p> + <p> + ‘“Negations”?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes; I gave you a copy of it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh yes, of course. But did you explain—for instance—that + there was no such thing as bad or good grammar?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘N-no,’ said Soames. ‘Of course in Art there is the good and the evil. But + in Life—no.’ He was rolling a cigarette. He had weak white hands, + not well washed, and with finger-tips much stained by nicotine. ‘In Life + there are illusions of good and evil, but’—his voice trailed away to + a murmur in which the words ‘vieux jeu’ and ‘rococo’ were faintly audible. + I think he felt he was not doing himself justice, and feared that + Rothenstein was going to point out fallacies. Anyhow, he cleared his + throat and said ‘Parlons d’autre chose.’ + </p> + <p> + It occurs to you that he was a fool? It didn’t to me. I was young, and had + not the clarity of judgment that Rothenstein already had. Soames was quite + five or six years older than either of us. Also, he had written a book. + </p> + <p> + It was wonderful to have written a book. + </p> + <p> + If Rothenstein had not been there, I should have revered Soames. Even as + it was, I respected him. And I was very near indeed to reverence when he + said he had another book coming out soon. I asked if I might ask what kind + of book it was to be. + </p> + <p> + ‘My poems,’ he answered. Rothenstein asked if this was to be the title of + the book. The poet meditated on this suggestion, but said he rather + thought of giving the book no title at all. ‘If a book is good in itself—’ + he murmured, waving his cigarette. + </p> + <p> + Rothenstein objected that absence of title might be bad for the sale of a + book. ‘If,’ he urged, ‘I went into a bookseller’s and said simply “Have + you got?” or “Have you a copy of?” how would they know what I wanted?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, of course I should have my name on the cover,’ Soames answered + earnestly. ‘And I rather want,’ he added, looking hard at Rothenstein, ‘to + have a drawing of myself as frontispiece.’ Rothenstein admitted that this + was a capital idea, and mentioned that he was going into the country and + would be there for some time. He then looked at his watch, exclaimed at + the hour, paid the waiter, and went away with me to dinner. Soames + remained at his post of fidelity to the glaucous witch. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why were you so determined not to draw him?’ I asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Draw him? Him? How can one draw a man who doesn’t exist?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘He is dim,’ I admitted. But my mot juste fell flat. Rothenstein repeated + that Soames was non-existent. + </p> + <p> + Still, Soames had written a book. I asked if Rothenstein had read + ‘Negations.’ He said he had looked into it, ‘but,’ he added crisply, ‘I + don’t profess to know anything about writing.’ A reservation very + characteristic of the period! Painters would not then allow that any one + outside their own order had a right to any opinion about painting. This + law (graven on the tablets brought down by Whistler from the summit of + Fujiyama) imposed certain limitations. If other arts than painting were + not utterly unintelligible to all but the men who practised them, the law + tottered—the Monroe Doctrine, as it were, did not hold good. + Therefore no painter would offer an opinion of a book without warning you + at any rate that his opinion was worthless. No one is a better judge of + literature than Rothenstein; but it wouldn’t have done to tell him so in + those days; and I knew that I must form an unaided judgment on + ‘Negations.’ + </p> + <p> + Not to buy a book of which I had met the author face to face would have + been for me in those days an impossible act of self-denial. When I + returned to Oxford for the Christmas Term I had duly secured ‘Negations.’ + I used to keep it lying carelessly on the table in my room, and whenever a + friend took it up and asked what it was about I would say ‘Oh, it’s rather + a remarkable book. It’s by a man whom I know.’ Just ‘what it was about’ I + never was able to say. Head or tail was just what I hadn’t made of that + slim green volume. I found in the preface no clue to the exiguous + labyrinth of contents, and in that labyrinth nothing to explain the + preface. + </p> + <p> + ‘Lean near to life. Lean very near—nearer. + </p> + <p> + ‘Life is web, and therein nor warp nor woof is, but web only. + </p> + <p> + ‘It is for this I am Catholick in church and in thought, yet do let swift + Mood weave there what the shuttle of Mood wills.’ + </p> + <p> + These were the opening phrases of the preface, but those which followed + were less easy to understand. Then came ‘Stark: A Conte,’ about a + midinette who, so far as I could gather, murdered, or was about to murder, + a mannequin. It was rather like a story by Catulle Mendes in which the + translator had either skipped or cut out every alternate sentence. Next, a + dialogue between Pan and St. Ursula—lacking, I felt, in ‘snap.’ + Next, some aphorisms (entitled ‘Aphorismata’ [spelled in Greek]). + Throughout, in fact, there was a great variety of form; and the forms had + evidently been wrought with much care. It was rather the substance that + eluded me. Was there, I wondered, any substance at all? It did now occur + to me: suppose Enoch Soames was a fool! Up cropped a rival hypothesis: + suppose <i>I</i> was! I inclined to give Soames the benefit of the doubt. + I had read ‘L’Apres-midi d’un Faune’ without extracting a glimmer of + meaning. Yet Mallarme—of course—was a Master. How was I to + know that Soames wasn’t another? There was a sort of music in his prose, + not indeed arresting, but perhaps, I thought, haunting, and laden perhaps + with meanings as deep as Mallarme’s own. I awaited his poems with an open + mind. + </p> + <p> + And I looked forward to them with positive impatience after I had had a + second meeting with him. This was on an evening in January. Going into the + aforesaid domino room, I passed a table at which sat a pale man with an + open book before him. He looked from his book to me, and I looked back + over my shoulder with a vague sense that I ought to have recognised him. I + returned to pay my respects. After exchanging a few words, I said with a + glance to the open book, ‘I see I am interrupting you,’ and was about to + pass on, but ‘I prefer,’ Soames replied in his toneless voice, ‘to be + interrupted,’ and I obeyed his gesture that I should sit down. + </p> + <p> + I asked him if he often read here. ‘Yes; things of this kind I read here,’ + he answered, indicating the title of his book—‘The Poems of + Shelley.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Anything that you really’—and I was going to say ‘admire?’ But I + cautiously left my sentence unfinished, and was glad that I had done so, + for he said, with unwonted emphasis, ‘Anything second-rate.’ + </p> + <p> + I had read little of Shelley, but ‘Of course,’ I murmured, ‘he’s very + uneven.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I should have thought evenness was just what was wrong with him. A deadly + evenness. That’s why I read him here. The noise of this place breaks the + rhythm. He’s tolerable here.’ Soames took up the book and glanced through + the pages. He laughed. Soames’ laugh was a short, single and mirthless + sound from the throat, unaccompanied by any movement of the face or + brightening of the eyes. ‘What a period!’ he uttered, laying the book + down. And ‘What a country!’ he added. + </p> + <p> + I asked rather nervously if he didn’t think Keats had more or less held + his own against the drawbacks of time and place. He admitted that there + were ‘passages in Keats,’ but did not specify them. Of ‘the older men,’ as + he called them, he seemed to like only Milton. ‘Milton,’ he said, ‘wasn’t + sentimental.’ Also, ‘Milton had a dark insight.’ And again, ‘I can always + read Milton in the reading-room.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘The reading-room?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Of the British Museum. I go there every day.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You do? I’ve only been there once. I’m afraid I found it rather a + depressing place. It—it seemed to sap one’s vitality.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It does. That’s why I go there. The lower one’s vitality, the more + sensitive one is to great art. I live near the Museum. I have rooms in + Dyott Street.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And you go round to the reading-room to read Milton?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Usually Milton.’ He looked at me. ‘It was Milton,’ he certificatively + added, ‘who converted me to Diabolism.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Diabolism? Oh yes? Really?’ said I, with that vague discomfort and that + intense desire to be polite which one feels when a man speaks of his own + religion. ‘You—worship the Devil?’ + </p> + <p> + Soames shook his head. ‘It’s not exactly worship,’ he qualified, sipping + his absinthe. ‘It’s more a matter of trusting and encouraging.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Ah, yes.... But I had rather gathered from the preface to “Negations” + that you were a—a Catholic.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Je l’etais a cette epoque. Perhaps I still am. Yes, I’m a Catholic + Diabolist.’ + </p> + <p> + This profession he made in an almost cursory tone. I could see that what + was upmost in his mind was the fact that I had read ‘Negations.’ His pale + eyes had for the first time gleamed. I felt as one who is about to be + examined, viva voce, on the very subject in which he is shakiest. I + hastily asked him how soon his poems were to be published. ‘Next week,’ he + told me. + </p> + <p> + ‘And are they to be published without a title?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No. I found a title, at last. But I shan’t tell you what it is,’ as + though I had been so impertinent as to inquire. ‘I am not sure that it + wholly satisfies me. But it is the best I can find. It suggests something + of the quality of the poems.... Strange growths, natural and wild, yet + exquisite,’ he added, ‘and many-hued, and full of poisons.’ + </p> + <p> + I asked him what he thought of Baudelaire. He uttered the snort that was + his laugh, and ‘Baudelaire,’ he said, ‘was a bourgeois malgre lui.’ France + had had only one poet: Villon; ‘and two-thirds of Villon were sheer + journalism.’ Verlaine was ‘an epicier malgre lui.’ Altogether, rather to + my surprise, he rated French literature lower than English. There were + ‘passages’ in Villiers de l’Isle-Adam. But ‘I,’ he summed up, ‘owe nothing + to France.’ He nodded at me. ‘You’ll see,’ he predicted. + </p> + <p> + I did not, when the time came, quite see that. I thought the author of + ‘Fungoids’ did—unconsciously, of course—owe something to the + young Parisian decadents, or to the young English ones who owed something + to THEM. I still think so. The little book—bought by me in Oxford—lies + before me as I write. Its pale grey buckram cover and silver lettering + have not worn well. Nor have its contents. Through these, with a + melancholy interest, I have again been looking. They are not much. But at + the time of their publication I had a vague suspicion that they MIGHT be. + I suppose it is my capacity for faith, not poor Soames’ work, that is + weaker than it once was.... + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + TO A YOUNG WOMAN. + + Thou art, who hast not been! + Pale tunes irresolute + And traceries of old sounds + Blown from a rotted flute + Mingle with noise of cymbals rouged with rust, + Nor not strange forms and epicene + Lie bleeding in the dust, + Being wounded with wounds. + + For this it is + That in thy counterpart + Of age-long mockeries + Thou hast not been nor art! +</pre> + <p> + There seemed to me a certain inconsistency as between the first and last + lines of this. I tried, with bent brows, to resolve the discord. But I did + not take my failure as wholly incompatible with a meaning in Soames’ mind. + Might it not rather indicate the depth of his meaning? As for the + craftsmanship, ‘rouged with rust’ seemed to me a fine stroke, and ‘nor + not’ instead of ‘and’ had a curious felicity. I wondered who the Young + Woman was, and what she had made of it all. I sadly suspect that Soames + could not have made more of it than she. Yet, even now, if one doesn’t try + to make any sense at all of the poem, and reads it just for the sound, + there is a certain grace of cadence. Soames was an artist—in so far + as he was anything, poor fellow! + </p> + <p> + It seemed to me, when first I read ‘Fungoids,’ that, oddly enough, the + Diabolistic side of him was the best. Diabolism seemed to be a cheerful, + even a wholesome, influence in his life. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + NOCTURNE. + + Round and round the shutter’d Square + I stroll’d with the Devil’s arm in mine. + No sound but the scrape of his hoofs was there + And the ring of his laughter and mine. + We had drunk black wine. + + I scream’d, ‘I will race you, Master!’ + ‘What matter,’ he shriek’d, ‘to-night + Which of us runs the faster? + There is nothing to fear to-night + In the foul moon’s light!’ + + Then I look’d him in the eyes, + And I laugh’d full shrill at the lie he told + And the gnawing fear he would fain disguise. + It was true, what I’d time and again been told: + He was old—old. +</pre> + <p> + There was, I felt, quite a swing about that first stanza—a joyous + and rollicking note of comradeship. The second was slightly hysterical + perhaps. But I liked the third: it was so bracingly unorthodox, even + according to the tenets of Soames’ peculiar sect in the faith. Not much + ‘trusting and encouraging’ here! Soames triumphantly exposing the Devil as + a liar, and laughing ‘full shrill,’ cut a quite heartening figure, I + thought—then! Now, in the light of what befell, none of his poems + depresses me so much as ‘Nocturne.’ + </p> + <p> + I looked out for what the metropolitan reviewers would have to say. They + seemed to fall into two classes: those who had little to say and those who + had nothing. The second class was the larger, and the words of the first + were cold; insomuch that + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Strikes a note of modernity throughout.... These tripping + numbers.—Preston Telegraph +</pre> + <p> + was the only lure offered in advertisements by Soames’ publisher. I had + hopes that when next I met the poet I could congratulate him on having + made a stir; for I fancied he was not so sure of his intrinsic greatness + as he seemed. I was but able to say, rather coarsely, when next I did see + him, that I hoped ‘Fungoids’ was ‘selling splendidly.’ He looked at me + across his glass of absinthe and asked if I had bought a copy. His + publisher had told him that three had been sold. I laughed, as at a jest. + </p> + <p> + ‘You don’t suppose I CARE, do you?’ he said, with something like a snarl. + I disclaimed the notion. He added that he was not a tradesman. I said + mildly that I wasn’t, either, and murmured that an artist who gave truly + new and great things to the world had always to wait long for recognition. + He said he cared not a sou for recognition. I agreed that the act of + creation was its own reward. + </p> + <p> + His moroseness might have alienated me if I had regarded myself as a + nobody. But ah! hadn’t both John Lane and Aubrey Beardsley suggested that + I should write an essay for the great new venture that was afoot—‘The + Yellow Book’? And hadn’t Henry Harland, as editor, accepted my essay? And + wasn’t it to be in the very first number? At Oxford I was still in statu + pupillari. In London I regarded myself as very much indeed a graduate now—one + whom no Soames could ruffle. Partly to show off, partly in sheer + good-will, I told Soames he ought to contribute to ‘The Yellow Book.’ He + uttered from the throat a sound of scorn for that publication. + </p> + <p> + Nevertheless, I did, a day or two later, tentatively ask Harland if he + knew anything of the work of a man called Enoch Soames. Harland paused in + the midst of his characteristic stride around the room, threw up his hands + towards the ceiling, and groaned aloud: he had often met ‘that absurd + creature’ in Paris, and this very morning had received some poems in + manuscript from him. + </p> + <p> + ‘Has he NO talent?’ I asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘He has an income. He’s all right.’ Harland was the most joyous of men and + most generous of critics, and he hated to talk of anything about which he + couldn’t be enthusiastic. So I dropped the subject of Soames. The news + that Soames had an income did take the edge off solicitude. I learned + afterwards that he was the son of an unsuccessful and deceased bookseller + in Preston, but had inherited an annuity of 300 pounds from a married + aunt, and had no surviving relatives of any kind. Materially, then, he was + ‘all right.’ But there was still a spiritual pathos about him, sharpened + for me now by the possibility that even the praises of The Preston + Telegraph might not have been forthcoming had he not been the son of a + Preston man. He had a sort of weak doggedness which I could not but + admire. Neither he nor his work received the slightest encouragement; but + he persisted in behaving as a personage: always he kept his dingy little + flag flying. Wherever congregated the jeunes feroces of the arts, in + whatever Soho restaurant they had just discovered, in whatever music-hall + they were most frequenting, there was Soames in the midst of them, or + rather on the fringe of them, a dim but inevitable figure. He never sought + to propitiate his fellow-writers, never bated a jot of his arrogance about + his own work or of his contempt for theirs. To the painters he was + respectful, even humble; but for the poets and prosaists of ‘The Yellow + Book,’ and later of ‘The Savoy,’ he had never a word but of scorn. He + wasn’t resented. It didn’t occur to anybody that he or his Catholic + Diabolism mattered. When, in the autumn of ‘96, he brought out (at his own + expense, this time) a third book, his last book, nobody said a word for or + against it. I meant, but forgot, to buy it. I never saw it, and am ashamed + to say I don’t even remember what it was called. But I did, at the time of + its publication, say to Rothenstein that I thought poor old Soames was + really a rather tragic figure, and that I believed he would literally die + for want of recognition. Rothenstein scoffed. He said I was trying to get + credit for a kind heart which I didn’t possess; and perhaps this was so. + But at the private view of the New English Art Club, a few weeks later, I + beheld a pastel portrait of ‘Enoch Soames, Esq.’ It was very like him, and + very like Rothenstein to have done it. Soames was standing near it, in his + soft hat and his waterproof cape, all through the afternoon. Anybody who + knew him would have recognised the portrait at a glance, but nobody who + didn’t know him would have recognised the portrait from its bystander: it + ‘existed’ so much more than he; it was bound to. Also, it had not that + expression of faint happiness which on this day was discernible, yes, in + Soames’ countenance. Fame had breathed on him. Twice again in the course + of the month I went to the New English, and on both occasions Soames + himself was on view there. Looking back, I regard the close of that + exhibition as having been virtually the close of his career. He had felt + the breath of Fame against his cheek—so late, for such a little + while; and at its withdrawal he gave in, gave up, gave out. He, who had + never looked strong or well, looked ghastly now—a shadow of the + shade he had once been. He still frequented the domino room, but, having + lost all wish to excite curiosity, he no longer read books there. ‘You + read only at the Museum now?’ asked I, with attempted cheerfulness. He + said he never went there now. ‘No absinthe there,’ he muttered. It was the + sort of thing that in the old days he would have said for effect; but it + carried conviction now. Absinthe, erst but a point in the ‘personality’ he + had striven so hard to build up, was solace and necessity now. He no + longer called it ‘la sorciere glauque.’ He had shed away all his French + phrases. He had become a plain, unvarnished, Preston man. + </p> + <p> + Failure, if it be a plain, unvarnished, complete failure, and even though + it be a squalid failure, has always a certain dignity. I avoided Soames + because he made me feel rather vulgar. John Lane had published, by this + time, two little books of mine, and they had had a pleasant little success + of esteem. I was a—slight but definite—‘personality.’ Frank + Harris had engaged me to kick up my heels in The Saturday Review, Alfred + Harmsworth was letting me do likewise in The Daily Mail. I was just what + Soames wasn’t. And he shamed my gloss. Had I known that he really and + firmly believed in the greatness of what he as an artist had achieved, I + might not have shunned him. No man who hasn’t lost his vanity can be held + to have altogether failed. Soames’ dignity was an illusion of mine. One + day in the first week of June, 1897, that illusion went. But on the + evening of that day Soames went too. + </p> + <p> + I had been out most of the morning, and, as it was too late to reach home + in time for luncheon, I sought ‘the Vingtieme.’ This little place—Restaurant + du Vingtieme Siecle, to give it its full title—had been discovered + in ‘96 by the poets and prosaists, but had now been more or less abandoned + in favour of some later find. I don’t think it lived long enough to + justify its name; but at that time there it still was, in Greek Street, a + few doors from Soho Square, and almost opposite to that house where, in + the first years of the century, a little girl, and with her a boy named De + Quincey, made nightly encampment in darkness and hunger among dust and + rats and old legal parchments. The Vingtieme was but a small whitewashed + room, leading out into the street at one end and into a kitchen at the + other. The proprietor and cook was a Frenchman, known to us as Monsieur + Vingtieme; the waiters were his two daughters, Rose and Berthe; and the + food, according to faith, was good. The tables were so narrow, and were + set so close together, that there was space for twelve of them, six + jutting from either wall. + </p> + <p> + Only the two nearest to the door, as I went in, were occupied. On one side + sat a tall, flashy, rather Mephistophelian man whom I had seen from time + to time in the domino room and elsewhere. On the other side sat Soames. + They made a queer contrast in that sunlit room—Soames sitting + haggard in that hat and cape which nowhere at any season had I seen him + doff, and this other, this keenly vital man, at sight of whom I more than + ever wondered whether he were a diamond merchant, a conjurer, or the head + of a private detective agency. I was sure Soames didn’t want my company; + but I asked, as it would have seemed brutal not to, whether I might join + him, and took the chair opposite to his. He was smoking a cigarette, with + an untasted salmi of something on his plate and a half-empty bottle of + Sauterne before him; and he was quite silent. I said that the preparations + for the Jubilee made London impossible. (I rather liked them, really.) I + professed a wish to go right away till the whole thing was over. In vain + did I attune myself to his gloom. He seemed not to hear me nor even to see + me. I felt that his behaviour made me ridiculous in the eyes of the other + man. The gangway between the two rows of tables at the Vingtieme was + hardly more than two feet wide (Rose and Berthe, in their ministrations, + had always to edge past each other, quarrelling in whispers as they did + so), and any one at the table abreast of yours was practically at yours. I + thought our neighbour was amused at my failure to interest Soames, and so, + as I could not explain to him that my insistence was merely charitable, I + became silent. Without turning my head, I had him well within my range of + vision. I hoped I looked less vulgar than he in contrast with Soames. I + was sure he was not an Englishman, but what WAS his nationality? Though + his jet-black hair was en brosse, I did not think he was French. To + Berthe, who waited on him, he spoke French fluently, but with a hardly + native idiom and accent. I gathered that this was his first visit to the + Vingtieme; but Berthe was off-hand in her manner to him: he had not made a + good impression. His eyes were handsome, but—like the Vingtieme’s + tables—too narrow and set too close together. His nose was + predatory, and the points of his moustache, waxed up beyond his nostrils, + gave a fixity to his smile. Decidedly, he was sinister. And my sense of + discomfort in his presence was intensified by the scarlet waistcoat which + tightly, and so unseasonably in June, sheathed his ample chest. This + waistcoat wasn’t wrong merely because of the heat, either. It was somehow + all wrong in itself. It wouldn’t have done on Christmas morning. It would + have struck a jarring note at the first night of ‘Hernani.’ I was trying + to account for its wrongness when Soames suddenly and strangely broke + silence. ‘A hundred years hence!’ he murmured, as in a trance. + </p> + <p> + ‘We shall not be here!’ I briskly but fatuously added. + </p> + <p> + ‘We shall not be here. No,’ he droned, ‘but the Museum will still be just + where it is. And the reading-room, just where it is. And people will be + able to go and read there.’ He inhaled sharply, and a spasm as of actual + pain contorted his features. + </p> + <p> + I wondered what train of thought poor Soames had been following. He did + not enlighten me when he said, after a long pause, ‘You think I haven’t + minded.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Minded what, Soames?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Neglect. Failure.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘FAILURE?’ I said heartily. ‘Failure?’ I repeated vaguely. ‘Neglect—yes, + perhaps; but that’s quite another matter. Of course you haven’t been—appreciated. + But what then? Any artist who—who gives—’ What I wanted to say + was, ‘Any artist who gives truly new and great things to the world has + always to wait long for recognition’; but the flattery would not out: in + the face of his misery, a misery so genuine and so unmasked, my lips would + not say the words. + </p> + <p> + And then—he said them for me. I flushed. ‘That’s what you were going + to say, isn’t it?’ he asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘How did you know?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s what you said to me three years ago, when “Fungoids” was published.’ + I flushed the more. I need not have done so at all, for ‘It’s the only + important thing I ever heard you say,’ he continued. ‘And I’ve never + forgotten it. It’s a true thing. It’s a horrible truth. But—d’you + remember what I answered? I said “I don’t care a sou for recognition.” And + you believed me. You’ve gone on believing I’m above that sort of thing. + You’re shallow. What should YOU know of the feelings of a man like me? You + imagine that a great artist’s faith in himself and in the verdict of + posterity is enough to keep him happy.... You’ve never guessed at the + bitterness and loneliness, the’—his voice broke; but presently he + resumed, speaking with a force that I had never known in him. ‘Posterity! + What use is it to ME? A dead man doesn’t know that people are visiting his + grave—visiting his birthplace—putting up tablets to him—unveiling + statues of him. A dead man can’t read the books that are written about + him. A hundred years hence! Think of it! If I could come back to life then—just + for a few hours—and go to the reading-room, and READ! Or better + still: if I could be projected, now, at this moment, into that future, + into that reading-room, just for this one afternoon! I’d sell myself body + and soul to the devil, for that! Think of the pages and pages in the + catalogue: “SOAMES, ENOCH” endlessly—endless editions, commentaries, + prolegomena, biographies’—but here he was interrupted by a sudden + loud creak of the chair at the next table. Our neighbour had half risen + from his place. He was leaning towards us, apologetically intrusive. + </p> + <p> + ‘Excuse—permit me,’ he said softly. ‘I have been unable not to hear. + Might I take a liberty? In this little restaurant-sans-facon’—he + spread wide his hands—‘might I, as the phrase is, “cut in”?’ + </p> + <p> + I could but signify our acquiescence. Berthe had appeared at the kitchen + door, thinking the stranger wanted his bill. He waved her away with his + cigar, and in another moment had seated himself beside me, commanding a + full view of Soames. + </p> + <p> + ‘Though not an Englishman,’ he explained, ‘I know my London well, Mr. + Soames. Your name and fame—Mr. Beerbohm’s too—very known to + me. Your point is: who am <i>I</i>?’ He glanced quickly over his shoulder, + and in a lowered voice said ‘I am the Devil.’ + </p> + <p> + I couldn’t help it: I laughed. I tried not to, I knew there was nothing to + laugh at, my rudeness shamed me, but—I laughed with increasing + volume. The Devil’s quiet dignity, the surprise and disgust of his raised + eyebrows, did but the more dissolve me. I rocked to and fro, I lay back + aching. I behaved deplorably. + </p> + <p> + ‘I am a gentleman, and,’ he said with intense emphasis, ‘I thought I was + in the company of GENTLEMEN.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t!’ I gasped faintly. ‘Oh, don’t!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Curious, nicht wahr?’ I heard him say to Soames. ‘There is a type of + person to whom the very mention of my name is—oh-so-awfully-funny! + In your theatres the dullest comedian needs only to say “The Devil!” and + right away they give him “the loud laugh that speaks the vacant mind.” Is + it not so?’ + </p> + <p> + I had now just breath enough to offer my apologies. He accepted them, but + coldly, and re-addressed himself to Soames. + </p> + <p> + ‘I am a man of business,’ he said, ‘and always I would put things through + “right now,” as they say in the States. You are a poet. Les affaires—you + detest them. So be it. But with me you will deal, eh? What you have said + just now gives me furiously to hope.’ + </p> + <p> + Soames had not moved, except to light a fresh cigarette. He sat crouched + forward, with his elbows squared on the table, and his head just above the + level of his hands, staring up at the Devil. ‘Go on,’ he nodded. I had no + remnant of laughter in me now. + </p> + <p> + ‘It will be the more pleasant, our little deal,’ the Devil went on, + ‘because you are—I mistake not?—a Diabolist.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘A Catholic Diabolist,’ said Soames. + </p> + <p> + The Devil accepted the reservation genially. ‘You wish,’ he resumed, ‘to + visit now—this afternoon as-ever-is—the reading-room of the + British Museum, yes? but of a hundred years hence, yes? Parfaitement. Time—an + illusion. Past and future—they are as ever-present as the present, + or at any rate only what you call “just-round-the-corner.” I switch you on + to any date. I project you—pouf! You wish to be in the reading-room + just as it will be on the afternoon of June 3, 1997? You wish to find + yourself standing in that room, just past the swing-doors, this very + minute, yes? and to stay there till closing time? Am I right?’ + </p> + <p> + Soames nodded. + </p> + <p> + The Devil looked at his watch. ‘Ten past two,’ he said. ‘Closing time in + summer same then as now: seven o’clock. That will give you almost five + hours. At seven o’clock—pouf!—you find yourself again here, + sitting at this table. I am dining to-night dans le monde—dans le + higlif. That concludes my present visit to your great city. I come and + fetch you here, Mr. Soames, on my way home.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Home?’ I echoed. + </p> + <p> + ‘Be it never so humble!’ said the Devil lightly. + </p> + <p> + ‘All right,’ said Soames. + </p> + <p> + ‘Soames!’ I entreated. But my friend moved not a muscle. + </p> + <p> + The Devil had made as though to stretch forth his hand across the table + and touch Soames’ forearm; but he paused in his gesture. + </p> + <p> + ‘A hundred years hence, as now,’ he smiled, ‘no smoking allowed in the + reading-room. You would better therefore——’ + </p> + <p> + Soames removed the cigarette from his mouth and dropped it into his glass + of Sauterne. + </p> + <p> + ‘Soames!’ again I cried. ‘Can’t you’—but the Devil had now stretched + forth his hand across the table. He brought it slowly down on—the + tablecloth. Soames’ chair was empty. His cigarette floated sodden in his + wine-glass. There was no other trace of him. + </p> + <p> + For a few moments the Devil let his hand rest where it lay, gazing at me + out of the corners of his eyes, vulgarly triumphant. + </p> + <p> + A shudder shook me. With an effort I controlled myself and rose from my + chair. ‘Very clever,’ I said condescendingly. ‘But—“The Time + Machine” is a delightful book, don’t you think? So entirely original!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You are pleased to sneer,’ said the Devil, who had also risen, ‘but it is + one thing to write about an impossible machine; it is a quite other thing + to be a Supernatural Power.’ All the same, I had scored. + </p> + <p> + Berthe had come forth at the sound of our rising. I explained to her that + Mr. Soames had been called away, and that both he and I would be dining + here. It was not until I was out in the open air that I began to feel + giddy. I have but the haziest recollection of what I did, where I + wandered, in the glaring sunshine of that endless afternoon. I remember + the sound of carpenters’ hammers all along Piccadilly, and the bare + chaotic look of the half-erected ‘stands.’ Was it in the Green Park, or in + Kensington Gardens, or WHERE was it that I sat on a chair beneath a tree, + trying to read an evening paper? There was a phrase in the leading article + that went on repeating itself in my fagged mind—‘Little is hidden + from this august Lady full of the garnered wisdom of sixty years of + Sovereignty.’ I remember wildly conceiving a letter (to reach Windsor by + express messenger told to await answer): + </p> + <p> + ‘MADAM,—Well knowing that your Majesty is full of the garnered + wisdom of sixty years of Sovereignty, I venture to ask your advice in the + following delicate matter. Mr. Enoch Soames, whose poems you may or may + not know,’.... + </p> + <p> + Was there NO way of helping him—saving him? A bargain was a bargain, + and I was the last man to aid or abet any one in wriggling out of a + reasonable obligation. I wouldn’t have lifted a little finger to save + Faust. But poor Soames!—doomed to pay without respite an eternal + price for nothing but a fruitless search and a bitter disillusioning.... + </p> + <p> + Odd and uncanny it seemed to me that he, Soames, in the flesh, in the + waterproof cape, was at this moment living in the last decade of the next + century, poring over books not yet written, and seeing and seen by men not + yet born. Uncannier and odder still, that to-night and evermore he would + be in Hell. Assuredly, truth was stranger than fiction. + </p> + <p> + Endless that afternoon was. Almost I wished I had gone with Soames—not + indeed to stay in the reading-room, but to sally forth for a brisk + sight-seeing walk around a new London. I wandered restlessly out of the + Park I had sat in. Vainly I tried to imagine myself an ardent tourist from + the eighteenth century. Intolerable was the strain of the slow-passing and + empty minutes. Long before seven o’clock I was back at the Vingtieme. + </p> + <p> + I sat there just where I had sat for luncheon. Air came in listlessly + through the open door behind me. Now and again Rose or Berthe appeared for + a moment. I had told them I would not order any dinner till Mr. Soames + came. A hurdy-gurdy began to play, abruptly drowning the noise of a + quarrel between some Frenchmen further up the street. Whenever the tune + was changed I heard the quarrel still raging. I had bought another evening + paper on my way. I unfolded it. My eyes gazed ever away from it to the + clock over the kitchen door.... + </p> + <p> + Five minutes, now, to the hour! I remembered that clocks in restaurants + are kept five minutes fast. I concentrated my eyes on the paper. I vowed I + would not look away from it again. I held it upright, at its full width, + close to my face, so that I had no view of anything but it.... Rather a + tremulous sheet? Only because of the draught, I told myself. + </p> + <p> + My arms gradually became stiff; they ached; but I could not drop them—now. + I had a suspicion, I had a certainty. Well, what then?... What else had I + come for? Yet I held tight that barrier of newspaper. Only the sound of + Berthe’s brisk footstep from the kitchen enabled me, forced me, to drop + it, and to utter: + </p> + <p> + ‘What shall we have to eat, Soames?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Il est souffrant, ce pauvre Monsieur Soames?’ asked Berthe. + </p> + <p> + ‘He’s only—tired.’ I asked her to get some wine—Burgundy—and + whatever food might be ready. Soames sat crouched forward against the + table, exactly as when last I had seen him. It was as though he had never + moved—he who had moved so unimaginably far. Once or twice in the + afternoon it had for an instant occurred to me that perhaps his journey + was not to be fruitless—that perhaps we had all been wrong in our + estimate of the works of Enoch Soames. That we had been horribly right was + horribly clear from the look of him. But ‘Don’t be discouraged,’ I + falteringly said. ‘Perhaps it’s only that you—didn’t leave enough + time. Two, three centuries hence, perhaps—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ his voice came. ‘I’ve thought of that.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And now—now for the more immediate future! Where are you going to + hide? How would it be if you caught the Paris express from Charing Cross? + Almost an hour to spare. Don’t go on to Paris. Stop at Calais. Live in + Calais. He’d never think of looking for you in Calais.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s like my luck,’ he said, ‘to spend my last hours on earth with an + ass.’ But I was not offended. ‘And a treacherous ass,’ he strangely added, + tossing across to me a crumpled bit of paper which he had been holding in + his hand. I glanced at the writing on it—some sort of gibberish, + apparently. I laid it impatiently aside. + </p> + <p> + ‘Come, Soames! pull yourself together! This isn’t a mere matter of life + and death. It’s a question of eternal torment, mind you! You don’t mean to + say you’re going to wait limply here till the Devil comes to fetch you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I can’t do anything else. I’ve no choice.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Come! This is “trusting and encouraging” with a vengeance! This is + Diabolism run mad!’ I filled his glass with wine. ‘Surely, now that you’ve + SEEN the brute—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s no good abusing him.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You must admit there’s nothing Miltonic about him, Soames.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t say he’s not rather different from what I expected.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘He’s a vulgarian, he’s a swell-mobsman, he’s the sort of man who hangs + about the corridors of trains going to the Riviera and steals ladies’ + jewel-cases. Imagine eternal torment presided over by HIM!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You don’t suppose I look forward to it, do you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then why not slip quietly out of the way?’ + </p> + <p> + Again and again I filled his glass, and always, mechanically, he emptied + it; but the wine kindled no spark of enterprise in him. He did not eat, + and I myself ate hardly at all. I did not in my heart believe that any + dash for freedom could save him. The chase would be swift, the capture + certain. But better anything than this passive, meek, miserable waiting. I + told Soames that for the honour of the human race he ought to make some + show of resistance. He asked what the human race had ever done for him. + ‘Besides,’ he said, ‘can’t you understand that I’m in his power? You saw + him touch me, didn’t you? There’s an end of it. I’ve no will. I’m sealed.’ + </p> + <p> + I made a gesture of despair. He went on repeating the word ‘sealed.’ I + began to realise that the wine had clouded his brain. No wonder! Foodless + he had gone into futurity, foodless he still was. I urged him to eat at + any rate some bread. It was maddening to think that he, who had so much to + tell, might tell nothing. ‘How was it all,’ I asked, ‘yonder? Come! Tell + me your adventures.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘They’d make first-rate “copy,” wouldn’t they?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m awfully sorry for you, Soames, and I make all possible allowances; + but what earthly right have you to insinuate that I should make “copy,” as + you call it, out of you?’ + </p> + <p> + The poor fellow pressed his hands to his forehead. ‘I don’t know,’ he + said. ‘I had some reason, I know.... I’ll try to remember.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s right. Try to remember everything. Eat a little more bread. What + did the reading-room look like?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Much as usual,’ he at length muttered. + </p> + <p> + ‘Many people there?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Usual sort of number.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What did they look like?’ + </p> + <p> + Soames tried to visualise them. ‘They all,’ he presently remembered, + ‘looked very like one another.’ + </p> + <p> + My mind took a fearsome leap. ‘All dressed in Jaeger?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes. I think so. Greyish-yellowish stuff.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘A sort of uniform?’ He nodded. ‘With a number on it, perhaps?—a + number on a large disc of metal sewn on to the left sleeve? DKF 78,910—that + sort of thing?’ It was even so. ‘And all of them—men and women alike—looking + very well-cared-for? very Utopian? and smelling rather strongly of + carbolic? and all of them quite hairless?’ I was right every time. Soames + was only not sure whether the men and women were hairless or shorn. ‘I + hadn’t time to look at them very closely,’ he explained. + </p> + <p> + ‘No, of course not. But——’ + </p> + <p> + ‘They stared at ME, I can tell you. I attracted a great deal of + attention.’ At last he had done that! ‘I think I rather scared them. They + moved away whenever I came near. They followed me about at a distance, + wherever I went. The men at the round desk in the middle seemed to have a + sort of panic whenever I went to make inquiries.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What did you do when you arrived?’ + </p> + <p> + Well, he had gone straight to the catalogue, of course—to the S + volumes, and had stood long before SN—SOF, unable to take this + volume out of the shelf, because his heart was beating so.... At first, he + said, he wasn’t disappointed—he only thought there was some new + arrangement. He went to the middle desk and asked where the catalogue of + TWENTIETH-century books was kept. He gathered that there was still only + one catalogue. Again he looked up his name, stared at the three little + pasted slips he had known so well. Then he went and sat down for a long + time.... + </p> + <p> + ‘And then,’ he droned, ‘I looked up the “Dictionary of National Biography” + and some encyclopedias.... I went back to the middle desk and asked what + was the best modern book on late nineteenth-century literature. They told + me Mr. T. K. Nupton’s book was considered the best. I looked it up in the + catalogue and filled in a form for it. It was brought to me. My name + wasn’t in the index, but—Yes!’ he said with a sudden change of tone. + ‘That’s what I’d forgotten. Where’s that bit of paper? Give it me back.’ + </p> + <p> + I, too, had forgotten that cryptic screed. I found it fallen on the floor, + and handed it to him. + </p> + <p> + He smoothed it out, nodding and smiling at me disagreeably. ‘I found + myself glancing through Nupton’s book,’ he resumed. ‘Not very easy + reading. Some sort of phonetic spelling.... All the modern books I saw + were phonetic.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then I don’t want to hear any more, Soames, please.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘The proper names seemed all to be spelt in the old way. But for that, I + mightn’t have noticed my own name.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Your own name? Really? Soames, I’m VERY glad.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And yours.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I thought I should find you waiting here to-night. So I took the trouble + to copy out the passage. Read it.’ + </p> + <p> + I snatched the paper. Soames’ handwriting was characteristically dim. It, + and the noisome spelling, and my excitement, made me all the slower to + grasp what T. K. Nupton was driving at. + </p> + <p> + The document lies before me at this moment. Strange that the words I here + copy out for you were copied out for me by poor Soames just seventy-eight + years hence.... + </p> + <p> + From p. 234 of ‘Inglish Littracher 1890-1900’ bi T. K. Nupton, publishd bi + th Stait, 1992: + </p> + <p> + ‘Fr egzarmpl, a riter ov th time, naimd Max Beerbohm, hoo woz stil alive + in th twentieth senchri, rote a stauri in wich e pautraid an immajnari + karrakter kauld “Enoch Soames”—a thurd-rait poit hoo beleevz imself + a grate jeneus an maix a bargin with th Devvl in auder ter no wot + posterriti thinx ov im! It iz a sumwot labud sattire but not without vallu + az showing hou seriusli the yung men ov th aiteen-ninetiz took themselvz. + Nou that the littreri profeshn haz bin auganized az a departmnt of publik + servis, our riters hav found their levvl an hav lernt ter doo their duti + without thort ov th morro. “Th laibrer iz werthi ov hiz hire,” an that iz + aul. Thank hevvn we hav no Enoch Soameses amung us to-dai!’ + </p> + <p> + I found that by murmuring the words aloud (a device which I commend to my + reader) I was able to master them, little by little. The clearer they + became, the greater was my bewilderment, my distress and horror. The whole + thing was a nightmare. Afar, the great grisly background of what was in + store for the poor dear art of letters; here, at the table, fixing on me a + gaze that made me hot all over, the poor fellow whom—whom + evidently... but no: whatever down-grade my character might take in coming + years, I should never be such a brute as to—— + </p> + <p> + Again I examined the screed. ‘Immajnari’—but here Soames was, no + more imaginary, alas! than I. And ‘labud’—what on earth was that? + (To this day, I have never made out that word.) ‘It’s all very—baffling,’ + I at length stammered. + </p> + <p> + Soames said nothing, but cruelly did not cease to look at me. + </p> + <p> + ‘Are you sure,’ I temporised, ‘quite sure you copied the thing out + correctly?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Quite.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, then it’s this wretched Nupton who must have made—must be + going to make—some idiotic mistake.... Look here, Soames! you know + me better than to suppose that I.... After all, the name “Max Beerbohm” is + not at all an uncommon one, and there must be several Enoch Soameses + running around—or rather, “Enoch Soames” is a name that might occur + to any one writing a story. And I don’t write stories: I’m an essayist, an + observer, a recorder.... I admit that it’s an extraordinary coincidence. + But you must see——’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I see the whole thing,’ said Soames quietly. And he added, with a touch + of his old manner, but with more dignity than I had ever known in him, + ‘Parlons d’autre chose.’ + </p> + <p> + I accepted that suggestion very promptly. I returned straight to the more + immediate future. I spent most of the long evening in renewed appeals to + Soames to slip away and seek refuge somewhere. I remember saying at last + that if indeed I was destined to write about him, the supposed ‘stauri’ + had better have at least a happy ending. Soames repeated those last three + words in a tone of intense scorn. ‘In Life and in Art,’ he said, ‘all that + matters is an INEVITABLE ending.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But,’ I urged, more hopefully than I felt, ‘an ending that can be avoided + ISN’T inevitable.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You aren’t an artist,’ he rasped. ‘And you’re so hopelessly not an artist + that, so far from being able to imagine a thing and make it seem true, + you’re going to make even a true thing seem as if you’d made it up. You’re + a miserable bungler. And it’s like my luck.’ + </p> + <p> + I protested that the miserable bungler was not I—was not going to be + I—but T. K. Nupton; and we had a rather heated argument, in the + thick of which it suddenly seemed to me that Soames saw he was in the + wrong: he had quite physically cowered. But I wondered why—and now I + guessed with a cold throb just why—he stared so, past me. The + bringer of that ‘inevitable ending’ filled the doorway. + </p> + <p> + I managed to turn in my chair and to say, not without a semblance of + lightness, ‘Aha, come in!’ Dread was indeed rather blunted in me by his + looking so absurdly like a villain in a melodrama. The sheen of his tilted + hat and of his shirt-front, the repeated twists he was giving to his + moustache, and most of all the magnificence of his sneer, gave token that + he was there only to be foiled. + </p> + <p> + He was at our table in a stride. ‘I am sorry,’ he sneered witheringly, ‘to + break up your pleasant party, but—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You don’t: you complete it,’ I assured him. ‘Mr. Soames and I want to + have a little talk with you. Won’t you sit? Mr. Soames got nothing—frankly + nothing—by his journey this afternoon. We don’t wish to say that the + whole thing was a swindle—a common swindle. On the contrary, we + believe you meant well. But of course the bargain, such as it was, is + off.’ + </p> + <p> + The Devil gave no verbal answer. He merely looked at Soames and pointed + with rigid forefinger to the door. Soames was wretchedly rising from his + chair when, with a desperate quick gesture, I swept together two + dinner-knives that were on the table, and laid their blades across each + other. The Devil stepped sharp back against the table behind him, averting + his face and shuddering. + </p> + <p> + ‘You are not superstitious!’ he hissed. + </p> + <p> + ‘Not at all,’ I smiled. + </p> + <p> + ‘Soames!’ he said as to an underling, but without turning his face, ‘put + those knives straight!’ + </p> + <p> + With an inhibitive gesture to my friend, ‘Mr. Soames,’ I said emphatically + to the Devil, ‘is a CATHOLIC Diabolist’; but my poor friend did the + Devil’s bidding, not mine; and now, with his master’s eyes again fixed on + him, he arose, he shuffled past me. I tried to speak. It was he that + spoke. ‘Try,’ was the prayer he threw back at me as the Devil pushed him + roughly out through the door, ‘TRY to make them know that I did exist!’ + </p> + <p> + In another instant I too was through that door. I stood staring all ways—up + the street, across it, down it. There was moonlight and lamplight, but + there was not Soames nor that other. + </p> + <p> + Dazed, I stood there. Dazed, I turned back, at length, into the little + room; and I suppose I paid Berthe or Rose for my dinner and luncheon, and + for Soames’: I hope so, for I never went to the Vingtieme again. Ever + since that night I have avoided Greek Street altogether. And for years I + did not set foot even in Soho Square, because on that same night it was + there that I paced and loitered, long and long, with some such dull sense + of hope as a man has in not straying far from the place where he has lost + something.... ‘Round and round the shutter’d Square’—that line came + back to me on my lonely beat, and with it the whole stanza, ringing in my + brain and bearing in on me how tragically different from the happy scene + imagined by him was the poet’s actual experience of that prince in whom of + all princes we should put not our trust. + </p> + <p> + But—strange how the mind of an essayist, be it never so stricken, + roves and ranges!—I remember pausing before a wide doorstep and + wondering if perchance it was on this very one that the young De Quincey + lay ill and faint while poor Ann flew as fast as her feet would carry her + to Oxford Street, the ‘stony-hearted stepmother’ of them both, and came + back bearing that ‘glass of port wine and spices’ but for which he might, + so he thought, actually have died. Was this the very doorstep that the old + De Quincey used to revisit in homage? I pondered Ann’s fate, the cause of + her sudden vanishing from the ken of her boy-friend; and presently I + blamed myself for letting the past over-ride the present. Poor vanished + Soames! + </p> + <p> + And for myself, too, I began to be troubled. What had I better do? Would + there be a hue and cry—Mysterious Disappearance of an Author, and + all that? He had last been seen lunching and dining in my company. Hadn’t + I better get a hansom and drive straight to Scotland Yard?... They would + think I was a lunatic. After all, I reassured myself, London was a very + large place, and one very dim figure might easily drop out of it + unobserved—now especially, in the blinding glare of the near + Jubilee. Better say nothing at all, I thought. + </p> + <p> + And I was right. Soames’ disappearance made no stir at all. He was utterly + forgotten before any one, so far as I am aware, noticed that he was no + longer hanging around. Now and again some poet or prosaist may have said + to another, ‘What has become of that man Soames?’ but I never heard any + such question asked. The solicitor through whom he was paid his annuity + may be presumed to have made inquiries, but no echo of these resounded. + There was something rather ghastly to me in the general unconsciousness + that Soames had existed, and more than once I caught myself wondering + whether Nupton, that babe unborn, were going to be right in thinking him a + figment of my brain. + </p> + <p> + In that extract from Nupton’s repulsive book there is one point which + perhaps puzzles you. How is it that the author, though I have here + mentioned him by name and have quoted the exact words he is going to + write, is not going to grasp the obvious corollary that I have invented + nothing? The answer can be only this: Nupton will not have read the later + passages of this memoir. Such lack of thoroughness is a serious fault in + any one who undertakes to do scholar’s work. And I hope these words will + meet the eye of some contemporary rival to Nupton and be the undoing of + Nupton. + </p> + <p> + I like to think that some time between 1992 and 1997 somebody will have + looked up this memoir, and will have forced on the world his inevitable + and startling conclusions. And I have reasons for believing that this will + be so. You realise that the reading-room into which Soames was projected + by the Devil was in all respects precisely as it will be on the afternoon + of June 3, 1997. You realise, therefore, that on that afternoon, when it + comes round, there the self-same crowd will be, and there Soames too will + be, punctually, he and they doing precisely what they did before. Recall + now Soames’ account of the sensation he made. You may say that the mere + difference of his costume was enough to make him sensational in that + uniformed crowd. You wouldn’t say so if you had ever seen him. I assure + you that in no period could Soames be anything but dim. The fact that + people are going to stare at him, and follow him around, and seem afraid + of him, can be explained only on the hypothesis that they will somehow + have been prepared for his ghostly visitation. They will have been awfully + waiting to see whether he really would come. And when he does come the + effect will of course be—awful. + </p> + <p> + An authentic, guaranteed, proven ghost, but—only a ghost, alas! Only + that. In his first visit, Soames was a creature of flesh and blood, + whereas the creatures into whose midst he was projected were but ghosts, I + take it—solid, palpable, vocal, but unconscious and automatic + ghosts, in a building that was itself an illusion. Next time, that + building and those creatures will be real. It is of Soames that there will + be but the semblance. I wish I could think him destined to revisit the + world actually, physically, consciously. I wish he had this one brief + escape, this one small treat, to look forward to. I never forget him for + long. He is where he is, and forever. The more rigid moralists among you + may say he has only himself to blame. For my part, I think he has been + very hardly used. It is well that vanity should be chastened; and Enoch + Soames’ vanity was, I admit, above the average, and called for special + treatment. But there was no need for vindictiveness. You say he contracted + to pay the price he is paying; yes; but I maintain that he was induced to + do so by fraud. Well-informed in all things, the Devil must have known + that my friend would gain nothing by his visit to futurity. The whole + thing was a very shabby trick. The more I think of it, the more detestable + the Devil seems to me. + </p> + <p> + Of him I have caught sight several times, here and there, since that day + at the Vingtieme. Only once, however, have I seen him at close quarters. + This was in Paris. I was walking, one afternoon, along the Rue d’Antin, + when I saw him advancing from the opposite direction—over-dressed as + ever, and swinging an ebony cane, and altogether behaving as though the + whole pavement belonged to him. At thought of Enoch Soames and the myriads + of other sufferers eternally in this brute’s dominion, a great cold wrath + filled me, and I drew myself up to my full height. But—well, one is + so used to nodding and smiling in the street to anybody whom one knows + that the action becomes almost independent of oneself: to prevent it + requires a very sharp effort and great presence of mind. I was miserably + aware, as I passed the Devil, that I nodded and smiled to him. And my + shame was the deeper and hotter because he, if you please, stared straight + at me with the utmost haughtiness. + </p> + <p> + To be cut—deliberately cut—by HIM! I was, I still am, furious + at having had that happen to me. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + HILARY MALTBY AND STEPHEN BRAXTON + </h2> + <p> + People still go on comparing Thackeray and Dickens, quite cheerfully. But + the fashion of comparing Maltby and Braxton went out so long ago as 1795. + No, I am wrong. But anything that happened in the bland old days before + the war does seem to be a hundred more years ago than actually it is. The + year I mean is the one in whose spring-time we all went bicycling (O + thrill!) in Battersea Park, and ladies wore sleeves that billowed + enormously out from their shoulders, and Lord Rosebery was Prime Minister. + </p> + <p> + In that Park, in that spring-time, in that sea of sleeves, there was + almost as much talk about the respective merits of Braxton and Maltby as + there was about those of Rudge and Humber. For the benefit of my younger + readers, and perhaps, so feeble is human memory, for the benefit of their + elders too, let me state that Rudge and Humber were rival makers of + bicycles, that Hilary Maltby was the author of ‘Ariel in Mayfair,’ and + Stephen Braxton of ‘A Faun on the Cotswolds.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Which do you think is REALLY the best—“Ariel” or “A Faun”?’ Ladies + were always asking one that question. ‘Oh, well, you know, the two are so + different. It’s really very hard to compare them.’ One was always giving + that answer. One was not very brilliant perhaps. + </p> + <p> + The vogue of the two novels lasted throughout the summer. As both were + ‘firstlings,’ and Great Britain had therefore nothing else of Braxton’s or + Maltby’s to fall back on, the horizon was much scanned for what Maltby, + and what Braxton, would give us next. In the autumn Braxton gave us his + secondling. It was an instantaneous failure. No more was he compared with + Maltby. In the spring of ‘96 came Maltby’s secondling. Its failure was + instantaneous. Maltby might once more have been compared with Braxton. But + Braxton was now forgotten. So was Maltby. + </p> + <p> + This was not kind. This was not just. Maltby’s first novel, and Braxton’s, + had brought delight into many thousands of homes. People should have + paused to say of Braxton “Perhaps his third novel will be better than his + second,” and to say as much for Maltby. I blame people for having given no + sign of wanting a third from either; and I blame them with the more zest + because neither ‘A Faun on the Cotswolds’ nor ‘Ariel in Mayfair’ was a + merely popular book: each, I maintain, was a good book. I don’t go so far + as to say that the one had ‘more of natural magic, more of British + woodland glamour, more of the sheer joy of life in it than anything since + “As You Like It,”’ though Higsby went so far as this in the Daily + Chronicle; nor can I allow the claim made for the other by Grigsby in the + Globe that ‘for pungency of satire there has been nothing like it since + Swift laid down his pen, and for sheer sweetness and tenderness of feeling—ex + forti dulcedo—nothing to be mentioned in the same breath with it + since the lute fell from the tired hand of Theocritus.’ These were foolish + exaggerations. But one must not condemn a thing because it has been + over-praised. Maltby’s ‘Ariel’ was a delicate, brilliant work; and + Braxton’s ‘Faun,’ crude though it was in many ways, had yet a genuine + power and beauty. This is not a mere impression remembered from early + youth. It is the reasoned and seasoned judgment of middle age. Both books + have been out of print for many years; but I secured a second-hand copy of + each not long ago, and found them well worth reading again. + </p> + <p> + From the time of Nathaniel Hawthorne to the outbreak of the war, current + literature did not suffer from any lack of fauns. But when Braxton’s first + book appeared fauns had still an air of novelty about them. We had not yet + tired of them and their hoofs and their slanting eyes and their way of + coming suddenly out of woods to wean quiet English villages from + respectability. We did tire later. But Braxton’s faun, even now, seems to + me an admirable specimen of his class—wild and weird, earthy, + goat-like, almost convincing. And I find myself convinced altogether by + Braxton’s rustics. I admit that I do not know much about rustics, except + from novels. But I plead that the little I do know about them by personal + observation does not confirm much of what the many novelists have taught + me. I plead also that Braxton may well have been right about the rustics + of Gloucestershire because he was (as so many interviewers recorded of him + in his brief heyday) the son of a yeoman farmer at Far Oakridge, and his + boyhood had been divided between that village and the Grammar School at + Stroud. Not long ago I happened to be staying in the neighbourhood, and + came across several villagers who might, I assure you, have stepped + straight out of Braxton’s pages. For that matter, Braxton himself, whom I + met often in the spring of ‘95, might have stepped straight out of his own + pages. + </p> + <p> + I am guilty of having wished he would step straight back into them. He was + a very surly fellow, very rugged and gruff. He was the antithesis of + pleasant little Maltby. I used to think that perhaps he would have been + less unamiable if success had come to him earlier. He was thirty years old + when his book was published, and had had a very hard time since coming to + London at the age of sixteen. Little Maltby was a year older, and so had + waited a year longer; but then, he had waited under a comfortable roof at + Twickenham, emerging into the metropolis for no grimmer purpose than to + sit and watch the fashionable riders and walkers in Rotten Row, and then + going home to write a little, or to play lawn-tennis with the young ladies + of Twickenham. He had been the only child of his parents (neither of whom, + alas, survived to take pleasure in their darling’s sudden fame). He had + now migrated from Twickenham and taken rooms in Ryder Street. Had he ever + shared with Braxton the bread of adversity—but no, I think he would + in any case have been pleasant. And conversely I cannot imagine that + Braxton would in any case have been so. + </p> + <p> + No one seeing the two rivals together, no one meeting them at Mr. + Hookworth’s famous luncheon parties in the Authors’ Club, or at Mrs. + Foster-Dugdale’s not less famous garden parties in Greville Place, would + have supposed off-hand that the pair had a single point in common. Dapper + little Maltby—blond, bland, diminutive Maltby, with his monocle and + his gardenia; big black Braxton, with his lanky hair and his square blue + jaw and his square sallow forehead. Canary and crow. Maltby had a + perpetual chirrup of amusing small-talk. Braxton was usually silent, but + very well worth listening to whenever he did croak. He had distinction, I + admit it; the distinction of one who steadfastly refuses to adapt himself + to surroundings. He stood out. He awed Mr. Hookworth. Ladies were always + asking one another, rather intently, what they thought of him. One could + imagine that Mr. Foster-Dugdale, had he come home from the City to attend + the garden parties, might have regarded him as one from whom Mrs. + Foster-Dugdale should be shielded. But the casual observer of Braxton and + Maltby at Mrs. Foster-Dugdale’s or elsewhere was wrong in supposing that + the two were totally unlike. He overlooked one simple and obvious point. + This was that he had met them both at Mrs. Foster-Dugdale’s or elsewhere. + Wherever they were invited, there certainly, there punctually, they would + be. They were both of them gluttons for the fruits and signs of their + success. + </p> + <p> + Interviewers and photographers had as little reason as had hostesses to + complain of two men so earnestly and assiduously ‘on the make’ as Maltby + and Braxton. Maltby, for all his sparkle, was earnest; Braxton, for all + his arrogance, assiduous. + </p> + <p> + ‘A Faun on the Cotswolds’ had no more eager eulogist than the author of + ‘Ariel in Mayfair.’ When any one praised his work, Maltby would lightly + disparage it in comparison with Braxton’s—‘Ah, if I could write like + THAT!’ Maltby won golden opinions in this way. Braxton, on the other hand, + would let slip no opportunity for sneering at Maltby’s work—‘gimcrack,’ + as he called it. This was not good for Maltby. Different men, different + methods. + </p> + <p> + ‘The Rape of the Lock’ was ‘gimcrack,’ if you care to call it so; but it + was a delicate, brilliant work; and so, I repeat, was Maltby’s ‘Ariel.’ + Absurd to compare Maltby with Pope? I am not so sure. I have read ‘Ariel,’ + but have never read ‘The Rape of the Lock.’ Braxton’s opprobrious term for + ‘Ariel’ may not, however, have been due to jealousy alone. Braxton had + imagination, and his rival did not soar above fancy. But the point is that + Maltby’s fancifulness went far and well. In telling how Ariel re-embodied + himself from thin air, leased a small house in Chesterfield Street, was + presented at a Levee, played the part of good fairy in a matter of true + love not running smooth, and worked meanwhile all manner of amusing + changes among the aristocracy before he vanished again, Maltby showed a + very pretty range of ingenuity. In one respect, his work was a more + surprising achievement than Braxton’s. For whereas Braxton had been born + and bred among his rustics, Maltby knew his aristocrats only through + Thackeray, through the photographs and paragraphs in the newspapers, and + through those passionate excursions of his to Rotten Row. Yet I found his + aristocrats as convincing as Braxton’s rustics. It is true that I may have + been convinced wrongly. That is a point which I could settle only by + experience. I shift my ground, claiming for Maltby’s aristocrats just + this: that they pleased me very much. + </p> + <p> + Aristocrats, when they are presented solely through a novelist’s sense of + beauty, do not satisfy us. They may be as beautiful as all that, but, for + fear of thinking ourselves snobbish, we won’t believe it. We do believe + it, however, and revel in it, when the novelist saves his face and ours by + a pervading irony in the treatment of what he loves. The irony must, mark + you, be pervading and obvious. Disraeli’s great ladies and lords won’t do, + for his irony was but latent in his homage, and thus the reader feels + himself called on to worship and in duty bound to scoff. All’s well, + though, when the homage is latent in the irony. Thackeray, inviting us to + laugh and frown over the follies of Mayfair, enables us to reel with him + in a secret orgy of veneration for those fools. + </p> + <p> + Maltby, too, in his measure, enabled us to reel thus. That is mainly why, + before the end of April, his publisher was in a position to state that + ‘the Seventh Large Impression of “Ariel in Mayfair” is almost exhausted.’ + Let it be put to our credit, however, that at the same moment Braxton’s + publisher had ‘the honour to inform the public that an Eighth Large + Impression of “A Faun on the Cotswolds” is in instant preparation.’ + </p> + <p> + Indeed, it seemed impossible for either author to outvie the other in + success and glory. Week in, week out, you saw cancelled either’s every + momentary advantage. A neck-and-neck race. As thus:—Maltby appears + as a Celebrity At Home in the World (Tuesday). Ha! No, Vanity Fair + (Wednesday) has a perfect presentment of Braxton by ‘Spy.’ Neck-and-neck! + No, Vanity Fair says ‘the subject of next week’s cartoon will be Mr. + Hilary Maltby.’ Maltby wins! No, next week Braxton’s in the World. + </p> + <p> + Throughout May I kept, as it were, my eyes glued to my field-glasses. On + the first Monday in June I saw that which drew from me a hoarse + ejaculation. + </p> + <p> + Let me explain that always on Monday mornings at this time of year, when I + opened my daily paper, I looked with respectful interest to see what bevy + of the great world had been entertained since Saturday at Keeb Hall. The + list was always august and inspiring. Statecraft and Diplomacy were well + threaded there with mere Lineage and mere Beauty, with Royalty sometimes, + with mere Wealth never, with privileged Genius now and then. A noble + composition always. It was said that the Duke of Hertfordshire cared for + nothing but his collection of birds’ eggs, and that the collections of + guests at Keeb were formed entirely by his young Duchess. It was said that + he had climbed trees in every corner of every continent. The Duchess’ + hobby was easier. She sat aloft and beckoned desirable specimens up. + </p> + <p> + The list published on that first Monday in June began ordinarily enough, + began with the Austro-Hungarian Ambassador and the Portuguese Minister. + Then came the Duke and Duchess of Mull, followed by four lesser Peers (two + of them Proconsuls, however) with their Peeresses, three Peers without + their Peeresses, four Peeresses without their Peers, and a dozen bearers + of courtesy-titles with or without their wives or husbands. The rear was + brought up by ‘Mr. A. J. Balfour, Mr. Henry Chaplin, and Mr. Hilary + Maltby.’ + </p> + <p> + Youth tends to look at the darker side of things. I confess that my first + thought was for Braxton. + </p> + <p> + I forgave and forgot his faults of manner. Youth is generous. It does not + criticise a strong man stricken. + </p> + <p> + And anon, so habituated was I to the parity of those two strivers, I + conceived that there might be some mistake. Daily newspapers are printed + in a hurry. Might not ‘Henry Chaplin’ be a typographical error for + ‘Stephen Braxton’? I went out and bought another newspaper. But Mr. + Chaplin’s name was in that too. + </p> + <p> + ‘Patience!’ I said to myself. ‘Braxton crouches only to spring. He will be + at Keeb Hall on Saturday next.’ + </p> + <p> + My mind was free now to dwell with pleasure on Maltby’s great achievement. + I thought of writing to congratulate him, but feared this might be in bad + taste. I did, however, write asking him to lunch with me. He did not + answer my letter. I was, therefore, all the more sorry, next Monday, at + not finding ‘and Mr. Stephen Braxton’ in Keeb’s week-end catalogue. + </p> + <p> + A few days later I met Mr. Hookworth. He mentioned that Stephen Braxton + had left town. ‘He has taken,’ said Hookworth, ‘a delightful bungalow on + the east coast. He has gone there to WORK.’ He added that he had a great + liking for Braxton—‘a man utterly UNSPOILT.’ I inferred that he, + too, had written to Maltby and received no answer. + </p> + <p> + That butterfly did not, however, appear to be hovering from flower to + flower in the parterres of rank and fashion. In the daily lists of guests + at dinners, receptions, dances, balls, the name of Maltby figured never. + Maltby had not caught on. + </p> + <p> + Presently I heard that he, too, had left town. I gathered that he had gone + quite early in June—quite soon after Keeb. Nobody seemed to know + where he was. My own theory was that he had taken a delightful bungalow on + the west coast, to balance Braxton. Anyhow, the parity of the two strivers + was now somewhat re-established. + </p> + <p> + In point of fact, the disparity had been less than I supposed. While + Maltby was at Keeb, there Braxton was also—in a sense.... It was a + strange story. I did not hear it at the time. Nobody did. I heard it + seventeen years later. I heard it in Lucca. + </p> + <p> + Little Lucca I found so enchanting that, though I had only a day or two to + spare, I stayed there a whole month. I formed the habit of walking, every + morning, round that high-pitched path which girdles Lucca, that wide and + tree-shaded path from which one looks down over the city wall at the + fertile plains beneath Lucca. There were never many people there; but the + few who did come came daily, so that I grew to like seeing them and took a + mild personal interest in them. + </p> + <p> + One of them was an old lady in a wheeled chair. She was not less than + seventy years old, and might or might not have once been beautiful. Her + chair was slowly propelled by an Italian woman. She herself was obviously + Italian. Not so, however, the little gentleman who walked assiduously + beside her. Him I guessed to be English. He was a very stout little + gentleman, with gleaming spectacles and a full blond beard, and he seemed + to radiate cheerfulness. I thought at first that he might be the old + lady’s resident physician; but no, there was something subtly + un-professional about him: I became sure that his constancy was + gratuitous, and his radiance real. And one day, I know not how, there + dawned on me a suspicion that he was—who?—some one I had known—some + writer—what’s-his-name—something with an M—Maltby—Hilary + Maltby of the long-ago! + </p> + <p> + At sight of him on the morrow this suspicion hardened almost to certainty. + I wished I could meet him alone and ask him if I were not right, and what + he had been doing all these years, and why he had left England. He was + always with the old lady. It was only on my last day in Lucca that my + chance came. + </p> + <p> + I had just lunched, and was seated on a comfortable bench outside my + hotel, with a cup of coffee on the table before me, gazing across the + faded old sunny piazza and wondering what to do with my last afternoon. It + was then that I espied yonder the back of the putative Maltby. I hastened + forth to him. He was buying some pink roses, a great bunch of them, from a + market-woman under an umbrella. He looked very blank, he flushed greatly, + when I ventured to accost him. He admitted that his name was Hilary + Maltby. I told him my own name, and by degrees he remembered me. He + apologised for his confusion. He explained that he had not talked English, + had not talked to an Englishman, ‘for—oh, hundreds of years.’ He + said that he had, in the course of his long residence in Lucca, seen two + or three people whom he had known in England, but that none of them had + recognised him. He accepted (but as though he were embarking on the oddest + adventure in the world) my invitation that he should come and sit down and + take coffee with me. He laughed with pleasure and surprise at finding that + he could still speak his native tongue quite fluently and idiomatically. + ‘I know absolutely nothing,’ he said, ‘about England nowadays—except + from stray references to it in the Corriere della Sera; nor did he show + the faintest desire that I should enlighten him. ‘England,’ he mused, ‘—how + it all comes back to me!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But not you to it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Ah, no indeed,’ he said gravely, looking at the roses which he had laid + carefully on the marble table. ‘I am the happiest of men.’ + </p> + <p> + He sipped his coffee, and stared out across the piazza, out beyond it into + the past. + </p> + <p> + ‘I am the happiest of men,’ he repeated. I plied him with the spur of + silence. + </p> + <p> + ‘And I owe it all to having once yielded to a bad impulse. Absurd, the + threads our destinies hang on!’ + </p> + <p> + Again I plied him with that spur. As it seemed not to prick him, I + repeated the words he had last spoken. ‘For instance?’ I added. + </p> + <p> + ‘Take,’ he said, ‘a certain evening in the spring of ‘95. If, on that + evening, the Duchess of Hertfordshire had had a bad cold; or if she had + decided that it WOULDN’T be rather interesting to go on to that party—that + Annual Soiree, I think it was—of the Inkwomen’s Club; or again—to + go a step further back—if she hadn’t ever written that one little + poem, and if it HADN’T been printed in “The Gentlewoman,” and if the + Inkwomen’s committee HADN’T instantly and unanimously elected her an + Honorary Vice-President because of that one little poem; or if—well, + if a million-and-one utterly irrelevant things hadn’t happened, + don’t-you-know, I shouldn’t be here.... I might be THERE,’ he smiled, with + a vague gesture indicating England. + </p> + <p> + ‘Suppose,’ he went on, ‘I hadn’t been invited to that Annual Soiree; or + suppose that other fellow,— + </p> + <p> + ‘Braxton?’ I suggested. I had remembered Braxton at the moment of + recognising Maltby. + </p> + <p> + ‘Suppose HE hadn’t been asked.... But of course we both were. It happened + that I was the first to be presented to the Duchess.... It was a great + moment. I hoped I should keep my head. She wore a tiara. I had often seen + women in tiaras, at the Opera. But I had never talked to a woman in a + tiara. Tiaras were symbols to me. Eyes are just a human feature. I fixed + mine on the Duchess’s. I kept my head by not looking at hers. I behaved as + one human being to another. She seemed very intelligent. We got on very + well. Presently she asked whether I should think her VERY bold if she said + how PERFECTLY divine she thought my book. I said something about doing my + best, and asked with animation whether she had read “A Faun on the + Cotswolds.” She had. She said it was TOO wonderful, she said it was TOO + great. If she hadn’t been a Duchess, I might have thought her slightly + hysterical. Her innate good-sense quickly reasserted itself. She used her + great power. With a wave of her magic wand she turned into a fact the + glittering possibility that had haunted me. She asked me down to Keeb. + </p> + <p> + ‘She seemed very pleased that I would come. Was I, by any chance, free on + Saturday week? She hoped there would be some amusing people to meet me. + Could I come by the 3.30? It was only an hour-and-a-quarter from Victoria. + On Saturday there were always compartments reserved for people coming to + Keeb by the 3.30. She hoped I would bring my bicycle with me. She hoped I + wouldn’t find it very dull. She hoped I wouldn’t forget to come. She said + how lovely it must be to spend one’s life among clever people. She + supposed I knew everybody here to-night. She asked me to tell her who + everybody was. She asked who was the tall, dark man, over there. I told + her it was Stephen Braxton. She said they had promised to introduce her to + him. She added that he looked rather wonderful. “Oh, he is, very,” I + assured her. She turned to me with a sudden appeal: “DO you think, if I + took my courage in both hands and asked him, he’d care to come to Keeb?” + </p> + <p> + ‘I hesitated. It would be easy to say that Satan answered FOR me; easy but + untrue; it was I that babbled: “Well—as a matter of fact—since + you ask me—if I were you—really I think you’d better not. He’s + very odd in some ways. He has an extraordinary hatred of sleeping out of + London. He has the real Gloucestershire LOVE of London. At the same time, + he’s very shy; and if you asked him he wouldn’t very well know how to + refuse. I think it would be KINDER not to ask him.” + </p> + <p> + ‘At that moment, Mrs. Wilpham—the President—loomed up to us, + bringing Braxton. He bore himself well. Rough dignity with a touch of + mellowness. I daresay you never saw him smile. He smiled gravely down at + the Duchess, while she talked in her pretty little quick humble way. He + made a great impression. + </p> + <p> + ‘What I had done was not merely base: it was very dangerous. I was in + terror that she might rally him on his devotion to London. I didn’t dare + to move away. I was immensely relieved when at length she said she must be + going. + </p> + <p> + ‘Braxton seemed loth to relax his grip on her hand at parting. I feared + she wouldn’t escape without uttering that invitation. But all was well.... + In saying good night to me, she added in a murmur, “Don’t forget Keeb—Saturday + week—the 3.30.” Merely an exquisite murmur. But Braxton heard it. I + knew, by the diabolical look he gave me, that Braxton had heard it.... If + he hadn’t, I shouldn’t be here. + </p> + <p> + ‘Was I a prey to remorse? Well, in the days between that Soiree and that + Saturday, remorse often claimed me, but rapture wouldn’t give me up. + Arcady, Olympus, the right people, at last! I hadn’t realised how good my + book was—not till it got me this guerdon; not till I got it this + huge advertisement. I foresaw how pleased my publisher would be. In some + great houses, I knew, it was possible to stay without any one knowing you + had been there. But the Duchess of Hertfordshire hid her light under no + bushel. Exclusive she was, but not of publicity. Next to Windsor Castle, + Keeb Hall was the most advertised house in all England. + </p> + <p> + ‘Meanwhile, I had plenty to do. I rather thought of engaging a valet, but + decided that this wasn’t necessary. On the other hand, I felt a need for + three new summer suits, and a new evening suit, and some new white + waistcoats. Also a smoking suit. And had any man ever stayed at Keeb + without a dressing-case? Hitherto I had been content with a pair of wooden + brushes, and so forth. I was afraid these would appal the footman who + unpacked my things. I ordered, for his sake, a large dressing-case, with + my initials engraved throughout it. It looked compromisingly new when it + came to me from the shop. I had to kick it industriously, and throw it + about and scratch it, so as to avert possible suspicion. The tailor did + not send my things home till the Friday evening. I had to sit up late, + wearing the new suits in rotation. + </p> + <p> + ‘Next day, at Victoria, I saw strolling on the platform many people, male + and female, who looked as if they were going to Keeb—tall, cool, + ornate people who hadn’t packed their own things and had reached Victoria + in broughams. I was ornate, but not tall nor cool. My porter was rather + off-hand in his manner as he wheeled my things along to the 3.30. I asked + severely if there were any compartments reserved for people going to stay + with the Duke of Hertfordshire. This worked an instant change in him. + Having set me in one of those shrines, he seemed almost loth to accept a + tip. A snob, I am afraid. + </p> + <p> + ‘A selection of the tall, the cool, the ornate, the intimately acquainted + with one another, soon filled the compartment. There I was, and I think + they felt they ought to try to bring me into the conversation. As they + were all talking about a cotillion of the previous night, I shouldn’t have + been able to shine. I gazed out of the window, with middle-class + aloofness. Presently the talk drifted on to the topic of bicycles. But by + this time it was too late for me to come in. + </p> + <p> + ‘I gazed at the squalid outskirts of London as they flew by. I doubted, as + I listened to my fellow-passengers, whether I should be able to shine at + Keeb. I rather wished I were going to spend the week-end at one of those + little houses with back-gardens beneath the railway-line. I was filled + with fears. + </p> + <p> + ‘For shame! thought I. Was I nobody? Was the author of “Ariel in Mayfair” + nobody? + </p> + <p> + ‘I reminded myself how glad Braxton would be if he knew of my + faint-heartedness. I thought of Braxton sitting, at this moment, in his + room in Clifford’s Inn and glowering with envy of his hated rival in the + 3.30. And after all, how enviable I was! My spirits rose. I would acquit + myself well.... + </p> + <p> + ‘I much admired the scene at the little railway station where we alighted. + It was like a fete by Lancret. I knew from the talk of my + fellow-passengers that some people had been going down by an earlier + train, and that others were coming by a later. But the 3.30 had brought a + full score of us. Us! That was the final touch of beauty. + </p> + <p> + ‘Outside there were two broughams, a landau, dog-carts, a phaeton, a + wagonette, I know not what. But almost everybody, it seemed, was going to + bicycle. Lady Rodfitten said SHE was going to bicycle. Year after year, I + had seen that famous Countess riding or driving in the Park. I had been + told at fourth hand that she had a masculine intellect and could make and + unmake Ministries. She was nearly sixty now, a trifle dyed and stout and + weather-beaten, but still tremendously handsome, and hard as nails. One + would not have said she had grown older, but merely that she belonged now + to a rather later period of the Roman Empire. I had never dreamed of a + time when one roof would shelter Lady Rodfitten and me. Somehow, she + struck my imagination more than any of these others—more than Count + Deym, more than Mr. Balfour, more than the lovely Lady Thisbe Crowborough. + </p> + <p> + ‘I might have had a ducal vehicle all to myself, and should have liked + that; but it seemed more correct that I should use my bicycle. On the + other hand, I didn’t want to ride with all these people—a stranger + in their midst. I lingered around the luggage till they were off, and then + followed at a long distance. + </p> + <p> + ‘The sun had gone behind clouds. But I rode slowly, so as to be sure not + to arrive hot. I passed, not without a thrill, through the massive open + gates into the Duke’s park. A massive man with a cockade saluted me—hearteningly—from + the door of the lodge. The park seemed endless. I came, at length, to a + long straight avenue of elms that were almost blatantly immemorial. At the + end of it was—well, I felt like a gnat going to stay in a public + building. + </p> + <p> + ‘If there had been turnstiles—IN and OUT—and a shilling to + pay, I should have felt easier as I passed into that hall—that + Palladio-Gargantuan hall. Some one, some butler or groom-of-the-chamber, + murmured that her Grace was in the garden. I passed out through the great + opposite doorway on to a wide spectacular terrace with lawns beyond. Tea + was on the nearest of these lawns. In the central group of people—some + standing, others sitting—I espied the Duchess. She sat pouring out + tea, a deft and animated little figure. I advanced firmly down the steps + from the terrace, feeling that all would be well so soon as I had reported + myself to the Duchess. + </p> + <p> + ‘But I had a staggering surprise on my way to her. I espied in one of the + smaller groups—whom d’you think? Braxton. + </p> + <p> + ‘I had no time to wonder how he had got there—time merely to grasp + the black fact that he WAS there. + </p> + <p> + ‘The Duchess seemed really pleased to see me. She said it was TOO splendid + of me to come. “You know Mr. Maltby?” she asked Lady Rodfitten, who + exclaimed “Not Mr. HILARY Maltby?” with a vigorous grace that was + overwhelming. Lady Rodfitten declared she was the greatest of my admirers; + and I could well believe that in whatever she did she excelled all + competitors. On the other hand, I found it hard to believe she was afraid + of me. Yet I had her word for it that she was. + </p> + <p> + ‘Her womanly charm gave place now to her masculine grip. She eulogised me + in the language of a seasoned reviewer on the staff of a long-established + journal—wordy perhaps, but sound. I revered and loved her. I wished + I could give her my undivided attention. But, whilst I sat there, teacup, + in hand, between her and the Duchess, part of my brain was fearfully + concerned with that glimpse I had had of Braxton. It didn’t so much matter + that he was here to halve my triumph. But suppose he knew what I had told + the Duchess! And suppose he had—no, surely if he HAD shown me up in + all my meanness she wouldn’t have received me so very cordially. I + wondered where she could have met him since that evening of the Inkwomen. + I heard Lady Rodfitten concluding her review of “Ariel” with two or three + sentences that might have been framed specially to give the publisher an + easy “quote.” And then I heard myself asking mechanically whether she had + read “A Faun on the Cotswolds.” The Duchess heard me too. She turned from + talking to other people and said “I did like Mr. Braxton so VERY much.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“Yes,” I threw out with a sickly smile, “I’m so glad you asked him to + come.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“But I didn’t ask him. I didn’t DARE.” + </p> + <p> + ‘“But—but—surely he wouldn’t be—be HERE if—” We + stared at each other blankly. “Here?” she echoed, glancing at the + scattered little groups of people on the lawn. I glanced too. I was much + embarrassed. I explained that I had seen Braxton “standing just over + there” when I arrived, and had supposed he was one of the people who came + by the earlier train. “Well,” she said with a slightly irritated laugh, + “you must have mistaken some one else for him.” She dropped the subject, + talked to other people, and presently moved away. + </p> + <p> + ‘Surely, thought I, she didn’t suspect me of trying to make fun of her? On + the other hand, surely she hadn’t conspired with Braxton to make a fool of + ME? And yet, how could Braxton be here without an invitation, and without + her knowledge? My brain whirled. One thing only was clear. I could NOT + have mistaken anybody for Braxton. There Braxton had stood—Stephen + Braxton, in that old pepper-and-salt suit of his, with his red tie all + askew, and without a hat—his hair hanging over his forehead. All + this I had seen sharp and clean-cut. There he had stood, just beside one + of the women who travelled down in the same compartment as I; a very + pretty woman in a pale blue dress; a tall woman—but I had noticed + how small she looked beside Braxton. This woman was now walking to and + fro, yonder, with M. de Soveral. I had seen Braxton beside her as clearly + as I now saw M. de Soveral. + </p> + <p> + ‘Lady Rodfitten was talking about India to a recent Viceroy. She seemed to + have as firm a grip of India as of “Ariel.” I sat forgotten. I wanted to + arise and wander off—in a vague search for Braxton. But I feared + this might look as if I were angry at being ignored. Presently Lady + Rodfitten herself arose, to have what she called her “annual look round.” + She bade me come too, and strode off between me and the recent Viceroy, + noting improvements that had been made in the grounds, suggesting + improvements that might be made, indicating improvements that MUST be + made. She was great on landscape-gardening. The recent Viceroy was less + great on it, but great enough. I don’t say I walked forgotten: the eminent + woman constantly asked my opinion; but my opinion, though of course it + always coincided with hers, sounded quite worthless, somehow. I longed to + shine. I could only bother about Braxton. + </p> + <p> + ‘Lady Rodfitten’s voice sounded over-strong for the stillness of evening. + The shadows lengthened. My spirits sank lower and lower, with the sun. I + was a naturally cheerful person, but always, towards sunset, I had a vague + sense of melancholy: I seemed always to have grown weaker; morbid + misgivings would come to me. On this particular evening there was one such + misgiving that crept in and out of me again and again... a very horrible + misgiving as to the NATURE of what I had seen. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, dressing for dinner is a great tonic. Especially if one shaves. My + spirits rose as I lathered my face. I smiled to my reflection in the + mirror. The afterglow of the sun came through the window behind the + dressing-table, but I had switched on all the lights. My new silver-topped + bottles and things made a fine array. To-night <i>I</i> was going to + shine, too. I felt I might yet be the life and soul of the party. Anyway, + my new evening suit was without a fault. And meanwhile this new razor was + perfect. Having shaved “down,” I lathered myself again and proceeded to + shave “up.” It was then that I uttered a sharp sound and swung round on my + heel. + </p> + <p> + ‘No one was there. Yet this I knew: Stephen Braxton had just looked over + my shoulder. I had seen the reflection of his face beside mine—craned + forward to the mirror. I had met his eyes. + </p> + <p> + ‘He had been with me. This I knew. + </p> + <p> + ‘I turned to look again at that mirror. One of my cheeks was all covered + with blood. I stanched it with a towel. Three long cuts where the razor + had slipped and skipped. I plunged the towel into cold water and held it + to my cheek. The bleeding went on—alarmingly. I rang the bell. No + one came. I vowed I wouldn’t bleed to death for Braxton. I rang again. At + last a very tall powdered footman appeared—more reproachful-looking + than sympathetic, as though I hadn’t ordered that dressing-case specially + on his behalf. He said he thought one of the housemaids would have some + sticking-plaster. He was very sorry he was needed downstairs, but he would + tell one of the housemaids. I continued to dab and to curse. The blood + flowed less. I showed great spirit. I vowed Braxton should not prevent me + from going down to dinner. + </p> + <p> + ‘But—a pretty sight I was when I did go down. Pale but determined, + with three long strips of black sticking-plaster forming a sort of Z on my + left cheek. Mr. Hilary Maltby at Keeb. Literature’s Ambassador. + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t know how late I was. Dinner was in full swing. Some servant + piloted me to my place. I sat down unobserved. The woman on either side of + me was talking to her other neighbour. I was near the Duchess’ end of the + table. Soup was served to me—that dark-red soup that you pour cream + into—Bortsch. I felt it would steady me. I raised the first spoonful + to my lips, and—my hand gave a sudden jerk. + </p> + <p> + ‘I was aware of two separate horrors—a horror that had been, a + horror that was. Braxton had vanished. Not for more than an instant had he + stood scowling at me from behind the opposite diners. Not for more than + the fraction of an instant. But he had left his mark on me. I gazed down + with a frozen stare at my shirtfront, at my white waistcoat, both dark + with Bortsch. I rubbed them with a napkin. I made them worse. + </p> + <p> + ‘I looked at my glass of champagne. I raised it carefully and drained it + at one draught. It nerved me. But behind that shirtfront was a broken + heart. + </p> + <p> + ‘The woman on my left was Lady Thisbe Crowborough. I don’t know who was + the woman on my right. She was the first to turn and see me. I thought it + best to say something about my shirtfront at once. I said it to her + sideways, without showing my left cheek. Her handsome eyes rested on the + splashes. She said, after a moment’s thought, that they looked “rather + gay.” She said she thought the eternal black and white of men’s evening + clothes was “so very dreary.” She did her best.... Lady Thisbe Crowborough + did her best, too, I suppose; but breeding isn’t proof against all + possible shocks: she visibly started at sight of me and my Z. I explained + that I had cut myself shaving. I said, with an attempt at lightness, that + shy men ought always to cut themselves shaving: it made such a good + conversational opening. “But surely,” she said after a pause, “you don’t + cut yourself on purpose?” She was an abysmal fool. I didn’t think so at + the time. She was Lady Thisbe Crowborough. This fact hallowed her. That we + didn’t get on at all well was a misfortune for which I blamed only myself + and my repulsive appearance and—the unforgettable horror that + distracted me. Nor did I blame Lady Thisbe for turning rather soon to the + man on her other side. + </p> + <p> + ‘The woman on my right was talking to the man on HER other side; so that I + was left a prey to secret memory and dread. I wasn’t wondering, wasn’t + attempting to explain; I was merely remembering—and dreading. And—how + odd one is!—on the top-layer of my consciousness I hated to be seen + talking to no one. Mr. Maltby at Keeb. I caught the Duchess’ eye once or + twice, and she nodded encouragingly, as who should say “You do look rather + awful, and you do seem rather out of it, but I don’t for a moment regret + having asked you to come.” Presently I had another chance of talking. I + heard myself talk. My feverish anxiety to please rather touched ME. But I + noticed that the eyes of my listener wandered. And yet I was sorry when + the ladies went away. I had a sense of greater exposure. Men who hadn’t + seen me saw me now. The Duke, as he came round to the Duchess’ end of the + table, must have wondered who I was. But he shyly offered me his hand as + he passed, and said it was so good of me to come. I had thought of + slipping away to put on another shirt and waistcoat, but had decided that + this would make me the more ridiculous. I sat drinking port—poison + to me after champagne, but a lulling poison—and listened to noblemen + with unstained shirtfronts talking about the Australian cricket match.... + </p> + <p> + ‘Is Rubicon Bezique still played in England? There was a mania for it at + that time. The floor of Keeb’s Palladio-Gargantuan hall was dotted with + innumerable little tables. I didn’t know how to play. My hostess told me I + must “come and amuse the dear old Duke and Duchess of Mull,” and led me to + a remote sofa on which an old gentleman had just sat down beside an old + lady. They looked at me with a dim kind interest. My hostess had set me + and left me on a small gilt chair in front of them. Before going she had + conveyed to them loudly—one of them was very deaf—that I was + “the famous writer.” It was a long time before they understood that I was + not a political writer. The Duke asked me, after a troubled pause, whether + I had known “old Mr. Abraham Hayward.” The Duchess said I was too young to + have known Mr. Hayward, and asked if I knew her “clever friend Mr. + Mallock.” I said I had just been reading Mr. Mallock’s new novel. I heard + myself shouting a confused precis of the plot. The place where we were + sitting was near the foot of the great marble staircase. I said how + beautiful the staircase was. The Duchess of Mull said she had never cared + very much for that staircase. The Duke, after a pause, said he had “often + heard old Mr. Abraham Hayward hold a whole dinner table.” There were long + and frequent pauses—between which I heard myself talking loudly, + frantically, sinking lower and lower in the esteem of my small audience. I + felt like a man drowning under the eyes of an elderly couple who sit on + the bank regretting that they can offer NO assistance. Presently the Duke + looked at his watch and said to the Duchess that it was “time to be + thinking of bed.” + </p> + <p> + ‘They rose, as it were from the bank, and left me, so to speak, under + water. I watched them as they passed slowly out of sight up the marble + staircase which I had mispraised. I turned and surveyed the brilliant, + silent scene presented by the card-players. + </p> + <p> + ‘I wondered what old Mr. Abraham Hayward would have done in my place. + Would he have just darted in among those tables and “held” them? I + presumed that he would not have stolen silently away, quickly and cravenly + away, up the marble staircase—as <i>I</i> did. + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t know which was the greater, the relief or the humiliation of + finding myself in my bedroom. Perhaps the humiliation was the greater. + There, on a chair, was my grand new smoking-suit, laid out for me—what + a mockery! Once I had foreseen myself wearing it in the smoking-room at a + late hour—the centre of a group of eminent men entranced by the + brilliancy of my conversation. And now—! I was nothing but a small, + dull, soup-stained, sticking-plastered, nerve-racked recluse. Nerves, yes. + I assured myself that I had not seen—what I had seemed to see. All + very odd, of course, and very unpleasant, but easily explained. Nerves. + Excitement of coming to Keeb too much for me. A good night’s rest: that + was all I needed. To-morrow I should laugh at myself. + </p> + <p> + ‘I wondered that I wasn’t tired physically. There my grand new silk + pyjamas were, yet I felt no desire to go to bed... none while it was still + possible for me to go. The little writing-table at the foot of my bed + seemed to invite me. I had brought with me in my portmanteau a sheaf of + letters, letters that I had purposely left unanswered in order that I + might answer them on KEEB HALL note-paper. These the footman had neatly + laid beside the blotting-pad on that little writing-table at the foot of + the bed. I regretted that the notepaper stacked there had no ducal coronet + on it. What matter? The address sufficed. If I hadn’t yet made a good + impression on the people who were staying here, I could at any rate make + one on the people who weren’t. I sat down. I set to work. I wrote a + prodigious number of fluent and graceful notes. + </p> + <p> + ‘Some of these were to strangers who wanted my autograph. I was always + delighted to send my autograph, and never perfunctory in the manner of + sending it.... “Dear Madam,” I remember writing to somebody that night, + “were it not that you make your request for it so charmingly, I should + hesitate to send you that which rarity alone can render valuable.—Yours + truly, Hilary Maltby.” I remember reading this over and wondering whether + the word “render” looked rather commercial. It was in the act of wondering + thus that I raised my eyes from the note-paper and saw, through the bars + of the brass bedstead, the naked sole of a large human foot—saw + beyond it the calf of a great leg; a nightshirt; and the face of Stephen + Braxton. I did not move. + </p> + <p> + ‘I thought of making a dash for the door, dashing out into the corridor, + shouting at the top of my voice for help. I sat quite still. + </p> + <p> + ‘What kept me to my chair was the fear that if I tried to reach the door + Braxton would spring off the bed to intercept me. If I sat quite still + perhaps he wouldn’t move. I felt that if he moved I should collapse + utterly. + </p> + <p> + ‘I watched him, and he watched me. He lay there with his body half-raised, + one elbow propped on the pillow, his jaw sunk on his breast; and from + under his black brows he watched me steadily. + </p> + <p> + ‘No question of mere nerves now. That hope was gone. No mere optical + delusion, this abiding presence. Here Braxton was. He and I were together + in the bright, silent room. How long would he be content to watch me? + </p> + <p> + ‘Eleven nights ago he had given me one horrible look. It was this look + that I had to meet, in infinite prolongation, now, not daring to shift my + eyes. He lay as motionless as I sat. I did not hear him breathing, but I + knew, by the rise and fall of his chest under his nightshirt, that he was + breathing heavily. Suddenly I started to my feet. For he had moved. He had + raised one hand slowly. He was stroking his chin. And as he did so, and as + he watched me, his mouth gradually slackened to a grin. It was worse, it + was more malign, this grin, than the scowl that remained with it; and its + immediate effect on me was an impulse that was as hard to resist as it was + hateful. The window was open. It was nearer to me than the door. I could + have reached it in time.... + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, I live to tell the tale. I stood my ground. And there dawned on me + now a new fact in regard to my companion. I had all the while been + conscious of something abnormal in his attitude—a lack of ease in + his gross possessiveness. I saw now the reason for this effect. The pillow + on which his elbow rested was still uniformly puffed and convex; like a + pillow untouched. His elbow rested but on the very surface of it, not + changing the shape of it at all. His body made not the least furrow along + the bed.... He had no weight. + </p> + <p> + ‘I knew that if I leaned forward and thrust my hand between those brass + rails, to clutch his foot, I should clutch—nothing. He wasn’t + tangible. He was realistic. He wasn’t real. He was opaque. He wasn’t + solid. + </p> + <p> + ‘Odd as it may seem to you, these certainties took the edge off my horror. + During that walk with Lady Rodfitten, I had been appalled by the doubt + that haunted me. But now the very confirmation of that doubt gave me a + sort of courage: I could cope better with anything to-night than with + actual Braxton. And the measure of the relief I felt is that I sat down + again on my chair. + </p> + <p> + ‘More than once there came to me a wild hope that the thing might be an + optical delusion, after all. Then would I shut my eyes tightly, shaking my + head sharply; but, when I looked again, there the presence was, of course. + It—he—not actual Braxton but, roughly speaking, Braxton—had + come to stay. I was conscious of intense fatigue, taut and alert though + every particle of me was; so that I became, in the course of that ghastly + night, conscious of a great envy also. For some time before the dawn came + in through the window, Braxton’s eyes had been closed; little by little + now his head drooped sideways, then fell on his forearm and rested there. + He was asleep. + </p> + <p> + ‘Cut off from sleep, I had a great longing for smoke. I had cigarettes on + me, I had matches on me. But I didn’t dare to strike a match. The sound + might have waked Braxton up. In slumber he was less terrible, though + perhaps more odious. I wasn’t so much afraid now as indignant. “It’s + intolerable,” I sat saying to myself, “utterly intolerable!” + </p> + <p> + ‘I had to bear it, nevertheless. I was aware that I had, in some degree, + brought it on myself. If I hadn’t interfered and lied, actual Braxton + would have been here at Keeb, and I at this moment sleeping soundly. But + this was no excuse for Braxton. Braxton didn’t know what I had done. He + was merely envious of me. And—wanly I puzzled it out in the dawn—by + very force of the envy, hatred, and malice in him he had projected hither + into my presence this simulacrum of himself. I had known that he would be + thinking of me. I had known that the thought of me at Keeb Hall would be + of the last bitterness to his most sacred feelings. But—I had + reckoned without the passionate force and intensity of the man’s nature. + </p> + <p> + ‘If by this same strength and intensity he had merely projected himself as + an invisible guest under the Duchess’ roof—if his feat had been + wholly, as perhaps it was in part, a feat of mere wistfulness and longing—then + I should have felt really sorry for him; and my conscience would have + soundly rated me in his behalf. But no; if the wretched creature HAD been + invisible to me, I shouldn’t have thought of Braxton at all—except + with gladness that he wasn’t here. That he was visible to me, and to me + alone, wasn’t any sign of proper remorse within me. It was but the gauge + of his incredible ill-will. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, it seemed to me that he was avenged—with a vengeance. There I + sat, hot-browed from sleeplessness, cold in the feet, stiff in the legs, + cowed and indignant all through—sat there in the broadening + daylight, and in that new evening suit of mine with the Braxtonised + shirtfront and waistcoat that by day were more than ever loathsome. + Literature’s Ambassador at Keeb.... I rose gingerly from my chair, and + caught sight of my face, of my Braxtonised cheek, in the mirror. I heard + the twittering of birds in distant trees. I saw through my window the + elaborate landscape of the Duke’s grounds, all soft in the grey bloom of + early morning. I think I was nearer to tears than I had ever been since I + was a child. But the weakness passed. I turned towards the personage on my + bed, and, summoning all such power as was in me, WILLED him to be gone. My + effort was not without result—an inadequate result. Braxton turned + in his sleep. + </p> + <p> + ‘I resumed my seat, and... and... sat up staring and blinking, at a tall + man with red hair. “I must have fallen asleep,” I said. “Yessir,” he + replied; and his toneless voice touched in me one or two springs of + memory: I was at Keeb; this was the footman who looked after me. But—why + wasn’t I in bed? Had I—no, surely it had been no nightmare. Surely I + had SEEN Braxton on that white bed. + </p> + <p> + ‘The footman was impassively putting away my smoking-suit. I was too dazed + to wonder what he thought of me. Nor did I attempt to stifle a cry when, a + moment later, turning in my chair, I beheld Braxton leaning moodily + against the mantelpiece. “Are you unwell sir?” asked the footman. “No,” I + said faintly, “I’m quite well.”—“Yessir. Will you wear the blue suit + or the grey?”—“The grey.”—“Yessir.”—It seemed almost + incredible that HE didn’t see Braxton; HE didn’t appear to me one whit + more solid than the night-shirted brute who stood against the mantelpiece + and watched him lay out my things.—“Shall I let your bath-water run + now sir?”—“Please, yes.”—“Your bathroom’s the second door to + the left sir.”—He went out with my bath-towel and sponge, leaving me + alone with Braxton. + </p> + <p> + ‘I rose to my feet, mustering once more all the strength that was in me. + Hoping against hope, with set teeth and clenched hands, I faced him, + thrust forth my will at him, with everything but words commanded him to + vanish—to cease to be. + </p> + <p> + ‘Suddenly, utterly, he vanished. And you can imagine the truly exquisite + sense of triumph that thrilled me and continued to thrill me till I went + into the bathroom and found him in my bath. + </p> + <p> + ‘Quivering with rage, I returned to my bedroom. “Intolerable,” I heard + myself repeating like a parrot that knew no other word. A bath was just + what I had needed. Could I have lain for a long time basking in very hot + water, and then have sponged myself with cold water, I should have emerged + calm and brave; comparatively so, at any rate. I should have looked less + ghastly, and have had less of a headache, and something of an appetite, + when I went down to breakfast. Also, I shouldn’t have been the very first + guest to appear on the scene. There were five or six round tables, instead + of last night’s long table. At the further end of the room the butler and + two other servants were lighting the little lamps under the hot dishes. I + didn’t like to make myself ridiculous by running away. On the other hand, + was it right for me to begin breakfast all by myself at one of these round + tables? I supposed it was. But I dreaded to be found eating, alone in that + vast room, by the first downcomer. I sat dallying with dry toast and + watching the door. It occurred to me that Braxton might occur at any + moment. Should I be able to ignore him? + </p> + <p> + ‘Some man and wife—a very handsome couple—were the first to + appear. They nodded and said “good morning” when they noticed me on their + way to the hot dishes. I rose—uncomfortably, guiltily—and sat + down again. I rose again when the wife drifted to my table, followed by + the husband with two steaming plates. She asked me if it wasn’t a heavenly + morning, and I replied with nervous enthusiasm that it was. She then ate + kedgeree in silence. “You just finishing, what?” the husband asked, + looking at my plate. “Oh, no—no—only just beginning,” I + assured him, and helped myself to butter. He then ate kedgeree in silence. + He looked like some splendid bull, and she like some splendid cow, + grazing. I envied them their eupeptic calm. I surmised that ten thousand + Braxtons would not have prevented THEM from sleeping soundly by night and + grazing steadily by day. Perhaps their stolidity infected me a little. Or + perhaps what braced me was the great quantity of strong tea that I + consumed. Anyhow I had begun to feel that if Braxton came in now I + shouldn’t blench nor falter. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, I wasn’t put to the test. Plenty of people drifted in, but Braxton + wasn’t one of them. Lady Rodfitten—no, she didn’t drift, she + marched, in; and presently, at an adjacent table, she was drawing a + comparison, in clarion tones, between Jean and Edouard de Reszke. It + seemed to me that her own voice had much in common with Edouard’s. Even + more was it akin to a military band. I found myself beating time to it + with my foot. Decidedly, my spirits had risen. I was in a mood to face and + outface anything. When I rose from the table and made my way to the door, + I walked with something of a swing—to the tune of Lady Rodfitten. + </p> + <p> + ‘My buoyancy didn’t last long, though. There was no swing in my walk when, + a little later, I passed out on to the spectacular terrace. I had seen my + enemy again, and had beaten a furious retreat. No doubt I should see him + yet again soon—here, perhaps, on this terrace. Two of the guests + were bicycling slowly up and down the long paven expanse, both of them + smiling with pride in the new delicious form of locomotion. There was a + great array of bicycles propped neatly along the balustrade. I recognised + my own among them. I wondered whether Braxton had projected from + Clifford’s Inn an image of his own bicycle. He may have done so; but I’ve + no evidence that he did. I myself was bicycling when next I saw him; but + he, I remember, was on foot. + </p> + <p> + ‘This was a few minutes later. I was bicycling with dear Lady Rodfitten. + She seemed really to like me. She had come out and accosted me heartily on + the terrace, asking me, because of my sticking-plaster, with whom I had + fought a duel since yesterday. I did not tell her with whom, and she had + already branched off on the subject of duelling in general. She regretted + the extinction of duelling in England, and gave cogent reasons for her + regret. Then she asked me what my next book was to be. I confided that I + was writing a sort of sequel—“Ariel Returns to Mayfair.” She shook + her head, said with her usual soundness that sequels were very dangerous + things, and asked me to tell her “briefly” the lines along which I was + working. I did so. She pointed out two or three weak points in my scheme. + She said she could judge better if I would let her see my manuscript. She + asked me to come and lunch with her next Friday—“just our two + selves”—at Rodfitten House, and to bring my manuscript with me. Need + I say that I walked on air? + </p> + <p> + ‘“And now,” she said strenuously, “let us take a turn on our bicycles.” By + this time there were a dozen riders on the terrace, all of them smiling + with pride and rapture. We mounted and rode along together. The terrace + ran round two sides of the house, and before we came to the end of it + these words had provisionally marshalled themselves in my mind: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + TO + ELEANOR + COUNTESS OF RODFITTEN + THIS BOOK WHICH OWES ALL + TO HER WISE COUNSEL + AND UNWEARYING SUPERVISION + IS GRATEFULLY DEDICATED + BY HER FRIEND + THE AUTHOR +</pre> + <p> + ‘Smiled to masonically by the passing bicyclists, and smiling masonically + to them in return, I began to feel that the rest of my visit would run + smooth, if only— + </p> + <p> + ‘“Let’s go a little faster. Let’s race!” said Lady Rodfitten; and we did + so—“just our two selves.” I was on the side nearer to the + balustrade, and it was on that side that Braxton suddenly appeared from + nowhere, solid-looking as a rock, his arms akimbo, less than three yards + ahead of me, so that I swerved involuntarily, sharply, striking broadside + the front wheel of Lady Rodfitten and collapsing with her, and with a + crash of machinery, to the ground. + </p> + <p> + ‘I wasn’t hurt. She had broken my fall. I wished I was dead. She was + furious. She sat speechless with fury. A crowd had quickly collected—just + as in the case of a street accident. She accused me now to the crowd. She + said I had done it on purpose. She said such terrible things of me that I + think the crowd’s sympathy must have veered towards me. She was assisted + to her feet. I tried to be one of the assistants. “Don’t let him come near + me!” she thundered. I caught sight of Braxton on the fringe of the crowd, + grinning at me. “It was all HIS fault,” I madly cried, pointing at him. + Everybody looked at Mr. Balfour, just behind whom Braxton was standing. + There was a general murmur of surprise, in which I have no doubt Mr. + Balfour joined. He gave a charming, blank, deprecating smile. “I mean—I + can’t explain what I mean,” I groaned. Lady Rodfitten moved away, refusing + support, limping terribly, towards the house. The crowd followed her, + solicitous. I stood helplessly, desperately, where I was. + </p> + <p> + ‘I stood an outlaw, a speck on the now empty terrace. Mechanically I + picked up my straw hat, and wheeled the two bent bicycles to the + balustrade. I suppose Mr. Balfour has a charming nature. For he presently + came out again—on purpose, I am sure, to alleviate my misery. He + told me that Lady Rodfitten had suffered no harm. He took me for a stroll + up and down the terrace, talking thoughtfully and enchantingly about + things in general. Then, having done his deed of mercy, this Good + Samaritan went back into the house. My eyes followed him with gratitude; + but I was still bleeding from wounds beyond his skill. I escaped down into + the gardens. I wanted to see no one. Still more did I want to be seen by + no one. I dreaded in every nerve of me my reappearance among those people. + I walked ever faster and faster, to stifle thought; but in vain. Why + hadn’t I simply ridden THROUGH Braxton? I was aware of being now in the + park, among great trees and undulations of wild green ground. But Nature + did not achieve the task that Mr. Balfour had attempted; and my anguish + was unassuaged. + </p> + <p> + ‘I paused to lean against a tree in the huge avenue that led to the huge + hateful house. I leaned wondering whether the thought of re-entering that + house were the more hateful because I should have to face my fellow-guests + or because I should probably have to face Braxton. A church bell began + ringing somewhere. And anon I was aware of another sound—a twitter + of voices. A consignment of hatted and parasoled ladies was coming fast + adown the avenue. My first impulse was to dodge behind my tree. But I + feared that I had been observed; so that what was left to me of + self-respect compelled me to meet these ladies. + </p> + <p> + ‘The Duchess was among them. I had seen her from afar at breakfast, but + not since. She carried a prayer-book, which she waved to me as I + approached. I was a disastrous guest, but still a guest, and nothing could + have been prettier than her smile. “Most of my men this week,” she said, + “are Pagans, and all the others have dispatch-boxes to go through—except + the dear old Duke of Mull, who’s a member of the Free Kirk. You’re Pagan, + of course?” + </p> + <p> + ‘I said—and indeed it was a heart-cry—that I should like very + much to come to church. “If I shan’t be in the way,” I rather abjectly + added. It didn’t strike me that Braxton would try to intercept me. I don’t + know why, but it never occurred to me, as I walked briskly along beside + the Duchess, that I should meet him so far from the house. The church was + in a corner of the park, and the way to it was by a side path that + branched off from the end of the avenue. A little way along, casting its + shadow across the path, was a large oak. It was from behind this tree, + when we came to it, that Braxton sprang suddenly forth and tripped me up + with his foot. + </p> + <p> + ‘Absurd to be tripped up by the mere semblance of a foot? But remember, I + was walking quickly, and the whole thing happened in a flash of time. It + was inevitable that I should throw out my hands and come down headlong—just + as though the obstacle had been as real as it looked. Down I came on palms + and knee-caps, and up I scrambled, very much hurt and shaken and + apologetic. “POOR Mr. Maltby! REALLY—!” the Duchess wailed for me in + this latest of my mishaps. Some other lady chased my straw hat, which had + bowled far ahead. Two others helped to brush me. They were all very kind, + with a quaver of mirth in their concern for me. I looked furtively around + for Braxton, but he was gone. The palms of my hands were abraded with + gravel. The Duchess said I must on no account come to church NOW. I was + utterly determined to reach that sanctuary. I marched firmly on with the + Duchess. Come what might on the way, I wasn’t going to be left out here. I + was utterly bent on winning at least one respite. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, I reached the little church without further molestation. To be + there seemed almost too good to be true. The organ, just as we entered, + sounded its first notes. The ladies rustled into the front pew. I, being + the one male of the party, sat at the end of the pew, beside the Duchess. + I couldn’t help feeling that my position was a proud one. But I had gone + through too much to take instant pleasure in it, and was beset by thoughts + of what new horror might await me on the way back to the house. I hoped + the Service would not be brief. The swelling and dwindling strains of the + “voluntary” on the small organ were strangely soothing. I turned to give + an almost feudal glance to the simple villagers in the pews behind, and + saw a sight that cowed my soul. + </p> + <p> + ‘Braxton was coming up the aisle. He came slowly, casting a tourist’s eye + at the stained-glass windows on either side. Walking heavily, yet with no + sound of boots on the pavement, he reached our pew. There, towering and + glowering, he halted, as though demanding that we should make room for + him. A moment later he edged sullenly into the pew. Instinctively I had + sat tight back, drawing my knees aside, in a shudder of revulsion against + contact. But Braxton did not push past me. What he did was to sit slowly + and fully down on me. + </p> + <p> + ‘No, not down ON me. Down THROUGH me—and around me. What befell me + was not mere ghastly contact with the intangible. It was inclusion, + envelopment, eclipse. What Braxton sat down on was not I, but the seat of + the pew; and what he sat back against was not my face and chest, but the + back of the pew. I didn’t realise this at the moment. All I knew was a + sudden black blotting-out of all things; an infinite and impenetrable + darkness. I dimly conjectured that I was dead. What was wrong with me, in + point of fact, was that my eyes, with the rest of me, were inside Braxton. + You remember what a great hulking fellow Braxton was. I calculate that as + we sat there my eyes were just beneath the roof of his mouth. Horrible! + </p> + <p> + ‘Out of the unfathomable depths of that pitch darkness, I could yet hear + the “voluntary” swelling and dwindling, just as before. It was by this I + knew now that I wasn’t dead. And I suppose I must have craned my head + forward, for I had a sudden glimpse of things—a close quick downward + glimpse of a pepper-and-salt waistcoat and of two great hairy hands + clasped across it. Then darkness again. Either I had drawn back my head, + or Braxton had thrust his forward; I don’t know which. “Are you all + right?” the Duchess’ voice whispered, and no doubt my face was ashen. + “Quite,” whispered my voice. But this pathetic monosyllable was the last + gasp of the social instinct in me. Suddenly, as the “voluntary” swelled to + its close, there was a great sharp shuffling noise. The congregation had + risen to its feet, at the entry of choir and vicar. Braxton had risen, + leaving me in daylight. I beheld his towering back. The Duchess, beside + him, glanced round at me. But I could not, dared not, stand up into that + presented back, into that great waiting darkness. I did but clutch my hat + from beneath the seat and hurry distraught down the aisle, out through the + porch, into the open air. + </p> + <p> + ‘Whither? To what goal? I didn’t reason. I merely fled—like Orestes; + fled like an automaton along the path we had come by. And was followed? + Yes, yes. Glancing back across my shoulder, I saw that brute some twenty + yards behind me, gaining on me. I broke into a sharper run. A few + sickening moments later, he was beside me, scowling down into my face. + </p> + <p> + ‘I swerved, dodged, doubled on my tracks, but he was always at me. Now and + again, for lack of breath, I halted, and he halted with me. And then, when + I had got my wind, I would start running again, in the insane hope of + escaping him. We came, by what twisting and turning course I know not, to + the great avenue, and as I stood there in an agony of panting I had a + dazed vision of the distant Hall. Really I had quite forgotten I was + staying at the Duke of Hertfordshire’s. But Braxton hadn’t forgotten. He + planted himself in front of me. He stood between me and the house. + </p> + <p> + ‘Faint though I was, I could almost have laughed. Good heavens! was THAT + all he wanted: that I shouldn’t go back there? Did he suppose I wanted to + go back there—with HIM? Was I the Duke’s prisoner on parole? What + was there to prevent me from just walking off to the railway station? I + turned to do so. + </p> + <p> + ‘He accompanied me on my way. I thought that when once I had passed + through the lodge gates he might vanish, satisfied. But no, he didn’t + vanish. It was as though he suspected that if he let me out of his sight I + should sneak back to the house. He arrived with me, this quiet companion + of mine, at the little railway station. Evidently he meant to see me off. + I learned from an elderly and solitary porter that the next train to + London was the 4.3. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, Braxton saw me off by the 4.3. I reflected, as I stepped up into an + empty compartment, that it wasn’t yet twenty-four hours ago since I, or + some one like me, had alighted at that station. + </p> + <p> + ‘The guard blew his whistle; the engine shrieked, and the train jolted + forward and away; but I did not lean out of the window to see the last of + my attentive friend. + </p> + <p> + ‘Really not twenty-four hours ago? Not twenty-four years?’ + </p> + <p> + Maltby paused in his narrative. ‘Well, well,’ he said, ‘I don’t want you + to think I overrate the ordeal of my visit to Keeb. A man of stronger + nerve than mine, and of greater resourcefulness, might have coped + successfully with Braxton from first to last—might have stayed on + till Monday, making a very favourable impression on every one all the + while. Even as it was, even after my manifold failures and sudden flight, + I don’t say my position was impossible. I only say it seemed so to me. A + man less sensitive than I, and less vain, might have cheered up after + writing a letter of apology to his hostess, and have resumed his normal + existence as though nothing very terrible had happened, after all. I wrote + a few lines to the Duchess that night; but I wrote amidst the preparations + for my departure from England: I crossed the Channel next morning. + Throughout that Sunday afternoon with Braxton at the Keeb railway station, + pacing the desolate platform with him, waiting in the desolating + waiting-room with him, I was numb to regrets, and was thinking of nothing + but the 4.3. On the way to Victoria my brain worked and my soul wilted. + Every incident in my stay at Keeb stood out clear to me; a dreadful, a + hideous pattern. I had done for myself, so far as THOSE people were + concerned. And now that I had sampled THEM, what cared I for others? “Too + low for a hawk, too high for a buzzard.” That homely old saying seemed to + sum me up. And suppose I COULD still take pleasure in the company of my + own old upper-middle class, how would that class regard me now? Gossip + percolates. Little by little, I was sure, the story of my Keeb fiasco + would leak down into the drawing-room of Mrs. Foster-Dugdale. I felt I + could never hold up my head in any company where anything of that story + was known. Are you quite sure you never heard anything?’ + </p> + <p> + I assured Maltby that all I had known was the great bare fact of his + having stayed at Keeb Hall. + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s curious,’ he reflected. ‘It’s a fine illustration of the loyalty of + those people to one another. I suppose there was a general agreement for + the Duchess’ sake that nothing should be said about her queer guest. But + even if I had dared hope to be so efficiently hushed up, I couldn’t have + not fled. I wanted to forget. I wanted to leap into some void, far away + from all reminders. I leapt straight from Ryder Street into + Vaule-la-Rochette, a place of which I had once heard that it was the least + frequented seaside-resort in Europe. I leapt leaving no address—leapt + telling my landlord that if a suit-case and a portmanteau arrived for me + he could regard them, them and their contents, as his own for ever. I + daresay the Duchess wrote me a kind little letter, forcing herself to + express a vague hope that I would come again “some other time.” I daresay + Lady Rodfitten did NOT write reminding me of my promise to lunch on Friday + and bring “Ariel Returns to Mayfair” with me. I left that manuscript at + Ryder Street; in my bedroom grate; a shuffle of ashes. Not that I’d yet + given up all thought of writing. But I certainly wasn’t going to write now + about the two things I most needed to forget. I wasn’t going to write + about the British aristocracy, nor about any kind of supernatural + presence.... I did write a novel—my last—while I was at Vaule. + “Mr. and Mrs. Robinson.” Did you ever come across a copy of it? + </p> + <p> + I nodded gravely. + </p> + <p> + ‘Ah; I wasn’t sure,’ said Maltby, ‘whether it was ever published. A dreary + affair, wasn’t it? I knew a great deal about suburban life. But—well, + I suppose one can’t really understand what one doesn’t love, and one can’t + make good fun without real understanding. Besides, what chance of virtue + is there for a book written merely to distract the author’s mind? I had + hoped to be healed by sea and sunshine and solitude. These things were + useless. The labour of “Mr. and Mrs. Robinson” did help, a little. When I + had finished it, I thought I might as well send it off to my publisher. He + had given me a large sum of money, down, after “Ariel,” for my next book—so + large that I was rather loth to disgorge. In the note I sent with the + manuscript, I gave no address, and asked that the proofs should be read in + the office. I didn’t care whether the thing were published or not. I knew + it would be a dead failure if it were. What mattered one more drop in the + foaming cup of my humiliation? I knew Braxton would grin and gloat. I + didn’t mind even that.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, well,’ I said, ‘Braxton was in no mood for grinning and gloating. + “The Drones” had already appeared.’ + </p> + <p> + Maltby had never heard of ‘The Drones’—which I myself had remembered + only in the course of his disclosures. I explained to him that it was + Braxton’s second novel, and was by way of being a savage indictment of the + British aristocracy; that it was written in the worst possible taste, but + was so very dull that it fell utterly flat; that Braxton had forthwith + taken, with all of what Maltby had called ‘the passionate force and + intensity of his nature,’ to drink, and had presently gone under and not + re-emerged. + </p> + <p> + Maltby gave signs of genuine, though not deep, emotion, and cited two or + three of the finest passages from ‘A Faun on the Cotswolds.’ He even + expressed a conviction that ‘The Drones’ must have been misjudged. He said + he blamed himself more than ever for yielding to that bad impulse at that + Soiree. + </p> + <p> + ‘And yet,’ he mused, ‘and yet, honestly, I can’t find it in my heart to + regret that I did yield. I can only wish that all had turned out as well, + in the end, for Braxton as for me. I wish he could have won out, as I did, + into a great and lasting felicity. For about a year after I had finished + “Mr. and Mrs. Robinson” I wandered from place to place, trying to kill + memory, shunning all places frequented by the English. At last I found + myself in Lucca. Here, if anywhere, I thought, might a bruised and + tormented spirit find gradual peace. I determined to move out of my hotel + into some permanent lodging. Not for felicity, not for any complete + restoration of self-respect, was I hoping; only for peace. A “mezzano” + conducted me to a noble and ancient house, of which, he told me, the owner + was anxious to let the first floor. It was in much disrepair, but even so + seemed to me very cheap. According to the simple Luccan standard, I am + rich. I took that first floor for a year, had it repaired, and engaged two + servants. My “padrona” inhabited the ground floor. From time to time she + allowed me to visit her there. She was the Contessa Adriano-Rizzoli, the + last of her line. She is the Contessa Adriano-Rizzoli-Maltby. We have been + married fifteen years.’ + </p> + <p> + Maltby looked at his watch. He rose and took tenderly from the table his + great bunch of roses. ‘She is a lineal descendant,’ he said, ‘of the + Emperor Hadrian.’ + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ‘SAVONAROLA’ BROWN + </h2> + <p> + I like to remember that I was the first to call him so, for, though he + always deprecated the nickname, in his heart he was pleased by it, I know, + and encouraged to go on. + </p> + <p> + Quite apart from its significance, he had reason to welcome it. He had + been unfortunate at the font. His parents, at the time of his birth, lived + in Ladbroke Crescent, XV. They must have been an extraordinarily + unimaginative couple, for they could think of no better name for their + child than Ladbroke. This was all very well for him till he went to + school. But you can fancy the indignation and delight of us boys at + finding among us a newcomer who, on his own confession, had been named + after a Crescent. I don’t know how it is nowadays, but thirty-five years + ago, certainly, schoolboys regarded the possession of ANY Christian name + as rather unmanly. As we all had these encumbrances, we had to wreak our + scorn on any one who was cumbered in a queer fashion. I myself, bearer of + a Christian name adjudged eccentric though brief, had had much to put up + with in my first term. Brown’s arrival, therefore, at the beginning of my + second term, was a good thing for me, and I am afraid I was very prominent + among his persecutors. Trafalgar Brown, Tottenham Court Brown, Bond Brown—what + names did we little brutes NOT cull for him from the London Directory? + Except how miserable we made his life, I do not remember much about him as + he was at that time, and the only important part of the little else that I + do recall is that already he showed a strong sense for literature. For the + majority of us Carthusians, literature was bounded on the north by Whyte + Melville, on the south by Hawley Smart, on the east by the former, and on + the west by the latter. Little Brown used to read Harrison Ainsworth, + Wilkie Collins, and other writers whom we, had we assayed them, would have + dismissed as ‘deep.’ It has been said by Mr. Arthur Symons that ‘all art + is a mode of escape.’ The art of letters did not, however, enable Brown to + escape so far from us as he would have wished. In my third term he did not + reappear among us. His parents had in some sort atoned. Unimaginative + though they were, it seems they could understand a tale of woe laid before + them circumstantially, and had engaged a private tutor for their boy. + Fifteen years elapsed before I saw him again. + </p> + <p> + This was at the second night of some play. I was dramatic critic for the + Saturday Review, and, weary of meeting the same lot of people over and + over again at first nights, had recently sent a circular to the managers + asking that I might have seats for second nights instead. I found that + there existed as distinct and invariable a lot of second-nighters as of + first-nighters. The second-nighters were less ‘showy’; but then, they came + rather to see than to be seen, and there was an air, that I liked, of + earnestness and hopefulness about them. I used to write a great deal about + the future of the British drama, and they, for their part, used to think + and talk a great deal about it. People who care about books and pictures + find much to interest and please them in the present. It is only the + students of the theatre who always fall back, or rather forward, on the + future. Though second-nighters do come to see, they remain rather to hope + and pray. I should have known anywhere, by the visionary look in his eyes, + that Brown was a confirmed second-nighter. + </p> + <p> + What surprises me is that I knew he was Brown. It is true that he had not + grown much in those fifteen years: his brow was still disproportionate to + his body, and he looked young to have become ‘confirmed’ in any habit. But + it is also true that not once in the past ten years, at any rate, had he + flitted through my mind and poised on my conscience. + </p> + <p> + I hope that I and those other boys had long ago ceased from recurring to + him in nightmares. Cordial though the hand was that I offered him, and + highly civilised my whole demeanour, he seemed afraid that at any moment I + might begin to dance around him, shooting out my lips at him and calling + him Seven-Sisters Brown or something of that kind. It was only after + constant meetings at second nights, and innumerable entr’acte talks about + the future of the drama, that he began to trust me. In course of time we + formed the habit of walking home together as far as Cumberland Place, at + which point our ways diverged. I gathered that he was still living with + his parents, but he did not tell me where, for they had not, as I learned + by reference to the Red Book, moved from Ladbroke Crescent. + </p> + <p> + I found his company restful rather than inspiring. His days were spent in + clerkship at one of the smaller Government Offices, his evenings—except + when there was a second night—in reading and writing. He did not + seem to know much, or to wish to know more, about life. Books and plays, + first editions and second nights, were what he cared for. On matters of + religion and ethics he was as little keen as he seemed to be on human + character in the raw; so that (though I had already suspected him of + writing, or meaning to write, a play) my eyebrows did rise when he told me + he meant to write a play about Savonarola. + </p> + <p> + He made me understand, however, that it was rather the name than the man + that had first attracted him. He said that the name was in itself a great + incentive to blank-verse. He uttered it to me slowly, in a voice so much + deeper than his usual voice, that I nearly laughed. For the actual bearer + of the name he had no hero-worship, and said it was by a mere accident + that he had chosen him as central figure. He had thought of writing a + tragedy about Sardanapalus; but the volume of the “Encyclopedia + Britannica” in which he was going to look up the main facts about + Sardanapalus happened to open at Savonarola. Hence a sudden and complete + peripety in the student’s mind. He told me he had read the Encyclopedia’s + article carefully, and had dipped into one or two of the books there + mentioned as authorities. He seemed almost to wish he hadn’t. ‘Facts get + in one’s way so,’ he complained. ‘History is one thing, drama is another. + Aristotle said drama was more philosophic than history because it showed + us what men WOULD do, not just what they DID. I think that’s so true, + don’t you? I want to show what Savonarola WOULD have done if—’ He + paused. + </p> + <p> + ‘If what?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, that’s just the point. I haven’t settled that yet. When I’ve + thought of a plot, I shall go straight ahead.’ + </p> + <p> + I said I supposed he intended his tragedy rather for the study than for + the stage. This seemed to hurt him. I told him that what I meant was that + managers always shied at anything without ‘a strong feminine interest.’ + This seemed to worry him. I advised him not to think about managers. He + promised that he would think only about Savonarola. + </p> + <p> + I know now that this promise was not exactly kept by him; and he may have + felt slightly awkward when, some weeks later, he told me he had begun the + play. ‘I’ve hit on an initial idea,’ he said, ‘and that’s enough to start + with. I gave up my notion of inventing a plot in advance. I thought it + would be a mistake. I don’t want puppets on wires. I want Savonarola to + work out his destiny in his own way. Now that I have the initial idea, + what I’ve got to do is to make Savonarola LIVE. I hope I shall be able to + do this. Once he’s alive, I shan’t interfere with him. I shall just watch + him. Won’t it be interesting? He isn’t alive yet. But there’s plenty of + time. You see, he doesn’t come on at the rise of the curtain. A Friar and + a Sacristan come on and talk about him. By the time they’ve finished, + perhaps he’ll be alive. But they won’t have finished yet. Not that they’re + going to say very much. But I write slowly.’ + </p> + <p> + I remember the mild thrill I had when, one evening, he took me aside and + said in an undertone, ‘Savonarola has come on. Alive!’ For me the MS. + hereinafter printed has an interest that for you it cannot have, so + a-bristle am I with memories of the meetings I had with its author + throughout the nine years he took over it. He never saw me without + reporting progress, or lack of progress. Just what was going on, or + standing still, he did not divulge. After the entry of Savonarola, he + never told me what characters were appearing. ‘All sorts of people + appear,’ he would say rather helplessly. ‘They insist. I can’t prevent + them.’ I used to say it must be great fun to be a creative artist; but at + this he always shook his head: ‘I don’t create. THEY do. Savonarola + especially, of course. I just look on and record. I never know what’s + going to happen next.’ He had the advantage of me in knowing at any rate + what had happened last. But whenever I pled for a glimpse he would again + shake his head: + </p> + <p> + ‘The thing MUST be judged as a whole. Wait till I’ve come to the end of + the Fifth Act.’ + </p> + <p> + So impatient did I become that, as the years went by, I used rather to + resent his presence at second nights. I felt he ought to be at his desk. + His, I used to tell him, was the only drama whose future ought to concern + him now. And in point of fact he had, I think, lost the true spirit of the + second-nighter, and came rather to be seen than to see. He liked the + knowledge that here and there in the auditorium, when he entered it, some + one would be saying ‘Who is that?’ and receiving the answer ‘Oh, don’t you + know? That’s “Savonarola” Brown.’ This sort of thing, however, did not + make him cease to be the modest, unaffected fellow I had known. He always + listened to the advice I used to offer him, though inwardly he must have + chafed at it. Myself a fidgety and uninspired person, unable to begin a + piece of writing before I know just how it shall end, I had always been + afraid that sooner or later Brown would take some turning that led + nowhither—would lose himself and come to grief. This fear crept into + my gladness when, one evening in the spring of 1909, he told me he had + finished the Fourth Act. Would he win out safely through the Fifth? + </p> + <p> + He himself was looking rather glum; and, as we walked away from the + theatre, I said to him, ‘I suppose you feel rather like Thackeray when + he’d “killed the Colonel”: you’ve got to kill the Monk.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not quite that,’ he answered. ‘But of course he’ll die very soon now. A + couple of years or so. And it does seem rather sad. It’s not merely that + he’s so full of life. He has been becoming much more HUMAN lately. At + first I only respected him. Now I have a real affection for him.’ + </p> + <p> + This was an interesting glimpse at last, but I turned from it to my + besetting fear. + </p> + <p> + ‘Haven’t you,’ I asked, ‘any notion of HOW he is to die?’ + </p> + <p> + Brown shook his head. + </p> + <p> + ‘But in a tragedy,’ I insisted, ‘the catastrophe MUST be led up to, step + by step. My dear Brown, the end of the hero MUST be logical and rational.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t see that,’ he said, as we crossed Piccadilly Circus. ‘In actual + life it isn’t so. What is there to prevent a motor-omnibus from knocking + me over and killing me at this moment?’ + </p> + <p> + At that moment, by what has always seemed to me the strangest of + coincidences, and just the sort of thing that playwrights ought to avoid, + a motor-omnibus knocked Brown over and killed him. + </p> + <p> + He had, as I afterwards learned, made a will in which he appointed me his + literary executor. Thus passed into my hands the unfinished play by whose + name he had become known to so many people. + </p> + <p> + I hate to say that I was disappointed in it, but I had better confess + quite frankly that, on the whole, I was. Had Brown written it quickly and + read it to me soon after our first talk about it, it might in some ways + have exceeded my hopes. But he had become for me, by reason of that quiet + and unhasting devotion to his work while the years came and went, a sort + of hero; and the very mystery involving just what he was about had + addicted me to those ideas of magnificence which the unknown is said + always to foster. + </p> + <p> + Even so, however, I am not blind to the great merits of the play as it + stands. It is well that the writer of poetic drama should be a dramatist + and a poet. Here is a play that abounds in striking situations, and I have + searched it vainly for one line that does not scan. What I nowhere feel is + that I have not elsewhere been thrilled or lulled by the same kind of + thing. I do not go so far as to say that Brown inherited his parents’ + deplorable lack of imagination. But I do wish he had been less sensitive + than he was to impressions, or else had seen and read fewer poetic dramas + ancient and modern. Remembering that visionary look in his eyes, + remembering that he was as displeased as I by the work of all living + playwrights, and as dissatisfied with the great efforts of the + Elizabethans, I wonder that he was not more immune from influences. + </p> + <p> + Also, I cannot but wish still that he had faltered in his decision to make + no scenario. There is much to be said for the theory that a dramatist + should first vitalise his characters and then leave them unfettered; but I + do feel that Brown’s misused the confidence he reposed in them. The labour + of so many years has somewhat the air of being a mere improvisation. + Savonarola himself, after the First Act or so, strikes me as utterly + inconsistent. It may be that he is just complex, like Hamlet. He does in + the Fourth Act show traces of that Prince. I suppose this is why he struck + Brown as having become ‘more human.’ To me he seems merely a poorer + creature. + </p> + <p> + But enough of these reservations. In my anxiety for poor Brown’s sake that + you should not be disappointed, perhaps I have been carrying tactfulness + too far and prejudicing you against that for which I specially want your + favour. Here, without more ado, is + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SAVONAROLA + </h2> + <h3> + A TRAGEDY + </h3> + <p> + By L. Brown + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ACT I + + SCENE: A Room in the Monastery of San Marco, Florence. + TIME: 1490, A.D. A summer morning. + + Enter the SACRISTAN and a FRIAR. + + SACR. + Savonarola looks more grim to-day + Than ever. Should I speak my mind, I’d say + That he was fashioning some new great scourge + To flay the backs of men. + + FRI. + ‘Tis even so. + Brother Filippo saw him stand last night + In solitary vigil till the dawn + Lept o’er the Arno, and his face was such + As men may wear in Purgatory—nay, + E’en in the inmost core of Hell’s own fires. + + SACR. + I often wonder if some woman’s face, + Seen at some rout in his old worldling days, + Haunts him e’en now, e’en here, and urges him + To fierier fury ‘gainst the Florentines. + + FRI. + Savonarola love-sick! Ha, ha, ha! + Love-sick? He, love-sick? ‘Tis a goodly jest! + The CONfirm’d misogyn a ladies’ man! + Thou must have eaten of some strange red herb + That takes the reason captive. I will swear + Savonarola never yet hath seen + A woman but he spurn’d her. Hist! He comes. + + [Enter SAVONAROLA, rapt in thought.] + + Give thee good morrow, Brother. + + SACR. + And therewith + A multitude of morrows equal-good + Till thou, by Heaven’s grace, hast wrought the work + Nearest thine heart. + + SAV. + I thank thee, Brother, yet + I thank thee not, for that my thankfulness + (An such there be) gives thanks to Heaven alone. + + FRI. [To SACR.] + ‘Tis a right answer he hath given thee. + Had Sav’narola spoken less than thus, + Methinks me, the less Sav’narola he. + As when the snow lies on yon Apennines, + White as the hem of Mary Mother’s robe, + And insusceptible to the sun’s rays, + Being harder to the touch than temper’d steel, + E’en so this great gaunt monk white-visaged + Upstands to Heaven and to Heav’n devotes + The scarped thoughts that crown the upper slopes + Of his abrupt and AUStere nature. + + SACR. + Aye. + + [Enter LUCREZIA BORGIA, ST. FRANCIS OF ASSISI, and LEONARDO + DA VINCI. LUC. is thickly veiled.] + + ST. FRAN. + This is the place. + + LUC. [Pointing at SAV.] + And this the man! [Aside.] And I— + By the hot blood that courses i’ my veins + I swear it ineluctably—the woman! + + SAV. + Who is this wanton? + [LUC. throws back her hood, revealing her face. SAV. starts back, + gazing at her.] + + ST. FRAN. + Hush, Sir! ‘Tis my little sister + The poisoner, right well-belov’d by all + Whom she as yet hath spared. Hither she came + Mounted upon another little sister of mine— + A mare, caparison’d in goodly wise. + She—I refer now to Lucrezia— + Desireth to have word of thee anent + Some matter that befrets her. + + SAV. [To LUC.] + Hence! Begone! + Savonarola will not tempted be + By face of woman e’en tho’ ‘t be, tho’ ‘tis, + Surpassing fair. All hope abandon therefore. + I charge thee: Vade retro, Satanas. + + LEONARDO + Sirrah, thou speakst in haste, as is the way + Of monkish men. The beauty of Lucrezia + Commends, not discommends, her to the eyes + Of keener thinkers than I take thee for. + I am an artist and an engineer, + Giv’n o’er to subtile dreams of what shall be + On this our planet. I foresee a day + When men shall skim the earth i’ certain chairs + Not drawn by horses but sped on by oil + Or other matter, and shall thread the sky + Birdlike. + + LUC. + It may be as thou sayest, friend, + Or may be not. [To SAV.] As touching this our errand, + I crave of thee, Sir Monk, an audience + Instanter. + + FRI. + Lo! Here Alighieri comes. + I had methought me he was still at Parma. + + [Enter DANTE.] + + ST. FRAN. [To DAN.] + How fares my little sister Beatrice? + + DAN. + She died, alack, last sennight. + + ST. FRAN. + Did she so? + If the condolences of men avail + Thee aught, take mine. + + DAN. + They are of no avail. + + SAV. [To LUC.] + I do refuse thee audience. + + LUC. + Then why + Didst thou not say so promptly when I ask’d it? + + SAV. + Full well thou knowst that I was interrupted + By Alighieri’s entry. + [Noise without. Enter Guelfs and Ghibellines fighting.] + What is this? + + LUC. + I did not think that in this cloister’d spot + There would be so much doing. I had look’d + To find Savonarola all alone + And tempt him in his uneventful cell. + Instead o’ which—Spurn’d am I? I am I. + There was a time, Sir, look to ‘t! O damnation! + What is ‘t? Anon then! These my toys, my gauds, + That in the cradle—aye, ‘t my mother’s breast— + I puled and lisped at,—‘Tis impossible, + Tho’, faith, ‘tis not so, forasmuch as ‘tis. + And I a daughter of the Borgias!— + Or so they told me. Liars! Flatterers! + Currying lick-spoons! Where’s the Hell of ‘t then? + ‘Tis time that I were going. Farewell, Monk, + But I’ll avenge me ere the sun has sunk. + [Exeunt LUC., ST. FRAN., and LEONARDO, followed by DAN. SAV., having + watched LUC. out of sight, sinks to his knees, sobbing. FRI. and SACR. + watch him in amazement. Guelfs and Ghibellines continue fighting as + the Curtain falls.] +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ACT II + + TIME: Afternoon of same day. + SCENE: Lucrezia’s Laboratory. Retorts, test-tubes, etc. On small + Renaissance table, up c., is a great poison-bowl, the contents of + which are being stirred by the FIRST APPRENTICE. The SECOND APPRENTICE + stands by, watching him. + + SECOND APP. + For whom is the brew destin’d? + + FIRST APP. + I know not. + Lady Lucrezia did but lay on me + Injunctions as regards the making of ‘t, + The which I have obey’d. It is compounded + Of a malignant and a deadly weed + Found not save in the Gulf of Spezia, + And one small phial of ‘t, I am advis’d, + Were more than ‘nough to slay a regiment + Of Messer Malatesta’s condottieri + In all their armour. + + SECOND APP. + I can well believe it. + Mark how the purple bubbles froth upon + The evil surface of its nether slime! + + [Enter LUC.] + + LUC. [To FIRST APP.] + Is ‘t done, Sir Sluggard? + + FIRST APP. + Madam, to a turn. + + LUC. + Had it not been so, I with mine own hand + Would have outpour’d it down thy gullet, knave. + See, here’s a ring of cunningly-wrought gold + + That I, on a dark night, did purchase from + A goldsmith on the Ponte Vecchio. + Small was his shop, and hoar of visage he. + I did bemark that from the ceiling’s beams + Spiders had spun their webs for many a year, + The which hung erst like swathes of gossamer + Seen in the shadows of a fairy glade, + But now most woefully were weighted o’er + With gather’d dust. Look well now at the ring! + Touch’d here, behold, it opes a cavity + Capacious of three drops of yon fell stuff. + Dost heed? Whoso then puts it on his finger + Dies, and his soul is from his body rapt + To Hell or Heaven as the case may be. + Take thou this toy and pour the three drops in. + + [Hands ring to FIRST APP. and comes down c.] + + So, Sav’narola, thou shalt learn that I + Utter no threats but I do make them good. + Ere this day’s sun hath wester’d from the view + Thou art to preach from out the Loggia + Dei Lanzi to the cits in the Piazza. + I, thy Lucrezia, will be upon the steps + To offer thee with phrases seeming-fair + That which shall seal thine eloquence for ever. + O mighty lips that held the world in spell + But would not meet these little lips of mine + In the sweet way that lovers use—O thin, + Cold, tight-drawn, bloodless lips, which natheless I + Deem of all lips the most magnifical + In this our city— + + [Enter the Borgias’ FOOL.] + + Well, Fool, what’s thy latest? + + FOOL + Aristotle’s or Zeno’s, Lady—‘tis neither latest nor last. For, + marry, if the cobbler stuck to his last, then were his latest his last + in rebus ambulantibus. Argal, I stick at nothing but cobble-stones, + which, by the same token, are stuck to the road by men’s fingers. + + LUC. + How many crows may nest in a grocer’s jerkin? + + FOOL + A full dozen at cock-crow, and something less under the dog-star, by + reason of the dew, which lies heavy on men taken by the scurvy. + + LUC. [To FIRST APP.] + Methinks the Fool is a fool. + + FOOL + And therefore, by auricular deduction, am I own twin to the Lady + Lucrezia! + + [Sings.] + + When pears hang green on the garden wall + With a nid, and a nod, and a niddy-niddy-o + Then prank you, lads and lasses all, + With a yea and a nay and a niddy-o. + + But when the thrush flies out o’ the frost + With a nid, [etc.] + ‘Tis time for loons to count the cost, + With a yea [etc.] + + [Enter the PORTER.] + + PORTER + O my dear Mistress, there is one below + Demanding to have instant word of thee. + I told him that your Ladyship was not + At home. Vain perjury! He would not take + Nay for an answer. + + LUC. + Ah? What manner of man + Is he? + + PORTER + A personage the like of whom + Is wholly unfamiliar to my gaze. + Cowl’d is he, but I saw his great eyes glare + From their deep sockets in such wise as leopards + Glare from their caverns, crouching ere they spring + On their reluctant prey. + + LUC. + And what name gave he? + + PORTER [After a pause.] + Something-arola. + + LUC. + Savon-? [PORTER nods.] Show him up. [Exit PORTER.] + + FOOL + If he be right astronomically, Mistress, then is he the greater dunce + in respect of true learning, the which goes by the globe. Argal, + ‘twere better he widened his wind-pipe. + + [Sings.] + Fly home, sweet self, + Nothing’s for weeping, + Hemp was not made + For lovers’ keeping, Lovers’ keeping, + Cheerly, cheerly, fly away. + Hew no more wood + While ash is glowing, + The longest grass + Is lovers’ mowing, + Lovers’ mowing, + Cheerly, [etc.] + + [Re-enter PORTER, followed by SAV. Exeunt PORTER, FOOL, and FIRST and + SECOND APPS.] + + SAV. + I am no more a monk, I am a man + O’ the world. + [Throws off cowl and frock, and stands forth in the costume of a + Renaissance nobleman. LUCREZIA looks him up and down.] + + LUC. + Thou cutst a sorry figure. + + SAV. + That + Is neither here nor there. I love you, Madam. + + LUC. + And this, methinks, is neither there nor here, + For that my love of thee hath vanished, + Seeing thee thus beprankt. Go pad thy calves! + Thus mightst thou, just conceivably, with luck, + Capture the fancy of some serving-wench. + + SAV. + And this is all thou hast to say to me? + + LUC. + It is. + + SAV. + I am dismiss’d? + + LUC. + Thou art. + + SAV. + ‘Tis well. + [Resumes frock and cowl.] + Savonarola is himself once more. + + LUC. + And all my love for him returns to me + A thousandfold! + + SAV. + Too late! My pride of manhood + Is wounded irremediably. I’ll + To the Piazza, where my flock awaits me. + Thus do we see that men make great mistakes + But may amend them when the conscience wakes. + [Exit.] + + LUC. + I’m half avenged now, but only half: + ‘Tis with the ring I’ll have the final laugh! + Tho’ love be sweet, revenge is sweeter far. + To the Piazza! Ha, ha, ha, ha, har! + [Seizes ring, and exit. Through open door are heard, as the Curtain + falls, sounds of a terrific hubbub in the Piazza.] +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ACT III + + SCENE: The Piazza. + TIME: A few minutes anterior to close of preceding Act. + + The Piazza is filled from end to end with a vast seething crowd that + is drawn entirely from the lower orders. There is a sprinkling of + wild-eyed and dishevelled women in it. The men are lantern-jawed, + with several days’ growth of beard. Most of them carry rude weapons— + staves, bill-hooks, crow-bars, and the like—and are in as excited a + condition as the women. Some of them are bare-headed, others affect a + kind of Phrygian cap. Cobblers predominate. + + Enter LORENZO DE MEDICI and COSIMO DE MEDICI. They wear cloaks of scarlet + brocade, and, to avoid notice, hold masks to their faces. + + COS. + What purpose doth the foul and greasy plebs + Ensue to-day here? + + LOR. + I nor know nor care. + + COS. + How thrall’d thou art to the philosophy + Of Epicurus! Naught that’s human I + Deem alien from myself. [To a COBBLER.] Make answer, fellow! + What empty hope hath drawn thee by a thread + Forth from the OBscene hovel where thou starvest? + + COB. + No empty hope, your Honour, but the full + Assurance that to-day, as yesterday, + Savonarola will let loose his thunder + Against the vices of the idle rich + And from the brimming cornucopia + Of his immense vocabulary pour + Scorn on the lamentable heresies + Of the New Learning and on all the art + Later than Giotto. + + COS. + Mark how absolute + The knave is! + + LOR. + Then are parrots rational + When they regurgitate the thing they hear! + This fool is but an unit of the crowd, + And crowds are senseless as the vasty deep + That sinks or surges as the moon dictates. + I know these crowds, and know that any man + That hath a glib tongue and a rolling eye + Can as he willeth with them. + [Removes his mask and mounts steps of Loggia.] + Citizens! + [Prolonged yells and groans from the crowd.] + Yes, I am he, I am that same Lorenzo + Whom you have nicknamed the Magnificent. + [Further terrific yells, shakings of fists, brandishings of bill- + hooks, insistent cries of ‘Death to Lorenzo!’ ‘Down with the + Magnificent!’ Cobblers on fringe of crowd, down c., exhibit especially + all the symptoms of epilepsy, whooping-cough, and other ailments.] + You love not me. + [The crowd makes an ugly rush. LOR. appears likely to be dragged down + and torn limb from limb, but raises one hand in nick of time, and + continues:] + Yet I deserve your love. + [The yells are now variegated with dubious murmurs. A cobbler down c. + thrusts his face feverishly in the face of another and repeats, in a + hoarse interrogative whisper, ‘Deserves our love?’] + Not for the sundry boons I have bestow’d + And benefactions I have lavished + Upon Firenze, City of the Flowers, + But for the love that in this rugged breast + I bear you. + [The yells have now died away, and there is a sharp fall in dubious + murmurs. The cobbler down c. says, in an ear-piercing whisper, ‘The + love he bears us,’ drops his lower jaw, nods his head repeatedly, and + awaits in an intolerable state of suspense the orator’s next words.] + I am not a blameless man, + [Some dubious murmurs.] + Yet for that I have lov’d you passing much, + Shall some things be forgiven me. + [Noises of cordial assent.] + There dwells + In this our city, known unto you all, + A man more virtuous than I am, and + A thousand times more intellectual; + Yet envy not I him, for—shall I name him?— + He loves not you. His name? I will not cut + Your hearts by speaking it. Here let it stay + On tip o’ tongue. + [Insistent clamour.] + Then steel you to the shock!— + Savonarola. + [For a moment or so the crowd reels silently under the shock. Cobbler + down c. is the first to recover himself and cry ‘Death to Savonarola!’ + The cry instantly becomes general. LOR. holds up his hand and + gradually imposes silence.] + His twin bug-bears are + Yourselves and that New Learning which I hold + Less dear than only you. + [Profound sensation. Everybody whispers ‘Than only you’ to everybody + else. A woman near steps of Loggia attempts to kiss hem of LOR.‘s + garment.] + Would you but con + With me the old philosophers of Hellas, + Her fervent bards and calm historians, + You would arise and say ‘We will not hear + Another word against them!’ + [The crowd already says this, repeatedly, with great emphasis.] + Take the Dialogues + Of Plato, for example. You will find + A spirit far more truly Christian + In them than in the ravings of the sour-soul’d + Savonarola. + [Prolonged cries of ‘Death to the Sour-Souled Savonarola!’ Several + cobblers detach themselves from the crowd and rush away to read the + Platonic Dialogues. Enter SAVONAROLA. The crowd, as he makes his way + through it, gives up all further control of its feelings, and makes a + noise for which even the best zoologists might not find a good + comparison. The staves and bill-hooks wave like twigs in a storm. + One would say that SAV. must have died a thousand deaths already. He + is, however, unharmed and unruffled as he reaches the upper step of + the Loggia. LOR. meanwhile has rejoined COS. in the Piazza.] + + SAV. + Pax vobiscum, brothers! + [This does but exacerbate the crowd’s frenzy.] + + VOICE OF A COBBLER + Hear his false lips cry Peace when there is no + Peace! + + SAV. + Are not you ashamed, O Florentines, + [Renewed yells, but also some symptoms of manly shame.] + That hearken’d to Lorenzo and now reel + Inebriate with the exuberance + Of his verbosity? + [The crowd makes an obvious effort to pull itself together.] + A man can fool + Some of the people all the time, and can + Fool all the people sometimes, but he cannot + Fool ALL the people ALL the time. + [Loud cheers. Several cobblers clap one another on the back. Cries + of ‘Death to Lorenzo!’ The meeting is now well in hand.] + To-day + I must adopt a somewhat novel course + In dealing with the awful wickedness + At present noticeable in this city. + I do so with reluctance. Hitherto + I have avoided personalities. + But now my sense of duty forces me + To a departure from my custom of + Naming no names. One name I must and shall + Name. + [All eyes are turned on LOR., who smiles uncomfortably.] + No, I do not mean Lorenzo. He + Is ‘neath contempt. + [Loud and prolonged laughter, accompanied with hideous grimaces at LOR. + Exeunt LOR. and COS.] + I name a woman’s name, + [The women in the crowd eye one another suspiciously.] + A name known to you all—four-syllabled, + Beginning with an L. + [Pause. Enter hurriedly LUC., carrying the ring. She stands, + unobserved by any one, on outskirt of crowd. SAV. utters the name:] + Lucrezia! + + LUC. [With equal intensity.] + Savonarola! + [SAV. starts violently and stares in direction of her voice.] + Yes, I come, I come! + [Forces her way to steps of Loggia. The crowd is much bewildered, and + the cries of ‘Death to Lucrezia Borgia!’ are few and sporadic.] + Why didst thou call me? + [SAV. looks somewhat embarrassed.] + What is thy distress? + I see it all! The sanguinary mob + Clusters to rend thee! As the antler’d stag, + With fine eyes glazed from the too-long chase, + Turns to defy the foam-fleck’d pack, and thinks, + In his last moment, of some graceful hind + Seen once afar upon a mountain-top, + E’en so, Savonarola, didst thou think, + In thy most dire extremity, of me. + And here I am! Courage! The horrid hounds + Droop tail at sight of me and fawn away + Innocuous. + [The crowd does indeed seem to have fallen completely under the sway + of LUC.‘s magnetism, and is evidently convinced that it had been about + to make an end of the monk.] + Take thou, and wear henceforth, + As a sure talisman ‘gainst future perils, + This little, little ring. + [SAV. makes awkward gesture of refusal. Angry murmurs from the crowd. + Cries of ‘Take thou the ring!’ ‘Churl!’ ‘Put it on!’ etc. + Enter the Borgias’ FOOL and stands unnoticed on fringe of crowd.] + I hoped you ‘ld like it— + Neat but not gaudy. Is my taste at fault? + I’d so look’d forward to— + [Sob.] No, I’m not crying, + But just a little hurt. + [Hardly a dry eye in the crowd. Also swayings and snarlings + indicative that SAV.‘s life is again not worth a moment’s purchase. + SAV. makes awkward gesture of acceptance, but just as he is about to + put ring on finger, the FOOL touches his lute and sings:—] + + Wear not the ring, + It hath an unkind sting, + Ding, dong, ding. + Bide a minute, + There’s poison in it, + Poison in it, + Ding-a-dong, dong, ding. + + LUC. + The fellow lies. + [The crowd is torn with conflicting opinions. Mingled cries of ‘Wear + not the ring!’ ‘The fellow lies!’ ‘Bide a minute!’ ‘Death to the + Fool!’ ‘Silence for the Fool!’ ‘Ding-a-dong, dong, ding!’ etc.] + + FOOL [Sings.] + Wear not the ring, + For Death’s a robber-king, + Ding, [etc.] + There’s no trinket + Is what you think it, + What you think it, + Ding-a-dong, [etc.] + + [SAV. throws ring in LUC.‘s face. Enter POPE JULIUS II, with Papal + army.] + POPE + Arrest that man and woman! + [Re-enter Guelfs and Ghibellines fighting. SAV. and LUC. are arrested + by Papal officers. Enter MICHAEL ANGELO. ANDREA DEL SARTO appears for a + moment at a window. PIPPA passes. Brothers of the Misericordia go by, + singing a Requiem for Francesca da Rimini. Enter BOCCACCIO, BENVENUTO + CELLINI, and many others, making remarks highly characteristic of + themselves but scarcely audible through the terrific thunderstorm + which now bursts over Florence and is at its loudest and darkest + crisis as the Curtain falls.] +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ACT IV + + TIME: Three hours later. + SCENE: A Dungeon on the ground-floor of the Palazzo Civico. + + The stage is bisected from top to bottom by a wall, on one side of + which is seen the interior of LUCREZIA’S cell, on the other that of + SAVONAROLA’S. + + Neither he nor she knows that the other is in the next cell. The + audience, however, knows this. + + Each cell (because of the width and height of the proscenium) is of + more than the average Florentine size, but is bare even to the point + of severity, its sole amenities being some straw, a hunk of bread, and + a stone pitcher. The door of each is facing the audience. Dimish + light. + + LUCREZIA wears long and clanking chains on her wrists, as does also + SAVONAROLA. Imprisonment has left its mark on both of them. SAVONAROLA’S + hair has turned white. His whole aspect is that of a very old, old + man. LUCREZIA looks no older than before, but has gone mad. + + SAV. + Alas, how long ago this morning seems + This evening! A thousand thousand eons + Are scarce the measure of the gulf betwixt + My then and now. Methinks I must have been + Here since the dim creation of the world + And never in that interval have seen + The tremulous hawthorn burgeon in the brake, + Nor heard the hum o’ bees, nor woven chains + Of buttercups on Mount Fiesole + What time the sap lept in the cypresses, + Imbuing with the friskfulness of Spring + Those melancholy trees. I do forget + The aspect of the sun. Yet I was born + A freeman, and the Saints of Heaven smiled + Down on my crib. What would my sire have said, + And what my dam, had anybody told them + The time would come when I should occupy + A felon’s cell? O the disgrace of it + The scandal, the incredible come-down! + It masters me. I see i’ my mind’s eye + The public prints—‘Sharp Sentence on a Monk.’ + What then? I thought I was of sterner stuff + Than is affrighted by what people think. + Yet thought I so because ‘twas thought of me, + And so ‘twas thought of me because I had + A hawk-like profile and a baleful eye. + Lo! my soul’s chin recedes, soft to the touch + As half-churn’d butter. Seeming hawk is dove, + And dove’s a gaol-bird now. Fie out upon ‘t! + + LUC. + How comes it? I am Empress Dowager + Of China—yet was never crown’d. This must + Be seen to. + [Quickly gathers some straw and weaves a crown, which she puts on.] + + SAV. + O, what a degringolade! + The great career I had mapp’d out for me— + Nipp’d i’ the bud. What life, when I come out, + Awaits me? Why, the very Novices + And callow Postulants will draw aside + As I pass by, and say ‘That man hath done + Time!’ And yet shall I wince? The worst of Time + Is not in having done it, but in doing ‘t. + + LUC. + Ha, ha, ha, ha! Eleven billion pig-tails + Do tremble at my nod imperial,— + The which is as it should be. + + SAV. + I have heard + That gaolers oft are willing to carouse + With them they watch o’er, and do sink at last + Into a drunken sleep, and then’s the time + To snatch the keys and make a bid for freedom. + Gaoler! Ho, Gaoler! + [Sounds of lock being turned and bolts withdrawn. Enter the Borgias’ + FOOL, in plain clothes, carrying bunch of keys.] + I have seen thy face + Before. + + FOOL + I saved thy life this afternoon, Sir. + + SAV. + Thou art the Borgias’ Fool? + + FOOL + Say rather, was. + Unfortunately I have been discharg’d + For my betrayal of Lucrezia, + So that I have to speak like other men— + Decasyllabically, and with sense. + An hour ago the gaoler of this dungeon + Died of an apoplexy. Hearing which, + I ask’d for and obtain’d his billet. + + SAV. + Fetch + A stoup o’ liquor for thyself and me. + [Exit GAOLER.] + Freedom! there’s nothing that thy votaries + Grudge in the cause of thee. That decent man + Is doom’d by me to lose his place again + To-morrow morning when he wakes from out + His hoggish slumber. Yet I care not. + [Re-enter GAOLER with a leathern bottle and two glasses.] + Ho! + This is the stuff to warm our vitals, this + The panacea for all mortal ills + And sure elixir of eternal youth. + Drink, bonniman! + [GAOLER drains a glass and shows signs of instant intoxication. SAV. + claps him on shoulder and replenishes glass. GAOLER drinks again, lies + down on floor, and snores. SAV. snatches the bunch of keys, laughs + long but silently, and creeps out on tip-toe, leaving door ajar. + LUC. meanwhile has lain down on the straw in her cell, and fallen + asleep. + Noise of bolts being shot back, jangling of keys, grating of lock, and + the door of LUC.‘S cell flies open. SAV. takes two steps across the + threshold, his arms outstretched and his upturned face transfigured + with a great joy.] + How sweet the open air + Leaps to my nostrils! O the good brown earth + That yields once more to my elastic tread + And laves these feet with its remember’d dew! + [Takes a few more steps, still looking upwards.] + Free!—I am free! O naked arc of heaven, + Enspangled with innumerable—no, + Stars are not there. Yet neither are there clouds! + The thing looks like a ceiling! [Gazes downward.] And this thing + Looks like a floor. [Gazes around.] And that white bundle yonder + Looks curiously like Lucrezia. + [LUC. awakes at sound of her name, and sits up sane.] + There must be some mistake. + + LUC. [Rises to her feet.] + There is indeed! + A pretty sort of prison I have come to, + In which a self-respecting lady’s cell + Is treated as a lounge! + + SAV. + I had no notion + You were in here. I thought I was out there. + I will explain—but first I’ll make amends. + Here are the keys by which your durance ends. + The gate is somewhere in this corridor, + And so good-bye to this interior! + [Exeunt SAV. and LUC. Noise, a moment later, of a key grating in a + lock, then of gate creaking on its hinges; triumphant laughs of + fugitives; loud slamming of gate behind them. + In SAV.‘s cell the GAOLER starts in his sleep, turns his face to the + wall, and snores more than ever deeply. Through open door comes a + cloaked figure.] + + CLOAKED FIGURE + Sleep on, Savonarola, and awake + Not in this dungeon but in ruby Hell! + [Stabs Gaoler, whose snores cease abruptly. Enter POPE JULIUS II, with + Papal retinue carrying torches. MURDERER steps quickly back into + shadow.] + + POPE [To body of GAOLER.] + Savonarola, I am come to taunt + Thee in thy misery and dire abjection. + Rise, Sir, and hear me out. + + MURD. [Steps forward.] + Great Julius, + Waste not thy breath. Savonarola’s dead. + I murder’d him. + + POPE + Thou hadst no right to do so. + Who art thou, pray? + + MURD. + Cesare Borgia, + Lucrezia’s brother, and I claim a brother’s + Right to assassinate whatever man + Shall wantonly and in cold blood reject + Her timid offer of a poison’d ring. + + POPE + Of this anon. + [Stands over body of GAOLER.] + Our present business + Is general woe. No nobler corse hath ever + Impress’d the ground. O let the trumpets speak it! + [Flourish of trumpets.] + This was the noblest of the Florentines. + His character was flawless, and the world + Held not his parallel. O bear him hence + With all such honours as our State can offer. + He shall interred be with noise of cannon, + As doth befit so militant a nature. + Prepare these obsequies. + [Papal officers lift body of GAOLER.] + + A PAPAL OFFICER + But this is not + Savonarola. It is some one else. + + CESARE + Lo! ‘tis none other than the Fool that I + Hoof’d from my household but two hours agone. + I deem’d him no good riddance, for he had + The knack of setting tables on a roar. + What shadows we pursue! Good night, sweet Fool, + And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest! + + POPE + Interred shall he be with signal pomp. + No honour is too great that we can pay him. + He leaves the world a vacuum. Meanwhile, + Go we in chase of the accursed villain + That hath made escapado from this cell. + To horse! Away! We’ll scour the country round + For Sav’narola till we hold him bound. + Then shall you see a cinder, not a man, + Beneath the lightnings of the Vatican! + [Flourish, alarums and excursions, flashes of Vatican lightning, roll + of drums, etc. Through open door of cell is led in a large milk-white + horse, which the POPE mounts as the Curtain falls.] +</pre> + <p> + Remember, please, before you formulate your impressions, that saying of + Brown’s: ‘The thing must be judged as a whole.’ I like to think that + whatever may seem amiss to us in these Four Acts of his would have been + righted by collation with that Fifth which he did not live to achieve. + </p> + <p> + I like, too, to measure with my eyes the yawning gulf between stage and + study. Very different from the message of cold print to our imagination + are the messages of flesh and blood across footlights to our eyes and + ears. In the warmth and brightness of a crowded theatre ‘Savonarola’ + might, for aught one knows, seem perfect. ‘Then why,’ I hear my gentle + readers asking, ‘did you thrust the play on US, and not on a theatrical + manager?’ + </p> + <p> + That question has a false assumption in it. In the course of the past + eight years I have thrust ‘Savonarola’ on any number of theatrical + managers. They have all of them been (to use the technical phrase) ‘very + kind.’ All have seen great merits in the work; and if I added together all + the various merits thus seen I should have no doubt that ‘Savonarola’ was + the best play never produced. The point on which all the managers are + unanimous is that they have no use for a play without an ending. This is + why I have fallen back, at last, on gentle readers, whom now I hear asking + why I did not, as Brown’s literary executor, try to finish the play + myself. Can they never ask a question without a false assumption in it? I + did try, hard, to finish ‘Savonarola.’ + </p> + <p> + Artistically, of course, the making of such an attempt was indefensible. + Humanly, not so. It is clear throughout the play—especially perhaps + in Acts III and IV—that if Brown had not steadfastly in his mind the + hope of production on the stage, he had nothing in his mind at all. + Horrified though he would have been by the idea of letting me kill his + Monk, he would rather have done even this than doom his play to + everlasting unactedness. I took, therefore, my courage in both hands, and + made out a scenario.... + </p> + <p> + Dawn on summit of Mount Fiesole. Outspread view of Florence (Duomo, + Giotto’s Tower, etc.) as seen from that eminence.—NICCOLO + MACHIAVELLI, asleep on grass, wakes as sun rises. Deplores his exile from + Florence, LORENZO’S unappeasable hostility, etc. Wonders if he could not + somehow secure the POPE’S favour. Very cynical. Breaks off: But who are + these that scale the mountain-side? | Savonarola and Lucrezia | Borgia!—Enter + through a trap-door, back c. [trap-door veiled from audience by a grassy + ridge], SAV. and LUC. Both gasping and footsore from their climb. [Still, + with chains on their wrists? or not?]—MACH. steps unobserved behind + a cypress and listens.—SAV. has a speech to the rising sun—Th’ + effulgent hope that westers from the east | Daily. Says that his hope, on + the contrary, lies in escape To that which easters not from out the west, + | That fix’d abode of freedom which men call | America! Very bitter + against POPE.—LUC. says that she, for her part, means To start + afresh in that uncharted land | Which austers not from out the antipod, | + Australia!—Exit MACH., unobserved, down trap-door behind ridge, to + betray LUC. and SAV.—Several longish speeches by SAV. and LUC. Time + is thus given for MACH. to get into touch with POPE, and time for POPE and + retinue to reach the slope of Fiesole. SAV., glancing down across ridge, + sees these sleuth-hounds, points them out to LUC. and cries Bewray’d! LUC. + By whom? SAV. I know not, but suspect | The hand of that sleek serpent + Niccolo | Machiavelli.—SAV. and LUC. rush down c., but find their + way barred by the footlights.—LUC. We will not be ta’en Alive. And + here availeth us my lore | In what pertains to poison. Yonder herb | + [points to a herb growing down r.] Is deadly nightshade. Quick, Monk! + Pluck we it!—SAV. and LUC. die just as POPE appears over ridge, + followed by retinue in full cry.—POPE’S annoyance at being foiled is + quickly swept away on the great wave of Shakespearean chivalry and charity + that again rises in him. He gives SAV. a funeral oration similar to the + one meant for him in Act IV, but even more laudatory and more stricken. Of + LUC., too, he enumerates the virtues, and hints that the whole terrestrial + globe shall be hollowed to receive her bones. Ends by saying: In deference + to this our double sorrow | Sun shall not shine to-day nor shine + to-morrow.—Sun drops quickly back behind eastern horizon, leaving a + great darkness on which the Curtain slowly falls. + </p> + <p> + All this might be worse, yes. The skeleton passes muster. But in the + attempt to incarnate and ensanguine it I failed wretchedly. I saw that + Brown was, in comparison with me, a master. Thinking I might possibly fare + better in his method of work than in my own, I threw the skeleton into a + cupboard, sat down, and waited to see what Savonarola and those others + would do. + </p> + <p> + They did absolutely nothing. I sat watching them, pen in hand, ready to + record their slightest movement. Not a little finger did they raise. Yet I + knew they must be alive. Brown had always told me they were quite + independent of him. Absurd to suppose that by the accident of his own + death they had ceased to breathe.... Now and then, overcome with + weariness, I dozed at my desk, and whenever I woke I felt that these rigid + creatures had been doing all sorts of wonderful things while my eyes were + shut. I felt that they disliked me. I came to dislike them in return, and + forbade them my room. + </p> + <p> + Some of you, my readers, might have better luck with them than I. Invite + them, propitiate them, watch them! The writer of the best Fifth Act sent + to me shall have his work tacked on to Brown’s; and I suppose I could get + him a free pass for the second night. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Seven Men, by Max Beerbohm + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SEVEN MEN *** + +***** This file should be named 1306-h.htm or 1306-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/3/0/1306/ + +Produced by Tom Weiss, and David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project +Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at +http://gutenberg.org/license). + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation” + or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project +Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +“Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.” + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +“Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right +of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’ WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm’s +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org. + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at +http://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws. + +The Foundation’s principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at +809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email +business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact +information can be found at the Foundation’s web site and official +page at http://pglaf.org + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit http://pglaf.org + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. +To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + http://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + + +</pre> + </body> +</html> diff --git a/old/1306.txt b/old/1306.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2cf54dd --- /dev/null +++ b/old/1306.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4102 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Seven Men, by Max Beerbohm + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Seven Men + +Author: Max Beerbohm + +Posting Date: September 15, 2008 [EBook #1306] +Release Date: May, 1998 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SEVEN MEN *** + + + + +Produced by Tom Weiss + + + + + + + + + +SEVEN MEN + +by Max Beerbohm + + + + + Transcriber's Note: + From the version of "Seven Men" published in 1919 by William + Heinemann (London). Two of the stories have been omitted + ("James Pethel" and "A.V. Laider") since they are available + separately from Project Gutenberg. + + In this plain ASCII version, emphasis and syllable + stress italics have been converted to capitals; foreign italics and accents + have been removed + + In "Enoch Soames:" + I added a missing closing quotation mark in the following + phrase: 'Ten past two,' he said. + + In "Hilary Maltby and Stephen Braxton:" + I changed the opening double quote to a single quote in: + 'I wondered what old Mr. Abraham Hayward... + and + 'I knew that if I leaned forward... + + + + +ENOCH SOAMES + + + + +When a book about the literature of the eighteen-nineties was given by +Mr. Holbrook Jackson to the world, I looked eagerly in the index for +SOAMES, ENOCH. I had feared he would not be there. He was not there. +But everybody else was. Many writers whom I had quite forgotten, or +remembered but faintly, lived again for me, they and their work, in Mr. +Holbrook Jackson's pages. The book was as thorough as it was brilliantly +written. And thus the omission found by me was an all the deadlier +record of poor Soames' failure to impress himself on his decade. + +I daresay I am the only person who noticed the omission. Soames had +failed so piteously as all that! Nor is there a counterpoise in the +thought that if he had had some measure of success he might have passed, +like those others, out of my mind, to return only at the historian's +beck. It is true that had his gifts, such as they were, been +acknowledged in his life-time, he would never have made the bargain I +saw him make--that strange bargain whose results have kept him always in +the foreground of my memory. But it is from those very results that the +full piteousness of him glares out. + +Not my compassion, however, impels me to write of him. For his sake, +poor fellow, I should be inclined to keep my pen out of the ink. It is +ill to deride the dead. And how can I write about Enoch Soames without +making him ridiculous? Or rather, how am I to hush up the horrid fact +that he WAS ridiculous? I shall not be able to do that. Yet, sooner or +later, write about him I must. You will see, in due course, that I have +no option. And I may as well get the thing done now. + + +In the Summer Term of '93 a bolt from the blue flashed down on Oxford. +It drove deep, it hurtlingly embedded itself in the soil. Dons and +undergraduates stood around, rather pale, discussing nothing but it. +Whence came it, this meteorite? From Paris. Its name? Will Rothenstein. +Its aim? To do a series of twenty-four portraits in lithograph. These +were to be published from the Bodley Head, London. The matter was +urgent. Already the Warden of A, and the Master of B, and the Regius +Professor of C, had meekly 'sat.' Dignified and doddering old men, who +had never consented to sit to any one, could not withstand this dynamic +little stranger. He did not sue: he invited; he did not invite: he +commanded. He was twenty-one years old. He wore spectacles that flashed +more than any other pair ever seen. He was a wit. He was brimful of +ideas. He knew Whistler. He knew Edmond de Goncourt. He knew every one +in Paris. He knew them all by heart. He was Paris in Oxford. It was +whispered that, so soon as he had polished off his selection of dons, +he was going to include a few undergraduates. It was a proud day for me +when I--I--was included. I liked Rothenstein not less than I feared him; +and there arose between us a friendship that has grown ever warmer, and +been more and more valued by me, with every passing year. + +At the end of Term he settled in--or rather, meteoritically +into--London. It was to him I owed my first knowledge of that forever +enchanting little world-in-itself, Chelsea, and my first acquaintance +with Walter Sickert and other august elders who dwelt there. It was +Rothenstein that took me to see, in Cambridge Street, Pimlico, a young +man whose drawings were already famous among the few--Aubrey Beardsley, +by name. With Rothenstein I paid my first visit to the Bodley Head. +By him I was inducted into another haunt of intellect and daring, the +domino room of the Cafe Royal. + +There, on that October evening--there, in that exuberant vista of +gilding and crimson velvet set amidst all those opposing mirrors and +upholding caryatids, with fumes of tobacco ever rising to the painted +and pagan ceiling, and with the hum of presumably cynical conversation +broken into so sharply now and again by the clatter of dominoes shuffled +on marble tables, I drew a deep breath, and 'This indeed,' said I to +myself, 'is life!' + +It was the hour before dinner. We drank vermouth. Those who knew +Rothenstein were pointing him out to those who knew him only by name. +Men were constantly coming in through the swing-doors and wandering +slowly up and down in search of vacant tables, or of tables occupied by +friends. One of these rovers interested me because I was sure he wanted +to catch Rothenstein's eye. He had twice passed our table, with a +hesitating look; but Rothenstein, in the thick of a disquisition on +Puvis de Chavannes, had not seen him. He was a stooping, shambling +person, rather tall, very pale, with longish and brownish hair. He had +a thin vague beard--or rather, he had a chin on which a large number +of hairs weakly curled and clustered to cover its retreat. He was an +odd-looking person; but in the 'nineties odd apparitions were more +frequent, I think, than they are now. The young writers of that era--and +I was sure this man was a writer--strove earnestly to be distinct in +aspect. This man had striven unsuccessfully. He wore a soft black hat +of clerical kind but of Bohemian intention, and a grey waterproof cape +which, perhaps because it was waterproof, failed to be romantic. I +decided that 'dim' was the mot juste for him. I had already essayed to +write, and was immensely keen on the mot juste, that Holy Grail of the +period. + +The dim man was now again approaching our table, and this time he made +up his mind to pause in front of it. 'You don't remember me,' he said in +a toneless voice. + +Rothenstein brightly focussed him. 'Yes, I do,' he replied after a +moment, with pride rather than effusion--pride in a retentive memory. +'Edwin Soames.' + +'Enoch Soames,' said Enoch. + +'Enoch Soames,' repeated Rothenstein in a tone implying that it was +enough to have hit on the surname. 'We met in Paris two or three times +when you were living there. We met at the Cafe Groche.' + +'And I came to your studio once.' + +'Oh yes; I was sorry I was out.' + +'But you were in. You showed me some of your paintings, you know.... I +hear you're in Chelsea now.' + +'Yes.' + +I almost wondered that Mr. Soames did not, after this monosyllable, pass +along. He stood patiently there, rather like a dumb animal, rather like +a donkey looking over a gate. A sad figure, his. It occurred to me that +'hungry' was perhaps the mot juste for him; but--hungry for what? He +looked as if he had little appetite for anything. I was sorry for him; +and Rothenstein, though he had not invited him to Chelsea, did ask him +to sit down and have something to drink. + +Seated, he was more self-assertive. He flung back the wings of his cape +with a gesture which--had not those wings been waterproof--might +have seemed to hurl defiance at things in general. And he ordered an +absinthe. 'Je me tiens toujours fidele,' he told Rothenstein, 'a la +sorciere glauque.' + +'It is bad for you,' said Rothenstein dryly. + +'Nothing is bad for one,' answered Soames. 'Dans ce monde il n'y a ni de +bien ni de mal.' + +'Nothing good and nothing bad? How do you mean?' + +'I explained it all in the preface to "Negations."' + +'"Negations"?' + +'Yes; I gave you a copy of it.' + +'Oh yes, of course. But did you explain--for instance--that there was no +such thing as bad or good grammar?' + +'N-no,' said Soames. 'Of course in Art there is the good and the evil. +But in Life--no.' He was rolling a cigarette. He had weak white hands, +not well washed, and with finger-tips much stained by nicotine. 'In Life +there are illusions of good and evil, but'--his voice trailed away to a +murmur in which the words 'vieux jeu' and 'rococo' were faintly audible. +I think he felt he was not doing himself justice, and feared that +Rothenstein was going to point out fallacies. Anyhow, he cleared his +throat and said 'Parlons d'autre chose.' + +It occurs to you that he was a fool? It didn't to me. I was young, and +had not the clarity of judgment that Rothenstein already had. Soames was +quite five or six years older than either of us. Also, he had written a +book. + +It was wonderful to have written a book. + +If Rothenstein had not been there, I should have revered Soames. Even as +it was, I respected him. And I was very near indeed to reverence when +he said he had another book coming out soon. I asked if I might ask what +kind of book it was to be. + +'My poems,' he answered. Rothenstein asked if this was to be the title +of the book. The poet meditated on this suggestion, but said he rather +thought of giving the book no title at all. 'If a book is good in +itself--' he murmured, waving his cigarette. + +Rothenstein objected that absence of title might be bad for the sale +of a book. 'If,' he urged, 'I went into a bookseller's and said simply +"Have you got?" or "Have you a copy of?" how would they know what I +wanted?' + +'Oh, of course I should have my name on the cover,' Soames answered +earnestly. 'And I rather want,' he added, looking hard at Rothenstein, +'to have a drawing of myself as frontispiece.' Rothenstein admitted +that this was a capital idea, and mentioned that he was going into the +country and would be there for some time. He then looked at his watch, +exclaimed at the hour, paid the waiter, and went away with me to dinner. +Soames remained at his post of fidelity to the glaucous witch. + +'Why were you so determined not to draw him?' I asked. + +'Draw him? Him? How can one draw a man who doesn't exist?' + +'He is dim,' I admitted. But my mot juste fell flat. Rothenstein +repeated that Soames was non-existent. + +Still, Soames had written a book. I asked if Rothenstein had read +'Negations.' He said he had looked into it, 'but,' he added crisply, +'I don't profess to know anything about writing.' A reservation very +characteristic of the period! Painters would not then allow that any one +outside their own order had a right to any opinion about painting. This +law (graven on the tablets brought down by Whistler from the summit of +Fujiyama) imposed certain limitations. If other arts than painting were +not utterly unintelligible to all but the men who practised them, +the law tottered--the Monroe Doctrine, as it were, did not hold good. +Therefore no painter would offer an opinion of a book without warning +you at any rate that his opinion was worthless. No one is a better judge +of literature than Rothenstein; but it wouldn't have done to tell him +so in those days; and I knew that I must form an unaided judgment on +'Negations.' + +Not to buy a book of which I had met the author face to face would +have been for me in those days an impossible act of self-denial. When +I returned to Oxford for the Christmas Term I had duly secured +'Negations.' I used to keep it lying carelessly on the table in my room, +and whenever a friend took it up and asked what it was about I would +say 'Oh, it's rather a remarkable book. It's by a man whom I know.' Just +'what it was about' I never was able to say. Head or tail was just what +I hadn't made of that slim green volume. I found in the preface no clue +to the exiguous labyrinth of contents, and in that labyrinth nothing to +explain the preface. + + +'Lean near to life. Lean very near--nearer. + +'Life is web, and therein nor warp nor woof is, but web only. + +'It is for this I am Catholick in church and in thought, yet do let +swift Mood weave there what the shuttle of Mood wills.' + + +These were the opening phrases of the preface, but those which followed +were less easy to understand. Then came 'Stark: A Conte,' about a +midinette who, so far as I could gather, murdered, or was about to +murder, a mannequin. It was rather like a story by Catulle Mendes in +which the translator had either skipped or cut out every alternate +sentence. Next, a dialogue between Pan and St. Ursula--lacking, I felt, +in 'snap.' Next, some aphorisms (entitled 'Aphorismata' [spelled in +Greek]). Throughout, in fact, there was a great variety of form; and +the forms had evidently been wrought with much care. It was rather the +substance that eluded me. Was there, I wondered, any substance at all? +It did now occur to me: suppose Enoch Soames was a fool! Up cropped a +rival hypothesis: suppose _I_ was! I inclined to give Soames the benefit +of the doubt. I had read 'L'Apres-midi d'un Faune' without extracting a +glimmer of meaning. Yet Mallarme--of course--was a Master. How was I to +know that Soames wasn't another? There was a sort of music in his +prose, not indeed arresting, but perhaps, I thought, haunting, and laden +perhaps with meanings as deep as Mallarme's own. I awaited his poems +with an open mind. + +And I looked forward to them with positive impatience after I had had a +second meeting with him. This was on an evening in January. Going into +the aforesaid domino room, I passed a table at which sat a pale man with +an open book before him. He looked from his book to me, and I looked +back over my shoulder with a vague sense that I ought to have recognised +him. I returned to pay my respects. After exchanging a few words, I said +with a glance to the open book, 'I see I am interrupting you,' and was +about to pass on, but 'I prefer,' Soames replied in his toneless voice, +'to be interrupted,' and I obeyed his gesture that I should sit down. + +I asked him if he often read here. 'Yes; things of this kind I read +here,' he answered, indicating the title of his book--'The Poems of +Shelley.' + +'Anything that you really'--and I was going to say 'admire?' But I +cautiously left my sentence unfinished, and was glad that I had done so, +for he said, with unwonted emphasis, 'Anything second-rate.' + +I had read little of Shelley, but 'Of course,' I murmured, 'he's very +uneven.' + +'I should have thought evenness was just what was wrong with him. A +deadly evenness. That's why I read him here. The noise of this place +breaks the rhythm. He's tolerable here.' Soames took up the book and +glanced through the pages. He laughed. Soames' laugh was a short, single +and mirthless sound from the throat, unaccompanied by any movement of +the face or brightening of the eyes. 'What a period!' he uttered, laying +the book down. And 'What a country!' he added. + +I asked rather nervously if he didn't think Keats had more or less held +his own against the drawbacks of time and place. He admitted that there +were 'passages in Keats,' but did not specify them. Of 'the older men,' +as he called them, he seemed to like only Milton. 'Milton,' he said, +'wasn't sentimental.' Also, 'Milton had a dark insight.' And again, 'I +can always read Milton in the reading-room.' + +'The reading-room?' + +'Of the British Museum. I go there every day.' + +'You do? I've only been there once. I'm afraid I found it rather a +depressing place. It--it seemed to sap one's vitality.' + +'It does. That's why I go there. The lower one's vitality, the more +sensitive one is to great art. I live near the Museum. I have rooms in +Dyott Street.' + +'And you go round to the reading-room to read Milton?' + +'Usually Milton.' He looked at me. 'It was Milton,' he certificatively +added, 'who converted me to Diabolism.' + +'Diabolism? Oh yes? Really?' said I, with that vague discomfort and that +intense desire to be polite which one feels when a man speaks of his own +religion. 'You--worship the Devil?' + +Soames shook his head. 'It's not exactly worship,' he qualified, sipping +his absinthe. 'It's more a matter of trusting and encouraging.' + +'Ah, yes.... But I had rather gathered from the preface to "Negations" +that you were a--a Catholic.' + +'Je l'etais a cette epoque. Perhaps I still am. Yes, I'm a Catholic +Diabolist.' + +This profession he made in an almost cursory tone. I could see that what +was upmost in his mind was the fact that I had read 'Negations.' His +pale eyes had for the first time gleamed. I felt as one who is about to +be examined, viva voce, on the very subject in which he is shakiest. I +hastily asked him how soon his poems were to be published. 'Next week,' +he told me. + +'And are they to be published without a title?' + +'No. I found a title, at last. But I shan't tell you what it is,' as +though I had been so impertinent as to inquire. 'I am not sure that +it wholly satisfies me. But it is the best I can find. It suggests +something of the quality of the poems.... Strange growths, natural and +wild, yet exquisite,' he added, 'and many-hued, and full of poisons.' + +I asked him what he thought of Baudelaire. He uttered the snort that +was his laugh, and 'Baudelaire,' he said, 'was a bourgeois malgre lui.' +France had had only one poet: Villon; 'and two-thirds of Villon were +sheer journalism.' Verlaine was 'an epicier malgre lui.' Altogether, +rather to my surprise, he rated French literature lower than English. +There were 'passages' in Villiers de l'Isle-Adam. But 'I,' he summed up, +'owe nothing to France.' He nodded at me. 'You'll see,' he predicted. + +I did not, when the time came, quite see that. I thought the author of +'Fungoids' did--unconsciously, of course--owe something to the young +Parisian decadents, or to the young English ones who owed something to +THEM. I still think so. The little book--bought by me in Oxford--lies +before me as I write. Its pale grey buckram cover and silver lettering +have not worn well. Nor have its contents. Through these, with a +melancholy interest, I have again been looking. They are not much. But +at the time of their publication I had a vague suspicion that they MIGHT +be. I suppose it is my capacity for faith, not poor Soames' work, that +is weaker than it once was.... + + + TO A YOUNG WOMAN. + + Thou art, who hast not been! + Pale tunes irresolute + And traceries of old sounds + Blown from a rotted flute + Mingle with noise of cymbals rouged with rust, + Nor not strange forms and epicene + Lie bleeding in the dust, + Being wounded with wounds. + + For this it is + That in thy counterpart + Of age-long mockeries + Thou hast not been nor art! + + +There seemed to me a certain inconsistency as between the first and last +lines of this. I tried, with bent brows, to resolve the discord. But I +did not take my failure as wholly incompatible with a meaning in Soames' +mind. Might it not rather indicate the depth of his meaning? As for the +craftsmanship, 'rouged with rust' seemed to me a fine stroke, and 'nor +not' instead of 'and' had a curious felicity. I wondered who the Young +Woman was, and what she had made of it all. I sadly suspect that Soames +could not have made more of it than she. Yet, even now, if one doesn't +try to make any sense at all of the poem, and reads it just for the +sound, there is a certain grace of cadence. Soames was an artist--in so +far as he was anything, poor fellow! + +It seemed to me, when first I read 'Fungoids,' that, oddly enough, the +Diabolistic side of him was the best. Diabolism seemed to be a cheerful, +even a wholesome, influence in his life. + + + NOCTURNE. + + Round and round the shutter'd Square + I stroll'd with the Devil's arm in mine. + No sound but the scrape of his hoofs was there + And the ring of his laughter and mine. + We had drunk black wine. + + I scream'd, 'I will race you, Master!' + 'What matter,' he shriek'd, 'to-night + Which of us runs the faster? + There is nothing to fear to-night + In the foul moon's light!' + + Then I look'd him in the eyes, + And I laugh'd full shrill at the lie he told + And the gnawing fear he would fain disguise. + It was true, what I'd time and again been told: + He was old--old. + + +There was, I felt, quite a swing about that first stanza--a joyous +and rollicking note of comradeship. The second was slightly hysterical +perhaps. But I liked the third: it was so bracingly unorthodox, even +according to the tenets of Soames' peculiar sect in the faith. Not much +'trusting and encouraging' here! Soames triumphantly exposing the Devil +as a liar, and laughing 'full shrill,' cut a quite heartening figure, +I thought--then! Now, in the light of what befell, none of his poems +depresses me so much as 'Nocturne.' + +I looked out for what the metropolitan reviewers would have to say. They +seemed to fall into two classes: those who had little to say and those +who had nothing. The second class was the larger, and the words of the +first were cold; insomuch that + + Strikes a note of modernity throughout.... These tripping + numbers.--Preston Telegraph + +was the only lure offered in advertisements by Soames' publisher. I had +hopes that when next I met the poet I could congratulate him on having +made a stir; for I fancied he was not so sure of his intrinsic greatness +as he seemed. I was but able to say, rather coarsely, when next I did +see him, that I hoped 'Fungoids' was 'selling splendidly.' He looked at +me across his glass of absinthe and asked if I had bought a copy. His +publisher had told him that three had been sold. I laughed, as at a +jest. + +'You don't suppose I CARE, do you?' he said, with something like a +snarl. I disclaimed the notion. He added that he was not a tradesman. I +said mildly that I wasn't, either, and murmured that an artist who gave +truly new and great things to the world had always to wait long for +recognition. He said he cared not a sou for recognition. I agreed that +the act of creation was its own reward. + +His moroseness might have alienated me if I had regarded myself as a +nobody. But ah! hadn't both John Lane and Aubrey Beardsley suggested +that I should write an essay for the great new venture that was +afoot--'The Yellow Book'? And hadn't Henry Harland, as editor, accepted +my essay? And wasn't it to be in the very first number? At Oxford I +was still in statu pupillari. In London I regarded myself as very much +indeed a graduate now--one whom no Soames could ruffle. Partly to show +off, partly in sheer good-will, I told Soames he ought to contribute to +'The Yellow Book.' He uttered from the throat a sound of scorn for that +publication. + +Nevertheless, I did, a day or two later, tentatively ask Harland if he +knew anything of the work of a man called Enoch Soames. Harland paused +in the midst of his characteristic stride around the room, threw up his +hands towards the ceiling, and groaned aloud: he had often met 'that +absurd creature' in Paris, and this very morning had received some poems +in manuscript from him. + +'Has he NO talent?' I asked. + +'He has an income. He's all right.' Harland was the most joyous of men +and most generous of critics, and he hated to talk of anything about +which he couldn't be enthusiastic. So I dropped the subject of Soames. +The news that Soames had an income did take the edge off solicitude. I +learned afterwards that he was the son of an unsuccessful and deceased +bookseller in Preston, but had inherited an annuity of 300 pounds from +a married aunt, and had no surviving relatives of any kind. Materially, +then, he was 'all right.' But there was still a spiritual pathos about +him, sharpened for me now by the possibility that even the praises of +The Preston Telegraph might not have been forthcoming had he not been +the son of a Preston man. He had a sort of weak doggedness which I +could not but admire. Neither he nor his work received the slightest +encouragement; but he persisted in behaving as a personage: always +he kept his dingy little flag flying. Wherever congregated the +jeunes feroces of the arts, in whatever Soho restaurant they had just +discovered, in whatever music-hall they were most frequenting, there was +Soames in the midst of them, or rather on the fringe of them, a dim but +inevitable figure. He never sought to propitiate his fellow-writers, +never bated a jot of his arrogance about his own work or of his contempt +for theirs. To the painters he was respectful, even humble; but for the +poets and prosaists of 'The Yellow Book,' and later of 'The Savoy,' he +had never a word but of scorn. He wasn't resented. It didn't occur to +anybody that he or his Catholic Diabolism mattered. When, in the autumn +of '96, he brought out (at his own expense, this time) a third book, his +last book, nobody said a word for or against it. I meant, but forgot, to +buy it. I never saw it, and am ashamed to say I don't even remember +what it was called. But I did, at the time of its publication, say to +Rothenstein that I thought poor old Soames was really a rather +tragic figure, and that I believed he would literally die for want of +recognition. Rothenstein scoffed. He said I was trying to get credit for +a kind heart which I didn't possess; and perhaps this was so. But at the +private view of the New English Art Club, a few weeks later, I beheld a +pastel portrait of 'Enoch Soames, Esq.' It was very like him, and very +like Rothenstein to have done it. Soames was standing near it, in his +soft hat and his waterproof cape, all through the afternoon. Anybody who +knew him would have recognised the portrait at a glance, but nobody who +didn't know him would have recognised the portrait from its bystander: +it 'existed' so much more than he; it was bound to. Also, it had not +that expression of faint happiness which on this day was discernible, +yes, in Soames' countenance. Fame had breathed on him. Twice again in +the course of the month I went to the New English, and on both occasions +Soames himself was on view there. Looking back, I regard the close of +that exhibition as having been virtually the close of his career. He had +felt the breath of Fame against his cheek--so late, for such a little +while; and at its withdrawal he gave in, gave up, gave out. He, who had +never looked strong or well, looked ghastly now--a shadow of the shade +he had once been. He still frequented the domino room, but, having lost +all wish to excite curiosity, he no longer read books there. 'You read +only at the Museum now?' asked I, with attempted cheerfulness. He said +he never went there now. 'No absinthe there,' he muttered. It was the +sort of thing that in the old days he would have said for effect; but it +carried conviction now. Absinthe, erst but a point in the 'personality' +he had striven so hard to build up, was solace and necessity now. He no +longer called it 'la sorciere glauque.' He had shed away all his French +phrases. He had become a plain, unvarnished, Preston man. + +Failure, if it be a plain, unvarnished, complete failure, and even +though it be a squalid failure, has always a certain dignity. I avoided +Soames because he made me feel rather vulgar. John Lane had published, +by this time, two little books of mine, and they had had a pleasant +little success of esteem. I was a--slight but definite--'personality.' +Frank Harris had engaged me to kick up my heels in The Saturday Review, +Alfred Harmsworth was letting me do likewise in The Daily Mail. I was +just what Soames wasn't. And he shamed my gloss. Had I known that he +really and firmly believed in the greatness of what he as an artist +had achieved, I might not have shunned him. No man who hasn't lost his +vanity can be held to have altogether failed. Soames' dignity was an +illusion of mine. One day in the first week of June, 1897, that illusion +went. But on the evening of that day Soames went too. + +I had been out most of the morning, and, as it was too late to reach +home in time for luncheon, I sought 'the Vingtieme.' This little +place--Restaurant du Vingtieme Siecle, to give it its full title--had +been discovered in '96 by the poets and prosaists, but had now been more +or less abandoned in favour of some later find. I don't think it lived +long enough to justify its name; but at that time there it still was, in +Greek Street, a few doors from Soho Square, and almost opposite to that +house where, in the first years of the century, a little girl, and with +her a boy named De Quincey, made nightly encampment in darkness and +hunger among dust and rats and old legal parchments. The Vingtieme was +but a small whitewashed room, leading out into the street at one end and +into a kitchen at the other. The proprietor and cook was a Frenchman, +known to us as Monsieur Vingtieme; the waiters were his two daughters, +Rose and Berthe; and the food, according to faith, was good. The tables +were so narrow, and were set so close together, that there was space for +twelve of them, six jutting from either wall. + +Only the two nearest to the door, as I went in, were occupied. On one +side sat a tall, flashy, rather Mephistophelian man whom I had seen from +time to time in the domino room and elsewhere. On the other side sat +Soames. They made a queer contrast in that sunlit room--Soames sitting +haggard in that hat and cape which nowhere at any season had I seen him +doff, and this other, this keenly vital man, at sight of whom I more +than ever wondered whether he were a diamond merchant, a conjurer, or +the head of a private detective agency. I was sure Soames didn't want my +company; but I asked, as it would have seemed brutal not to, whether +I might join him, and took the chair opposite to his. He was smoking +a cigarette, with an untasted salmi of something on his plate and a +half-empty bottle of Sauterne before him; and he was quite silent. I +said that the preparations for the Jubilee made London impossible. (I +rather liked them, really.) I professed a wish to go right away till +the whole thing was over. In vain did I attune myself to his gloom. He +seemed not to hear me nor even to see me. I felt that his behaviour made +me ridiculous in the eyes of the other man. The gangway between the two +rows of tables at the Vingtieme was hardly more than two feet wide (Rose +and Berthe, in their ministrations, had always to edge past each other, +quarrelling in whispers as they did so), and any one at the table +abreast of yours was practically at yours. I thought our neighbour was +amused at my failure to interest Soames, and so, as I could not explain +to him that my insistence was merely charitable, I became silent. +Without turning my head, I had him well within my range of vision. I +hoped I looked less vulgar than he in contrast with Soames. I was sure +he was not an Englishman, but what WAS his nationality? Though his +jet-black hair was en brosse, I did not think he was French. To Berthe, +who waited on him, he spoke French fluently, but with a hardly native +idiom and accent. I gathered that this was his first visit to the +Vingtieme; but Berthe was off-hand in her manner to him: he had not made +a good impression. His eyes were handsome, but--like the Vingtieme's +tables--too narrow and set too close together. His nose was predatory, +and the points of his moustache, waxed up beyond his nostrils, gave +a fixity to his smile. Decidedly, he was sinister. And my sense of +discomfort in his presence was intensified by the scarlet waistcoat +which tightly, and so unseasonably in June, sheathed his ample chest. +This waistcoat wasn't wrong merely because of the heat, either. It was +somehow all wrong in itself. It wouldn't have done on Christmas morning. +It would have struck a jarring note at the first night of 'Hernani.' +I was trying to account for its wrongness when Soames suddenly and +strangely broke silence. 'A hundred years hence!' he murmured, as in a +trance. + +'We shall not be here!' I briskly but fatuously added. + +'We shall not be here. No,' he droned, 'but the Museum will still be +just where it is. And the reading-room, just where it is. And people +will be able to go and read there.' He inhaled sharply, and a spasm as +of actual pain contorted his features. + +I wondered what train of thought poor Soames had been following. He did +not enlighten me when he said, after a long pause, 'You think I haven't +minded.' + +'Minded what, Soames?' + +'Neglect. Failure.' + +'FAILURE?' I said heartily. 'Failure?' I repeated vaguely. +'Neglect--yes, perhaps; but that's quite another matter. Of course you +haven't been--appreciated. But what then? Any artist who--who gives--' +What I wanted to say was, 'Any artist who gives truly new and great +things to the world has always to wait long for recognition'; but the +flattery would not out: in the face of his misery, a misery so genuine +and so unmasked, my lips would not say the words. + +And then--he said them for me. I flushed. 'That's what you were going to +say, isn't it?' he asked. + +'How did you know?' + +'It's what you said to me three years ago, when "Fungoids" was +published.' I flushed the more. I need not have done so at all, for +'It's the only important thing I ever heard you say,' he continued. +'And I've never forgotten it. It's a true thing. It's a horrible truth. +But--d'you remember what I answered? I said "I don't care a sou for +recognition." And you believed me. You've gone on believing I'm above +that sort of thing. You're shallow. What should YOU know of the feelings +of a man like me? You imagine that a great artist's faith in himself and +in the verdict of posterity is enough to keep him happy.... You've never +guessed at the bitterness and loneliness, the'--his voice broke; but +presently he resumed, speaking with a force that I had never known in +him. 'Posterity! What use is it to ME? A dead man doesn't know that +people are visiting his grave--visiting his birthplace--putting up +tablets to him--unveiling statues of him. A dead man can't read the +books that are written about him. A hundred years hence! Think of it! +If I could come back to life then--just for a few hours--and go to the +reading-room, and READ! Or better still: if I could be projected, now, +at this moment, into that future, into that reading-room, just for this +one afternoon! I'd sell myself body and soul to the devil, for +that! Think of the pages and pages in the catalogue: "SOAMES, +ENOCH" endlessly--endless editions, commentaries, prolegomena, +biographies'--but here he was interrupted by a sudden loud creak of the +chair at the next table. Our neighbour had half risen from his place. He +was leaning towards us, apologetically intrusive. + +'Excuse--permit me,' he said softly. 'I have been unable not to hear. +Might I take a liberty? In this little restaurant-sans-facon'--he spread +wide his hands--'might I, as the phrase is, "cut in"?' + +I could but signify our acquiescence. Berthe had appeared at the kitchen +door, thinking the stranger wanted his bill. He waved her away with his +cigar, and in another moment had seated himself beside me, commanding a +full view of Soames. + +'Though not an Englishman,' he explained, 'I know my London well, Mr. +Soames. Your name and fame--Mr. Beerbohm's too--very known to me. Your +point is: who am _I_?' He glanced quickly over his shoulder, and in a +lowered voice said 'I am the Devil.' + +I couldn't help it: I laughed. I tried not to, I knew there was nothing +to laugh at, my rudeness shamed me, but--I laughed with increasing +volume. The Devil's quiet dignity, the surprise and disgust of his +raised eyebrows, did but the more dissolve me. I rocked to and fro, I +lay back aching. I behaved deplorably. + +'I am a gentleman, and,' he said with intense emphasis, 'I thought I was +in the company of GENTLEMEN.' + +'Don't!' I gasped faintly. 'Oh, don't!' + +'Curious, nicht wahr?' I heard him say to Soames. 'There is a type of +person to whom the very mention of my name is--oh-so-awfully-funny! In +your theatres the dullest comedian needs only to say "The Devil!" and +right away they give him "the loud laugh that speaks the vacant mind." +Is it not so?' + +I had now just breath enough to offer my apologies. He accepted them, +but coldly, and re-addressed himself to Soames. + +'I am a man of business,' he said, 'and always I would put things +through "right now," as they say in the States. You are a poet. Les +affaires--you detest them. So be it. But with me you will deal, eh? What +you have said just now gives me furiously to hope.' + +Soames had not moved, except to light a fresh cigarette. He sat crouched +forward, with his elbows squared on the table, and his head just above +the level of his hands, staring up at the Devil. 'Go on,' he nodded. I +had no remnant of laughter in me now. + +'It will be the more pleasant, our little deal,' the Devil went on, +'because you are--I mistake not?--a Diabolist.' + +'A Catholic Diabolist,' said Soames. + +The Devil accepted the reservation genially. 'You wish,' he resumed, 'to +visit now--this afternoon as-ever-is--the reading-room of the British +Museum, yes? but of a hundred years hence, yes? Parfaitement. Time--an +illusion. Past and future--they are as ever-present as the present, or +at any rate only what you call "just-round-the-corner." I switch you +on to any date. I project you--pouf! You wish to be in the reading-room +just as it will be on the afternoon of June 3, 1997? You wish to find +yourself standing in that room, just past the swing-doors, this very +minute, yes? and to stay there till closing time? Am I right?' + +Soames nodded. + +The Devil looked at his watch. 'Ten past two,' he said. 'Closing time in +summer same then as now: seven o'clock. That will give you almost five +hours. At seven o'clock--pouf!--you find yourself again here, sitting +at this table. I am dining to-night dans le monde--dans le higlif. That +concludes my present visit to your great city. I come and fetch you +here, Mr. Soames, on my way home.' + +'Home?' I echoed. + +'Be it never so humble!' said the Devil lightly. + +'All right,' said Soames. + +'Soames!' I entreated. But my friend moved not a muscle. + +The Devil had made as though to stretch forth his hand across the table +and touch Soames' forearm; but he paused in his gesture. + +'A hundred years hence, as now,' he smiled, 'no smoking allowed in the +reading-room. You would better therefore----' + +Soames removed the cigarette from his mouth and dropped it into his +glass of Sauterne. + +'Soames!' again I cried. 'Can't you'--but the Devil had now stretched +forth his hand across the table. He brought it slowly down on--the +tablecloth. Soames' chair was empty. His cigarette floated sodden in his +wine-glass. There was no other trace of him. + +For a few moments the Devil let his hand rest where it lay, gazing at me +out of the corners of his eyes, vulgarly triumphant. + +A shudder shook me. With an effort I controlled myself and rose from my +chair. 'Very clever,' I said condescendingly. 'But--"The Time Machine" +is a delightful book, don't you think? So entirely original!' + +'You are pleased to sneer,' said the Devil, who had also risen, 'but it +is one thing to write about an impossible machine; it is a quite other +thing to be a Supernatural Power.' All the same, I had scored. + +Berthe had come forth at the sound of our rising. I explained to her +that Mr. Soames had been called away, and that both he and I would be +dining here. It was not until I was out in the open air that I began to +feel giddy. I have but the haziest recollection of what I did, where I +wandered, in the glaring sunshine of that endless afternoon. I remember +the sound of carpenters' hammers all along Piccadilly, and the bare +chaotic look of the half-erected 'stands.' Was it in the Green Park, or +in Kensington Gardens, or WHERE was it that I sat on a chair beneath a +tree, trying to read an evening paper? There was a phrase in the leading +article that went on repeating itself in my fagged mind--'Little is +hidden from this august Lady full of the garnered wisdom of sixty years +of Sovereignty.' I remember wildly conceiving a letter (to reach Windsor +by express messenger told to await answer): + + +'MADAM,--Well knowing that your Majesty is full of the garnered wisdom +of sixty years of Sovereignty, I venture to ask your advice in the +following delicate matter. Mr. Enoch Soames, whose poems you may or may +not know,'.... + + +Was there NO way of helping him--saving him? A bargain was a bargain, +and I was the last man to aid or abet any one in wriggling out of a +reasonable obligation. I wouldn't have lifted a little finger to save +Faust. But poor Soames!--doomed to pay without respite an eternal price +for nothing but a fruitless search and a bitter disillusioning.... + +Odd and uncanny it seemed to me that he, Soames, in the flesh, in the +waterproof cape, was at this moment living in the last decade of the +next century, poring over books not yet written, and seeing and seen by +men not yet born. Uncannier and odder still, that to-night and evermore +he would be in Hell. Assuredly, truth was stranger than fiction. + +Endless that afternoon was. Almost I wished I had gone with Soames--not +indeed to stay in the reading-room, but to sally forth for a brisk +sight-seeing walk around a new London. I wandered restlessly out of the +Park I had sat in. Vainly I tried to imagine myself an ardent tourist +from the eighteenth century. Intolerable was the strain of the +slow-passing and empty minutes. Long before seven o'clock I was back at +the Vingtieme. + +I sat there just where I had sat for luncheon. Air came in listlessly +through the open door behind me. Now and again Rose or Berthe appeared +for a moment. I had told them I would not order any dinner till Mr. +Soames came. A hurdy-gurdy began to play, abruptly drowning the noise +of a quarrel between some Frenchmen further up the street. Whenever the +tune was changed I heard the quarrel still raging. I had bought another +evening paper on my way. I unfolded it. My eyes gazed ever away from it +to the clock over the kitchen door.... + +Five minutes, now, to the hour! I remembered that clocks in restaurants +are kept five minutes fast. I concentrated my eyes on the paper. I vowed +I would not look away from it again. I held it upright, at its full +width, close to my face, so that I had no view of anything but it.... +Rather a tremulous sheet? Only because of the draught, I told myself. + +My arms gradually became stiff; they ached; but I could not drop +them--now. I had a suspicion, I had a certainty. Well, what then?... +What else had I come for? Yet I held tight that barrier of newspaper. +Only the sound of Berthe's brisk footstep from the kitchen enabled me, +forced me, to drop it, and to utter: + +'What shall we have to eat, Soames?' + +'Il est souffrant, ce pauvre Monsieur Soames?' asked Berthe. + +'He's only--tired.' I asked her to get some wine--Burgundy--and whatever +food might be ready. Soames sat crouched forward against the table, +exactly as when last I had seen him. It was as though he had never +moved--he who had moved so unimaginably far. Once or twice in the +afternoon it had for an instant occurred to me that perhaps his journey +was not to be fruitless--that perhaps we had all been wrong in our +estimate of the works of Enoch Soames. That we had been horribly right +was horribly clear from the look of him. But 'Don't be discouraged,' I +falteringly said. 'Perhaps it's only that you--didn't leave enough time. +Two, three centuries hence, perhaps--' + +'Yes,' his voice came. 'I've thought of that.' + +'And now--now for the more immediate future! Where are you going to +hide? How would it be if you caught the Paris express from Charing +Cross? Almost an hour to spare. Don't go on to Paris. Stop at Calais. +Live in Calais. He'd never think of looking for you in Calais.' + +'It's like my luck,' he said, 'to spend my last hours on earth with +an ass.' But I was not offended. 'And a treacherous ass,' he strangely +added, tossing across to me a crumpled bit of paper which he had been +holding in his hand. I glanced at the writing on it--some sort of +gibberish, apparently. I laid it impatiently aside. + +'Come, Soames! pull yourself together! This isn't a mere matter of life +and death. It's a question of eternal torment, mind you! You don't mean +to say you're going to wait limply here till the Devil comes to fetch +you?' + +'I can't do anything else. I've no choice.' + +'Come! This is "trusting and encouraging" with a vengeance! This is +Diabolism run mad!' I filled his glass with wine. 'Surely, now that +you've SEEN the brute--' + +'It's no good abusing him.' + +'You must admit there's nothing Miltonic about him, Soames.' + +'I don't say he's not rather different from what I expected.' + +'He's a vulgarian, he's a swell-mobsman, he's the sort of man who hangs +about the corridors of trains going to the Riviera and steals ladies' +jewel-cases. Imagine eternal torment presided over by HIM!' + +'You don't suppose I look forward to it, do you?' + +'Then why not slip quietly out of the way?' + +Again and again I filled his glass, and always, mechanically, he emptied +it; but the wine kindled no spark of enterprise in him. He did not eat, +and I myself ate hardly at all. I did not in my heart believe that any +dash for freedom could save him. The chase would be swift, the capture +certain. But better anything than this passive, meek, miserable waiting. +I told Soames that for the honour of the human race he ought to make +some show of resistance. He asked what the human race had ever done for +him. 'Besides,' he said, 'can't you understand that I'm in his power? +You saw him touch me, didn't you? There's an end of it. I've no will. +I'm sealed.' + +I made a gesture of despair. He went on repeating the word 'sealed.' +I began to realise that the wine had clouded his brain. No wonder! +Foodless he had gone into futurity, foodless he still was. I urged him +to eat at any rate some bread. It was maddening to think that he, who +had so much to tell, might tell nothing. 'How was it all,' I asked, +'yonder? Come! Tell me your adventures.' + +'They'd make first-rate "copy," wouldn't they?' + +'I'm awfully sorry for you, Soames, and I make all possible allowances; +but what earthly right have you to insinuate that I should make "copy," +as you call it, out of you?' + +The poor fellow pressed his hands to his forehead. 'I don't know,' he +said. 'I had some reason, I know.... I'll try to remember.' + +'That's right. Try to remember everything. Eat a little more bread. What +did the reading-room look like?' + +'Much as usual,' he at length muttered. + +'Many people there?' + +'Usual sort of number.' + +'What did they look like?' + +Soames tried to visualise them. 'They all,' he presently remembered, +'looked very like one another.' + +My mind took a fearsome leap. 'All dressed in Jaeger?' + +'Yes. I think so. Greyish-yellowish stuff.' + +'A sort of uniform?' He nodded. 'With a number on it, perhaps?--a number +on a large disc of metal sewn on to the left sleeve? DKF 78,910--that +sort of thing?' It was even so. 'And all of them--men and women +alike--looking very well-cared-for? very Utopian? and smelling rather +strongly of carbolic? and all of them quite hairless?' I was right every +time. Soames was only not sure whether the men and women were hairless +or shorn. 'I hadn't time to look at them very closely,' he explained. + +'No, of course not. But----' + +'They stared at ME, I can tell you. I attracted a great deal of +attention.' At last he had done that! 'I think I rather scared them. +They moved away whenever I came near. They followed me about at a +distance, wherever I went. The men at the round desk in the middle +seemed to have a sort of panic whenever I went to make inquiries.' + +'What did you do when you arrived?' + +Well, he had gone straight to the catalogue, of course--to the S +volumes, and had stood long before SN--SOF, unable to take this volume +out of the shelf, because his heart was beating so.... At first, +he said, he wasn't disappointed--he only thought there was some new +arrangement. He went to the middle desk and asked where the catalogue of +TWENTIETH-century books was kept. He gathered that there was still only +one catalogue. Again he looked up his name, stared at the three little +pasted slips he had known so well. Then he went and sat down for a long +time.... + +'And then,' he droned, 'I looked up the "Dictionary of National +Biography" and some encyclopedias.... I went back to the middle desk +and asked what was the best modern book on late nineteenth-century +literature. They told me Mr. T. K. Nupton's book was considered the +best. I looked it up in the catalogue and filled in a form for it. It +was brought to me. My name wasn't in the index, but--Yes!' he said with +a sudden change of tone. 'That's what I'd forgotten. Where's that bit of +paper? Give it me back.' + +I, too, had forgotten that cryptic screed. I found it fallen on the +floor, and handed it to him. + +He smoothed it out, nodding and smiling at me disagreeably. 'I found +myself glancing through Nupton's book,' he resumed. 'Not very easy +reading. Some sort of phonetic spelling.... All the modern books I saw +were phonetic.' + +'Then I don't want to hear any more, Soames, please.' + +'The proper names seemed all to be spelt in the old way. But for that, I +mightn't have noticed my own name.' + +'Your own name? Really? Soames, I'm VERY glad.' + +'And yours.' + +'No!' + +'I thought I should find you waiting here to-night. So I took the +trouble to copy out the passage. Read it.' + +I snatched the paper. Soames' handwriting was characteristically dim. +It, and the noisome spelling, and my excitement, made me all the slower +to grasp what T. K. Nupton was driving at. + +The document lies before me at this moment. Strange that the words +I here copy out for you were copied out for me by poor Soames just +seventy-eight years hence.... + + +From p. 234 of 'Inglish Littracher 1890-1900' bi T. K. Nupton, publishd +bi th Stait, 1992: + +'Fr egzarmpl, a riter ov th time, naimd Max Beerbohm, hoo woz stil alive +in th twentieth senchri, rote a stauri in wich e pautraid an immajnari +karrakter kauld "Enoch Soames"--a thurd-rait poit hoo beleevz imself +a grate jeneus an maix a bargin with th Devvl in auder ter no wot +posterriti thinx ov im! It iz a sumwot labud sattire but not without +vallu az showing hou seriusli the yung men ov th aiteen-ninetiz took +themselvz. Nou that the littreri profeshn haz bin auganized az a +departmnt of publik servis, our riters hav found their levvl an hav +lernt ter doo their duti without thort ov th morro. "Th laibrer iz +werthi ov hiz hire," an that iz aul. Thank hevvn we hav no Enoch +Soameses amung us to-dai!' + + +I found that by murmuring the words aloud (a device which I commend to +my reader) I was able to master them, little by little. The clearer they +became, the greater was my bewilderment, my distress and horror. The +whole thing was a nightmare. Afar, the great grisly background of what +was in store for the poor dear art of letters; here, at the table, +fixing on me a gaze that made me hot all over, the poor fellow +whom--whom evidently... but no: whatever down-grade my character might +take in coming years, I should never be such a brute as to---- + +Again I examined the screed. 'Immajnari'--but here Soames was, no more +imaginary, alas! than I. And 'labud'--what on earth was that? (To this +day, I have never made out that word.) 'It's all very--baffling,' I at +length stammered. + +Soames said nothing, but cruelly did not cease to look at me. + +'Are you sure,' I temporised, 'quite sure you copied the thing out +correctly?' + +'Quite.' + +'Well, then it's this wretched Nupton who must have made--must be going +to make--some idiotic mistake.... Look here, Soames! you know me better +than to suppose that I.... After all, the name "Max Beerbohm" is not at +all an uncommon one, and there must be several Enoch Soameses running +around--or rather, "Enoch Soames" is a name that might occur to any +one writing a story. And I don't write stories: I'm an essayist, an +observer, a recorder.... I admit that it's an extraordinary coincidence. +But you must see----' + +'I see the whole thing,' said Soames quietly. And he added, with a touch +of his old manner, but with more dignity than I had ever known in him, +'Parlons d'autre chose.' + +I accepted that suggestion very promptly. I returned straight to the +more immediate future. I spent most of the long evening in renewed +appeals to Soames to slip away and seek refuge somewhere. I remember +saying at last that if indeed I was destined to write about him, the +supposed 'stauri' had better have at least a happy ending. Soames +repeated those last three words in a tone of intense scorn. 'In Life and +in Art,' he said, 'all that matters is an INEVITABLE ending.' + +'But,' I urged, more hopefully than I felt, 'an ending that can be +avoided ISN'T inevitable.' + +'You aren't an artist,' he rasped. 'And you're so hopelessly not an +artist that, so far from being able to imagine a thing and make it seem +true, you're going to make even a true thing seem as if you'd made it +up. You're a miserable bungler. And it's like my luck.' + +I protested that the miserable bungler was not I--was not going to be +I--but T. K. Nupton; and we had a rather heated argument, in the thick +of which it suddenly seemed to me that Soames saw he was in the wrong: +he had quite physically cowered. But I wondered why--and now I guessed +with a cold throb just why--he stared so, past me. The bringer of that +'inevitable ending' filled the doorway. + +I managed to turn in my chair and to say, not without a semblance of +lightness, 'Aha, come in!' Dread was indeed rather blunted in me by +his looking so absurdly like a villain in a melodrama. The sheen of his +tilted hat and of his shirt-front, the repeated twists he was giving to +his moustache, and most of all the magnificence of his sneer, gave token +that he was there only to be foiled. + +He was at our table in a stride. 'I am sorry,' he sneered witheringly, +'to break up your pleasant party, but--' + +'You don't: you complete it,' I assured him. 'Mr. Soames and I want +to have a little talk with you. Won't you sit? Mr. Soames got +nothing--frankly nothing--by his journey this afternoon. We don't wish +to say that the whole thing was a swindle--a common swindle. On the +contrary, we believe you meant well. But of course the bargain, such as +it was, is off.' + +The Devil gave no verbal answer. He merely looked at Soames and pointed +with rigid forefinger to the door. Soames was wretchedly rising from +his chair when, with a desperate quick gesture, I swept together two +dinner-knives that were on the table, and laid their blades across +each other. The Devil stepped sharp back against the table behind him, +averting his face and shuddering. + +'You are not superstitious!' he hissed. + +'Not at all,' I smiled. + +'Soames!' he said as to an underling, but without turning his face, 'put +those knives straight!' + +With an inhibitive gesture to my friend, 'Mr. Soames,' I said +emphatically to the Devil, 'is a CATHOLIC Diabolist'; but my poor friend +did the Devil's bidding, not mine; and now, with his master's eyes again +fixed on him, he arose, he shuffled past me. I tried to speak. It was +he that spoke. 'Try,' was the prayer he threw back at me as the Devil +pushed him roughly out through the door, 'TRY to make them know that I +did exist!' + +In another instant I too was through that door. I stood staring all +ways--up the street, across it, down it. There was moonlight and +lamplight, but there was not Soames nor that other. + +Dazed, I stood there. Dazed, I turned back, at length, into the little +room; and I suppose I paid Berthe or Rose for my dinner and luncheon, +and for Soames': I hope so, for I never went to the Vingtieme again. +Ever since that night I have avoided Greek Street altogether. And for +years I did not set foot even in Soho Square, because on that same night +it was there that I paced and loitered, long and long, with some such +dull sense of hope as a man has in not straying far from the place where +he has lost something.... 'Round and round the shutter'd Square'--that +line came back to me on my lonely beat, and with it the whole stanza, +ringing in my brain and bearing in on me how tragically different from +the happy scene imagined by him was the poet's actual experience of that +prince in whom of all princes we should put not our trust. + +But--strange how the mind of an essayist, be it never so stricken, roves +and ranges!--I remember pausing before a wide doorstep and wondering if +perchance it was on this very one that the young De Quincey lay ill and +faint while poor Ann flew as fast as her feet would carry her to Oxford +Street, the 'stony-hearted stepmother' of them both, and came back +bearing that 'glass of port wine and spices' but for which he might, so +he thought, actually have died. Was this the very doorstep that the old +De Quincey used to revisit in homage? I pondered Ann's fate, the cause +of her sudden vanishing from the ken of her boy-friend; and presently I +blamed myself for letting the past over-ride the present. Poor vanished +Soames! + +And for myself, too, I began to be troubled. What had I better do? Would +there be a hue and cry--Mysterious Disappearance of an Author, and all +that? He had last been seen lunching and dining in my company. Hadn't I +better get a hansom and drive straight to Scotland Yard?... They would +think I was a lunatic. After all, I reassured myself, London was a +very large place, and one very dim figure might easily drop out of it +unobserved--now especially, in the blinding glare of the near Jubilee. +Better say nothing at all, I thought. + +And I was right. Soames' disappearance made no stir at all. He was +utterly forgotten before any one, so far as I am aware, noticed that he +was no longer hanging around. Now and again some poet or prosaist may +have said to another, 'What has become of that man Soames?' but I never +heard any such question asked. The solicitor through whom he was paid +his annuity may be presumed to have made inquiries, but no echo of +these resounded. There was something rather ghastly to me in the general +unconsciousness that Soames had existed, and more than once I caught +myself wondering whether Nupton, that babe unborn, were going to be +right in thinking him a figment of my brain. + +In that extract from Nupton's repulsive book there is one point which +perhaps puzzles you. How is it that the author, though I have here +mentioned him by name and have quoted the exact words he is going to +write, is not going to grasp the obvious corollary that I have invented +nothing? The answer can be only this: Nupton will not have read the +later passages of this memoir. Such lack of thoroughness is a serious +fault in any one who undertakes to do scholar's work. And I hope these +words will meet the eye of some contemporary rival to Nupton and be the +undoing of Nupton. + +I like to think that some time between 1992 and 1997 somebody will have +looked up this memoir, and will have forced on the world his inevitable +and startling conclusions. And I have reasons for believing that this +will be so. You realise that the reading-room into which Soames was +projected by the Devil was in all respects precisely as it will be on +the afternoon of June 3, 1997. You realise, therefore, that on that +afternoon, when it comes round, there the self-same crowd will be, and +there Soames too will be, punctually, he and they doing precisely what +they did before. Recall now Soames' account of the sensation he made. +You may say that the mere difference of his costume was enough to make +him sensational in that uniformed crowd. You wouldn't say so if you had +ever seen him. I assure you that in no period could Soames be anything +but dim. The fact that people are going to stare at him, and follow him +around, and seem afraid of him, can be explained only on the hypothesis +that they will somehow have been prepared for his ghostly visitation. +They will have been awfully waiting to see whether he really would come. +And when he does come the effect will of course be--awful. + +An authentic, guaranteed, proven ghost, but--only a ghost, alas! Only +that. In his first visit, Soames was a creature of flesh and blood, +whereas the creatures into whose midst he was projected were but ghosts, +I take it--solid, palpable, vocal, but unconscious and automatic ghosts, +in a building that was itself an illusion. Next time, that building and +those creatures will be real. It is of Soames that there will be but +the semblance. I wish I could think him destined to revisit the world +actually, physically, consciously. I wish he had this one brief escape, +this one small treat, to look forward to. I never forget him for long. +He is where he is, and forever. The more rigid moralists among you may +say he has only himself to blame. For my part, I think he has been +very hardly used. It is well that vanity should be chastened; and Enoch +Soames' vanity was, I admit, above the average, and called for special +treatment. But there was no need for vindictiveness. You say he +contracted to pay the price he is paying; yes; but I maintain that he +was induced to do so by fraud. Well-informed in all things, the Devil +must have known that my friend would gain nothing by his visit to +futurity. The whole thing was a very shabby trick. The more I think of +it, the more detestable the Devil seems to me. + +Of him I have caught sight several times, here and there, since that day +at the Vingtieme. Only once, however, have I seen him at close quarters. +This was in Paris. I was walking, one afternoon, along the Rue d'Antin, +when I saw him advancing from the opposite direction--over-dressed as +ever, and swinging an ebony cane, and altogether behaving as though +the whole pavement belonged to him. At thought of Enoch Soames and the +myriads of other sufferers eternally in this brute's dominion, a great +cold wrath filled me, and I drew myself up to my full height. But--well, +one is so used to nodding and smiling in the street to anybody whom one +knows that the action becomes almost independent of oneself: to prevent +it requires a very sharp effort and great presence of mind. I was +miserably aware, as I passed the Devil, that I nodded and smiled to him. +And my shame was the deeper and hotter because he, if you please, stared +straight at me with the utmost haughtiness. + +To be cut--deliberately cut--by HIM! I was, I still am, furious at +having had that happen to me. + + + + + +HILARY MALTBY AND STEPHEN BRAXTON + + +People still go on comparing Thackeray and Dickens, quite cheerfully. +But the fashion of comparing Maltby and Braxton went out so long ago as +1795. No, I am wrong. But anything that happened in the bland old days +before the war does seem to be a hundred more years ago than actually +it is. The year I mean is the one in whose spring-time we all went +bicycling (O thrill!) in Battersea Park, and ladies wore sleeves that +billowed enormously out from their shoulders, and Lord Rosebery was +Prime Minister. + +In that Park, in that spring-time, in that sea of sleeves, there was +almost as much talk about the respective merits of Braxton and Maltby as +there was about those of Rudge and Humber. For the benefit of my younger +readers, and perhaps, so feeble is human memory, for the benefit of +their elders too, let me state that Rudge and Humber were rival makers +of bicycles, that Hilary Maltby was the author of 'Ariel in Mayfair,' +and Stephen Braxton of 'A Faun on the Cotswolds.' + +'Which do you think is REALLY the best--"Ariel" or "A Faun"?' Ladies +were always asking one that question. 'Oh, well, you know, the two are +so different. It's really very hard to compare them.' One was always +giving that answer. One was not very brilliant perhaps. + +The vogue of the two novels lasted throughout the summer. As both were +'firstlings,' and Great Britain had therefore nothing else of Braxton's +or Maltby's to fall back on, the horizon was much scanned for what +Maltby, and what Braxton, would give us next. In the autumn Braxton +gave us his secondling. It was an instantaneous failure. No more was he +compared with Maltby. In the spring of '96 came Maltby's secondling. +Its failure was instantaneous. Maltby might once more have been compared +with Braxton. But Braxton was now forgotten. So was Maltby. + +This was not kind. This was not just. Maltby's first novel, and +Braxton's, had brought delight into many thousands of homes. People +should have paused to say of Braxton "Perhaps his third novel will be +better than his second," and to say as much for Maltby. I blame people +for having given no sign of wanting a third from either; and I blame +them with the more zest because neither 'A Faun on the Cotswolds' nor +'Ariel in Mayfair' was a merely popular book: each, I maintain, was a +good book. I don't go so far as to say that the one had 'more of natural +magic, more of British woodland glamour, more of the sheer joy of life +in it than anything since "As You Like It,"' though Higsby went so far +as this in the Daily Chronicle; nor can I allow the claim made for the +other by Grigsby in the Globe that 'for pungency of satire there has +been nothing like it since Swift laid down his pen, and for sheer +sweetness and tenderness of feeling--ex forti dulcedo--nothing to be +mentioned in the same breath with it since the lute fell from the tired +hand of Theocritus.' These were foolish exaggerations. But one must not +condemn a thing because it has been over-praised. Maltby's 'Ariel' was +a delicate, brilliant work; and Braxton's 'Faun,' crude though it was +in many ways, had yet a genuine power and beauty. This is not a mere +impression remembered from early youth. It is the reasoned and seasoned +judgment of middle age. Both books have been out of print for many +years; but I secured a second-hand copy of each not long ago, and found +them well worth reading again. + +From the time of Nathaniel Hawthorne to the outbreak of the war, current +literature did not suffer from any lack of fauns. But when Braxton's +first book appeared fauns had still an air of novelty about them. We had +not yet tired of them and their hoofs and their slanting eyes and their +way of coming suddenly out of woods to wean quiet English villages from +respectability. We did tire later. But Braxton's faun, even now, seems +to me an admirable specimen of his class--wild and weird, earthy, +goat-like, almost convincing. And I find myself convinced altogether by +Braxton's rustics. I admit that I do not know much about rustics, +except from novels. But I plead that the little I do know about them by +personal observation does not confirm much of what the many novelists +have taught me. I plead also that Braxton may well have been right about +the rustics of Gloucestershire because he was (as so many interviewers +recorded of him in his brief heyday) the son of a yeoman farmer at Far +Oakridge, and his boyhood had been divided between that village and the +Grammar School at Stroud. Not long ago I happened to be staying in the +neighbourhood, and came across several villagers who might, I assure +you, have stepped straight out of Braxton's pages. For that matter, +Braxton himself, whom I met often in the spring of '95, might have +stepped straight out of his own pages. + +I am guilty of having wished he would step straight back into them. He +was a very surly fellow, very rugged and gruff. He was the antithesis of +pleasant little Maltby. I used to think that perhaps he would have been +less unamiable if success had come to him earlier. He was thirty years +old when his book was published, and had had a very hard time since +coming to London at the age of sixteen. Little Maltby was a year +older, and so had waited a year longer; but then, he had waited under +a comfortable roof at Twickenham, emerging into the metropolis for no +grimmer purpose than to sit and watch the fashionable riders and +walkers in Rotten Row, and then going home to write a little, or to play +lawn-tennis with the young ladies of Twickenham. He had been the only +child of his parents (neither of whom, alas, survived to take pleasure +in their darling's sudden fame). He had now migrated from Twickenham and +taken rooms in Ryder Street. Had he ever shared with Braxton the bread +of adversity--but no, I think he would in any case have been pleasant. +And conversely I cannot imagine that Braxton would in any case have been +so. + +No one seeing the two rivals together, no one meeting them at Mr. +Hookworth's famous luncheon parties in the Authors' Club, or at Mrs. +Foster-Dugdale's not less famous garden parties in Greville Place, +would have supposed off-hand that the pair had a single point in common. +Dapper little Maltby--blond, bland, diminutive Maltby, with his monocle +and his gardenia; big black Braxton, with his lanky hair and his square +blue jaw and his square sallow forehead. Canary and crow. Maltby had a +perpetual chirrup of amusing small-talk. Braxton was usually silent, but +very well worth listening to whenever he did croak. He had distinction, +I admit it; the distinction of one who steadfastly refuses to adapt +himself to surroundings. He stood out. He awed Mr. Hookworth. Ladies +were always asking one another, rather intently, what they thought of +him. One could imagine that Mr. Foster-Dugdale, had he come home from +the City to attend the garden parties, might have regarded him as +one from whom Mrs. Foster-Dugdale should be shielded. But the casual +observer of Braxton and Maltby at Mrs. Foster-Dugdale's or elsewhere was +wrong in supposing that the two were totally unlike. He overlooked one +simple and obvious point. This was that he had met them both at Mrs. +Foster-Dugdale's or elsewhere. Wherever they were invited, there +certainly, there punctually, they would be. They were both of them +gluttons for the fruits and signs of their success. + +Interviewers and photographers had as little reason as had hostesses to +complain of two men so earnestly and assiduously 'on the make' as Maltby +and Braxton. Maltby, for all his sparkle, was earnest; Braxton, for all +his arrogance, assiduous. + +'A Faun on the Cotswolds' had no more eager eulogist than the author of +'Ariel in Mayfair.' When any one praised his work, Maltby would lightly +disparage it in comparison with Braxton's--'Ah, if I could write like +THAT!' Maltby won golden opinions in this way. Braxton, on the +other hand, would let slip no opportunity for sneering at Maltby's +work--'gimcrack,' as he called it. This was not good for Maltby. +Different men, different methods. + +'The Rape of the Lock' was 'gimcrack,' if you care to call it so; but it +was a delicate, brilliant work; and so, I repeat, was Maltby's 'Ariel.' +Absurd to compare Maltby with Pope? I am not so sure. I have read +'Ariel,' but have never read 'The Rape of the Lock.' Braxton's +opprobrious term for 'Ariel' may not, however, have been due to jealousy +alone. Braxton had imagination, and his rival did not soar above fancy. +But the point is that Maltby's fancifulness went far and well. In +telling how Ariel re-embodied himself from thin air, leased a small +house in Chesterfield Street, was presented at a Levee, played the part +of good fairy in a matter of true love not running smooth, and worked +meanwhile all manner of amusing changes among the aristocracy before he +vanished again, Maltby showed a very pretty range of ingenuity. In one +respect, his work was a more surprising achievement than Braxton's. For +whereas Braxton had been born and bred among his rustics, Maltby knew +his aristocrats only through Thackeray, through the photographs and +paragraphs in the newspapers, and through those passionate excursions +of his to Rotten Row. Yet I found his aristocrats as convincing as +Braxton's rustics. It is true that I may have been convinced wrongly. +That is a point which I could settle only by experience. I shift my +ground, claiming for Maltby's aristocrats just this: that they pleased +me very much. + +Aristocrats, when they are presented solely through a novelist's sense +of beauty, do not satisfy us. They may be as beautiful as all that, +but, for fear of thinking ourselves snobbish, we won't believe it. We do +believe it, however, and revel in it, when the novelist saves his face +and ours by a pervading irony in the treatment of what he loves. The +irony must, mark you, be pervading and obvious. Disraeli's great ladies +and lords won't do, for his irony was but latent in his homage, and +thus the reader feels himself called on to worship and in duty bound +to scoff. All's well, though, when the homage is latent in the irony. +Thackeray, inviting us to laugh and frown over the follies of Mayfair, +enables us to reel with him in a secret orgy of veneration for those +fools. + +Maltby, too, in his measure, enabled us to reel thus. That is mainly +why, before the end of April, his publisher was in a position to state +that 'the Seventh Large Impression of "Ariel in Mayfair" is almost +exhausted.' Let it be put to our credit, however, that at the same +moment Braxton's publisher had 'the honour to inform the public that +an Eighth Large Impression of "A Faun on the Cotswolds" is in instant +preparation.' + +Indeed, it seemed impossible for either author to outvie the other in +success and glory. Week in, week out, you saw cancelled either's every +momentary advantage. A neck-and-neck race. As thus:--Maltby appears as +a Celebrity At Home in the World (Tuesday). Ha! No, Vanity +Fair (Wednesday) has a perfect presentment of Braxton by 'Spy.' +Neck-and-neck! No, Vanity Fair says 'the subject of next week's cartoon +will be Mr. Hilary Maltby.' Maltby wins! No, next week Braxton's in the +World. + +Throughout May I kept, as it were, my eyes glued to my field-glasses. +On the first Monday in June I saw that which drew from me a hoarse +ejaculation. + +Let me explain that always on Monday mornings at this time of year, when +I opened my daily paper, I looked with respectful interest to see what +bevy of the great world had been entertained since Saturday at Keeb +Hall. The list was always august and inspiring. Statecraft and Diplomacy +were well threaded there with mere Lineage and mere Beauty, with Royalty +sometimes, with mere Wealth never, with privileged Genius now and then. +A noble composition always. It was said that the Duke of Hertfordshire +cared for nothing but his collection of birds' eggs, and that the +collections of guests at Keeb were formed entirely by his young +Duchess. It was said that he had climbed trees in every corner of every +continent. The Duchess' hobby was easier. She sat aloft and beckoned +desirable specimens up. + +The list published on that first Monday in June began ordinarily enough, +began with the Austro-Hungarian Ambassador and the Portuguese Minister. +Then came the Duke and Duchess of Mull, followed by four lesser Peers +(two of them Proconsuls, however) with their Peeresses, three Peers +without their Peeresses, four Peeresses without their Peers, and a dozen +bearers of courtesy-titles with or without their wives or husbands. The +rear was brought up by 'Mr. A. J. Balfour, Mr. Henry Chaplin, and Mr. +Hilary Maltby.' + +Youth tends to look at the darker side of things. I confess that my +first thought was for Braxton. + +I forgave and forgot his faults of manner. Youth is generous. It does +not criticise a strong man stricken. + +And anon, so habituated was I to the parity of those two strivers, I +conceived that there might be some mistake. Daily newspapers are printed +in a hurry. Might not 'Henry Chaplin' be a typographical error for +'Stephen Braxton'? I went out and bought another newspaper. But Mr. +Chaplin's name was in that too. + +'Patience!' I said to myself. 'Braxton crouches only to spring. He will +be at Keeb Hall on Saturday next.' + +My mind was free now to dwell with pleasure on Maltby's great +achievement. I thought of writing to congratulate him, but feared this +might be in bad taste. I did, however, write asking him to lunch with +me. He did not answer my letter. I was, therefore, all the more sorry, +next Monday, at not finding 'and Mr. Stephen Braxton' in Keeb's week-end +catalogue. + +A few days later I met Mr. Hookworth. He mentioned that Stephen Braxton +had left town. 'He has taken,' said Hookworth, 'a delightful bungalow on +the east coast. He has gone there to WORK.' He added that he had a great +liking for Braxton--'a man utterly UNSPOILT.' I inferred that he, too, +had written to Maltby and received no answer. + +That butterfly did not, however, appear to be hovering from flower +to flower in the parterres of rank and fashion. In the daily lists of +guests at dinners, receptions, dances, balls, the name of Maltby figured +never. Maltby had not caught on. + +Presently I heard that he, too, had left town. I gathered that he had +gone quite early in June--quite soon after Keeb. Nobody seemed to know +where he was. My own theory was that he had taken a delightful bungalow +on the west coast, to balance Braxton. Anyhow, the parity of the two +strivers was now somewhat re-established. + +In point of fact, the disparity had been less than I supposed. While +Maltby was at Keeb, there Braxton was also--in a sense.... It was a +strange story. I did not hear it at the time. Nobody did. I heard it +seventeen years later. I heard it in Lucca. + + +Little Lucca I found so enchanting that, though I had only a day or two +to spare, I stayed there a whole month. I formed the habit of walking, +every morning, round that high-pitched path which girdles Lucca, that +wide and tree-shaded path from which one looks down over the city wall +at the fertile plains beneath Lucca. There were never many people there; +but the few who did come came daily, so that I grew to like seeing them +and took a mild personal interest in them. + +One of them was an old lady in a wheeled chair. She was not less than +seventy years old, and might or might not have once been beautiful. +Her chair was slowly propelled by an Italian woman. She herself was +obviously Italian. Not so, however, the little gentleman who walked +assiduously beside her. Him I guessed to be English. He was a very stout +little gentleman, with gleaming spectacles and a full blond beard, and +he seemed to radiate cheerfulness. I thought at first that he might be +the old lady's resident physician; but no, there was something subtly +un-professional about him: I became sure that his constancy was +gratuitous, and his radiance real. And one day, I know not how, there +dawned on me a suspicion that he was--who?--some one I had known--some +writer--what's-his-name--something with an M--Maltby--Hilary Maltby of +the long-ago! + +At sight of him on the morrow this suspicion hardened almost to +certainty. I wished I could meet him alone and ask him if I were not +right, and what he had been doing all these years, and why he had left +England. He was always with the old lady. It was only on my last day in +Lucca that my chance came. + +I had just lunched, and was seated on a comfortable bench outside my +hotel, with a cup of coffee on the table before me, gazing across the +faded old sunny piazza and wondering what to do with my last afternoon. +It was then that I espied yonder the back of the putative Maltby. I +hastened forth to him. He was buying some pink roses, a great bunch of +them, from a market-woman under an umbrella. He looked very blank, he +flushed greatly, when I ventured to accost him. He admitted that his +name was Hilary Maltby. I told him my own name, and by degrees he +remembered me. He apologised for his confusion. He explained that he had +not talked English, had not talked to an Englishman, 'for--oh, hundreds +of years.' He said that he had, in the course of his long residence in +Lucca, seen two or three people whom he had known in England, but that +none of them had recognised him. He accepted (but as though he were +embarking on the oddest adventure in the world) my invitation that +he should come and sit down and take coffee with me. He laughed with +pleasure and surprise at finding that he could still speak his native +tongue quite fluently and idiomatically. 'I know absolutely nothing,' he +said, 'about England nowadays--except from stray references to it in the +Corriere della Sera; nor did he show the faintest desire that I should +enlighten him. 'England,' he mused, '--how it all comes back to me!' + +'But not you to it?' + +'Ah, no indeed,' he said gravely, looking at the roses which he had laid +carefully on the marble table. 'I am the happiest of men.' + +He sipped his coffee, and stared out across the piazza, out beyond it +into the past. + +'I am the happiest of men,' he repeated. I plied him with the spur of +silence. + +'And I owe it all to having once yielded to a bad impulse. Absurd, the +threads our destinies hang on!' + +Again I plied him with that spur. As it seemed not to prick him, I +repeated the words he had last spoken. 'For instance?' I added. + +'Take,' he said, 'a certain evening in the spring of '95. If, on that +evening, the Duchess of Hertfordshire had had a bad cold; or if she +had decided that it WOULDN'T be rather interesting to go on to that +party--that Annual Soiree, I think it was--of the Inkwomen's Club; or +again--to go a step further back--if she hadn't ever written that one +little poem, and if it HADN'T been printed in "The Gentlewoman," and if +the Inkwomen's committee HADN'T instantly and unanimously elected her an +Honorary Vice-President because of that one little poem; or if--well, +if a million-and-one utterly irrelevant things hadn't happened, +don't-you-know, I shouldn't be here.... I might be THERE,' he smiled, +with a vague gesture indicating England. + +'Suppose,' he went on, 'I hadn't been invited to that Annual Soiree; or +suppose that other fellow,-- + +'Braxton?' I suggested. I had remembered Braxton at the moment of +recognising Maltby. + +'Suppose HE hadn't been asked.... But of course we both were. It +happened that I was the first to be presented to the Duchess.... It was +a great moment. I hoped I should keep my head. She wore a tiara. I had +often seen women in tiaras, at the Opera. But I had never talked to +a woman in a tiara. Tiaras were symbols to me. Eyes are just a human +feature. I fixed mine on the Duchess's. I kept my head by not looking +at hers. I behaved as one human being to another. She seemed very +intelligent. We got on very well. Presently she asked whether I should +think her VERY bold if she said how PERFECTLY divine she thought my +book. I said something about doing my best, and asked with animation +whether she had read "A Faun on the Cotswolds." She had. She said it was +TOO wonderful, she said it was TOO great. If she hadn't been a Duchess, +I might have thought her slightly hysterical. Her innate good-sense +quickly reasserted itself. She used her great power. With a wave of her +magic wand she turned into a fact the glittering possibility that had +haunted me. She asked me down to Keeb. + +'She seemed very pleased that I would come. Was I, by any chance, free +on Saturday week? She hoped there would be some amusing people to meet +me. Could I come by the 3.30? It was only an hour-and-a-quarter from +Victoria. On Saturday there were always compartments reserved for people +coming to Keeb by the 3.30. She hoped I would bring my bicycle with me. +She hoped I wouldn't find it very dull. She hoped I wouldn't forget to +come. She said how lovely it must be to spend one's life among clever +people. She supposed I knew everybody here to-night. She asked me to +tell her who everybody was. She asked who was the tall, dark man, over +there. I told her it was Stephen Braxton. She said they had promised to +introduce her to him. She added that he looked rather wonderful. "Oh, he +is, very," I assured her. She turned to me with a sudden appeal: "DO you +think, if I took my courage in both hands and asked him, he'd care to +come to Keeb?" + +'I hesitated. It would be easy to say that Satan answered FOR me; easy +but untrue; it was I that babbled: "Well--as a matter of fact--since you +ask me--if I were you--really I think you'd better not. He's very odd in +some ways. He has an extraordinary hatred of sleeping out of London. He +has the real Gloucestershire LOVE of London. At the same time, he's very +shy; and if you asked him he wouldn't very well know how to refuse. I +think it would be KINDER not to ask him." + +'At that moment, Mrs. Wilpham--the President--loomed up to us, bringing +Braxton. He bore himself well. Rough dignity with a touch of mellowness. +I daresay you never saw him smile. He smiled gravely down at the +Duchess, while she talked in her pretty little quick humble way. He made +a great impression. + +'What I had done was not merely base: it was very dangerous. I was in +terror that she might rally him on his devotion to London. I didn't dare +to move away. I was immensely relieved when at length she said she must +be going. + +'Braxton seemed loth to relax his grip on her hand at parting. I feared +she wouldn't escape without uttering that invitation. But all was +well.... In saying good night to me, she added in a murmur, "Don't +forget Keeb--Saturday week--the 3.30." Merely an exquisite murmur. +But Braxton heard it. I knew, by the diabolical look he gave me, that +Braxton had heard it.... If he hadn't, I shouldn't be here. + +'Was I a prey to remorse? Well, in the days between that Soiree and that +Saturday, remorse often claimed me, but rapture wouldn't give me up. +Arcady, Olympus, the right people, at last! I hadn't realised how good +my book was--not till it got me this guerdon; not till I got it this +huge advertisement. I foresaw how pleased my publisher would be. In some +great houses, I knew, it was possible to stay without any one knowing +you had been there. But the Duchess of Hertfordshire hid her light under +no bushel. Exclusive she was, but not of publicity. Next to Windsor +Castle, Keeb Hall was the most advertised house in all England. + +'Meanwhile, I had plenty to do. I rather thought of engaging a valet, +but decided that this wasn't necessary. On the other hand, I felt a need +for three new summer suits, and a new evening suit, and some new white +waistcoats. Also a smoking suit. And had any man ever stayed at Keeb +without a dressing-case? Hitherto I had been content with a pair of +wooden brushes, and so forth. I was afraid these would appal the footman +who unpacked my things. I ordered, for his sake, a large dressing-case, +with my initials engraved throughout it. It looked compromisingly new +when it came to me from the shop. I had to kick it industriously, and +throw it about and scratch it, so as to avert possible suspicion. The +tailor did not send my things home till the Friday evening. I had to sit +up late, wearing the new suits in rotation. + +'Next day, at Victoria, I saw strolling on the platform many people, +male and female, who looked as if they were going to Keeb--tall, +cool, ornate people who hadn't packed their own things and had reached +Victoria in broughams. I was ornate, but not tall nor cool. My porter +was rather off-hand in his manner as he wheeled my things along to +the 3.30. I asked severely if there were any compartments reserved for +people going to stay with the Duke of Hertfordshire. This worked an +instant change in him. Having set me in one of those shrines, he seemed +almost loth to accept a tip. A snob, I am afraid. + +'A selection of the tall, the cool, the ornate, the intimately +acquainted with one another, soon filled the compartment. There I +was, and I think they felt they ought to try to bring me into the +conversation. As they were all talking about a cotillion of the previous +night, I shouldn't have been able to shine. I gazed out of the window, +with middle-class aloofness. Presently the talk drifted on to the topic +of bicycles. But by this time it was too late for me to come in. + +'I gazed at the squalid outskirts of London as they flew by. I doubted, +as I listened to my fellow-passengers, whether I should be able to shine +at Keeb. I rather wished I were going to spend the week-end at one of +those little houses with back-gardens beneath the railway-line. I was +filled with fears. + +'For shame! thought I. Was I nobody? Was the author of "Ariel in +Mayfair" nobody? + +'I reminded myself how glad Braxton would be if he knew of my +faint-heartedness. I thought of Braxton sitting, at this moment, in his +room in Clifford's Inn and glowering with envy of his hated rival in the +3.30. And after all, how enviable I was! My spirits rose. I would acquit +myself well.... + +'I much admired the scene at the little railway station where we +alighted. It was like a fete by Lancret. I knew from the talk of my +fellow-passengers that some people had been going down by an earlier +train, and that others were coming by a later. But the 3.30 had brought +a full score of us. Us! That was the final touch of beauty. + +'Outside there were two broughams, a landau, dog-carts, a phaeton, a +wagonette, I know not what. But almost everybody, it seemed, was going +to bicycle. Lady Rodfitten said SHE was going to bicycle. Year after +year, I had seen that famous Countess riding or driving in the Park. +I had been told at fourth hand that she had a masculine intellect and +could make and unmake Ministries. She was nearly sixty now, a trifle +dyed and stout and weather-beaten, but still tremendously handsome, and +hard as nails. One would not have said she had grown older, but merely +that she belonged now to a rather later period of the Roman Empire. I +had never dreamed of a time when one roof would shelter Lady Rodfitten +and me. Somehow, she struck my imagination more than any of these +others--more than Count Deym, more than Mr. Balfour, more than the +lovely Lady Thisbe Crowborough. + +'I might have had a ducal vehicle all to myself, and should have liked +that; but it seemed more correct that I should use my bicycle. On the +other hand, I didn't want to ride with all these people--a stranger in +their midst. I lingered around the luggage till they were off, and then +followed at a long distance. + +'The sun had gone behind clouds. But I rode slowly, so as to be sure not +to arrive hot. I passed, not without a thrill, through the massive +open gates into the Duke's park. A massive man with a cockade saluted +me--hearteningly--from the door of the lodge. The park seemed endless. +I came, at length, to a long straight avenue of elms that were almost +blatantly immemorial. At the end of it was--well, I felt like a gnat +going to stay in a public building. + +'If there had been turnstiles--IN and OUT--and a shilling to pay, +I should have felt easier as I passed into that hall--that +Palladio-Gargantuan hall. Some one, some butler or groom-of-the-chamber, +murmured that her Grace was in the garden. I passed out through the +great opposite doorway on to a wide spectacular terrace with lawns +beyond. Tea was on the nearest of these lawns. In the central group of +people--some standing, others sitting--I espied the Duchess. She sat +pouring out tea, a deft and animated little figure. I advanced firmly +down the steps from the terrace, feeling that all would be well so soon +as I had reported myself to the Duchess. + +'But I had a staggering surprise on my way to her. I espied in one of +the smaller groups--whom d'you think? Braxton. + +'I had no time to wonder how he had got there--time merely to grasp the +black fact that he WAS there. + +'The Duchess seemed really pleased to see me. She said it was TOO +splendid of me to come. "You know Mr. Maltby?" she asked Lady Rodfitten, +who exclaimed "Not Mr. HILARY Maltby?" with a vigorous grace that +was overwhelming. Lady Rodfitten declared she was the greatest of my +admirers; and I could well believe that in whatever she did she excelled +all competitors. On the other hand, I found it hard to believe she was +afraid of me. Yet I had her word for it that she was. + +'Her womanly charm gave place now to her masculine grip. She +eulogised me in the language of a seasoned reviewer on the staff of a +long-established journal--wordy perhaps, but sound. I revered and loved +her. I wished I could give her my undivided attention. But, whilst I sat +there, teacup, in hand, between her and the Duchess, part of my brain +was fearfully concerned with that glimpse I had had of Braxton. It +didn't so much matter that he was here to halve my triumph. But suppose +he knew what I had told the Duchess! And suppose he had--no, surely if +he HAD shown me up in all my meanness she wouldn't have received me +so very cordially. I wondered where she could have met him since that +evening of the Inkwomen. I heard Lady Rodfitten concluding her review +of "Ariel" with two or three sentences that might have been framed +specially to give the publisher an easy "quote." And then I heard myself +asking mechanically whether she had read "A Faun on the Cotswolds." The +Duchess heard me too. She turned from talking to other people and said +"I did like Mr. Braxton so VERY much." + +'"Yes," I threw out with a sickly smile, "I'm so glad you asked him to +come." + +'"But I didn't ask him. I didn't DARE." + +'"But--but--surely he wouldn't be--be HERE if--" We stared at each other +blankly. "Here?" she echoed, glancing at the scattered little groups of +people on the lawn. I glanced too. I was much embarrassed. I explained +that I had seen Braxton "standing just over there" when I arrived, and +had supposed he was one of the people who came by the earlier train. +"Well," she said with a slightly irritated laugh, "you must have +mistaken some one else for him." She dropped the subject, talked to +other people, and presently moved away. + +'Surely, thought I, she didn't suspect me of trying to make fun of her? +On the other hand, surely she hadn't conspired with Braxton to make a +fool of ME? And yet, how could Braxton be here without an invitation, +and without her knowledge? My brain whirled. One thing only was clear. +I could NOT have mistaken anybody for Braxton. There Braxton had +stood--Stephen Braxton, in that old pepper-and-salt suit of his, with +his red tie all askew, and without a hat--his hair hanging over his +forehead. All this I had seen sharp and clean-cut. There he had stood, +just beside one of the women who travelled down in the same compartment +as I; a very pretty woman in a pale blue dress; a tall woman--but I had +noticed how small she looked beside Braxton. This woman was now walking +to and fro, yonder, with M. de Soveral. I had seen Braxton beside her as +clearly as I now saw M. de Soveral. + +'Lady Rodfitten was talking about India to a recent Viceroy. She seemed +to have as firm a grip of India as of "Ariel." I sat forgotten. I wanted +to arise and wander off--in a vague search for Braxton. But I feared +this might look as if I were angry at being ignored. Presently Lady +Rodfitten herself arose, to have what she called her "annual look +round." She bade me come too, and strode off between me and the +recent Viceroy, noting improvements that had been made in the grounds, +suggesting improvements that might be made, indicating improvements that +MUST be made. She was great on landscape-gardening. The recent Viceroy +was less great on it, but great enough. I don't say I walked forgotten: +the eminent woman constantly asked my opinion; but my opinion, though of +course it always coincided with hers, sounded quite worthless, somehow. +I longed to shine. I could only bother about Braxton. + +'Lady Rodfitten's voice sounded over-strong for the stillness of +evening. The shadows lengthened. My spirits sank lower and lower, with +the sun. I was a naturally cheerful person, but always, towards sunset, +I had a vague sense of melancholy: I seemed always to have grown weaker; +morbid misgivings would come to me. On this particular evening there was +one such misgiving that crept in and out of me again and again... a very +horrible misgiving as to the NATURE of what I had seen. + +'Well, dressing for dinner is a great tonic. Especially if one shaves. +My spirits rose as I lathered my face. I smiled to my reflection in +the mirror. The afterglow of the sun came through the window behind +the dressing-table, but I had switched on all the lights. My new +silver-topped bottles and things made a fine array. To-night _I_ was +going to shine, too. I felt I might yet be the life and soul of the +party. Anyway, my new evening suit was without a fault. And meanwhile +this new razor was perfect. Having shaved "down," I lathered myself +again and proceeded to shave "up." It was then that I uttered a sharp +sound and swung round on my heel. + +'No one was there. Yet this I knew: Stephen Braxton had just looked over +my shoulder. I had seen the reflection of his face beside mine--craned +forward to the mirror. I had met his eyes. + +'He had been with me. This I knew. + +'I turned to look again at that mirror. One of my cheeks was all covered +with blood. I stanched it with a towel. Three long cuts where the razor +had slipped and skipped. I plunged the towel into cold water and held it +to my cheek. The bleeding went on--alarmingly. I rang the bell. No one +came. I vowed I wouldn't bleed to death for Braxton. I rang again. At +last a very tall powdered footman appeared--more reproachful-looking +than sympathetic, as though I hadn't ordered that dressing-case +specially on his behalf. He said he thought one of the housemaids would +have some sticking-plaster. He was very sorry he was needed downstairs, +but he would tell one of the housemaids. I continued to dab and to +curse. The blood flowed less. I showed great spirit. I vowed Braxton +should not prevent me from going down to dinner. + +'But--a pretty sight I was when I did go down. Pale but determined, with +three long strips of black sticking-plaster forming a sort of Z on my +left cheek. Mr. Hilary Maltby at Keeb. Literature's Ambassador. + +'I don't know how late I was. Dinner was in full swing. Some servant +piloted me to my place. I sat down unobserved. The woman on either side +of me was talking to her other neighbour. I was near the Duchess' end of +the table. Soup was served to me--that dark-red soup that you pour cream +into--Bortsch. I felt it would steady me. I raised the first spoonful to +my lips, and--my hand gave a sudden jerk. + +'I was aware of two separate horrors--a horror that had been, a horror +that was. Braxton had vanished. Not for more than an instant had he +stood scowling at me from behind the opposite diners. Not for more than +the fraction of an instant. But he had left his mark on me. I gazed down +with a frozen stare at my shirtfront, at my white waistcoat, both dark +with Bortsch. I rubbed them with a napkin. I made them worse. + +'I looked at my glass of champagne. I raised it carefully and drained +it at one draught. It nerved me. But behind that shirtfront was a broken +heart. + +'The woman on my left was Lady Thisbe Crowborough. I don't know who was +the woman on my right. She was the first to turn and see me. I thought +it best to say something about my shirtfront at once. I said it to her +sideways, without showing my left cheek. Her handsome eyes rested on the +splashes. She said, after a moment's thought, that they looked "rather +gay." She said she thought the eternal black and white of men's +evening clothes was "so very dreary." She did her best.... Lady Thisbe +Crowborough did her best, too, I suppose; but breeding isn't proof +against all possible shocks: she visibly started at sight of me and my +Z. I explained that I had cut myself shaving. I said, with an attempt at +lightness, that shy men ought always to cut themselves shaving: it +made such a good conversational opening. "But surely," she said after a +pause, "you don't cut yourself on purpose?" She was an abysmal fool. I +didn't think so at the time. She was Lady Thisbe Crowborough. This fact +hallowed her. That we didn't get on at all well was a misfortune +for which I blamed only myself and my repulsive appearance and--the +unforgettable horror that distracted me. Nor did I blame Lady Thisbe for +turning rather soon to the man on her other side. + +'The woman on my right was talking to the man on HER other side; so that +I was left a prey to secret memory and dread. I wasn't wondering, wasn't +attempting to explain; I was merely remembering--and dreading. And--how +odd one is!--on the top-layer of my consciousness I hated to be seen +talking to no one. Mr. Maltby at Keeb. I caught the Duchess' eye once +or twice, and she nodded encouragingly, as who should say "You do look +rather awful, and you do seem rather out of it, but I don't for a moment +regret having asked you to come." Presently I had another chance of +talking. I heard myself talk. My feverish anxiety to please rather +touched ME. But I noticed that the eyes of my listener wandered. And +yet I was sorry when the ladies went away. I had a sense of greater +exposure. Men who hadn't seen me saw me now. The Duke, as he came round +to the Duchess' end of the table, must have wondered who I was. But he +shyly offered me his hand as he passed, and said it was so good of me +to come. I had thought of slipping away to put on another shirt and +waistcoat, but had decided that this would make me the more ridiculous. +I sat drinking port--poison to me after champagne, but a lulling +poison--and listened to noblemen with unstained shirtfronts talking +about the Australian cricket match.... + +'Is Rubicon Bezique still played in England? There was a mania for it at +that time. The floor of Keeb's Palladio-Gargantuan hall was dotted with +innumerable little tables. I didn't know how to play. My hostess told me +I must "come and amuse the dear old Duke and Duchess of Mull," and led +me to a remote sofa on which an old gentleman had just sat down beside +an old lady. They looked at me with a dim kind interest. My hostess had +set me and left me on a small gilt chair in front of them. Before going +she had conveyed to them loudly--one of them was very deaf--that I was +"the famous writer." It was a long time before they understood that I +was not a political writer. The Duke asked me, after a troubled pause, +whether I had known "old Mr. Abraham Hayward." The Duchess said I was +too young to have known Mr. Hayward, and asked if I knew her "clever +friend Mr. Mallock." I said I had just been reading Mr. Mallock's new +novel. I heard myself shouting a confused precis of the plot. The place +where we were sitting was near the foot of the great marble staircase. +I said how beautiful the staircase was. The Duchess of Mull said she had +never cared very much for that staircase. The Duke, after a pause, said +he had "often heard old Mr. Abraham Hayward hold a whole dinner table." +There were long and frequent pauses--between which I heard myself +talking loudly, frantically, sinking lower and lower in the esteem of my +small audience. I felt like a man drowning under the eyes of an elderly +couple who sit on the bank regretting that they can offer NO assistance. +Presently the Duke looked at his watch and said to the Duchess that it +was "time to be thinking of bed." + +'They rose, as it were from the bank, and left me, so to speak, under +water. I watched them as they passed slowly out of sight up the marble +staircase which I had mispraised. I turned and surveyed the brilliant, +silent scene presented by the card-players. + +'I wondered what old Mr. Abraham Hayward would have done in my place. +Would he have just darted in among those tables and "held" them? I +presumed that he would not have stolen silently away, quickly and +cravenly away, up the marble staircase--as _I_ did. + +'I don't know which was the greater, the relief or the humiliation of +finding myself in my bedroom. Perhaps the humiliation was the greater. +There, on a chair, was my grand new smoking-suit, laid out for me--what +a mockery! Once I had foreseen myself wearing it in the smoking-room +at a late hour--the centre of a group of eminent men entranced by the +brilliancy of my conversation. And now--! I was nothing but a small, +dull, soup-stained, sticking-plastered, nerve-racked recluse. Nerves, +yes. I assured myself that I had not seen--what I had seemed to see. All +very odd, of course, and very unpleasant, but easily explained. Nerves. +Excitement of coming to Keeb too much for me. A good night's rest: that +was all I needed. To-morrow I should laugh at myself. + +'I wondered that I wasn't tired physically. There my grand new silk +pyjamas were, yet I felt no desire to go to bed... none while it was +still possible for me to go. The little writing-table at the foot of my +bed seemed to invite me. I had brought with me in my portmanteau a sheaf +of letters, letters that I had purposely left unanswered in order that I +might answer them on KEEB HALL note-paper. These the footman had neatly +laid beside the blotting-pad on that little writing-table at the foot +of the bed. I regretted that the notepaper stacked there had no ducal +coronet on it. What matter? The address sufficed. If I hadn't yet made a +good impression on the people who were staying here, I could at any rate +make one on the people who weren't. I sat down. I set to work. I wrote a +prodigious number of fluent and graceful notes. + +'Some of these were to strangers who wanted my autograph. I was always +delighted to send my autograph, and never perfunctory in the manner of +sending it.... "Dear Madam," I remember writing to somebody that night, +"were it not that you make your request for it so charmingly, I should +hesitate to send you that which rarity alone can render valuable.--Yours +truly, Hilary Maltby." I remember reading this over and wondering +whether the word "render" looked rather commercial. It was in the act +of wondering thus that I raised my eyes from the note-paper and saw, +through the bars of the brass bedstead, the naked sole of a large human +foot--saw beyond it the calf of a great leg; a nightshirt; and the face +of Stephen Braxton. I did not move. + + +'I thought of making a dash for the door, dashing out into the corridor, +shouting at the top of my voice for help. I sat quite still. + +'What kept me to my chair was the fear that if I tried to reach the door +Braxton would spring off the bed to intercept me. If I sat quite still +perhaps he wouldn't move. I felt that if he moved I should collapse +utterly. + +'I watched him, and he watched me. He lay there with his body +half-raised, one elbow propped on the pillow, his jaw sunk on his +breast; and from under his black brows he watched me steadily. + +'No question of mere nerves now. That hope was gone. No mere optical +delusion, this abiding presence. Here Braxton was. He and I were +together in the bright, silent room. How long would he be content to +watch me? + +'Eleven nights ago he had given me one horrible look. It was this look +that I had to meet, in infinite prolongation, now, not daring to shift +my eyes. He lay as motionless as I sat. I did not hear him breathing, +but I knew, by the rise and fall of his chest under his nightshirt, +that he was breathing heavily. Suddenly I started to my feet. For he had +moved. He had raised one hand slowly. He was stroking his chin. And +as he did so, and as he watched me, his mouth gradually slackened to a +grin. It was worse, it was more malign, this grin, than the scowl that +remained with it; and its immediate effect on me was an impulse that was +as hard to resist as it was hateful. The window was open. It was nearer +to me than the door. I could have reached it in time.... + +'Well, I live to tell the tale. I stood my ground. And there dawned on +me now a new fact in regard to my companion. I had all the while been +conscious of something abnormal in his attitude--a lack of ease in his +gross possessiveness. I saw now the reason for this effect. The pillow +on which his elbow rested was still uniformly puffed and convex; like +a pillow untouched. His elbow rested but on the very surface of it, +not changing the shape of it at all. His body made not the least furrow +along the bed.... He had no weight. + +'I knew that if I leaned forward and thrust my hand between those brass +rails, to clutch his foot, I should clutch--nothing. He wasn't tangible. +He was realistic. He wasn't real. He was opaque. He wasn't solid. + +'Odd as it may seem to you, these certainties took the edge off my +horror. During that walk with Lady Rodfitten, I had been appalled by the +doubt that haunted me. But now the very confirmation of that doubt gave +me a sort of courage: I could cope better with anything to-night than +with actual Braxton. And the measure of the relief I felt is that I sat +down again on my chair. + +'More than once there came to me a wild hope that the thing might be an +optical delusion, after all. Then would I shut my eyes tightly, shaking +my head sharply; but, when I looked again, there the presence was, of +course. It--he--not actual Braxton but, roughly speaking, Braxton--had +come to stay. I was conscious of intense fatigue, taut and alert though +every particle of me was; so that I became, in the course of that +ghastly night, conscious of a great envy also. For some time before the +dawn came in through the window, Braxton's eyes had been closed; little +by little now his head drooped sideways, then fell on his forearm and +rested there. He was asleep. + +'Cut off from sleep, I had a great longing for smoke. I had cigarettes +on me, I had matches on me. But I didn't dare to strike a match. The +sound might have waked Braxton up. In slumber he was less terrible, +though perhaps more odious. I wasn't so much afraid now as indignant. +"It's intolerable," I sat saying to myself, "utterly intolerable!" + +'I had to bear it, nevertheless. I was aware that I had, in some degree, +brought it on myself. If I hadn't interfered and lied, actual Braxton +would have been here at Keeb, and I at this moment sleeping soundly. But +this was no excuse for Braxton. Braxton didn't know what I had done. He +was merely envious of me. And--wanly I puzzled it out in the dawn--by +very force of the envy, hatred, and malice in him he had projected +hither into my presence this simulacrum of himself. I had known that he +would be thinking of me. I had known that the thought of me at Keeb Hall +would be of the last bitterness to his most sacred feelings. But--I had +reckoned without the passionate force and intensity of the man's nature. + +'If by this same strength and intensity he had merely projected himself +as an invisible guest under the Duchess' roof--if his feat had been +wholly, as perhaps it was in part, a feat of mere wistfulness and +longing--then I should have felt really sorry for him; and my conscience +would have soundly rated me in his behalf. But no; if the wretched +creature HAD been invisible to me, I shouldn't have thought of Braxton +at all--except with gladness that he wasn't here. That he was visible to +me, and to me alone, wasn't any sign of proper remorse within me. It was +but the gauge of his incredible ill-will. + +'Well, it seemed to me that he was avenged--with a vengeance. There I +sat, hot-browed from sleeplessness, cold in the feet, stiff in the legs, +cowed and indignant all through--sat there in the broadening daylight, +and in that new evening suit of mine with the Braxtonised shirtfront +and waistcoat that by day were more than ever loathsome. Literature's +Ambassador at Keeb.... I rose gingerly from my chair, and caught +sight of my face, of my Braxtonised cheek, in the mirror. I heard +the twittering of birds in distant trees. I saw through my window the +elaborate landscape of the Duke's grounds, all soft in the grey bloom of +early morning. I think I was nearer to tears than I had ever been since +I was a child. But the weakness passed. I turned towards the personage +on my bed, and, summoning all such power as was in me, WILLED him to be +gone. My effort was not without result--an inadequate result. Braxton +turned in his sleep. + +'I resumed my seat, and... and... sat up staring and blinking, at a tall +man with red hair. "I must have fallen asleep," I said. "Yessir," he +replied; and his toneless voice touched in me one or two springs +of memory: I was at Keeb; this was the footman who looked after me. +But--why wasn't I in bed? Had I--no, surely it had been no nightmare. +Surely I had SEEN Braxton on that white bed. + +'The footman was impassively putting away my smoking-suit. I was too +dazed to wonder what he thought of me. Nor did I attempt to stifle a +cry when, a moment later, turning in my chair, I beheld Braxton leaning +moodily against the mantelpiece. "Are you unwell sir?" asked the footman. +"No," I said faintly, "I'm quite well."--"Yessir. Will you wear the blue +suit or the grey?"--"The grey."--"Yessir."--It seemed almost incredible +that HE didn't see Braxton; HE didn't appear to me one whit more solid +than the night-shirted brute who stood against the mantelpiece and +watched him lay out my things.--"Shall I let your bath-water run +now sir?"--"Please, yes."--"Your bathroom's the second door to the left +sir."--He went out with my bath-towel and sponge, leaving me alone with +Braxton. + +'I rose to my feet, mustering once more all the strength that was in +me. Hoping against hope, with set teeth and clenched hands, I faced him, +thrust forth my will at him, with everything but words commanded him to +vanish--to cease to be. + +'Suddenly, utterly, he vanished. And you can imagine the truly exquisite +sense of triumph that thrilled me and continued to thrill me till I went +into the bathroom and found him in my bath. + +'Quivering with rage, I returned to my bedroom. "Intolerable," I heard +myself repeating like a parrot that knew no other word. A bath was just +what I had needed. Could I have lain for a long time basking in very +hot water, and then have sponged myself with cold water, I should have +emerged calm and brave; comparatively so, at any rate. I should have +looked less ghastly, and have had less of a headache, and something of +an appetite, when I went down to breakfast. Also, I shouldn't have been +the very first guest to appear on the scene. There were five or six +round tables, instead of last night's long table. At the further end +of the room the butler and two other servants were lighting the little +lamps under the hot dishes. I didn't like to make myself ridiculous by +running away. On the other hand, was it right for me to begin breakfast +all by myself at one of these round tables? I supposed it was. But +I dreaded to be found eating, alone in that vast room, by the first +downcomer. I sat dallying with dry toast and watching the door. It +occurred to me that Braxton might occur at any moment. Should I be able +to ignore him? + +'Some man and wife--a very handsome couple--were the first to appear. +They nodded and said "good morning" when they noticed me on their way to +the hot dishes. I rose--uncomfortably, guiltily--and sat down again. I +rose again when the wife drifted to my table, followed by the husband +with two steaming plates. She asked me if it wasn't a heavenly morning, +and I replied with nervous enthusiasm that it was. She then ate kedgeree +in silence. "You just finishing, what?" the husband asked, looking at +my plate. "Oh, no--no--only just beginning," I assured him, and helped +myself to butter. He then ate kedgeree in silence. He looked like some +splendid bull, and she like some splendid cow, grazing. I envied them +their eupeptic calm. I surmised that ten thousand Braxtons would not +have prevented THEM from sleeping soundly by night and grazing steadily +by day. Perhaps their stolidity infected me a little. Or perhaps what +braced me was the great quantity of strong tea that I consumed. Anyhow +I had begun to feel that if Braxton came in now I shouldn't blench nor +falter. + +'Well, I wasn't put to the test. Plenty of people drifted in, but +Braxton wasn't one of them. Lady Rodfitten--no, she didn't drift, she +marched, in; and presently, at an adjacent table, she was drawing a +comparison, in clarion tones, between Jean and Edouard de Reszke. It +seemed to me that her own voice had much in common with Edouard's. Even +more was it akin to a military band. I found myself beating time to it +with my foot. Decidedly, my spirits had risen. I was in a mood to face +and outface anything. When I rose from the table and made my way to the +door, I walked with something of a swing--to the tune of Lady Rodfitten. + +'My buoyancy didn't last long, though. There was no swing in my walk +when, a little later, I passed out on to the spectacular terrace. I had +seen my enemy again, and had beaten a furious retreat. No doubt I should +see him yet again soon--here, perhaps, on this terrace. Two of the +guests were bicycling slowly up and down the long paven expanse, both of +them smiling with pride in the new delicious form of locomotion. There +was a great array of bicycles propped neatly along the balustrade. I +recognised my own among them. I wondered whether Braxton had projected +from Clifford's Inn an image of his own bicycle. He may have done so; +but I've no evidence that he did. I myself was bicycling when next I saw +him; but he, I remember, was on foot. + +'This was a few minutes later. I was bicycling with dear Lady Rodfitten. +She seemed really to like me. She had come out and accosted me heartily +on the terrace, asking me, because of my sticking-plaster, with whom I +had fought a duel since yesterday. I did not tell her with whom, and +she had already branched off on the subject of duelling in general. She +regretted the extinction of duelling in England, and gave cogent +reasons for her regret. Then she asked me what my next book was to be. +I confided that I was writing a sort of sequel--"Ariel Returns to +Mayfair." She shook her head, said with her usual soundness that sequels +were very dangerous things, and asked me to tell her "briefly" the lines +along which I was working. I did so. She pointed out two or three weak +points in my scheme. She said she could judge better if I would let +her see my manuscript. She asked me to come and lunch with her next +Friday--"just our two selves"--at Rodfitten House, and to bring my +manuscript with me. Need I say that I walked on air? + +'"And now," she said strenuously, "let us take a turn on our bicycles." +By this time there were a dozen riders on the terrace, all of them +smiling with pride and rapture. We mounted and rode along together. The +terrace ran round two sides of the house, and before we came to the end +of it these words had provisionally marshalled themselves in my mind: + + + TO + ELEANOR + COUNTESS OF RODFITTEN + THIS BOOK WHICH OWES ALL + TO HER WISE COUNSEL + AND UNWEARYING SUPERVISION + IS GRATEFULLY DEDICATED + BY HER FRIEND + THE AUTHOR + + +'Smiled to masonically by the passing bicyclists, and smiling +masonically to them in return, I began to feel that the rest of my visit +would run smooth, if only-- + +'"Let's go a little faster. Let's race!" said Lady Rodfitten; and we did +so--"just our two selves." I was on the side nearer to the balustrade, +and it was on that side that Braxton suddenly appeared from nowhere, +solid-looking as a rock, his arms akimbo, less than three yards ahead +of me, so that I swerved involuntarily, sharply, striking broadside the +front wheel of Lady Rodfitten and collapsing with her, and with a crash +of machinery, to the ground. + +'I wasn't hurt. She had broken my fall. I wished I was dead. She +was furious. She sat speechless with fury. A crowd had quickly +collected--just as in the case of a street accident. She accused me now +to the crowd. She said I had done it on purpose. She said such terrible +things of me that I think the crowd's sympathy must have veered towards +me. She was assisted to her feet. I tried to be one of the assistants. +"Don't let him come near me!" she thundered. I caught sight of Braxton +on the fringe of the crowd, grinning at me. "It was all HIS fault," +I madly cried, pointing at him. Everybody looked at Mr. Balfour, +just behind whom Braxton was standing. There was a general murmur +of surprise, in which I have no doubt Mr. Balfour joined. He gave a +charming, blank, deprecating smile. "I mean--I can't explain what I +mean," I groaned. Lady Rodfitten moved away, refusing support, limping +terribly, towards the house. The crowd followed her, solicitous. I stood +helplessly, desperately, where I was. + +'I stood an outlaw, a speck on the now empty terrace. Mechanically +I picked up my straw hat, and wheeled the two bent bicycles to the +balustrade. I suppose Mr. Balfour has a charming nature. For he +presently came out again--on purpose, I am sure, to alleviate my misery. +He told me that Lady Rodfitten had suffered no harm. He took me for a +stroll up and down the terrace, talking thoughtfully and enchantingly +about things in general. Then, having done his deed of mercy, this Good +Samaritan went back into the house. My eyes followed him with gratitude; +but I was still bleeding from wounds beyond his skill. I escaped down +into the gardens. I wanted to see no one. Still more did I want to be +seen by no one. I dreaded in every nerve of me my reappearance among +those people. I walked ever faster and faster, to stifle thought; but in +vain. Why hadn't I simply ridden THROUGH Braxton? I was aware of being +now in the park, among great trees and undulations of wild green ground. +But Nature did not achieve the task that Mr. Balfour had attempted; and +my anguish was unassuaged. + +'I paused to lean against a tree in the huge avenue that led to the huge +hateful house. I leaned wondering whether the thought of re-entering +that house were the more hateful because I should have to face my +fellow-guests or because I should probably have to face Braxton. A +church bell began ringing somewhere. And anon I was aware of another +sound--a twitter of voices. A consignment of hatted and parasoled ladies +was coming fast adown the avenue. My first impulse was to dodge behind +my tree. But I feared that I had been observed; so that what was left to +me of self-respect compelled me to meet these ladies. + +'The Duchess was among them. I had seen her from afar at breakfast, +but not since. She carried a prayer-book, which she waved to me as I +approached. I was a disastrous guest, but still a guest, and nothing +could have been prettier than her smile. "Most of my men this week," +she said, "are Pagans, and all the others have dispatch-boxes to go +through--except the dear old Duke of Mull, who's a member of the Free +Kirk. You're Pagan, of course?" + +'I said--and indeed it was a heart-cry--that I should like very much to +come to church. "If I shan't be in the way," I rather abjectly added. +It didn't strike me that Braxton would try to intercept me. I don't know +why, but it never occurred to me, as I walked briskly along beside the +Duchess, that I should meet him so far from the house. The church was in +a corner of the park, and the way to it was by a side path that branched +off from the end of the avenue. A little way along, casting its shadow +across the path, was a large oak. It was from behind this tree, when we +came to it, that Braxton sprang suddenly forth and tripped me up with +his foot. + +'Absurd to be tripped up by the mere semblance of a foot? But remember, +I was walking quickly, and the whole thing happened in a flash of +time. It was inevitable that I should throw out my hands and come down +headlong--just as though the obstacle had been as real as it looked. +Down I came on palms and knee-caps, and up I scrambled, very much hurt +and shaken and apologetic. "POOR Mr. Maltby! REALLY--!" the Duchess +wailed for me in this latest of my mishaps. Some other lady chased my +straw hat, which had bowled far ahead. Two others helped to brush me. +They were all very kind, with a quaver of mirth in their concern for me. +I looked furtively around for Braxton, but he was gone. The palms of my +hands were abraded with gravel. The Duchess said I must on no account +come to church NOW. I was utterly determined to reach that sanctuary. I +marched firmly on with the Duchess. Come what might on the way, I wasn't +going to be left out here. I was utterly bent on winning at least one +respite. + +'Well, I reached the little church without further molestation. To be +there seemed almost too good to be true. The organ, just as we entered, +sounded its first notes. The ladies rustled into the front pew. I, +being the one male of the party, sat at the end of the pew, beside the +Duchess. I couldn't help feeling that my position was a proud one. But I +had gone through too much to take instant pleasure in it, and was beset +by thoughts of what new horror might await me on the way back to +the house. I hoped the Service would not be brief. The swelling and +dwindling strains of the "voluntary" on the small organ were strangely +soothing. I turned to give an almost feudal glance to the simple +villagers in the pews behind, and saw a sight that cowed my soul. + +'Braxton was coming up the aisle. He came slowly, casting a tourist's +eye at the stained-glass windows on either side. Walking heavily, yet +with no sound of boots on the pavement, he reached our pew. There, +towering and glowering, he halted, as though demanding that we should +make room for him. A moment later he edged sullenly into the pew. +Instinctively I had sat tight back, drawing my knees aside, in a shudder +of revulsion against contact. But Braxton did not push past me. What he +did was to sit slowly and fully down on me. + +'No, not down ON me. Down THROUGH me--and around me. What befell me +was not mere ghastly contact with the intangible. It was inclusion, +envelopment, eclipse. What Braxton sat down on was not I, but the seat +of the pew; and what he sat back against was not my face and chest, but +the back of the pew. I didn't realise this at the moment. All I knew was +a sudden black blotting-out of all things; an infinite and impenetrable +darkness. I dimly conjectured that I was dead. What was wrong with me, +in point of fact, was that my eyes, with the rest of me, were inside +Braxton. You remember what a great hulking fellow Braxton was. I +calculate that as we sat there my eyes were just beneath the roof of his +mouth. Horrible! + +'Out of the unfathomable depths of that pitch darkness, I could yet hear +the "voluntary" swelling and dwindling, just as before. It was by this +I knew now that I wasn't dead. And I suppose I must have craned my head +forward, for I had a sudden glimpse of things--a close quick downward +glimpse of a pepper-and-salt waistcoat and of two great hairy hands +clasped across it. Then darkness again. Either I had drawn back my head, +or Braxton had thrust his forward; I don't know which. "Are you all +right?" the Duchess' voice whispered, and no doubt my face was ashen. +"Quite," whispered my voice. But this pathetic monosyllable was the last +gasp of the social instinct in me. Suddenly, as the "voluntary" swelled +to its close, there was a great sharp shuffling noise. The congregation +had risen to its feet, at the entry of choir and vicar. Braxton had +risen, leaving me in daylight. I beheld his towering back. The Duchess, +beside him, glanced round at me. But I could not, dared not, stand up +into that presented back, into that great waiting darkness. I did but +clutch my hat from beneath the seat and hurry distraught down the aisle, +out through the porch, into the open air. + +'Whither? To what goal? I didn't reason. I merely fled--like Orestes; +fled like an automaton along the path we had come by. And was followed? +Yes, yes. Glancing back across my shoulder, I saw that brute some +twenty yards behind me, gaining on me. I broke into a sharper run. A few +sickening moments later, he was beside me, scowling down into my face. + +'I swerved, dodged, doubled on my tracks, but he was always at me. Now +and again, for lack of breath, I halted, and he halted with me. And +then, when I had got my wind, I would start running again, in the insane +hope of escaping him. We came, by what twisting and turning course +I know not, to the great avenue, and as I stood there in an agony of +panting I had a dazed vision of the distant Hall. Really I had quite +forgotten I was staying at the Duke of Hertfordshire's. But Braxton +hadn't forgotten. He planted himself in front of me. He stood between me +and the house. + +'Faint though I was, I could almost have laughed. Good heavens! was THAT +all he wanted: that I shouldn't go back there? Did he suppose I wanted +to go back there--with HIM? Was I the Duke's prisoner on parole? What +was there to prevent me from just walking off to the railway station? I +turned to do so. + +'He accompanied me on my way. I thought that when once I had passed +through the lodge gates he might vanish, satisfied. But no, he didn't +vanish. It was as though he suspected that if he let me out of his +sight I should sneak back to the house. He arrived with me, this quiet +companion of mine, at the little railway station. Evidently he meant to +see me off. I learned from an elderly and solitary porter that the next +train to London was the 4.3. + +'Well, Braxton saw me off by the 4.3. I reflected, as I stepped up into +an empty compartment, that it wasn't yet twenty-four hours ago since I, +or some one like me, had alighted at that station. + +'The guard blew his whistle; the engine shrieked, and the train jolted +forward and away; but I did not lean out of the window to see the last +of my attentive friend. + +'Really not twenty-four hours ago? Not twenty-four years?' + + +Maltby paused in his narrative. 'Well, well,' he said, 'I don't want you +to think I overrate the ordeal of my visit to Keeb. A man of stronger +nerve than mine, and of greater resourcefulness, might have coped +successfully with Braxton from first to last--might have stayed on till +Monday, making a very favourable impression on every one all the while. +Even as it was, even after my manifold failures and sudden flight, I +don't say my position was impossible. I only say it seemed so to me. A +man less sensitive than I, and less vain, might have cheered up after +writing a letter of apology to his hostess, and have resumed his normal +existence as though nothing very terrible had happened, after all. I +wrote a few lines to the Duchess that night; but I wrote amidst the +preparations for my departure from England: I crossed the Channel next +morning. Throughout that Sunday afternoon with Braxton at the Keeb +railway station, pacing the desolate platform with him, waiting in +the desolating waiting-room with him, I was numb to regrets, and was +thinking of nothing but the 4.3. On the way to Victoria my brain worked +and my soul wilted. Every incident in my stay at Keeb stood out clear +to me; a dreadful, a hideous pattern. I had done for myself, so far as +THOSE people were concerned. And now that I had sampled THEM, what cared +I for others? "Too low for a hawk, too high for a buzzard." That homely +old saying seemed to sum me up. And suppose I COULD still take pleasure +in the company of my own old upper-middle class, how would that class +regard me now? Gossip percolates. Little by little, I was sure, the +story of my Keeb fiasco would leak down into the drawing-room of Mrs. +Foster-Dugdale. I felt I could never hold up my head in any company +where anything of that story was known. Are you quite sure you never +heard anything?' + +I assured Maltby that all I had known was the great bare fact of his +having stayed at Keeb Hall. + +'It's curious,' he reflected. 'It's a fine illustration of the loyalty +of those people to one another. I suppose there was a general agreement +for the Duchess' sake that nothing should be said about her queer guest. +But even if I had dared hope to be so efficiently hushed up, I couldn't +have not fled. I wanted to forget. I wanted to leap into some void, +far away from all reminders. I leapt straight from Ryder Street into +Vaule-la-Rochette, a place of which I had once heard that it was +the least frequented seaside-resort in Europe. I leapt leaving no +address--leapt telling my landlord that if a suit-case and a portmanteau +arrived for me he could regard them, them and their contents, as his own +for ever. I daresay the Duchess wrote me a kind little letter, forcing +herself to express a vague hope that I would come again "some other +time." I daresay Lady Rodfitten did NOT write reminding me of my promise +to lunch on Friday and bring "Ariel Returns to Mayfair" with me. I +left that manuscript at Ryder Street; in my bedroom grate; a shuffle of +ashes. Not that I'd yet given up all thought of writing. But I certainly +wasn't going to write now about the two things I most needed to forget. +I wasn't going to write about the British aristocracy, nor about any +kind of supernatural presence.... I did write a novel--my last--while I +was at Vaule. "Mr. and Mrs. Robinson." Did you ever come across a copy +of it? + +I nodded gravely. + +'Ah; I wasn't sure,' said Maltby, 'whether it was ever published. A +dreary affair, wasn't it? I knew a great deal about suburban life. +But--well, I suppose one can't really understand what one doesn't love, +and one can't make good fun without real understanding. Besides, what +chance of virtue is there for a book written merely to distract +the author's mind? I had hoped to be healed by sea and sunshine and +solitude. These things were useless. The labour of "Mr. and Mrs. +Robinson" did help, a little. When I had finished it, I thought I might +as well send it off to my publisher. He had given me a large sum of +money, down, after "Ariel," for my next book--so large that I was rather +loth to disgorge. In the note I sent with the manuscript, I gave no +address, and asked that the proofs should be read in the office. I +didn't care whether the thing were published or not. I knew it would be +a dead failure if it were. What mattered one more drop in the foaming +cup of my humiliation? I knew Braxton would grin and gloat. I didn't +mind even that.' + +'Oh, well,' I said, 'Braxton was in no mood for grinning and gloating. +"The Drones" had already appeared.' + +Maltby had never heard of 'The Drones'--which I myself had remembered +only in the course of his disclosures. I explained to him that it was +Braxton's second novel, and was by way of being a savage indictment +of the British aristocracy; that it was written in the worst possible +taste, but was so very dull that it fell utterly flat; that Braxton +had forthwith taken, with all of what Maltby had called 'the passionate +force and intensity of his nature,' to drink, and had presently gone +under and not re-emerged. + +Maltby gave signs of genuine, though not deep, emotion, and cited two +or three of the finest passages from 'A Faun on the Cotswolds.' He even +expressed a conviction that 'The Drones' must have been misjudged. He +said he blamed himself more than ever for yielding to that bad impulse +at that Soiree. + +'And yet,' he mused, 'and yet, honestly, I can't find it in my heart +to regret that I did yield. I can only wish that all had turned out as +well, in the end, for Braxton as for me. I wish he could have won out, +as I did, into a great and lasting felicity. For about a year after I +had finished "Mr. and Mrs. Robinson" I wandered from place to place, +trying to kill memory, shunning all places frequented by the English. +At last I found myself in Lucca. Here, if anywhere, I thought, might a +bruised and tormented spirit find gradual peace. I determined to move +out of my hotel into some permanent lodging. Not for felicity, not for +any complete restoration of self-respect, was I hoping; only for peace. +A "mezzano" conducted me to a noble and ancient house, of which, he +told me, the owner was anxious to let the first floor. It was in much +disrepair, but even so seemed to me very cheap. According to the simple +Luccan standard, I am rich. I took that first floor for a year, had it +repaired, and engaged two servants. My "padrona" inhabited the ground +floor. From time to time she allowed me to visit her there. She was +the Contessa Adriano-Rizzoli, the last of her line. She is the Contessa +Adriano-Rizzoli-Maltby. We have been married fifteen years.' + +Maltby looked at his watch. He rose and took tenderly from the table +his great bunch of roses. 'She is a lineal descendant,' he said, 'of the +Emperor Hadrian.' + + + + + +'SAVONAROLA' BROWN + + +I like to remember that I was the first to call him so, for, though he +always deprecated the nickname, in his heart he was pleased by it, I +know, and encouraged to go on. + +Quite apart from its significance, he had reason to welcome it. He had +been unfortunate at the font. His parents, at the time of his birth, +lived in Ladbroke Crescent, XV. They must have been an extraordinarily +unimaginative couple, for they could think of no better name for their +child than Ladbroke. This was all very well for him till he went to +school. But you can fancy the indignation and delight of us boys at +finding among us a newcomer who, on his own confession, had been named +after a Crescent. I don't know how it is nowadays, but thirty-five years +ago, certainly, schoolboys regarded the possession of ANY Christian name +as rather unmanly. As we all had these encumbrances, we had to wreak our +scorn on any one who was cumbered in a queer fashion. I myself, bearer +of a Christian name adjudged eccentric though brief, had had much to put +up with in my first term. Brown's arrival, therefore, at the beginning +of my second term, was a good thing for me, and I am afraid I was very +prominent among his persecutors. Trafalgar Brown, Tottenham Court Brown, +Bond Brown--what names did we little brutes NOT cull for him from +the London Directory? Except how miserable we made his life, I do not +remember much about him as he was at that time, and the only important +part of the little else that I do recall is that already he showed +a strong sense for literature. For the majority of us Carthusians, +literature was bounded on the north by Whyte Melville, on the south by +Hawley Smart, on the east by the former, and on the west by the latter. +Little Brown used to read Harrison Ainsworth, Wilkie Collins, and other +writers whom we, had we assayed them, would have dismissed as 'deep.' It +has been said by Mr. Arthur Symons that 'all art is a mode of escape.' +The art of letters did not, however, enable Brown to escape so far from +us as he would have wished. In my third term he did not reappear among +us. His parents had in some sort atoned. Unimaginative though they +were, it seems they could understand a tale of woe laid before them +circumstantially, and had engaged a private tutor for their boy. Fifteen +years elapsed before I saw him again. + +This was at the second night of some play. I was dramatic critic for the +Saturday Review, and, weary of meeting the same lot of people over and +over again at first nights, had recently sent a circular to the managers +asking that I might have seats for second nights instead. I found that +there existed as distinct and invariable a lot of second-nighters as of +first-nighters. The second-nighters were less 'showy'; but then, they +came rather to see than to be seen, and there was an air, that I liked, +of earnestness and hopefulness about them. I used to write a great deal +about the future of the British drama, and they, for their part, used +to think and talk a great deal about it. People who care about books +and pictures find much to interest and please them in the present. It +is only the students of the theatre who always fall back, or rather +forward, on the future. Though second-nighters do come to see, they +remain rather to hope and pray. I should have known anywhere, by the +visionary look in his eyes, that Brown was a confirmed second-nighter. + +What surprises me is that I knew he was Brown. It is true that he +had not grown much in those fifteen years: his brow was still +disproportionate to his body, and he looked young to have become +'confirmed' in any habit. But it is also true that not once in the past +ten years, at any rate, had he flitted through my mind and poised on my +conscience. + +I hope that I and those other boys had long ago ceased from recurring to +him in nightmares. Cordial though the hand was that I offered him, and +highly civilised my whole demeanour, he seemed afraid that at any moment +I might begin to dance around him, shooting out my lips at him and +calling him Seven-Sisters Brown or something of that kind. It was only +after constant meetings at second nights, and innumerable entr'acte +talks about the future of the drama, that he began to trust me. In +course of time we formed the habit of walking home together as far as +Cumberland Place, at which point our ways diverged. I gathered that he +was still living with his parents, but he did not tell me where, for +they had not, as I learned by reference to the Red Book, moved from +Ladbroke Crescent. + +I found his company restful rather than inspiring. His days were +spent in clerkship at one of the smaller Government Offices, his +evenings--except when there was a second night--in reading and writing. +He did not seem to know much, or to wish to know more, about life. Books +and plays, first editions and second nights, were what he cared for. On +matters of religion and ethics he was as little keen as he seemed to be +on human character in the raw; so that (though I had already suspected +him of writing, or meaning to write, a play) my eyebrows did rise when +he told me he meant to write a play about Savonarola. + +He made me understand, however, that it was rather the name than the +man that had first attracted him. He said that the name was in itself a +great incentive to blank-verse. He uttered it to me slowly, in a voice +so much deeper than his usual voice, that I nearly laughed. For the +actual bearer of the name he had no hero-worship, and said it was by a +mere accident that he had chosen him as central figure. He had +thought of writing a tragedy about Sardanapalus; but the volume of the +"Encyclopedia Britannica" in which he was going to look up the main +facts about Sardanapalus happened to open at Savonarola. Hence a sudden +and complete peripety in the student's mind. He told me he had read the +Encyclopedia's article carefully, and had dipped into one or two of +the books there mentioned as authorities. He seemed almost to wish he +hadn't. 'Facts get in one's way so,' he complained. 'History is one +thing, drama is another. Aristotle said drama was more philosophic than +history because it showed us what men WOULD do, not just what they DID. +I think that's so true, don't you? I want to show what Savonarola WOULD +have done if--' He paused. + +'If what?' + +'Well, that's just the point. I haven't settled that yet. When I've +thought of a plot, I shall go straight ahead.' + +I said I supposed he intended his tragedy rather for the study than for +the stage. This seemed to hurt him. I told him that what I meant was +that managers always shied at anything without 'a strong feminine +interest.' This seemed to worry him. I advised him not to think about +managers. He promised that he would think only about Savonarola. + +I know now that this promise was not exactly kept by him; and he may +have felt slightly awkward when, some weeks later, he told me he had +begun the play. 'I've hit on an initial idea,' he said, 'and that's +enough to start with. I gave up my notion of inventing a plot in +advance. I thought it would be a mistake. I don't want puppets on wires. +I want Savonarola to work out his destiny in his own way. Now that I +have the initial idea, what I've got to do is to make Savonarola LIVE. +I hope I shall be able to do this. Once he's alive, I shan't interfere +with him. I shall just watch him. Won't it be interesting? He isn't +alive yet. But there's plenty of time. You see, he doesn't come on at +the rise of the curtain. A Friar and a Sacristan come on and talk about +him. By the time they've finished, perhaps he'll be alive. But they +won't have finished yet. Not that they're going to say very much. But I +write slowly.' + +I remember the mild thrill I had when, one evening, he took me aside and +said in an undertone, 'Savonarola has come on. Alive!' For me the MS. +hereinafter printed has an interest that for you it cannot have, so +a-bristle am I with memories of the meetings I had with its author +throughout the nine years he took over it. He never saw me without +reporting progress, or lack of progress. Just what was going on, or +standing still, he did not divulge. After the entry of Savonarola, +he never told me what characters were appearing. 'All sorts of people +appear,' he would say rather helplessly. 'They insist. I can't prevent +them.' I used to say it must be great fun to be a creative artist; but +at this he always shook his head: 'I don't create. THEY do. Savonarola +especially, of course. I just look on and record. I never know what's +going to happen next.' He had the advantage of me in knowing at any rate +what had happened last. But whenever I pled for a glimpse he would again +shake his head: + +'The thing MUST be judged as a whole. Wait till I've come to the end of +the Fifth Act.' + +So impatient did I become that, as the years went by, I used rather to +resent his presence at second nights. I felt he ought to be at his +desk. His, I used to tell him, was the only drama whose future ought +to concern him now. And in point of fact he had, I think, lost the true +spirit of the second-nighter, and came rather to be seen than to see. +He liked the knowledge that here and there in the auditorium, when he +entered it, some one would be saying 'Who is that?' and receiving the +answer 'Oh, don't you know? That's "Savonarola" Brown.' This sort of +thing, however, did not make him cease to be the modest, unaffected +fellow I had known. He always listened to the advice I used to offer +him, though inwardly he must have chafed at it. Myself a fidgety and +uninspired person, unable to begin a piece of writing before I know just +how it shall end, I had always been afraid that sooner or later Brown +would take some turning that led nowhither--would lose himself and come +to grief. This fear crept into my gladness when, one evening in the +spring of 1909, he told me he had finished the Fourth Act. Would he win +out safely through the Fifth? + +He himself was looking rather glum; and, as we walked away from the +theatre, I said to him, 'I suppose you feel rather like Thackeray when +he'd "killed the Colonel": you've got to kill the Monk.' + +'Not quite that,' he answered. 'But of course he'll die very soon now. A +couple of years or so. And it does seem rather sad. It's not merely that +he's so full of life. He has been becoming much more HUMAN lately. At +first I only respected him. Now I have a real affection for him.' + +This was an interesting glimpse at last, but I turned from it to my +besetting fear. + +'Haven't you,' I asked, 'any notion of HOW he is to die?' + +Brown shook his head. + +'But in a tragedy,' I insisted, 'the catastrophe MUST be led up to, +step by step. My dear Brown, the end of the hero MUST be logical and +rational.' + +'I don't see that,' he said, as we crossed Piccadilly Circus. 'In actual +life it isn't so. What is there to prevent a motor-omnibus from knocking +me over and killing me at this moment?' + +At that moment, by what has always seemed to me the strangest of +coincidences, and just the sort of thing that playwrights ought to +avoid, a motor-omnibus knocked Brown over and killed him. + +He had, as I afterwards learned, made a will in which he appointed me +his literary executor. Thus passed into my hands the unfinished play by +whose name he had become known to so many people. + + +I hate to say that I was disappointed in it, but I had better confess +quite frankly that, on the whole, I was. Had Brown written it quickly +and read it to me soon after our first talk about it, it might in some +ways have exceeded my hopes. But he had become for me, by reason of that +quiet and unhasting devotion to his work while the years came and went, +a sort of hero; and the very mystery involving just what he was about +had addicted me to those ideas of magnificence which the unknown is said +always to foster. + +Even so, however, I am not blind to the great merits of the play as it +stands. It is well that the writer of poetic drama should be a dramatist +and a poet. Here is a play that abounds in striking situations, and I +have searched it vainly for one line that does not scan. What I nowhere +feel is that I have not elsewhere been thrilled or lulled by the same +kind of thing. I do not go so far as to say that Brown inherited his +parents' deplorable lack of imagination. But I do wish he had been less +sensitive than he was to impressions, or else had seen and read fewer +poetic dramas ancient and modern. Remembering that visionary look in +his eyes, remembering that he was as displeased as I by the work of all +living playwrights, and as dissatisfied with the great efforts of the +Elizabethans, I wonder that he was not more immune from influences. + +Also, I cannot but wish still that he had faltered in his decision +to make no scenario. There is much to be said for the theory that a +dramatist should first vitalise his characters and then leave them +unfettered; but I do feel that Brown's misused the confidence he reposed +in them. The labour of so many years has somewhat the air of being +a mere improvisation. Savonarola himself, after the First Act or so, +strikes me as utterly inconsistent. It may be that he is just complex, +like Hamlet. He does in the Fourth Act show traces of that Prince. I +suppose this is why he struck Brown as having become 'more human.' To me +he seems merely a poorer creature. + +But enough of these reservations. In my anxiety for poor Brown's sake +that you should not be disappointed, perhaps I have been carrying +tactfulness too far and prejudicing you against that for which I +specially want your favour. Here, without more ado, is + + + + +SAVONAROLA + +A TRAGEDY + +By L. Brown + + + ACT I + + SCENE: A Room in the Monastery of San Marco, Florence. + TIME: 1490, A.D. A summer morning. + + Enter the SACRISTAN and a FRIAR. + + SACR. + Savonarola looks more grim to-day + Than ever. Should I speak my mind, I'd say + That he was fashioning some new great scourge + To flay the backs of men. + + FRI. + 'Tis even so. + Brother Filippo saw him stand last night + In solitary vigil till the dawn + Lept o'er the Arno, and his face was such + As men may wear in Purgatory--nay, + E'en in the inmost core of Hell's own fires. + + SACR. + I often wonder if some woman's face, + Seen at some rout in his old worldling days, + Haunts him e'en now, e'en here, and urges him + To fierier fury 'gainst the Florentines. + + FRI. + Savonarola love-sick! Ha, ha, ha! + Love-sick? He, love-sick? 'Tis a goodly jest! + The CONfirm'd misogyn a ladies' man! + Thou must have eaten of some strange red herb + That takes the reason captive. I will swear + Savonarola never yet hath seen + A woman but he spurn'd her. Hist! He comes. + + [Enter SAVONAROLA, rapt in thought.] + + Give thee good morrow, Brother. + + SACR. + And therewith + A multitude of morrows equal-good + Till thou, by Heaven's grace, hast wrought the work + Nearest thine heart. + + SAV. + I thank thee, Brother, yet + I thank thee not, for that my thankfulness + (An such there be) gives thanks to Heaven alone. + + FRI. [To SACR.] + 'Tis a right answer he hath given thee. + Had Sav'narola spoken less than thus, + Methinks me, the less Sav'narola he. + As when the snow lies on yon Apennines, + White as the hem of Mary Mother's robe, + And insusceptible to the sun's rays, + Being harder to the touch than temper'd steel, + E'en so this great gaunt monk white-visaged + Upstands to Heaven and to Heav'n devotes + The scarped thoughts that crown the upper slopes + Of his abrupt and AUStere nature. + + SACR. + Aye. + + [Enter LUCREZIA BORGIA, ST. FRANCIS OF ASSISI, and LEONARDO + DA VINCI. LUC. is thickly veiled.] + + ST. FRAN. + This is the place. + + LUC. [Pointing at SAV.] + And this the man! [Aside.] And I-- + By the hot blood that courses i' my veins + I swear it ineluctably--the woman! + + SAV. + Who is this wanton? + [LUC. throws back her hood, revealing her face. SAV. starts back, + gazing at her.] + + ST. FRAN. + Hush, Sir! 'Tis my little sister + The poisoner, right well-belov'd by all + Whom she as yet hath spared. Hither she came + Mounted upon another little sister of mine-- + A mare, caparison'd in goodly wise. + She--I refer now to Lucrezia-- + Desireth to have word of thee anent + Some matter that befrets her. + + SAV. [To LUC.] + Hence! Begone! + Savonarola will not tempted be + By face of woman e'en tho' 't be, tho' 'tis, + Surpassing fair. All hope abandon therefore. + I charge thee: Vade retro, Satanas. + + LEONARDO + Sirrah, thou speakst in haste, as is the way + Of monkish men. The beauty of Lucrezia + Commends, not discommends, her to the eyes + Of keener thinkers than I take thee for. + I am an artist and an engineer, + Giv'n o'er to subtile dreams of what shall be + On this our planet. I foresee a day + When men shall skim the earth i' certain chairs + Not drawn by horses but sped on by oil + Or other matter, and shall thread the sky + Birdlike. + + LUC. + It may be as thou sayest, friend, + Or may be not. [To SAV.] As touching this our errand, + I crave of thee, Sir Monk, an audience + Instanter. + + FRI. + Lo! Here Alighieri comes. + I had methought me he was still at Parma. + + [Enter DANTE.] + + ST. FRAN. [To DAN.] + How fares my little sister Beatrice? + + DAN. + She died, alack, last sennight. + + ST. FRAN. + Did she so? + If the condolences of men avail + Thee aught, take mine. + + DAN. + They are of no avail. + + SAV. [To LUC.] + I do refuse thee audience. + + LUC. + Then why + Didst thou not say so promptly when I ask'd it? + + SAV. + Full well thou knowst that I was interrupted + By Alighieri's entry. + [Noise without. Enter Guelfs and Ghibellines fighting.] + What is this? + + LUC. + I did not think that in this cloister'd spot + There would be so much doing. I had look'd + To find Savonarola all alone + And tempt him in his uneventful cell. + Instead o' which--Spurn'd am I? I am I. + There was a time, Sir, look to 't! O damnation! + What is 't? Anon then! These my toys, my gauds, + That in the cradle--aye, 't my mother's breast-- + I puled and lisped at,--'Tis impossible, + Tho', faith, 'tis not so, forasmuch as 'tis. + And I a daughter of the Borgias!-- + Or so they told me. Liars! Flatterers! + Currying lick-spoons! Where's the Hell of 't then? + 'Tis time that I were going. Farewell, Monk, + But I'll avenge me ere the sun has sunk. + [Exeunt LUC., ST. FRAN., and LEONARDO, followed by DAN. SAV., having + watched LUC. out of sight, sinks to his knees, sobbing. FRI. and SACR. + watch him in amazement. Guelfs and Ghibellines continue fighting as + the Curtain falls.] + + + ACT II + + TIME: Afternoon of same day. + SCENE: Lucrezia's Laboratory. Retorts, test-tubes, etc. On small + Renaissance table, up c., is a great poison-bowl, the contents of + which are being stirred by the FIRST APPRENTICE. The SECOND APPRENTICE + stands by, watching him. + + SECOND APP. + For whom is the brew destin'd? + + FIRST APP. + I know not. + Lady Lucrezia did but lay on me + Injunctions as regards the making of 't, + The which I have obey'd. It is compounded + Of a malignant and a deadly weed + Found not save in the Gulf of Spezia, + And one small phial of 't, I am advis'd, + Were more than 'nough to slay a regiment + Of Messer Malatesta's condottieri + In all their armour. + + SECOND APP. + I can well believe it. + Mark how the purple bubbles froth upon + The evil surface of its nether slime! + + [Enter LUC.] + + LUC. [To FIRST APP.] + Is 't done, Sir Sluggard? + + FIRST APP. + Madam, to a turn. + + LUC. + Had it not been so, I with mine own hand + Would have outpour'd it down thy gullet, knave. + See, here's a ring of cunningly-wrought gold + + That I, on a dark night, did purchase from + A goldsmith on the Ponte Vecchio. + Small was his shop, and hoar of visage he. + I did bemark that from the ceiling's beams + Spiders had spun their webs for many a year, + The which hung erst like swathes of gossamer + Seen in the shadows of a fairy glade, + But now most woefully were weighted o'er + With gather'd dust. Look well now at the ring! + Touch'd here, behold, it opes a cavity + Capacious of three drops of yon fell stuff. + Dost heed? Whoso then puts it on his finger + Dies, and his soul is from his body rapt + To Hell or Heaven as the case may be. + Take thou this toy and pour the three drops in. + + [Hands ring to FIRST APP. and comes down c.] + + So, Sav'narola, thou shalt learn that I + Utter no threats but I do make them good. + Ere this day's sun hath wester'd from the view + Thou art to preach from out the Loggia + Dei Lanzi to the cits in the Piazza. + I, thy Lucrezia, will be upon the steps + To offer thee with phrases seeming-fair + That which shall seal thine eloquence for ever. + O mighty lips that held the world in spell + But would not meet these little lips of mine + In the sweet way that lovers use--O thin, + Cold, tight-drawn, bloodless lips, which natheless I + Deem of all lips the most magnifical + In this our city-- + + [Enter the Borgias' FOOL.] + + Well, Fool, what's thy latest? + + FOOL + Aristotle's or Zeno's, Lady--'tis neither latest nor last. For, + marry, if the cobbler stuck to his last, then were his latest his last + in rebus ambulantibus. Argal, I stick at nothing but cobble-stones, + which, by the same token, are stuck to the road by men's fingers. + + LUC. + How many crows may nest in a grocer's jerkin? + + FOOL + A full dozen at cock-crow, and something less under the dog-star, by + reason of the dew, which lies heavy on men taken by the scurvy. + + LUC. [To FIRST APP.] + Methinks the Fool is a fool. + + FOOL + And therefore, by auricular deduction, am I own twin to the Lady + Lucrezia! + + [Sings.] + + When pears hang green on the garden wall + With a nid, and a nod, and a niddy-niddy-o + Then prank you, lads and lasses all, + With a yea and a nay and a niddy-o. + + But when the thrush flies out o' the frost + With a nid, [etc.] + 'Tis time for loons to count the cost, + With a yea [etc.] + + [Enter the PORTER.] + + PORTER + O my dear Mistress, there is one below + Demanding to have instant word of thee. + I told him that your Ladyship was not + At home. Vain perjury! He would not take + Nay for an answer. + + LUC. + Ah? What manner of man + Is he? + + PORTER + A personage the like of whom + Is wholly unfamiliar to my gaze. + Cowl'd is he, but I saw his great eyes glare + From their deep sockets in such wise as leopards + Glare from their caverns, crouching ere they spring + On their reluctant prey. + + LUC. + And what name gave he? + + PORTER [After a pause.] + Something-arola. + + LUC. + Savon-? [PORTER nods.] Show him up. [Exit PORTER.] + + FOOL + If he be right astronomically, Mistress, then is he the greater dunce + in respect of true learning, the which goes by the globe. Argal, + 'twere better he widened his wind-pipe. + + [Sings.] + Fly home, sweet self, + Nothing's for weeping, + Hemp was not made + For lovers' keeping, Lovers' keeping, + Cheerly, cheerly, fly away. + Hew no more wood + While ash is glowing, + The longest grass + Is lovers' mowing, + Lovers' mowing, + Cheerly, [etc.] + + [Re-enter PORTER, followed by SAV. Exeunt PORTER, FOOL, and FIRST and + SECOND APPS.] + + SAV. + I am no more a monk, I am a man + O' the world. + [Throws off cowl and frock, and stands forth in the costume of a + Renaissance nobleman. LUCREZIA looks him up and down.] + + LUC. + Thou cutst a sorry figure. + + SAV. + That + Is neither here nor there. I love you, Madam. + + LUC. + And this, methinks, is neither there nor here, + For that my love of thee hath vanished, + Seeing thee thus beprankt. Go pad thy calves! + Thus mightst thou, just conceivably, with luck, + Capture the fancy of some serving-wench. + + SAV. + And this is all thou hast to say to me? + + LUC. + It is. + + SAV. + I am dismiss'd? + + LUC. + Thou art. + + SAV. + 'Tis well. + [Resumes frock and cowl.] + Savonarola is himself once more. + + LUC. + And all my love for him returns to me + A thousandfold! + + SAV. + Too late! My pride of manhood + Is wounded irremediably. I'll + To the Piazza, where my flock awaits me. + Thus do we see that men make great mistakes + But may amend them when the conscience wakes. + [Exit.] + + LUC. + I'm half avenged now, but only half: + 'Tis with the ring I'll have the final laugh! + Tho' love be sweet, revenge is sweeter far. + To the Piazza! Ha, ha, ha, ha, har! + [Seizes ring, and exit. Through open door are heard, as the Curtain + falls, sounds of a terrific hubbub in the Piazza.] + + + ACT III + + SCENE: The Piazza. + TIME: A few minutes anterior to close of preceding Act. + + The Piazza is filled from end to end with a vast seething crowd that + is drawn entirely from the lower orders. There is a sprinkling of + wild-eyed and dishevelled women in it. The men are lantern-jawed, + with several days' growth of beard. Most of them carry rude weapons-- + staves, bill-hooks, crow-bars, and the like--and are in as excited a + condition as the women. Some of them are bare-headed, others affect a + kind of Phrygian cap. Cobblers predominate. + + Enter LORENZO DE MEDICI and COSIMO DE MEDICI. They wear cloaks of scarlet + brocade, and, to avoid notice, hold masks to their faces. + + COS. + What purpose doth the foul and greasy plebs + Ensue to-day here? + + LOR. + I nor know nor care. + + COS. + How thrall'd thou art to the philosophy + Of Epicurus! Naught that's human I + Deem alien from myself. [To a COBBLER.] Make answer, fellow! + What empty hope hath drawn thee by a thread + Forth from the OBscene hovel where thou starvest? + + COB. + No empty hope, your Honour, but the full + Assurance that to-day, as yesterday, + Savonarola will let loose his thunder + Against the vices of the idle rich + And from the brimming cornucopia + Of his immense vocabulary pour + Scorn on the lamentable heresies + Of the New Learning and on all the art + Later than Giotto. + + COS. + Mark how absolute + The knave is! + + LOR. + Then are parrots rational + When they regurgitate the thing they hear! + This fool is but an unit of the crowd, + And crowds are senseless as the vasty deep + That sinks or surges as the moon dictates. + I know these crowds, and know that any man + That hath a glib tongue and a rolling eye + Can as he willeth with them. + [Removes his mask and mounts steps of Loggia.] + Citizens! + [Prolonged yells and groans from the crowd.] + Yes, I am he, I am that same Lorenzo + Whom you have nicknamed the Magnificent. + [Further terrific yells, shakings of fists, brandishings of bill- + hooks, insistent cries of 'Death to Lorenzo!' 'Down with the + Magnificent!' Cobblers on fringe of crowd, down c., exhibit especially + all the symptoms of epilepsy, whooping-cough, and other ailments.] + You love not me. + [The crowd makes an ugly rush. LOR. appears likely to be dragged down + and torn limb from limb, but raises one hand in nick of time, and + continues:] + Yet I deserve your love. + [The yells are now variegated with dubious murmurs. A cobbler down c. + thrusts his face feverishly in the face of another and repeats, in a + hoarse interrogative whisper, 'Deserves our love?'] + Not for the sundry boons I have bestow'd + And benefactions I have lavished + Upon Firenze, City of the Flowers, + But for the love that in this rugged breast + I bear you. + [The yells have now died away, and there is a sharp fall in dubious + murmurs. The cobbler down c. says, in an ear-piercing whisper, 'The + love he bears us,' drops his lower jaw, nods his head repeatedly, and + awaits in an intolerable state of suspense the orator's next words.] + I am not a blameless man, + [Some dubious murmurs.] + Yet for that I have lov'd you passing much, + Shall some things be forgiven me. + [Noises of cordial assent.] + There dwells + In this our city, known unto you all, + A man more virtuous than I am, and + A thousand times more intellectual; + Yet envy not I him, for--shall I name him?-- + He loves not you. His name? I will not cut + Your hearts by speaking it. Here let it stay + On tip o' tongue. + [Insistent clamour.] + Then steel you to the shock!-- + Savonarola. + [For a moment or so the crowd reels silently under the shock. Cobbler + down c. is the first to recover himself and cry 'Death to Savonarola!' + The cry instantly becomes general. LOR. holds up his hand and + gradually imposes silence.] + His twin bug-bears are + Yourselves and that New Learning which I hold + Less dear than only you. + [Profound sensation. Everybody whispers 'Than only you' to everybody + else. A woman near steps of Loggia attempts to kiss hem of LOR.'s + garment.] + Would you but con + With me the old philosophers of Hellas, + Her fervent bards and calm historians, + You would arise and say 'We will not hear + Another word against them!' + [The crowd already says this, repeatedly, with great emphasis.] + Take the Dialogues + Of Plato, for example. You will find + A spirit far more truly Christian + In them than in the ravings of the sour-soul'd + Savonarola. + [Prolonged cries of 'Death to the Sour-Souled Savonarola!' Several + cobblers detach themselves from the crowd and rush away to read the + Platonic Dialogues. Enter SAVONAROLA. The crowd, as he makes his way + through it, gives up all further control of its feelings, and makes a + noise for which even the best zoologists might not find a good + comparison. The staves and bill-hooks wave like twigs in a storm. + One would say that SAV. must have died a thousand deaths already. He + is, however, unharmed and unruffled as he reaches the upper step of + the Loggia. LOR. meanwhile has rejoined COS. in the Piazza.] + + SAV. + Pax vobiscum, brothers! + [This does but exacerbate the crowd's frenzy.] + + VOICE OF A COBBLER + Hear his false lips cry Peace when there is no + Peace! + + SAV. + Are not you ashamed, O Florentines, + [Renewed yells, but also some symptoms of manly shame.] + That hearken'd to Lorenzo and now reel + Inebriate with the exuberance + Of his verbosity? + [The crowd makes an obvious effort to pull itself together.] + A man can fool + Some of the people all the time, and can + Fool all the people sometimes, but he cannot + Fool ALL the people ALL the time. + [Loud cheers. Several cobblers clap one another on the back. Cries + of 'Death to Lorenzo!' The meeting is now well in hand.] + To-day + I must adopt a somewhat novel course + In dealing with the awful wickedness + At present noticeable in this city. + I do so with reluctance. Hitherto + I have avoided personalities. + But now my sense of duty forces me + To a departure from my custom of + Naming no names. One name I must and shall + Name. + [All eyes are turned on LOR., who smiles uncomfortably.] + No, I do not mean Lorenzo. He + Is 'neath contempt. + [Loud and prolonged laughter, accompanied with hideous grimaces at LOR. + Exeunt LOR. and COS.] + I name a woman's name, + [The women in the crowd eye one another suspiciously.] + A name known to you all--four-syllabled, + Beginning with an L. + [Pause. Enter hurriedly LUC., carrying the ring. She stands, + unobserved by any one, on outskirt of crowd. SAV. utters the name:] + Lucrezia! + + LUC. [With equal intensity.] + Savonarola! + [SAV. starts violently and stares in direction of her voice.] + Yes, I come, I come! + [Forces her way to steps of Loggia. The crowd is much bewildered, and + the cries of 'Death to Lucrezia Borgia!' are few and sporadic.] + Why didst thou call me? + [SAV. looks somewhat embarrassed.] + What is thy distress? + I see it all! The sanguinary mob + Clusters to rend thee! As the antler'd stag, + With fine eyes glazed from the too-long chase, + Turns to defy the foam-fleck'd pack, and thinks, + In his last moment, of some graceful hind + Seen once afar upon a mountain-top, + E'en so, Savonarola, didst thou think, + In thy most dire extremity, of me. + And here I am! Courage! The horrid hounds + Droop tail at sight of me and fawn away + Innocuous. + [The crowd does indeed seem to have fallen completely under the sway + of LUC.'s magnetism, and is evidently convinced that it had been about + to make an end of the monk.] + Take thou, and wear henceforth, + As a sure talisman 'gainst future perils, + This little, little ring. + [SAV. makes awkward gesture of refusal. Angry murmurs from the crowd. + Cries of 'Take thou the ring!' 'Churl!' 'Put it on!' etc. + Enter the Borgias' FOOL and stands unnoticed on fringe of crowd.] + I hoped you 'ld like it-- + Neat but not gaudy. Is my taste at fault? + I'd so look'd forward to-- + [Sob.] No, I'm not crying, + But just a little hurt. + [Hardly a dry eye in the crowd. Also swayings and snarlings + indicative that SAV.'s life is again not worth a moment's purchase. + SAV. makes awkward gesture of acceptance, but just as he is about to + put ring on finger, the FOOL touches his lute and sings:--] + + Wear not the ring, + It hath an unkind sting, + Ding, dong, ding. + Bide a minute, + There's poison in it, + Poison in it, + Ding-a-dong, dong, ding. + + LUC. + The fellow lies. + [The crowd is torn with conflicting opinions. Mingled cries of 'Wear + not the ring!' 'The fellow lies!' 'Bide a minute!' 'Death to the + Fool!' 'Silence for the Fool!' 'Ding-a-dong, dong, ding!' etc.] + + FOOL [Sings.] + Wear not the ring, + For Death's a robber-king, + Ding, [etc.] + There's no trinket + Is what you think it, + What you think it, + Ding-a-dong, [etc.] + + [SAV. throws ring in LUC.'s face. Enter POPE JULIUS II, with Papal + army.] + POPE + Arrest that man and woman! + [Re-enter Guelfs and Ghibellines fighting. SAV. and LUC. are arrested + by Papal officers. Enter MICHAEL ANGELO. ANDREA DEL SARTO appears for a + moment at a window. PIPPA passes. Brothers of the Misericordia go by, + singing a Requiem for Francesca da Rimini. Enter BOCCACCIO, BENVENUTO + CELLINI, and many others, making remarks highly characteristic of + themselves but scarcely audible through the terrific thunderstorm + which now bursts over Florence and is at its loudest and darkest + crisis as the Curtain falls.] + + + ACT IV + + TIME: Three hours later. + SCENE: A Dungeon on the ground-floor of the Palazzo Civico. + + The stage is bisected from top to bottom by a wall, on one side of + which is seen the interior of LUCREZIA'S cell, on the other that of + SAVONAROLA'S. + + Neither he nor she knows that the other is in the next cell. The + audience, however, knows this. + + Each cell (because of the width and height of the proscenium) is of + more than the average Florentine size, but is bare even to the point + of severity, its sole amenities being some straw, a hunk of bread, and + a stone pitcher. The door of each is facing the audience. Dimish + light. + + LUCREZIA wears long and clanking chains on her wrists, as does also + SAVONAROLA. Imprisonment has left its mark on both of them. SAVONAROLA'S + hair has turned white. His whole aspect is that of a very old, old + man. LUCREZIA looks no older than before, but has gone mad. + + SAV. + Alas, how long ago this morning seems + This evening! A thousand thousand eons + Are scarce the measure of the gulf betwixt + My then and now. Methinks I must have been + Here since the dim creation of the world + And never in that interval have seen + The tremulous hawthorn burgeon in the brake, + Nor heard the hum o' bees, nor woven chains + Of buttercups on Mount Fiesole + What time the sap lept in the cypresses, + Imbuing with the friskfulness of Spring + Those melancholy trees. I do forget + The aspect of the sun. Yet I was born + A freeman, and the Saints of Heaven smiled + Down on my crib. What would my sire have said, + And what my dam, had anybody told them + The time would come when I should occupy + A felon's cell? O the disgrace of it + The scandal, the incredible come-down! + It masters me. I see i' my mind's eye + The public prints--'Sharp Sentence on a Monk.' + What then? I thought I was of sterner stuff + Than is affrighted by what people think. + Yet thought I so because 'twas thought of me, + And so 'twas thought of me because I had + A hawk-like profile and a baleful eye. + Lo! my soul's chin recedes, soft to the touch + As half-churn'd butter. Seeming hawk is dove, + And dove's a gaol-bird now. Fie out upon 't! + + LUC. + How comes it? I am Empress Dowager + Of China--yet was never crown'd. This must + Be seen to. + [Quickly gathers some straw and weaves a crown, which she puts on.] + + SAV. + O, what a degringolade! + The great career I had mapp'd out for me-- + Nipp'd i' the bud. What life, when I come out, + Awaits me? Why, the very Novices + And callow Postulants will draw aside + As I pass by, and say 'That man hath done + Time!' And yet shall I wince? The worst of Time + Is not in having done it, but in doing 't. + + LUC. + Ha, ha, ha, ha! Eleven billion pig-tails + Do tremble at my nod imperial,-- + The which is as it should be. + + SAV. + I have heard + That gaolers oft are willing to carouse + With them they watch o'er, and do sink at last + Into a drunken sleep, and then's the time + To snatch the keys and make a bid for freedom. + Gaoler! Ho, Gaoler! + [Sounds of lock being turned and bolts withdrawn. Enter the Borgias' + FOOL, in plain clothes, carrying bunch of keys.] + I have seen thy face + Before. + + FOOL + I saved thy life this afternoon, Sir. + + SAV. + Thou art the Borgias' Fool? + + FOOL + Say rather, was. + Unfortunately I have been discharg'd + For my betrayal of Lucrezia, + So that I have to speak like other men-- + Decasyllabically, and with sense. + An hour ago the gaoler of this dungeon + Died of an apoplexy. Hearing which, + I ask'd for and obtain'd his billet. + + SAV. + Fetch + A stoup o' liquor for thyself and me. + [Exit GAOLER.] + Freedom! there's nothing that thy votaries + Grudge in the cause of thee. That decent man + Is doom'd by me to lose his place again + To-morrow morning when he wakes from out + His hoggish slumber. Yet I care not. + [Re-enter GAOLER with a leathern bottle and two glasses.] + Ho! + This is the stuff to warm our vitals, this + The panacea for all mortal ills + And sure elixir of eternal youth. + Drink, bonniman! + [GAOLER drains a glass and shows signs of instant intoxication. SAV. + claps him on shoulder and replenishes glass. GAOLER drinks again, lies + down on floor, and snores. SAV. snatches the bunch of keys, laughs + long but silently, and creeps out on tip-toe, leaving door ajar. + LUC. meanwhile has lain down on the straw in her cell, and fallen + asleep. + Noise of bolts being shot back, jangling of keys, grating of lock, and + the door of LUC.'S cell flies open. SAV. takes two steps across the + threshold, his arms outstretched and his upturned face transfigured + with a great joy.] + How sweet the open air + Leaps to my nostrils! O the good brown earth + That yields once more to my elastic tread + And laves these feet with its remember'd dew! + [Takes a few more steps, still looking upwards.] + Free!--I am free! O naked arc of heaven, + Enspangled with innumerable--no, + Stars are not there. Yet neither are there clouds! + The thing looks like a ceiling! [Gazes downward.] And this thing + Looks like a floor. [Gazes around.] And that white bundle yonder + Looks curiously like Lucrezia. + [LUC. awakes at sound of her name, and sits up sane.] + There must be some mistake. + + LUC. [Rises to her feet.] + There is indeed! + A pretty sort of prison I have come to, + In which a self-respecting lady's cell + Is treated as a lounge! + + SAV. + I had no notion + You were in here. I thought I was out there. + I will explain--but first I'll make amends. + Here are the keys by which your durance ends. + The gate is somewhere in this corridor, + And so good-bye to this interior! + [Exeunt SAV. and LUC. Noise, a moment later, of a key grating in a + lock, then of gate creaking on its hinges; triumphant laughs of + fugitives; loud slamming of gate behind them. + In SAV.'s cell the GAOLER starts in his sleep, turns his face to the + wall, and snores more than ever deeply. Through open door comes a + cloaked figure.] + + CLOAKED FIGURE + Sleep on, Savonarola, and awake + Not in this dungeon but in ruby Hell! + [Stabs Gaoler, whose snores cease abruptly. Enter POPE JULIUS II, with + Papal retinue carrying torches. MURDERER steps quickly back into + shadow.] + + POPE [To body of GAOLER.] + Savonarola, I am come to taunt + Thee in thy misery and dire abjection. + Rise, Sir, and hear me out. + + MURD. [Steps forward.] + Great Julius, + Waste not thy breath. Savonarola's dead. + I murder'd him. + + POPE + Thou hadst no right to do so. + Who art thou, pray? + + MURD. + Cesare Borgia, + Lucrezia's brother, and I claim a brother's + Right to assassinate whatever man + Shall wantonly and in cold blood reject + Her timid offer of a poison'd ring. + + POPE + Of this anon. + [Stands over body of GAOLER.] + Our present business + Is general woe. No nobler corse hath ever + Impress'd the ground. O let the trumpets speak it! + [Flourish of trumpets.] + This was the noblest of the Florentines. + His character was flawless, and the world + Held not his parallel. O bear him hence + With all such honours as our State can offer. + He shall interred be with noise of cannon, + As doth befit so militant a nature. + Prepare these obsequies. + [Papal officers lift body of GAOLER.] + + A PAPAL OFFICER + But this is not + Savonarola. It is some one else. + + CESARE + Lo! 'tis none other than the Fool that I + Hoof'd from my household but two hours agone. + I deem'd him no good riddance, for he had + The knack of setting tables on a roar. + What shadows we pursue! Good night, sweet Fool, + And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest! + + POPE + Interred shall he be with signal pomp. + No honour is too great that we can pay him. + He leaves the world a vacuum. Meanwhile, + Go we in chase of the accursed villain + That hath made escapado from this cell. + To horse! Away! We'll scour the country round + For Sav'narola till we hold him bound. + Then shall you see a cinder, not a man, + Beneath the lightnings of the Vatican! + [Flourish, alarums and excursions, flashes of Vatican lightning, roll + of drums, etc. Through open door of cell is led in a large milk-white + horse, which the POPE mounts as the Curtain falls.] + + +Remember, please, before you formulate your impressions, that saying +of Brown's: 'The thing must be judged as a whole.' I like to think that +whatever may seem amiss to us in these Four Acts of his would have been +righted by collation with that Fifth which he did not live to achieve. + +I like, too, to measure with my eyes the yawning gulf between stage and +study. Very different from the message of cold print to our imagination +are the messages of flesh and blood across footlights to our eyes and +ears. In the warmth and brightness of a crowded theatre 'Savonarola' +might, for aught one knows, seem perfect. 'Then why,' I hear my gentle +readers asking, 'did you thrust the play on US, and not on a theatrical +manager?' + +That question has a false assumption in it. In the course of the past +eight years I have thrust 'Savonarola' on any number of theatrical +managers. They have all of them been (to use the technical phrase) 'very +kind.' All have seen great merits in the work; and if I added +together all the various merits thus seen I should have no doubt that +'Savonarola' was the best play never produced. The point on which all +the managers are unanimous is that they have no use for a play without +an ending. This is why I have fallen back, at last, on gentle readers, +whom now I hear asking why I did not, as Brown's literary executor, try +to finish the play myself. Can they never ask a question without a false +assumption in it? I did try, hard, to finish 'Savonarola.' + +Artistically, of course, the making of such an attempt was indefensible. +Humanly, not so. It is clear throughout the play--especially perhaps in +Acts III and IV--that if Brown had not steadfastly in his mind the hope +of production on the stage, he had nothing in his mind at all. Horrified +though he would have been by the idea of letting me kill his Monk, +he would rather have done even this than doom his play to everlasting +unactedness. I took, therefore, my courage in both hands, and made out a +scenario.... + +Dawn on summit of Mount Fiesole. Outspread view of Florence (Duomo, +Giotto's Tower, etc.) as seen from that eminence.--NICCOLO MACHIAVELLI, +asleep on grass, wakes as sun rises. Deplores his exile from Florence, +LORENZO'S unappeasable hostility, etc. Wonders if he could not somehow +secure the POPE'S favour. Very cynical. Breaks off: But who are these +that scale the mountain-side? | Savonarola and Lucrezia | Borgia!--Enter +through a trap-door, back c. [trap-door veiled from audience by a +grassy ridge], SAV. and LUC. Both gasping and footsore from their climb. +[Still, with chains on their wrists? or not?]--MACH. steps unobserved +behind a cypress and listens.--SAV. has a speech to the rising sun--Th' +effulgent hope that westers from the east | Daily. Says that his hope, +on the contrary, lies in escape To that which easters not from out +the west, | That fix'd abode of freedom which men call | America! Very +bitter against POPE.--LUC. says that she, for her part, means To start +afresh in that uncharted land | Which austers not from out the antipod, +| Australia!--Exit MACH., unobserved, down trap-door behind ridge, to +betray LUC. and SAV.--Several longish speeches by SAV. and LUC. Time is +thus given for MACH. to get into touch with POPE, and time for POPE and +retinue to reach the slope of Fiesole. SAV., glancing down across ridge, +sees these sleuth-hounds, points them out to LUC. and cries Bewray'd! +LUC. By whom? SAV. I know not, but suspect | The hand of that sleek +serpent Niccolo | Machiavelli.--SAV. and LUC. rush down c., but find +their way barred by the footlights.--LUC. We will not be ta'en Alive. +And here availeth us my lore | In what pertains to poison. Yonder herb +| [points to a herb growing down r.] Is deadly nightshade. Quick, +Monk! Pluck we it!--SAV. and LUC. die just as POPE appears over ridge, +followed by retinue in full cry.--POPE'S annoyance at being foiled +is quickly swept away on the great wave of Shakespearean chivalry and +charity that again rises in him. He gives SAV. a funeral oration similar +to the one meant for him in Act IV, but even more laudatory and more +stricken. Of LUC., too, he enumerates the virtues, and hints that the +whole terrestrial globe shall be hollowed to receive her bones. Ends +by saying: In deference to this our double sorrow | Sun shall not shine +to-day nor shine to-morrow.--Sun drops quickly back behind eastern +horizon, leaving a great darkness on which the Curtain slowly falls. + + +All this might be worse, yes. The skeleton passes muster. But in the +attempt to incarnate and ensanguine it I failed wretchedly. I saw that +Brown was, in comparison with me, a master. Thinking I might possibly +fare better in his method of work than in my own, I threw the skeleton +into a cupboard, sat down, and waited to see what Savonarola and those +others would do. + +They did absolutely nothing. I sat watching them, pen in hand, ready to +record their slightest movement. Not a little finger did they raise. +Yet I knew they must be alive. Brown had always told me they were quite +independent of him. Absurd to suppose that by the accident of his +own death they had ceased to breathe.... Now and then, overcome with +weariness, I dozed at my desk, and whenever I woke I felt that these +rigid creatures had been doing all sorts of wonderful things while my +eyes were shut. I felt that they disliked me. I came to dislike them in +return, and forbade them my room. + +Some of you, my readers, might have better luck with them than I. Invite +them, propitiate them, watch them! The writer of the best Fifth Act sent +to me shall have his work tacked on to Brown's; and I suppose I could +get him a free pass for the second night. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Seven Men, by Max Beerbohm + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SEVEN MEN *** + +***** This file should be named 1306.txt or 1306.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/3/0/1306/ + +Produced by Tom Weiss + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at +http://gutenberg.org/license). + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation" +or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project +Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right +of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org. + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at +http://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at +809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email +business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact +information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official +page at http://pglaf.org + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit http://pglaf.org + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. +To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + http://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/old/1306.zip b/old/1306.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..0b2ff47 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/1306.zip diff --git a/old/old/svnmn10.txt b/old/old/svnmn10.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e851331 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/old/svnmn10.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4141 @@ +***The Project Gutenberg Etext of Seven Men, by Max Beerbohm*** +#4 in our series by Max Beerbohm + +Contains: +A new version of Enoch Soames +Savonarola' Brown +Hilary Maltby and Stephen Braxton + + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world, be sure to check +the copyright laws for your country before posting these files!! + +Please take a look at the important information in this header. +We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an +electronic path open for the next readers. Do not remove this. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**Etexts Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*These Etexts Prepared By Hundreds of Volunteers and Donations* + +Information on contacting Project Gutenberg to get Etexts, and +further information is included below. We need your donations. + + +Seven Men + +Contains: +A new version of Enoch Soames +Savonarola' Brown +Hilary Maltby and Stephen Braxton + +by Max Beerbohm + +May, 1998 [Etext #1306] + + +***The Project Gutenberg Etext of Seven Men, by Max Beerbohm*** +******This file should be named svnmn10.txt or svnmn10.zip****** + +Corrected EDITIONS of our etexts get a new NUMBER, svnmn11.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, svnmn10a.txt + + +This etext was prepared by Tom Weiss (tom@iname.com) + + +Project Gutenberg Etexts are usually created from multiple editions, +all of which are in the Public Domain in the United States, unless a +copyright notice is included. Therefore, we do NOT keep these books +in compliance with any particular paper edition, usually otherwise. + + +We are now trying to release all our books one month in advance +of the official release dates, for time for better editing. + +Please note: neither this list nor its contents are final till +midnight of the last day of the month of any such announcement. +The official release date of all Project Gutenberg Etexts is at +Midnight, Central Time, of the last day of the stated month. A +preliminary version may often be posted for suggestion, comment +and editing by those who wish to do so. To be sure you have an +up to date first edition [xxxxx10x.xxx] please check file sizes +in the first week of the next month. Since our ftp program has +a bug in it that scrambles the date [tried to fix and failed] a +look at the file size will have to do, but we will try to see a +new copy has at least one byte more or less. + + +Information about Project Gutenberg (one page) + +We produce about two million dollars for each hour we work. The +fifty hours is one conservative estimate for how long it we take +to get any etext selected, entered, proofread, edited, copyright +searched and analyzed, the copyright letters written, etc. This +projected audience is one hundred million readers. If our value +per text is nominally estimated at one dollar then we produce $2 +million dollars per hour this year as we release thirty-two text +files per month, or 384 more Etexts in 1998 for a total of 1500+ +If these reach just 10% of the computerized population, then the +total should reach over 150 billion Etexts given away. + +The Goal of Project Gutenberg is to Give Away One Trillion Etext +Files by the December 31, 2001. [10,000 x 100,000,000=Trillion] +This is ten thousand titles each to one hundred million readers, +which is only 10% of the present number of computer users. 2001 +should have at least twice as many computer users as that, so it +will require us reaching less than 5% of the users in 2001. + + +We need your donations more than ever! + + +All donations should be made to "Project Gutenberg/CMU": and are +tax deductible to the extent allowable by law. (CMU = Carnegie- +Mellon University). + +For these and other matters, please mail to: + +Project Gutenberg +P. O. Box 2782 +Champaign, IL 61825 + +When all other email fails try our Executive Director: +Michael S. Hart <hart@pobox.com> + +We would prefer to send you this information by email +(Internet, Bitnet, Compuserve, ATTMAIL or MCImail). + +****** +If you have an FTP program (or emulator), please +FTP directly to the Project Gutenberg archives: +[Mac users, do NOT point and click. . .type] + +ftp uiarchive.cso.uiuc.edu +login: anonymous +password: your@login +cd etext/etext90 through /etext96 +or cd etext/articles [get suggest gut for more information] +dir [to see files] +get or mget [to get files. . .set bin for zip files] +GET INDEX?00.GUT +for a list of books +and +GET NEW GUT for general information +and +MGET GUT* for newsletters. + +**Information prepared by the Project Gutenberg legal advisor** +(Three Pages) + + +***START**THE SMALL PRINT!**FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS**START*** +Why is this "Small Print!" statement here? You know: lawyers. +They tell us you might sue us if there is something wrong with +your copy of this etext, even if you got it for free from +someone other than us, and even if what's wrong is not our +fault. So, among other things, this "Small Print!" statement +disclaims most of our liability to you. It also tells you how +you can distribute copies of this etext if you want to. + +*BEFORE!* YOU USE OR READ THIS ETEXT +By using or reading any part of this PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +etext, you indicate that you understand, agree to and accept +this "Small Print!" statement. If you do not, you can receive +a refund of the money (if any) you paid for this etext by +sending a request within 30 days of receiving it to the person +you got it from. If you received this etext on a physical +medium (such as a disk), you must return it with your request. + +ABOUT PROJECT GUTENBERG-TM ETEXTS +This PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etext, like most PROJECT GUTENBERG- +tm etexts, is a "public domain" work distributed by Professor +Michael S. Hart through the Project Gutenberg Association at +Carnegie-Mellon University (the "Project"). Among other +things, this means that no one owns a United States copyright +on or for this work, so the Project (and you!) can copy and +distribute it in the United States without permission and +without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth +below, apply if you wish to copy and distribute this etext +under the Project's "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark. + +To create these etexts, the Project expends considerable +efforts to identify, transcribe and proofread public domain +works. Despite these efforts, the Project's etexts and any +medium they may be on may contain "Defects". Among other +things, Defects may take the form of incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other +intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged +disk or other etext medium, a computer virus, or computer +codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment. + +LIMITED WARRANTY; DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES +But for the "Right of Replacement or Refund" described below, +[1] the Project (and any other party you may receive this +etext from as a PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etext) disclaims all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including +legal fees, and [2] YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE OR +UNDER STRICT LIABILITY, OR FOR BREACH OF WARRANTY OR CONTRACT, +INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE +OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES, EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE +POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGES. + +If you discover a Defect in this etext within 90 days of +receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) +you paid for it by sending an explanatory note within that +time to the person you received it from. If you received it +on a physical medium, you must return it with your note, and +such person may choose to alternatively give you a replacement +copy. If you received it electronically, such person may +choose to alternatively give you a second opportunity to +receive it electronically. + +THIS ETEXT IS OTHERWISE PROVIDED TO YOU "AS-IS". NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, ARE MADE TO YOU AS +TO THE ETEXT OR ANY MEDIUM IT MAY BE ON, INCLUDING BUT NOT +LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR A +PARTICULAR PURPOSE. + +Some states do not allow disclaimers of implied warranties or +the exclusion or limitation of consequential damages, so the +above disclaimers and exclusions may not apply to you, and you +may have other legal rights. + +INDEMNITY +You will indemnify and hold the Project, its directors, +officers, members and agents harmless from all liability, cost +and expense, including legal fees, that arise directly or +indirectly from any of the following that you do or cause: +[1] distribution of this etext, [2] alteration, modification, +or addition to the etext, or [3] any Defect. + +DISTRIBUTION UNDER "PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm" +You may distribute copies of this etext electronically, or by +disk, book or any other medium if you either delete this +"Small Print!" and all other references to Project Gutenberg, +or: + +[1] Only give exact copies of it. Among other things, this + requires that you do not remove, alter or modify the + etext or this "small print!" statement. You may however, + if you wish, distribute this etext in machine readable + binary, compressed, mark-up, or proprietary form, + including any form resulting from conversion by word pro- + cessing or hypertext software, but only so long as + *EITHER*: + + [*] The etext, when displayed, is clearly readable, and + does *not* contain characters other than those + intended by the author of the work, although tilde + (~), asterisk (*) and underline (_) characters may + be used to convey punctuation intended by the + author, and additional characters may be used to + indicate hypertext links; OR + + [*] The etext may be readily converted by the reader at + no expense into plain ASCII, EBCDIC or equivalent + form by the program that displays the etext (as is + the case, for instance, with most word processors); + OR + + [*] You provide, or agree to also provide on request at + no additional cost, fee or expense, a copy of the + etext in its original plain ASCII form (or in EBCDIC + or other equivalent proprietary form). + +[2] Honor the etext refund and replacement provisions of this + "Small Print!" statement. + +[3] Pay a trademark license fee to the Project of 20% of the + net profits you derive calculated using the method you + already use to calculate your applicable taxes. If you + don't derive profits, no royalty is due. Royalties are + payable to "Project Gutenberg Association/Carnegie-Mellon + University" within the 60 days following each + date you prepare (or were legally required to prepare) + your annual (or equivalent periodic) tax return. + +WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO? +The Project gratefully accepts contributions in money, time, +scanning machines, OCR software, public domain etexts, royalty +free copyright licenses, and every other sort of contribution +you can think of. Money should be paid to "Project Gutenberg +Association / Carnegie-Mellon University". + +*END*THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END* + + + + + +This etext was prepared by Tom Weiss (tom@iname.com) from +the version of "Seven Men" published in 1919 by William +Heinemann (London). I have omitted two of the stories +("James Pethel" and "A.V. Laider") since they are available +separately from Project Gutenberg. + +I have removed spaces that preceded semicolons, exclamation +points, question marks, and closing quotation marks. I have +removed spaces that followed opening quotation marks. I have +converted paragraph formatting and ellipses to PG standard. + +In this plain ASCII version, I have converted emphasis and syllable +stress italics to capitals, removed foreign italics, and removed +accents. + +In "Enoch Soames:" +I added a missing closing quotation mark in the following +phrase: `Ten past two,' he said. + +In "Hilary Maltby and Stephen Braxton:" +I changed the opening double quote to a single quote in: +`I wondered what old Mr. Abraham Hayward... +and +`I knew that if I leaned forward... + + + + + +SEVEN MEN by Max Beerbohm + + + + +ENOCH SOAMES + + + + +When a book about the literature of the eighteen-nineties was +given by Mr. Holbrook Jackson to the world, I looked eagerly in +the index for SOAMES, ENOCH. I had feared he would not be +there. He was not there. But everybody else was. Many +writers whom I had quite forgotten, or remembered but faintly, +lived again for me, they and their work, in Mr. Holbrook +Jackson's pages. The book was as thorough as it was brilliantly +written. And thus the omission found by me was an all the +deadlier record of poor Soames' failure to impress himself on +his decade. + +I daresay I am the only person who noticed the omission. +Soames had failed so piteously as all that! Nor is there a +counterpoise in the thought that if he had had some measure of +success he might have passed, like those others, out of my mind, +to return only at the historian's beck. It is true that had his gifts, +such as they were, been acknowledged in his life-time, he would +never have made the bargain I saw him make--that strange +bargain whose results have kept him always in the foreground of +my memory. But it is from those very results that the full +piteousness of him glares out. + +Not my compassion, however, impels me to write of him. For +his sake, poor fellow, I should be inclined to keep my pen out of +the ink. It is ill to deride the dead. And how can I write about +Enoch Soames without making him ridiculous? Or rather, how +am I to hush up the horrid fact that he WAS ridiculous? I shall +not be able to do that. Yet, sooner or later, write about him I +must. You will see, in due course, that I have no option. And I +may as well get the thing done now. + +In the Summer Term of '93 a bolt from the blue flashed down +on Oxford. It drove deep, it hurtlingly embedded itself in the +soil. Dons and undergraduates stood around, rather pale, +discussing nothing but it. Whence came it, this meteorite? +From Paris. Its name? Will Rothenstein. Its aim? To do a +series of twenty-four portraits in lithograph. These were to be +published from the Bodley Head, London. The matter was +urgent. Already the Warden of A, and the Master of B, and the +Regius Professor of C, had meekly `sat.' Dignified and +doddering old men, who had never consented to sit to any one, +could not withstand this dynamic little stranger. He did not sue: +he invited; he did not invite: he commanded. He was twenty- +one years old. He wore spectacles that flashed more than any +other pair ever seen. He was a wit. He was brimful of ideas. +He knew Whistler. He knew Edmond de Goncourt. He knew +every one in Paris. He knew them all by heart. He was Paris in +Oxford. It was whispered that, so soon as he had polished off +his selection of dons, he was going to include a few +undergraduates. It was a proud day for me when I--I--was +included. I liked Rothenstein not less than I feared him; and +there arose between us a friendship that has grown ever warmer, +and been more and more valued by me, with every passing year. + +At the end of Term he settled in--or rather, meteoritically into-- +London. It was to him I owed my first knowledge of that +forever enchanting little world-in-itself, Chelsea, and my first +acquaintance with Walter Sickert and other august elders who +dwelt there. It was Rothenstein that took me to see, in +Cambridge Street, Pimlico, a young man whose drawings were +already famous among the few--Aubrey Beardsley, by name. +With Rothenstein I paid my first visit to the Bodley Head. By +him I was inducted into another haunt of intellect and daring, +the domino room of the Cafe Royal. + +There, on that October evening--there, in that exuberant vista of +gilding and crimson velvet set amidst all those opposing mirrors +and upholding caryatids, with fumes of tobacco ever rising to +the painted and pagan ceiling, and with the hum of presumably +cynical conversation broken into so sharply now and again by +the clatter of dominoes shuffled on marble tables, I drew a deep +breath, and `This indeed,' said I to myself, `is life!' + +It was the hour before dinner. We drank vermouth. Those who +knew Rothenstein were pointing him out to those who knew him +only by name. Men were constantly coming in through the +swing-doors and wandering slowly up and down in search of +vacant tables, or of tables occupied by friends. One of these +rovers interested me because I was sure he wanted to catch +Rothenstein's eye. He had twice passed our table, with a +hesitating look; but Rothenstein, in the thick of a disquisition on +Puvis de Chavannes, had not seen him. He was a stooping, +shambling person, rather tall, very pale, with longish and +brownish hair. He had a thin vague beard--or rather, he had a +chin on which a large number of hairs weakly curled and +clustered to cover its retreat. He was an odd-looking person; but +in the 'nineties odd apparitions were more frequent, I think, than +they are now. The young writers of that era--and I was sure this +man was a writer--strove earnestly to be distinct in aspect. This +man had striven unsuccessfully. He wore a soft black hat of +clerical kind but of Bohemian intention, and a grey waterproof +cape which, perhaps because it was waterproof, failed to be +romantic. I decided that `dim' was the mot juste for him. I had +already essayed to write, and was immensely keen on the mot +juste, that Holy Grail of the period. + +The dim man was now again approaching our table, and this +time he made up his mind to pause in front of it. `You don't +remember me,' he said in a toneless voice. + +Rothenstein brightly focussed him. `Yes, I do,' he replied after +a moment, with pride rather than effusion--pride in a retentive +memory. `Edwin Soames.' + +`Enoch Soames,' said Enoch. + +`Enoch Soames,' repeated Rothenstein in a tone implying that it +was enough to have hit on the surname. `We met in Paris two or +three times when you were living there. We met at the Cafe +Groche.' + +`And I came to your studio once.' + +`Oh yes; I was sorry I was out.' + +`But you were in. You showed me some of your paintings, you +know.... I hear you're in Chelsea now.' + +`Yes.' + +I almost wondered that Mr. Soames did not, after this +monosyllable, pass along. He stood patiently there, rather like a +dumb animal, rather like a donkey looking over a gate. A sad +figure, his. It occurred to me that `hungry' was perhaps the mot +juste for him; but--hungry for what? He looked as if he had +little appetite for anything. I was sorry for him; and +Rothenstein, though he had not invited him to Chelsea, did ask +him to sit down and have something to drink. + +Seated, he was more self-assertive. He flung back the wings of +his cape with a gesture which--had not those wings been +waterproof--might have seemed to hurl defiance at things in +general. And he ordered an absinthe. `Je me tiens toujours +fidele,' he told Rothenstein, `a la sorciere glauque.' + +`It is bad for you,' said Rothenstein dryly. + +`Nothing is bad for one,' answered Soames. `Dans ce monde il +n'y a ni de bien ni de mal.' + +`Nothing good and nothing bad? How do you mean?' + +`I explained it all in the preface to "Negations."' + +`"Negations"?' + +`Yes; I gave you a copy of it.' + +`Oh yes, of course. But did you explain--for instance--that there +was no such thing as bad or good grammar?' + +`N-no,' said Soames. `Of course in Art there is the good and the +evil. But in Life--no.' He was rolling a cigarette. He had weak +white hands, not well washed, and with finger-tips much stained +by nicotine. `In Life there are illusions of good and evil, but'-- +his voice trailed away to a murmur in which the words `vieux +jeu' and `rococo' were faintly audible. I think he felt he was not +doing himself justice, and feared that Rothenstein was going to +point out fallacies. Anyhow, he cleared his throat and said +`Parlons d'autre chose.' + +It occurs to you that he was a fool? It didn't to me. I was +young, and had not the clarity of judgment that Rothenstein +already had. Soames was quite five or six years older than +either of us. Also, he had written a book. + +It was wonderful to have written a book. + +If Rothenstein had not been there, I should have revered +Soames. Even as it was, I respected him. And I was very near +indeed to reverence when he said he had another book coming +out soon. I asked if I might ask what kind of book it was to be. + +`My poems,' he answered. Rothenstein asked if this was to be +the title of the book. The poet meditated on this suggestion, but +said he rather thought of giving the book no title at all. `If a +book is good in itself--' he murmured, waving his cigarette. + +Rothenstein objected that absence of title might be bad for the +sale of a book. `If,' he urged, `I went into a bookseller's and +said simply "Have you got?" or "Have you a copy of?" how +would they know what I wanted?' + +`Oh, of course I should have my name on the cover,' Soames +answered earnestly. `And I rather want,' he added, looking hard +at Rothenstein, `to have a drawing of myself as frontispiece.' +Rothenstein admitted that this was a capital idea, and mentioned +that he was going into the country and would be there for some +time. He then looked at his watch, exclaimed at the hour, paid +the waiter, and went away with me to dinner. Soames remained +at his post of fidelity to the glaucous witch. + +`Why were you so determined not to draw him?' I asked. + +`Draw him? Him? How can one draw a man who doesn't +exist?' + +`He is dim,' I admitted. But my mot juste fell flat. Rothenstein +repeated that Soames was non-existent. + +Still, Soames had written a book. I asked if Rothenstein had +read `Negations.' He said he had looked into it, `but,' he added +crisply, `I don't profess to know anything about writing.' A +reservation very characteristic of the period! Painters would not +then allow that any one outside their own order had a right to +any opinion about painting. This law (graven on the tablets +brought down by Whistler from the summit of Fujiyama) +imposed certain limitations. If other arts than painting were not +utterly unintelligible to all but the men who practised them, the +law tottered--the Monroe Doctrine, as it were, did not hold +good. Therefore no painter would offer an opinion of a book +without warning you at any rate that his opinion was worthless. +No one is a better judge of literature than Rothenstein; but it +wouldn't have done to tell him so in those days; and I knew that +I must form an unaided judgment on `Negations.' + +Not to buy a book of which I had met the author face to face +would have been for me in those days an impossible act of self- +denial. When I returned to Oxford for the Christmas Term I had +duly secured `Negations.' I used to keep it lying carelessly on +the table in my room, and whenever a friend took it up and +asked what it was about I would say `Oh, it's rather a +remarkable book. It's by a man whom I know.' Just `what it +was about' I never was able to say. Head or tail was just what I +hadn't made of that slim green volume. I found in the preface +no clue to the exiguous labyrinth of contents, and in that +labyrinth nothing to explain the preface. + + +`Lean near to life. Lean very near--nearer. + +`Life is web, and therein nor warp nor woof is, but web only. + +`It is for this I am Catholick in church and in thought, yet do let +swift Mood weave there what the shuttle of Mood wills.' + + +These were the opening phrases of the preface, but those which +followed were less easy to understand. Then came `Stark: A +Conte,' about a midinette who, so far as I could gather, +murdered, or was about to murder, a mannequin. It was rather +like a story by Catulle Mendes in which the translator had either +skipped or cut out every alternate sentence. Next, a dialogue +between Pan and St. Ursula--lacking, I felt, in `snap.' Next, +some aphorisms (entitled `Aphorismata' [spelled in Greek]). +Throughout, in fact, there was a great variety of form; and the +forms had evidently been wrought with much care. It was rather +the substance that eluded me. Was there, I wondered, any +substance at all? It did now occur to me: suppose Enoch +Soames was a fool! Up cropped a rival hypothesis: suppose _I_ +was! I inclined to give Soames the benefit of the doubt. I had +read `L'Apres-midi d'un Faune' without extracting a glimmer of +meaning. Yet Mallarme--of course--was a Master. How was I +to know that Soames wasn't another? There was a sort of music +in his prose, not indeed arresting, but perhaps, I thought, +haunting, and laden perhaps with meanings as deep as +Mallarme's own. I awaited his poems with an open mind. + +And I looked forward to them with positive impatience after I +had had a second meeting with him. This was on an evening in +January. Going into the aforesaid domino room, I passed a table +at which sat a pale man with an open book before him. He +looked from his book to me, and I looked back over my +shoulder with a vague sense that I ought to have recognised him. +I returned to pay my respects. After exchanging a few words, I +said with a glance to the open book, `I see I am interrupting +you,' and was about to pass on, but `I prefer,' Soames replied in +his toneless voice, `to be interrupted,' and I obeyed his gesture +that I should sit down. + +I asked him if he often read here. `Yes; things of this kind I +read here,' he answered, indicating the title of his book--`The +Poems of Shelley.' + +`Anything that you really'--and I was going to say `admire?' +But I cautiously left my sentence unfinished, and was glad that I +had done so, for he said, with unwonted emphasis, `Anything +second-rate.' + +I had read little of Shelley, but `Of course,' I murmured, `he's +very uneven.' + +`I should have thought evenness was just what was wrong with +him. A deadly evenness. That's why I read him here. The +noise of this place breaks the rhythm. He's tolerable here.' +Soames took up the book and glanced through the pages. He +laughed. Soames' laugh was a short, single and mirthless sound +from the throat, unaccompanied by any movement of the face or +brightening of the eyes. `What a period!' he uttered, laying the +book down. And `What a country!' he added. + +I asked rather nervously if he didn't think Keats had more or +less held his own against the drawbacks of time and place. He +admitted that there were `passages in Keats,' but did not specify +them. Of `the older men,' as he called them, he seemed to like +only Milton. `Milton,' he said, `wasn't sentimental.' Also, +`Milton had a dark insight.' And again, `I can always read +Milton in the reading-room.' + +`The reading-room?' + +`Of the British Museum. I go there every day.' + +`You do? I've only been there once. I'm afraid I found it rather +a depressing place. It--it seemed to sap one's vitality.' + +`It does. That's why I go there. The lower one's vitality, the +more sensitive one is to great art. I live near the Museum. I +have rooms in Dyott Street.' + +`And you go round to the reading-room to read Milton?' + +`Usually Milton.' He looked at me. `It was Milton,' he +certificatively added, `who converted me to Diabolism.' + +`Diabolism? Oh yes? Really?' said I, with that vague +discomfort and that intense desire to be polite which one feels +when a man speaks of his own religion. `You--worship the +Devil?' + +Soames shook his head. `It's not exactly worship,' he qualified, +sipping his absinthe. `It's more a matter of trusting and +encouraging.' + +`Ah, yes.... But I had rather gathered from the preface to +"Negations" that you were a--a Catholic.' + +`Je l'etais a cette epoque. Perhaps I still am. Yes, I'm a +Catholic Diabolist.' + +This profession he made in an almost cursory tone. I could see +that what was upmost in his mind was the fact that I had read +`Negations.' His pale eyes had for the first time gleamed. I felt +as one who is about to be examined, viva voce, on the very +subject in which he is shakiest. I hastily asked him how soon +his poems were to be published. `Next week,' he told me. + +`And are they to be published without a title?' + +`No. I found a title, at last. But I shan't tell you what it is,' as +though I had been so impertinent as to inquire. `I am not sure +that it wholly satisfies me. But it is the best I can find. It +suggests something of the quality of the poems.... Strange +growths, natural and wild, yet exquisite,' he added, `and many- +hued, and full of poisons.' + +I asked him what he thought of Baudelaire. He uttered the snort +that was his laugh, and `Baudelaire,' he said, `was a bourgeois +malgre lui.' France had had only one poet: Villon; `and two- +thirds of Villon were sheer journalism.' Verlaine was `an +epicier malgre lui.' Altogether, rather to my surprise, he rated +French literature lower than English. There were `passages' in +Villiers de l'Isle-Adam. But `I,' he summed up, `owe nothing to +France.' He nodded at me. `You'll see,' he predicted. + +I did not, when the time came, quite see that. I thought the +author of `Fungoids' did--unconsciously, of course--owe +something to the young Parisian decadents, or to the young +English ones who owed something to THEM. I still think so. +The little book--bought by me in Oxford--lies before me as I +write. Its pale grey buckram cover and silver lettering have not +worn well. Nor have its contents. Through these, with a +melancholy interest, I have again been looking. They are not +much. But at the time of their publication I had a vague +suspicion that they MIGHT be. I suppose it is my capacity for +faith, not poor Soames' work, that is weaker than it once was.... + + + TO A YOUNG WOMAN. + +Thou art, who hast not been! + Pale tunes irresolute + And traceries of old sounds + Blown from a rotted flute +Mingle with noise of cymbals rouged with rust, +Nor not strange forms and epicene + Lie bleeding in the dust, + Being wounded with wounds. + + For this it is + That in thy counterpart + Of age-long mockeries + Thou hast not been nor art! + + +There seemed to me a certain inconsistency as between the first +and last lines of this. I tried, with bent brows, to resolve the +discord. But I did not take my failure as wholly incompatible +with a meaning in Soames' mind. Might it not rather indicate +the depth of his meaning? As for the craftsmanship, `rouged +with rust' seemed to me a fine stroke, and `nor not' instead of +`and' had a curious felicity. I wondered who the Young Woman +was, and what she had made of it all. I sadly suspect that +Soames could not have made more of it than she. Yet, even +now, if one doesn't try to make any sense at all of the poem, and +reads it just for the sound, there is a certain grace of cadence. +Soames was an artist--in so far as he was anything, poor fellow! + +It seemed to me, when first I read `Fungoids,' that, oddly +enough, the Diabolistic side of him was the best. Diabolism +seemed to be a cheerful, even a wholesome, influence in his life. + + + NOCTURNE. + +Round and round the shutter'd Square +I stroll'd with the Devil's arm in mine. +No sound but the scrape of his hoofs was there +And the ring of his laughter and mine. + We had drunk black wine. + +I scream'd, `I will race you, Master!' +`What matter,' he shriek'd, `to-night +Which of us runs the faster? +There is nothing to fear to-night + In the foul moon's light!' + +Then I look'd him in the eyes, +And I laugh'd full shrill at the lie he told +And the gnawing fear he would fain disguise. +It was true, what I'd time and again been told: + He was old--old. + + +There was, I felt, quite a swing about that first stanza--a joyous +and rollicking note of comradeship. The second was slightly +hysterical perhaps. But I liked the third: it was so bracingly +unorthodox, even according to the tenets of Soames' peculiar +sect in the faith. Not much `trusting and encouraging' here! +Soames triumphantly exposing the Devil as a liar, and laughing +`full shrill,' cut a quite heartening figure, I thought--then! Now, +in the light of what befell, none of his poems depresses me so +much as `Nocturne.' + +I looked out for what the metropolitan reviewers would have to +say. They seemed to fall into two classes: those who had little +to say and those who had nothing. The second class was the +larger, and the words of the first were cold; insomuch that + + Strikes a note of modernity throughout.... These tripping +numbers.--Preston Telegraph + +was the only lure offered in advertisements by Soames' +publisher. I had hopes that when next I met the poet I could +congratulate him on having made a stir; for I fancied he was not +so sure of his intrinsic greatness as he seemed. I was but able to +say, rather coarsely, when next I did see him, that I hoped +`Fungoids' was `selling splendidly.' He looked at me across his +glass of absinthe and asked if I had bought a copy. His +publisher had told him that three had been sold. I laughed, as at +a jest. + +`You don't suppose I CARE, do you?' he said, with something +like a snarl. I disclaimed the notion. He added that he was not a +tradesman. I said mildly that I wasn't, either, and murmured +that an artist who gave truly new and great things to the world +had always to wait long for recognition. He said he cared not a +sou for recognition. I agreed that the act of creation was its own +reward. + +His moroseness might have alienated me if I had regarded +myself as a nobody. But ah! hadn't both John Lane and Aubrey +Beardsley suggested that I should write an essay for the great +new venture that was afoot--`The Yellow Book'? And hadn't +Henry Harland, as editor, accepted my essay? And wasn't it to +be in the very first number? At Oxford I was still in statu +pupillari. In London I regarded myself as very much indeed a +graduate now--one whom no Soames could ruffle. Partly to +show off, partly in sheer good-will, I told Soames he ought to +contribute to `The Yellow Book.' He uttered from the throat a +sound of scorn for that publication. + +Nevertheless, I did, a day or two later, tentatively ask Harland if +he knew anything of the work of a man called Enoch Soames. +Harland paused in the midst of his characteristic stride around +the room, threw up his hands towards the ceiling, and groaned +aloud: he had often met `that absurd creature' in Paris, and this +very morning had received some poems in manuscript from him. + +`Has he NO talent?' I asked. + +`He has an income. He's all right.' Harland was the most +joyous of men and most generous of critics, and he hated to talk +of anything about which he couldn't be enthusiastic. So I +dropped the subject of Soames. The news that Soames had an +income did take the edge off solicitude. I learned afterwards +that he was the son of an unsuccessful and deceased bookseller +in Preston, but had inherited an annuity of 300 pounds from a +married aunt, and had no surviving relatives of any kind. +Materially, then, he was `all right.' But there was still a +spiritual pathos about him, sharpened for me now by the +possibility that even the praises of The Preston Telegraph might +not have been forthcoming had he not been the son of a Preston +man. He had a sort of weak doggedness which I could not but +admire. Neither he nor his work received the slightest +encouragement; but he persisted in behaving as a personage: +always he kept his dingy little flag flying. Wherever +congregated the jeunes feroces of the arts, in whatever Soho +restaurant they had just discovered, in whatever music-hall they +were most frequenting, there was Soames in the midst of them, +or rather on the fringe of them, a dim but inevitable figure. He +never sought to propitiate his fellow-writers, never bated a jot of +his arrogance about his own work or of his contempt for theirs. +To the painters he was respectful, even humble; but for the poets +and prosaists of `The Yellow Book,' and later of `The Savoy,' +he had never a word but of scorn. He wasn't resented. It didn't +occur to anybody that he or his Catholic Diabolism mattered. +When, in the autumn of '96, he brought out (at his own expense, +this time) a third book, his last book, nobody said a word for or +against it. I meant, but forgot, to buy it. I never saw it, and am +ashamed to say I don't even remember what it was called. But I +did, at the time of its publication, say to Rothenstein that I +thought poor old Soames was really a rather tragic figure, and +that I believed he would literally die for want of recognition. +Rothenstein scoffed. He said I was trying to get credit for a +kind heart which I didn't possess; and perhaps this was so. But +at the private view of the New English Art Club, a few weeks +later, I beheld a pastel portrait of `Enoch Soames, Esq.' It was +very like him, and very like Rothenstein to have done it. +Soames was standing near it, in his soft hat and his waterproof +cape, all through the afternoon. Anybody who knew him would +have recognised the portrait at a glance, but nobody who didn't +know him would have recognised the portrait from its +bystander: it `existed' so much more than he; it was bound to. +Also, it had not that expression of faint happiness which on this +day was discernible, yes, in Soames' countenance. Fame had +breathed on him. Twice again in the course of the month I went +to the New English, and on both occasions Soames himself was +on view there. Looking back, I regard the close of that +exhibition as having been virtually the close of his career. He +had felt the breath of Fame against his cheek--so late, for such a +little while; and at its withdrawal he gave in, gave up, gave out. +He, who had never looked strong or well, looked ghastly now--a +shadow of the shade he had once been. He still frequented the +domino room, but, having lost all wish to excite curiosity, he no +longer read books there. `You read only at the Museum now?' +asked I, with attempted cheerfulness. He said he never went +there now. `No absinthe there,' he muttered. It was the sort of +thing that in the old days he would have said for effect; but it +carried conviction now. Absinthe, erst but a point in the +`personality' he had striven so hard to build up, was solace and +necessity now. He no longer called it `la sorciere glauque.' He +had shed away all his French phrases. He had become a plain, +unvarnished, Preston man. + +Failure, if it be a plain, unvarnished, complete failure, and even +though it be a squalid failure, has always a certain dignity. I +avoided Soames because he made me feel rather vulgar. John +Lane had published, by this time, two little books of mine, and +they had had a pleasant little success of esteem. I was a--slight +but definite--`personality.' Frank Harris had engaged me to +kick up my heels in The Saturday Review, Alfred Harmsworth +was letting me do likewise in The Daily Mail. I was just what +Soames wasn't. And he shamed my gloss. Had I known that he +really and firmly believed in the greatness of what he as an artist +had achieved, I might not have shunned him. No man who +hasn't lost his vanity can be held to have altogether failed. +Soames' dignity was an illusion of mine. One day in the first +week of June, 1897, that illusion went. But on the evening of +that day Soames went too. + +I had been out most of the morning, and, as it was too late to +reach home in time for luncheon, I sought `the Vingtieme.' This +little place--Restaurant du Vingtieme Siecle, to give it its full +title--had been discovered in '96 by the poets and prosaists, but +had now been more or less abandoned in favour of some later +find. I don't think it lived long enough to justify its name; but at +that time there it still was, in Greek Street, a few doors from +Soho Square, and almost opposite to that house where, in the +first years of the century, a little girl, and with her a boy named +De Quincey, made nightly encampment in darkness and hunger +among dust and rats and old legal parchments. The Vingtieme +was but a small whitewashed room, leading out into the street at +one end and into a kitchen at the other. The proprietor and cook +was a Frenchman, known to us as Monsieur Vingtieme; the +waiters were his two daughters, Rose and Berthe; and the food, +according to faith, was good. The tables were so narrow, and +were set so close together, that there was space for twelve of +them, six jutting from either wall. + +Only the two nearest to the door, as I went in, were occupied. +On one side sat a tall, flashy, rather Mephistophelian man whom +I had seen from time to time in the domino room and elsewhere. +On the other side sat Soames. They made a queer contrast in +that sunlit room--Soames sitting haggard in that hat and cape +which nowhere at any season had I seen him doff, and this +other, this keenly vital man, at sight of whom I more than ever +wondered whether he were a diamond merchant, a conjurer, or +the head of a private detective agency. I was sure Soames +didn't want my company; but I asked, as it would have seemed +brutal not to, whether I might join him, and took the chair +opposite to his. He was smoking a cigarette, with an untasted +salmi of something on his plate and a half-empty bottle of +Sauterne before him; and he was quite silent. I said that the +preparations for the Jubilee made London impossible. (I rather +liked them, really.) I professed a wish to go right away till the +whole thing was over. In vain did I attune myself to his gloom. +He seemed not to hear me nor even to see me. I felt that his +behaviour made me ridiculous in the eyes of the other man. The +gangway between the two rows of tables at the Vingtieme was +hardly more than two feet wide (Rose and Berthe, in their +ministrations, had always to edge past each other, quarrelling in +whispers as they did so), and any one at the table abreast of +yours was practically at yours. I thought our neighbour was +amused at my failure to interest Soames, and so, as I could not +explain to him that my insistence was merely charitable, I +became silent. Without turning my head, I had him well within +my range of vision. I hoped I looked less vulgar than he in +contrast with Soames. I was sure he was not an Englishman, but +what WAS his nationality? Though his jet-black hair was en +brosse, I did not think he was French. To Berthe, who waited +on him, he spoke French fluently, but with a hardly native idiom +and accent. I gathered that this was his first visit to the +Vingtieme; but Berthe was off-hand in her manner to him: he +had not made a good impression. His eyes were handsome, but- +-like the Vingtieme's tables--too narrow and set too close +together. His nose was predatory, and the points of his +moustache, waxed up beyond his nostrils, gave a fixity to his +smile. Decidedly, he was sinister. And my sense of discomfort +in his presence was intensified by the scarlet waistcoat which +tightly, and so unseasonably in June, sheathed his ample chest. +This waistcoat wasn't wrong merely because of the heat, either. +It was somehow all wrong in itself. It wouldn't have done on +Christmas morning. It would have struck a jarring note at the +first night of `Hernani.' I was trying to account for its +wrongness when Soames suddenly and strangely broke silence. +`A hundred years hence!' he murmured, as in a trance. + +`We shall not be here!' I briskly but fatuously added. + +`We shall not be here. No,' he droned, `but the Museum will +still be just where it is. And the reading-room, just where it is. +And people will be able to go and read there.' He inhaled +sharply, and a spasm as of actual pain contorted his features. + +I wondered what train of thought poor Soames had been +following. He did not enlighten me when he said, after a long +pause, `You think I haven't minded.' + +`Minded what, Soames?' + +`Neglect. Failure.' + +`FAILURE?' I said heartily. `Failure?' I repeated vaguely. +`Neglect--yes, perhaps; but that's quite another matter. Of +course you haven't been--appreciated. But what then? Any +artist who--who gives--' What I wanted to say was, `Any artist +who gives truly new and great things to the world has always to +wait long for recognition'; but the flattery would not out: in the +face of his misery, a misery so genuine and so unmasked, my +lips would not say the words. + +And then--he said them for me. I flushed. `That's what you +were going to say, isn't it?' he asked. + +`How did you know?' + +`It's what you said to me three years ago, when "Fungoids" was +published.' I flushed the more. I need not have done so at all, +for `It's the only important thing I ever heard you say,' he +continued. `And I've never forgotten it. It's a true thing. It's a +horrible truth. But--d'you remember what I answered? I said "I +don't care a sou for recognition." And you believed me. +You've gone on believing I'm above that sort of thing. You're +shallow. What should YOU know of the feelings of a man like +me? You imagine that a great artist's faith in himself and in the +verdict of posterity is enough to keep him happy.... You've +never guessed at the bitterness and loneliness, the'--his voice +broke; but presently he resumed, speaking with a force that I +had never known in him. `Posterity! What use is it to ME? A +dead man doesn't know that people are visiting his grave-- +visiting his birthplace--putting up tablets to him--unveiling +statues of him. A dead man can't read the books that are written +about him. A hundred years hence! Think of it! If I could +come back to life then--just for a few hours--and go to the +reading-room, and READ! Or better still: if I could be +projected, now, at this moment, into that future, into that +reading-room, just for this one afternoon! I'd sell myself body +and soul to the devil, for that! Think of the pages and pages in +the catalogue: "SOAMES, ENOCH" endlessly--endless editions, +commentaries, prolegomena, biographies'--but here he was +interrupted by a sudden loud creak of the chair at the next table. +Our neighbour had half risen from his place. He was leaning +towards us, apologetically intrusive. + +`Excuse--permit me,' he said softly. `I have been unable not to +hear. Might I take a liberty? In this little restaurant-sans- +facon'--he spread wide his hands--`might I, as the phrase is, "cut +in"?' + +I could but signify our acquiescence. Berthe had appeared at the +kitchen door, thinking the stranger wanted his bill. He waved +her away with his cigar, and in another moment had seated +himself beside me, commanding a full view of Soames. + +`Though not an Englishman,' he explained, `I know my London +well, Mr. Soames. Your name and fame--Mr. Beerbohm's too-- +very known to me. Your point is: who am _I_?' He glanced +quickly over his shoulder, and in a lowered voice said `I am the +Devil.' + +I couldn't help it: I laughed. I tried not to, I knew there was +nothing to laugh at, my rudeness shamed me, but--I laughed +with increasing volume. The Devil's quiet dignity, the surprise +and disgust of his raised eyebrows, did but the more dissolve +me. I rocked to and fro, I lay back aching. I behaved +deplorably. + +`I am a gentleman, and,' he said with intense emphasis, `I +thought I was in the company of GENTLEMEN.' + +`Don't!' I gasped faintly. `Oh, don't!' + +`Curious, nicht wahr?' I heard him say to Soames. `There is a +type of person to whom the very mention of my name is--oh-so- +awfully-funny! In your theatres the dullest comedien needs +only to say "The Devil!" and right away they give him "the loud +laugh that speaks the vacant mind." Is it not so?' + +I had now just breath enough to offer my apologies. He +accepted them, but coldly, and re-addressed himself to Soames. + +`I am a man of business,' he said, `and always I would put +things through "right now," as they say in the States. You are a +poet. Les affaires--you detest them. So be it. But with me you +will deal, eh? What you have said just now gives me furiously +to hope.' + +Soames had not moved, except to light a fresh cigarette. He sat +crouched forward, with his elbows squared on the table, and his +head just above the level of his hands, staring up at the Devil. +`Go on,' he nodded. I had no remnant of laughter in me now. + +`It will be the more pleasant, our little deal,' the Devil went on, +`because you are--I mistake not?--a Diabolist.' + +`A Catholic Diabolist,' said Soames. + +The Devil accepted the reservation genially. `You wish,' he +resumed, `to visit now--this afternoon as-ever-is--the reading- +room of the British Museum, yes? but of a hundred years hence, +yes? Parfaitement. Time--an illusion. Past and future--they are +as ever-present as the present, or at any rate only what you call +"just-round-the-corner." I switch you on to any date. I project +you--pouf! You wish to be in the reading-room just as it will be +on the afternoon of June 3, 1997? You wish to find yourself +standing in that room, just past the swing-doors, this very +minute, yes? and to stay there till closing time? Am I right?' + +Soames nodded. + +The Devil looked at his watch. `Ten past two,' he said. +`Closing time in summer same then as now: seven o'clock. That +will give you almost five hours. At seven o'clock--pouf!--you +find yourself again here, sitting at this table. I am dining to- +night dans le monde--dans le higlif. That concludes my present +visit to your great city. I come and fetch you here, Mr. Soames, +on my way home.' + +`Home?' I echoed. + +`Be it never so humble!' said the Devil lightly. + +`All right,' said Soames. + +`Soames!' I entreated. But my friend moved not a muscle. + +The Devil had made as though to stretch forth his hand across +the table and touch Soames' forearm; but he paused in his +gesture. + +`A hundred years hence, as now,' he smiled, `no smoking +allowed in the reading-room. You would better therefore----' + +Soames removed the cigarette from his mouth and dropped it +into his glass of Sauterne. + +`Soames!' again I cried. `Can't you'--but the Devil had now +stretched forth his hand across the table. He brought it slowly +down on--the tablecloth. Soames' chair was empty. His +cigarette floated sodden in his wine-glass. There was no other +trace of him. + +For a few moments the Devil let his hand rest where it lay, +gazing at me out of the corners of his eyes, vulgarly triumphant. + +A shudder shook me. With an effort I controlled myself and +rose from my chair. `Very clever,' I said condescendingly. +`But--"The Time Machine" is a delightful book, don't you +think? So entirely original!' + +`You are pleased to sneer,' said the Devil, who had also risen, +`but it is one thing to write about an impossible machine; it is a +quite other thing to be a Supernatural Power.' All the same, I +had scored. + +Berthe had come forth at the sound of our rising. I explained to +her that Mr. Soames had been called away, and that both he and +I would be dining here. It was not until I was out in the open air +that I began to feel giddy. I have but the haziest recollection of +what I did, where I wandered, in the glaring sunshine of that +endless afternoon. I remember the sound of carpenters' +hammers all along Piccadilly, and the bare chaotic look of the +half-erected `stands.' Was it in the Green Park, or in +Kensington Gardens, or WHERE was it that I sat on a chair +beneath a tree, trying to read an evening paper? There was a +phrase in the leading article that went on repeating itself in my +fagged mind--`Little is hidden from this august Lady full of the +garnered wisdom of sixty years of Sovereignty.' I remember +wildly conceiving a letter (to reach Windsor by express +messenger told to await answer): + + +`MADAM,--Well knowing that your Majesty is full of the +garnered wisdom of sixty years of Sovereignty, I venture to ask +your advice in the following delicate matter. Mr. Enoch +Soames, whose poems you may or may not know,'.... + + +Was there NO way of helping him--saving him? A bargain was +a bargain, and I was the last man to aid or abet any one in +wriggling out of a reasonable obligation. I wouldn't have lifted +a little finger to save Faust. But poor Soames!--doomed to pay +without respite an eternal price for nothing but a fruitless search +and a bitter disillusioning.... + +Odd and uncanny it seemed to me that he, Soames, in the flesh, +in the waterproof cape, was at this moment living in the last +decade of the next century, poring over books not yet written, +and seeing and seen by men not yet born. Uncannier and odder +still, that to-night and evermore he would be in Hell. Assuredly, +truth was stranger than fiction. + +Endless that afternoon was. Almost I wished I had gone with +Soames--not indeed to stay in the reading-room, but to sally +forth for a brisk sight-seeing walk around a new London. I +wandered restlessly out of the Park I had sat in. Vainly I tried to +imagine myself an ardent tourist from the eighteenth century. +Intolerable was the strain of the slow-passing and empty +minutes. Long before seven o'clock I was back at the +Vingtieme. + +I sat there just where I had sat for luncheon. Air came in +listlessly through the open door behind me. Now and again +Rose or Berthe appeared for a moment. I had told them I would +not order any dinner till Mr. Soames came. A hurdy-gurdy +began to play, abruptly drowning the noise of a quarrel between +some Frenchmen further up the street. Whenever the tune was +changed I heard the quarrel still raging. I had bought another +evening paper on my way. I unfolded it. My eyes gazed ever +away from it to the clock over the kitchen door.... + +Five minutes, now, to the hour! I remembered that clocks in +restaurants are kept five minutes fast. I concentrated my eyes +on the paper. I vowed I would not look away from it again. I +held it upright, at its full width, close to my face, so that I had +no view of anything but it.... Rather a tremulous sheet? Only +because of the draught, I told myself. + +My arms gradually became stiff; they ached; but I could not +drop them--now. I had a suspicion, I had a certainty. Well, +what then?... What else had I come for? Yet I held tight that +barrier of newspaper. Only the sound of Berthe's brisk footstep +from the kitchen enabled me, forced me, to drop it, and to utter: + +`What shall we have to eat, Soames?' + +`Il est souffrant, ce pauvre Monsieur Soames?' asked Berthe. + +`He's only--tired.' I asked her to get some wine--Burgundy-- +and whatever food might be ready. Soames sat crouched +forward against the table, exactly as when last I had seen him. +It was as though he had never moved--he who had moved so +unimaginably far. Once or twice in the afternoon it had for an +instant occurred to me that perhaps his journey was not to be +fruitless--that perhaps we had all been wrong in our estimate of +the works of Enoch Soames. That we had been horribly right +was horribly clear from the look of him. But `Don't be +discouraged,' I falteringly said. `Perhaps it's only that you-- +didn't leave enough time. Two, three centuries hence, perhaps--' + +`Yes,' his voice came. `I've thought of that.' + +`And now--now for the more immediate future! Where are you +going to hide? How would it be if you caught the Paris express +from Charing Cross? Almost an hour to spare. Don't go on to +Paris. Stop at Calais. Live in Calais. He'd never think of +looking for you in Calais.' + +`It's like my luck,' he said, `to spend my last hours on earth +with an ass.' But I was not offended. `And a treacherous ass,' +he strangely added, tossing across to me a crumpled bit of paper +which he had been holding in his hand. I glanced at the writing +on it--some sort of gibberish, apparently. I laid it impatiently +aside. + +`Come, Soames! pull yourself together! This isn't a mere matter +of life and death. It's a question of eternal torment, mind you! +You don't mean to say you're going to wait limply here till the +Devil comes to fetch you?' + +`I can't do anything else. I've no choice.' + +`Come! This is "trusting and encouraging" with a vengeance! +This is Diabolism run mad!' I filled his glass with wine. +`Surely, now that you've SEEN the brute--' + +`It's no good abusing him.' + +`You must admit there's nothing Miltonic about him, Soames.' + +`I don't say he's not rather different from what I expected.' + +`He's a vulgarian, he's a swell-mobsman, he's the sort of man +who hangs about the corridors of trains going to the Riviera and +steals ladies' jewel-cases. Imagine eternal torment presided +over by HIM!' + +`You don't suppose I look forward to it, do you?' + +`Then why not slip quietly out of the way?' + +Again and again I filled his glass, and always, mechanically, he +emptied it; but the wine kindled no spark of enterprise in him. +He did not eat, and I myself ate hardly at all. I did not in my +heart believe that any dash for freedom could save him. The +chase would be swift, the capture certain. But better anything +than this passive, meek, miserable waiting. I told Soames that +for the honour of the human race he ought to make some show +of resistance. He asked what the human race had ever done for +him. `Besides,' he said, `can't you understand that I'm in his +power? You saw him touch me, didn't you? There's an end of +it. I've no will. I'm sealed.' + +I made a gesture of despair. He went on repeating the word +`sealed.' I began to realise that the wine had clouded his brain. +No wonder! Foodless he had gone into futurity, foodless he still +was. I urged him to eat at any rate some bread. It was +maddening to think that he, who had so much to tell, might tell +nothing. `How was it all,' I asked, `yonder? Come! Tell me +your adventures.' + +`They'd make first-rate "copy," wouldn't they?' + +`I'm awfully sorry for you, Soames, and I make all possible +allowances; but what earthly right have you to insinuate that I +should make "copy," as you call it, out of you?' + +The poor fellow pressed his hands to his forehead. `I don't +know,' he said. `I had some reason, I know.... I'll try to +remember.' + +`That's right. Try to remember everything. Eat a little more +bread. What did the reading-room look like?' + +`Much as usual,' he at length muttered. + +`Many people there?' + +`Usual sort of number.' + +`What did they look like?' + +Soames tried to visualise them. `They all,' he presently +remembered, `looked very like one another.' + +My mind took a fearsome leap. `All dressed in Jaeger?' + +`Yes. I think so. Greyish-yellowish stuff.' + +`A sort of uniform?' He nodded. `With a number on it, +perhaps?--a number on a large disc of metal sewn on to the left +sleeve? DKF 78,910--that sort of thing?' It was even so. `And +all of them--men and women alike--looking very well-cared- +for? very Utopian? and smelling rather strongly of carbolic? and +all of them quite hairless?' I was right every time. Soames was +only not sure whether the men and women were hairless or +shorn. `I hadn't time to look at them very closely,' he +explained. + +`No, of course not. But----' + +`They stared at ME, I can tell you. I attracted a great deal of +attention.' At last he had done that! `I think I rather scared +them. They moved away whenever I came near. They followed +me about at a distance, wherever I went. The men at the round +desk in the middle seemed to have a sort of panic whenever I +went to make inquiries.' + +`What did you do when you arrived?' + +Well, he had gone straight to the catalogue, of course--to the S +volumes, and had stood long before SN--SOF, unable to take +this volume out of the shelf, because his heart was beating so.... +At first, he said, he wasn't disappointed--he only thought there +was some new arrangement. He went to the middle desk and +asked where the catalogue of TWENTIETH-century books was +kept. He gathered that there was still only one catalogue. Again +he looked up his name, stared at the three little pasted slips he +had known so well. Then he went and sat down for a long +time.... + +`And then,' he droned, `I looked up the "Dictionary of National +Biography" and some encyclopedias.... I went back to the +middle desk and asked what was the best modern book on late +nineteenth-century literature. They told me Mr. T. K. Nupton's +book was considered the best. I looked it up in the catalogue +and filled in a form for it. It was brought to me. My name +wasn't in the index, but-- Yes!' he said with a sudden change of +tone. `That's what I'd forgotten. Where's that bit of paper? +Give it me back.' + +I, too, had forgotten that cryptic screed. I found it fallen on the +floor, and handed it to him. + +He smoothed it out, nodding and smiling at me disagreeably. `I +found myself glancing through Nupton's book,' he resumed. +`Not very easy reading. Some sort of phonetic spelling.... All +the modern books I saw were phonetic.' + +`Then I don't want to hear any more, Soames, please.' + +`The proper names seemed all to be spelt in the old way. But +for that, I mightn't have noticed my own name.' + +`Your own name? Really? Soames, I'm VERY glad.' + +`And yours.' + +`No!' + +`I thought I should find you waiting here to-night. So I took the +trouble to copy out the passage. Read it.' + +I snatched the paper. Soames' handwriting was +characteristically dim. It, and the noisome spelling, and my +excitement, made me all the slower to grasp what T. K. Nupton +was driving at. + +The document lies before me at this moment. Strange that the +words I here copy out for you were copied out for me by poor +Soames just seventy-eight years hence.... + + +From p. 234 of `Inglish Littracher 1890-1900' bi T. K. Nupton, +publishd bi th Stait, 1992: + +`Fr egzarmpl, a riter ov th time, naimd Max Beerbohm, hoo woz +stil alive in th twentieth senchri, rote a stauri in wich e pautraid +an immajnari karrakter kauld "Enoch Soames"--a thurd-rait poit +hoo beleevz imself a grate jeneus an maix a bargin with th +Devvl in auder ter no wot posterriti thinx ov im! It iz a sumwot +labud sattire but not without vallu az showing hou seriusli the +yung men ov th aiteen-ninetiz took themselvz. Nou that the +littreri profeshn haz bin auganized az a departmnt of publik +servis, our riters hav found their levvl an hav lernt ter doo their +duti without thort ov th morro. "Th laibrer iz werthi ov hiz +hire," an that iz aul. Thank hevvn we hav no Enoch Soameses +amung us to-dai!' + + +I found that by murmuring the words aloud (a device which I +commend to my reader) I was able to master them, little by +little. The clearer they became, the greater was my +bewilderment, my distress and horror. The whole thing was a +nightmare. Afar, the great grisly background of what was in +store for the poor dear art of letters; here, at the table, fixing on +me a gaze that made me hot all over, the poor fellow whom-- +whom evidently...but no: whatever down-grade my character +might take in coming years, I should never be such a brute as +to---- + +Again I examined the screed. `Immajnari'--but here Soames +was, no more imaginary, alas! than I. And `labud'--what on +earth was that? (To this day, I have never made out that word.) +`It's all very--baffling,' I at length stammered. + +Soames said nothing, but cruelly did not cease to look at me. + +`Are you sure,' I temporised, `quite sure you copied the thing +out correctly?' + +`Quite.' + +`Well, then it's this wretched Nupton who must have made-- +must be going to make--some idiotic mistake.... Look here, +Soames! you know me better than to suppose that I.... After all, +the name "Max Beerbohm" is not at all an uncommon one, and +there must be several Enoch Soameses running around--or +rather, "Enoch Soames" is a name that might occur to any one +writing a story. And I don't write stories: I'm an essayist, an +observer, a recorder.... I admit that it's an extraordinary +coincidence. But you must see----' + +`I see the whole thing,' said Soames quietly. And he added, +with a touch of his old manner, but with more dignity than I had +ever known in him, `Parlons d'autre chose.' + +I accepted that suggestion very promptly. I returned straight to +the more immediate future. I spent most of the long evening in +renewed appeals to Soames to slip away and seek refuge +somewhere. I remember saying at last that if indeed I was +destined to write about him, the supposed `stauri' had better +have at least a happy ending. Soames repeated those last three +words in a tone of intense scorn. `In Life and in Art,' he said, +`all that matters is an INEVITABLE ending.' + +`But,' I urged, more hopefully than I felt, `an ending that can be +avoided ISN'T inevitable.' + +`You aren't an artist,' he rasped. `And you're so hopelessly not +an artist that, so far from being able to imagine a thing and make +it seem true, you're going to make even a true thing seem as if +you'd made it up. You're a miserable bungler. And it's like my +luck.' + +I protested that the miserable bungler was not I--was not going +to be I--but T. K. Nupton; and we had a rather heated argument, +in the thick of which it suddenly seemed to me that Soames saw +he was in the wrong: he had quite physically cowered. But I +wondered why--and now I guessed with a cold throb just why-- +he stared so, past me. The bringer of that `inevitable ending' +filled the doorway. + +I managed to turn in my chair and to say, not without a +semblance of lightness, `Aha, come in!' Dread was indeed +rather blunted in me by his looking so absurdly like a villain in a +melodrama. The sheen of his tilted hat and of his shirt-front, the +repeated twists he was giving to his moustache, and most of all +the magnificence of his sneer, gave token that he was there only +to be foiled. + +He was at our table in a stride. `I am sorry,' he sneered +witheringly, `to break up your pleasant party, but--' + +`You don't: you complete it,' I assured him. `Mr. Soames and I +want to have a little talk with you. Won't you sit? Mr. Soames +got nothing--frankly nothing--by his journey this afternoon. We +don't wish to say that the whole thing was a swindle--a common +swindle. On the contrary, we believe you meant well. But of +course the bargain, such as it was, is off.' + +The Devil gave no verbal answer. He merely looked at Soames +and pointed with rigid forefinger to the door. Soames was +wretchedly rising from his chair when, with a desperate quick +gesture, I swept together two dinner-knives that were on the +table, and laid their blades across each other. The Devil stepped +sharp back against the table behind him, averting his face and +shuddering. + +`You are not superstitious!' he hissed. + +`Not at all,' I smiled. + +`Soames!' he said as to an underling, but without turning his +face, `put those knives straight!' + +With an inhibitive gesture to my friend, `Mr. Soames,' I said +emphatically to the Devil, `is a CATHOLIC Diabolist'; but my +poor friend did the Devil's bidding, not mine; and now, with his +master's eyes again fixed on him, he arose, he shuffled past me. +I tried to speak. It was he that spoke. `Try,' was the prayer he +threw back at me as the Devil pushed him roughly out through +the door, `TRY to make them know that I did exist!' + +In another instant I too was through that door. I stood staring all +ways--up the street, across it, down it. There was moonlight and +lamplight, but there was not Soames nor that other. + +Dazed, I stood there. Dazed, I turned back, at length, into the +little room; and I suppose I paid Berthe or Rose for my dinner +and luncheon, and for Soames': I hope so, for I never went to +the Vingtieme again. Ever since that night I have avoided +Greek Street altogether. And for years I did not set foot even in +Soho Square, because on that same night it was there that I +paced and loitered, long and long, with some such dull sense of +hope as a man has in not straying far from the place where he +has lost something.... `Round and round the shutter'd Square'-- +that line came back to me on my lonely beat, and with it the +whole stanza, ringing in my brain and bearing in on me how +tragically different from the happy scene imagined by him was +the poet's actual experience of that prince in whom of all +princes we should put not our trust. + +But--strange how the mind of an essayist, be it never so stricken, +roves and ranges!--I remember pausing before a wide doorstep +and wondering if perchance it was on this very one that the +young De Quincey lay ill and faint while poor Ann flew as fast +as her feet would carry her to Oxford Street, the `stony-hearted +stepmother' of them both, and came back bearing that `glass of +port wine and spices' but for which he might, so he thought, +actually have died. Was this the very doorstep that the old De +Quincey used to revisit in homage? I pondered Ann's fate, the +cause of her sudden vanishing from the ken of her boy-friend; +and presently I blamed myself for letting the past over-ride the +present. Poor vanished Soames! + +And for myself, too, I began to be troubled. What had I better +do? Would there be a hue and cry--Mysterious Disappearance +of an Author, and all that? He had last been seen lunching and +dining in my company. Hadn't I better get a hansom and drive +straight to Scotland Yard?... They would think I was a lunatic. +After all, I reassured myself, London was a very large place, and +one very dim figure might easily drop out of it unobserved--now +especially, in the blinding glare of the near Jubilee. Better say +nothing at all, I thought. + +And I was right. Soames' disappearance made no stir at all. He +was utterly forgotten before any one, so far as I am aware, +noticed that he was no longer hanging around. Now and again +some poet or prosaist may have said to another, `What has +become of that man Soames?' but I never heard any such +question asked. The solicitor through whom he was paid his +annuity may be presumed to have made inquiries, but no echo of +these resounded. There was something rather ghastly to me in +the general unconsciousness that Soames had existed, and more +than once I caught myself wondering whether Nupton, that babe +unborn, were going to be right in thinking him a figment of my +brain. + +In that extract from Nupton's repulsive book there is one point +which perhaps puzzles you. How is it that the author, though I +have here mentioned him by name and have quoted the exact +words he is going to write, is not going to grasp the obvious +corollary that I have invented nothing? The answer can be only +this: Nupton will not have read the later passages of this +memoir. Such lack of thoroughness is a serious fault in any one +who undertakes to do scholar's work. And I hope these words +will meet the eye of some contemporary rival to Nupton and be +the undoing of Nupton. + +I like to think that some time between 1992 and 1997 somebody +will have looked up this memoir, and will have forced on the +world his inevitable and startling conclusions. And I have +reasons for believing that this will be so. You realise that the +reading-room into which Soames was projected by the Devil +was in all respects precisely as it will be on the afternoon of +June 3, 1997. You realise, therefore, that on that afternoon, +when it comes round, there the self-same crowd will be, and +there Soames too will be, punctually, he and they doing +precisely what they did before. Recall now Soames' account of +the sensation he made. You may say that the mere difference of +his costume was enough to make him sensational in that +uniformed crowd. You wouldn't say so if you had ever seen +him. I assure you that in no period could Soames be anything +but dim. The fact that people are going to stare at him, and +follow him around, and seem afraid of him, can be explained +only on the hypothesis that they will somehow have been +prepared for his ghostly visitation. They will have been awfully +waiting to see whether he really would come. And when he +does come the effect will of course be--awful. + +An authentic, guaranteed, proven ghost, but--only a ghost, alas! +Only that. In his first visit, Soames was a creature of flesh and +blood, whereas the creatures into whose midst he was projected +were but ghosts, I take it--solid, palpable, vocal, but +unconscious and automatic ghosts, in a building that was itself +an illusion. Next time, that building and those creatures will be +real. It is of Soames that there will be but the semblance. I +wish I could think him destined to revisit the world actually, +physically, consciously. I wish he had this one brief escape, this +one small treat, to look forward to. I never forget him for long. +He is where he is, and forever. The more rigid moralists among +you may say he has only himself to blame. For my part, I think +he has been very hardly used. It is well that vanity should be +chastened; and Enoch Soames' vanity was, I admit, above the +average, and called for special treatment. But there was no need +for vindictiveness. You say he contracted to pay the price he is +paying; yes; but I maintain that he was induced to do so by +fraud. Well-informed in all things, the Devil must have known +that my friend would gain nothing by his visit to futurity. The +whole thing was a very shabby trick. The more I think of it, the +more detestable the Devil seems to me. + +Of him I have caught sight several times, here and there, since +that day at the Vingtieme. Only once, however, have I seen him +at close quarters. This was in Paris. I was walking, one +afternoon, along the Rue d'Antin, when I saw him advancing +from the opposite direction--over-dressed as ever, and swinging +an ebony cane, and altogether behaving as though the whole +pavement belonged to him. At thought of Enoch Soames and +the myriads of other sufferers eternally in this brute's dominion, +a great cold wrath filled me, and I drew myself up to my full +height. But--well, one is so used to nodding and smiling in the +street to anybody whom one knows that the action becomes +almost independent of oneself: to prevent it requires a very +sharp effort and great presence of mind. I was miserably aware, +as I passed the Devil, that I nodded and smiled to him. And my +shame was the deeper and hotter because he, if you please, +stared straight at me with the utmost haughtiness. + +To be cut--deliberately cut--by HIM! I was, I still am, furious at +having had that happen to me. + + + + + +HILARY MALTBY AND STEPHEN BRAXTON + + + + +People still go on comparing Thackeray and Dickens, quite cheerfully. +But the fashion of comparing Maltby and Braxton went out so long ago +as 1795. No, I am wrong. But anything that happened in the bland old +days before the war does seem to be a hundred more years ago than +actually it is. The year I mean is the one in whose spring-time we +all went bicycling (O thrill!) in Battersea Park, and ladies wore +sleeves that billowed enormously out from their shoulders, and Lord +Rosebery was Prime Minister. + +In that Park, in that spring-time, in that sea of sleeves, there was +almost as much talk about the respective merits of Braxton and Maltby +as there was about those of Rudge and Humber. For the benefit of my +younger readers, and perhaps, so feeble is human memory, for the +benefit of their elders too, let me state that Rudge and Humber were +rival makers of bicycles, that Hilary Maltby was the author of `Ariel +in Mayfair,' and Stephen Braxton of `A Faun on the Cotswolds.' + +`Which do you think is REALLY the best--"Ariel" or "A Faun"?' Ladies +were always asking one that question. `Oh, well, you know, the two +are so different. It's really very hard to compare them.' One was +always giving that answer. One was not very brilliant perhaps. + +The vogue of the two novels lasted throughout the summer. As both +were `firstlings,' and Great Britain had therefore nothing else of +Braxton's or Maltby's to fall back on, the horizon was much scanned +for what Maltby, and what Braxton, would give us next. In the autumn +Braxton gave us his secondling. It was an instantaneous failure. No +more was he compared with Maltby. In the spring of '96 came Maltby's +secondling. Its failure was instantaneous. Maltby might once more +have been compared with Braxton. But Braxton was now forgotten. So +was Maltby. + +This was not kind. This was not just. Maltby's first novel, and +Braxton's, had brought delight into many thousands of homes. People +should have paused to say of Braxton "Perhaps his third novel will be +better than his second," and to say as much for Maltby. I blame +people for having given no sign of wanting a third from either; and I +blame them with the more zest because neither `A Faun on the +Cotswolds' nor `Ariel in Mayfair' was a merely popular book: each, I +maintain, was a good book. I don't go so far as to say that the one +had `more of natural magic, more of British woodland glamour, more of +the sheer joy of life in it than anything since "As You Like It,"' +though Higsby went so far as this in the Daily Chronicle; nor can I +allow the claim made for the other by Grigsby in the Globe that `for +pungency of satire there has been nothing like it since Swift laid +down his pen, and for sheer sweetness and tenderness of feeling--ex +forti dulcedo--nothing to be mentioned in the same breath with it +since the lute fell from the tired hand of Theocritus.' These were +foolish exaggerations. But one must not condemn a thing because it +has been over-praised. Maltby's `Ariel' was a delicate, brilliant +work; and Braxton's `Faun,' crude though it was in many ways, had yet +a genuine power and beauty. This is not a mere impression remembered +from early youth. It is the reasoned and seasoned judgment of middle +age. Both books have been out of print for many years; but I secured +a second-hand copy of each not long ago, and found them well worth +reading again. + +From the time of Nathaniel Hawthorne to the outbreak of the war, +current literature did not suffer from any lack of fauns. But when +Braxton's first book appeared fauns had still an air of novelty about +them. We had not yet tired of them and their hoofs and their slanting +eyes and their way of coming suddenly out of woods to wean quiet +English villages from respectability. We did tire later. But +Braxton's faun, even now, seems to me an admirable specimen of his +class--wild and weird, earthy, goat-like, almost convincing. And I +find myself convinced altogether by Braxton's rustics. I admit that I +do not know much about rustics, except from novels. But I plead that +the little I do know about them by personal observation does not +confirm much of what the many novelists have taught me. I plead also +that Braxton may well have been right about the rustics of +Gloucestershire because he was (as so many interviewers recorded of +him in his brief heyday) the son of a yeoman farmer at Far Oakridge, +and his boyhood had been divided between that village and the Grammar +School at Stroud. Not long ago I happened to be staying in the +neighbourhood, and came across several villagers who might, I assure +you, have stepped straight out of Braxton's pages. For that matter, +Braxton himself, whom I met often in the spring of '95, might have +stepped straight out of his own pages. + +I am guilty of having wished he would step straight back into them. +He was a very surly fellow, very rugged and gruff. He was the +antithesis of pleasant little Maltby. I used to think that perhaps he +would have been less unamiable if success had come to him earlier. He +was thirty years old when his book was published, and had had a very +hard time since coming to London at the age of sixteen. Little Maltby +was a year older, and so had waited a year longer; but then, he had +waited under a comfortable roof at Twickenham, emerging into the +metropolis for no grimmer purpose than to sit and watch the +fashionable riders and walkers in Rotten Row, and then going home to +write a little, or to play lawn-tennis with the young ladies of +Twickenham. He had been the only child of his parents (neither of +whom, alas, survived to take pleasure in their darling's sudden fame). +He had now migrated from Twickenham and taken rooms in Ryder Street. +Had he ever shared with Braxton the bread of adversity--but no, I +think he would in any case have been pleasant. And conversely I +cannot imagine that Braxton would in any case have been so. + +No one seeing the two rivals together, no one meeting them at Mr. +Hookworth's famous luncheon parties in the Authors' Club, or at Mrs. +Foster-Dugdale's not less famous garden parties in Greville Place, +would have supposed off-hand that the pair had a single point in +common. Dapper little Maltby--blond, bland, diminutive Maltby, with +his monocle and his gardenia; big black Braxton, with his lanky hair +and his square blue jaw and his square sallow forehead. Canary and +crow. Maltby had a perpetual chirrup of amusing small-talk. Braxton +was usually silent, but very well worth listening to whenever he did +croak. He had distinction, I admit it; the distinction of one who +steadfastly refuses to adapt himself to surroundings. He stood out. +He awed Mr. Hookworth. Ladies were always asking one another, rather +intently, what they thought of him. One could imagine that Mr. +Foster-Dugdale, had he come home from the City to attend the garden +parties, might have regarded him as one from whom Mrs. Foster-Dugdale +should be shielded. But the casual observer of Braxton and Maltby at +Mrs. Foster-Dugdale's or elsewhere was wrong in supposing that the two +were totally unlike. He overlooked one simple and obvious point. +This was that he had met them both at Mrs. Foster-Dugdale's or +elsewhere. Wherever they were invited, there certainly, there +punctually, they would be. They were both of them gluttons for the +fruits and signs of their success. + +Interviewers and photographers had as little reason as had hostesses +to complain of two men so earnestly and assiduously `on the make' as +Maltby and Braxton. Maltby, for all his sparkle, was earnest; +Braxton, for all his arrogance, assiduous. + +`A Faun on the Cotswolds' had no more eager eulogist than the author +of `Ariel in Mayfair.' When any one praised his work, Maltby would +lightly disparage it in comparison with Braxton's--`Ah, if I could +write like THAT!' Maltby won golden opinions in this way. Braxton, +on the other hand, would let slip no opportunity for sneering at +Maltby's work--`gimcrack,' as he called it. This was not good for +Maltby. Different men, different methods. + +`The Rape of the Lock' was `gimcrack,' if you care to call it so; but +it was a delicate, brilliant work; and so, I repeat, was Maltby's +`Ariel.' Absurd to compare Maltby with Pope? I am not so sure. I +have read `Ariel,' but have never read `The Rape of the Lock.' +Braxton's opprobrious term for `Ariel' may not, however, have been due +to jealousy alone. Braxton had imagination, and his rival did not +soar above fancy. But the point is that Maltby's fancifulness went +far and well. In telling how Ariel re-embodied himself from thin air, +leased a small house in Chesterfield Street, was presented at a Levee, +played the part of good fairy in a matter of true love not running +smooth, and worked meanwhile all manner of amusing changes among the +aristocracy before he vanished again, Maltby showed a very pretty +range of ingenuity. In one respect, his work was a more surprising +achievement than Braxton's. For whereas Braxton had been born and +bred among his rustics, Maltby knew his aristocrats only through +Thackeray, through the photographs and paragraphs in the newspapers, +and through those passionate excursions of his to Rotten Row. Yet I +found his aristocrats as convincing as Braxton's rustics. It is true +that I may have been convinced wrongly. That is a point which I could +settle only by experience. I shift my ground, claiming for Maltby's +aristocrats just this: that they pleased me very much. + +Aristocrats, when they are presented solely through a novelist's sense +of beauty, do not satisfy us. They may be as beautiful as all that, +but, for fear of thinking ourselves snobbish, we won't believe it. We +do believe it, however, and revel in it, when the novelist saves his +face and ours by a pervading irony in the treatment of what he loves. +The irony must, mark you, be pervading and obvious. Disraeli's great +ladies and lords won't do, for his irony was but latent in his homage, +and thus the reader feels himself called on to worship and in duty +bound to scoff. All's well, though, when the homage is latent in the +irony. Thackeray, inviting us to laugh and frown over the follies of +Mayfair, enables us to reel with him in a secret orgy of veneration +for those fools. + +Maltby, too, in his measure, enabled us to reel thus. That is mainly +why, before the end of April, his publisher was in a position to state +that `the Seventh Large Impression of "Ariel in Mayfair" is almost +exhausted.' Let it be put to our credit, however, that at the same +moment Braxton's publisher had `the honour to inform the public that +an Eighth Large Impression of "A Faun on the Cotswolds" is in instant +preparation.' + +Indeed, it seemed impossible for either author to outvie the other in +success and glory. Week in, week out, you saw cancelled either's +every momentary advantage. A neck-and-neck race. As thus:--Maltby +appears as a Celebrity At Home in the World (Tuesday). Ha! No, +Vanity Fair (Wednesday) has a perfect presentment of Braxton by `Spy.' +Neck-and-neck! No, Vanity Fair says `the subject of next week's +cartoon will be Mr. Hilary Maltby.' Maltby wins! No, next week +Braxton's in the World. + +Throughout May I kept, as it were, my eyes glued to my field-glasses. +On the first Monday in June I saw that which drew from me a hoarse +ejaculation. + +Let me explain that always on Monday mornings at this time of year, +when I opened my daily paper, I looked with respectful interest to see +what bevy of the great world had been entertained since Saturday at +Keeb Hall. The list was always august and inspiring. Statecraft and +Diplomacy were well threaded there with mere Lineage and mere Beauty, +with Royalty sometimes, with mere Wealth never, with privileged Genius +now and then. A noble composition always. It was said that the Duke +of Hertfordshire cared for nothing but his collection of birds' eggs, +and that the collections of guests at Keeb were formed entirely by his +young Duchess. It was said that he had climbed trees in every corner +of every continent. The Duchess' hobby was easier. She sat aloft and +beckoned desirable specimens up. + +The list published on that first Monday in June began ordinarily +enough, began with the Austro-Hungarian Ambassador and the Portuguese +Minister. Then came the Duke and Duchess of Mull, followed by four +lesser Peers (two of them Proconsuls, however) with their Peeresses, +three Peers without their Peeresses, four Peeresses without their +Peers, and a dozen bearers of courtesy-titles with or without their +wives or husbands. The rear was brought up by `Mr. A. J. Balfour, Mr. +Henry Chaplin, and Mr. Hilary Maltby.' + +Youth tends to look at the darker side of things. I confess that my +first thought was for Braxton. + +I forgave and forgot his faults of manner. Youth is generous. It +does not criticise a strong man stricken. + +And anon, so habituated was I to the parity of those two strivers, I +conceived that there might be some mistake. Daily newspapers are +printed in a hurry. Might not `Henry Chaplin' be a typographical +error for `Stephen Braxton'? I went out and bought another newspaper. +But Mr. Chaplin's name was in that too. + +`Patience!' I said to myself. `Braxton crouches only to spring. He +will be at Keeb Hall on Saturday next.' + +My mind was free now to dwell with pleasure on Maltby's great +achievement. I thought of writing to congratulate him, but feared +this might be in bad taste. I did, however, write asking him to lunch +with me. He did not answer my letter. I was, therefore, all the more +sorry, next Monday, at not finding `and Mr. Stephen Braxton' in Keeb's +week-end catalogue. + +A few days later I met Mr. Hookworth. He mentioned that Stephen +Braxton had left town. `He has taken,' said Hookworth, `a delightful +bungalow on the east coast. He has gone there to WORK.' He added +that he had a great liking for Braxton--`a man utterly UNSPOILT.' I +inferred that he, too, had written to Maltby and received no answer. + +That butterfly did not, however, appear to be hovering from flower to +flower in the parterres of rank and fashion. In the daily lists of +guests at dinners, receptions, dances, balls, the name of Maltby +figured never. Maltby had not caught on. + +Presently I heard that he, too, had left town. I gathered that he had +gone quite early in June--quite soon after Keeb. Nobody seemed to +know where he was. My own theory was that he had taken a delightful +bungalow on the west coast, to balance Braxton. Anyhow, the parity of +the two strivers was now somewhat re-established. + +In point of fact, the disparity had been less than I supposed. While +Maltby was at Keeb, there Braxton was also--in a sense.... It was a +strange story. I did not hear it at the time. Nobody did. I heard +it seventeen years later. I heard it in Lucca. + + +Little Lucca I found so enchanting that, though I had only a day or +two to spare, I stayed there a whole month. I formed the habit of +walking, every morning, round that high-pitched path which girdles +Lucca, that wide and tree-shaded path from which one looks down over +the city wall at the fertile plains beneath Lucca. There were never +many people there; but the few who did come came daily, so that I grew +to like seeing them and took a mild personal interest in them. + +One of them was an old lady in a wheeled chair. She was not less than +seventy years old, and might or might not have once been beautiful. +Her chair was slowly propelled by an Italian woman. She herself was +obviously Italian. Not so, however, the little gentleman who walked +assiduously beside her. Him I guessed to be English. He was a very +stout little gentleman, with gleaming spectacles and a full blond +beard, and he seemed to radiate cheerfulness. I thought at first that +he might be the old lady's resident physician; but no, there was +something subtly un-professional about him: I became sure that his +constancy was gratuitous, and his radiance real. And one day, I know +not how, there dawned on me a suspicion that he was--who?--some one I +had known--some writer--what's-his-name--something with an M--Maltby-- +Hilary Maltby of the long-ago! + +At sight of him on the morrow this suspicion hardened almost to +certainty. I wished I could meet him alone and ask him if I were not +right, and what he had been doing all these years, and why he had left +England. He was always with the old lady. It was only on my last day +in Lucca that my chance came. + +I had just lunched, and was seated on a comfortable bench outside my +hotel, with a cup of coffee on the table before me, gazing across the +faded old sunny piazza and wondering what to do with my last +afternoon. It was then that I espied yonder the back of the putative +Maltby. I hastened forth to him. He was buying some pink roses, a +great bunch of them, from a market-woman under an umbrella. He looked +very blank, he flushed greatly, when I ventured to accost him. He +admitted that his name was Hilary Maltby. I told him my own name, and +by degrees he remembered me. He apologised for his confusion. He +explained that he had not talked English, had not talked to an +Englishman, `for--oh, hundreds of years.' He said that he had, in the +course of his long residence in Lucca, seen two or three people whom +he had known in England, but that none of them had recognised him. He +accepted (but as though he were embarking on the oddest adventure in +the world) my invitation that he should come and sit down and take +coffee with me. He laughed with pleasure and surprise at finding that +he could still speak his native tongue quite fluently and +idiomatically. `I know absolutely nothing,' he said, `about England +nowadays--except from stray references to it in the Corriere della +Sera; nor did he show the faintest desire that I should enlighten him. +`England,' he mused, `--how it all comes back to me!' + +`But not you to it?' + +`Ah, no indeed,' he said gravely, looking at the roses which he had +laid carefully on the marble table. `I am the happiest of men.' + +He sipped his coffee, and stared out across the piazza, out beyond it +into the past. + +`I am the happiest of men,' he repeated. I plied him with the spur of +silence. + +`And I owe it all to having once yielded to a bad impulse. Absurd, +the threads our destinies hang on!' + +Again I plied him with that spur. As it seemed not to prick him, I +repeated the words he had last spoken. `For instance?' I added. + +`Take,' he said, `a certain evening in the spring of '95. If, on that +evening, the Duchess of Hertfordshire had had a bad cold; or if she +had decided that it WOULDN'T be rather interesting to go on to that +party--that Annual Soiree, I think it was--of the Inkwomen's Club; or +again--to go a step further back--if she hadn't ever written that one +little poem, and if it HADN'T been printed in "The Gentlewoman," and +if the Inkwomen's committee HADN'T instantly and unanimously elected +her an Honorary Vice-President because of that one little poem; or if- +-well, if a million-and-one utterly irrelevant things hadn't happened, +don't-you-know, I shouldn't be here.... I might be THERE,' he smiled, +with a vague gesture indicating England. + +`Suppose,' he went on, `I hadn't been invited to that Annual Soiree; +or suppose that other fellow,-- + +`Braxton?' I suggested. I had remembered Braxton at the moment of +recognising Maltby. + +`Suppose HE hadn't been asked.... But of course we both were. It +happened that I was the first to be presented to the Duchess.... It +was a great moment. I hoped I should keep my head. She wore a tiara. +I had often seen women in tiaras, at the Opera. But I had never +talked to a woman in a tiara. Tiaras were symbols to me. Eyes are +just a human feature. I fixed mine on the Duchess's. I kept my head +by not looking at hers. I behaved as one human being to another. She +seemed very intelligent. We got on very well. Presently she asked +whether I should think her VERY bold if she said how PERFECTLY divine +she thought my book. I said something about doing my best, and asked +with animation whether she had read "A Faun on the Cotswolds." She +had. She said it was TOO wonderful, she said it was TOO great. If +she hadn't been a Duchess, I might have thought her slightly +hysterical. Her innate good-sense quickly reasserted itself. She +used her great power. With a wave of her magic wand she turned into a +fact the glittering possibility that had haunted me. She asked me +down to Keeb. + +`She seemed very pleased that I would come. Was I, by any chance, +free on Saturday week? She hoped there would be some amusing people +to meet me. Could I come by the 3.30? It was only an hour-and-a- +quarter from Victoria. On Saturday there were always compartments +reserved for people coming to Keeb by the 3.30. She hoped I would +bring my bicycle with me. She hoped I wouldn't find it very dull. +She hoped I wouldn't forget to come. She said how lovely it must be +to spend one's life among clever people. She supposed I knew +everybody here to-night. She asked me to tell her who everybody was. +She asked who was the tall, dark man, over there. I told her it was +Stephen Braxton. She said they had promised to introduce her to him. +She added that he looked rather wonderful. "Oh, he is, very," I +assured her. She turned to me with a sudden appeal: "DO you think, if +I took my courage in both hands and asked him, he'd care to come to +Keeb?" + +`I hesitated. It would be easy to say that Satan answered FOR me; +easy but untrue; it was I that babbled: "Well--as a matter of fact-- +since you ask me--if I were you--really I think you'd better not. +He's very odd in some ways. He has an extraordinary hatred of +sleeping out of London. He has the real Gloucestershire LOVE of +London. At the same time, he's very shy; and if you asked him he +wouldn't very well know how to refuse. I think it would be KINDER not +to ask him." + +`At that moment, Mrs. Wilpham--the President--loomed up to us, +bringing Braxton. He bore himself well. Rough dignity with a touch +of mellowness. I daresay you never saw him smile. He smiled gravely +down at the Duchess, while she talked in her pretty little quick +humble way. He made a great impression. + +`What I had done was not merely base: it was very dangerous. I was in +terror that she might rally him on his devotion to London. I didn't +dare to move away. I was immensely relieved when at length she said +she must be going. + +`Braxton seemed loth to relax his grip on her hand at parting. I +feared she wouldn't escape without uttering that invitation. But all +was well.... In saying good night to me, she added in a murmur, +"Don't forget Keeb--Saturday week--the 3.30." Merely an exquisite +murmur. But Braxton heard it. I knew, by the diabolical look he gave +me, that Braxton had heard it.... If he hadn't, I shouldn't be here. + +`Was I a prey to remorse? Well, in the days between that Soiree and +that Saturday, remorse often claimed me, but rapture wouldn't give me +up. Arcady, Olympus, the right people, at last! I hadn't realised +how good my book was--not till it got me this guerdon; not till I got +it this huge advertisement. I foresaw how pleased my publisher would +be. In some great houses, I knew, it was possible to stay without any +one knowing you had been there. But the Duchess of Hertfordshire hid +her light under no bushel. Exclusive she was, but not of publicity. +Next to Windsor Castle, Keeb Hall was the most advertised house in all +England. + +`Meanwhile, I had plenty to do. I rather thought of engaging a valet, +but decided that this wasn't necessary. On the other hand, I felt a +need for three new summer suits, and a new evening suit, and some new +white waistcoats. Also a smoking suit. And had any man ever stayed +at Keeb without a dressing-case? Hitherto I had been content with a +pair of wooden brushes, and so forth. I was afraid these would appal +the footman who unpacked my things. I ordered, for his sake, a large +dressing-case, with my initials engraved throughout it. It looked +compromisingly new when it came to me from the shop. I had to kick it +industriously, and throw it about and scratch it, so as to avert +possible suspicion. The tailor did not send my things home till the +Friday evening. I had to sit up late, wearing the new suits in +rotation. + +`Next day, at Victoria, I saw strolling on the platform many people, +male and female, who looked as if they were going to Keeb--tall, cool, +ornate people who hadn't packed their own things and had reached +Victoria in broughams. I was ornate, but not tall nor cool. My +porter was rather off-hand in his manner as he wheeled my things along +to the 3.30. I asked severely if there were any compartments reserved +for people going to stay with the Duke of Hertfordshire. This worked +an instant change in him. Having set me in one of those shrines, he +seemed almost loth to accept a tip. A snob, I am afraid. + +`A selection of the tall, the cool, the ornate, the intimately +acquainted with one another, soon filled the compartment. There I +was, and I think they felt they ought to try to bring me into the +conversation. As they were all talking about a cotillion of the +previous night, I shouldn't have been able to shine. I gazed out of +the window, with middle-class aloofness. Presently the talk drifted +on to the topic of bicycles. But by this time it was too late for me +to come in. + +`I gazed at the squalid outskirts of London as they flew by. I +doubted, as I listened to my fellow-passengers, whether I should be +able to shine at Keeb. I rather wished I were going to spend the +week-end at one of those little houses with back-gardens beneath the +railway-line. I was filled with fears. + +`For shame! thought I. Was I nobody? Was the author of "Ariel in +Mayfair" nobody? + +`I reminded myself how glad Braxton would be if he knew of my faint- +heartedness. I thought of Braxton sitting, at this moment, in his +room in Clifford's Inn and glowering with envy of his hated rival in +the 3.30. And after all, how enviable I was! My spirits rose. I +would acquit myself well.... + +`I much admired the scene at the little railway station where we +alighted. It was like a fete by Lancret. I knew from the talk of my +fellow-passengers that some people had been going down by an earlier +train, and that others were coming by a later. But the 3.30 had +brought a full score of us. Us! That was the final touch of beauty. + +`Outside there were two broughams, a landau, dog-carts, a phaeton, a +wagonette, I know not what. But almost everybody, it seemed, was +going to bicycle. Lady Rodfitten said SHE was going to bicycle. Year +after year, I had seen that famous Countess riding or driving in the +Park. I had been told at fourth hand that she had a masculine +intellect and could make and unmake Ministries. She was nearly sixty +now, a trifle dyed and stout and weather-beaten, but still +tremendously handsome, and hard as nails. One would not have said she +had grown older, but merely that she belonged now to a rather later +period of the Roman Empire. I had never dreamed of a time when one +roof would shelter Lady Rodfitten and me. Somehow, she struck my +imagination more than any of these others--more than Count Deym, more +than Mr. Balfour, more than the lovely Lady Thisbe Crowborough. + +`I might have had a ducal vehicle all to myself, and should have liked +that; but it seemed more correct that I should use my bicycle. On the +other hand, I didn't want to ride with all these people--a stranger in +their midst. I lingered around the luggage till they were off, and +then followed at a long distance. + +`The sun had gone behind clouds. But I rode slowly, so as to be sure +not to arrive hot. I passed, not without a thrill, through the +massive open gates into the Duke's park. A massive man with a cockade +saluted me--hearteningly--from the door of the lodge. The park seemed +endless. I came, at length, to a long straight avenue of elms that +were almost blatantly immemorial. At the end of it was--well, I felt +like a gnat going to stay in a public building. + +`If there had been turnstiles--IN and OUT--and a shilling to pay, I +should have felt easier as I passed into that hall--that Palladio- +Gargantuan hall. Some one, some butler or groom-of-the-chamber, +murmured that her Grace was in the garden. I passed out through the +great opposite doorway on to a wide spectacular terrace with lawns +beyond. Tea was on the nearest of these lawns. In the central group +of people--some standing, others sitting--I espied the Duchess. She +sat pouring out tea, a deft and animated little figure. I advanced +firmly down the steps from the terrace, feeling that all would be well +so soon as I had reported myself to the Duchess. + +`But I had a staggering surprise on my way to her. I espied in one of +the smaller groups--whom d'you think? Braxton. + +`I had no time to wonder how he had got there--time merely to grasp +the black fact that he WAS there. + +`The Duchess seemed really pleased to see me. She said it was TOO +splendid of me to come. "You know Mr. Maltby?" she asked Lady +Rodfitten, who exclaimed "Not Mr. HILARY Maltby?" with a vigorous +grace that was overwhelming. Lady Rodfitten declared she was the +greatest of my admirers; and I could well believe that in whatever she +did she excelled all competitors. On the other hand, I found it hard +to believe she was afraid of me. Yet I had her word for it that she +was. + +`Her womanly charm gave place now to her masculine grip. She +eulogised me in the language of a seasoned reviewer on the staff of a +long-established journal--wordy perhaps, but sound. I revered and +loved her. I wished I could give her my undivided attention. But, +whilst I sat there, teacup, in hand, between her and the Duchess, part +of my brain was fearfully concerned with that glimpse I had had of +Braxton. It didn't so much matter that he was here to halve my +triumph. But suppose he knew what I had told the Duchess! And +suppose he had--no, surely if he HAD shown me up in all my meanness +she wouldn't have received me so very cordially. I wondered where she +could have met him since that evening of the Inkwomen. I heard Lady +Rodfitten concluding her review of "Ariel" with two or three sentences +that might have been framed specially to give the publisher an easy +"quote." And then I heard myself asking mechanically whether she had +read "A Faun on the Cotswolds." The Duchess heard me too. She turned +from talking to other people and said "I did like Mr. Braxton so VERY +much." + +`"Yes," I threw out with a sickly smile, "I'm so glad you asked him to +come." + +`"But I didn't ask him. I didn't DARE." + +`"But--but--surely he wouldn't be--be HERE if--" We stared at each +other blankly. "Here?" she echoed, glancing at the scattered little +groups of people on the lawn. I glanced too. I was much embarrassed. +I explained that I had seen Braxton "standing just over there" when I +arrived, and had supposed he was one of the people who came by the +earlier train. "Well," she said with a slightly irritated laugh, "you +must have mistaken some one else for him." She dropped the subject, +talked to other people, and presently moved away. + +`Surely, thought I, she didn't suspect me of trying to make fun of +her? On the other hand, surely she hadn't conspired with Braxton to +make a fool of ME? And yet, how could Braxton be here without an +invitation, and without her knowledge? My brain whirled. One thing +only was clear. I could NOT have mistaken anybody for Braxton. There +Braxton had stood--Stephen Braxton, in that old pepper-and-salt suit +of his, with his red tie all askew, and without a hat--his hair +hanging over his forehead. All this I had seen sharp and clean-cut. +There he had stood, just beside one of the women who travelled down in +the same compartment as I; a very pretty woman in a pale blue dress; a +tall woman--but I had noticed how small she looked beside Braxton. +This woman was now walking to and fro, yonder, with M. de Soveral. I +had seen Braxton beside her as clearly as I now saw M. de Soveral. + +`Lady Rodfitten was talking about India to a recent Viceroy. She +seemed to have as firm a grip of India as of "Ariel." I sat +forgotten. I wanted to arise and wander off--in a vague search for +Braxton. But I feared this might look as if I were angry at being +ignored. Presently Lady Rodfitten herself arose, to have what she +called her "annual look round." She bade me come too, and strode off +between me and the recent Viceroy, noting improvements that had been +made in the grounds, suggesting improvements that might be made, +indicating improvements that MUST be made. She was great on +landscape-gardening. The recent Viceroy was less great on it, but +great enough. I don't say I walked forgotten: the eminent woman +constantly asked my opinion; but my opinion, though of course it +always coincided with hers, sounded quite worthless, somehow. I +longed to shine. I could only bother about Braxton. + +`Lady Rodfitten's voice sounded over-strong for the stillness of +evening. The shadows lengthened. My spirits sank lower and lower, +with the sun. I was a naturally cheerful person, but always, towards +sunset, I had a vague sense of melancholy: I seemed always to have +grown weaker; morbid misgivings would come to me. On this particular +evening there was one such misgiving that crept in and out of me again +and again...a very horrible misgiving as to the NATURE of what I had +seen. + +`Well, dressing for dinner is a great tonic. Especially if one +shaves. My spirits rose as I lathered my face. I smiled to my +reflection in the mirror. The afterglow of the sun came through the +window behind the dressing-table, but I had switched on all the +lights. My new silver-topped bottles and things made a fine array. +To-night _I_ was going to shine, too. I felt I might yet be the life +and soul of the party. Anyway, my new evening suit was without a +fault. And meanwhile this new razor was perfect. Having shaved +"down," I lathered myself again and proceeded to shave "up." It was +then that I uttered a sharp sound and swung round on my heel. + +`No one was there. Yet this I knew: Stephen Braxton had just looked +over my shoulder. I had seen the reflection of his face beside mine-- +craned forward to the mirror. I had met his eyes. + +`He had been with me. This I knew. + +`I turned to look again at that mirror. One of my cheeks was all +covered with blood. I stanched it with a towel. Three long cuts +where the razor had slipped and skipped. I plunged the towel into +cold water and held it to my cheek. The bleeding went on--alarmingly. +I rang the bell. No one came. I vowed I wouldn't bleed to death for +Braxton. I rang again. At last a very tall powdered footman +appeared--more reproachful-looking than sympathetic, as though I +hadn't ordered that dressing-case specially on his behalf. He said he +thought one of the housemaids would have some sticking-plaster. He +was very sorry he was needed downstairs, but he would tell one of the +housemaids. I continued to dab and to curse. The blood flowed less. +I showed great spirit. I vowed Braxton should not prevent me from +going down to dinner. + +`But--a pretty sight I was when I did go down. Pale but determined, +with three long strips of black sticking-plaster forming a sort of Z +on my left cheek. Mr. Hilary Maltby at Keeb. Literature's +Ambassador. + +`I don't know how late I was. Dinner was in full swing. Some servant +piloted me to my place. I sat down unobserved. The woman on either +side of me was talking to her other neighbour. I was near the +Duchess' end of the table. Soup was served to me--that dark-red soup +that you pour cream into--Bortsch. I felt it would steady me. I +raised the first spoonful to my lips, and--my hand gave a sudden jerk. + +`I was aware of two separate horrors--a horror that had been, a horror +that was. Braxton had vanished. Not for more than an instant had he +stood scowling at me from behind the opposite diners. Not for more +than the fraction of an instant. But he had left his mark on me. I +gazed down with a frozen stare at my shirtfront, at my white +waistcoat, both dark with Bortsch. I rubbed them with a napkin. I +made them worse. + +`I looked at my glass of champagne. I raised it carefully and drained +it at one draught. It nerved me. But behind that shirtfront was a +broken heart. + +`The woman on my left was Lady Thisbe Crowborough. I don't know who +was the woman on my right. She was the first to turn and see me. I +thought it best to say something about my shirtfront at once. I said +it to her sideways, without showing my left cheek. Her handsome eyes +rested on the splashes. She said, after a moment's thought, that they +looked "rather gay." She said she thought the eternal black and white +of men's evening clothes was "so very dreary." She did her best.... +Lady Thisbe Crowborough did her best, too, I suppose; but breeding +isn't proof against all possible shocks: she visibly started at sight +of me and my Z. I explained that I had cut myself shaving. I said, +with an attempt at lightness, that shy men ought always to cut +themselves shaving: it made such a good conversational opening. "But +surely," she said after a pause, "you don't cut yourself on purpose?" +She was an abysmal fool. I didn't think so at the time. She was Lady +Thisbe Crowborough. This fact hallowed her. That we didn't get on at +all well was a misfortune for which I blamed only myself and my +repulsive appearance and--the unforgettable horror that distracted me. +Nor did I blame Lady Thisbe for turning rather soon to the man on her +other side. + +`The woman on my right was talking to the man on HER other side; so +that I was left a prey to secret memory and dread. I wasn't +wondering, wasn't attempting to explain; I was merely remembering--and +dreading. And--how odd one is!--on the top-layer of my consciousness +I hated to be seen talking to no one. Mr. Maltby at Keeb. I caught +the Duchess' eye once or twice, and she nodded encouragingly, as who +should say "You do look rather awful, and you do seem rather out of +it, but I don't for a moment regret having asked you to come." +Presently I had another chance of talking. I heard myself talk. My +feverish anxiety to please rather touched ME. But I noticed that the +eyes of my listener wandered. And yet I was sorry when the ladies +went away. I had a sense of greater exposure. Men who hadn't seen me +saw me now. The Duke, as he came round to the Duchess' end of the +table, must have wondered who I was. But he shyly offered me his hand +as he passed, and said it was so good of me to come. I had thought of +slipping away to put on another shirt and waistcoat, but had decided +that this would make me the more ridiculous. I sat drinking port-- +poison to me after champagne, but a lulling poison--and listened to +noblemen with unstained shirtfronts talking about the Australian +cricket match.... + +`Is Rubicon Bezique still played in England? There was a mania for it +at that time. The floor of Keeb's Palladio-Gargantuan hall was dotted +with innumerable little tables. I didn't know how to play. My +hostess told me I must "come and amuse the dear old Duke and Duchess +of Mull," and led me to a remote sofa on which an old gentleman had +just sat down beside an old lady. They looked at me with a dim kind +interest. My hostess had set me and left me on a small gilt chair in +front of them. Before going she had conveyed to them loudly--one of +them was very deaf--that I was "the famous writer." It was a long +time before they understood that I was not a political writer. The +Duke asked me, after a troubled pause, whether I had known "old Mr. +Abraham Hayward." The Duchess said I was too young to have known Mr. +Hayward, and asked if I knew her "clever friend Mr. Mallock." I said +I had just been reading Mr. Mallock's new novel. I heard myself +shouting a confused precis of the plot. The place where we were +sitting was near the foot of the great marble staircase. I said how +beautiful the staircase was. The Duchess of Mull said she had never +cared very much for that staircase. The Duke, after a pause, said he +had "often heard old Mr. Abraham Hayward hold a whole dinner table." +There were long and frequent pauses--between which I heard myself +talking loudly, frantically, sinking lower and lower in the esteem of +my small audience. I felt like a man drowning under the eyes of an +elderly couple who sit on the bank regretting that they can offer NO +assistance. Presently the Duke looked at his watch and said to the +Duchess that it was "time to be thinking of bed." + +`They rose, as it were from the bank, and left me, so to speak, under +water. I watched them as they passed slowly out of sight up the +marble staircase which I had mispraised. I turned and surveyed the +brilliant, silent scene presented by the card-players. + +`I wondered what old Mr. Abraham Hayward would have done in my place. +Would he have just darted in among those tables and "held" them? I +presumed that he would not have stolen silently away, quickly and +cravenly away, up the marble staircase--as _I_ did. + +`I don't know which was the greater, the relief or the humiliation of +finding myself in my bedroom. Perhaps the humiliation was the +greater. There, on a chair, was my grand new smoking-suit, laid out +for me--what a mockery! Once I had foreseen myself wearing it in the +smoking-room at a late hour--the centre of a group of eminent men +entranced by the brilliancy of my conversation. And now--! I was +nothing but a small, dull, soup-stained, sticking-plastered, nerve- +racked recluse. Nerves, yes. I assured myself that I had not seen-- +what I had seemed to see. All very odd, of course, and very +unpleasant, but easily explained. Nerves. Excitement of coming to +Keeb too much for me. A good night's rest: that was all I needed. +To-morrow I should laugh at myself. + +`I wondered that I wasn't tired physically. There my grand new silk +pyjamas were, yet I felt no desire to go to bed...none while it was +still possible for me to go. The little writing-table at the foot of +my bed seemed to invite me. I had brought with me in my portmanteau a +sheaf of letters, letters that I had purposely left unanswered in +order that I might answer them on KEEB HALL note-paper. These the +footman had neatly laid beside the blotting-pad on that little +writing-table at the foot of the bed. I regretted that the notepaper +stacked there had no ducal coronet on it. What matter? The address +sufficed. If I hadn't yet made a good impression on the people who +were staying here, I could at any rate make one on the people who +weren't. I sat down. I set to work. I wrote a prodigious number of +fluent and graceful notes. + +`Some of these were to strangers who wanted my autograph. I was +always delighted to send my autograph, and never perfunctory in the +manner of sending it.... "Dear Madam," I remember writing to somebody +that night, "were it not that you make your request for it so +charmingly, I should hesitate to send you that which rarity alone can +render valuable.--Yours truly, Hilary Maltby." I remember reading +this over and wondering whether the word "render" looked rather +commercial. It was in the act of wondering thus that I raised my eyes +from the note-paper and saw, through the bars of the brass bedstead, +the naked sole of a large human foot--saw beyond it the calf of a +great leg; a nightshirt; and the face of Stephen Braxton. I did not +move. + + +`I thought of making a dash for the door, dashing out into the +corridor, shouting at the top of my voice for help. I sat quite +still. + +`What kept me to my chair was the fear that if I tried to reach the +door Braxton would spring off the bed to intercept me. If I sat quite +still perhaps he wouldn't move. I felt that if he moved I should +collapse utterly. + +`I watched him, and he watched me. He lay there with his body half- +raised, one elbow propped on the pillow, his jaw sunk on his breast; +and from under his black brows he watched me steadily. + +`No question of mere nerves now. That hope was gone. No mere optical +delusion, this abiding presence. Here Braxton was. He and I were +together in the bright, silent room. How long would he be content to +watch me? + +`Eleven nights ago he had given me one horrible look. It was this +look that I had to meet, in infinite prolongation, now, not daring to +shift my eyes. He lay as motionless as I sat. I did not hear him +breathing, but I knew, by the rise and fall of his chest under his +nightshirt, that he was breathing heavily. Suddenly I started to my +feet. For he had moved. He had raised one hand slowly. He was +stroking his chin. And as he did so, and as he watched me, his mouth +gradually slackened to a grin. It was worse, it was more malign, this +grin, than the scowl that remained with it; and its immediate effect +on me was an impulse that was as hard to resist as it was hateful. +The window was open. It was nearer to me than the door. I could have +reached it in time.... + +`Well, I live to tell the tale. I stood my ground. And there dawned +on me now a new fact in regard to my companion. I had all the while +been conscious of something abnormal in his attitude--a lack of ease +in his gross possessiveness. I saw now the reason for this effect. +The pillow on which his elbow rested was still uniformly puffed and +convex; like a pillow untouched. His elbow rested but on the very +surface of it, not changing the shape of it at all. His body made not +the least furrow along the bed.... He had no weight. + +`I knew that if I leaned forward and thrust my hand between those +brass rails, to clutch his foot, I should clutch--nothing. He wasn't +tangible. He was realistic. He wasn't real. He was opaque. He +wasn't solid. + +`Odd as it may seem to you, these certainties took the edge off my +horror. During that walk with Lady Rodfitten, I had been appalled by +the doubt that haunted me. But now the very confirmation of that +doubt gave me a sort of courage: I could cope better with anything to- +night than with actual Braxton. And the measure of the relief I felt +is that I sat down again on my chair. + +`More than once there came to me a wild hope that the thing might be +an optical delusion, after all. Then would I shut my eyes tightly, +shaking my head sharply; but, when I looked again, there the presence +was, of course. It--he--not actual Braxton but, roughly speaking, +Braxton--had come to stay. I was conscious of intense fatigue, taut +and alert though every particle of me was; so that I became, in the +course of that ghastly night, conscious of a great envy also. For +some time before the dawn came in through the window, Braxton's eyes +had been closed; little by little now his head drooped sideways, then +fell on his forearm and rested there. He was asleep. + +`Cut off from sleep, I had a great longing for smoke. I had +cigarettes on me, I had matches on me. But I didn't dare to strike a +match. The sound might have waked Braxton up. In slumber he was less +terrible, though perhaps more odious. I wasn't so much afraid now as +indignant. "It's intolerable," I sat saying to myself, "utterly +intolerable!" + +`I had to bear it, nevertheless. I was aware that I had, in some +degree, brought it on myself. If I hadn't interfered and lied, actual +Braxton would have been here at Keeb, and I at this moment sleeping +soundly. But this was no excuse for Braxton. Braxton didn't know +what I had done. He was merely envious of me. And--wanly I puzzled +it out in the dawn--by very force of the envy, hatred, and malice in +him he had projected hither into my presence this simulacrum of +himself. I had known that he would be thinking of me. I had known +that the thought of me at Keeb Hall would be of the last bitterness to +his most sacred feelings. But--I had reckoned without the passionate +force and intensity of the man's nature. + +`If by this same strength and intensity he had merely projected +himself as an invisible guest under the Duchess' roof--if his feat had +been wholly, as perhaps it was in part, a feat of mere wistfulness and +longing--then I should have felt really sorry for him; and my +conscience would have soundly rated me in his behalf. But no; if the +wretched creature HAD been invisible to me, I shouldn't have thought +of Braxton at all--except with gladness that he wasn't here. That he +was visible to me, and to me alone, wasn't any sign of proper remorse +within me. It was but the gauge of his incredible ill-will. + +`Well, it seemed to me that he was avenged--with a vengeance. There I +sat, hot-browed from sleeplessness, cold in the feet, stiff in the +legs, cowed and indignant all through--sat there in the broadening +daylight, and in that new evening suit of mine with the Braxtonised +shirtfront and waistcoat that by day were more than ever loathsome. +Literature's Ambassador at Keeb.... I rose gingerly from my chair, +and caught sight of my face, of my Braxtonised cheek, in the mirror. +I heard the twittering of birds in distant trees. I saw through my +window the elaborate landscape of the Duke's grounds, all soft in the +grey bloom of early morning. I think I was nearer to tears than I had +ever been since I was a child. But the weakness passed. I turned +towards the personage on my bed, and, summoning all such power as was +in me, WILLED him to be gone. My effort was not without result--an +inadequate result. Braxton turned in his sleep. + +`I resumed my seat, and...and...sat up staring and blinking, at a tall +man with red hair. "I must have fallen asleep," I said. "Yessir," he +replied; and his toneless voice touched in me one or two springs of +memory: I was at Keeb; this was the footman who looked after me. But- +-why wasn't I in bed? Had I--no, surely it had been no nightmare. +Surely I had SEEN Braxton on that white bed. + +`The footman was impassively putting away my smoking-suit. I was too +dazed to wonder what he thought of me. Nor did I attempt to stifle a +cry when, a moment later, turning in my chair, I beheld Braxton +leaning moodily against the mantelpiece. "Are you unwellsir?" asked +the footman. "No," I said faintly, "I'm quite well."--"Yessir. Will +you wear the blue suit or the grey?"--"The grey."--"Yessir."--It +seemed almost incredible that HE didn't see Braxton; HE didn't appear +to me one whit more solid than the night-shirted brute who stood +against the mantelpiece and watched him lay out my things.--"Shall I +let your bath-water run nowsir?"--"Please, yes."--"Your bathroom's the +second door to the left sir."--He went out with my bath-towel and +sponge, leaving me alone with Braxton. + +`I rose to my feet, mustering once more all the strength that was in +me. Hoping against hope, with set teeth and clenched hands, I faced +him, thrust forth my will at him, with everything but words commanded +him to vanish--to cease to be. + +`Suddenly, utterly, he vanished. And you can imagine the truly +exquisite sense of triumph that thrilled me and continued to thrill me +till I went into the bathroom and found him in my bath. + +`Quivering with rage, I returned to my bedroom. "Intolerable," I +heard myself repeating like a parrot that knew no other word. A bath +was just what I had needed. Could I have lain for a long time basking +in very hot water, and then have sponged myself with cold water, I +should have emerged calm and brave; comparatively so, at any rate. I +should have looked less ghastly, and have had less of a headache, and +something of an appetite, when I went down to breakfast. Also, I +shouldn't have been the very first guest to appear on the scene. +There were five or six round tables, instead of last night's long +table. At the further end of the room the butler and two other +servants were lighting the little lamps under the hot dishes. I +didn't like to make myself ridiculous by running away. On the other +hand, was it right for me to begin breakfast all by myself at one of +these round tables? I supposed it was. But I dreaded to be found +eating, alone in that vast room, by the first downcomer. I sat +dallying with dry toast and watching the door. It occurred to me that +Braxton might occur at any moment. Should I be able to ignore him? + +`Some man and wife--a very handsome couple--were the first to appear. +They nodded and said "good morning" when they noticed me on their way +to the hot dishes. I rose--uncomfortably, guiltily--and sat down +again. I rose again when the wife drifted to my table, followed by +the husband with two steaming plates. She asked me if it wasn't a +heavenly morning, and I replied with nervous enthusiasm that it was. +She then ate kedgeree in silence. "You just finishing, what?" the +husband asked, looking at my plate. "Oh, no--no--only just +beginning," I assured him, and helped myself to butter. He then ate +kedgeree in silence. He looked like some splendid bull, and she like +some splendid cow, grazing. I envied them their eupeptic calm. I +surmised that ten thousand Braxtons would not have prevented THEM from +sleeping soundly by night and grazing steadily by day. Perhaps their +stolidity infected me a little. Or perhaps what braced me was the +great quantity of strong tea that I consumed. Anyhow I had begun to +feel that if Braxton came in now I shouldn't blench nor falter. + +`Well, I wasn't put to the test. Plenty of people drifted in, but +Braxton wasn't one of them. Lady Rodfitten--no, she didn't drift, she +marched, in; and presently, at an adjacent table, she was drawing a +comparison, in clarion tones, between Jean and Edouard de Reszke. It +seemed to me that her own voice had much in common with Edouard's. +Even more was it akin to a military band. I found myself beating time +to it with my foot. Decidedly, my spirits had risen. I was in a mood +to face and outface anything. When I rose from the table and made my +way to the door, I walked with something of a swing--to the tune of +Lady Rodfitten. + +`My buoyancy didn't last long, though. There was no swing in my walk +when, a little later, I passed out on to the spectacular terrace. I +had seen my enemy again, and had beaten a furious retreat. No doubt I +should see him yet again soon--here, perhaps, on this terrace. Two of +the guests were bicycling slowly up and down the long paven expanse, +both of them smiling with pride in the new delicious form of +locomotion. There was a great array of bicycles propped neatly along +the balustrade. I recognised my own among them. I wondered whether +Braxton had projected from Clifford's Inn an image of his own bicycle. +He may have done so; but I've no evidence that he did. I myself was +bicycling when next I saw him; but he, I remember, was on foot. + +`This was a few minutes later. I was bicycling with dear Lady +Rodfitten. She seemed really to like me. She had come out and +accosted me heartily on the terrace, asking me, because of my +sticking-plaster, with whom I had fought a duel since yesterday. I +did not tell her with whom, and she had already branched off on the +subject of duelling in general. She regretted the extinction of +duelling in England, and gave cogent reasons for her regret. Then she +asked me what my next book was to be. I confided that I was writing a +sort of sequel--"Ariel Returns to Mayfair." She shook her head, said +with her usual soundness that sequels were very dangerous things, and +asked me to tell her "briefly" the lines along which I was working. I +did so. She pointed out two or three weak points in my scheme. She +said she could judge better if I would let her see my manuscript. She +asked me to come and lunch with her next Friday--"just our two +selves"--at Rodfitten House, and to bring my manuscript with me. Need +I say that I walked on air? + +`"And now," she said strenuously, "let us take a turn on our +bicycles." By this time there were a dozen riders on the terrace, all +of them smiling with pride and rapture. We mounted and rode along +together. The terrace ran round two sides of the house, and before we +came to the end of it these words had provisionally marshalled +themselves in my mind: + + + TO + ELEANOR + COUNTESS OF RODFITTEN + THIS BOOK WHICH OWES ALL + TO HER WISE COUNSEL +AND UNWEARYING SUPERVISION + IS GRATEFULLY DEDICATED + BY HER FRIEND + THE AUTHOR + + +`Smiled to masonically by the passing bicyclists, and smiling +masonically to them in return, I began to feel that the rest of my +visit would run smooth, if only-- + +`"Let's go a little faster. Let's race!" said Lady Rodfitten; and we +did so--"just our two selves." I was on the side nearer to the +balustrade, and it was on that side that Braxton suddenly appeared +from nowhere, solid-looking as a rock, his arms akimbo, less than +three yards ahead of me, so that I swerved involuntarily, sharply, +striking broadside the front wheel of Lady Rodfitten and collapsing +with her, and with a crash of machinery, to the ground. + +`I wasn't hurt. She had broken my fall. I wished I was dead. She +was furious. She sat speechiess with fury. A crowd had quickiy +collected--just as in the case of a street accident. She accused me +now to the crowd. She said I had done it on purpose. She said such +terrible things of me that I think the crowd's sympathy must have +veered towards me. She was assisted to her feet. I tried to be one +of the assistants. "Don't let him come near me!" she thundered. I +caught sight of Braxton on the fringe of the crowd, grinning at me. +"It was all HIS fault," I madly cried, pointing at him. Everybody +looked at Mr. Balfour, just behind whom Braxton was standing. There +was a general murmur of surprise, in which I have no doubt Mr. Balfour +joined. He gave a charming, blank, deprecating smile. "I mean--I +can't explain what I mean," I groaned. Lady Rodfitten moved away, +refusing support, limping terribly, towards the house. The crowd +followed her, solicitous. I stood helplessly, desperately, where I +was. + +`I stood an outlaw, a speck on the now empty terrace. Mechanically I +picked up my straw hat, and wheeled the two bent bicycles to the +balustrade. I suppose Mr. Balfour has a charming nature. For he +presently came out again--on purpose, I am sure, to alleviate my +misery. He told me that Lady Rodfitten had suffered no harm. He took +me for a stroll up and down the terrace, talking thoughtfully and +enchantingly about things in general. Then, having done his deed of +mercy, this Good Samaritan went back into the house. My eyes followed +him with gratitude; but I was still bleeding from wounds beyond his +skill. I escaped down into the gardens. I wanted to see no one. +Still more did I want to be seen by no one. I dreaded in every nerve +of me my reappearance among those people. I walked ever faster and +faster, to stifle thought; but in vain. Why hadn't I simply ridden +THROUGH Braxton? I was aware of being now in the park, among great +trees and undulations of wild green ground. But Nature did not +achieve the task that Mr. Balfour had attempted; and my anguish was +unassuaged. + +`I paused to lean against a tree in the huge avenue that led to the +huge hateful house. I leaned wondering whether the thought of re- +entering that house were the more hateful because I should have to +face my fellow-guests or because I should probably have to face +Braxton. A church bell began ringing somewhere. And anon I was aware +of another sound--a twitter of voices. A consignment of hatted and +parasoled ladies was coming fast adown the avenue. My first impulse +was to dodge behind my tree. But I feared that I had been observed; +so that what was left to me of self-respect compelled me to meet these +ladies. + +`The Duchess was among them. I had seen her from afar at breakfast, +but not since. She carried a prayer-book, which she waved to me as I +approached. I was a disastrous guest, but still a guest, and nothing +could have been prettier than her smile. "Most of my men this week," +she said, "are Pagans, and all the others have dispatch-boxes to go +through--except the dear old Duke of Mull, who's a member of the Free +Kirk. You're Pagan, of course?" + +`I said--and indeed it was a heart-cry--that I should like very much +to come to church. "If I shan't be in the way," I rather abjectly +added. It didn't strike me that Braxton would try to intercept me. I +don't know why, but it never occurred to me, as I walked briskly along +beside the Duchess, that I should meet him so far from the house. The +church was in a corner of the park, and the way to it was by a side +path that branched off from the end of the avenue. A little way +along, casting its shadow across the path, was a large oak. It was +from behind this tree, when we came to it, that Braxton sprang +suddenly forth and tripped me up with his foot. + +`Absurd to be tripped up by the mere semblance of a foot? But +remember, I was walking quickly, and the whole thing happened in a +flash of time. It was inevitable that I should throw out my hands and +come down headlong--just as though the obstacle had been as real as it +looked. Down I came on palms and knee-caps, and up I scrambled, very +much hurt and shaken and apologetic. "POOR Mr. Maltby! REALLY--!" +the Duchess wailed for me in this latest of my mishaps. Some other +lady chased my straw hat, which had bowled far ahead. Two others +helped to brush me. They were all very kind, with a quaver of mirth +in their concern for me. I looked furtively around for Braxton, but +he was gone. The palms of my hands were abraded with gravel. The +Duchess said I must on no account come to church NOW. I was utterly +determined to reach that sanctuary. I marched firmly on with the +Duchess. Come what might on the way, I wasn't going to be left out +here. I was utterly bent on winning at least one respite. + +`Well, I reached the little church without further molestation. To be +there seemed almost too good to be true. The organ, just as we +entered, sounded its first notes. The ladies rustled into the front +pew. I, being the one male of the party, sat at the end of the pew, +beside the Duchess. I couldn't help feeling that my position was a +proud one. But I had gone through too much to take instant pleasure +in it, and was beset by thoughts of what new horror might await me on +the way back to the house. I hoped the Service would not be brief. +The swelling and dwindling strains of the "voluntary" on the small +organ were strangely soothing. I turned to give an almost feudal +glance to the simple villagers in the pews behind, and saw a sight +that cowed my soul. + +`Braxton was coming up the aisle. He came slowly, casting a tourist's +eye at the stained-glass windows on either side. Walking heavily, yet +with no sound of boots on the pavement, he reached our pew. There, +towering and glowering, he halted, as though demanding that we should +make room for him. A moment later he edged sullenly into the pew. +Instinctively I had sat tight back, drawing my knees aside, in a +shudder of revulsion against contact. But Braxton did not push past +me. What he did was to sit slowly and fully down on me. + +`No, not down ON me. Down THROUGH me--and around me. What befell me +was not mere ghastly contact with the intangible. It was inclusion, +envelopment, eclipse. What Braxton sat down on was not I, but the +seat of the pew; and what he sat back against was not my face and +chest, but the back of the pew. I didn't realise this at the moment. +All I knew was a sudden black blotting-out of all things; an infinite +and impenetrable darkness. I dimly conjectured that I was dead. What +was wrong with me, in point of fact, was that my eyes, with the rest +of me, were inside Braxton. You remember what a great hulking fellow +Braxton was. I calculate that as we sat there my eyes were just +beneath the roof of his mouth. Horrible! + +`Out of the unfathomable depths of that pitch darkness, I could yet +hear the "voluntary" swelling and dwindling, just as before. It was +by this I knew now that I wasn't dead. And I suppose I must have +craned my head forward, for I had a sudden glimpse of things--a close +quick downward glimpse of a pepper-and-salt waistcoat and of two great +hairy hands clasped across it. Then darkness again. Either I had +drawn back my head, or Braxton had thrust his forward; I don't know +which. "Are you all right?" the Duchess' voice whispered, and no +doubt my face was ashen. "Quite," whispered my voice. But this +pathetic monosyllable was the last gasp of the social instinct in me. +Suddenly, as the "voluntary" swelled to its close, there was a great +sharp shuffling noise. The congregation had risen to its feet, at the +entry of choir and vicar. Braxton had risen, leaving me in daylight. +I beheld his towering back. The Duchess, beside him, glanced round at +me. But I could not, dared not, stand up into that presented back, +into that great waiting darkness. I did but clutch my hat from +beneath the seat and hurry distraught down the aisle, out through the +porch, into the open air. + +`Whither? To what goal? I didn't reason. I merely fled--like +Orestes; fled like an automaton along the path we had come by. And +was followed? Yes, yes. Glancing back across my shoulder, I saw that +brute some twenty yards behind me, gaining on me. I broke into a +sharper run. A few sickening moments later, he was beside me, +scowling down into my face. + +`I swerved, dodged, doubled on my tracks, but he was always at me. +Now and again, for lack of breath, I halted, and he halted with me. +And then, when I had got my wind, I would start running again, in the +insane hope of escaping him. We came, by what twisting and turning +course I know not, to the great avenue, and as I stood there in an +agony of panting I had a dazed vision of the distant Hall. Really I +had quite forgotten I was staying at the Duke of Hertfordshire's. But +Braxton hadn't forgotten. He planted himself in front of me. He +stood between me and the house. + +`Faint though I was, I could almost have laughed. Good heavens! was +THAT all he wanted: that I shouldn't go back there? Did he suppose I +wanted to go back there--with HIM? Was I the Duke's prisoner on +parole? What was there to prevent me from just walking off to the +railway station? I turned to do so. + +`He accompanied me on my way. I thought that when once I had passed +through the lodge gates he might vanish, satisfied. But no, he didn't +vanish. It was as though he suspected that if he let me out of his +sight I should sneak back to the house. He arrived with me, this +quiet companion of mine, at the little railway station. Evidently he +meant to see me off. I learned from an elderly and solitary porter +that the next train to London was the 4.3. + +`Well, Braxton saw me off by the 4.3. I reflected, as I stepped up +into an empty compartment, that it wasn't yet twenty-four hours ago +since I, or some one like me, had alighted at that station. + +`The guard blew his whistle; the engine shrieked, and the train jolted +forward and away; but I did not lean out of the window to see the last +of my attentive friend. + +`Really not twenty-four hours ago? Not twenty-four years?' + + +Maltby paused in his narrative. `Well, well,' he said, `I don't want +you to think I overrate the ordeal of my visit to Keeb. A man of +stronger nerve than mine, and of greater resourcefulness, might have +coped successfully with Braxton from first to last--might have stayed +on till Monday, making a very favourable impression on every one all +the while. Even as it was, even after my manifold failures and sudden +flight, I don't say my position was impossible. I only say it seemed +so to me. A man less sensitive than I, and less vain, might have +cheered up after writing a letter of apology to his hostess, and have +resumed his normal existence as though nothing very terrible had +happened, after all. I wrote a few lines to the Duchess that night; +but I wrote amidst the preparations for my departure from England: I +crossed the Channel next morning. Throughout that Sunday afternoon +with Braxton at the Keeb railway station, pacing the desolate platform +with him, waiting in the desolating waiting-room with him, I was numb +to regrets, and was thinking of nothing but the 4.3. On the way to +Victoria my brain worked and my soul wilted. Every incident in my +stay at Keeb stood out clear to me; a dreadful, a hideous pattern. I +had done for myself, so far as THOSE people were concerned. And now +that I had sampled THEM, what cared I for others? "Too low for a +hawk, too high for a buzzard." That homely old saying seemed to sum +me up. And suppose I COULD still take pleasure in the company of my +own old upper-middle class, how would that class regard me now? +Gossip percolates. Little by little, I was sure, the story of my Keeb +fiasco would leak down into the drawing-room of Mrs. Foster-Dugdale. +I felt I could never hold up my head in any company where anything of +that story was known. Are you quite sure you never heard anything?' + +I assured Maltby that all I had known was the great bare fact of his +having stayed at Keeb Hall. + +`It's curious,' he reflected. `It's a fine illustration of the +loyalty of those people to one another. I suppose there was a general +agreement for the Duchess' sake that nothing should be said about her +queer guest. But even if I had dared hope to be so efficiently hushed +up, I couldn't have not fled. I wanted to forget. I wanted to leap +into some void, far away from all reminders. I leapt straight from +Ryder Street into Vaule-la-Rochette, a place of which I had once heard +that it was the least frequented seaside-resort in Europe. I leapt +leaving no address--leapt telling my landlord that if a suit-case and +a portmanteau arrived for me he could regard them, them and their +contents, as his own for ever. I daresay the Duchess wrote me a kind +little letter, forcing herself to express a vague hope that I would +come again "some other time." I daresay Lady Rodfitten did NOT write +reminding me of my promise to lunch on Friday and bring "Ariel Returns +to Mayfair" with me. I left that manuscript at Ryder Street; in my +bedroom grate; a shuffle of ashes. Not that I'd yet given up all +thought of writing. But I certainly wasn't going to write now about +the two things I most needed to forget. I wasn't going to write about +the British aristocracy, nor about any kind of supernatural +presence.... I did write a novel--my last--while I was at Vaule. +"Mr. and Mrs. Robinson." Did you ever come across a copy of it? + +I nodded gravely. + +`Ah; I wasn't sure,' said Maltby, `whether it was ever published. A +dreary affair, wasn't it? I knew a great deal about suburban life. +But--well, I suppose one can't really understand what one doesn't +love, and one can't make good fun without real understanding. +Besides, what chance of virtue is there for a book written merely to +distract the author's mind? I had hoped to be healed by sea and +sunshine and solitude. These things were useless. The labour of "Mr. +and Mrs. Robinson" did help, a little. When I had finished it, I +thought I might as well send it off to my publisher. He had given me +a large sum of money, down, after "Ariel," for my next book--so large +that I was rather loth to disgorge. In the note I sent with the +manuscript, I gave no address, and asked that the proofs should be +read in the office. I didn't care whether the thing were published or +not. I knew it would be a dead failure if it were. What mattered one +more drop in the foaming cup of my humiliation? I knew Braxton would +grin and gloat. I didn't mind even that.' + +`Oh, well,' I said, `Braxton was in no mood for grinning and gloating. +"The Drones" had already appeared.' + +Maltby had never heard of `The Drones'--which I myself had remembered +only in the course of his disclosures. I explained to him that it was +Braxton's second novel, and was by way of being a savage indictment of +the British aristocracy; that it was written in the worst possible +taste, but was so very dull that it fell utterly flat; that Braxton +had forthwith taken, with all of what Maltby had called `the +passionate force and intensity of his nature,' to drink, and had +presently gone under and not re-emerged. + +Maltby gave signs of genuine, though not deep, emotion, and cited two +or three of the finest passages from `A Faun on the Cotswolds.' He +even expressed a conviction that `The Drones' must have been +misjudged. He said he blamed himself more than ever for yielding to +that bad impulse at that Soiree. + +`And yet,' he mused, `and yet, honestly, I can't find it in my heart +to regret that I did yield. I can only wish that all had turned out +as well, in the end, for Braxton as for me. I wish he could have won +out, as I did, into a great and lasting felicity. For about a year +after I had finished "Mr. and Mrs. Robinson" I wandered from place to +place, trying to kill memory, shunning all places frequented by the +English. At last I found myself in Lucca. Here, if anywhere, I +thought, might a bruised and tormented spirit find gradual peace. I +determined to move out of my hotel into some permanent lodging. Not +for felicity, not for any complete restoration of self-respect, was I +hoping; only for peace. A "mezzano" conducted me to a noble and +ancient house, of which, he told me, the owner was anxious to let the +first floor. It was in much disrepair, but even so seemed to me very +cheap. According to the simple Luccan standard, I am rich. I took +that first floor for a year, had it repaired, and engaged two +servants. My "padrona" inhabited the ground floor. From time to time +she allowed me to visit her there. She was the Contessa Adriano- +Rizzoli, the last of her line. She is the Contessa Adriano-Rizzoli- +Maltby. We have been married fifteen years.' + +Maltby looked at his watch. He rose and took tenderly from the table +his great bunch of roses. `She is a lineal descendant,' he said, `of +the Emperor Hadrian.' + + + + + +`SAVONAROLA' BROWN + + + + +I like to remember that I was the first to call him so, for, though he +always deprecated the nickname, in his heart he was pleased by it, I +know, and encouraged to go on. + +Quite apart from its significance, he had reason to welcome it. He +had been unfortunate at the font. His parents, at the time of his +birth, lived in Ladbroke Crescent, XV. They must have been an +extraordinarily unimaginative couple, for they could think of no +better name for their child than Ladbroke. This was all very well for +him till he went to school. But you can fancy the indignation and +delight of us boys at finding among us a newcomer who, on his own +confession, had been named after a Crescent. I don't know how it is +nowadays, but thirty-five years ago, certainly, schoolboys regarded +the possession of ANY Christian name as rather unmanly. As we all had +these encumbrances, we had to wreak our scorn on any one who was +cumbered in a queer fashion. I myself, bearer of a Christian name +adjudged eccentric though brief, had had much to put up with in my +first term. Brown's arrival, therefore, at the beginning of my second +term, was a good thing for me, and I am afraid I was very prominent +among his persecutors. Trafalgar Brown, Tottenham Court Brown, Bond +Brown--what names did we little brutes NOT cull for him from the +London Directory? Except how miserable we made his life, I do not +remember much about him as he was at that time, and the only important +part of the little else that I do recall is that already he showed a +strong sense for literature. For the majority of us Carthusians, +literature was bounded on the north by Whyte Melville, on the south by +Hawley Smart, on the east by the former, and on the west by the +latter. Little Brown used to read Harrison Ainsworth, Wilkie Collins, +and other writers whom we, had we assayed them, would have dismissed +as `deep.' It has been said by Mr. Arthur Symons that `all art is a +mode of escape.' The art of letters did not, however, enable Brown to +escape so far from us as he would have wished. In my third term he +did not reappear among us. His parents had in some sort atoned. +Unimaginative though they were, it seems they could understand a tale +of woe laid before them circumstantially, and had engaged a private +tutor for their boy. Fifteen years elapsed before I saw him again. + +This was at the second night of some play. I was dramatic critic for +the Saturday Review, and, weary of meeting the same lot of people over +and over again at first nights, had recently sent a circular to the +managers asking that I might have seats for second nights instead. I +found that there existed as distinct and invariable a lot of second- +nighters as of first-nighters. The second-nighters were less `showy'; +but then, they came rather to see than to be seen, and there was an +air, that I liked, of earnestness and hopefulness about them. I used +to write a great deal about the future of the British drama, and they, +for their part, used to think and talk a great deal about it. People +who care about books and pictures find much to interest and please +them in the present. It is only the students of the theatre who +always fall back, or rather forward, on the future. Though second- +nighters do come to see, they remain rather to hope and pray. I +should have known anywhere, by the visionary look in his eyes, that +Brown was a confirmed second-nighter. + +What surprises me is that I knew he was Brown. It is true that he had +not grown much in those fifteen years: his brow was still +disproportionate to his body, and he looked young to have become +`confirmed' in any habit. But it is also true that not once in the +past ten years, at any rate, had he flitted through my mind and poised +on my conscience. + +I hope that I and those other boys had long ago ceased from recurring +to him in nightmares. Cordial though the hand was that I offered him, +and highly civilised my whole demeanour, he seemed afraid that at any +moment I might begin to dance around him, shooting out my lips at him +and calling him Seven-Sisters Brown or something of that kind. It was +only after constant meetings at second nights, and innumerable +entr'acte talks about the future of the drama, that he began to trust +me. In course of time we formed the habit of walking home together as +far as Cumberland Place, at which point our ways diverged. I gathered +that he was still living with his parents, but he did not tell me +where, for they had not, as I learned by reference to the Red Book, +moved from Ladbroke Crescent. + +I found his company restful rather than inspiring. His days were +spent in clerkship at one of the smaller Government Offices, his +evenings--except when there was a second night--in reading and +writing. He did not seem to know much, or to wish to know more, about +life. Books and plays, first editions and second nights, were what he +cared for. On matters of religion and ethics he was as little keen as +he seemed to be on human character in the raw; so that (though I had +already suspected him of writing, or meaning to write, a play) my +eyebrows did rise when he told me he meant to write a play about +Savonarola. + +He made me understand, however, that it was rather the name than the +man that had first attracted him. He said that the name was in itself +a great incentive to blank-verse. He uttered it to me slowly, in a +voice so much deeper than his usual voice, that I nearly laughed. For +the actual bearer of the name he had no hero-worship, and said it was +by a mere accident that he had chosen him as central figure. He had +thought of writing a tragedy about Sardanapalus; but the volume of the +"Encyclopedia Britannica" in which he was going to look up the main +facts about Sardanapalus happened to open at Savonarola. Hence a +sudden and complete peripety in the student's mind. He told me he had +read the Encyclopedia's article carefully, and had dipped into one or +two of the books there mentioned as authorities. He seemed almost to +wish he hadn't. `Facts get in one's way so,' he complained. `History +is one thing, drama is another. Aristotle said drama was more +philosophic than history because it showed us what men WOULD do, not +just what they DID. I think that's so true, don't you? I want to +show what Savonarola WOULD have done if--' He paused. + +`If what?' + +`Well, that's just the point. I haven't settled that yet. When I've +thought of a plot, I shall go straight ahead.' + +I said I supposed he intended his tragedy rather for the study than +for the stage. This seemed to hurt him. I told him that what I meant +was that managers always shied at anything without `a strong feminine +interest.' This seemed to worry him. I advised him not to think +about managers. He promised that he would think only about +Savonarola. + +I know now that this promise was not exactly kept by him; and he may +have felt slightly awkward when, some weeks later, he told me he had +begun the play. `I've hit on an initial idea,' he said, `and that's +enough to start with. I gave up my notion of inventing a plot in +advance. I thought it would be a mistake. I don't want puppets on +wires. I want Savonarola to work out his destiny in his own way. Now +that I have the initial idea, what I've got to do is to make +Savonarola LIVE. I hope I shall be able to do this. Once he's alive, +I shan't interfere with him. I shall just watch him. Won't it be +interesting? He isn't alive yet. But there's plenty of time. You +see, he doesn't come on at the rise of the curtain. A Friar and a +Sacristan come on and talk about him. By the time they've finished, +perhaps he'll be alive. But they won't have finished yet. Not that +they're going to say very much. But I write slowly.' + +I remember the mild thrill I had when, one evening, he took me aside +and said in an undertone, `Savonarola has come on. Alive!' For me +the MS. hereinafter printed has an interest that for you it cannot +have, so a-bristle am I with memories of the meetings I had with its +author throughout the nine years he took over it. He never saw me +without reporting progress, or lack of progress. Just what was going +on, or standing still, he did not divulge. After the entry of +Savonarola, he never told me what characters were appearing. `All +sorts of people appear,' he would say rather helplessly. `They +insist. I can't prevent them.' I used to say it must be great fun to +be a creative artist; but at this he always shook his head: `I don't +create. THEY do. Savonarola especially, of course. I just look on +and record. I never know what's going to happen next.' He had the +advantage of me in knowing at any rate what had happened last. But +whenever I pled for a glimpse he would again shake his head: + +`The thing MUST be judged as a whole. Wait till I've come to the end +of the Fifth Act.' + +So impatient did I become that, as the years went by, I used rather to +resent his presence at second nights. I felt he ought to be at his +desk. His, I used to tell him, was the only drama whose future ought +to concern him now. And in point of fact he had, I think, lost the +true spirit of the second-nighter, and came rather to be seen than to +see. He liked the knowledge that here and there in the auditorium, +when he entered it, some one would be saying `Who is that?' and +receiving the answer `Oh, don't you know? That's "Savonarola" Brown.' +This sort of thing, however, did not make him cease to be the modest, +unaffected fellow I had known. He always listened to the advice I +used to offer him, though inwardly he must have chafed at it. Myself +a fidgety and uninspired person, unable to begin a piece of writing +before I know just how it shall end, I had always been afraid that +sooner or later Brown would take some turning that led nowhither-- +would lose himself and come to grief. This fear crept into my +gladness when, one evening in the spring of 1909, he told me he had +finished the Fourth Act. Would he win out safely through the Fifth? + +He himself was looking rather glum; and, as we walked away from the +theatre, I said to him, `I suppose you feel rather like Thackeray when +he'd "killed the Colonel": you've got to kill the Monk.' + +`Not quite that,' he answered. `But of course he'll die very soon +now. A couple of years or so. And it does seem rather sad. It's not +merely that he's so full of life. He has been becoming much more +HUMAN lately. At first I only respected him. Now I have a real +affection for him.' + +This was an interesting glimpse at last, but I turned from it to my +besetting fear. + +`Haven't you,' I asked, `any notion of HOW he is to die?' + +Brown shook his head. + +`But in a tragedy,' I insisted, `the catastrophe MUST be led up to, +step by step. My dear Brown, the end of the hero MUST be logical and +rational.' + +`I don't see that,' he said, as we crossed Piccadilly Circus. `In +actual life it isn't so. What is there to prevent a motor-omnibus +from knocking me over and killing me at this moment?' + +At that moment, by what has always seemed to me the strangest of +coincidences, and just the sort of thing that playwrights ought to +avoid, a motor-omnibus knocked Brown over and killed him. + +He had, as I afterwards learned, made a will in which he appointed me +his literary executor. Thus passed into my hands the unfinished play +by whose name he had become known to so many people. + + +I hate to say that I was disappointed in it, but I had better confess +quite frankly that, on the whole, I was. Had Brown written it quickly +and read it to me soon after our first talk about it, it might in some +ways have exceeded my hopes. But he had become for me, by reason of +that quiet and unhasting devotion to his work while the years came and +went, a sort of hero; and the very mystery involving just what he was +about had addicted me to those ideas of magnificence which the unknown +is said always to foster. + +Even so, however, I am not blind to the great merits of the play as it +stands. It is well that the writer of poetic drama should be a +dramatist and a poet. Here is a play that abounds in striking +situations, and I have searched it vainly for one line that does not +scan. What I nowhere feel is that I have not elsewhere been thrilled +or lulled by the same kind of thing. I do not go so far as to say +that Brown inherited his parents' deplorable lack of imagination. But +I do wish he had been less sensitive than he was to impressions, or +else had seen and read fewer poetic dramas ancient and modern. +Remembering that visionary look in his eyes, remembering that he was +as displeased as I by the work of all living playwrights, and as +dissatisfied with the great efforts of the Elizabethans, I wonder that +he was not more immune from influences. + +Also, I cannot but wish still that he had faltered in his decision to +make no scenario. There is much to be said for the theory that a +dramatist should first vitalise his characters and then leave them +unfettered ; but I do feel that Brown's misused the confidence he +reposed in them. The labour of so many years has somewhat the air of +being a mere improvisation. Savonarola himself, after the First Act +or so, strikes me as utterly inconsistent. It may be that he is just +complex, like Hamlet. He does in the Fourth Act show traces of that +Prince. I suppose this is why he struck Brown as having become `more +human.' To me he seems merely a poorer creature. + +But enough of these reservations. In my anxiety for poor Brown's sake +that you should not be disappointed, perhaps I have been carrying +tactfulness too far and prejudicing you against that for which I +specially want your favour. Here, without more ado, is + + +SAVONAROLA +A TRAGEDY +BY +L. BROWN + + +ACT I + +SCENE: A Room in the Monastery of San Marco, Florence. +TIME: 1490, A.D. A summer morning. + +Enter the SACRISTAN and a FRIAR. + +SACR. +Savonarola looks more grim to-day +Than ever. Should I speak my mind, I'd say +That he was fashioning some new great scourge +To flay the backs of men. + +FRI. + 'Tis even so. +Brother Filippo saw him stand last night +In solitary vigil till the dawn +Lept o'er the Arno, and his face was such +As men may wear in Purgatory--nay, +E'en in the inmost core of Hell's own fires. + +SACR. +I often wonder if some woman's face, +Seen at some rout in his old worldling days, +Haunts him e'en now, e'en here, and urges him +To fierier fury 'gainst the Florentines. + +FRI. +Savonarola love-sick! Ha, ha, ha! +Love-sick? He, love-sick? 'Tis a goodly jest! +The CONfirm'd misogyn a ladies' man! +Thou must have eaten of some strange red herb +That takes the reason captive. I will swear +Savonarola never yet hath seen +A woman but he spurn'd her. Hist! He comes. + +[Enter SAVONAROLA, rapt in thought.] + +Give thee good morrow, Brother. + +SACR. + And therewith +A multitude of morrows equal-good +Till thou, by Heaven's grace, hast wrought the work +Nearest thine heart. + +SAV. + I thank thee, Brother, yet +I thank thee not, for that my thankfulness +(An such there be) gives thanks to Heaven alone. + +FRI. [To SACR.] +'Tis a right answer he hath given thee. +Had Sav'narola spoken less than thus, +Methinks me, the less Sav'narola he. +As when the snow lies on yon Apennines, +White as the hem of Mary Mother's robe, +And insusceptible to the sun's rays, +Being harder to the touch than temper'd steel, +E'en so this great gaunt monk white-visaged +Upstands to Heaven and to Heav'n devotes +The scarped thoughts that crown the upper slopes +Of his abrupt and AUStere nature. + +SACR. + Aye. + +[Enter LUCREZIA BORGIA, ST. FRANCIS oF ASSISI, and LEONARDO DA VINCI. LUC. is +thickly veiled.] + +ST. FRAN. +This is the place. + +LUC. [Pointing at SAV.] + And this the man! [Aside.] And I-- +By the hot blood that courses i' my veins +I swear it ineluctably--the woman! + +SAV. +Who is this wanton? +[LUC. throws back her hood, revealing her face. SAV. starts back, +gazing at her.] + +ST. FRAN. + Hush, Sir! 'Tis my little sister +The poisoner, right well-belov'd by all +Whom she as yet hath spared. Hither she came +Mounted upon another little sister of mine-- +A mare, caparison'd in goodly wise. +She--I refer now to Lucrezia-- +Desireth to have word of thee anent +Some matter that befrets her. + +SAV. [To LUC.] + Hence! Begone! +Savonarola will not tempted be +By face of woman e'en tho' 't be, tho' 'tis, +Surpassing fair. All hope abandon therefore. +I charge thee: Vade retro, Satanas. + +LEONARDO +Sirrah, thou speakst in haste, as is the way +Of monkish men. The beauty of Lucrezia +Commends, not discommends, her to the eyes +Of keener thinkers than I take thee for. +I am an artist and an engineer, +Giv'n o'er to subtile dreams of what shall be +On this our planet. I foresee a day +When men shall skim the earth i' certain chairs +Not drawn by horses but sped on by oil +Or other matter, and shall thread the sky +Birdlike. + +LUC. + It may be as thou sayest, friend, +Or may be not. [To SAV.] As touching this our errand, +I crave of thee, Sir Monk, an audience +Instanter. + +FRI. + Lo! Here Alighieri comes. +I had methought me he was still at Parma. + +[Enter DANTE.] + +ST. FRAN. [To DAN.] +How fares my little sister Beatrice? + +DAN. +She died, alack, last sennight. + +ST. FRAN. + Did she so? +If the condolences of men avail +Thee aught, take mine. + +DAN. + They are of no avail. + +SAV. [To LUC.] +I do refuse thee audience. + +LUC. + Then why +Didst thou not say so promptly when I ask'd it? + +SAV. +Full well thou knowst that I was interrupted +By Alighieri's entry. +[Noise without. Enter Guelfs and Ghibellines fighting.] + What is this? + +LUC. +I did not think that in this cloister'd spot +There would be so much doing. I had look'd +To find Savonarola all alone +And tempt him in his uneventful cell. +Instead o' which--Spurn'd am I? I am I. +There was a time, Sir, look to 't! O damnation! +What is 't? Anon then! These my toys, my gauds, +That in the cradle--aye, 't my mother's breast-- +I puled and lisped at,--'Tis impossible, +Tho', faith, 'tis not so, forasmuch as 'tis. +And I a daughter of the Borgias!-- +Or so they told me. Liars! Flatterers! +Currying lick-spoons! Where's the Hell of 't then? +'Tis time that I were going. Farewell, Monk, +But I'll avenge me ere the sun has sunk. +[Exeunt LUC., ST. FRAN., and LEONARDO, followed by DAN. SAV., having +watched LUC. out of sight, sinks to his knees, sobbing. FRI. and SACR. +watch him in amazement. Guelfs and Ghibellines continue fighting as +the Curtain falls.] + + +ACT II + +TIME: Afternoon of same day. +SCENE: Lucrezia's Laboratory. Retorts, test-tubes, etc. On small +Renaissance table, up c., is a great poison-bowl, the contents of +which are being stirred by the FIRST APPRENTICE. The SECOND APPRENTICE +stands by, watching him. + +SECOND APP. +For whom is the brew destin'd? + +FIRST APP. + I know not. +Lady Lucrezia did but lay on me +Injunctions as regards the making of 't, +The which I have obey'd. It is compounded +Of a malignant and a deadly weed +Found not save in the Gulf of Spezia, +And one small phial of 't, I am advis'd, +Were more than 'nough to slay a regiment +Of Messer Malatesta's condottieri +In all their armour. + +SECOND APP. + I can well believe it. +Mark how the purple bubbles froth upon +The evil surface of its nether slime! + +[Enter LUC.] + +LUC. [To FIRST APP.] +Is 't done, Sir Sluggard? + +FIRST APP. + Madam, to a turn. + +LUC. +Had it not been so, I with mine own hand +Would have outpour'd it down thy gullet, knave. +See, here's a ring of cunningly-wrought gold + +That I, on a dark night, did purchase from +A goldsmith on the Ponte Vecchio. +Small was his shop, and hoar of visage he. +I did bemark that from the ceiling's beams +Spiders had spun their webs for many a year, +The which hung erst like swathes of gossamer +Seen in the shadows of a fairy glade, +But now most woefully were weighted o'er +With gather'd dust. Look well now at the ring! +Touch'd here, behold, it opes a cavity +Capacious of three drops of yon fell stuff. +Dost heed? Whoso then puts it on his finger +Dies, and his soul is from his body rapt +To Hell or Heaven as the case may be. +Take thou this toy and pour the three drops in. + +[Hands ring to FIRST APP. and comes down c.] + +So, Sav'narola, thou shalt learn that I +Utter no threats but I do make them good. +Ere this day's sun hath wester'd from the view +Thou art to preach from out the Loggia +Dei Lanzi to the cits in the Piazza. +I, thy Lucrezia, will be upon the steps +To offer thee with phrases seeming-fair +That which shall seal thine eloquence for ever. +O mighty lips that held the world in spell +But would not meet these little lips of mine +In the sweet way that lovers use--O thin, +Cold, tight-drawn, bloodless lips, which natheless I +Deem of all lips the most magnifical +In this our city-- + +[Enter the Borgias' FOOL.] + + Well, Fool, what's thy latest? + +FOOL +Aristotle's or Zeno's, Lady--'tis neither latest nor last. For, +marry, if the cobbler stuck to his last, then were his latest his last +in rebus ambulantibus. Argal, I stick at nothing but cobble-stones, +which, by the same token, are stuck to the road by men's fingers. + +LUC. +How many crows may nest in a grocer's jerkin? + +FOOL +A full dozen at cock-crow, and something less under the dog-star, by +reason of the dew, which lies heavy on men taken by the scurvy. + +LUC. [To FIRST APP.] +Methinks the Fool is a fool. + +FOOL +And therefore, by auricular deduction, am I own twin to the Lady +Lucrezia! + +[Sings.] + +When pears hang green on the garden wall + With a nid, and a nod, and a niddy-niddy-o +Then prank you, lads and lasses all, + With a yea and a nay and a niddy-o. + +But when the thrush flies out o' the frost + With a nid, [etc.] +'Tis time for loons to count the cost, + With a yea [etc.] + +[Enter the PORTER.] + +PORTER +O my dear Mistress, there is one below +Demanding to have instant word of thee. +I told him that your Ladyship was not +At home. Vain perjury! He would not take +Nay for an answer. + +LUC. + Ah? What manner of man +Is he? + +PORTER + A personage the like of whom +Is wholly unfamiliar to my gaze. +Cowl'd is he, but I saw his great eyes glare +From their deep sockets in such wise as leopards +Glare from their caverns, crouching ere they spring +On their reluctant prey. + +LUC. + And what name gave he? + +PORTER [After a pause.] +Something-arola. + +LUC. + Savon-? [PORTER nods.] Show him up. [Exit PORTER.] + +FOOL +If he be right astronomically, Mistress, then is he the greater dunce +in respect of true learning, the which goes by the globe. Argal, +'twere better he widened his wind-pipe. + +[Sings.] +Fly home, sweet self, +Nothing's for weeping, +Hemp was not made +For lovers' keeping, Lovers' keeping, +Cheerly, cheerly, fly away. +Hew no more wood +While ash is glowing, +The longest grass +Is lovers' mowing, +Lovers' mowing, +Cheerly, [etc.] + +[Re-enter PORTER, followed by SAV. Exeunt PORTER, FOOL, and FIRST and +SECOND APPS.] + +SAV. +I am no more a monk, I am a man +O' the world. +[Throws off cowl and frock, and stands forth in the costume of a +Renaissance nobleman. LUCREZIA looks him up and down.] + +LUC. + Thou cutst a sorry figure. + +SAV. + That +Is neither here nor there. I love you, Madam. + +LUC. +And this, methinks, is neither there nor here, +For that my love of thee hath vanished, +Seeing thee thus beprankt. Go pad thy calves! +Thus mightst thou, just conceivably, with luck, +Capture the fancy of some serving-wench. + +SAV. +And this is all thou hast to say to me? + +LUC. +It is. + +SAV. + I am dismiss'd? + +LUC. + Thou art. + +SAV. + 'Tis well. +[Resumes frock and cowl.] +Savonarola is himself once more. + +LUC. +And all my love for him returns to me +A thousandfold! + +SAV. + Too late! My pride of manhood +Is wounded irremediably. I'll +To the Piazza, where my flock awaits me. +Thus do we see that men make great mistakes +But may amend them when the conscience wakes. +[Exit.] + +LUC. +I'm half avenged now, but only half: +'Tis with the ring I'll have the final laugh! +Tho' love be sweet, revenge is sweeter far. +To the Piazza! Ha, ha, ha, ha, har! +[Seizes ring, and exit. Through open door are heard, as the Curtain +falls, sounds of a terrific hubbub in the Piazza.] + + +ACT III + +SCENE: The Piazza. +TIME: A few minutes anterior to close of preceding Act. + +The Piazza is filled from end to end with a vast seething crowd that +is drawn entirely from the lower orders. There is a sprinkling of +wild-eyed and dishevelled women in it. The men are lantern-jawed, +with several days' growth of beard. Most of them carry rude weapons-- +staves, bill-hooks, crow-bars, and the like--and are in as excited a +condition as the women. Some of them are bare-headed, others affect a +kind of Phrygian cap. Cobblers predominate. + +Enter LORENZO DE MEDICI and COSIMO DE MEDICI. They wear cloaks of scarlet +brocade, and, to avoid notice, hold masks to their faces. + +COS. +What purpose doth the foul and greasy plebs +Ensue to-day here? + +LOR. + I nor know nor care. + +COS. +How thrall'd thou art to the philosophy +Of Epicurus! Naught that's human I +Deem alien from myself. [To a COBBLER.] Make answer, fellow! +What empty hope hath drawn thee by a thread +Forth from the OBscene hovel where thou starvest? + +COB. +No empty hope, your Honour, but the full +Assurance that to-day, as yesterday, +Savonarola will let loose his thunder +Against the vices of the idle rich +And from the brimming cornucopia +Of his immense vocabulary pour +Scorn on the lamentable heresies +Of the New Learning and on all the art +Later than Giotto. + +COS. + Mark how absolute +The knave is! + +LOR. + Then are parrots rational +When they regurgitate the thing they hear! +This fool is but an unit of the crowd, +And crowds are senseless as the vasty deep +That sinks or surges as the moon dictates. +I know these crowds, and know that any man +That hath a glib tongue and a rolling eye +Can as he willeth with them. +[Removes his mask and mounts steps of Loggia.] + Citizens! +[Prolonged yells and groans from the crowd.] +Yes, I am he, I am that same Lorenzo +Whom you have nicknamed the Magnificent. +[Further terrific yells, shakings of fists, brandishings of bill- +hooks, insistent cries of `Death to Lorenzo!' `Down with the +Magnificent!' Cobblers on fringe of crowd, down c., exhibit especially +all the symptoms of epilepsy, whooping-cough, and other ailments.] +You love not me. +[The crowd makes an ugly rush. LOR. appears likely to be dragged down +and torn limb from limb, but raises one hand in nick of time, and +continues:] + Yet I deserve your love. +[The yells are now variegated with dubious murmurs. A cobbler down c. +thrusts his face feverishly in the face of another and repeats, in a +hoarse interrogative whisper, `Deserves our love?'] +Not for the sundry boons I have bestow'd +And benefactions I have lavished +Upon Firenze, City of the Flowers, +But for the love that in this rugged breast +I bear you. +[The yells have now died away, and there is a sharp fall in dubious +murmurs. The cobbler down c. says, in an ear-piercing whisper, `The +love he bears us,' drops his lower jaw, nods his head repeatedly, and +awaits in an intolerable state of suspense the orator's next words.] + I am not a blameless man, +[Some dubious murmurs.] +Yet for that I have lov'd you passing much, +Shall some things be forgiven me. +[Noises of cordial assent.] + There dwells +In this our city, known unto you all, +A man more virtuous than I am, and +A thousand times more intellectual; +Yet envy not I him, for--shall I name him?-- +He loves not you. His name? I will not cut +Your hearts by speaking it. Here let it stay +On tip o' tongue. +[Insistent clamour.] + Then steel you to the shock!-- +Savonarola. +[For a moment or so the crowd reels silently under the shock. Cobbler +down c. is the first to recover himself and cry `Death to Savonarola!' +The cry instantly becomes general. LOR. holds up his hand and +gradually imposes silence.] + His twin bug-bears are +Yourselves and that New Learning which I hold +Less dear than only you. +[Profound sensation. Everybody whispers `Than only you' to everybody +else. A woman near steps of Loggia attempts to kiss hem of LOR.'s +garment.] + Would you but con +With me the old philosophers of Hellas, +Her fervent bards and calm historians, +You would arise and say `We will not hear +Another word against them!' +[The crowd already says this, repeatedly, with great emphasis.] + Take the Dialogues +Of Plato, for example. You will find +A spirit far more truly Christian +In them than in the ravings of the sour-soul'd +Savonarola. +[Prolonged cries of `Death to the Sour-Souled Savonarola!' Several +cobblers detach themselves from the crowd and rush away to read the +Platonic Dialogues. Enter SAVONAROLA. The crowd, as he makes his way +through it, gives up all further control of its feelings, and makes a +noise for which even the best zoologists might not find a good +comparison. The staves and bill-hooks wave like twigs in a storm. +One would say that SAV. must have died a thousand deaths already. He +is, however, unharmed and unruffled as he reaches the upper step of +the Loggia. LOR. meanwhile has rejoined COS. in the Piazza.] + +SAV. + Pax vobiscum, brothers! +[This does but exacerbate the crowd's frenzy.] + +VOICE OF A COBBLER +Hear his false lips cry Peace when there is no +Peace! + +SAV. + Are not you ashamed, O Florentines, +[Renewed yells, but also some symptoms of manly shame.] +That hearken'd to Lorenzo and now reel +Inebriate with the exuberance +Of his verbosity? +[The crowd makes an obvious effort to pull itself together.] + A man can fool +Some of the people all the time, and can +Fool all the people sometimes, but he cannot +Fool ALL the people ALL the time. +[Loud cheers. Several cobblers clap one another on the back. Cries +of `Death to Lorenzo!' The meeting is now well in hand.] + To-day +I must adopt a somewhat novel course +In dealing with the awful wickedness +At present noticeable in this city. +I do so with reluctance. Hitherto +I have avoided personalities. +But now my sense of duty forces me +To a departure from my custom of +Naming no names. One name I must and shall +Name. +[All eyes are turned on LOR., who smiles uncomfortably.] + No, I do not mean Lorenzo. He +Is 'neath contempt. +[Loud and prolonged laughter, accompanied with hideous grimaces at LOR. +Exeunt LOR. and COS.] + I name a woman's name, +[The women in the crowd eye one another suspiciously.] +A name known to you all--four-syllabled, +Beginning with an L. +[Pause. Enter hurriedly LUC., carrying the ring. She stands, +unobserved by any one, on outskirt of crowd. SAV. utters the name:] + Lucrezia! + +LUC. [With equal intensity.] +Savonarola! +[SAV. starts violently and stares in direction of her voice.] + Yes, I come, I come! +[Forces her way to steps of Loggia. The crowd is much bewildered, and +the cries of `Death to Lucrezia Borgia!' are few and sporadic.] +Why didst thou call me? +[SAV. looks somewhat embarrassed.] + What is thy distress? +I see it all! The sanguinary mob +Clusters to rend thee! As the antler'd stag, +With fine eyes glazed from the too-long chase, +Turns to defy the foam-fleck'd pack, and thinks, +In his last moment, of some graceful hind +Seen once afar upon a mountain-top, +E'en so, Savonarola, didst thou think, +In thy most dire extremity, of me. +And here I am! Courage! The horrid hounds +Droop tail at sight of me and fawn away +Innocuous. +[The crowd does indeed seem to have fallen completely under the sway +of LUC.'s magnetism, and is evidently convinced that it had been about +to make an end of the monk.] + Take thou, and wear henceforth, +As a sure talisman 'gainst future perils, +This little, little ring. +[SAV. makes awkward gesture of refusal. Angry murmurs from the crowd. +Cries of `Take thou the ring!' `Churl!' `Put it on!' etc. +Enter the Borgias' FOOL and stands unnoticed on fringe of crowd.] + I hoped you 'ld like it-- +Neat but not gaudy. Is my taste at fault? +I'd so look'd forward to-- [Sob.] No, I'm not crying, +But just a little hurt. +[Hardly a dry eye in the crowd. Also swayings and snarlings +indicative that SAV.'s life is again not worth a moment's purchase. +SAV. makes awkward gesture of acceptance, but just as he is about to +put ring on finger, the FOOL touches his lute and sings:--] + +Wear not the ring, +It hath an unkind sting, + Ding, dong, ding. +Bide a minute, +There's poison in it, + Poison in it, + Ding-a-dong, dong, ding. + +LUC. + The fellow lies. +[The crowd is torn with conflicting opinions. Mingled cries of `Wear +not the ring!' `The fellow lies!' `Bide a minute!' `Death to the +Fool!' `Silence for the Fool!' `Ding-a-dong, dong, ding!' etc.] + +FOOL [Sings.] +Wear not the ring, +For Death's a robber-king, + Ding, [etc.] +There's no trinket +Is what you think it, + What you think it, + Ding-a-dong, [etc.] + +[SAV. throws ring in LUC.'s face. Enter POPE JULIUS II, with Papal +army.] +POPE +Arrest that man and woman! +[Re-enter Guelfs and Ghibellines fighting. SAV. and LUC. are arrested +by Papal officers. Enter MICHAEL ANGELO. ANDREA DEL SARTO appears for a +moment at a window. PIPPA passes. Brothers of the Misericordia go by, +singing a Requiem for Francesca da Rimini. Enter BOCCACCIO, BENVENUTO +CELLINI, and many others, making remarks highly characteristic of +themselves but scarcely audible through the terrific thunderstorm +which now bursts over Florence and is at its loudest and darkest +crisis as the Curtain falls.] + + +ACT IV + +TIME: Three hours later. +SCENE: A Dungeon on the ground-floor of the Palazzo Civico. + +The stage is bisected from top to bottom by a wall, on one side of +which is seen the interior of LUCREZIA'S cell, on the other that of +SAVONAROLA'S. + +Neither he nor she knows that the other is in the next cell. The +audience, however, knows this. + +Each cell (because of the width and height of the proscenium) is of +more than the average Florentine size, but is bare even to the point +of severity, its sole amenities being some straw, a hunk of bread, and +a stone pitcher. The door of each is facing the audience. Dim-ish +light. + +LUCREZIA wears long and clanking chains on her wrists, as does also +SAVONAROLA. Imprisonment has left its mark on both of them. SAVONAROLA'S +hair has turned white. His whole aspect is that of a very old, old +man. LUCREZIA looks no older than before, but has gone mad. + +SAV. +Alas, how long ago this morning seems +This evening! A thousand thousand eons +Are scarce the measure of the gulf betwixt +My then and now. Methinks I must have been +Here since the dim creation of the world +And never in that interval have seen +The tremulous hawthorn burgeon in the brake, +Nor heard the hum o' bees, nor woven chains +Of buttercups on Mount Fiesole +What time the sap lept in the cypresses, +Imbuing with the friskfulness of Spring +Those melancholy trees. I do forget +The aspect of the sun. Yet I was born +A freeman, and the Saints of Heaven smiled +Down on my crib. What would my sire have said, +And what my dam, had anybody told them +The time would come when I should occupy +A felon's cell? O the disgrace of it +The scandal, the incredible come-down! +It masters me. I see i' my mind's eye +The public prints--`Sharp Sentence on a Monk.' +What then? I thought I was of sterner stuff +Than is affrighted by what people think. +Yet thought I so because 'twas thought of me, +And so 'twas thought of me because I had +A hawk-like profile and a baleful eye. +Lo! my soul's chin recedes, soft to the touch +As half-churn'd butter. Seeming hawk is dove, +And dove's a gaol-bird now. Fie out upon 't! + +LUC. +How comes it? I am Empress Dowager +Of China--yet was never crown'd. This must +Be seen to. +[Quickly gathers some straw and weaves a crown, which she puts on.] + +SAV. + O, what a degringolade! +The great career I had mapp'd out for me-- +Nipp'd i' the bud. What life, when I come out, +Awaits me? Why, the very Novices +And callow Postulants will draw aside +As I pass by, and say `That man hath done +Time!' And yet shall I wince? The worst of Time +Is not in having done it, but in doing 't. + +LUC. +Ha, ha, ha, ha! Eleven billion pig-tails +Do tremble at my nod imperial,-- +The which is as it should be. + +SAV. + I have heard +That gaolers oft are willing to carouse +With them they watch o'er, and do sink at last +Into a drunken sleep, and then's the time +To snatch the keys and make a bid for freedom. +Gaoler! Ho, Gaoler! +[Sounds of lock being turned and bolts withdrawn. Enter the Borgias' +FOOL, in plain clothes, carrying bunch of keys.] + I have seen thy face +Before. + +FOOL + I saved thy life this afternoon, Sir. + +SAV. +Thou art the Borgias' Fool? + +FOOL + Say rather, was. +Unfortunately I have been discharg'd +For my betrayal of Lucrezia, +So that I have to speak like other men-- +Decasyllabically, and with sense. +An hour ago the gaoler of this dungeon +Died of an apoplexy. Hearing which, +I ask'd for and obtain'd his billet. + +SAV. + Fetch +A stoup o' liquor for thyself and me. +[Exit GAOLER.] +Freedom! there's nothing that thy votaries +Grudge in the cause of thee. That decent man +Is doom'd by me to lose his place again +To-morrow morning when he wakes from out +His hoggish slumber. Yet I care not. +[Re-enter GAOLER with a leathern bottle and two glasses.] + Ho! +This is the stuff to warm our vitals, this +The panacea for all mortal ills +And sure elixir of eternal youth. +Drink, bonniman! +[GAOLER drains a glass and shows signs of instant intoxication. SAV. +claps him on shoulder and replenishes glass. GAOLER drinks again, lies +down on floor, and snores. SAV. snatches the bunch of keys, laughs +long but silently, and creeps out on tip-toe, leaving door ajar. +LUC. meanwhile has lain down on the straw in her cell, and fallen +asleep. +Noise of bolts being shot back, jangling of keys, grating of lock, and +the door of LUC.'S cell flies open. SAV. takes two steps across the +threshold, his arms outstretched and his upturned face transfigured +with a great joy.] + How sweet the open air +Leaps to my nostrils! O the good brown earth +That yields once more to my elastic tread +And laves these feet with its remember'd dew! +[Takes a few more steps, still looking upwards.] +Free !--I am free! O naked arc of heaven, +Enspangled with innumerable--no, +Stars are not there. Yet neither are there clouds! +The thing looks like a ceiling! [Gazes downward.] And this thing +Looks like a floor. [Gazes around.] And that white bundle yonder +Looks curiously like Lucrezia. +[LUC. awakes at sound of her name, and sits up sane.] +There must be some mistake. + +LUC. [Rises to her feet.] + There is indeed! +A pretty sort of prison I have come to, +In which a self-respecting lady's cell +Is treated as a lounge! + +SAV. + I had no notion +You were in here. I thought I was out there. +I will explain--but first I'll make amends. +Here are the keys by which your durance ends. +The gate is somewhere in this corridor, +And so good-bye to this interior! +[Exeunt SAV. and LUC. Noise, a moment later, of a key grating in a +lock, then of gate creaking on its hinges; triumphant laughs of +fugitives; loud slamming of gate behind them. +In SAV.'s cell the GAOLER starts in his sleep, turns his face to the +wall, and snores more than ever deeply. Through open door comes a +cloaked figure.] + +CLOAKED FIGURE +Sleep on, Savonarola, and awake +Not in this dungeon but in ruby Hell! +[Stabs Gaoler, whose snores cease abruptly. Enter POPE JULIUS II, with +Papal retinue carrying torches. MURDERER steps quickly back into +shadow.] + +POPE [To body of GAOLER.] +Savonarola, I am come to taunt +Thee in thy misery and dire abjection. +Rise, Sir, and hear me out. + +MURD. [Steps forward.] + Great Julius, +Waste not thy breath. Savonarola's dead. +I murder'd him. + +POPE + Thou hadst no right to do so. +Who art thou, pray? + +MURD. + Cesare Borgia, +Lucrezia's brother, and I claim a brother's +Right to assassinate whatever man +Shall wantonly and in cold blood reject +Her timid offer of a poison'd ring. + +POPE +Of this anon. +[Stands over body of GAOLER.] + Our present business +Is general woe. No nobler corse hath ever +Impress'd the ground. O let the trumpets speak it! +[Flourish of trumpets.] +This was the noblest of the Florentines. +His character was flawless, and the world +Held not his parallel. O bear him hence +With all such honours as our State can offer. +He shall interred be with noise of cannon, +As doth befit so militant a nature. +Prepare these obsequies. +[Papal officers lift body of GAOLER.] + +A PAPAL OFFICER + But this is not +Savonarola. It is some one else. + +CESARE +Lo! 'tis none other than the Fool that I +Hoof'd from my household but two hours agone. +I deem'd him no good riddance, for he had +The knack of setting tables on a roar. +What shadows we pursue! Good night, sweet Fool, +And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest! + +POPE +Interred shall he be with signal pomp. +No honour is too great that we can pay him. +He leaves the world a vacuum. Meanwhile, +Go we in chase of the accursed villain +That hath made escapado from this cell. +To horse! Away! We'll scour the country round +For Sav'narola till we hold him bound. +Then shall you see a cinder, not a man, +Beneath the lightnings of the Vatican! +[Flourish, alarums and excursions, flashes of Vatican lightning, roll +of drums, etc. Through open door of cell is led in a large milk-white +horse, which the POPE mounts as the Curtain falls.] + + +Remember, please, before you formulate your impressions, that saying +of Brown's: `The thing must be judged as a whole.' I like to think +that whatever may seem amiss to us in these Four Acts of his would +have been righted by collation with that Fifth which he did not live +to achieve. + +I like, too, to measure with my eyes the yawning gulf between stage +and study. Very different from the message of cold print to our +imagination are the messages of flesh and blood across footlights to +our eyes and ears. In the warmth and brightness of a crowded theatre +`Savonarola' might, for aught one knows, seem perfect. `Then why,' I +hear my gentle readers asking, `did you thrust the play on US, and not +on a theatrical manager?' + +That question has a false assumption in it. In the course of the past +eight years I have thrust `Savonarola' on any number of theatrical +managers. They have all of them been (to use the technical phrase) +`very kind.' All have seen great merits in the work; and if I added +together all the various merits thus seen I should have no doubt that +`Savonarola' was the best play never produced. The point on which all +the managers are unanimous is that they have no use for a play without +an ending. This is why I have fallen back, at last, on gentle +readers, whom now I hear asking why I did not, as Brown's literary +executor, try to finish the play myself. Can they never ask a +question without a false assumption in it? I did try, hard, to finish +`Savonarola.' + +Artistically, of course, the making of such an attempt was +indefensible. Humanly, not so. It is clear throughout the play-- +especially perhaps in Acts III and IV--that if Brown had not +steadfastly in his mind the hope of production on the stage, he had +nothing in his mind at all. Horrified though he would have been by +the idea of letting me kill his Monk, he would rather have done even +this than doom his play to everlasting unactedness. I took, +therefore, my courage in both hands, and made out a scenario.... + +Dawn on summit of Mount Fiesole. Outspread view of Florence (Duomo, +Giotto's Tower, etc.) as seen from that eminence.--NICCOLO MACHIAVELLI, +asleep on grass, wakes as sun rises. Deplores his exile from +Florence, LORENZO'S unappeasable hostility, etc. Wonders if he could +not somehow secure the POPE'S favour. Very cynical. Breaks off: But +who are these that scale the mountain-side? | Savonarola and Lucrezia +| Borgia!--Enter through a trap-door, back c. [trap-door veiled from +audience by a grassy ridge], SAV. and LUC. Both gasping and footsore +from their climb. [Still, with chains on their wrists? or not?]--MACH. +steps unobserved behind a cypress and listens.--SAV. has a speech to +the rising sun--Th' effulgent hope that westers from the east | Daily. +Says that his hope, on the contrary, lies in escape To that which +easters not from out the west, | That fix'd abode of freedom which men +call | America! Very bitter against POPE.--LUC. says that she, for her +part, means To start afresh in that uncharted land | Which austers not +from out the antipod, | Australia!--Exit MACH., unobserved, down trap- +door behind ridge, to betray LUC. and SAV.--Several longish speeches by +SAV. and LUC. Time is thus given for MACH. to get into touch with POPE, +and time for POPE and retinue to reach the slope of Fiesole. SAV., +glancing down across ridge, sees these sleuth-hounds, points them out +to LUC. and cries Bewray'd! LUC. By whom? SAV. I know not, but suspect +| The hand of that sleek serpent Niccolo | Machiavelli.--SAV. and LUC. +rush down c., but find their way barred by the footlights.--LUC. We +will not be ta'en Alive. And here availeth us my lore | In what +pertains to poison. Yonder herb | [points to a herb growing down r.] +Is deadly nightshade. Quick, Monk! Pluck we it !--SAV. and LUC. die +just as POPE appears over ridge, followed by retinue in full cry.-- +POPE'S annoyance at being foiled is quickly swept away on the great +wave of Shakespearean chivalry and charity that again rises in him. +He gives SAV. a funeral oration similar to the one meant for him in Act +IV, but even more laudatory and more stricken. Of LUC., too, he +enumerates the virtues, and hints that the whole terrestrial globe +shall be hollowed to receive her bones. Ends by saying: In deference +to this our double sorrow | Sun shall not shine to-day nor shine to- +morrow.--Sun drops quickly back behind eastern horizon, leaving a +great darkness on which the Curtain slowly falls. + + +All this might be worse, yes. The skeleton passes muster. But in the +attempt to incarnate and ensanguine it I failed wretchedly. I saw +that Brown was, in comparison with me, a master. Thinking I might +possibly fare better in his method of work than in my own, I threw the +skeleton into a cupboard, sat down, and waited to see what Savonarola +and those others would do. + +They did absolutely nothing. I sat watching them, pen in hand, ready +to record their slightest movement. Not a little finger did they +raise. Yet I knew they must be alive. Brown had always told me they +were quite independent of him. Absurd to suppose that by the accident +of his own death they had ceased to breathe.... Now and then, +overcome with weariness, I dozed at my desk, and whenever I woke I +felt that these rigid creatures had been doing all sorts of wonderful +things while my eyes were shut. I felt that they disliked me. I came +to dislike them in return, and forbade them my room. + +Some of you, my readers, might have better luck with them than I. +Invite them, propitiate them, watch them! The writer of the best +Fifth Act sent to me shall have his work tacked on to Brown's; and I +suppose I could get him a free pass for the second night. + + + + + +End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of "Seven Men," by Max Beerbohm + diff --git a/old/old/svnmn10.zip b/old/old/svnmn10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..6de8a29 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/old/svnmn10.zip |