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diff --git a/old/69000-0.txt b/old/69000-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index b9e64d4..0000000 --- a/old/69000-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6825 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of The private life of Henry Maitland, by -Morley Roberts - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: The private life of Henry Maitland - A record dictated by J. H. - -Author: Morley Roberts - -Release Date: September 16, 2022 [eBook #69000] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Al Haines - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PRIVATE LIFE OF HENRY -MAITLAND *** - - - - - - - - THE PRIVATE LIFE OF - - HENRY MAITLAND - - - _A RECORD DICTATED BY J. H._ - - - - REVISED AND EDITED BY - MORLEY ROBERTS - - - - HODDER & STOUGHTON - NEW YORK - GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY - - - - - Copyright, 1912, - By George H. Doran Company - - - - - INSCRIBED - TO THE MEMORY OF - MY WIFE - - - - -PREFACE - -This book was dictated by J.H. mostly in my presence, and I consider -it well worth publishing. No doubt Henry Maitland is not famous, -though since his death much has been written of him. Most of it, -however, outside of literary criticism, has been futile and -uninstructed. But J.H. really knew the man, and here is what he has -said of him. We shall be told, no doubt, that we have used -Maitland's memory for our own ends. Let that be as it may; such an -accusation can only be met by denial. When there is no proof of -guilt, there may well be none of innocence. The fact remains that -Henry Maitland's life was worth doing, even in the abbreviated and -censored form in which it now appears. The man was not eminent, only -because he was not popular and did not live long enough. One gets to -eminence nowadays by longevity or by bad work. While Maitland -starved, X or Y or Z may wallow in a million sixpences. In this -almost childishly simple account of a man's life there is the essence -of our literary epoch. Here is a writing man put down, crudely it -may be, but with a certain power. There is no book quite like it in -the English tongue, and the critic may take what advantage he will of -that opening for his wit. - -At any rate here we have a portrait emerging which is real. Henry -Maitland stands on his feet, and on his living feet. He is not a -British statue done in the best mortuary manner. There is far too -little sincere biography in English. We are a mealy-mouthed race, -hypocrites by the grave and the monument. Ten words of natural -eulogy, and another ten of curious and sympathetic comment, may be -better than tons of marble built up by a hired liar with his tongue -in his cheek. In the whole book, which cannot be published now, -there are things worth waiting for. I have cut and retrenched with -pain, for I wanted to risk the whole, but no writer or editor is his -own master in England. I am content to have omitted some truth if I -have permitted nothing false. The reader who can say truly, "I -should not have liked to meet Henry Maitland," is a fool or a -fanatic, or more probably both. Neither of those who are primarily -responsible for this little book is answerable to such. We do not -desire his praise, or even his mere allowance. Such as are -interested in the art of letters, and in those who practise in the -High Court of Literature, will perceive what we had in our minds. -Here is life, not a story or a constructed diary, and the art with -which it is done is a secondary matter. If Henry Maitland bleeds and -howls, so did Philoctetes, and the outcry of Henry Maitland is more -pertinent to our lives. For all life, even at its best, is tragic; -and there is much in Maitland's which is dramatically common to our -world as we see it and live in it. If we have lessened him at times -from the point of view of a hireling in biographic praise, we have -set him down life size all the same; and as we ask no praise, we care -for no blame. Here is the man. - -MORLEY ROBERTS. - -NOTE.--The full manuscript, which may possibly be published after -some years, is, in the meantime placed in safe custody. - - - - -THE PRIVATE LIFE OF HENRY MAITLAND - - - -CHAPTER I - -It is never an easy thing to write the life, or even such a sketch as -I propose making, of a friend whom one knew well, and in Henry -Maitland's case it is most uncommonly difficult. The usual -biographer is content with writing panegyric, and as he must depend -for his material, and even sometimes for his eventual remuneration, -on the relatives of his subject, he is from the start in a hopeless -position, except, it may be, as regards the public side of the life -in question. But in the case of a man of letters the personal -element is the only real and valuable one, or so it seems to me, and -even if I were totally ignorant of Maitland's work I think it would -yet be possible for me to do a somewhat lifelike and live sketch of -him. I believe, moreover, that it is my duty to do it, although no -doubt in some ways it must be painful to those connected with him. -Yet soon after his death many came to me desiring me to write his -biography. It was an understood thing that of all his friends I knew -him best, and was certainly the greatest and chief authority on his -career from the Moorhampton College days up to his final break with -his second wife. But in 1904 there were many obstacles to my doing -this work. His two sons were young. His sisters and his mother were -still alive. I say nothing of the wife herself, then being taken -care of, or of a third lady of whom I must speak presently. Several -people came to me with proposals about a book on Henry Maitland. One -of the partners of a big publishing house made me a definite offer -for it on behalf of his firm. On the other hand one of his -executors, Miss Kingdon, a most kindly and amiable and very able -woman employed in a great accountant's office in the city, who had -done very much for Henry Maitland in his later life, begged me not to -do the book, or if I did it to hold it over until her -responsibilities as executrix and trustee for the sons were at an -end. But it is now nearly nine years since he died, and I feel that -if I do not put down at once what I knew of him it never will be -written, and something will be lost, something which has perhaps a -little value, even though it is not so great as those could wish who -knew and loved Henry Maitland. - -There is no doubt many people will accuse me of desiring to use his -memory for my own advantage. "My withers are unwrung." Those who -speak in this way must have little knowledge of the poor profit to be -derived from writing such a book, and the proportion of that profit -to the labour employed in it. On three separate occasions I spoke to -Maitland about writing his biography, and it was an understood thing -between us that if he died before me I was to write his life and tell -the whole and absolute truth about him. This he gave me the most -definite permission to do. I believe he felt that it might in some -ways be of service to humanity for such a book to be written. Only -the other day, when I wrote to Miss Kingdon concerning the biography, -she answered me: "If I seem lacking in cordiality in this matter do -not attribute it to any want of sympathy with you. I am not -attempting to dissuade you. Henry Maitland was sent into hell for -the purpose of saving souls; perhaps it is a necessary thing that his -story should be written by all sorts of people from their different -points of view." Once I proposed to him to use his character and -career as the chief figure in a long story. He wrote to me, "By all -means. Why not?" Had I not the letter in which he said this I -should myself almost doubt my own recollection, but it is certain -that he knew the value of his own experience, and felt that he might -perhaps by his example save some from suffering as he did. - -No doubt very much that I say of him will not be true to others. To -myself it is true at any rate. We know very little of each other, -and after all it is perhaps in biography that one is most acutely -conscious of the truth in the pragmatic view of truth. Those things -are true in Henry Maitland's life and character which fit in wholly -with all my experience of him and make a coherent and likely theory. -I used to think I knew him very well, and yet when I remember and -reflect it seems to me that I know exceedingly little about him. And -yet again, I am certain that of the two people in the world that I -was best acquainted with he was one. We go through life believing -that we know many, but if we sit down and attempt to draw them we -find here and there unrelated facts and many vague incoherencies. We -are in a fog about our very dear friend whom but yesterday we were -ready to judge and criticise with an air of final knowledge. There -is something humiliating in this, and yet how should we, who know so -little of ourselves, know even those we love? To my mind, with all -his weaknesses, which I shall not extenuate, Maitland was a noble and -notable character, and if anything I should write may endure but a -little while it is because there is really something of him in my -words. I am far more concerned to write about Henry Maitland for -those who loved him than for those who loved him not, and I shall be -much better pleased if what I do about him takes the shape of an -impression rather than of anything like an ordinary biography. Every -important and unimportant political fool who dies nowadays is buried -under obituary notices and a mausoleum in two volumes--a mausoleum -which is, as a rule, about as high a work of art as the angels on -tombstones in an early Victorian cemetery. But Maitland, I think, -deserves, if not a better, a more sympathetic tribute. - -When I left Radford Grammar School my father, being in the Civil -Service, was sent to Moorhampton as Surveyor of Taxes, and his family -shortly followed him. I continued my own education at Moorhampton -College, which was then beginning to earn a high reputation as an -educational centre. Some months before I met Maitland personally I -knew his reputation was that of an extraordinary young scholar. Even -as a boy of sixteen he swept everything before him. There was nobody -in the place who could touch him at classical learning, and everybody -prophesied the very greatest future for the boy. I met him first in -a little hotel not very far from the College where some of us young -fellows used to go between the intervals of lectures to play a game -of billiards. I remember quite well seeing him sit on a little table -swinging his legs, and to this day I can remember somewhat of the -impression he made upon me. He was curiously bright, with a very -mobile face. He had abundant masses of brown hair combed backwards -over his head, grey-blue eyes, a very sympathetic mouth, an -extraordinarily well-shaped chin--although perhaps both mouth and -chin were a little weak--and a great capacity for talking and -laughing. - -Henceforth he and I became very firm friends at the College, although -we belonged to two entirely different sets. I was supposed to be an -extraordinarily rowdy person, and was always getting into trouble -both with the authorities and with my fellows, and he was a man who -loathed anything like rowdiness, could not fight if he tried, -objected even then to the Empire, hated patriotism, and thought about -nothing but ancient Greece and Rome, or so it would appear to those -who knew him at that time. - -I learnt then a little of his early history. Even when he was but a -boy of ten or eleven he was recognised as a creature of most -brilliant promise. He always believed that he owed most, and perhaps -everything, to his father, who must have been a very remarkable man. -Henry never spoke about him in later life without emotion and -affection. I have often thought since that Maitland felt that most -of his disasters sprang from the premature death of his father, whom -he loved so tenderly. Indeed the elder man must have been a -remarkable figure, a gentle, courtly, and most kindly man, himself -born in exile and placed in alien circumstances. Maitland often used -to speak, with a catch in his voice, of the way his father read to -him. I remember not what books, but they were the classic authors of -England; Shakespeare, Wordsworth, and Tennyson. Some seem to imagine -that the father had what is called a well-stocked library. This was -not true, but he had many good books and taught his son to love them. -Among these there was one great volume of Hogarth's drawings which -came into Henry Maitland's personal possession, only, I think, when -he was finally domiciled in a London flat, where he and I often -looked at it. It is curious that as a boy Hogarth had a fascination -for him. He sometimes copied these drawings, for as a child he had -no little skill as a draughtsman. What appealed to him in later days -in Hogarth was the power of the man's satire, his painful bitterness, -which can only be equalled by the ironies of Swift in another medium. -Although personally I admire Hogarth I could never look at him with -anything like pleasure or, indeed, without acute discomfort. I -remember that Maitland in later years said in his book about the -Victorian novelist: "With these faces who would spend hours of -leisure? Hogarth copied in the strict sense of the word. He gives -us life and we cannot bear it." - -Maitland's family came, I think, from Worcester, but something led -the elder Maitland to Mirefield's, and there he came in contact with -a chemist called Lake, whose business he presently bought. Perhaps -the elder Maitland was not a wholly happy man. He was very gentle, -but not a person of marked religious feeling. Indeed I think the -attitude of the family at that time was that of free thought. From -everything that Henry said of his father it always seemed to me that -the man had been an alien in the cold Yorkshire town where his son -was born. And Maitland knew that had his father lived he would never -have been thrown alone into the great city of Moorhampton, "Lord of -himself, that heritage of woe." Not all women understand the dangers -that their sons may meet in such surroundings, and those who had -charge of Henry Maitland's future never understood or recognized them -in his youth. But his father would have known. In one chapter of -"The Vortex," there is very much of Maitland. It is a curiously -wrought picture of a father and his son in which he himself played -alternately the part of father and child. I knew his anxieties for -his own children, and on reading that chapter one sees them renewed. -But in it there was much that was not himself. It was drawn rather -from what he believed his father had felt. In "The Vortex" the -little boy spends an hour alone with his father just before bedtime, -and he calls it "A golden hour, sacred to memories of the world's own -childhood." - -Maitland went to school in Mirefields and this school has been called -a kind of "Dotheboys Hall," which of course is absolutely ridiculous. -It was not, in fact, a boarding-school at all, but a day school. The -man who ran it was called Hinkson. Maitland said he was an -uneducated man, or at any rate uneducated from his point of view in -later years, yet he was a person of very remarkable character, and -did very good work, taking it all round. A man named Christopher -started this school and sold it to Hinkson, who had, I believe, some -kind of a degree obtained at Durham. The boys who attended it were -good middle class and lower middle class, some the sons of -professional men, some the offspring of the richer tradesmen. Upon -the whole it was a remarkably good school for that time. Many of the -boys actually left the Grammar School at Mirefields to attend it. -Henry Maitland always owned that Hinkson took great pains with his -scholars, and affirmed that many owed him much. As I said, the -general religious air of Maitland's home at that time was one of free -thought. I believe the feminine members of the family attended a -Unitarian Church, but the father did not go to church at all. One -example of this religious attitude of his home came out when Hinkson -called on his boys to repeat the collect of the day and Maitland -replied with an abrupt negative that they did not do that kind of -thing at home. Whereupon Hinkson promptly set him to acquire it, -saying sternly that it would do him no harm. - -For the most part in those early days the elder Maitland and his son -spent Sunday afternoon in the garden belonging to their Mirefields -house. Oddly enough this garden was not attached to the dwelling but -was a kind of allotment. It has been photographically reproduced by -Henry Maitland in the seventh chapter of the first volume of -"Morning." Very often Henry Maitland's father read to him in that -garden. - -One of Maitland's schoolfellows at Hinkson's school was the son of -the man from whom his father had bought the druggist's business. The -elder Lake was a friend of Barry Sullivan, and theatrically mad. He -started plays in which Henry always took some part, though not the -prominent part which has been attributed to him by some. -Nevertheless he was always interested in plays and had a very -dramatic way of reading anything that was capable of dramatic -interpretation. He always loved the sound of words, and even when he -was a boy of about twelve he took down a German book and read some of -it aloud to the younger Lake, who did not know German and said so. -Whereupon Maitland shook his fist at him and said: "But Lake, listen, -listen, listen--doesn't it sound fine?" This endured through all his -life. At this same time he used to read Oliver Wendell Holmes aloud -to some of the other boys. This was when he was thirteen. Even then -he always mouthed the words and loved their rhythm. - -Naturally enough, his father being a poor man, there would have been -no opportunity of Henry Maitland's going to Moorhampton and to its -great college if he had not obtained some scholarship. This, I -think, was the notion that his father had at the time, and the -necessity for it became more imperative when his father died. He did -obtain this scholarship when he was somewhere about sixteen, and -immediately afterwards was sent over to Moorhampton quite alone and -put into lodgings there. At his school in Mirefields he had taken -every possible prize, and I think it was two exhibitions from the -London University which enabled him to go to Moorhampton. The -college was a curious institution, one of the earliest endeavours to -create a kind of university centre in a great provincial city. We -certainly had a very wonderful staff there, especially on the -scientific side. Among the men of science at the college were Sir -Henry Bissell; Schorstein, the great chemist; Hahn, also a chemist, -and Balfour, the physicist. On the classical side were Professor -Little and Professor Henry Parker, who were not by any means so -eminent as their scientific colleagues. The eminence of our -scientific professors did not matter very much from Henry Maitland's -point of view, perhaps, for from the day of his birth to the day of -his death, he took no interest whatever in science and loathed all -forms of speculative thought with a peculiar and almost amusing -horror. Mathematics he detested, and if in later years I ever -attempted to touch upon metaphysical questions he used to shut up, to -use an American phrase, just like a clam. But on the classical side -he was much more than merely successful. He took every possible -prize that was open to him. In his book "The Exile," there is a -picture of a youth on prize day going up to receive prize after -prize, and I know that this chapter contains much of what he himself -must have felt when I saw him retire to a modest back bench loaded -with books bound in calf and tooled in gold. - -Of course a college of this description, which was not, properly -speaking, a university, could only be regarded, for a boy of his -culture, as a stepping-stone to one of the older universities, -probably Cambridge, since most of my own friends who did go to the -university went there from Moorhampton. I do not think there was a -professor or lecturer or a single student in the college who did not -anticipate for Henry Maitland one of the brightest possible futures, -so far as success at the university could make it so. It is possible -that I alone out of those who regarded him with admiration and -affection had some doubt of this, and that was not because I -disagreed as a boy with any of the estimates that had been formed of -him, but simply because for some reason or another he chose me as a -confidant. Many years afterwards he said to me with painful -bitterness: "It was a cruel and most undesirable thing that I, at the -age of sixteen, should have been turned loose in a big city, -compelled to live alone in lodgings, with nobody interested in me but -those at the college. I see now that one of my sisters should -certainly have been sent with me to Moorhampton." - -One day he showed me a photograph. It was that of a young girl, aged -perhaps seventeen--he at the time being very little more--with her -hair down her back. She was not beautiful, but she had a certain -prettiness, the mere prettiness of youth, and she was undoubtedly not -a lady. After some interrogation on my part he told me that she was -a young prostitute whom he knew, and I do not think I am exaggerating -my own feelings when I say that I recognised instinctively and at -once that if his relations with her were not put an end to some kind -of disaster was in front of him. It was not that I knew very much -about life, for what could a boy of less than eighteen really know -about it?--but I had some kind of instinctive sense in me, and I was -perfectly aware, even then, that Henry Maitland had about as little -_savoir-vivre_ as anybody I had ever met up to that time, or anybody -I could ever expect to meet. It may seem strange to some that even -at that time I had no moral views, and extremely little religion, -although I may say incidentally that I thought about it sufficiently -to become deliberately a Unitarian, refusing to be confirmed in the -English Church, very much to the rage of the parish clergyman, and -with the result of much friction with my father. Yet although I had -no moral views I did my best to get Maitland to give up this girl, -but he would not do it. The thing went on, so far as I am aware, for -the best part of a year. He did all he could, apparently, to get -Marian Hilton to leave the streets. He even bought a sewing machine -and gave it to her with this view. That was another sample of his -early idealism. - -This was in 1876, and the younger Lake, who was three years older -than Maitland, had by then just qualified as a doctor. He was an -assistant at Darwen and one day went over to Moorhampton to see -Henry, who told him what he had told me about this Marian Hilton. He -even went so far as to say that he was going to marry her. Dr. Lake, -of course, being an older man, and knowing something of life through -his own profession, did not approve of this and strongly objected. -Afterwards he regretted a thousand times that he had not written -direct to Maitland's people to tell them of what was going on. -Still, although he was the older man, he was not so much older as to -have got rid of the boyish loyalty of one youth to another, and he -did not do what he knew he ought to have done. He found out that -Maitland had even sold his father's watch to help this girl. This -affair was also known to a young accountant who came from Mirefields -whom I did not know, and also to another man at the college who is -now in the Government Service. So far as I remember the accountant -was not a good influence, but his other friend did what he could to -get Maitland to break off this very undesirable relationship, with no -more success than myself. - -I have never understood how it was that he got into such frightful -financial difficulties. I can only imagine that Marian must have -had, in one way or another, the greater portion of the income which -he got from the scholarships he held. I do know that his affection -for her seemed at this time to be very sincere. And out of that -affection there grew up, very naturally, a horror in his sensitive -mind for the life this poor child was leading. He haunted the -streets which she haunted, and sometimes saw her with other men. I -suppose even then she must have been frightfully extravagant, and -perhaps given to drink, but considering what his income was I think -he should have been able to give her a pound a week if necessary, and -yet have had sufficient to live on without great difficulty. -Nevertheless he did get into difficulties, and never even spoke to me -about it. I was quite aware, in a kind of dim way, that he was in -trouble and looked very ill, but he did not give me his fullest -confidence, although one day he told me, as he had told Lake, that he -proposed marrying her. I was only a boy, but I was absolutely -enraged at the notion and used every possible means to prevent him -committing such an absurd act of folly. When I met him I discussed -it with him. When I was away from him I wrote him letters. I -suppose I wrote him a dozen letters begging that he would do no such -foolish thing. I told him that he would wrong himself, and could do -the girl no possible good. My instincts told me even then that she -would, instead of being raised, pull him down. These letters of mine -were afterwards discovered in his rooms when the tragedy had happened. - -During that time in 1876, we students at Moorhampton College were -much disturbed by a series of thefts in the common room, and from a -locker room in which we kept our books and papers and our overcoats. -Books disappeared unaccountably and so did coats. Money was taken -from the pockets of coats left in the room, and nobody knew who was -to blame for this. Naturally enough we suspected a porter or one of -the lower staff, but we were wrong. Without our knowledge the -college authorities set a detective to discover who was to blame. -One day I went into the common room, and standing in front of the -fire found a man, a young fellow about my age, called Sarle, with -whom I frequently played chess--he was afterwards president of the -chess club at Oxford--and he said to me: "Have you heard the news?" -"What news?" I asked. "Your friend, Henry Maitland, has been -stealing those things that we have lost," he said. And when he said -it I very nearly struck him, for it seemed a gross and incredible -slander. But unfortunately it was true, and at that very moment -Maitland was in gaol. A detective had hidden himself in the small -room leading out of the bigger room where the lockers were and had -caught him in the act. It was a very ghastly business and certainly -the first great shock I ever got in my life. I think it was the same -for everybody who knew the boy. The whole college was in a most -extraordinary ferment, and, indeed, I may say the whole of -Moorhampton which took any real interest in the college. - -Professor Little, who was then the head of the college, sent for me -and asked me what I knew of the matter. I soon discovered that this -was because the police had found letters from me in Maitland's room -which referred to Marian Hilton. I told the professor with the -utmost frankness everything that I knew about the affair, and -maintained that I had done my utmost to get him to break with her, a -statement which all my letters supported. I have often imagined a -certain suspicion, in the minds of some of those who are given to -suspicion, that I myself had been leading the same kind of life as -Henry Maitland. This was certainly not true; but I believe that one -or two of those who did not like me--and there are always some--threw -out hints that I knew Maitland had been taking these things. Yet -after my very painful interview with Professor Little, who was a very -delightful and kindly personality--though certainly not so strong a -man as the head of such an institution should be--I saw that he gave -me every credit for what I had tried to do. Among my own friends at -the college was a young fellow, Edward Wolff, the son of the Rev. Mr. -Wolff, the Unitarian minister at the chapel in Broad Street. Edward -was afterwards fifth wrangler of his year at Cambridge. He got his -father to interest himself in Henry Maitland's future. Mr. Wolff and -several other men of some eminence in the city did what they could -for him. They got together a little money and on his release from -prison sent him away to America. He was met on coming out of prison -by Dr. Lake's father, who also helped him in every possible way. - -It seemed to me then that I had probably seen the last of Maitland, -and the turn my own career took shortly afterwards rendered this even -more likely. In the middle of 1876 I had a very serious disagreement -with my father, who was a man of great ability but very violent -temper, and left home. On September 23 of that year I sailed for -Australia and remained there, working mostly in the bush, for the -best part of three years. During all that time I heard little of -Henry Maitland, though I have some dim remembrance of a letter I -received from him telling me that he was in America. It was in 1879 -that I shipped before the mast at Melbourne in a blackwall barque and -came back to England as a seaman. - - - - -CHAPTER II - -A psychologist or a romancer might comment on the matter of the last -chapter till the sun went down, but the world perhaps would not be -much further advanced. It is better, I think, for the man's apology -or condemnation to come out of the drama that followed. This is -where Life mocks at Art. The tragic climax and catastrophe are in -the first act, and the remainder is a long and bitter commentary. -Maitland and I never discussed his early life. Practically we never -spoke of Moorhampton though we often enough touched on ancient things -by implication. His whole life as I saw it, and as I shall relate -it, is but a development of the nature which made his disaster -possible. - -So one comes back to my own return from Australia. I had gone out -there as a boy, and came back a man, for I had had a man's -experiences; work, adventure, travel, hunger, and thirst. All this -hardened a somewhat neurotic temperament, at any rate for the time, -till life in a city, and the humaner world of books removed the -temper which one gets when plunged in the baths of the ocean. During -some months I worked for a position in the Civil Service and thought -very little of Maitland, for he was lost. Yet as I got back into the -classics he returned to me at times, and I wrote to my own friends in -Moorhampton about him. They sent me vague reports of him in the -United States, and then at last there came word that he was once more -in England; possibly, and even probably, in London. Soon afterwards -I found an advertisement in the _Athenæum_ of a book entitled -"Children of the Dawn," by Henry Maitland. As soon as I saw it I -went straightway to the firm which published it, and being ignorant -of the ways of publishers, demanded Maitland's address, which was -promptly and very properly refused--for all they knew I might have -been a creditor. They promised, however, to send on a letter to him, -and I wrote one at once, receiving an answer the very next day. He -appointed as our meeting-place the smoking-room of the Horse Shoe -Hotel at the bottom of Tottenham Court Road. Conceivably it was one -of the most curious meetings that had ever taken place in such a -locality. We met late at night in the crowded smoking-room, and I -found him very much his old self, for he was still a handsome and -intelligent boy, though somewhat worn and haggard considering his -years. As for myself, I remember that he told me, chuckling, that I -looked like a soldier, which was no doubt the result of some years on -horseback--possibly I walked with a cavalry stride. We sat and drank -coffee, and had whiskey, and smoked, until we were turned out of the -hotel at half-past twelve. It was perhaps owing to the fact that I -was ever the greater talker that he learnt more of my life in -Australia than I learnt of his in the United States. He was, in -fact, somewhat reserved as to his adventures there. And yet, little -by little, I learnt a great deal--it was always a case of little by -little with him. At no time did he possess any great fluency or -power of words when speaking of his own life. - -It seems that friends had given him some letters to writers and -others in New York, and he made the acquaintance there of many whose -names I forget. I only recollect the name of Lloyd Garrison, the -poet. Maitland told me that upon one occasion Lloyd Garrison induced -him to go home with him about two o'clock in the morning to hear a -sonnet on which Garrison had been working, as he affirmed almost with -tears, for three whole months. As Maitland said, the result hardly -justified the toil. Among the friends that he made there were a few -artistic and literary tendencies who had made a little club, where it -was _de rigueur_ at certain times to produce something in the form of -a poem. Maitland showed me the set of verses with which he had paid -his literary footing; they were amusing, but of no great importance. -So long as Maitland's money lasted in New York he had not an -unpleasant time. It was only when he exhausted his means and had to -earn a living by using his wits that he found himself in great -difficulties, which were certainly not to be mitigated by the -production of verse. But Maitland never pretended to write poetry, -though he sometimes tried. I still have a few of his poems in my -possession, one of them a set of love verses which he put into one of -his books but omitted on my most fervent recommendation. I believe, -however, that there is still much verse by him in existence, if he -did not destroy it in later years when circumstances, his wanderings -and his poverty, made it inconvenient to preserve comparatively -worthless papers. And yet, if he did not destroy it, it might now be -of no small interest to men of letters. - -When his means were almost exhausted he went to Boston, and from -there drifted to Chicago. With a very few comments and alterations, -the account given in "Paternoster Row," contains the essence of -Maitland's own adventures in America. It is, of course, written in a -very light style, and is more or less tinged with humour. This -humour, however, is purely literary, for he felt very little of it -when he was telling me the story. He certainly lived during two -days, for instance, upon peanuts, and he did it in a town called -Troy. I never gathered what actually drove him to Chicago: it was, -perhaps, the general idea that one gets in America that if one goes -west one goes to the land of chances, but it certainly was not the -land for Henry Maitland. Nevertheless, as he relates in "Paternoster -Row," he reached it with less than five dollars in his pocket, and -with a courage which he himself marvelled at, paid four and a half -dollars for a week's board and lodging, which made him secure for the -moment. This boarding-house he once or twice described to me. It -was an unclean place somewhere on Wabash Avenue, and was occupied -very largely by small actors and hangers-on at the Chicago theatres. -The food was poor, the service was worse, and there was only one -common room, in which they ate and lived. It was at this time, when -he had taken a look round Chicago and found it very like Hell or -Glasgow, which, indeed, it is, that he determined to attack the -editor of the _Chicago Tribune_. The description he gives of this -scene in "Paternoster Row" is not wholly accurate. I remember he -said that he walked to and fro for hours outside the offices of the -paper before he took what remained of his courage in both hands, -rushed into the elevator, and was carried to an upper story. He -asked for work, and the accessible and genial editor demanded, in -return, what experience he had had with journalism. He said, with -desperate boldness, "None whatever," and the editor, not at all -unkindly, asked him what he thought he could do for them. He -replied, "There is one thing that is wanting in your paper." "What -is that?" asked the editor. "Fiction," said Maitland, "I should like -to write you some." The editor considered the matter, and said that -he had no objection to using a story provided it was good; it would -serve for one of the weekly supplements, because these American -papers at the end of the week have amazing supplements, full of all -sorts of conceivable matter. Maitland asked if he might try him with -a story of English life, and got permission to do so. - -He went away and walked up and down the lake shore for hours in the -bitter wind, trying to think out a story, and at last discovered one. -On his way home he bought a pen, ink, and paper, which they did not -supply at the boarding-house. As it was impossible to write in his -bedroom, where there was, of course, no fire, and no proper heating, -it being so poor a place, he was compelled to write on the table of -the common room with a dozen other men there, talking, smoking, and -no doubt quarrelling. He wrote this story in a couple of days, and -it was long enough to fill several columns of the paper. To his -intense relief it was accepted by the editor after a day or two's -waiting, and he got eighteen dollars according to "Paternoster Row," -though I believe as a matter of fact it was less in reality. He -stayed for some time in Chicago working for the _Tribune_, but at -last found that he could write no more. I believe the editor himself -suggested that the stories were perhaps not quite what he wanted. -The one that I saw I only remember vaguely. It was, however, a sort -of psychological love-story placed in London, written without much -distinction. - -The account Broughton gives in "Paternoster Row" of his visit to Troy -is fairly representative of Maitland's experiences. It was there -that he lived for two or three days on peanuts, buying five cents' -worth in the street now and then at some Italian peanut stand. In -"Paternoster Row" he calls them loathsome, and no doubt they soon do -become loathsome. A few are rather pleasing, more than a few are -objectionable; and when anybody tries a whole diet of them for a day -or two there is no doubt "loathsome" would be the proper word. After -that he worked for a photographer for a few days, and then, I think, -for a plumber, but of this I remember very little. It is quite -certain that he never earned enough money in America to enable him to -return to England, but who lent it to him I have no idea. To have -been twenty-four hours with no more than a handful of peanuts in his -pocket was no doubt an unpleasant experience, but, as I told him, it -seemed very little to me. On one occasion in Australia I had been -rather more than four and a half days without food when caught in a -flood. Nevertheless this starvation was for him one of the -initiation ceremonies into the mysteries of literature, and he was -always accustomed to say, "How can such an one write? He never -starved." - -Nevertheless to have been hard up in Chicago was a very great -experience, as every one knows who knows that desperate city of the -plains. Since that time I myself have known Chicago well, and have -been there "dead broke." Thus I can imagine the state that he must -have been in, and how desperate he must have become, to get out of -his difficulties in the way that he actually employed. The endeavour -to obtain work in a hustling country like the United States is ever a -desperate proceeding for a nervous and sensitive man, and what it -must have been to Henry Maitland to do what he did with the editor of -the _Chicago Tribune_ can only be imagined by those who knew him. In -many ways he was the most modest and the shyest man who ever lived, -and yet he actually told this editor: "I have come to point out to -you there is a serious lack in your paper." To those who knew -Maitland this must seem as surprising as it did to myself, and in -later years he sometimes thought of that incident with inexpressible -joy in his own courage. Of course the oddest thing about the whole -affair is that up to that moment he had never written fiction at all, -and only did it because he was driven to desperation. As will be -seen when I come later to discuss his qualifications as a writer this -is a curious comment on much of his bigger work. To me it seems that -he should never have written fiction at all, although he did it so -admirably. I think it would be very interesting if some American -student of Maitland would turn over the files of the _Tribune_ in the -years 1878 and 1879 and disinter the work he did there. This is -practically all I ever learnt about his life on the other side of the -Atlantic. I was, indeed, more anxious to discover how he lived in -London, and in what circumstances. I asked him as delicately as -possible about his domestic circumstances, and he then told me that -he was married, and that his wife was with him in London. - -It is very curious to think that I never actually met his first wife. -I had, of course, seen her photograph, and I have on several -occasions been in the next room to her. On those occasions she was -usually unable to be seen, mostly because she was intoxicated. When -we renewed our acquaintance in the Horse Shoe Tavern he was then -living in mean apartments in one of the back streets off Tottenham -Court Road not very far from the hotel and indeed not far from a -cellar that he once occupied in a neighbouring street. Little by -little as I met him again and again I began to get some hold upon his -actual life. Gradually he became more confidential, and I gathered -from him that the habits of his wife were perpetually compelling him -to move from one house to another. From what he told me, sometimes -hopefully, and more often in desperation, it seems that this poor -creature made vain and violent efforts to reform, generally after -some long debauch. And of this I am very sure, that no man on earth -could have made more desperate efforts to help her than he made. But -the actual fact remains that they were turned out of one lodging -after the other, for even the poorest places, it seems, could hardly -stand a woman of her character in the house. I fear it was not only -that she drank, but at intervals she deserted him and went back, for -the sake of more drink, and for the sake of money with which he was -unable to supply her, to her old melancholy trade. And yet she -returned again with tears, and he took her in, doing his best for -her. It was six months after our first meeting in Tottenham Court -Road that he asked me to go and spend an evening with him. Naturally -enough I then expected to make Mrs. Maitland's acquaintance, but on -my arrival he showed some disturbance of mind and told me that she -was ill and would be unable to see me. The house they lived in then -was not very far from Mornington Crescent. It was certainly in some -dull neighbourhood not half a mile away. The street was, I think, a -cul-de-sac. It was full of children of the lower orders playing in -the roadway. Their fathers and mothers, it being Saturday night, sat -upon the doorsteps, or quarrelled, or talked in the road. The front -room in which he received me was both mean and dirty. The servant -who took me upstairs was a poor foul slut, and I do not think the -room had been properly cleaned or dusted for a very long time. The -whole of the furniture in it was certainly not worth seven and -sixpence from the point of view of the ordinary furniture dealer. -There were signs in it that it had been occupied by a woman, and one -without the common elements of decency and cleanliness. Under a -miserable and broken sofa lay a pair of dirty feminine boots. And -yet on one set of poor shelves there were, still shining with gold, -the prizes Maitland had won at Moorhampton College, and his painfully -acquired stock of books that he loved so much. - -As I came in by arrangement after my own dinner, we simply sat and -smoked and drank a little whiskey. Twice in the course of an hour -our conversation was interrupted by the servant knocking at the door -and beckoning to Maitland to come out. In the next room I then heard -voices, sometimes raised, sometimes pleading. When Maitland returned -the first time he said to me, "I am very sorry to have to leave you -for a few minutes. My wife is really unwell." But I knew by now the -disease from which she suffered. Twice or thrice I was within an ace -of getting up and saying, "Don't you think I'd better go, old chap?" -And then he was called out again. He came back at last in a state of -obvious misery and perturbation, and said, "My dear man, my wife is -so ill that I think I must ask you to go." I shook hands with him in -silence and went, for I understood. A little afterwards he told me -that that very afternoon his wife had gone out, and obtaining drink -in some way had brought it home with her, and that she was then -almost insane with alcohol. This was the kind of life that Henry -Maitland, perhaps a great man of letters, lived for years. -Comfortable people talk of his pessimism, and his greyness of -outlook, and never understand. The man really was a hedonist, he -loved things beautiful--beautiful and orderly. He rejoiced in every -form of Art, in books and music, and in all the finer inheritance of -the past. But this was the life he lived, and the life he seemed to -be doomed to live from the very first. - -When a weak man has a powerful sense of duty he is hard to handle by -those who have some wisdom. In the early days I had done my best to -induce him to give up this woman, long before he married her, when he -was but a foolish boy. Now I once more did my best to get him to -leave her, but I cannot pretend for an instant that anything I said -or did would have had any grave effect if it had not been that the -poor woman was herself doomed to be her own destroyer. Her outbreaks -became more frequent, her departures from his miserable roof more -prolonged. The windy gaslight of the slums appealed to her, and the -money that she earned therein; and finally when it seemed that she -would return no more he changed his rooms, and through the landlady -of the wretched house at which he found she was staying he arranged -to pay her ten shillings a week. As I know, he often made much less -than ten shillings a week, and frequently found himself starving that -she might have so much more to spend in drink. - -This went on for years. It was still going on in 1884 when I left -England again and went out to Texas. I had not succeeded in making a -successful attack upon the English Civil Service, and the hateful -work I did afterwards caused my health to break down. I was in -America for three years. During that time I wrote fully and with a -certain regularity to Maitland. When I came back and was writing -"The Western Trail," he returned me the letters he had received from -me. Among them I found some, frequently dealing with literary -subjects, addressed from Texas, Minnesota, Iowa, the Rocky Mountains, -Lower British Columbia, Oregon, and California. In his letters to me -he never referred to Marian, but I gathered that his life was very -hard, and, of course, I understood, without his saying it, that he -was still supporting her. I found that this was so when I returned -to England in 1887. At that time, by dint of hard, laborious work, -which included a great deal of teaching, he was making for the first -time something of a living. He occupied a respectable but very -dismal flat somewhere at the back of Madame Tussaud's, in a place at -that time called "Cumberland Residences." It was afterwards renamed -"Cumberland Mansions," and I well remember Maitland's frightful and -really superfluous scorn of the snobbery which spoke in such a change -of name. As I said, we corresponded the whole of the time I was in -America. I used to send him a great deal of verse, some of which he -pronounced actually poetry. No doubt this pleased me amazingly, and -I wish that I still possessed his criticisms written to me while I -was abroad. It is, from any point of view, a very great disaster -that in some way which I cannot account for I have lost all his -letters written to me previous to 1894. Our prolonged, and -practically uninterrupted correspondence began in 1884, so I have -actually lost the letters of ten whole years. They were interesting -from many points of view. Much to my surprise, while I was in -America, they came to me, not dated in the ordinary way, but -according to the Comtist calendar. I wrote to him for an -explanation, because up to that time I had never heard of it. In his -answering letter he told me that he had become a Positivist. This -was doubtless owing to the fact that he had come accidentally under -the influence of some well-known Positivists. - -It seems that in desperation at his utter failure to make a real -living at literature he had taken again to a tutor's work, which in a -way was where he began. I find that in the marriage certificate -between him and Marian Hilton he called himself a teacher of -languages. But undoubtedly he loathed teaching save in those rare -instances where he had an intelligent and enthusiastic pupil. At the -time that I came back to England he was teaching Harold Edgeworth's -sons. Without a doubt Harold Edgeworth was extremely kind to Henry -Maitland and perhaps to some little extent appreciated him, in spite -of the preface which he wrote in later years to the posthumous -"Basil." He was not only tutor to Harold Edgeworth's sons, but was -also received at his house as a guest. He met there many men of a -certain literary eminence; Cotter Morrison, for instance, of whom he -sometimes spoke to me, especially of his once characterising a social -chatterer as a cloaca maxima of small talk. He also met Edmund -Roden, with whom he remained on terms of friendship to the last, -often visiting him in his house at Felixstowe, which is known to many -men of letters. I think the fact that Edmund Roden was not only a -man of letters but also, oddly enough, the manager of a great -business, appealed in some way to Maitland's sense of humour. He -liked Roden amazingly, and it was through him, if I remember rightly, -that he became socially acquainted with George Meredith, whom, -however, he had met in a business way when Meredith was reading for -some firm of publishers at a salary of two hundred a year. - -Nevertheless, in spite of his making money by some tutorial work, -Maitland was still as poor as a rat in a cellar, and the absurd -antinomy between the society he frequented at times and his real -position, made him sometimes shout with laughter which was not always -really humorous. It was during this period of his life that a lady -asked him at an "at-home" what his experience was in the management -of butlers. According to what he told me he replied seriously that -he always strictly refrained from having anything to do with men -servants, as he much preferred a smart-looking young maid. It was -during this period that he did some work with a man employed, I -think, at the London Skin Hospital. This poor fellow, it seemed, -desired to rise in life, and possessed ambition. He wanted to pass -the London matriculation examination and thus become, as he imagined, -somebody of importance. Naturally enough, being but a clerk, he -lacked time for work, and the arrangement come to between him and -Maitland was that his teacher should go to his lodging at seven -o'clock in the morning and give him his lesson in bed before -breakfast. As this was just before the time that Maitland worked for -Mr. Harold Edgeworth, he was too poor, so he said, to pay bus fares -from the slum in which he lived, and as a result he had to rise at -six o'clock in the morning, walk for a whole hour to his pupil's -lodging, and then was very frequently met with the message that Mr. -So-and-so felt much too tired that morning to receive him, and begged -Mr. Maitland would excuse him. It is a curious comment on the -authority of "The Meditations of Mark Sumner," which many cling to as -undoubtedly authentic, that he mentions this incident as if he did -not mind it. As a matter of fact he was furiously wrath with this -man for not rising to receive him, and used to go away in a state of -almost ungovernable rage, as he told me many and many a time. - -After my return from America we used to meet regularly once a week on -Sunday afternoons, for I had now commenced my own initiation into the -mystery of letters, and had become an author. By Maitland's advice, -and, if I may say so, almost by his inspiration--most certainly his -encouragement--I wrote "The Western Trail," and having actually -printed a book I felt that there was still another bond between me -and Maitland. I used to turn up regularly at 7K Cumberland -Residences at three o'clock on Sundays. From then till seven we -talked of our work, of Latin and of Greek, of French, and of -everything on earth that touched on literature. Long before seven -Maitland used to apply himself very seriously to the subject of -cooking. As he could not afford two fires he usually cooked his pot -on the fire of the sitting-room. This pot of his was a great -institution. It reminds me something of the gypsies' pot in which -they put everything that comes to hand. Maitland's idea of cooking -was fatness and a certain amount of gross abundance. He used to put -into this pot potatoes, carrots, turnips, portions of meat, perhaps a -steak, or on great days a whole rabbit, all of which he had bought -himself, and carried home with his own hands. We used to watch the -pot boiling, and perhaps about seven or half-past he would -investigate its contents with a long, two-pronged iron fork, and -finally decide much to our joy and contentment that the contents were -edible. After our meal, for which I was usually ready, as I was -practically starving much of this time myself, we removed the débris, -washed up in company, and resumed our literary conversation, which -sometimes lasted until ten or eleven. By that time Maitland usually -turned me out, although my own day was not necessarily done for -several hours. At those times when I was writing at all, I used to -write between midnight and six o'clock in the morning. - -Those were great talks that we had, but they were nearly always talks -about ancient times, about the Greeks and Romans, so far as we -strayed from English literature. It may seem an odd thing, and it -_is_ odd until it is explained, that he had very little interest in -the Renaissance. There is still in existence a letter of his to -Edmund Roden saying how much he regretted that he took no interest in -it. That letter was, I think, dated from Siena, a city of the -Renaissance. The truth of the matter is that he was essentially a -creature of the Renaissance himself, a pure Humanist. For this very -reason he displayed no particular pleasure in that period. He was -interested in the time in which the men of the Renaissance revelled -after its rediscovery and the new birth of learning. He would have -been at his best if he had been born when that time was in flower. -The fathers of the Renaissance rediscovered Rome and Athens, and so -did he. No one can persuade me that if this had been his fate his -name would not now have been as sacred to all who love literature as -those of Petrarch and his glorious fellows. As a matter of fact it -was this very quality of his which gave him such a lofty and lordly -contempt for the obscurantist theologian. In my mind I can see him -treating with that irony which was ever his favourite weapon, some -relic of the dark ages of the schools. In those hours that we spent -together it was wonderful to hear him talk of Greece even before he -knew it, for he saw it as it had been, or as his mind made him think -it had been, not with the modern Greek--who is perhaps not a Greek at -all--shouting in the market-place. I think that he had a historical -imagination of a very high order, even though he undoubtedly failed -when endeavouring to use it. That was because he used it in the -wrong medium. But when he saw the Acropolis in his mind he saw it -before the Turks had stabled their horses in the Parthenon, and -before the English, worse vandals than the Turks, had brought away to -the biting smoke of London the marbles of Pheidias. Even as a boy he -loved the roar and fume of Rome, although he had not yet seen it and -could only imagine it. He saw in Italy the land of Dante and -Boccaccio, a land still peopled in the south towards Sicily with such -folks as these and Horace had known. My own education had been -wrought out in strange, rough places in the new lands. It was a -fresh education for me to come back to London and sit with Maitland -on these marvellous Sunday afternoons and evenings when he wondered -if the time would ever come for him to see Italy and Greece in all -reality. It was for the little touches of realism, the little -pictures in the Odes, that he loved Horace, and loved still more his -Virgil; and, even more, Theocritus and Moshos, for Theocritus wrote -things which were ancient and yet modern, full of the truth of -humanity. Like all the men of the Renaissance he turned his eyes -wistfully to the immemorial past, renewed in the magic alembic of his -own mind. - -Nevertheless, great as these hours were that we spent together, they -were sometimes deeply melancholy, and he had nothing to console him -for the miseries which were ever in the background. It was upon one -of these Sundays, I think early in January, 1888, that I found him in -a peculiarly melancholy and desperate condition. No doubt he was -overworked, for he always was overworked; but he said that he could -stand it no longer, he must get out of London for a few days or so. -For some reason which I cannot for the world understand, he decided -to go to Eastbourne, and begged me to go with him. Why he should -have selected, in Christmas weather and an east wind, what is -possibly the coldest town in England in such conditions, I cannot -say, but I remember that the journey down to the sea was mercilessly -cold. Of course we went third class, and the carriages were totally -unheated. We were both of us practically in extreme poverty. I was -living in a single room in Chelsea, for which I paid four shillings a -week, and for many months my total weekly expenses were something -under twelve shillings. At that particular moment he was doing -extremely badly, and the ten shillings that he paid regularly to his -wife frequently left him with insufficient to live upon. I can -hardly understand how it was that he determined to spend even the -little extra money needed for such a journey. When we reached -Eastbourne we walked with our bags in our hands down to the sea -front, and then, going into a poor back street, selected rooms. It -was perhaps what he and I often called "the native malignity of -matter," and his extreme ill luck in the matter of landladies, which -pursued him for ever throughout his life in lodgings, that the -particular landlady of the house in which we took refuge was -extraordinarily incapable. The dwelling itself was miserably -draughty and cold, and wretchedly furnished. The east wind which -blows over the flat marshes between Eastbourne and the Downs entered -the house at every crack, and there were many of them. The first -night we were in the town it snowed very heavily, and in our shabby -little sitting-room we shivered in spite of the starved fire. We sat -there with our overcoats on and did our best to be cheerful. Heaven -alone knows what we talked of, but most likely, and very possibly, it -may have been Greek metres, always his great passion. Yet neither of -us was in good case. We both had trouble enough on our shoulders. I -remember that he spoke very little of his wife, for I would not let -him do so, although I knew she was most tremendously on his mind, and -was, in fact, what had driven him for the moment out of London. Of -course, he had a very natural desire that she should die and have -done with life, with that life which must have been a torment to -herself as it was a perpetual torture and a running sore to him. At -the same time the poor fellow felt that he had no right to wish that -she would die, but I could see the wish in his eyes, and heaven knows -that I wished it fervently for him. - -The next morning we went for a long walk across the Downs to the -little village of East Dean. It was blowing a whole gale from the -north east, and it was quite impossible to go near the steep cliffs. -The snow was in places two feet deep, and a sunk road across the -Downs was level with the turf. I think now that none but madmen -would have gone out on such a day. Doubtless we were mad enough; at -any rate we were writers, and by all traditions had the right to be -mad. But when we once got started we meant going through it at all -events. I did not remember many colder days, in spite of my travels, -but we persevered, and at last came to the little village and there -took refuge in the public-house and drank beer. Maitland, with his -extraordinary mixture of fine taste and something which was almost -grossness in regard to food, loved all malt liquors--I think partly -because he felt some strange charm in their being historically -English drinks. The walk back to Eastbourne tried us both hard, for -neither of us had been well fed for months, and the wind and snow in -our faces made walking heavy and difficult. Nevertheless Maitland -was now almost boisterously cheerful, as he often was outwardly when -he had most reason to be the opposite. While he walked back the -chief topic of conversation was the very excellent nature of the -pudding which he had instructed our landlady to prepare against a -hungry return. - -He was always extraordinarily fond of rich, succulent dishes. A -_fritto misto_ for instance, made him shout for joy, though he never -met with it until he went to Italy. With what inimitable fervour of -the gastronomic mind would he declare these preferences! Dr. Johnson -said that in a haggis there was much "fine, confused feeding," and -Maitland undoubtedly agreed with him, as he always said when he -quoted the passage. In many of his books there are examples of his -curious feeling with regard to food. They are especially frequent in -"Paternoster Row"; as, for instance, when one character says: "Better -dripping this than I've had for a long time.... Now, with a little -pepper and salt, this bread and dripping is as appetising a food as I -know. I often make a dinner of it." To which the other replies: "I -have done the same myself before now. Do you ever buy -pease-pudding?" and to this the Irishman's reply was enthusiastic. -"I should think so! I get magnificent pennyworths at a shop in -Cleveland Street, of a very rich quality indeed. Excellent faggots -they have there, too. I'll give you a supper of them one night -before you go." I had often heard of this particular shop in -Cleveland Street, and of one shop where they sold beef, kept by a man -whose pride was that he had been carving beef behind the counter for -thirty years without a holiday. - -And now we were hurrying back to Eastbourne, Maitland said, not -because it was cold; not because the north-east wind blew; not -because we were exposed to the very bitterest weather we remembered; -but because of an exceedingly rich compound known as an apple -pudding. He and the wind worked me up to an almost equal expression -of ardour, and thus we came back to our poverty-stricken den in good -spirits. But, alas, the dinner that day was actually disastrous. -The meat was grossly overdone, the vegetables were badly cooked, the -beer was thin and flat. We were in dismay, but still we said to each -other hopefully that there was the pudding to come. It was brought -on and looked very fine, and Maitland cut into it with great joy and -gave me a generous helping. I know that I tasted it eagerly, but to -my tongue there was an alien flavour about it. I looked up and said -to Maitland, "It is very curious, but this pudding seems to me to -taste of kerosene." Maitland laughed, but when his turn came to try -he laughed no longer, for the pudding actually did taste of lamp oil. -It appeared, on plaintive and bitter inquiry, that our unfortunate -landlady after making it had put it under the shelf on which she kept -her lamp gear. We subsided on melancholy and mouldy cheese. This -disappointment, however childish it may appear to the better fed, was -to Henry Maitland something really serious. Those who have read "The -Meditations of Mark Sumner," without falling into the error of -thinking that the talk about food in that melancholy book was only -his fun, will understand that it was a very serious matter with -Maitland. It took all his philosophy and a very great deal of mine -to survive the tragedy, and to go on talking as we did of new words -and the riches of philology. And as we talked the wind roared down -our street in a vicious frenzy. It was a monstrously bad time to -have come to Eastbourne, and we had no compensations. - -It was the next night that the great news came. In spite of the -dreariest weather we had spent most of the day in the open air. -After our dinner, which this time was more of a success, or at any -rate less of a tragic failure, we were sitting hugging the fire to -keep warm when a telegram was brought in for him. He read it in -silence and handed it over to me with the very strangest look upon -his face that I had ever seen. It was unsigned, and came from -London. The message was: "Your wife is dead." There was nothing on -earth more desirable for him than that she should die, the poor -wretch truly being like a destructive wind, for she had torn his -heart, scorched his very soul, and destroyed him in the beginning of -his life. All irreparable disasters came from her, and through her. -Had it not been for her he might then have held, or have begun to -hope for, a great position at one of the universities. And now a -voice out of the unknown cried that she was dead. - -He said to me, with a shaking voice and shaking hands, "I cannot -believe it--I cannot believe it." He was as white as paper; for it -meant so much--not only freedom from the disaster and shame and -misery that drained his life-blood, but it would mean a cessation of -money payments at a time when every shilling was very hard to win. -And yet this was when he was comparatively well known, for it was two -years after the publication of "The Mob." And still, though his -books ran into many editions, for some inexplicable reason, which I -yet hope to explain, he sold them one after another for fifty pounds. -And I knew how he worked; how hard, how remorselessly. I knew who -the chief character was in "Paternoster Row" before "Paternoster Row" -was written. I knew with what inexpressible anguish of soul he -laboured, with what dumb rage against destiny. And now here was -something like freedom at last, if only it were true. - -This message came so late at night that there was no possibility of -telegraphing to London to verify it even if he had been sure that he -could get to the original sender. It was also much too late to go up -to town. We sat silently for hours, and I knew that he was going -back over the burning marl of the past. Sometimes he did speak, -asking once and again if it could be true, and I saw that while he -was still uncertain he was bitter and pitiless. Yet if she were only -really dead... - -We went up to town together in the morning. In the train he told me -that while he was still uncertain, he could not possibly visit the -place she lived in, and he begged me to go there straight and bring -him word as to the truth of this report. I was to explore the -desperate slum in the New Cut in which she had exhausted the last -dreadful years of her life, and upon leaving him I went there at -once. With Maitland's full permission I described something of the -milieu in "John Quest." On reaching the New Cut I dived into an -inner slum from an outer one, and at last found myself in a kitchen -which was only about eight or nine feet square. It was, of course, -exceedingly dirty. The person in charge of it was a cheerful -red-headed girl of about eighteen years of age. On learning the -cause of my visit she went out and brought in her mother, and I soon -verified the fact that Marian Maitland was dead. She had died the -first bitter night we spent at Eastbourne, and was found next morning -without any blankets, and with no covering for her emaciated body but -a damp and draggled gown. - -Presently the neighbours came in to see the gentleman who was -interested in this woman's death. They talked eagerly of the -funeral, for, as Maitland knew only too well, a funeral, to these -people, is one of their great irregular but recurring festivals. At -Maitland's desire I gave them carte blanche up to a certain sum, and -I think they felt that, as the agent of the husband, I behaved very -well. Of course they knew all about the poor girl who lay dead -upstairs, and although they were honest enough people in their way, -and though the red-headed girl to whom I first talked worked hard in -a factory making hooks and eyes, as she told me, they seemed to have -no moral feelings whatever about her very obvious profession. I -myself did not see the dead woman. I was not then acquainted with -death, save among strangers. I could not bring myself to look upon -her. Although death is so dreadful always, the surroundings of death -may make things worse. But still, she _was_ dead, and I hastened -back to Maitland to tell him so. It was a terrible and a painful -relief to him; and when he was sure she was gone, he grieved for her, -grieved for what she might have been, and for what she was. He -remembered now that at intervals she used to send him heart-breaking -messages asking to be forgiven, messages that even his unwisdom at -last could not listen to. But he said very little. So far as the -expression of his emotions went he often had very great self-control. -It is a pity that his self-control so rarely extended itself to acts. -But now he was free. Those who have forged their own chains, and -lived in a hell of their own dreadful making, can understand what -this is and what it means. But he did go down to the pit in which -she died, and when I saw him a day or two later he was strangely -quiet, even for him. He said to me, "My dear chap, she had kept my -photograph, and a very little engraving of the Madonna di San Sisto, -all these years of horrible degradation." He spoke in the almost -inaudible tone that was characteristic of him, especially at that -time. We arranged the funeral together, and she was buried. If only -all the misery that she had caused him could have been buried with -her, it would have been well. She died of what I may call, -euphemistically, specific laryngitis. Once he told me a dreadful -story about her in hospital. One of the doctors at St. Thomas's had -questioned her, and after her answers sent for Maitland, and speaking -to him on the information given him by the wife, was very bitter. -Henry, even as he told me this years after, shook with rage and -indignation. He had not been able to defend himself without exposing -his wife's career. - - - - -CHAPTER III - -There are many methods of writing biography. Each has its -advantages, even the chronological compilation. But chronology is no -strong point of mine, and in this sketch I shall put but little -stress on dates. There is great advantage in describing things as -they impress themselves on the writer. A portrait gains in coherency -and completeness by temporary omissions more than it can ever gain by -the empty endeavour to handle each period fully. In this last -chapter I might have endeavoured to describe Maitland at work, or to -speak of his ambitions, or even to criticise what he had already -done, or to give my own views of what he meant to achieve. There is -authority for every method, and most authorities are bad, save -Boswell--and few would pine for Boswell's qualities at the price of -his failings. Yet one gets help from him everywhere, little as it -may show. Only the other day I came across a passage in the "Journal -of a Tour to the Hebrides" which has some value. Reporting Johnson, -he writes: "Talking of biography, he said he did not think the life -of any literary man in England had been well written. Besides the -common incidents of life it should tell us his studies, his mode of -living, the means by which he attained to excellence, and his opinion -of his own works." Such I shall endeavour to do. Nevertheless -Johnson was wrong. Good work had then been done in biography by -Walton, whose Lives, by the way, Maitland loved; and Johnson himself -was not far from great excellence when he described his friend Savage -in the "Lives of the Poets" in spite of its want of colloquial ease. -There came in then the value of friendship and actual personal -knowledge, as it did in Boswell's "Life," I can only hope that my own -deep acquaintance with Maitland will compensate for my want of skill -in the art of writing lives, for which novel-writing is but a poor -training. Yet the deeper one's knowledge the better it is to -simplify as one goes, taking things by themselves, going forwards or -backwards as may seem best, without care of tradition, especially -where tradition is mostly bad. We do not write biography in England -now as Romain Rolland writes that of Beethoven. Seldom are we -grieved for our heroes, or rejoice with them. Photography, or the -photographic portrait, is more in request than an impression. -However, to resume in my own way, having to be content with that, and -caring little for opinion, that fluctuant critic. - -Long as our friendship existed it is perhaps curious that we never -called each other, except on very rare occasions, by anything but our -surnames. This, I think, is due to the fact that we had been at -Moorhampton College together. It is, I imagine, the same thing with -all schoolboys. Provided there is no nickname given, men who have -been chums at school seem to prefer the surname by which they knew -their friends in the early days. I have often noticed there is a -certain savage tendency on the part of boys to suppress their -Christian names, their own peculiar mark. And sometimes I have -wondered whether this is not in some obscure way a survival of the -savage custom of many tribes in which nobody is ever mentioned by his -right name, because in that name there inheres mysteriously the very -essence of his being and inheritance, the knowledge of which by -others may expose him to some occult danger. - -I believe I said above that from the time I first met Maitland after -my return from Australia, until I went away again to Arizona, I was -working in the Admiralty and the India Office as a writer at tenpence -an hour. No doubt I thought the pay exiguous, and my prospects worth -nothing. Yet when I came back from America and found him domiciled -at 7K Cumberland Residences, my economic basis in life became even -more exiguous, whatever hope might have said of my literary future. -I was, in fact, a great deal poorer than Maitland. He lived in a -flat and had at least two rooms and a kitchen. Yet it was a horrible -place of extraordinary gloom, and its back windows overlooked the -roaring steam engines of the Metropolitan Railway. In some ways no -doubt my own apartment, when I took to living by myself in Chelsea, -was superior in cheerfulness to 7K. Shortly after my return to -England, when I had expended the fifty pounds I received for my first -book, "The Western Trail," I took a single room in Chelsea, put in a -few sticks of furniture given to me by my people, and commenced -housekeeping on my own account on all I could make and the temporary -ten shillings a week allowed me by my father, who at that time, for -all his native respect for literature, regarded the practice of it -with small hope and much suspicion. I know that it greatly amused -Maitland to hear of his views on the subject of the self revelations -in "The Western Trail," which dealt with my life in Western America. -After reading that book he did not speak to me for three days, and -told my younger brother, "These are pretty revelations about your -brother having been a common loafer." At this Maitland roared, but -he roared none the less when he understood that three columns of -laudation in one of the reviews entirely changed my father's view of -that particular book. - -I should not trouble to say anything about my own particular -surroundings if it were not that in a sense they also became -Maitland's, although I went more frequently to him than he came to -me. Nevertheless he was quite familiar with my one room and often -had meals there which I cooked for him. Of course at that time, from -one point of view, I was but a literary beginner and aspirant, while -Maitland was a rising and respected man, who certainly might be poor, -and was poor, but still he had published "The Mob" and other books, -his name was well known, and his prospects, from the literary, if not -from the financial point of view, seemed very good. I was the author -of one book, the result of three years' bitter hard experience, -written in twenty-six days as a _tour de force_, and though I had -ambition I seemed to have nothing more to write about. From my own -point of view Maitland was, of course, very successful. His flat -with more rooms than one in it was a mansion, and he was certainly -making something like a hundred a year. Still, I think that when he -came down to me and found me comparatively independent, he rather -envied me. At any rate I had not to keep an errant wife on the money -that I made with infinite difficulty. He came to see me in Chelsea -in my very early days, and took great joy in my conditions. For one -thing I had no attendance with this room. I was supposed to look -after it for myself in every way. This, he assured me, made my -estate the more gracious, as any one can understand who remembers all -that he has said about landladies and lodging-house servants and -charwomen. He was overjoyed with the list of things I bought: a -fender and fire-irons, a coal-scuttle, a dust-bin, and blacking -brushes. He found me one day shaving by the aid of my own dim -reflection in the glass of an etching which I had brought from home, -because I had no looking-glass and no money to spare to buy one. I -remember we frequently went together over the question of finance. -Incidentally I found his own habit of buying cooked meat peculiarly -extravagant. I have a book somewhere among my papers in which I kept -accounts for my first three months in Chelsea to see how I was going -to live on ten shillings a week, which Maitland assured me was -preposterous riches, even if I managed to make no more. - -Naturally enough, seeing that we had been friends for so long, and -seeing that he had encouraged me so greatly to write my first book, -he took a vast interest in all my proceedings, and was very joyous, -as he would have said, to observe that I could not afford sheets but -slept in the blankets which I had carried all over America. I seek -no sympathy on this point, for after all it was not a matter of my -being unable to afford linen; it is impossible for the average -comfortable citizen to understand how disagreeable sheets become -after some thousands of nights spent camping in mere wool, even of -the cheapest. It took me years to learn to resign myself to cold -linen, or even more sympathetic cotton, when I became a respectable -householder. - -In the neighbourhood where I lived there was, of course, a great -artistic colony, and as I knew one or two artists already, I soon -became acquainted with all the others. Many of them were no richer -than myself, and as Bohemia and the belief that there was still a -Bohemia formed one of Maitland's greatest joys, he was always -delighted to hear of any of our remarkable shifts to live. It is an -odd thing to reflect that A. D. Mack, Frank Wynne, Albert Croft, and -three other artists whose names I now forget, and I once had a -glorious supper of fried fish served in a newspaper on the floor of -an empty studio. The only thing I missed on that particular occasion -was Maitland's presence, but, of course, the trouble was that -Maitland would seldom associate with anybody whom he did not know -already, and I could rarely get him to make the acquaintance of my -own friends. Yet such experiences as we were sometimes reduced to -more than proved to him that his dear Bohemia existed, though later -in his life, as one sees in "Mark Sumner," he often seemed to doubt -whether it was still extant. On this point I used to console him, -saying that where any two artists butted their foolish heads against -the economic system, there was Bohemia; Bohemia, in fact, was living -on a course of high ideals, whatever the world said of them. At this -hour there are writers learning their business on a little oatmeal, -as George Meredith did, or destroying their digestions, as I did mine -and Henry Maitland's, on canned corn beef. Even yet, perhaps, some -writers and artists are making their one big meal a day on fried fish. - -One Sunday when I missed going to Maitland's, because he was then out -of town visiting his family, I had a tale for him on his return. It -appeared that I had been writing, and had got so disgusted with the -result of it that I found I could not possibly stay in my room, and -so determined to go round to my friend Mack. No sooner had I made up -my mind on this subject than there was a knock at the door, and -presently in came Mack himself. I said promptly, "It is no good your -coming here, for I was just going round to you." Whereupon he -replied, "It is no good your coming to me because I have no coal, no -coke, and nobody will give me any more because I owe for so much -already." I replied that I was not going to stay in my room in any -case, and affirmed that I would rather be in his studio in the cold -than the room where I was. Whereupon he suddenly discovered that my -scuttle was actually full of coal, and proposed to take it round to -the studio. This seemed a really brilliant idea, and after much -discussion of ways and means my inventive faculty produced an old -portmanteau and several newspapers, and after wrapping up lumps of -coal in separate pieces of paper we packed the portmanteau with the -coal and carried it round to the studio in Manresa Road. This seemed -to Maitland so characteristic of an artist's life that he was very -much delighted when I told him. - -It is an odd thing that in one matter Maitland and I were at that -time much alike. From most points of view there can hardly have been -two more different men, for he was essentially a man of the study and -the cloister, while I was far more naturally a man of the open air. -Nevertheless, when it came to journalism we were both of the same -mind. While I was away from England and he was teaching Harold -Edgeworth's sons, Edgeworth introduced him to John Harley, then -editing the _Piccadilly Gazette_, who offered, and would no doubt -have kept to it, to use as much matter as possible if Maitland would -supply him with something in the journalistic form. Apparently he -found it too much against his natural grain to do this work, and I -was now in the same predicament. It is true that I had something of -a natural journalistic flair which he lacked, but my nose for a -likely article was rendered entirely useless to me by the fact that I -never could write anything until I had thought about it for several -days, by which time it was stale, and much too late from the -newspaper point of view. Nevertheless Maitland did occasionally do a -little odd journalism, for I remember once, before I went to America, -being with him when he received the proofs of an article from the -_St. James' Gazette_, and picking up "Mark Sumner" one may read: "I -thought of this as I sat yesterday watching a noble sunset, which -brought back to my memory the sunsets of a London autumn, thirty -years ago. It happened that, on one such evening, I was by the river -at Chelsea, with nothing to do except to feel that I was hungry, and -to reflect that, before morning, I should be hungrier still. I -loitered upon Battersea Bridge--the old picturesque wooden bridge, -and there the western sky took hold upon me. Half an hour later I -was speeding home. I sat down, and wrote a description of what I had -seen, and straightway sent it to an evening paper, which, to my -astonishment, published the thing next day--'On Battersea Bridge.' I -have never seen that article since I saw the proof of it, but there -was something so characteristic in it that I think it would be worth -some one's while to hunt up the files of the _St. James' Gazette_ in -order to find it. It appears that while he was leaning over the -bridge, enjoying the sunset, there was also a workman looking at it. -The river was at a low stage, for it was at least three-quarters-ebb, -and on each side of the river there were great patches of shining -mud, in which the glorious western sky was reflected, turning the -ooze into a mass of most wonderful colour. Maitland said to me, "Of -course I was pleased to see somebody else, especially a poor fellow -like that, enjoying the beauty of the sunset. But presently my -companion edged a little closer to me, and seeing my eyes directed -towards the mud which showed such heavenly colouring, he remarked to -me, with an air of the deepest interest, 'Throws up an 'eap of mud, -don't she?'" - -Sometimes when Maitland came down to me in Danvers Street he used to -go over my accounts and discuss means of making them less. I think -his chief joy in them was the feeling that some of his more -respectable friends, such as Harold Edgeworth, would have been -horrified at my peculiarly squalid existence. In a sense it was, no -doubt, squalid, and yet in another it was perhaps the greatest time -in my life, and Maitland knew it. In the little book in which I kept -my expenses he came across one day on which I had absolutely spent -nothing. This was a great joy to him. On another day he found a -penny put down as "charity." On looking up the book I find that a -note still declares that this penny was given to a little girl to pay -her fare in the bus. I remember quite well that this beneficence on -my part necessitated my walking all the way to Chelsea from Hyde Park -Corner. Yet Maitland assured me that, compared with himself at -times, I was practically a millionaire, although he owned that he had -very rarely beaten my record for some weeks when all expenditure on -food was but three-and-six-pence. One week it actually totalled no -more than one-and-elevenpence, but I have no doubt that I went out to -eat with somebody else on those days--unless it was at the time my -liver protested, and gave me such an attack of gloom that I went to -bed and lay there for three days without eating, firmly determined to -die and have done with the literary struggle. This fast did me a -great deal of good. On the fourth day I got up and rustled -vigorously for a meal, and did some financing with the admirable -result of producing a whole half-crown. - -Whenever Maitland came to me I cooked his food and my own on a little -grid, or in a frying-pan, over the fire in my one room. This fire -cost me on an average a whole shilling a week, or perhaps a penny or -two more if the coals, which I bought in the street, went up in -price. This means that I ran a fire on a hundredweight of coal each -week, or sixteen pounds of coal a day. Maitland, who was an expert -on coal, assured me that I was extremely extravagant, and that a fire -could be kept going for much less. On trying, I found out that when -I was exceedingly hard up I could keep in a very little fire for -several hours a day on only eight pounds of coal, but sometimes I had -to let it go out, and run round to a studio to get warm by some -artist's stove,--provided always that the merchant in coke who -supplied him had not refused my especial friend any further credit. - -At this time Maitland and I were both accustomed to work late, -although he was just then beginning to labour at more reasonable -times, though not to write fewer hours. As for me, I used to find -getting up in the morning at a proper hour quite impossible. -Probably this was due to some inherited gout, to poisonous -indigestion from my own cooking, or to a continued diet of desiccated -soups and "Jungle" beef from Chicago. However, it seemed to Maitland -that I was quite in the proper tradition of letters while I was -working on a long novel, only published years afterwards, which I -used to begin at ten or eleven o'clock at night, frequently finishing -at six o'clock in the morning when the sparrows began to chirp -outside my window. - -As a result of this night-work I used to get up at four o'clock in -the afternoon, sometimes even later, to make my own breakfast. -Afterwards I would go out to see some of my friends in their studios, -and at the time most people were thinking of going to bed I sat down -to the wonderfully morbid piece of work which I believed was to bring -me fame. This was a rather odd book, called "The Fate of Hilary -Dale." It has no claim whatever to any immortality, and from my -point of view its only value lies in the fact that there is a very -brief sketch of Maitland in it. He is described in these words: -"Will Curgenven, writer, teacher, and general apostle of culture, as -it is understood by the elect, had been hard at work for some hours -on an essay on Greek metres, and was growing tired of it. His dingy -subject and dingy Baker Street flat began to pall on him, and he rose -to pace his narrow room." Now Will Curgenven, of course, was -Maitland and the dingy Baker Street flat was 7K. "'Damn the nature -of things,' as Porson said when he swallowed embrocation instead of -whisky!" was what I went on to put into his mouth. This, indeed, was -one of Maitland's favourite exclamations. It stood with him for all -the strange and blasphemous and eccentric oaths with which I then -decorated my language, the result of my experiences in the back -blocks of Australia and the Pacific Slope of America. In this book I -went on to make a little fun of his great joy in Greek metres. I -remember that once he turned to me with an assumed air of strange -amazement and exclaimed: "Why, my dear fellow, do you know there are -actually miserable men who do not know--who have never even heard -of--the minuter differences between Dochmiacs and Antispasts!" That, -again, reminds me of a passage in "Paternoster Row," which always -gives me acute pleasure because it recalls Maitland so wonderfully. -It is where one of the characters came in to the hero and wanted his -opinion on the scansion of a particular chorus in the "Œdipus -Rex." Maydon laid hold of the book, thought a bit, and began to read -the chorus aloud. Whereupon the other one cried: "Choriambics, eh? -Possible, of course; but treat them as Ionics a minore with an -anacrusis, and see if they don't go better." Now in this passage the -speaker is really Maitland, for he involved himself in terms of -pedantry with such delight that his eyes gleamed. No doubt it was an -absurd thing, but Greek metres afforded so bright a refuge from the -world of literary struggle and pressing financial difficulty. - -"Damn the nature of things!" was Porson's oath. Now Maitland had a -very peculiar admiration for Porson. Porson was a Grecian. He loved -Greek. That was sufficient for Maitland. In addition to that claim -on his love, it is obvious that Porson was a man of a certain -Rabelaisian turn of mind, and that again was a sufficient passport to -his favour. No doubt if Porson had invited Maitland to his rooms, -and had then got wildly drunk, it would have annoyed Maitland -greatly; but the picture of Porson shouting Greek and drinking -heavily attracted him immensely. He often quoted all the little -stories told of Porson, such as the very well-known one of another -scholar calling on him by invitation late one evening, and finding -the room in darkness and Porson on the floor. This was when his -visitor called out: "Porson, where are the candles, and where's the -whiskey?" and Porson answered, still upon the floor, but neither -forgetful of Greek nor of his native wit. - -When any man of our acquaintance was alluded to with hostility, or if -one animadverted on some popular person who was obviously uneducated, -Maitland always vowed that he did not know Greek, and probably or -certainly had never starved. His not knowing Greek was, of course, a -very great offence to Maitland, for he used to quote Porson on -Hermann: - - "The Germans in Greek - Are far to seek. - Not one in five score, - But ninety-nine more. - All save only Hermann, - And Hermann's a German." - -Of course a man who lacked Greek, and had not starved, was -anathema--not to be considered. And whatever Porson may have done he -did know Greek, and that saved his soul. Maitland often quoted very -joyfully what he declared to be some of the most charming lines in -the English language: - - "I went to Strasburg, and there got drunk - With the most learned Professor Runck. - I went to Wortz, and got more drunken - With the more learned Professor Runcken." - -But if the spirit was willing, the flesh was weak. I never saw -Maitland drunk in his life. Indeed he was no real expert in -drinking. He had never had any education in the wines he loved. Any -amateur of the product of the vine will know how to estimate his -actual qualifications as a judge, when I say that Asti, Capri, and -especially Chianti seemed to him the greatest wines in the world, -since by no means could he obtain the right Falernian of Horace, -which, by the way, was probably a most atrocious vintage. As it -happened I had been employed for many months on a great vineyard in -California, and there had learnt not a little about the making and -blending of wine. Added to this I had some natural taste in it, and -had read a great deal about wine-making and the great vintages of -France and Germany. One could always interest Maitland by telling -him something about wine, provided one missed out the scientific side -of it. But it was sad that I lacked, from his point of view, the -proper enthusiasm for Chianti. Yet, indeed, one knows what was in -his classic mind, from the fact that a poor vintage in a real Italian -flask, or in something shaped like an amphora, would have made him -chuckle with joy far more readily than if a rich man had offered him -in a bottle some glorious first growth of the Medoc, Laflitte, -Latour, or Haut-Brion. But, indeed, he and I, even when I refused -indignantly to touch the Italians, and declared with resolution for a -wine of Burgundy or the Médoc, rarely got beyond a Bourgeois vintage. - -Nevertheless though I aspired to be his tutor in wines I owed him -more than is possible to say in the greater matters of education. My -debt to him is really very big. It was, naturally enough, through -his influence, that while I was still in my one room in Danvers -Street I commenced to read again all the Greek tragedies. By an odd -chance I came across a clergyman's son in Chelsea who also had a -certain passion for Greek. He used to come to my room and there we -re-read the tragedies. Oddly enough I think my new friend never met -Maitland, for Maitland rarely came to my room save on Sundays, and -those days I reserved specially for him. But whenever we met, either -there or at 7K, we always read or recited Greek to each other, and -then entered into a discussion of the metrical value of the -choruses--in which branch of learning I trust I showed proper -humility, for in prosody he was remarkably learned. As for me, I -knew nothing of it beyond what he told me, and cared very little, -personally, for the technical side of poetry. Nevertheless it was -not easy to resist Maitland's enthusiasm, and I succumbed to it so -greatly that I at last imagined that I was really interested in what -appealed so to him. Heaven knows, in those days I did at least learn -something of the matter. - -We talked of rhythm, and of Arsis or Ictus. Pyrrhics we spoke of, -and trochees and spondees were familiar on our lips. Especially did -he declare that he had a passion for anapæsts, and when it came to -the actual metres, Choriambics and Galliambics were an infinite joy -to him. He explained to me most seriously the differences between -trimeter Iambics when they were catalectic, acatalectic, -hypercatalectic. What he knew about comic tetrameter was at my -service, and in a short time I knew, as I imagined, almost all that -he did about Minor Ionic, Sapphic, and Alcaic verse. Once more these -things are to me little more than words, and yet I never hear one of -them mentioned--as one does occasionally when one comes across a -characteristic enthusiast--but I think of Henry Maitland and his -gravely joyous lectures to me on that vastly important subject. No -doubt many people will think that such little details as these are -worth nothing, but I shall have failed greatly in putting Maitland -down if they do not seem something in the end. These trifles are, -after all, touches in the portrait as I see the man, and that they -all meant much to him I know very well. To get through the early -days of literary poverty one must have ambition and enthusiasm of -many kinds. Enthusiasm alone is nothing, and ambition by itself is -too often barren, but the two together are something that the gods -may fight against in vain. I know that this association with him, -when I was his only friend, and he was my chief friend, was great for -both of us, for he had much to endure, and I was not without my -troubles. Yet we made fun together of our squalor, and rejoiced in -our poverty, so long as it did not mean acute suffering; and when it -did mean that, we often-times got something out of literature to help -us to forget. On looking back, I know that many things happened -which seem to me dreadful, but then they appeared but part of the -day's work. - -It rarely happened that I went to him without some story of the -week's happenings, to be told again in return something which had -occurred to him. For instance, there was that story of the lady who -asked him his experience with regard to the management of butlers. -In return I could tell him of going out to dinner at houses where -people would have been horrified to learn that I had eaten nothing -that day, and possibly nothing the day before. For us to consort -with the comfortably situated sometimes seemed to both of us an -intolerably fine jest, which was added to by the difference of these -comfortable people from the others we knew. Here and there we came -across some fatly rich person who, by accident, had once been -deprived of his usual dinner. It seemed to give him a sympathetic -feeling for the very poor. But, after all, though I did sometimes -associate with such people, I was happier in my own room with -Maitland, or in his flat, where we discussed our Æschylus, or wrought -upon metres or figures of speech--always a great joy to us. Upon -these, too, Maitland was really quite learned. He was full of -examples of brachyology. Anacoluthon he was well acquainted with. -Not even Farrar, in his "Greek Syntax," or some greater man, knew -more examples of chiasmus, asyndeton, or hendiadys. In these byways -he generally rejoiced, and we were never satisfied unless at each -meeting, wherever it might be, we discovered some new phrase, or new -word, or new quotation. - -Once at 7K I quoted to him from Keats' "Endymion" the lines about -those people who "unpen their baaing vanities to browse away the -green and comfortable juicy hay of human pastures." All that evening -he was denouncing various comfortable people who fed their baaing -vanity on everything delightful. He declared they browsed away all -that made life worth while, and in return for my gift to him of this -noble quotation he produced something rather more astounding, and -perhaps not quite so quotable, out of Zola's "Nana." We had been -talking of realism, and of speaking the truth, of being direct, of -not being mealy-mouthed; in fact, of not letting loose "baaing -vanities," and suddenly he took down "Nana" and said, "Here Zola has -put a phrase in her mouth which rejoices me exceedingly. It is a -plain, straight-forward, absolutely characteristic sentiment, such as -we in England are not allowed to represent. Nana, on being -remonstrated with by her lover-in-chief for her infidelities, returns -him the plain and direct reply, 'Quand je vois un homme qui me plait, -je couche avec.' He went on to declare that writing any novels in -England was indeed a very sickening business, but he added, "I really -think we begin to get somewhat better in this. However, up to the -last few years, it has been practically impossible to write anything -more abnormal about a man's relations with women than a mere bigamy." -Things have certainly altered, but I think he was one of those who -helped to break down that undue sense of the value of current -morality which has done so much harm to the study of life in general, -and indeed to life itself. His general rage and quarrel with that -current morality, for which he had not only a contempt, but a -loathing which often made him speechless, comes out well in what he -thought and expressed about the Harold Frederick affair. There was, -of course, as everybody knows, a second illegitimate family. While -the good and orthodox made a certain amount of effort to help the -wife and the legal children, they did their very best to ignore the -second family. However, to Maitland's great joy, there were certain -people, notably Mrs. Stephens, who did their very best for the other -children and for the poor mother. Maitland himself subscribed, -before he knew the actual position, to both families, and betrayed -extraordinary rage when he learnt how that second family had been -treated, and heard of the endeavours of the "unco' guid" to ignore -them wholly. But then such actions and such hypocrisy are -characteristic of the middle class in this country and not in this -country alone. He loathed their morals which became a system of -cruelty; their greed and its concomitant selfishness: their timidity -which grows brutal in defence of a position to which only chance and -their rapacity have entitled them. - -Apropos of his hatred of current morality, it is a curious thing that -the only quarrel I ever had with him showed his early point of view -rather oddly. Among the few men he knew there was one, with whom I -was a little acquainted, who had picked up a young girl in a tavern -and taken her to live with him. My own acquaintance with her led to -some jealousy between me and the man who was keeping her, and he -wrote to Maitland complaining of me, and telling him many things -which were certainly untrue. Maitland when he considered the fact of -his having ruined his own life for ever and ever by his relations -with a woman of this order, had naturally built up a kind of theory -of these things as a justification for himself. This may seem a -piece of extravagant psychology, but I have not the least doubt that -it is true. Without asking my view of the affair he wrote to me very -angrily, and declared that I had behaved badly. He added that he -wished me to understand that he considered an affair of that -description as sacred as any marriage. Though he was young, and in -these matters no little of a prig, I was also young, and of a hot -temper. That he had not made any inquiries of me, or even asked my -version of the circumstances, so angered me that I wrote back to him -saying that if he spoke to me in that way I should decline to have -anything more to do with him. As he was convinced, most unjustly, -that his view was entirely sound, this naturally enough led to an -estrangement which lasted for the best part of a year, but I am glad -to remember that I myself made it up by writing to him about one of -his books. This was before I went to America, and although I was -working, it was a great grief to me that we did not meet during this -estrangement for any of our great talks, which, both then and -afterwards, were part of my life, and no little part of it. Often -when I think of him I recollect those lines of Callimachus to -Heracleitus in Corey's "Ionica": - - "They told me, Heracleitus, they told me you were dead; - They brought me bitter news to hear and bitter tears to shed. - I wept as I remembered how often you and I - Had tired the sun with talking, and sent him down the sky." - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -In the last chapter I quoted from Boswell, always a favourite of -Maitland's, as he is of all true men of letters. But there is yet -another quotation from the same work which might stand as a motto for -this book, as it might for the final and authoritative biography of -Maitland which perhaps will some day be done: "He asked me whether he -had mentioned, in any of the papers of the 'Rambler,' the description -in Virgil of the entrance into Hell, with an application to the -Press; 'for,' said he, 'I do not much remember them.' I told him, -'No.' Upon which he repeated it: - - _'Vestlbulum ante ipsum primisque in faucibus Orci, - Lucius et ultrices posuere cubilia Curæ; - Pallentesque habitant Morbi, tristisque Senectus, - Et Metus, et malesuada Fames, ac turpis Egestas; - Terribiles vis formæ: Letumque, Labosque.'_ - -'Now,' said he, 'almost all these apply exactly to an author; all -these are the concomitants of a printing-house.'" Nevertheless, -although cares, and sometimes sullen sorrows, want and fear, still -dwelt with Maitland, a little time now began for him in which he had -some peace of mind, if not happiness. That was a plant he never -cultivated. One of his favourite passages from Charlotte Brontë, -whose work was in many ways a passion to him, is that in which she -exclaims: "Cultivate happiness! Happiness is not a potato," and -indeed he never grew it. Still there were two periods in his life in -which he had some peace, and the first period now began. I speak of -the time after the death of his first wife. The drain of ten -shillings a week--which must seem so absurdly little to many--had -been far more than he could stand, and many times he had gone without -the merest necessities of life so that the poor alien in the New Cut -should have money, even though he knew that she spent it at once upon -drink and forgetfulness. Ten shillings a week was very much to him. -For one thing it might mean a little more food and better food. It -meant following up his one great hobby of buying books. Those who -know "The Meditations," know what he thought of books, for in that -respect this record is a true guide, even if it should be read with -caution in most things. Nevertheless although he was happier and -easier, it is curious that his most unhappy and despairing books were -written during this particular period. "In the Morning," it is true, -was done before his wife died, and some people who do not know the -inner history of the book may not regard it as a tragedy. In one -sense, however, it was one of the greatest literary tragedies of -Henry Maitland's life, according to his own statement to me. - -At that time he was publishing books with the firm of Miller and -Company, and, of course, he knew John Glass, who read for them, very -well indeed. It seems that Glass, who had naturally enough, -considering his period, certain old-fashioned ideas on the subject of -books and their endings, absolutely and flatly declined to recommend -his firm to publish "In the Morning," unless Maitland re-wrote the -natural tragic end of the book and made it turn out happily. I think -nothing on earth, or in some hell for men of letters, could have made -Maitland more angry and wretched. If there was one thing that he -clung to during the whole of his working time, it was sincerity, and -sincerity in literary work implies an absolute freedom from alien and -extrinsic influence. I can well remember what he said to me about -Glass' suggestion. He abused him and the publishers; the public, -England, the world, and the very universe. He almost burst into -tears as he explained to me what he had been obliged to do for the -sake of the great fifty pounds he was to get for the book. For at -this time he only got fifty pounds for a long three-volume novel. He -always wrote with the greatest pain and labour, but I do not suppose -he ever put anything on paper in his life which cost him such acute -mental suffering as the last three chapters of this book which were -written to John Glass' barbaric order. - -After his wife's death he wrote "The Under-World," "Bond and Free," -"Paternoster Row," and "The Exile." It is a curious fact, although -it was not always obvious even to himself, and is not now obvious to -anybody but me, that I stood as a model to him in many of these -books, especially, if I remember rightly, for one particular -character in "Bond and Free." Some of these sketches are fairly -complimentary, and many are much the reverse. The reason of this use -of me was that till much later he knew very few men intimately but -myself; and when he wanted anybody in his books of a more or less -robust character, and sometimes more or less of a kind that he did -not like, I, perforce, had to stand for him. On one occasion he -acknowledged this to me, and once he was not at all sure how I should -take it. As a matter of fact the most life-like portrait of me ends -as a villain, and, as he had touched me off to the very life in the -first volume, it did make me a little sorer than I acknowledged. I -leave the curious to discover this particular scoundrel. Of course -it was only natural that my wild habits and customs, the relics of -Australia and America, afforded him a great deal of amusement and -study. On one occasion they cost him, temporarily, the very large -sum of three pounds. As he said, he used to look upon me as a kind -of hybrid, a very ridiculous wild man with strong literary leanings, -with an enormous amount of general and unrelated knowledge; and at -the same time as a totally unregulated or ill-regulated ruffian. -This was a favourite epithet of his, for which I daresay there was -something to be said. Now one Sunday it happened that I was going up -to see him at 7K, and came from Chelsea with two or three books in my -hand, and, as it happened, a pair of spectacles on my nose. At that -time I sometimes carried an umbrella, and no doubt looked exceedingly -peaceful. As a result of this a young man, who turned out afterwards -to be a professional cricketer, thought I was a very easy person to -deal with, and to insult. As I came to York Place, which was then -almost empty of passers by, I was walking close to the railings and -this individual came up and pushing rudely past me, stepped right in -front of me. Now this was a most outrageous proceeding, because he -had fifteen free feet of pavement, and I naturally resented it. I -made a little longer step than I should otherwise have done and -"galled his kibe." He turned round upon me and, using very bad -language, asked me where I was going to, who I thought I was, and -what I proposed to do about it. I did not propose to do anything, -but did it. I smote him very hard with the umbrella, knocking him -down. He remained on the pavement for a considerable time, and then -only got up at the third endeavour, and promptly gave me into -custody. The policeman, who had happened to see the whole affair, -explained to me, with that civility common among the custodians of -order to those classes whose dress suggests they are their masters, -that he was compelled to take the charge. I was removed to Lower -Seymour Street and put in a cell for male prisoners only, where I -remained fully half an hour. - -While I was in this cell a small boy of about nine was introduced and -left there. I went over to him and said, "Hullo, my son, what's -brought you here?" Naturally enough he imagined that I was not a -prisoner but a powerful official, and bursting into tears he said, -"Oh, please, sir, it warn't me as nicked the steak!" I consoled him -to the best of my ability until I was shortly afterwards invited down -to Marlborough Street Police Court, where Mr. De Rutzen, now Sir -Albert De Rutzen, was sitting. As I had anticipated the likelihood -of my being fined, and as I had no more than a few shillings with me, -I had written a letter to Maitland, and procuring a messenger through -the police, had sent it up to him. He came down promptly and sat in -the court while I was being tried for this assault. After hearing -the case Mr. De Rutzen decided to fine me three pounds, which -Maitland paid, with great chuckles at the incident, even though he -considered his prospect of getting the money back for some months was -exceedingly vague. It was by no means the first time that he had -gone to the police court for copy which "is very pretty to observe," -as Pepys said, when after the Fire of London it was discovered that -as many churches as public houses were left standing in the city. -That such a man should have had to pursue his studies of actual life -in the police courts and the slums was really an outrage, another -example of the native malignity of matter. For, as I have insisted, -and must insist again, he was a scholar and a dreamer. But his -pressing anxieties for ever forbade him to dream, or to pursue -scholarship without interruption. He desired time to perfect his -control of the English tongue, and he wanted much that no man can -ever get. It is my firm conviction that if he had possessed the -smallest means he would never have thought himself completely master -of the medium in which he worked. He often spoke of poor Flaubert -saying: "What an accursed language is French!" He was for ever -dissatisfied with his work, as an artist should be, and I think he -attained seldom, if ever, the rare and infrequent joy that an artist -has in accomplishment. It was not only his desire of infinite -perfection as a writer pure and simple, which affected and afflicted -him. It was the fact that he should never have written fiction at -all. He often destroyed the first third of a book. I knew him to do -so with one three times over. This, of course, was not always out of -the cool persuasion that what he had done was not good, for it often -was good in its way, but frequently he began, in a hurry, in despair, -and with the prospects of starvation, something that he knew not to -be his own true work, or something which he forced without adequate -preparation. Then I used to get a dark note saying, "I have -destroyed the whole of the first volume and am, I hope, beginning to -see my way." It was no pleasant thing to be a helpless spectator of -these struggles, in which he found no rest, when I knew his destiny -was to have been a scholar at a great university. - -When one understands his character, or even begins to understand it, -it is easy enough to comprehend that the temporary ease with regard -to money which came after his wife's death did not last so very long. -The pressure of her immediate needs and incessant demands being at -last relaxed he himself relaxed his efforts in certain directions and -presently was again in difficulties. I know that it will sound very -extraordinary to all but those who know the inside of literary life -that this should have been so. A certain amount of publicity is -almost always associated in the minds of the public with monetary -success of a kind. Yet one very well-known acquaintance of mine, an -eminent if erratic journalist, one day had a column of favourable -criticism in a big daily, and after reading it went out and bought a -red herring with his last penny and cooked it over the fire in his -solitary room. It was the same with myself. It was almost the same -with Maitland even at this time. No doubt the worst of his financial -difficulties were before I returned from America, and even before his -wife died, but never, till the end of his life, was he at ease with -regard to money. He never attained the art of the pot-boiler by -which most of us survive, even when he tried short stories, which he -did finally after I had pressed him to attempt them for some years. - -In many ways writing to him was a kind of sacred mission. It was not -that he had any faith in great results to come from it, but the -profession of a writer was itself sacred, and even the poorest -sincere writer was a _sacer vates_. He once absolutely came down all -the way to me in Chelsea to show me a well-known article in which -Robert Louis Stevenson denied, to my mind not so unjustly, that a -writer could claim payment at all, seeing that he left the world's -work to do what he chose to do for his own pleasure. Stevenson went -on to compare such a writer to a _fille de joie_. This enraged -Maitland furiously. I should have been grieved if he and Stevenson -had met upon that occasion. I really think something desperate might -have happened, little as one might expect violence from such a -curious apostle of personal peace as Maitland. Many years afterwards -I related this little incident to Robert Louis Stevenson in Samoa, -but I think by that time Maitland himself was half inclined to agree -with his eminent brother author. And yet, as I say, writing was a -mission, even if it was with him an acquired passion; but his -critical faculties, which were so keenly developed, almost destroyed -him. There can be no stronger proof that he was not one of those -happy beings who take to the telling of stories because they must, -and because it is in them. There was no time that he was not obliged -to do his best, though every writer knows to his grief that there are -times when the second best must do. And thus it was that John Glass -so enraged him. All those things which are the care of the true -writer were of most infinite importance to him. A misprint, a mere -"literal," gave him lasting pain. He desired classic perfection, -both of work and the mere methods of production. He would have taken -years over a book if fear and hunger and poverty had permitted him to -do so. And yet he wrote "Isabel," "The Mob," and "In the Morning," -all in seven months, even while he read through the whole of Dante's -"Divina Commedia," for recreation, and while he toiled at the alien -labour of teaching. Yet this was he who wrote to one friend: "Would -it not be delightful to give up a year or so to the study of some old -period of English history?" When he was thirty-six he said: "The -four years from now to forty I should like to devote to a vigorous -apprenticeship in English." But this was the man who year after year -was compelled to write books which the very essence of his being told -him would work no good. Sometimes I am tempted to think that the -only relief he got for many, many years came out of the hours we -spent in company, either in his room or mine. We read very much -together, and it was our delight, as I have said, to exchange -quotations, or read each other passages which we had discovered -during the week. He recited poetry with very great feeling and -skill, and was especially fond of much of Coleridge. I can hear him -now reading those lines of Coleridge to his son which end: - - "Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee - Whether the summer clothe the general earth - With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing - Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch - Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch - Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eave-drops fall - Heard only in the trances of the blast, - Or if the secret ministry of frost - Shall hang them up in silent icicles, - Quietly shining to the quiet Moon." - -And to hear him chant the mighty verse of the great Greeks who were -dead, and yet were most alive to him, was always inspiring. The time -was to come, though not yet, when he was to see Greece, and when he -had entered Piræus and seen the peopled mountains of that country -Homer became something more to him than he had been, and the language -of Æschylus and Sophocles took on new glories and clothed itself in -still more wondrous emotions. He knew a hundred choruses of the -Greek tragedies by heart, and declaimed them with his wild hair flung -back and his eyes gleaming as if the old tragedians, standing in the -glowing sun of the Grecian summer, were there to hear him, an alien -yet not an alien, using the tongue that gave its chiefest glories to -them for ever. But he had been born in exile, and had made himself -an outcast. - -Those who have read so far, and are interested in him, will see that -I am much more concerned to say what I felt about him than to relate -mere facts and dates. I care little or nothing that in some ways -others know more or less of him, or know it differently. I try to -build up my little model of him, try to paint my picture touch by -touch; often, it may be, by repetition, for so a man builds himself -for his friends in his life. I must paint him as a whole, and put -him down, here and there perhaps with the grain of the canvas showing -through the paint, or perhaps with what the worthy critics call a -rich impasto, which may be compiled of words. Others may criticise, -and will criticise, what I write. No doubt they will find much of it -wrong, or wrong-headed, and will attribute to me other motives than -those which move me, but if it leads them to bring out more of his -character than I know or remember, I shall be content. For the more -that is known of him, the more he will be loved. - -It was somewhere about this time that I undertook to write one of two -or three articles which I have done about him for periodicals, and -the remembrance of that particular piece of work reminds me very -strongly of his own ideas of his own humour in writing. There have -been many discussions, wise and otherwise, as to whether he possessed -any at all, and I think the general feeling that he was very greatly -lacking in this essential part of the equipment of a writer, to be on -the whole true. Among my lost letters there was one which I most -especially regret not to be able to quote, for it was very long, -perhaps containing two thousand words, which he sent to me when he -knew I had been asked to do this article. Now the purport of -Maitland's letter was to prove to me that every one was wrong who -said he had no humour. In one sense there can be no greater proof -that anybody who said so was right. He enumerated carefully all the -characters in all the books he had hitherto written in whom he -thought there was real humour. He gave me a preposterous list of -these individuals, with his comments, and appealed to me in all -deadly seriousness to know whether I did not agree with him that they -were humorous. But the truth is that, save as a talker, he had very -little humour, and even then it was frequently verbal. It was, -however, occasionally very grim, and its strength, oddly enough, was -of the American kind, since it consisted of managed exaggeration. He -had a certain joy in constructing more or less humorous nicknames for -people. Sometimes these were good, and sometimes bad, but when he -christened them once he kept to it always. I believe the only man of -his acquaintance who had no nickname at all was George Meredith, but -then he loved and admired Meredith in no common fashion. - -In some of his books he speaks, apparently not without some learning, -of music, but there are, I fancy, signs that his knowledge of it was -more careful construction than actual knowledge or deep feeling. -Nevertheless he did at times discover a real comprehension of the -greater musicians, especially of Chopin. Seeing that this was so, it -is very curious, and more than curious in a writer, that he had a -measureless adoration of barrel organs. He delighted in them -strangely, and when any Italian musician came into his dingy street -or neighbourhood, he would set the window open and listen with -ardour. Being so poor, he could rarely afford to give away money -even in the smallest sum. Pennies were indeed pennies to him. But -he did sometimes bestow pence on wandering Italians who ground out -Verdi in the crowded streets. Among the many languages which he knew -was, of course, Italian; for, as I have said, he read the "Divina -Commedia" easily, reading it for relaxation as he did Aristophanes. -It was a great pleasure to him, even before he went to Italy, to -speak a few words in their own tongue to these Italians of the -English streets. He remembered that this music came from the south, -the south that was always his Mecca, the Kibleh of the universe. -Years afterwards, when he had been in the south, and knew Naples and -the joyous crowds of the Chaiaja--long before I had been there and -had listened to its uproar from the Belvidere of San Martino--he -found Naples chiefly a city of this joyous popular music. Naples, he -said, was the most interesting modern city in Europe; and yet I -believe the chief joy he had there was hearing its music, and the -singing of the lazzaroni down by Santa Lucia. "Funiculi, Funicula," -he loved as much as if it were the work of a classic, and "Santa -Lucia" appealed to him like a Greek chorus. I remember that, years -later, he wrote to me a letter of absurd and exaggerated anger, which -was yet perfectly serious, about the action of the Neapolitan -municipality in forbidding street organs to play in the city. -Sometimes, though rarely, seeing that he could not often afford a -shilling, he went to great concerts in London. Certainly he spoke as -one not without instruction in musical subjects in "The Vortex," but -I fancy that musical experts might find flaws in his nomenclature. -Nevertheless he did love music with a certain ardent passion. - -He was a man not without a certain sensuality, but it was his -sensuousness which was in many ways the most salient point in his -character. As I often told him, he was a kind of incomplete -Rabelaisian. That was suggested to me by his delighted use of -Gargantuan epithets with regard to the great recurrent subject of -food. He loved all things which were redolent of oil and grease and -fatness. The joy of great abundance appealed to him, and I verily -believe that to him the great outstanding characteristic of the past -in England was its abundant table. Indeed, in all things but rowdy -indecency, he was a Rabelaisian, and being such, he yet had to put up -with poor and simple food. However, provided it was at hand in large -quantities, he was ready to feed joyously. He would exclaim: "Now -for our squalid meal! I wonder what Harold Edgeworth, or good old -Edmund Roden would say to this?" When I think of the meagre preface -that Harold Edgeworth wrote in later years for "Basil," when that -done by G.H. Rivers--afterwards published separately--did not meet -with the approval of Maitland's relatives and executors, I feel that -Edgeworth somewhat deserved the implied scorn of Maitland's words. -As for Edmund Roden, he often spoke of him affectionately. In later -years he sometimes went down to Felixstowe to visit him. He liked -his house amazingly, and was very much at home in it. It was there -that he met Grant Allen, and Sir Luke Redburn, whom he declared to be -the most interesting people that he saw in Felixstowe at that time. - -I am not sure whether it was on this particular occasion, perhaps in -1895, that he went down to Essex with a great prejudice against Grant -Allen. The reason of this was curious. He was always most vicious -when any writer who obviously lived in comfort, complained loudly and -bitterly of the pittance of support given him by the public, and the -public's faithful servants, the publishers. When Allen growled -furiously on this subject in a newspaper interview Maitland recalled -to me with angry amusement a certain previous article in which, if I -remember rightly, Grant Allen proclaimed his absolute inability to -write if he were not in a comfortable room with rose-coloured -curtains. "Rose-coloured curtains!" said Maitland contemptuously, -and looking round his own room one certainly found nothing of that -kind. It was perhaps an extraordinary thing, one of the many odd -things in his character, that the man who loved the south so, who -always dreamed of it, seemed to see everything at that period of his -life in the merest black and white. There was not a spark or speck -of colour in his rooms. Now in my one poor room in Chelsea I had -hung up all sorts of water-colours acquired by various means from -artists who were friends of mine. By hook or by crook I got hold of -curtains with colour in them, and carpets, too, and Japanese fans. -My room was red and yellow and scarlet, while his were a dingy -monochrome, as if they sympathised with the outlook at the back of -his flat, which stared down upon the inferno of the Metropolitan -Railway. But to return to Grant Allen. Maitland now wrote: -"However, I like him very much. He is quite a simple, and very -gentle fellow, crammed with multifarious knowledge, enthusiastic in -scientific pursuits. With fiction and that kind of thing he ought -never to have meddled; it is the merest pot-boiling. He reads -nothing whatever but books of scientific interest." - -It was at Felixstowe, too, that he met Carew Latter who induced him -to write twenty papers in one of the journals Latter conducted. They -were to be of more or less disreputable London life. Some of them at -least have been reprinted in his volumes of short stories. There is -certainly no colour in them; in some ways they resemble sketches with -the dry-point. Of course after he had once been on the continent, -and had got south to Marseilles and the Cannebiere, he learnt to know -what colour was, and wrote of it in a way he had never done before, -as I noticed particularly in one paragraph about Capri seen at sunset -from Naples. In this sudden discovery of colour he reminded me, -oddly enough, of my old acquaintance Wynne, the now justly celebrated -painter, who, up to a certain time in his life, had painted almost in -monochrome, and certainly in a perpetual grey chord. Then he met -Marvell, the painter, who was, if anything, a colourist. I do not -think Marvell influenced Wynne in anything but colour, but from that -day Wynne was a colourist, and so remains, although to it he has -added a great and real power of design and decoration. It is true -that Maitland never became a colourist in writing, but those who have -read his work with attention will observe that after a certain date -he was much more conscious of the world's colour. - -In those days our poverty and our ambition made great subjects for -our talks. I myself had been writing for some years with no more -than a _succès d'estime_, and I sometimes thought that I would throw -up the profession and go back to Australia or America, or to the sea, -or would try Africa at last. But Maitland had no such possibilities -within him. He maintained grimly, though not without humour, that -his only possible refuge when war, or some other final disaster made -it impossible for writers to earn their difficult living, was a -certain block of buildings opposite 7K. This, however, was not -Madame Tussaud's as the careless might imagine, it was the Marylebone -workhouse, which he said he regarded with a proprietary eye. It -always afforded him a subject for conversation when his prospects -seemed rather poorer than usual. It was, at any rate, he declared, -very handy for him when he became unable to do more work. No doubt -this was his humour, but there was something in this talk which was -more than half serious. He always liked to speak of the gloomy side -of things, and I possess many letters of his which end with -references to the workhouse, or to some impending, black disaster. -In one he said: "I wish I could come up, but am too low in health and -spirits to move at present. A cold clings about me, and the future -looks dark." Again he said: "No, I shall never speak of my work. It -has become a weariness and toil--nothing more." And again: "It is a -bad, bad business, that of life at present." And yet once more: "It -is idle to talk about occupation--by now I have entered on the last -stage of life's journey." This was by no means when he had come -towards the end of his life. However, the workhouse does come up, -even at the end, in a letter written about two months before his -death. He wrote to me: "I have been turning the pages with great -pleasure, to keep my thoughts from the workhouse." Those who did not -know him would not credit him with the courage of desperation which -he really possessed, if they saw his letters and knew nothing more of -the man. - - - - -CHAPTER V - -The art of portraiture, whether in words or paint, is very difficult, -and appears less easy as I attempt to draw Maitland. Nevertheless -the time comes when the artist seems to see his man standing on his -feet before him, put down in his main planes, though not yet, -perhaps, with any subtlety. The anatomy is suggested at any rate, if -there are bones in the subject or in the painter. As it seems to me, -Maitland should now stand before those who have read so far with -sympathy and understanding. I have not finished my drawing, but it -might even now suffice as a sketch, and seem from some points of view -to be not wholly inadequate. It is by no means easy to put him down -in a few words, but patience and the addition of detail reach their -end, it may be not without satisfaction--for "with bread and steel -one gets to China." It is not possible to etch Maitland in a few -lines, for as it seems to me it is the little details of his -character with which I am most concerned that give him his greatest -value. It is not so much the detail of his actual life, but the -little things that he said, and the way he seemed to think, or even -the way that he avoided thinking, which I desire to put down. And -when I say those things he wished not to think of, I am referring -more especially to his views of the universe, and of the world -itself, those views which are a man's philosophy, and not less his -philosophy when of set purpose he declines to think of them at all, -for this Maitland did without any doubt. Goethe said, when he spoke, -if I remember rightly, about all forms of religious and metaphysical -speculation, "Much contemplation, or brooding over these things is -disturbing to the spirit." Unfortunately I do not know German so I -cannot find the reference to this, but Maitland, who knew the -language very thoroughly and had read nearly everything of great -importance in it, often quoted this passage, having naturally a great -admiration for Goethe. I do not mean that he admired him merely for -his position in the world of letters. What he did admire in Goethe -was what he himself liked and desired so greatly. He wished for -peace, for calmness of spirit. He did not like to be disturbed in -any way whatsoever. He would not disturb himself. He wished people -to be reasonable, and thought this was a reasonable request to make -of them. I remember on one occasion when I had been listening to him -declaiming about some one's peculiar lack of reasonableness, which -seemed to him the one great human quality, that I said: "Maitland, -what would you do if you were having trouble with a woman who was in -a very great rage with you?" He replied, with an air of surprise, -"Why, of course, I should reason with her." I said shortly, "Don't -ever get married again! " Nevertheless he was a wonderfully patient -and reasonable man himself, and truly lacked everything -characteristic of the combatant. He would discuss, he would never -really argue. I do not suppose that he was physically a coward, but -his dread of scenes and physical violence lay very deep in his -organisation. Although he used me as a model I never really drew him -at length in any of my own books, but naturally he was a subject of -great psychological interest to me. Pursuing my studies in him I -said, one day, "Maitland, what would you do if a man disagreed with -you, got outrageously and unreasonably angry, and slapped you in the -face?" He replied, in his characteristically low and concentrated -voice, "Do? I should look at him with the most infinite disgust, and -turn away." - -His horror of militarism was something almost comic, for it showed -his entire incapacity for grasping the world's situation as it shows -itself to any real and ruthless student of political sociology who is -not bogged in the mud flats of some Utopian island. Once we were -together on the Horse Guards' Parade and a company of the Guards came -marching up. We stood to watch them pass, and when they had gone by -he turned to me and said, "Mark you, my dear man, this, _this_ is the -nineteenth century!" In one of his letters written to me after his -second marriage he said of his eldest son: "I hope to send him -abroad, to some country where there is no possibility of his having -to butcher or be butchered." This, of course, was his pure reason -pushed to the point where reason becomes mere folly, for such is the -practical antinomy of pure reason in life. It was in this that he -showed his futile idealism, which was in conflict with what may be -called truly his real pessimism. That he did good work in many of -his books dealing with the lower classes is quite obvious, and cannot -be denied. He showed us the things that exist. It is perfectly -possible, and even certainly true, that many of the most pessimistic -writers are in reality optimists. They show us the grey in order -that we may presently make it rose. But Maitland wrote absolutely -without hope. He took his subjects as mere subjects, and putting -them on the table, lectured in pathology. He made books of his -dead-house experiences, and sold them, but never believed that he, or -any other man, could really do good by speaking of what he had seen -and dilated upon. The people as a body were vile and hopeless. He -did not even inquire how they became so. He thought nothing could be -done, and did not desire to do it. His future was in the past. The -world's great age would never renew itself, and only he and a few -others really understood the desperate state into which things had -drifted. Since his death there has been some talk about his -religion. I shall speak of this later, on a more fitting occasion; -but, truly speaking, he had no religion. When he gave up his -temporary Positivist pose, which was entirely due to his gratitude to -Harold Edgeworth for helping him, he refused to think of these things -again. They disturbed the spirit. If I ever endeavoured to inveigle -him into a discussion or an argument upon any metaphysical subject he -grew visibly uneasy. He declined to argue, or even to discuss, and -though I know that in later life he admitted that even immortality -was possible I defy any one to bring a tittle of evidence to show -that he ever went further. This attitude to all forms of religious -and metaphysical thought was very curious to me. It was, indeed, -almost inexplicable, as I have an extreme pleasure in speculative -inquiry of all kinds. The truth is that on this side of his nature -he was absolutely wanting. Such things interested him no more than -music interests a tone-deaf man who cannot distinguish the shriek of -a tom-cat from the sound of a violin. If I did try to speak of such -things he listened with an air of outraged and sublime patience which -must have been obvious to any one but a bore. Whether his philosophy -was sad or not, he would not have it disturbed. - -His real interest in religion seemed to lie in his notion that it was -a curious form of delusion almost ineradicable from the human mind. -There is a theory, very popular among votaries of the creeds, which -takes the form of denying that any one can really be an atheist. -This is certainly not true, but it helps one to understand the -theologic mind, which has an imperative desire to lay hold of -something like an inclusive hypothesis to rest on. So far as -Maitland was concerned there was no more necessity to have an -hypothesis about God than there was to have one about quaternions, -and quaternions certainly did not interest him. He shrugged his -shoulders and put these matters aside, for in many things he had none -of the weaknesses of humanity, though in others he had more than his -share. In his letters to G.H. Rivers, which I have had the privilege -of reading, there are a few references to Rivers' habits and powers -of speculation. I think it was somewhere in 1900 or 1901 that he -read "Forecasts." By this time he had a strong feeling of affection -for Rivers, and a very great admiration for him. His references to -him in the "Meditations" are sufficiently near the truth to -corroborate this. Nevertheless his chief feeling towards Rivers and -his work, beyond the mere fact that it was a joy to him that a man -could make money by doing good stuff, was one of amazement and -surprise that any one could be deeply interested in the future, and -could give himself almost wholly or even with partial energy, to -civic purposes. And so he wrote to Rivers: "I must not pretend to -care very much about the future of the human race. Come what may, -folly and misery are sure to be the prevalent features of life, but -your ingenuity in speculation, the breadth of your views, and the -vigour of your writing, make this book vastly enjoyable. The -critical part of it satisfies, and often delights me. Stupidity -should have a sore back for some time to come, and many a wind-bag -will be uneasily aware of collapse." - -It is interesting to note, now that I am speaking of his friendship -for Rivers, and apropos of what I shall have to say later about his -religious views, that he wrote to Rivers: "By the bye, you speak of -God. Well, I understand what you mean, but the word makes me stumble -rather. I have grown to shrink utterly from the use of such terms, -and though I admit, perforce, a universal law, I am so estranged by -its unintelligibility that not even a desire to be reverent can make -those old names in any way real to me." So later he said that he was -at a loss to grasp what Rivers meant when he wrote: "There stirs -something within us now that can never die again." I think Maitland -totally misinterpreted the passage, which was rather apropos of the -awakening of the civic spirit in mankind than of anything else, but -he went on to say that he put aside the vulgar interpretation of such -words. However, was it Rivers' opinion that the material doom of the -earth did not involve the doom of earthly life? He added that -Rivers' declared belief in the coherency and purpose of things was -pleasant to him, for he himself could not doubt for a moment that -there _was_ some purpose. This is as far as he ever went. On the -other hand, he did doubt whether we, in any sense of the pronoun, -should ever be granted understanding of that purpose. Of course all -this shows that he possessed no metaphysical endowments or apparatus. -He loved knowledge pure and simple, but when it came to the exercises -of the metaphysical mind he was pained and puzzled. He lacked any -real education in philosophy, and did not even understand its -peculiar vocabulary. However vain those of us who have gone through -the metaphysical mill may think it in actual products, we are all yet -aware that it helps greatly to formulate our own philosophy, or even -our own want of it. For it clears the air. It cuts away all kinds -of undergrowth. It at any rate shows us that there is no -metaphysical way out, for the simple reason that there has never -existed one metaphysician who did not destroy another. They are all -mutually destructive. But Maitland had no joy in construction or -destruction; and, as I have said, he barely understood the technical -terms of metaphysics. There was a great difference with regard to -these inquiries between him and Rivers. The difference was that -Rivers enjoyed metaphysical thinking and speculation where Maitland -hated it. But all the same Rivers took it up much too late in life, -and about the year 1900 made wonderful discoveries which had been -commonplaces to Aristotle. A thing like this would not have mattered -much if he had regarded it as education. However, he regarded it as -discovery, and wrote books about it which inspired debates, and -apparently filled the metaphysicians with great joy. It is always a -pleasure to the evil spirit that for ever lives in man to see the -ablest people of the time showing that they are not equally able in -some other direction than that in which they have gained distinction. - -It is curious how this native dislike of Maitland to being disturbed -by speculative thought comes out in a criticism he made of Thomas -Hardy. He had always been one of this writer's greatest admirers, -and I know he especially loved "The Woodlanders," but he wrote in a -letter to Dr. Lake something very odd about "Jude the Obscure." He -calls it: "a sad book! Poor Thomas is utterly on the wrong tack, and -I fear he will never get back into the right one. At his age, a -habit of railing at the universe is not overcome." Of course this -criticism is wholly without any value as regards Hardy's work, but it -is no little side light on Maitland's own peculiar habits of thought, -or of persistent want of thought, on the great matters of -speculation. His objection was not to anything that Hardy said, but -to the fact that the latter's work, filled with what Maitland calls -"railing at the universe," personally disturbed him. Anything which -broke up his little semi-classic universe, the literary hut which he -had built for himself as a shelter from the pitiless storm of cosmic -influences, made him angry and uneasy for days and weeks. He never -lived to read Hardy's "Dynasts," a book which stands almost alone in -literature, and is to my mind a greater book than Goethe's "Faust," -but if he had read it I doubt if he would have forgiven Thomas Hardy -for disturbing him. He always wanted to be left alone. He had -constructed his pattern of the universe, and any one who shook it he -denounced with, "Confound the fellow! He makes me unhappy." The one -book that he did read, which is in itself essentially a disturbing -book to many people, and apparently read with some pleasure, was the -earliest volume of Dr. Frazer's "Golden Bough"; but it is a curious -thing that what interested him, and indeed actually pleased him, was -Frazer's side attacks upon the dogmas of Christianity. He said: "The -curious thing about Frazer's book is, that in illustrating the old -religious usages connected with tree-worship and so on, he throws -light upon every dogma of Christianity. This by implication; he -never does it expressly. Edmund Roden has just pointed this out to -the Folk-lore Society, with the odd result that Gladstone wrote at -once resigning membership." This was written after Gladstone died, -but it reads as if Maitland was not aware that he was dead. Odd as -it may seem, it is perfectly possible that he did not know it. He -cared very little for the newspapers, and sometimes did not read any -for long periods. It is rather curious that when I proved to him in -later years that he had once dated his letters according to the -Positivist Calendar, he seemed a little disturbed and shocked. -Still, it was very natural that when exposed to Positivist influences -he should have become a Positivist, for among the people of that odd -faith, if faith it can be called, he found both kindness and -intellectual recognition. But when his mind became clearer and -calmer, and something of the storm and stress had passed by, he was -aware that his attitude had been somewhat pathologic, and did not -like to recall it. This became very much clearer to him, and indeed -to me, when another friend of ours, a learned and very odd German who -lived and starved in London, went completely under in the same -curious religious way. His name was Schmidt. He remained to the day -of Maitland's death a very great friend of his, and I believe he -possesses more letters from Henry Maitland than any man -living--greatly owing to his own vast Teutonic energy and industry in -writing to his friends. - -But in London Schmidt came to absolute destitution. I myself got to -know him through Maitland. It appeared that he owned a collie dog, -which he found at last impossible to feed, even though he starved -himself to do so. Maitland told me of this, and introduced me to -Schmidt. On hearing his story, and seeing the dog, I went to my own -people, who were then living in Clapham, and asked them if they would -take the animal from Schmidt and keep it. When I saw the German -again I was given the dog, together with a paper on which were -written all Don's peculiar tricks, most of which had been taught to -him by his master and needed the German language for their words of -command. Soon after this Schmidt fell into even grimmer poverty, and -was rescued from the deepest gulf by some religious body analogous in -those days to the Salvation Army of the present time. Of this -Maitland knew nothing, until one day going down the Strand he found -his friend giving away religious pamphlets at the door of Exeter -Hall. When he told me this he said he went next day to see the man -in his single room lodging and found him sitting at the table with -several open Bibles spread out before him. He explained that he was -making a commentary on the Bible at the instigation of one of his new -friends, and he added: "Here, _here_ is henceforth my life's work." -Shortly after this, I believe through Harold Edgeworth or some one -else to whom Maitland appealed, the poor German was given work in -some quasi-public institution, and with better fare and more ease his -brain recovered. He never mentioned religion again. It was thus -that Maitland himself recovered from similar but less serious -influences in somewhat similar conditions. For some weeks in 1885 I -was myself exposed to such influences in Chicago, in even bitterer -conditions than those from which Schmidt and Maitland had suffered, -but not for one moment did I alter my opinions. As a kind of final -commentary on this chapter and this side of Maitland's mind, one -might quote from a letter to Rivers: "Seeing that mankind cannot have -done altogether with the miserable mystery of life, undoubtedly it -behoves us before all else to enlighten as we best can the lot of -those for whose being we are responsible. This for the vast majority -of men--a few there are, I think, who are justified in quite -neglecting that view of life, and, by the bye, Marcus Aurelius was -one of them. Nothing he could have done would have made Commodus -other than he was--I use, of course, the everyday phrases, regardless -of determinism--and then one feels pretty sure that Commodus was not -his son at all. For him, life was the individual, and whether he has -had any true influence or not, I hold him absolutely justified in -thinking as he did." There again comes out Maitland's view, his -anti-social view, the native egoism of the man, his peculiar solitude -of thought. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - -To have seen "Shelley plain" once only is to put down a single point -on clear paper. To have seen him twice gives his biographer the -right to draw a line. Out of three points may come a triangle. Out -of the many times in many years that I saw Maitland comes the -intricate pattern of him. I would rather do a little book like -"Manon Lescaut" than many biographical quartos lying as heavy on the -dead as Vanbrugh's mansions. If there are warts on Maitland so there -were on Cromwell. I do not invent like the old cartographers, who -adorned their maps with legends saying, "Here is much gold," or "Here -are found diamonds." Nor have I put any imaginary "Mountains of the -Moon" into his map, or adorned vacant parts of ocean with whales or -wonderful monsters. I put down nothing unseen, or most reasonably -inferred. In spite of my desire, which is sincere, to say as little -as possible about myself, I find I have to speak sometimes of things -primarily my own. There is no doubt it did Maitland a great deal of -good to have somebody to interest himself in, even if it were no one -of more importance than myself. Although he was so singularly a -lonely man, he could not always bury himself in the classics, or even -in his work, done laboriously in eight prodigious hours. We for ever -talked about what we were going to do, and there was very little that -I wrote, up to the time of his leaving London permanently, which I -did not discuss with him. Yet I was aware that with much I wrote he -was wholly dissatisfied. I remember when I was still living in -Chelsea, not in Danvers Street but in Redburn Street, where I at last -attained the glory of two rooms, he came to me one Sunday in a very -uneasy state of mind. He looked obviously worried and troubled, and -was for a long time silent as he sat over the fire. I asked him -again and again what was the matter, because, as can be easily -imagined, I always had the notion that something must be the matter -with him, or soon would be. In answer to my repeated importunities -he said, at last: "Well, the fact of the matter is, I want to speak -to you about your work." It appeared that I and my affairs were at -the bottom of his discomfort. He told me that he had been thinking -of my want of success, and that he had made up his mind to tell me -the cause of it. He was nervous and miserable, though I begged him -to speak freely, but at last got out the truth. He told me that he -did not think I possessed the qualities to succeed at the business I -had so rashly commenced. He declared that it was not that he had not -the very highest opinion of such a book as "The Western Trail," but -as regards fiction he felt I was bound to be a failure. Those who -knew him can imagine what it cost him to say as much as this. I -believe he would have preferred to destroy half a book and begin it -again. Naturally enough what he said I found very disturbing, but I -am pleased to say that I took it in very good part, and told him that -I would think it over seriously. As may be imagined, I did a great -deal of thinking on the subject, but the result of my cogitations -amounted to this: I had started a thing and meant to go through with -it at all costs. I wrote this to him later, and the little incident -never made any difference whatever to our affectionate friendship. I -reminded him many years after of what he had said, and he owned then -that I had done something to make him revise his former opinion. -When I come to speak of some of his letters to me about my later -books it will be seen how generous he could be to a friend who, for -some time then, had not been very enthusiastic about his own work. I -have said before, and I always believed, that it was he and not -myself who was at the wrong kind of task. Fiction, even as he -understood it, was not for a man of his nature and faculties. He -would have been in his true element as a don of a college, and much -of his love of the classics was a mystery to me, as it would have -been to most active men of the world, however well educated. I did -understand his passion for the Greek tragedies, but he had almost -more delight in the Romans; and, with the exception of Catullus and -Lucretius, the Latin classics are to me without any savour. There is -no doubt that in many ways I was but a barbarian to him. For one -thing, at that time I was something of a fanatical imperialist. He -took no more interest in the Empire, except as literary material, -than he did in Nonconformist theology. Then I was certainly highly -patriotic as regards England, but he was very cosmopolitan. It was -no doubt a very strange thing that he should have spoken to me about -my having little faculty for writing fiction when I had so often come -to the same silent conclusion about himself. Naturally enough I did -not dare to tell him so, for if such a pronouncement had distressed -me a little it would distress him very much more. Yet I think he did -sometimes understand his real limitations, especially in later years, -when he wrote more criticism. The man who could say that he was -prepared to spend the years from thirty-six to forty in a vigorous -apprenticeship to English, was perfectly capable of continuing that -apprenticeship until he died. - -He took a critical and wonderful interest in the methods of all men -of letters, and that particular interest with regard to Balzac, which -was known to many, has sometimes been mistaken. Folks have said, and -even written, that he meant to write an English "Comedie Humaine." -There is, no doubt, a touch of truth in this notion, but no more than -a touch. He would have liked to follow in Balzac's mighty footsteps, -and do something for England which would possibly be inclusive of all -social grades. At any rate he began at the bottom and worked -upwards. It is quite obvious to me that what prevented him from -going further in any such scheme was not actually a want of power or -any failure of industry, it was a real failure of knowledge and of -close contact with the classes composing the whole nation. Beyond -the lower middle class his knowledge was not very deep. He was -mentally an alien, and a satiric if interested intruder. He had been -exiled for the unpardonable sins of his youth. It is impossible for -any man of intellect not to suspect his own limitations, and I am -sure he knew that he should have been a pure child of books, for as -soon as he got beyond the pale of his own grim surroundings, those -surroundings which had been burnt, and were still being burnt into -his soul, he apparently lost interest. Though two or three of these -later books have indeed much merit, such novels as "The Vortex" and -"The Best of All Things" are really failures. I believe he felt it. -Anthony Hope Hawkins once wrote to me apropos of something, that -there were very few men writing who really knew that all real -knowledge had to be "bought." Maitland had bought his knowledge of -sorrow and suffering and certain surroundings at a personal price -that few can pay and not be bankrupt. But while I was associating -with almost every class in the world he lived truly alone. There -were, indeed, long months when he actually saw no one, and there were -other periods when his only friend besides myself was that -philosophic German whose philosophy put its lofty tail between its -legs on a prolonged starvation diet. - -As one goes on talking of him and considering his nature there are -times when it seems amazing that he did not commit suicide and have -done with it. Certainly there were days and seasons when I thought -this might be his possible end. But some men break and others bend, -and in him there was undoubtedly some curious strength though it were -but the Will to Live of Schopenhauer, the one philosopher he -sometimes read. I myself used to think that it was perhaps his -native sensuousness which kept him alive in spite of all his misery. -No man ever lived who enjoyed things that were even remotely -enjoyable more acutely than himself, though I think his general -attitude towards life was like his attitude towards people and the -world. For so many good men Jehovah would have spared the Cities of -the Plains. So in a certain sense the few good folk that he -perceived in any given class made him endure the others that he -hated, while he painted those he loved against their dingy and -dreadful background. The motto on the original title-page of "The -Under World" was a quotation from a speech by Renan delivered at the -Académie Française in 1889: "La peinture d'un fumier peut être -justifiée pourvu qu'il y pousse une belle fleur; sans cela, le fumier -n'est que repoussant." The few beautiful flowers of the world for -Henry Maitland were those who hated their surroundings and desired -vainly to grow out of them. Such he pitied, hopeless as he believed -their position, and vain as he knew to be their aspirations. In a -way all this was nothing but translated self-pity. Had he been more -fortunate in his youth I do not believe he would have ever turned his -attention in any way towards social affairs, in which he took no -native interest. His natural sympathy was only for those whom he -could imagine to be his mental fellows. Almost every sympathetic -character in all his best books was for him like the starling in the -cage of Sterne--the starling that cried, "I can't get out! I can't -get out!" Among the subjects that he refused to speak of or to -discuss was one which for a long time greatly interested me, and -interests me still--I refer to Socialism. But then Socialism, after -all, is nothing but a more or less definitive view of a definite -organisation with perfectly recognised ends, and he saw no -possibility of any organisation doing away with the things he -loathed. That is to say, he was truly hopeless, most truly -pessimistic. He was a sensuous and not a scientific thinker, and to -get on with him for any length of time it was necessary for me to -suppress three-quarters of the things I wished to speak about. He -was a strange egoist, though truly the hateful world was not his own. -It appeared to me that he prayed, or strove, for the power to ignore -it. It is for this reason that it seems to me now that all his -so-called social work and analysis were in the nature of an alien -_tour de force_. He bent his intellect in that direction, and -succeeded even against his nature. He who desired to be a Bentley or -a Porson wrote bitterly about the slums of Tottenham Court Road. -With Porson he damned the nature of things, and wrote beautifully -about them. I remember on one occasion telling him of a piece of -script in the handwriting of the great surgeon, John Hunter, which -ran: "Damn civilisation! It makes cats eat their kittens, sows eat -their young, and women send their children out to nurse." I think -that gave him more appreciation of science than anything he had ever -heard. For it looked back into the past, and for Henry Maitland the -past was the age of gold. In life, as he had to live it, it was -impossible to ignore the horrors of the present time. He found it -easier to ignore the horrors of the past, and out of ancient history -he made his great romance, which, truly, he never wrote. - -It is a curious thing that a man who was thus so essentially romantic -should have been mistaken, not without great reason, for a realist. -In one sense he was a realist, but this was the fatal result of his -nature and his circumstances. Had he lived in happier surroundings, -still writing fiction, I am assured it would have been romance. And -yet, curiously enough, I doubt if any of his ideas concerning women -were at all romantic. His disaster with his first wife was due to -early and unhappily awakened sex feeling, but I think he believed -that his marrying her was due to his desire to save somebody whom he -considered to be naturally a beautiful character from the dunghill in -which he found her. This poor girl was his first _belle fleur_. In -all his relations with women it seems as if his own personal -loneliness was the dominating factor. So much did he feel these -things that it was rarely possible to discuss them with him. -Nevertheless it was the one subject, scientifically treated, on which -I could get him to listen to me. In the first five years of my -literary apprenticeship I began a book, which is still unfinished, -and never will be finished, called "Social Pathology." So far as it -dealt with sex and sex deprivation, he was much interested in it. In -all his books there is to be found the misery of the man who lives -alone and yet cannot live alone. I do not think that in any book but -"The Unchosen," he ever made a study of that from the woman's side. -But it is curiously characteristic of his sex view that the chief -feminine character of that book apparently knew not love even when -she thought that she knew it, but was only aware of awakened senses. - -One might have imagined, considering his early experiences, that he -would have led the ordinary life of man, and associated, if only -occasionally, with women of the mercenary type. This, I am wholly -convinced, was a thing he never did, though I possess one poem which -implies the possible occurrence of such a passing liaison. There -was, however, another incident in his life which occurred not long -before I went to America. He was then living in one room in the -house of a journeyman bookbinder. On several occasions when I -visited him there I saw his landlady, a young and not unpleasing -woman, who seemed to take great interest in him, and did her very -best to make him comfortable in narrow, almost impossible, -surroundings. Her husband, a man a great deal older than herself, -drank, and not infrequently ill-treated her. This was not wholly -Maitland's story, for I saw the man myself, as well as his wife. It -appears she went for sympathy to her lodger, and he told her -something of his own troubles. Their common griefs threw them -together. She was obviously of more than the usual intelligence of -her class. It appeared that she desired to learn French, or made -Maitland believe so; my own view being that she desired his company. -The result of this was only natural, and soon afterwards Maitland was -obliged to leave the house owing to the jealousy of her husband, who -for many years had already been suspicious of her without any cause. -But this affair was only passing. He took other rooms, and so far as -I know never saw her again. - -While I was in America he was living at 7K, and in that gloomy flat -there was an affair of another order, an incident not without many -parallels in the lives of poor artists and writers. It seems that a -certain lady not without importance in society, the wife of a rich -husband, wrote to him about one of his books, and having got into -correspondence with him allowed her curiosity to overcome her -discretion. She visited him very often in his chambers, and though -he told me but little I gathered what the result was. Oddly enough, -by a curious chain of reasoning and coincidence, I afterwards -discovered this woman's name, which I shall, of course, suppress. So -far as I am aware these were the only two romantic or quasi-romantic -incidents in Maitland's life until towards the end of it. When I -came back from America he certainly had no mistress, and beyond an -occasional visit from the sons of Harold Edgeworth, he practically -received no one but myself. His poverty forbade him entertaining any -but one of his fellows who was as poor as he was, and the few -acquaintances he had once met in better surroundings than his own -gradually drifted away from him, or died as Cotter Morison died. -Although he spoke so very little about these matters of personal -loneliness and deprivation I was yet conscious from the general tenor -of his writing and an occasional dropped word, how bitterly he felt -it personally. It had rejoiced my unregenerate heart in America to -learn that he was not entirely without feminine companionship at a -time when the horror of his life was only partially mitigated by the -preference of his mad and wretched wife for the dens and slums of the -New Cut. This woman of the upper classes had come to him like a -star, and had been a lamp in his darkness. I wonder if she still -retains within her heart some memories of those hours. - -I have not been able to discover whether it is true, as has been -said, that some of Maitland's ancestors were originally German. He -himself thought this was so, without having anything definite that I -remember to go upon. If it were true I wonder whether it was his -Teutonic ancestry which made him turn with a certain joy to the -German ideal of woman, that of the haus-frau. If little or nothing -were known about him, or only so much as those know who have already -written of him, it might, in some ways, be possible to reconstruct -him by a process of deductive analysis, by what the school logicians -call the _regressus a principiatis ad principia_. This is always a -fascinating mental exercise, and indeed I think, with a very little -light on Maitland's life, it should not have been difficult for some -to build up a picture not unlike the man. For instance, no one with -a gleam of intelligence, whether a critic or not, could read some -portions of the chapter in "Victorian Novelists" on "Women and -Dickens" without coming to the inevitable conclusion that Maitland's -fortune with regard to the women with whom he had been thrown in -contact must have been most lamentably unfortunate. Although Dickens -drew certain offensive women with almost unequalled power, he treats -them so that one becomes oblivious of their very offensiveness, as -Maitland points out. Maitland's own commentary on such women is ten -thousand times more bitter, and it is _felt_, not observed, as in -Dickens' books. He calls them "these remarkable creatures," and -declares they belong mostly to one rank of life, the lower middle -class. "In general their circumstances are comfortable .... nothing -is asked of them but a quiet and amiable discharge of their household -duties; they are treated by their male kindred with great, often with -extraordinary consideration. Yet their characteristic is acidity of -temper and boundless licence of querulous or insulting talk. The -real business of their lives is to make all about them as -uncomfortable as they can. Invariably, they are unintelligent and -untaught; very often they are fragrantly imbecile. Their very -virtues (if such persons can be said to have any) become a scourge. -In the highways and byways of life, by the fireside, and in the -bed-chamber, their voices shrill upon the terrified ear." He adds -that no historical investigation is needed to ascertain the -truthfulness of these presentments. Indeed Maitland required no -historical investigation, he had his personal experience to go upon; -but this, indeed, is obvious. Nevertheless one cannot help feeling -in reading this appalling indictment, that something might be said -upon the other side, and that Maitland's attitude was so essentially -male as to vitiate many of his conclusions. - -A few pages further on in this book he says: "Another man, obtaining -his release from these depths, would have turned away in loathing; -Dickens found therein matter for his mirth, material for his art." -But Maitland knew that Dickens had not suffered in the way he himself -had done. Thus it was that he rejoiced in the punishment which Mrs. -Joe Gargery received. Maitland writes: "Mrs. Joe Gargery shall be -brought to quietness; but how? By a half-murderous blow on the back -of her head, from which she will never recover. Dickens understood -by this time that there is no other efficacious way with these -ornaments of their sex." - -Having spoken of Dickens it may be as well to dispose of him, with -regard to Maitland, in this particular chapter. It seems to be -commonly thought that Maitland wrote his book about the Victorian -novelists not only with the sympathy which he expressed, but with -considerable joy in the actual work. This is not true, for he -regarded it essentially as a pot-boiler, and did it purely for the -money. By some strange kink in his mind he chose to do it in Italy, -far from any reference library. He wrote: "My little novelist book -has to be written before Christmas, and to do this I must get settled -at the earliest possible date in a quiet north Italian town. I think -I shall choose Siena." On what principle he decided to choose a -quiet north Italian town to write a book about Victorian novelists I -have never been able to determine. It was certainly a very curious -proceeding, especially as he had no overwhelming love of North Italy, -which was for him the Italy of the Renaissance. As I have said, he -actually disliked the work, and had no desire to do it, well as it -was done. It is, however, curious, to me, in considering this book, -to find that neither he nor any other critic of Dickens that I have -ever read seems to give a satisfactory explanation of the great, and -at times overwhelming, attraction that Dickens has for many. And yet -on more than one occasion I discussed Dickens with him, and in a -great measure he agreed with a theory I put forth with some -confidence. I think it still worth considering. For me the great -charm of Dickens lies not wholly in his humour or even greatly in his -humour. It is not found in his characterisation, nor in his -underlying philosophy of revolt, although almost every writer of -consequence is a revolutionist. It results purely and simply from -what the critics of the allied art of painting describe as "quality." -This is a word exceedingly difficult to define. It implies more or -less the characteristic way in which paint is put upon the canvas. A -picture may be practically worthless from the point of view of -subject or composition, it may even be comparatively poor in -colouring, and yet it may have an extreme interest of surface. One -finds, I think, the same thing in Dickens' writings. His page is -full. It is fuller than the page of any other English writer. There -are, so to speak, on any given page by any man a certain number of -intellectual and emotional stimuli. Dickens' page is full of these -stimuli to a most extreme degree. It is like a small mosaic, and yet -clear. It has cross meanings, cross lights, reflections, -suggestions. Compare a page of Dickens with a page, say, of -Thackeray. Take a pencil and write down the number of mental -suggestions given by a sentence of Thackeray. Take, again, a -sentence of Dickens, and see how many more there are to be found. It -is this tremendous and overflowing fulness which really constitutes -Dickens' great and peculiar power. - -But all this is anticipation. Not yet was he to write of Dickens, -Thackeray, and the Brontës, for much was to befall him before he went -to Italy again. He was once more alone, and I think I knew that this -loneliness would not last for long. I have often regretted that I -did not foresee what I might have foreseen if I had considered the -man and his circumstances with the same fulness which comes to one in -later years after Fate has wrought itself out. Had I known all that -I might have known, or done all that I might have done, I could -perhaps have saved him from something even worse than his first -marriage. Yet, after all, I was a poor and busy man, and while -living in Chelsea had many companions, some of them men who have now -made a great name in the world of Art. The very nature of Maitland -and his work, the dreadful concentration he required to do something -which was, as I insist again, alien from his true nature, forbade my -seeing him very often, or even often enough to gather from his -reticence what was really in his mind. Had I gone to see him without -any warning, it would, I knew, have utterly destroyed his whole day's -work. But this solitude, this enforced and appalling loneliness, -which seemed to him necessary for work if he was to live, ate into -him deeply. It destroyed his nerve and what judgment he ever had -which, heaven knows, was little enough. What it means to some men to -live in such solitude only those who know can tell, and they never -tell. To Maitland, with his sensual and sensuous nature, it was most -utter damnation. - -By now he had come out of the pit of his first marriage, and -gradually the horrors he had passed through became dim to his eyes. -They were like a badly toned photograph, and faded. I did foresee -that something would happen sooner or later to alter the way in which -he lived, but I know I did not foresee, and could not have foreseen -or imagined what was actually coming, for no one could have -prophesied it. It was absurd, impossible, monstrous, and almost -bathos. And yet it fits in with the character of the man as it had -been distorted by circumstance. One Sunday when I visited him he -told me, with a strange mixture of abruptness and hesitation, that he -had made the acquaintance of a girl in the Marylebone road. -Naturally enough I thought at first that his resolution and his -habits had broken down and that he had picked up some prostitute of -the neighbourhood. But it turned out that the girl was -"respectable." He said to me: "I could stand it no longer, so I -rushed out and spoke to the very first woman I came across." It was -an unhappy inspiration of the desperate, and was the first act of a -prolonged drama of pain and misery. It took me some time and many -questions to find out what this meant, and what it was to lead to, -but presently he replied sullenly that he proposed to marry the girl -if she would marry him. On hearing this, I fell into silence and we -sat for a long time without speaking. Knowing him as I did, it was -yet a great shock to me. For I would rather have seen him in the -physical clutches of the biggest harpy in the Strand--knowing that -such now could not long hold him. I had done my best, as a mere boy, -to prevent him marrying his first wife, and had failed with the most -disastrous results. I now determined to stop this marriage if I -could. I ventured to remind him of the past, and the part I had -played in it when I implored him to have no more to do with Marian -Hilton long before he married her. I told him once more, trying to -renew it in him, of the relief it had been when his first wife died, -but nothing that I could say seemed to move, or even to offend him. -His mind recognised the truth of everything, but his body meant to -have its way. He was quiet, sullen, set--even when I told him that -he would repent it most bitterly. The only thing I could at last get -him to agree to was that he would take no irrevocable step for a week. - -I asked him questions about the girl. He admitted that he did not -love her in any sense of the word love. He admitted that she had no -great powers of attraction, that she seemed to possess no -particularly obvious intellect. She had received his advances in the -street in the way that such girls, whose courtship is traditionally -carried on in the open thoroughfare, do receive them. But when he -asked her to visit him in his chambers she replied to that invitation -with all the obvious suspicion of a lower-class girl from whom no sex -secrets were hidden. From the very start the whole affair seemed -hopeless, preposterous, intolerable, and I went away from him in -despair. It was a strange thing that Maitland did not seem to know -what love was. If I have not before this said something about his -essential lack of real passion in his dealings with women it must be -said now. Of course, it is quite obvious that he had a boyish kind -of passion for Marian Hilton, but it was certainly not that kind of -passion which mostly keeps boys innocent. Indeed those calf loves -which afflict youths are at the same time a great help to them, for a -boy is really as naturally coy as any maiden. If by any chance -Maitland, instead of coming into the hands of a poor girl of the -streets of Moorhampton, had fallen in love with some young girl of -decent character and upbringing, his passions would not have been so -fatally roused. I think it was probably the whole root of his -disaster that this should have occurred at all. Possibly it was the -horror and rage and anger connected with this first affair, combined -with the fact that it became actually sensual, which prevented him -having afterwards what one might without priggishness describe as a -pure passion. At any rate I never saw any signs of his being capable -of the overwhelming passion which might under other circumstances -drive a man down to hell, or raise him to heaven. To my mind all his -books betray an extreme lack of this. His characters in all their -love-affairs are essentially too reasonable. A man wishes to marry a -girl, not because he desires her simply and overwhelmingly, but -because she is a fitting person, or the kind of woman of whom he has -been able to build up certain ideas which suit his mind. In fact the -love of George Hardy for Isabel in "The Exile" is somewhat typical of -the whole attitude he had towards affairs of passion. Then again in -"Paternoster Row" there is the suicide of Gifford which throws a very -curious light on Maitland's nature. Apparently Gifford did not -commit suicide because of his failure, or because he was half -starving, it was because he was weakly desirous of a woman like -Anne--not necessarily Anne herself. In Maitland's phrase, he desired -her to complete his manhood, to my mind the most ridiculous way of -putting the affair. It is in this, I think, that Maitland showed his -essential lack of knowledge of the other sex. A man does not -captivate women by going to them and explaining, with more or less -periphrasis, that they are required to complete his manhood, that he -feels a rather frustrate male individual without them. And if he has -these ideas at the back of his head and goes courting, the result is -hardly likely to be successful. Maitland never understood the -passion in the man that sweeps a woman off her feet. One finds this -lack in all his men who live celibate lives. They suffer physically, -or they suffer to a certain degree from loneliness, but one never -feels that only one woman could cure their pain, or alleviate their -desolation. At times Maitland seemed, as it were, to be in love with -the sex but not with the woman. Of course he had a bitter hatred of -the general prejudices of morality, a thing which was only natural to -any one who had lived his life and thought what he thought. It is a -curious thing to note that his favourite poem in the whole English -language was perhaps the least likely one that could be picked out. -This was Browning's "Statue and the Bust," which is certainly of a -teaching not Puritan in its essence. The Puritan ideal Maitland -loathed with a fervour which produced the nearest I have ever seen in -him to actual rage and madness. He roared against it if he did not -scoff. He sometimes quoted the well-known lines from the unknown -Brathwait: - - "Where I saw a Puritane one - Hanging of his Cat on Monday, - For killing of a Mouse on Sonday." - -I remember very well his taking down Browning when I was with him one -afternoon at 7K. He read a great portion of "The Statue and the -Bust" out aloud, and we discussed it afterwards, of course pointing -out to each other with emphasis its actual teaching, its loathing of -futility. It teaches that the two people who loved each other but -never achieved love were two weaklings, who ought to have acted, and -should not have allowed themselves to be conquered by the lordly -husband. Maitland said: "Those people who buy Browning and think -they understand it--oh, if they really knew what he meant they would -pick him up with a pair of tongs, and take him out, and burn him in -their back yards--in their back yards!" It strikes one that -Maitland, in his haste, seemed to imagine that the kind of bourgeois -or bourgeoise whom he imagined thus destroying poor Browning with the -aid of tongs, possessed such things as back yards, and, perhaps, -frequented them on Sunday afternoons. But he had lived for so many -years in houses which had not a garden, or anything but a small, damp -yard behind, that he began to think, possibly, that all houses were -alike. I roared with laughter at his notion of what these prosperous -Puritans would do. I had a picture in my mind of some well-dressed -woman of the upper middle-class bringing out "The Statue and the -Bust" with a pair of tongs, and burning it in some small and horrible -back yard belonging to a house in the slums between Tottenham Court -Road and Fitzroy Square. And yet, although he understood Browning's -sermon against the passive futility of these weak and unfortunate -lovers he could not, I think, have understood wholly, or in anything -but a literary sense the enormous power of passion which Browning -possessed. This lack in him is one of the keys to his character, and -it unlocks much. When I left him after he told me about this new -affair, I went back to my own rooms and sat thinking it over, -wondering if it were possible even now to do anything to save him -from his own nature, and the catastrophe his nature was preparing. -Without having seen the girl I felt sure that it would be a -catastrophe, for I knew him too well. Nevertheless on reflecting -over the matter it did seem to me that there was one possible chance -of saving him from himself. It was a very unlikely thing that I -should succeed, but at any rate I could try. - -I have said that we rarely spoke of his early life, and never of what -had happened in Moorhampton. Nevertheless I was, of course, aware -that it dominated the whole of his outlook and all of his thoughts in -any way connected with ordinary social life, especially with regard -to intercourse with those who might know something about his early -career. At this time I do not think that he actually blamed himself -much for what had happened. Men die many times in life and are born -again, and by this time he must have looked on the errant youth who -had been himself as little more than an ancestor. He himself had -died and risen again, and if he was not the man he might have been, -he was certainly not the man he had been. Nevertheless he was -perpetually alive to what other people might possibly think of him. -I believe that the real reason for his almost rigid seclusion from -society was that very natural fear that some brute, and he knew only -too well that there are such brutes, might suddenly and unexpectedly -expose his ancient history. It is true that even in our society in -England, which is not famous all the world over for tact, it was not -very likely to happen. Nevertheless the bare possibility that it -might occur absolutely dominated him. It requires very little -sympathy or understanding of his character to see that this must have -been so. No doubt it was mainly from this cause that he considered -he had no right to approach women of his own class, seeing that he -had declassed himself, without telling the whole truth. But this was -quite impossible for him to do, and I knew it. In some cases it -would have been wise, in some unwise, but Henry Maitland was unable -to do such a thing. The result was this sudden revolt, and the -madness which led him to speak to this girl of the Marylebone Road, -whom I had not yet met but whom I pictured, not inadequately, in my -mind. At the first glance it seemed that nothing could possibly be -done, that the man must be left to "dree his weird," to work out his -fate and accomplish his destiny. And yet I lay awake for a very long -time that night thinking of the whole situation, and I at last -determined to take a step on his behalf which, at any rate, had the -merit of some originality and courage. - -Years ago in Moorhampton, when he was a boy, before the great -disaster came, Maitland had visited my uncle's house, and had -obviously pleased every one he met there. He was bright, not bad -looking, very cheerful and enthusiastic, and few that met him did not -like him. Among those whose acquaintance he made at that house were -two of my own cousins. In later years they often spoke of him to me, -even although they had not seen him since he was a boy of seventeen. -I now went to both of them and told them the whole affair in -confidence, speaking quite openly of his character, and the -impossibility he discovered within himself of living in the -desolation which fate had brought upon him. They understood his -character, and were acquainted with his reputation. He was a man of -genius, if not a man of great genius, and occupied a certain position -in literature which would one day, we all felt assured, be still a -greater position. They were obviously exceedingly sorry for him, and -not the less sorry when I told them of the straits in which he -sometimes found himself. Nevertheless it seemed to me, as I -explained to them, that if he had been lucky enough to marry some one -in sympathy with him and his work, some one able to help in a little -way to push him forward on the lines on which he might have attained -success, there was yet great hope for him even in finance, or so I -believed. Then I asked them whether it would not be possible to stop -this proposed outrageous marriage, a thing which seemed to me utterly -unnatural. They were, however, unable to make any suggestion, and -certainly did not follow what was in my mind. Then I opened what I -had to say, and asked them abruptly if it were not possible for one -of them to consider whether she would marry him if the present affair -could be brought decently to an end. They were both educated women, -and knew at least two foreign languages. They were accustomed to -books, and appreciated his work. - -No doubt my proposal sounded absurd, unconventional, and perhaps not -a little horrifying. Nevertheless when I have had anything to do in -life I have not been accustomed to let convention stand in my way. -Such marriages have been arranged and have not been unsuccessful. -There was, I thought, a real possibility of such a marriage as I -proposed being anything but a failure. Our conversation ended at -last in both of them undertaking to consider the matter if, after -meeting Maitland again, they still remained of the same mind, and if -he found that such a step was possible. I have often wondered since -whether any situation exactly like this ever occurred before. I own -that I found it somewhat interesting, and when at last I went back to -Maitland I felt entitled to tell him that he could do much better -than marrying an unknown girl of the lower classes whom he had -accosted in the streets in desperation. But he received what I had -to say in a very curious manner. It seemed to depress him -profoundly. Naturally enough, I did not tell him the names of those -who were prepared to make his acquaintance, but I did tell him that I -had been to a lady who had once met him and greatly admired his work, -who would be ready to consider the possibility of her becoming his -wife if on meeting once again they proved sympathetic. He shook his -head grimly, and, after a long silence, he told me that he had not -kept his word, and that he had asked Ada Brent to marry him. He had, -he said, gone too far to withdraw. - -There is such a thing in life as the tyranny of honour, and -personally I cared very little for this point of honour when I -thought of his future. It was not as if this girl's affections were -in any way engaged. If they had been I would have kept silence, -bitterly as I regretted the whole affair. She was curious about him, -and that was all. It would do her no harm to lose him, and, indeed, -as the event proved, it would have been better if she had not married -at all. Therefore I begged him to shut up the flat and leave London -at once. I even offered to try and find the money for him to do so. -But, like all weak people, he was peculiarly obstinate, and nothing -that I could urge had the least effect upon him. I have often -thought it was his one great failure in rectitude which occurred at -Moorhampton that made him infinitely more tenacious of doing nothing -which might seem in any way dishonourable, however remotely. I did -not succeed in moving him, with whatever arguments I plied him, and -the only satisfaction I got out of it was the sense that he knew I -was most deeply interested in him, and had done everything, even much -more than might have been expected, to save him from what I thought -must lead to irreparable misery. Certainly the whole incident was -remarkable. There was, perhaps, a little air of curiously polite -comedy about it, and yet it was the prelude to a tragedy. - -It was soon after this, in fact it was on the following Sunday, that -I made the acquaintance of the young woman who was to be his second -wife, to bear his children, to torture him for years, to drive him -almost mad, and once more make a financial slave of him. We three -met in the gloomy sitting-room at 7K. My first impression of this -girl was more unfavourable than I had expected. She was the daughter -of a small tradesman but little removed from an artisan, and she -looked it. In the marriage certificate her father is described as a -carver, for what reason I am unable to determine, for I have a very -distinct recollection that Maitland told me he was a bootmaker, -probably even a cobbler. I disliked the young woman at first sight, -and never got over my early impression. From the very beginning it -seemed impossible that she could ever become in any remote degree -what he might justifiably have asked for in a wife. Yet she was not -wholly disagreeable in appearance. She was of medium height and -somewhat dark. She had not, however, the least pretence to such -beauty as one might hope to find even in a slave of the kitchen. She -possessed neither face nor figure, nor a sweet voice, nor any -charm--she was just a female. And this was she that the most -fastidious man in many ways, that I knew, was about to marry. I went -away with a sick heart, for it was nothing less than a frightful -catastrophe, and I had to stand by and see it happen. He married her -on March 20, 1891, and went to live near Exeter. - - - - -CHAPTER VII - -For many months after he left London I did not see Maitland, although -we continued to correspond, somewhat irregularly. He was exceedingly -reticent as to the results of his marriage, and I did not discover -definitely for some time to what extent it was likely to prove a -failure. Indeed, I had many things to do, and was both financially -and in other matters in a parlous condition. In some ways it was a -relief to me that he should be living in the country, as I always -felt, rightly or wrongly, a certain feeling of responsibility with -regard to him when he was close at hand. Marriage always takes one's -friends away from one, and for a time he was taken from me. But as I -am not anxious to write in great detail about the more sordid facts -of his life, especially when they do not throw light on his -character, I am not disturbed at knowing little of the earlier days -of his second marriage. The results are sufficient, and they will -presently appear. For Maitland remained Maitland, and his character -did not alter now. So I may return for a little while to matters -more connected with his literary life. - -I have, I think, before this endeavoured to describe or suggest his -personal appearance, but whenever I think of him I regret deeply that -no painter ever made an adequate portrait of the man. He was -especially interesting-looking, and most obviously lovable and -sympathetic when any of his feelings were roused. His grey eyes were -very bright and intelligent, his features finely cut, and at times he -was almost beautiful; although his skin was not always in such a good -condition as it should have been, and he was always very badly -freckled. For those who have never seen him a photograph published -in a dull literary journal, which is now defunct, is certainly the -most adequate and satisfying presentment of him in existence. On a -close inspection of this photograph it will be observed that he -brushed his hair straight backward from his forehead without any -parting. He had a curious way of dressing his hair, about which he -was very particular. It was very fine hair of a brown colour, -perhaps of a rather mousy tint, and it was never cut except at the -ends at the nape of his neck. Whenever he washed his face he used to -fasten this hair back with an elastic band which he always carried in -his waistcoat pocket. On some occasions, when I have stayed the -night at 7K and seen him at his toilette, this elastic band gave him -a very odd appearance, almost as if he wore, for the time being, a -very odd halo; but as his hair was so long in front it would -otherwise have fallen into the basin of water. He told me that once -in Germany a waiter entered the room while he was washing his face, -and on perceiving this peculiar head-dress betrayed signs of mixed -amusement and alarm. As Maitland said, "I believe he thought I was -mad." - -His forehead was high, his head exceedingly well shaped but not -remarkably large. He always wore a moustache. Considering his very -sedentary life his natural physique was extremely good, and he was -capable of walking great distances if he were put to it and was in -condition. Seen nude, he had the figure of a possible athlete. I -used to tell him that he might be an exceedingly strong man if he -cared to take the trouble to become one, but his belief, which is to -be found expressed in one passage of "The Meditations," was that no -one in our times could be at once intellectually and physically at -his best. Indeed, he had in a way a peculiar contempt for mere -strength, and I do not doubt that much of his later bodily weakness -and illness might have been avoided if he had thought more of -exercise and open air. - -In no way was he excessive, in spite of his jocular pretence of a -monstrous addiction to "strong waters" as he always called them. He -did love wine, as I have written, but he loved it with discretion, -although not with real knowledge. It was a case of passion and faith -with him. I could imagine that in some previous incarnation--were -there such things as reincarnations--he must have been an Italian -writer of the South he loved so well. A little while ago I spoke of -the strange absence of colour in his rooms. On rereading "The -Meditations," I find some kind of an explanation, or what he -considered an explanation, of this fact, to which I myself drew his -attention. He seemed to imagine that his early acquaintance with his -father's engravings inspired him with a peculiar love of black and -white. More probably the actual truth is that his father's possible -love of colour had never been developed any more than his son's. - -His fantastic attempts at times to make one believe that he was a -great drinker, when a bottle of poor and common wine served him and -me for a dinner and made us joyous, were no more true than that he -was a great smoker. He had a prodigious big pot of tobacco in his -rooms in the early days, a pot containing some form of mild returns -which to my barbaric taste suggested nothing so much as hay that had -been stored next some mild tobacco. It was one of my grievances -against him that when I visited his rooms hard up for tobacco, a -thing which frequently occurred in those days, I was almost unable to -use his. But it was always a form of joke with him to pretend that -his habits were monstrously excessive. As I have said, one of his -commonest forms of humour was exaggeration. Many people -misunderstood that his very expressions of despair were all touched -with a grim humour. Nevertheless he and his rooms were grim enough. -On his shelves there was a French book, the title of which I forget, -dealing without any reticence with the lives of the band of young -French writers under the Second Empire, who perished miserably in the -conditions to which they were exposed. This book is a series of -short and bitter biographies, ending for the most part with, "mourut -à l'hôpital," or "brûlait la cervelle." We were by no means for ever -cheerful in these times. - -I do not think I have said very much, except by bitter implication, -of his financial position, or what he earned. But his finances were -a part of his general life's tragedy. There is a passage somewhere -at the end of a chapter in "In the Morning" which says: "Put money in -thy purse; and again, put money in thy purse; for, as the world is -ordered, to lack current coin is to lack the privileges of humanity, -and indigence is the death of the soul." I have been speaking wholly -in vain if it is not understood that he was a man extremely difficult -to influence, even for his own good. This was because he was weak, -and his weakness came out with most exceeding force in all his -dealings with publishers and editors. For the most part he was -atrociously paid, but the fact remains that he was paid, and his -perpetual fear was that his books would presently be refused, and -that he would get no one to take them if he remonstrated with those -who were his taskmasters. In such an event he gloomily anticipated, -not so much the workhouse, but once more a cellar off the Tottenham -Court Road, or some low, poverty-stricken post as a private tutor or -the usher of a poor school. Sometimes when we were together he used -to talk with a certain pathetic jocosity, or even jealousy, of -Coleridge's luck in having discovered his amiable patron, Gillman. -He did not imagine that nowadays any Gillmans were to be found, nor -do I think that any Gillman would have found Maitland possible. One -night after we had been talking about Coleridge and Gillman he sat -down and wrote a set of poor enough verses, which are not without -humour, and certainly highly characteristic, that ran as follows: - - THE HUMBLE ASPIRATION OF H.M., NOVELIST - - "Hoc erat in votis." - - Oh could I encounter a Gillman, - Who would board me and lodge me for aye, - With what intellectual skill, man, - My life should be frittered away! - - What visions of study methodic - My leisurely hours would beguile!-- - I would potter with details prosodic, - I would ponder perfections of style. - - I would joke in a vein pessimistic - At all the disasters of earth; - I would trifle with schemes socialistic, - And turn over matters for mirth. - - From the quiddities quaint of Quintilian - I would flit to the latest critiques;-- - I would visit the London Pavilion, - And magnify lion-comiques. - - With the grim ghastly gaze of a Gorgon - I would cut Hendersonian bores-- - I would follow the ambulant organ - That jingles at publicans' doors. - - In the odorous alleys of Wapping - I would saunter on evenings serene; - When the dews of the Sabbath were dropping - You would find me on Clerkenwell Green. - - At the Hall Scientific of Bradlaugh - I would revel in atheist rant, - Or enjoy an attack on some bad law - By the notable Mrs. Besant. - - I would never omit an oration - Of Cunninghame Graham or Burns; - And the Army miscalled of Salvation - Should furnish me frolic by turns. - - Perchance I would muse o'er a mystic; - Perchance I would booze at a bar; - And when in the mind journalistic - I would read the "Pall Mall" and the "Star." - - Never more would I toil with my quill, man, - Or plead for the publishers' pay.-- - Oh where and O where is the Gillman, - Who will lodge me and board me for aye? - - -Now as to his actual earnings. His first book "Children of the -Dawn," was published by Hamerton's. So far as I am aware it brought -him in nothing. The book, naturally enough, was a dead failure; -nobody perceived its promise, and it never sold. I do not think he -received a penny on account for it. He got little more for "Outside -the Pale," which was published in 1884, the year I went to America, -and was dedicated to me, as the initials J.C.H. on the dedication -page of the first edition testify. At that time I still retained in -signature my second initial. This book was published by Andrews and -Company, and it was through it that he first made acquaintance in a -business way with George Meredith, then quite a poor man, and working -for the firm as a reader just before he went to Chapman and Hall. - -In "Outside the Pale," as a manuscript there was a chapter, or part -of a chapter, of a curiously romantic kind. It was some such theme -as that which I myself treated in a romantic story called "The -Purification." Hilda Moon, the idealised heroine of the streets, -washed herself pure of her sins in the sea at midnight, if I remember -the incident rightly, for I never actually read it. It appears that -George Meredith was much taken with the book, but found his sense of -fitness outraged by the introduction of this highly romantic -incident. It seemed out of tone with the remainder of the book and -the way in which it was written. He begged Maitland to eliminate it. -Now as a rule Maitland, being a young writer, naturally objected to -altering anything, but he knew that Meredith was right. At any rate, -even at that period, the older man had had such an enormous -experience that Maitland accepted his opinion and acted upon it. He -told me that George Meredith came downstairs with him into the -street, and standing on the doorstep once more reiterated his advice -as to this particular passage. He said in the peculiar way so -characteristic of him, "My dear sir, I beg you to believe, it made me -_shiver_!" That passage is missing in the published book. - -"Outside the Pale" had a kind of _succès d'estime_. Certain people -read it, and certain people liked it. It was something almost fresh -in English. Nevertheless he made little or nothing out of it. Few, -indeed, were those who made money out of Andrews and Company at that -time. The business was run by Harry Andrews, known in the trade as -"the liar," a man who notoriously never spoke the truth if a lie -would bring him in a penny. I afterwards published a book with the -same firm, and had to deal with the same man. After "Outside the -Pale" came "Isabel," which, as I have said, was obviously written -under the influence of Tourgeniev. So far as I am aware this -influence has not been noted, even by so acute a critic as Thomas -Sackville, but I myself was at that time a great reader of -Tourgeniev, partly owing to Maitland's recommendation and insistence -upon the man, and I recognised his influence at once. Maitland -openly acknowledged it, a thing no writer does without very strong -reason. This book, of course, was not a success. That, I believe, -was the last work he published with Andrews and Company. So far as -he was concerned the firm had not been a success. He was still -compelled to earn his bread and cheese and rent by teaching. - -Although Tourgeniev was the earliest great influence upon Maitland, -his influence was very largely that of form. So far as feeling was -concerned his god for many years was undoubtedly Dostoievsky. That -Russian writer himself suffered and had been down into the depths -like the modern writer Gorki, which was what appealed to Maitland. -Indeed he says somewhere: "Dostoievsky, a poor and suffering man, -gives us with immense power his own view of penury and wretchedness." -It was Maitland who first introduced "Crime and Punishment," to me. -There is no doubt, when one comes to think of it seriously, a certain -likeness between the modern Russian school and Maitland's work, and -that likeness is perhaps founded on something deeper than mere -community of subject which shows itself here and there. Perhaps -there is something essentially Slav-like in Maitland's attitude to -life. He was a dreamer, rebellious and unable. If, indeed, his -ancestry was partly Teutonic, he might have been originally as much -Slav as German. - -In 1886, while I was still in America, he began "The Mob." At that -time, just when he had almost done the first two volumes, there -occurred the Trafalgar Square Riots, in which John Burns, Hyndman, -and Henry Hyde Champion, were concerned. Fool as Maitland was about -his own affairs, he yet saw that it was a wonderful coincidence from -his point of view that he should have been dealing with labour -matters and the nature of the mob at this juncture. Some rare -inspiration or suggestion led him to rush down with the first two -volumes to Messrs. Miller and Company, where they were seen by John -Glass, who said to him, "Give us the rest at once and we will begin -printing it now." He went home and wrote the third volume in a -fortnight while the other two volumes were in the press. This book -was published anonymously, as it was thought, naturally enough, that -this would give it a greater chance of success. It might reasonably -be attributed to any one, and Maitland's name at that time, or indeed -at any time afterwards, was very little help towards financial -success. Now I am of opinion, speaking from memory, that this book -was bought out and out by the publishing firm for fifty pounds. To a -young writer who had never made so much fifty pounds was a large sum. -In Maitland's exaggerated parlance it was "gross and riotous wealth." - -Having succeeded in getting hold of a good firm of notable and -well-known publishers, he dreaded leaving them, even though he very -soon discovered that fifty pounds for a long three-volume novel was -most miserable pay. That he wrote books rapidly at times was no -guarantee that he would always write them as rapidly. For once in -his life he had written a whole volume in a fortnight, but it might -just as well take him many months. There are, indeed, very few of -his books of which most of the first volume was not destroyed, -rewritten, and sometimes destroyed and again rewritten. Nevertheless -he discovered a tremendous reluctance to ask for better terms. It -was not only his fear of returning to the old irremediable poverty -which made him dread leaving a firm who were not all they might have -been, but he was cursed with a most unnecessary tenderness for them. -He actually dreaded hurting the feelings of a publishing firm which -had naturally all the qualities and defects of a corporation. The -reason that he did at last leave this particular firm was rather -curious. It shows that what many might think a mere coincidence may -prejudice a fair man's mind. - -As I have said, he had been in the habit of selling his books -outright for fifty pounds. After this had gone on for many books I -suggested to him, as everything he wrote went into several editions -under the skilful management of the firm, that it might be as well to -sell them the first edition only and ask for a royalty on the -succeeding ones. Now this would never have occurred to him, and he -owned that it was a good idea. So when "The Flower," was finished he -sold the first edition for forty pounds, and arranged for a -percentage on succeeding editions. He went on with the next book at -once. Now as it happened, curiously enough, there was no second -edition of "The Flower" called for, and this so disheartened poor -Maitland that he sold his two next novels outright for the usual sum. - -One day when I was with him he spoke of the bad luck of "The Flower," -which seemed to him almost inexplicable. It was so very unlucky that -it had not done well, for the loss of the extra ten pounds was not -easy for him to get over in his perpetual and grinding poverty. When -we had discussed the matter he determined to ask the firm what they -would give him for all further rights in the book. He did this, and -they were kind enough to pay the sum of ten pounds for them, making -up the old price of fifty pounds for the whole book. Then, by one of -those chances which only business men are capable of thoroughly -appreciating, a demand suddenly sprang up for the story and the -publishers were enabled to bring out a new edition at once. Some -time later it went into a third edition, and, I believe, even into a -fourth. Now it will hardly be credited that Maitland was very sore -about this, for he was usually a very just man; and when I suggested, -for the hundredth time but now at the psychological moment, that the -firm of Bent and Butler who were then publishing for me, might give -him very good terms, he actually had the courage to leave his own -publishers, and never went back to them. - -I have insisted time and again upon Maitland's weakness and his -inability to move. Nothing, I believe, but a sense of rankling -injustice would have made him move. I had been trying for three -years to get him to go to my publishing friends, and I have heard his -conduct in the matter described as obstinacy. But to speak truly it -was sheer weakness and nervousness. The older firm at any rate gave -him fifty pounds for a book, and they were wealthy people, likely to -last. My own friends were new men, and although they gave him a -hundred pounds on account of increasing royalties, it was conceivably -possible that they might be a failure and presently go out of -business. His notion was that the firm he had left would then refuse -to have anything more to do with him, that he would get no other firm -to publish his work, and that he would be thrown back into the ditch -from which he had crawled with so much difficulty. It is an odd -comment on himself where he makes one man say to another in -"Paternoster Row": "You are the kind of man who is roused by -necessity. I am overcome by it. My nature is feeble and luxurious. -I never in my life encountered and overcame a practical difficulty." -He spoke afterwards somewhat too bitterly of his earlier publishing -experiences, and was never tired of quoting Mrs. Gaskell to show how -Charlotte Brontë had fared. - -In "The Meditations" he says: "Think of that grey, pinched life, the -latter years of which would have been so brightened had Charlotte -Brontë received but, let us say, one-third of what, in the same space -of time, the publisher gained by her books. I know all about this; -alas! no man better." There was no subject on which he was more -bitterly vocal. Mr. Jones-Brown, the senior partner of Messrs. -Miller and Company, I knew myself, for after I wrote "The Wake of the -Sun," it was read by Glass and sold to them for fifty pounds. When -this bargain was finally struck Mr. Jones-Brown said to me: "Now, Mr. -H., as the business is all done, would you mind telling me quite -frankly to what extent this book of yours is true?" I replied: "It -is as true in every detail as it can possibly be." "Then you mean to -say," he asked, "that you actually did starve as you relate?" I -said: "Certainly I did, and I might have made it a deal blacker if I -had chosen." He fell into a momentary silent reverie and shaking his -head, murmured: "Ah, hunger is a dreadful thing;--I once went without -dinner myself!" This was a favourite story of Henry Maitland's. It -was so characteristic of the class he chiefly loathed. Those who -have gathered by now what his satiric and ironic tendencies were, can -imagine his bitter, and at the same time uproariously jocular -comments on such a statement. For he was the man who had stood -cursing outside a cookshop without even a penny to satisfy his raging -hunger, as he truly relates under cover of "The Meditations." - -It is an odd, and perhaps even remarkable fact, that the man who had -suffered in this way, and was so wonderfully conscious of the -absurdities and monstrosities of our present social system, working -by the pressure of mere economics, should have regarded all kinds of -reform not merely without hope, but with an actual terror. He had -once, as he owned, been touched by Socialism, probably of a purely -academic kind; and yet, when he was afterwards withdrawn from such -stimuli as had influenced him to think for once in terms of -sociology, he went back to his more natural depairing conservative -frame of mind. He lived in the past, and was conscious every day -that something in the past that he loved was dying and must vanish. -No form of future civilisation, whatever it might be, which was -gained by means implying the destruction of what he chiefly loved, -could ever appeal to him. He was not even able to believe that the -gross and partial education of the populace was better than no -education at all, in that it must some day inevitably lead to better -education and a finer type of society. It was for that reason that -he was a Conservative. But he was the kind of Conservative who would -now be repudiated by those who call themselves such, except perhaps -in some belated and befogged country house. - -A non-combative Tory seems a contradiction in words, but Maitland's -loathing of disturbance in any form, or of any solution of any -question by means other than the criticism of the Pure Reason, was -most extreme. As for his feelings towards the Empire and all that it -implied, that is best put in a few words he wrote to me about my -novel "In the Sun": "Yes, this is good, but you know that I loathe -the Empire, and that India and Africa are abomination to me." To -anticipate as I tell his story I may quote again on the same point -from a letter written to me in later years when he was in Paris: "I -am very seriously thinking of trying to send my boy to some part of -the world where there is at least a chance of his growing up an -honest farmer without obvious risk of his having to face the slavery -of military service. I would greatly rather never see him again than -foresee his marching in ranks; butchering, or to be butchered." - -This implies, of course, as I have said before, that he failed for -ever to grasp the world as it was. He clung passionately and with -revolt to his own ideas of what it ought to be, and protested with a -curious feeble violence against the actual world as he would not see -it. It is a wonder that he did any work at all. If he had had fifty -pounds a year of his own he would have retreated into a cottage and -asphyxiated himself with books. - -I have often thought that the most painful thing in all his work was -what he insisted on so often in "Paternoster Row" with regard to the -poor novelist there depicted. The man was always destroying -commenced work. Once he speaks about "writing a page or two of -manuscript daily, with several holocausts to retard him." Within my -certain knowledge this happened scores of times to Maitland. He -destroyed a quarter of a volume, half a volume, three quarters of a -volume, a whole volume, and even more, time and time again. He did -this, to my mind, because he fancied nervously that he must write, -that he had to write, and began without adequate preparation. It -became absolutely tragic, for he commenced work knowing that he would -destroy it, and knowing the pain such destruction would cost him, -when a little rest might have enabled him to begin cheerfully with a -fresh mind. I used to suggest this to him, but it was entirely -useless. He would begin, and destroy, and begin again, and then only -partially satisfy himself at last when he was in a state of financial -desperation, with the ditch or the workhouse in front of him. - -In this he never seemed to learn by experience. It was a curious -futility, which was all the odder because he was so peculiarly -conscious of a certain kind of futility exhibited by our friend -Schmidt. He used to write to Maitland at least a dozen times a year -from Potsdam. These letters were all almost invariably read to me. -They afforded Maitland extraordinary amusement and real pleasure, and -yet great pain. Schmidt used to begin the letter with something like -this: "I have been spending the last month or two in deep meditation -on the work which it lies in my power to do. I have now discovered -that I was not meant to write fiction. I am therefore putting it -resolutely aside, and am turning to history, to which I shall -henceforward devote my life." About two months later Maitland would -read me a portion of a letter which began: "I have been much troubled -these last two months, and have been considering my own position and -my own endowments with the greatest interest. I find that I have -been mistaken in thinking that I had any powers which would enable me -to write history in a satisfactory manner. I see that I am -essentially a philosopher. Henceforth I shall devote myself to -philosophy." Again, a month or two after, there would come a letter -from him, making another statement as if he had never made one -before: "I am glad to say that I have at last discovered my own line. -After much thought I am putting aside philosophy. Henceforward I -devote myself to fiction." This kind of thing occurred not once but -twenty or thirty times, and the German for ever wrote as if he had -never written anything before with regard to his own powers and -capabilities. One is reminded forcibly of a similar case in England, -that of J.K. Stephen. - -As I have been speaking of "Paternoster Row," it is very interesting -to observe that Maitland was frequently writing most directly of -himself in that book. It is curious that in this, one of his most -successful novels, he should have recognised his own real -limitations. He says that "no native impulse had directed him to -novel-writing. His intellectual temper was that of the student, the -scholar, but strongly blended with a love of independence which had -always made him think with detestation of a teacher's life." He goes -on to speak of the stories which his hero wrote, "scraps of immature -psychology, the last thing a magazine would accept from an unknown -man." It may be that he was thinking here of some of his own short -stories, for which I was truly responsible. Year after year I -suggested that he should do some, as they were, on the whole, the -easiest way of making a little money. Naturally I had amazing -trouble with him because it was a new line, but I returned to the -charge in season and out of season, every Sunday and every week-day -that I saw him, and every time I wrote. We were both perfectly -conscious that he had not the art of writing dramatic short stories -which were essentially popular. There is no doubt that he did not -possess this faculty. When one goes through his shorter work one -discovers few indeed which are stories or properly related to the -_conte_. They are, indeed, often scraps of psychology, sometimes -perhaps a little crude, but the crudeness is mostly in the -construction. They are in fact rather possible passages from a book -than short stories. Nevertheless he did fairly well with these when -he worked with an agent, which he did finally and at last on -continued pressure from me. I notice, however, that in his published -volumes of short stories there are several missing which I should -like to see again. I do not know whether they are good, but two or -three that I remember vaguely were published, I believe, in the old -"Temple Bar." One was a story about a donkey, which I entirely -forget, and another was called "Mr. Why." It was about a poor man, -not wholly sane, who lived in one room and left all that that room -contained to some one else upon his death. On casual search it -seemed that the room contained nothing, but the heir or heiress -discovered at last on the top of an old cupboard Why's name written -large in piled half-crowns. - -It may have been noticed by some that he spoke in the little -"Gillman" set of verses which I have quoted, of "Hendersonian bores." -This perhaps requires comment. For one who loved his Rabelais and -the free-spoken classics of our own tongue, Maitland had an extreme -purity of thought and speech, a thing which one might not, in some -ways, have looked for. No one, I think, would have dared to tell him -a gross story, which did not possess remarkable wit or literary -merit, more than once. His reception of such tales was never -cordial, and I remember his peculiar and astounding indignation at -one incident. Somehow or another he had become acquainted with an -East End clergyman named Henderson. This Henderson had, I believe, -read "The Under World," or one of the books dealing with the kind of -parishioner that he was acquainted with, and had written to Maitland. -In a way they became friends, or at any rate acquaintances, for the -clergyman too was a peculiarly lonely man. He occasionally came to -7K, and I myself met him there. He was a man wholly misplaced, in -fact he was an absolute atheist. Still, he had a cure of souls -somewhere the other side of the Tower, and laboured, as I understood, -not unfaithfully. He frequently discussed his mental point of view -with Maitland and often used to write to him. By some native kink in -his mind he used to put into these letters indecent words. I suppose -he thought it was a mere outspoken literary habit. As a matter of -fact this enraged Maitland so furiously that he brought the letters -to me, and showing them demanded my opinion as to what he should do. -He said: "This kind of conduct is outrageous! What am I to do about -it?" Now, it never occurred to Maitland in a matter like this, or -indeed in any matter, to be absolutely outspoken and straightforward. -He was always so afraid of hurting people's feelings. I said: "It is -perfectly obvious what to do. My good man, if you don't like it, -write and tell him that you don't." This was to him a perfectly -impossible solution of a very great difficulty. How it was solved I -do not exactly remember, but I do know that we afterwards saw very -little of Mr. Henderson, who is embalmed, like a poor fly, in the -"Gillman" poem. - -It was characteristic, and one of the causes of his continued -disastrous troubles, that Maitland was incapable of being abruptly or -strenuously straightforward. A direct "No," or "This shall not be -done," seemed to him, no doubt, to invite argument and struggle, the -one thing he invariably procured for himself by invariably avoiding -it. - -"Paternoster Row," was written, if I remember rightly, partly in -1890, and finished in 1891, in which year it was published. It is an -odd thing to think of that he was married to his second wife in March -1891, shortly before this book came out. In the third volume there -is practically a strange and bitter, and very remarkable, forecast of -the result of that marriage, showing that whilst Maitland's instincts -and impulses ran away with him, his intellect was yet clear and cold. -It is the passage where the hero suggests that he should have married -some simple, kind-hearted work-girl. He says, "We should have lived -in a couple of poor rooms somewhere, and--we should have loved each -other." Whereupon Gifford--here Maitland's intellect--exclaims upon -him for a shameless idealist, and sketches, most truly the likely -issue of such a marriage, given Maitland or Reardon. He says: "To -begin with, the girl would have married you in firm persuasion that -you were a 'gentleman' in temporary difficulties, and that before -long you would have plenty of money to dispose of. Disappointed in -this hope, she would have grown sharp-tempered, querulous, selfish. -All your endeavours to make her understand you would only have -resulted in widening the impassable gulf. She would have -misconstrued your every sentence, found food for suspicion in every -harmless joke, tormented you with the vulgarest forms of jealousy. -The effect upon your nature would have been degrading." Never was -anything more true. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - -Whatever kind of disaster his marriage was to be for Maitland, there -is no doubt that it was for me also something in the nature of a -catastrophe. There are marriages and marriages. By some of them a -man's friend gains, and by others he loses, and they are the more -frequent, for it is one of the curiosities of human life that a man -rarely finds his friend's wife sympathetic. As it was, I knew that -in a sense I had now lost Henry Maitland, or had partially lost him, -to say the least of it. Unfair as it was to the woman, I felt very -bitter against her, and he knew well what I felt. Thinking of her as -I did, anything like free human intercourse with his new household -would be impossible, unless, indeed, the affair turned out other than -I expected. And then he had left London and gone to his beloved -Devonshire. How much he loved it those who have read "The -Meditations" can tell, for all that is said there about that county -was very sincere, as I can vouch for. Born himself in a grim part of -Yorkshire, and brought up in Mirefields and Moorhampton, that rainy -and gloomy city of the north, he loved the sweet southern county. -And yet it is curious to recognise what a strange passion was his for -London. He had something of the same passion for it as Johnson had, -although the centre of London for him was not Fleet Street but the -British Museum and its great library. He wrote once to his doctor -friend: "I dare not settle far from London, as it means ill-health to -me to be out of reach of the literary 'world'--a small world enough, -truly." But, of course, it was most extraordinarily his world. He -was a natural bookworm compelled to spin fiction. And yet he did -love the country, though he now found no peace there. With his wife -peace was impossible, and this I soon learnt from little things that -he wrote to me, though he was for the first few months of his -marriage exceedingly delicate on this subject, as if he were willing -to give her every possible chance. I was only down in Devonshire -once while he was there with his wife. I went a little trip in a -steamship to Dartmouth, entering its narrow and somewhat hazardous -harbour in the middle of the great blizzard which that year -overwhelmed the south of England, and especially the south of Devon, -in the heaviest snow drifts. When I did at last get away from -Dartmouth, I found things obviously not all they should be, though -very little was said about it between us. I remember we went out for -a walk together, going through paths cut in snow drifts twelve or -even fifteen feet in depth. Though such things had been a common -part of some of my own experiences they were wonderfully new to -Maitland, and made him for a time curiously exhilarated. I did not -stay long in Devon, nor, as a matter of fact, did he. For though he -had gone there meaning to settle, he found the lack of the British -Museum and his literary world too much for him, and besides that his -wife, a girl of the London streets and squares, loathed the country, -and whined in her characteristic manner about its infinite dulness. -Thus it was that he soon left the west and took a small house in -Ewell, about which he wrote me constant jeremiads. - -He believed, with no rare ignorance, as those who are acquainted with -the methods of the old cathedral builders will know, that all honest -work had been done of old, that all old builders were honourable men, -and that modern work was essentially unsound. He had never learned -that the first question the instructed ask the attendant verger on -entering a cathedral is: "When did the tower fall down?" It rarely -happens that one is not instantly given a date, not always very long -after that particular tower was completed. I remember that it -annoyed him very much when I proved to him by documentary evidence -that a great portion of the work in Peterborough Cathedral was of the -most shocking and scandalous description. Nevertheless these facts -do not excuse the modern jerry-builder, and the condition of his -house was one, though only one, of the perpetual annoyances he had to -encounter. - -But, after all, though pipes break and the roof leaks, that is -nothing if peace dwells in a house. There could be no peace in -Maitland's house, for his wife had neither peace nor any -understanding. Naturally enough she was an uneducated woman. She -had read nothing but what such people read. It is true she did not -speak badly. For some reason which I cannot understand she was not -wholly without aspirates. Nevertheless many of her locutions were -vulgar, and she had no natural refinement. This, I am sure, would -have mattered little, and perhaps nothing, if she had been a simple -housewife, some actual creature of the kitchen like Rousseau's -Thérèse. As I have said, I think that Maitland was really incapable -of a great passion, and I am sure that he would have put up with the -merest haus-frau, if she had known her work and possessed her patient -soul in quiet without any lamentations. If there was any lamenting -to be done Maitland himself might have done it in choice terms not -without humour. And indeed he did lament, and not without cause. On -my first visit to Ewell after his return from Devon I again met Mrs. -Maitland. She made me exceedingly uneasy, both personally, as I had -no sympathy for her, and also out of fear for his future. It did not -take me long to discover that they were then living on the verge of a -daily quarrel, that a dispute was for ever imminent, and that she -frequently broke out into actual violence and the smashing of -crockery. While I was with them she perpetually made whining and -complaining remarks to me about him in his very presence. She said: -"Henry does not like the way I do this, or the way I say that." She -asked thus for my sympathy, casting bitter looks at her husband. On -one occasion she even abused him to my face, and afterwards I heard -her anger in the passage outside, so that I actually hated her and -found it very hard to be civil. - -By this time I had established a habit of never spending any time in -the company of folks who neither pleased nor interested me. I -commend this custom to any one who has any work to do in the world. -Thus my forthcoming refusal to see any more of her was anticipated by -Maitland, who had a powerful intuition of the feelings I entertained -for his wife. In fact, things soon became so bad that he found it -necessary to speak to me on the subject, as it was soon nearly -impossible for any one to enter his house for fear of an exhibition -of rage, or even of possible incivility to the guest himself. As he -said, she developed the temper of a devil, and began to make his life -not less wretched, though it was in another way, than the poor -creature had done who was now in her grave. Naturally, however, as -we had been together so much, I could not and would not give up -seeing him. But we had to meet at the station, and going to the -hotel would sit in the smoking-room to have our talk. These talks -were now not wholly of books or of our work, but often of his -miseries. One day when I found him especially depressed he -complained that it was almost impossible for him to get sufficient -peace to do any of his work. On hearing this the notion came to me -that, though I had been unable to prevent him marrying this woman, I -might at any rate make the suggestion that he should take his courage -in both his hands and leave her. But I was in no hurry to put this -into his head so long as there seemed any possibility of some kind of -peace being established. However, she grew worse daily, or so I -heard, and at last I spoke. - -He answered my proposal in accents of despair, and I found that he -was now expecting within a few months his first child's birth. Under -many conditions this might have been a joy to him, but now it was no -joy. And yet there was, he said, some possibility that after this -event things might improve. I recognised such a possibility without -much hope of its ever becoming a reality. Indeed it was a vain hope. -It is true enough that for a time, the month or so while she was -still weak after childbirth, she was unable to be actively offensive; -but, honestly, I think the only time he had any peace was before she -was able to get up and move about the house. During the last weeks -of her convalescence she vented her temper and exercised her uncivil -tongue upon the nurses, more than one of whom left the house, finding -it impossible to stay with her. However he was at any rate more or -less at peace in his own writing room during this period. When she -again became well I gathered the real state of the case from him both -from letters and conversations, and I saw that eventually he would -and must leave her. Knowing him as I did, I was aware that there -would be infinite trouble, pain, and worry before this was -accomplished, and yet the symptoms of the whole situation pointed out -the inevitable end. I had not the slightest remorse in doing my best -to bring this about, but in those days I had trouble enough of my own -upon my shoulders, and found it impossible to see him so often as I -wished; especially as a visit from me, or from anybody else, always -meant the loss of a day's work to him. Yet I know that he bore ten -thousand times more than I myself would have borne in similar -circumstances, and I shall give a wrong impression of him if any one -thinks that most of his complaints and confessions were not dragged -out of him by me. He did not always complain readily, but one saw -the trouble in his eyes. Yet now it became evident that he would and -must revolt at last. It grew so clear at last, that I wanted him to -do it at once and save himself years of misery, but to act like that, -not wholly out of pressing and urgent necessity but out of wisdom and -foresight, was wholly beyond Henry Maitland. - -It was in such conditions that the child was born and spent the first -months of its life. Those who have read his books, and have seen the -painful paternal interest he has more than once depicted, will -understand how bitterly he felt that his child, the human being for -whose existence he was responsible, should be brought up in such -conditions by a mother whose temper and conduct suggested almost -actual madness. He wrote to me: "My dire need at present is for a -holiday. It is five years since I had a real rest from writing, and -I begin to feel worn out. It is not only the fatigue of inventing -and writing; at the same time I keep house and bring up the boy, and -the strain, I can assure you, is rather severe. What I am now trying -to do is to accumulate money enough to allow of my resting, at all -events from this ceaseless production, for half a year or so. It -profits me nothing to feel that there is a market for my work, if the -work itself tells so severely upon me. Before long I shall really be -unable to write at all. I am trying to get a few short stories done, -but the effort is fearful. The worst of it is, I cannot get away by -myself. It makes me very uncomfortable to leave the house, even for -a day. I foresee that until the boy is several years older there -will be no possibility of freedom for me. Of one thing I have very -seriously thought, and that is whether it would be possible to give -up housekeeping altogether, and settle as boarders in some family on -the Continent. The servant question is awful, and this might be an -escape from it, but of course there are objections. I might find all -my difficulties doubled." - -I do not think that this letter requires much comment or -illustration. Although it is written soberly enough, and without -actual accusation, its meaning is as plain as daylight. His wife was -alternately too familiar, or at open hostility with the servant; none -could endure her temper. She complained to him, or the servant -complained to him, and he had to make peace, or to try to make -it--mostly in vain. And then the quarrel broke out anew, and the -servant left. The result was that Maitland himself often did the -household work when he should have been writing. He was dragged away -from his ordinary tasks by an uproar in the kitchen; or perhaps one -or both of the angry women came to him for arbitration about some -point of common decency. There is a phrase of his in "The -Meditations" which speaks of poor Hooker, whose prose he so much -admired, being "vixen-haunted." This epithet of his is a reasonable -and admirable one, but how bitter it was few know so well as myself. - -In this place it does not seem to me unnatural or out of place to -comment a little on Raymond, the chief character in "The Vortex." He -was undoubtedly in a measure the later Maitland. His idea was to -present a man whose character developed with somewhat undue slowness. -He said that Raymond would probably never have developed at all after -a certain stage but for the curious changes wrought in his views and -sentiments by the fact of his becoming a father. Of course it must -be obvious to any one, from what I have said, that Maitland himself -would never have remained so long with his second wife after the -first few months if it had not been that she was about to become a -mother. The earlier passages in "The Vortex" where he speaks about -children, or where Raymond himself speaks about them, are meant to -contrast strongly with his way of thinking in the later part of the -book when this particular character had children of his own. The -author declared that Raymond, as a bachelor, was largely an egoist. -Of course the truth of the matter is that Maitland himself was -essentially an egoist. I once suggested to him that he came near -being a solipsist, a word he probably had never heard of till then, -as he never studied psychology, modern or otherwise. However, when -Raymond grew riper in the experience which killed his crude egoism, -he became another man. Maitland, in writing about this particular -book, said: "That Raymond does nothing is natural to the man. The -influences of the whirlpool--that is London--and its draught on the -man's vitality embarrass any efficiency there might have been in -him." Through the whole story of Maitland one feels that everything -that was in any way hostile to his own views of life did essentially -embarrass, and almost make impossible, anything that was in him. He -had no strength to draw nutriment by main force from everything -around him, as a strong man does. He was not so fierce a fire as to -burn every kind of fuel. - -I remember in this connection a very interesting passage in Hamley's -"Operations of War": "When a general surveying the map of the theatre -finds direct obstacles in the path he must advance by, he sees in -them, if he be confident of his skill in manoeuvring, increased -opportunities for obtaining strategical successes ... in fact, like -any other complications in a game, they offer on both sides -additional opportunities to skill and talent, and additional -embarrassments to incapacity." But then Maitland loathed and hated -and feared obstacles of every kind. He was apt to sit down before -them wringing his hands, and only desperation moved him, not to -attack, but to elude them. It is an odd thing in this respect to -note that he played no games, and despised them with peculiar vigour. -There is a passage in one of his letters to Rivers about a certain -Evans, mentioned with a note of exclamation, and thus kindly -embalmed: "Evans, strange being! Yet, if his soul is satisfied with -golf and bridge, why should he not go on golfing and bridging? At -all events he is working his way to sincerity." - -The long letter I quoted from above was written, I believe, in 1895, -when the boy was nearly three years old. I have not attempted, and -shall not attempt, to give any detailed account month by month, or -even year by year, of his domestic surroundings. It was a wonder to -me that the marriage lasted, but still it did last, and all one knew -was that some day it must come to an end. The record of his life in -these days would be appalling if I remembered it sufficiently, or had -kept a diary--as no doubt I ought to have done--or had all the -documents which may be in existence dealing with that time. That he -endured so many years was incredible, and still he did endure, and -the time went on, and he worked; mostly, as he said to me, against -time, and a good deal on commission. He wrote: "The old fervours do -not return to me, and I have got into the very foolish habit of -perpetually writing against time and to order. The end of this is -destruction." But still I think he knew within him that it could not -last. Had it not been for the boy, and, alas, for the birth of yet -another son, he would now have left her. He acknowledged it to -me--if he could not fight he would have to fly. - -This extraordinary lack of power to deal with any obstacle must seem -strange to most men, though no doubt many are weak. Yet few are so -weak as Maitland. Oddly enough I have heard the idea expressed that -there was more power of fight in Maitland than he ever possessed, and -on inquiry I have learned that this notion was founded on a partial, -or perhaps complete misunderstanding of certain things he expressed -in the latter part of "The Vortex." Towards the end of the book it -seems to be suggested that Maitland, or Raymond, tended really -towards what he calls in one of his letters a "barrack-room" view of -life. Some people seem to think that the man who was capable of -writing what he did in that book really meant it, and must have had a -little touch of that native and natural brutality which makes -Englishmen what they are. But Maitland himself, in commenting on -this particular attitude of Raymond, declared that this quasi or -semi-ironic imperialism of the man was nothing but his hopeless -recognition of facts which filled him with disgust. The world was -going in a certain way. There was no refusing to see it. It stared -every one in the eyes. Then he adds: "But _what_ a course for things -to take!" - -Raymond in fact talks with a little throwing up of the arm, and in a -voice of quiet sarcasm, "Go ahead--I sit by and watch, and wonder -what will be the end of it all." This was his own habit of mind in -later years. He had come at last and at long last, to recognise a -course of things which formerly he could not, or would not, perceive; -and he recognised it with just that tossing of arm or head, -involuntary of course. I do not think that at this time he would -have seen a battalion of Guards go by and have turned to me saying: -"And this, _this_ is the nineteenth century!" He once wrote to -Rivers, what he had said a hundred times to me: "I have a conviction -that all I love and believe in is going to the devil. At the same -time I try to watch with interest this process of destruction, -admiring any bit of sapper work that is well done." It is rather -amusing to note that in the letter, written in the country, which -puts these things most dolefully, he adds: "The life here shows -little trace of vortical influence." Of course this is a reference -to the whirlpool of London. - -In 1896 I was myself married, and went to live in a little house in -Fulham. I understood what peace was, and he had none. As Maitland -had not met my wife for some years I asked him to come and dine with -us. It was not the least heavy portion of his burden that he always -left his own house with anxiety and returned to it with fear and -trembling. This woman of his home was given to violence, even with -her own young children. It was possible, as he knew, for he often -said so to me, that he might return and find even the baby badly -injured. And yet at last he made up his mind to accept my -invitation. Whether it was the fact that he had accepted one from -me--and I often fancy that his wife had a grudge against me because I -would not go to her house any more--I do not know, but when I met him -in the hall of my own house I found him in the most extraordinary -state of nervous and physical agitation. Though usually of a -remarkable, if healthy, pallor, he was now almost crimson, and his -eyes sparkled with furious indignation. He was hot, just as if he -had come out of an actual physical struggle. What he must have -looked like when he left Ewell I do not know, for he had had all the -time necessary to travel from there to Fulham to cool down in. After -we shook hands he asked me, almost breathlessly, to allow him to wash -his face, so I took him into the bathroom. He removed his coat, and -producing his elastic band from his waistcoat pocket, put it about -his hair like a fillet, and began to wash his face in cold water. As -he was drying himself he broke out suddenly: "I can't stand it any -more. I have left her for ever." I said: "Thank heaven that you -have. I am very glad of it--and for every one's sake don't go back -on it." - -Whatever the immediate cause of this outburst was, it seems that that -afternoon the whole trouble came to a culmination. The wife behaved -like a maniac; she shrieked, and struck him. She abused him in the -vilest terms, such as he could not or would not repeat to me. It was -with the greatest difficulty that I at last got him calm enough to -meet any one else. When he did calm down after he had had something -to eat and a little to drink, the prospect of his freedom, which he -believed had come to him once more, inspired him with pathetic and -peculiar exhilaration. In one sense I think he was happy that night. -He slept in London. - -I should have given a wholly false impression of Maitland if any one -now imagined that I believed that the actual end had come to his -marriage. No man knew his weakness better than I did, and I moved -heaven and earth in my endeavours to keep him to his resolution, to -prevent him going back to Epsom on any pretext, and all my efforts -were vain. In three days I learned that his resolution had broken -down. By the help of some busybody who had more kindness than -intelligence, they patched up a miserable peace, and he went back to -Ewell. And yet that peace was no peace. Maitland, perhaps the most -sensitive man alive, had to endure the people in the neighbouring -houses coming out upon the doorstep, eager to inquire what disaster -was occurring in the next house. There were indeed legends in the -Epsom Road that the mild looking writer beat and brutalised his wife, -though most knew, by means of servants' chatter, what the actual -facts were. - -It was in this year that he did at last take an important step which -cost him much anxiety before putting it through. His fears for his -eldest child were so extreme that he induced his people in the north -to give the child a home--the influence and example of the mother he -could no longer endure for the boy. His wife parted with the child -without any great difficulty, though of course she made it an -occasion for abusing her husband in every conceivable way. He wrote -to me in the late summer of that year: "I much want to see you, but -just now it is impossible for me to get to town, and the present -discomfort of everything here forbids me to ask you to come. I am -straining every nerve to get some work done, for really it begins to -be a question whether I shall ever again finish a book. -Interruptions are so frequent and so serious. The so-called holiday -has been no use to me; a mere waste of time--but I was obliged to go, -for only in that way could I have a few weeks with the boy who, as I -have told you, lives now at Mirefields and will continue to live -there. I shall never let him come back to my own dwelling. Have -patience with me, old friend, for I am hard beset." He ends this -letter with: "If the boy grows up in clean circumstances, that will -be my one satisfaction." - -Whether he had peace or not he still worked prodigiously, though not -perhaps for so many hours as was his earlier custom. But his health -about this time began to fail. Much of this came from his habits of -work, which were entirely incompatible with continued health of brain -and body. He once said to Rivers: "Visitors--I fall sick with terror -in thinking of them. If by rare chance any one comes here it means -to me the loss of a whole day, a most serious matter." And his whole -day was, of course, a long day. No man of letters can possibly sit -for ever at the desk during eight hours, as was frequently "his brave -custom" as he phrased it somewhere. If he had worked in a more -reasonable manner, and had been satisfied with doing perhaps a -thousand words a day, which is not at all an unreasonably small -amount for a man who works steadily through most of the year, his -health might never have broken down in the way it did. He had been -moved in a way towards these hours, partly by actual desperation; -partly by the great loneliness which had been thrust upon him; very -largely by the want of money which prevented him from amusing himself -in the manner of the average man, but chiefly by his sense of -devotion to what he was doing. One of his favourite stories was that -of Heyne, the great classical scholar, who was reported to work -sixteen hours a day. This he did, according to the literary -tradition, for the whole of his working life, except upon the day -when he was married. He made, for that occasion only, a compact with -the bride that he was to be allowed to work half his usual stint. -And half Heyne's usual amount was Maitland's whole day, which I -maintain was at least five hours too much. This manner of working, -combined with his quintessential and habitual loneliness made it very -hard, not only upon him, but also on his friends. It was quite -impossible to see him, even about matters of comparative urgency, -unless a meeting had been arranged beforehand. For even after his -work was done, it was never done. He started preparing for the next -day, turning over phrases in his mind, and considering the next -chapter. I believe that in one point I was very useful to him in -this matter, for I suggested to him, as I have done to others, that -my own practice of finishing a chapter and then writing some two or -three lines of the next one while my mind was warm upon the subject, -was a vast help for the next day's labour. - -Now the way he worked was this. After breakfast, at nine o'clock, he -sat down and worked till one. Then he had his midday meal, and took -a little walk. In the afternoon, about half-past three, he sat down -again and wrote till six o'clock or a little after. Then he worked -again from half-past seven to ten. I very much doubt whether there -is any modern writer who has ever tried to keep up work at this rate -who did not end in a hospital or a lunatic asylum, or die young. To -my mind it shows, in a way that nothing else can, that he had no -earthly business to be writing novels and spinning things largely out -of his subjective mind, when he ought to have been dealing with the -objective world, or with books. I myself write with a certain amount -of ease. It may, indeed, be difficult to start, but when a thing is -begun I go straight ahead, writing steadily for an hour, or perhaps -an hour and a half--rarely any more. I have then done my day's work, -which is now very seldom more than two thousand words, although on -one memorable occasion I actually wrote thirteen thousand words with -the pen in ten hours. Maitland used to write three or four of his -slips, as he called them, which were small quarto pages of very fine -paper, and on each slip there were twelve hundred words. Whether he -wrote one, or two, or three slips in the day he took an equal length -of time. - -Among my notes I find one about a letter of his written in June 1895 -to Mrs. Lake, declining an invitation to visit Dr. Lake's house -which, no doubt, would have done him a great deal of good. He says: -"Let me put before you an appalling list of things that have to be -done, (1) Serial story (only begun) of about eighty thousand words. -(2) Short novel for Cassell's to be sent in by end of October. -Neither begun nor thought of. (3) Six short stories for the _English -Illustrated_--neither begun nor thought of. (4) Twenty papers for -_The Sketch_ of a thousand words each. Dimly foreseen." Now to a -man who had the natural gift of writing fiction and some reasonable -time to do it in, this would seem no such enormous amount of work. -For Maitland it was appalling, not so much, perhaps, on account of -the actual amount of labour--if it had been one book--but for its -variousness. He moved from one thing to another in fiction with -great slowness. - -As I have said, his health was not satisfactory. I shall have -something to say about this in detail a little later. It was his own -opinion, and that of certain doctors, that his lung was really -affected by tuberculosis. Of this I had then very serious doubts. -But he wrote in January 1897: "The weather and my lung are keeping me -indoors at present, but I should much like to come to you. -Waterpipes freezing--a five-pound note every winter to the plumber. -Of course this is distinctly contrived by the building fraternity." - -But things were not always as bad as may be gathered from a casual -consideration of what I have said. In writing a life events come too -thickly. For instance in 1897 he wrote to me: "Happily things are -far from being as bad as last year." It appears that a certain lady, -a Miss Greathead, about whom I really know nothing but what he told -me, interested herself with the utmost kindness in his domestic -affairs. He wrote to me: "Miss Greathead has been of very great use, -and will continue to be so, I think. This house is to be given up in -any case at Michaelmas, and another will not be taken till I see my -way more clearly. Where I myself shall live during the autumn is -uncertain. We must meet in the autumn. Work on--I have plans for -seven books." - - - - -CHAPTER IX - -What dismal catastrophe or prolonged domestic uproar led to the final -end of his married life in 1897 I do not know. Nor have I cared to -inquire very curiously. The fact remains, and it was inevitable. -Towards the end of the summer he made up his mind to go to Italy in -September. He wrote to me: "All work in England is at an end for me -just now. I shall be away till next spring--looking forward with -immense delight to solitude. Of course I have a great deal to do as -soon as I can settle, which I think will be at Siena first." As a -matter of fact the very next letter of his which I possess came to me -from Siena. He said: "I am so confoundedly hard at work upon the -Novelists book that I find it very difficult to write my letters. -Thank heaven, more than half is done. I shall go south about the -tenth of November. It is dull here, and I should not stay for the -pleasure of it. You know that I do not care much for Tuscany. The -landscape is never striking about here, and one does not get the -glorious colour of the south." So one sees how Italy had awakened -his colour sense. As I have said, it was after his first visit to -Italy that I noted, both in his books and his conversation, an acute -awakening passion for colour. I think it grew in him to the end of -his life. He ended this last letter to me with: "Well, well, let us -get as soon as possible into Magna Graecia and the old dead world." - -I said some time ago that I had finished all I had to write about the -Victorian novelists, and yet I find there is something still to say -of Dickens, and it is not against the plan of such a rambling book as -this to put it down here and now. When he went to Siena to write his -book of criticism it seemed to me a very odd choice of a place for -such a piece of work, and indeed I wondered at his undertaking it at -any price. It is quite obvious to all those who really understand -his attitude towards criticism of modern things that great as his -interest was in Dickens it would never have impelled him to write a -strong, rough, critical book mostly about him had it not been for the -necessity of making money. Indeed he expressed so much to me, and I -find again in a letter that he wrote to Mrs. Rivers, with whom he was -now on very friendly terms, "I have made a good beginning with my -critical book, and long to have done with it, for of course it is an -alien subject." No doubt there are at least two classes of -Maitland's readers, those who understand the man and love his really -characteristic work, and those who have no understanding of him at -all, or any deep appreciation, but probably profess a great -admiration for this book which they judge by the part on Dickens. I -think that Andrew Lang was one of these, judging from a criticism -that he once wrote on Maitland. I know that I have often heard -people of intelligence express so high an opinion of the "Victorian -Novelists" as to imply a lack of appreciation of his other work. The -study is no doubt written with much skill, and with a good writer's -command of his subject, and command of himself. That is to say, he -manages by skill to make people believe he was sufficiently -interested in his subject to write about it. To speak plainly he -thought it a pure waste of time, except from the mere financial point -of view, just as he did his cutting down of Mayhew's "Life of -Dickens"--which, indeed, he considered a gross outrage, but professed -his inability to refuse the "debauched temptation" of the hundred and -fifty pounds offered him for the work. - -It would be untrue if I seemed to suggest that he was not -enthusiastic about Dickens, even more so than I am myself save at -certain times and seasons. For me Dickens is a man for times and -periods. I cannot read him for years, and then I read him all. What -I do mean is that Maitland's love of this author, or of Thackeray, -say, would never have impelled him to write. Yet there is much in -the book which is of great interest, if it were only as matter of -comment on Maitland's own self. The other day I came across one -sentence which struck me curiously. It was where Maitland asked the -reader to imagine Charles Dickens occupied in the blacking warehouse -for ten years. He said: "Picture him striving vainly to find -utterance for the thoughts that were in him, refused the society of -any but boors and rascals, making perhaps futile attempts to succeed -as an actor, and in full manhood measuring the abyss which sundered -him from all he had hoped." When I came to the passage I put the -book down and pondered for a while, knowing well that as Maitland -wrote these words he was thinking even more of himself than of -Dickens, and knowing that what was not true of his subject was most -bitterly true of the writer. There is another passage somewhere in -the book in which he says that Dickens could not have struggled for -long years against lack of appreciation. This he rightly puts down -to Dickens' essentially dramatic leanings. The man needed immediate -applause. But again Maitland was thinking of himself, for he had -indeed struggled many years without any appreciation save that of one -or two friends and some rare birds among the public. I sometimes -think that one of Maitland's great attractions to Dickens lay in the -fact, which he himself mentions and enlarges on, that Dickens treated -of the lower middle class and the class immediately beneath it. This -is where the great novelist was at his best, and in the same way -these were the only classes that Maitland really knew well. There is -in several things a curious likeness between Dickens and Maitland, -though it lies not on the surface. He says that Dickens never had -any command of a situation although he was so very strong in -incident. This was also a great weakness of Henry Maitland. It -rarely happens that he works out a powerful and dramatic situation to -its final limits, though sometimes he does succeed in doing so. This -failure in dealing with great situations is peculiarly characteristic -of most English novelists. I have frequently noticed in otherwise -admirable books by men of very considerable abilities and -attainments, with tolerable command of their own language, that they -have on every occasion shirked the great dramatic scene just when it -was expected and needed. Perhaps this is due to the peculiar -_mauvaise honte_ of the English mind. To write, and yet not to give -oneself away, seems to be the aim of too many writers, though the -great aim of all great writing is to do, or to try to do, what they -avoid. The final analysis of dreadful passion and pain comes, -perhaps, too close to them. They feel the glow but also a sensation -of shame in the great emotions. There are times that Maitland felt -this, though perhaps unconsciously. It is at any rate certain that, -like so many people, he never actually depicted with blood and tears -the frightful situations in which his life was so extraordinarily -full. - -It is an interesting passage in this book in which Maitland declares -that great popularity was never yet attained by any one deliberately -writing down to a low ideal. Above all men he knew that the artist -was necessarily sincere, however poor an artist he might be. So -Rousseau in his "Confessions" asserts that nothing really great can -come from an entirely venal pen. I remember Maitland greatly enjoyed -a story I told him about myself. While I was still a -poverty-stricken and struggling writer my father, who had no -knowledge whatever of the artistic temperament, although he had a -very great appreciation of the best literature of the past, came to -me and said seriously: "My boy, if you want money and I know you do, -why do you not write 'Bow Bells Novelettes'? They will give you -fifteen pounds for each of them." I replied to him, not I think -without a tinge of bitterness at being so misunderstood: "My dear -sir, it is as much a matter of natural endowment to be a damned fool -as to be a great genius, and I am neither." - -I have said that Maitland was most essentially a conservative, indeed -in many ways a reactionary, if one so passive can be called that. I -think the only actual revolutionary utterance of his mind which -stands on record is in the "Victorian Novelists." It is when he is -speaking of Mr. Casby of the shorn locks. He wrote: "This question -of landlordism should have been treated by Dickens on a larger scale. -It remains one of the curses of English life, and is likely to do so -till the victims of house-owners see their way to cutting, not the -hair, but the throats, of a few selected specimens." - -It may seem a hard thing to say, but it is a fact, that any -revolutionary sentiment there was in Maitland was excited, not by any -native liberalism of his mind, or even by his sympathy for the -suffering of others, but came directly out of his own personal -miseries and trials. He had had to do with landlords who refused to -repair their houses, and with houses which he looked upon as the -result of direct and wicked conspiracy between builders and plumbers. -But his words are capable of a wider interpretation than he might -have given them. - -If I had indeed been satisfied that this departure of Maitland's to -Italy had meant the end of all the personal troubles of his marriage, -I should have been highly satisfied, and not displeased with any part -I might have taken in bringing about so desirable a result. But I -must say that, knowing him as I did, I had very serious doubts. I -was well aware of what a little pleading might do with him. It was -in fact possible that one plaintive letter from his wife might have -brought him back again. Fortunately it was never written. The woman -was even then practically mad, and though immensely difficult to -manage by those friends, such as Miss Greathead and Miss Kingdon, who -interested themselves in his affairs and did much more for him at -critical times than I had been able to do, she never, I think, -appealed to her husband. But it was extraordinary, before he went to -Italy, to observe the waverings of his mind. When he was keeping his -eldest boy at Mirefields, supplying his wife with money for the house -and living in lodgings at Salcombe, he wrote giving a rough account -of what he might do, or might have to do, and ended up by saying: -"Already, lodgings are telling on my nerves. I almost think I suffer -less even from yells and insults in a house of my own." He even -began to forget "the fifth-rate dabblers in the British gravy," for -which fine phrase T.E. Brown is responsible. Maitland ought to have -known it and did not. It was this perpetual wavering and weakness in -him which perplexed his friends, and would indeed have alienated at -last very many of them had it not been for the enduring charm in all -his weakness. Nevertheless he was now out of England, and those who -knew him were glad to think it was so. He was, perhaps, to have a -better time. Nevertheless, even so, he wrote to his friend Lake: -"Yes, it is true that I am going to glorious scenes, but do not -forget that I go with much anxiety in my mind--anxiety about the -little children, the chances of life and death, &c., &c. It is not -like my Italian travel eight years ago, when--save for cash--I was -independent. I have to make a good two hundred a year apart from my -own living and casual expenses. If I live I think I shall do it--but -there's no occasion for merriment." Yet if it was no occasion for -mere merriment it was an occasion for joy. He knew it well, and so -did those know who understand the description that Maitland gave in -"Paternoster Row," of the sunset at Athens. It is very wonderfully -painted, and as he describes it he makes Gifford say: "Stop, or I -shall clutch you by the throat. I warned you before that I cannot -stand these reminiscences." And this reminds me that when I wrote to -him once from Naples, he replied: "You fill me with envious gloom." -But now, when he had finished his pot-boiler of Siena, he was going -south to Naples, his "most interesting city of the modern world," and -afterwards farther south to the Calabrian Hills, and the old dead -world of Magna Graecia. - -As a result of that journey he gave us "Magna Graecia." This book of -itself is a sufficient proof that he was by nature a scholar, an -inhabitant of the very old world, a discoverer of the time of the -Renaissance, a Humanist, a pure man of letters, and not by nature a -writer of novels or romances. Although Maitland's scholarship was -rather wide than deep save in one or two lines of investigation, yet -his feeling for all those matters with which a sympathetic -scholarship can deal was amazingly deep and true. Once in Calabria -and the south he made and would make great discoveries. In spite of -his poverty, which comes out so often in the description of his -conditions upon this journey, he loved everything he found there with -a strange and wonderful and almost pathetic passion. I remember on -his return how he talked to me of the far south, and of his studies -in Cassiodorus. One incident in "Magna Graecia," which is related -somewhat differently from what he himself told me at the time, -pleased him most especially. It was when he met two men and -mentioned the name of Cassiodorus, whereupon they burst out with -amazement, "Cassiodoria, why we know Cassiodoria!" That the name -should be yet familiar to these live men of the south gratified his -historic sense amazingly, and I can well remember how he threw his -head back and shook his long hair with joy, and burst into one of his -most characteristic roars of laughter. It was a simple incident, but -it brought back the past to him. - -Of all his books I think I love best "Magna Graecia." I always liked -it much better than "The Meditations of Mark Sumner," and for a -thousand reasons. For one thing it is a wholly true book. In "The -Meditations," he falsified, in the literary sense, very much that he -wrote. As I have said, it needs to be read with a commentary or -guide. But "Magna Graecia" is pure Maitland; it is absolutely -himself. It is, indeed, very nearly the Maitland who might have been -if ill luck had not pursued him from his boyhood. Had he been a -successful man on the lines that fate pointed out to him; had he -succeeded greatly--or nobly, as he would have said--at the -University; had he become a tutor, a don, a notable man among men of -letters, still would he have travelled in southern Italy, and made -his great pilgrimage to the Fonte di Cassiodorio. Till he knew south -Italy his greatest joy had been in books. That he loved books we all -know. There, of a certainty, "The Meditations" is a true witness. -But how much more he loved the past and the remains of Greece and -old, old Italy, "Magna Graecia" proves to us almost with tears. - -I have said that Maitland was perhaps not a deep scholar, for -scholarship nowadays must needs be specialised if it is to be deep. -He had his odd prejudices, and hugged them. The hypothesis of Wolf -concerning Homer visibly annoyed him. He preferred to think of the -Iliad and the Odyssey as having been written by one man. This came -out of his love of personality--the great ones of the past were as -gods to him. All works of art, or books, or great events were wholly -theirs, for they made even the world, and the world made them not. -Though I know that he would have loved, in many ways, a book such as -Gilbert Murray's "Rise of the Greek Epic," yet Murray's fatally -decisive analysis of the Homeric legend would have pained him deeply. -On one occasion I remember sending to him, partly as some reasonable -ground for my own scepticism, but more, I think, out of some -mischievous desire to plague him, a cleverly written pamphlet by a -barrister which threw doubts upon the Shakespearean legend. He wrote -to me: "I have read it with great indignation. Confound the -fellow!--he disturbs me." But then he was essentially a -conservative, and he lived in an alien time. - - - - -CHAPTER X - -What he suffered, endured, and enjoyed in Magna Graecia and his old -dead world, those know who have read with sympathy and understanding. -It was truly as if the man, born in exile, had gone home at last--so -much he loved it, so well he understood the old days. And now once -more he came back to England to a happier life, even though great -anxieties still weighed him down. Yet with some of these anxieties -there was joy, for he loved his children and thought very much of -them, hoping and fearing. One of the very first letters I received -from him on his return from Italy is dated May 7, 1898, and was -written from Henley in Arden: "You have it in your power to do me a -most important service. Will you on every opportunity industriously -circulate the news that I am going to live henceforth in -Warwickshire? It is not strictly true, but a very great deal depends -on my real abode being protected from invasion. If you could inspire -a newspaper paragraph.... I should think it impudent to suppose that -newspapers cared about the matter but that they have so often -chronicled my movements, and if by any chance the truth got abroad it -would mean endless inconvenience and misery to me. You shall hear -more in detail when I am less be-devilled." All this requires little -comment. Every one can understand how it was with him. - -Later in the year he wrote to me: "My behaviour is bestial, but I am -so hard driven that it is perhaps excusable. All work impossible -owing to ceaseless reports of mad behaviour in London. That woman -was all but given in charge the other day for assaulting her landlady -with a stick. My solicitor is endeavouring to get the child out of -her hands. I fear its life is endangered, but of course the -difficulty of coming to any sort of arrangement with such a person is -very great.... Indeed I wish we could have met before your departure -for South Africa. My only consolation is the thought that something -or other decisive is bound to have happened before you come back, and -then we will meet as in the old days, please heaven. As for me, my -literary career is at an end, and the workhouse looms larger day by -day. I should not care, of course, but for the boys. A bad job, a -bad job." But better times were perhaps coming for him. The child -that he refers to as still in the hands of his mother was his -youngest boy. Much of his life at this time is lost to me because -much happened while I was absent in South Africa, where I spent some -months in travel. I remember it pleased him to get letters from me -from far-off places such as Buluwayo. He always had the notion that -I was an extraordinarily capable person, an idea which only had some -real truth if my practical capacities were compared with his strange -want of them. By now he was not living in Warwickshire; indeed, if I -remember rightly, on my return from Africa I found him at Godalming. - -When I left Cape Town I was very seriously ill, and I remained ill -for some months after my return home. Therefore it was some time -till we met again. But when we did meet it was at Leatherhead, where -he was in lodgings, pleased to be not very far from George Meredith, -who indeed, I think, loved him. It was, of course, as I have said, -through Maitland that I first met Meredith. For some reason which I -do not know, Maitland gave him a volume of mine, "The Western Trail," -which the old writer was much pleased with. Indeed it was in -consequence of his liking for that book that he asked me to dine with -him just before I went to Africa. Maitland was not present at this -dinner, he was then still in Warwickshire; but Meredith spoke very -affectionately of him, and said many things not unpleasing about his -work. But probably Meredith, like myself, thought more of the man -than he did of his books, which is indeed from my point of view a -considerable and proper tribute to any writer. Sometimes the work of -a man is greater than himself, and it seems a pity when one meets -him; but if a man is greater than what he does one may always expect -more, and some day may get it. It was apropos of Maitland, in some -way which I cannot exactly recall, that Meredith, who was in great -form that night, and wonderful in monologue--as he always was, more -especially after he became so deaf that it was hard to make him -hear--told us an admirably characteristic story about two poor -schoolboys. It appeared, said Meredith, that these two boys, who -came of a clever but poverty-stricken house, did very badly at their -school because they were underfed. As Meredith explained this want -of food led to a poor circulation. What blood these poor boys had -was required for the animal processes of living, and did not enable -them to carry on the work of the brain in the way that it should have -done. However, it one day happened that during play one of these -boys was induced to stand upon his head, with the result that the -blood naturally gravitated to that unaccustomed quarter. His ideas -instantly became brilliant--so brilliant, indeed, that a great idea -struck him. He resumed his feet, rushed home, and communicated his -discovery to his brother, and henceforward they conducted their -studies standing upon their heads, and became brilliant and visibly -successful men. Of course it was a curious thing, though not so -curious when one reflects on the nature of men who are really men of -letters, that Meredith and Henry Maitland had one thing tremendously -in common, their love of words. In my conversation with Meredith -that day I mentioned the fact that I had read a certain interview -with him. I asked him whether it conveyed his sentiments with any -accuracy. He replied mournfully: "Yes, yes,--no doubt the poor -fellow got down more or less what I meant, but he used none of my -beautiful words, none of my beautiful words!" - -It does not seem unnatural to me to say something of George Meredith, -since he had in many ways an influence on Maitland. Certainly when -it came to the question of beautiful words they were on the same -ground, if not on the same level. I myself have met during my -literary life, and in some parts of the world where literature is -little considered, many men who were reputed great, and indeed were -great, it may be, in some special line, yet Meredith was the only man -I ever knew to whom I would have allowed freely the word "great" the -moment I met him, without any reservation. This I said to Maitland -and he smiled, feeling that it was true. I remember he wrote to Lake -about Meredith, saying: "You ought to read 'Richard Feverel,' 'Evan -Harrington,' 'The Egoist,' and 'Diana of the Crossways.' These, in -my opinion, are decidedly his best books, but you won't take up -anything of his without finding strong work." And "strong work" with -Maitland was very high praise indeed. - -By now, when he was once more in Surrey, we did not meet so -infrequently as had been the case after his second marriage and -before the separation. It is true that his living out of London made -a difference. Still I now went down sometimes and stayed a day with -him. We talked once more in something of our old manner about books -and words, the life of men of letters, and literary origins or -pedigrees, always a strong point in him. It was ever a great joy to -Maitland when he discovered the influence of one writer upon another. -For instance, it was he who pointed out to me first that Balzac was -the literary parent of Murger, as none indeed can deny who have read -the chapter in "Illusions Perdues" where Lucien Rubempré writes and -sings the drinking song with tears in his eyes as he sits by the -bedside of Coralie, his dead mistress. This he did, as will be -remembered, to obtain by the sale of the song sufficient money to -bury her. From that chapter undoubtedly sprang the whole of the "Vie -de Bohème," though to it Murger added much, and not least his -livelier sense of humour. Again, I well remember how Maitland took -down Tennyson--ever a joy to him, because Tennyson was a master of -words though he had little enough to say--and showed me the influence -that the "Wisdom of Solomon," in the Apocrypha, had upon some of the -last verses of "The Palace of Art." No doubt some will not see in a -mere epithet or two that Solomon's words had any connection with the -work of the Poet-Laureate, whom I nicknamed, somewhat to Maitland's -irritation, "the bourgeois Chrysostom." Yet I myself have no doubt -that Maitland was right; but even if he were not he would still have -taken wonderful joy in finding out the words of the two verses which -run: "Whether it were a whistling wind, or a melodious noise of birds -among the spreading branches, or a pleasant fall of water running -violently, or a terrible sound of stones cast down, or a running that -could not be seen of skipping beasts, or a roaring voice of most -savage wild beasts, or a rebounding echo from the hollow mountains; -these things made them swoon for fear." Of course he loved all -rhythm, and found it sometimes in unexpected places, even in -unconsidered writers. There was one passage he used to quote from -Mrs. Ewing, who, indeed, was no small writer, which he declared to be -wonderful, and in its way quite perfect: "He sat, patient of each -succeeding sunset, until this aged world should crumble to its -close." Then, again, he rejoiced when I discovered, though no doubt -it had been discovered many times before, that his musical Keats owed -so much to Fletcher's "Faithful Shepherdess." - -It would be a very difficult question to ask, in some examination -concerning English literature, what book in English by its very -nature and style appealed most of all to Henry Maitland. I think I -am not wrong when I say that it was undoubtedly Walter Savage -Landor's "Imaginary Conversations." That book possesses to the full -the two great qualities which most delighted him. It is redolent of -the past, and those classic conversations were his chief joy; but -above and beyond this true and great feeling of Landor's for the past -classic times there was the most eminent quality of Landor's rhythm. -I have many times heard Maitland read aloud from "Æsop and Rhodope," -and I have even more often heard him quote without the book the -passage which runs: "There are no fields of amaranth on this side of -the grave; there are no voices, O Rhodope, that are not soon mute, -however tuneful; there is no name, with whatever emphasis of -passionate love repeated of which the echo is not faint at last." -Maitland knew, and none knew better, that in a triumphant passage -there is triumphant rhythm, and in a passage full of mourning or -melancholy the accompanying and native rhythm is both melancholy and -mournful. How many times, too, I have heard him quote, again from -Landor, "Many flowers must perish ere a grain of corn be ripened." - -All this time the wife was I know not where, nor did I trouble much -to inquire. Miss Kingdon and Miss Greathead looked after her very -patiently, and did good work for their friend Maitland, as he well -knew. But although he was rejoiced to be alone for a time, or at any -rate relieved from the violent misery of her presence, I came once -more to discern, both from things he said and from things he wrote to -me, that a celibate life began again to oppress him gravely. Yet it -was many months before he at last confided in me fully, and then I -think he only did it because he was certain that I was the one friend -he possessed with whom he could discuss any question without danger -of moral theories or prepossessions interfering with the rightful -solution. Over and beyond this qualification for his confidence -there was the fact that I knew him, whereas no one else did. To -advise any man it is necessary to know the man who is to be advised, -for wisdom _in vacuo_ or _in vitro_ may be nothing but foolishness. -Others would have said to him, "Look back on your experience and -reflect. Have no more to do with women in any way." No doubt it -would have been good advice, but it would have been impossible for -him to act on it. Therefore when he at last opened his mind to me -and told me of certain new prospects which were disclosing themselves -to him, I was not only sympathetic but encouraging. It seems that in -the year 1898 he first met a young French lady of Spanish origin with -whom he had previously corresponded for some little time. Her name -was Thérèse Espinel. She belonged to a very good family, perhaps -somewhat above the _haute bourgeoisie_, and was a woman of high -education and extreme Gallic intelligence. As I came to know her -afterwards I may also say that she was a very beautiful woman, and -possessed, what I know to have been a very great charm to Maitland, -as it always was to me, a very sweet and harmonious voice--it was -perhaps the most beautiful human voice for speaking that I have ever -heard. Years afterwards I took her to see George Meredith. He -kissed her hand and told her she had beautiful eyes. As she was -partly Spanish she knew Spanish well. Her German was excellent, her -English that of an educated Englishwoman. It appears that she came -across Maitland's "Paternoster Row," and it occurred to her that it -should be translated into French. She got into correspondence with -him about this book, and in 1898 came over to England and made his -acquaintance. It is curious to remember that on one other occasion -Maitland got into correspondence with another French lady, who -insisted emphatically that he was the one person whom she could trust -to direct her aright in life--a notion at the time not a little -comical to me, and also to the man who was to be this soul's director. - -When these two people met and proved mutually sympathetic it was not -unnatural that he should tell her something of his own life, -especially when one knows that so much of their earlier talks dealt -with "Paternoster Row" and with its chief character, so essentially -Henry Maitland. He gave her, indeed, very much of his story, yet not -all of it, not, indeed, the chief part of it, since the greatest -event in his life was the early disaster which had maimed and -distorted his natural career and development. Yet even so much as he -told her of his first and second marriage--for he by no means -concealed from the beginning that he was yet married--very naturally -engaged her womanly compassion. Adding this to her real and fervent -admiration of his literary powers, his personality and story seem to -have inclined her to take an even tenderer interest in him. She was -certainly a bright and wonderful creature, although not without a -certain native melancholy, and possessed none of those conventional -ideas which wreck some lives and save others from disaster. -Therefore I was not much surprised, although I had not been told -everything that had happened, when Maitland wrote to me that he -contemplated taking a very serious step. It was indeed a very -serious one, but so natural in the circumstances, as I came to hear -of them, that I myself made no strictures on his scheme. It was no -other than the proposal that he and this new acquaintance of his -should cast in their lot together and make the world and her -relatives believe that they were married. No doubt when I was -consulted I found it in some ways difficult to give a decision. What -might be advisable for the man might not be so advisable for his -proposed partner. He was making no sacrifice, and she was making -many. Nevertheless, I hold the view that these matters are matters -for the people concerned and are nobody else's business. The thing -to be considered from my point of view was whether Maitland would be -able to support her, and whether she was the kind of woman who would -retain her hold upon him and give him some peace and happiness -towards the end of his life. In thinking over these things I -remembered that the other two women had not been ladies. They had -not been educated. They understood nothing of the world which was -Maitland's world, and, as I knew, a disaster was bound to come in -both cases. But now it appeared to me that there was a possible hope -for the man, and a hope that such a step might almost certainly end -in happiness, or at any rate in peace. That something of the kind -would occur I knew, and even if this present affair went no farther, -yet some other woman would have to be dealt with even if she did not -come into his life for a long while. Thérèse Espinel was at any -rate, as I have said, beautiful and accomplished, essentially of the -upper classes, and, what was no small thing from Maitland's point of -view, a capable and feeling musician. Of such a woman Maitland had -had only a few weeks' experience many years before. I thought the -situation promised much, and raised no moral objection to the step he -proposed to take as soon as I saw he was strongly bent in one -direction. For one thing I was sure of, and it was that anything -whatever which put a definite obstacle in the way of his returning to -his wife was a thing to be encouraged. It was, in fact, absolutely a -duty; and I care not what comments may be made upon my attitude or my -morals. - -That Maitland would have gone back to his wife eventually I have very -little doubt, and of course nothing but disaster and new rage and -misery would have come of his doing so. For these reasons I did -everything in my power to help and encourage him in a matter which -gave him extreme nervousness and anxiety. I know he said to me that -the step he proposed to take early in 1899 grew more and more serious -the more he thought of it. Again, I think there was no overwhelming -passion at the back of his mind. Yet it was a true and sincere -affection, of that I am sure. But there were many difficulties. It -appears that the girl's father had died a few months before, and as -there was some money in the family this fact involved certain serious -difficulties about the future signing of names when all the legal -questions concerned with the little property that there was came to -be settled. Then he asked me what sort of hope was there that this -pretended marriage would not become known in England. He said: "I -fear it certainly would." When I reflect now upon the innumerable -lies and subterfuges that I myself indulged in with the view of -preventing anybody knowing of this affair in London, I can see he was -perfectly justified in his fears, for when the step was at last taken -I was continually being asked about Maitland's wife. Naturally -enough, it was said by one set of people that she was with him in -France; while it was said by others, much better informed, that she -was still in England. I was sometimes requested to settle this -difficult matter, and I did find it so difficult that at times I was -compelled to state the actual truth on condition that what I said was -regarded as absolutely confidential. - -He and Thérèse did, indeed, discuss the possibility of braving the -world with the simple truth, but that he knew would have been a very -tremendous step for her. The mother was yet living, and she played a -strange part in this little drama--a part not so uncommonly played as -many might think. She became at last her daughter's _confidante_ and -learned the whole of Maitland's story, and although she opposed their -solution of the trouble to the very best of her power, when it became -serious she at last gave way and consented to any step that her -daughter wished to take, provided that there was no public scandal. - -Of course, many people will regard with horror the part that her -mother played in this drama, imputing much moral blame. There are, -however, times when current morality has not the value which it is -commonly given, and I think Madame Espinel acted with great wisdom, -seeing that nothing she could have pleaded would have altered -matters. Her daughter was no longer a child; she was a grown-up -woman, not without determination, and entirely without religious -prejudice, a thing not so uncommon with the intellectual Frenchwoman. -Certainly there are some who will say that a public scandal was -better than secrecy, and in this I am at one with them. Nevertheless -there was much to consider, for there would certainly have been what -Henry himself called "a horrific scandal," seeing that the family had -many aristocratic relatives. Maitland, in fact, stated that it would -be taking an even greater responsibility than he was prepared to -shoulder if this were done. He wrote to me asking for my opinion and -counsel, especially at the time when there was a vague and probably -unfounded suggestion that he might be able to get a divorce from his -wife. It appears more than one person wrote to him anonymously about -her. I am sure he never believed what they told him, nor do I. No -doubt from some points of view I have been very unjust to his wife, -though I have tried to hold the balance true, but I never saw, or -heard from Maitland, anything to suggest that his wife was not all -that she should have been in one way, just as she was everything she -should not have been in another. Seeing that Maitland would have -given ten years of his life and every penny he possessed to secure a -divorce, it is certain that he absolutely disbelieved what he was -told. In fact, if he could have got a divorce by consent or -collusion he would have gladly engaged to pay her fifty pounds a year -during his life, whatever happened and whatever she did. But of -course this could not be said openly, either by myself or by him, and -nothing came out of the suggestion, whoever made it first. - -I proposed to him one afternoon when I was with him that he should -make some inquiries as to what an American divorce would do for him. -Whether it were valid or not, it might perhaps make things -technically easier and enable him to marry in France with some show -of legality. At the moment he paid no attention to what I said, or -seemed to pay no attention, but it must have sunk into his mind, for -a few days afterwards he wrote to me and said: "Is it a possible -thing to get a divorce in some other country as things are?--a -divorce which would allow of a legal marriage, say, in that same -country. I have vaguely heard such stories, especially of -Heligoland. The German novelist, Sacher Masoch, is said to have done -it--said so by his first wife, who now lives in Paris." Upon -receiving this letter of his I wrote and reminded him of what I had -said about American divorces, and gave him all the information that I -had in my mind and could collect at the moment, especially mentioning -Dakota or Nevada as two States of the United States which had the -most reasonable and wide-minded views of marriage and divorce. For -this letter he wrote and thanked me heartily, but quoted from a -letter of Thérèse which seemed to indicate, not unclearly, that she -preferred him to take no steps which might lead to long legal -processes. They should join their fortunes together, taking their -chance as to the actual state of affairs being discovered afterwards. -His great trouble, of course, was the absolute necessity of seeming -in Paris to be legally married, out of regard for her relatives. -Besides these connections of her family, she knew a very great number -of important people in Paris and Madrid, and many of them should -receive by custom the _lettres de faire part_. With some little -trouble the financial difficulties with regard to the signing of -documents were got over for the moment by a transfer of investments -from Thérèse to her mother. On this being done their final -determination was soon taken, and they determined, after this -"marriage" was completed, to leave Paris and live somewhere in the -mountains, perhaps in Savoy; and he then wrote to me: "You will be -the only man in London who knows this story. Absolute silence--it -goes without saying. If ever by a slip of the tongue you let a -remark fall that my wife was dead, _tant mieux_; only no needless -approach of the topic. A grave, grave responsibility mine. She is a -woman to go through fire for, as you saw. An incredible woman to one -who has spent his life with such creatures.... I have lately paid a -bill of one pound for damage done by my wife, damage in a London -house where she lived till turned out by the help of the police. -Incredible stories about her. She attacked the landlord with a -stick, and he had seriously to defend himself. Then she tore up -shrubs and creepers in the garden. No, I have had my time of misery. -It must come to an end." - -In the first part of this letter which I have just quoted he says, -"She is a woman to go through fire for, as you saw." This expression -does not mean that I had ever met her, but that I had seen sufficient -of her letters to recognise the essential fineness of her character. -I urged him once more to a rapid decision, and he promised that he -would let nothing delay it. Nevertheless it is perfectly -characteristic of him that, having now finally decided there should -be no attempt at any divorce, he proceeded instantly to play with the -idea again. No doubt he was being subjected to many influences of -different kinds, for I find that he sent me a letter in which he told -me that it seemed to be ascertained that an American divorce and -remarriage would satisfy French law. If that was so, he would move -heaven and earth to get all the necessary details of the procedure. -He had written to a friend in Baltimore who knew all about such -matters, but he implored me to find out if there were not some book -which gave all possible information about the marriage and divorce -laws of all the separate States of North America. He asked: "Do you -really think that I can go and present myself for a divorce without -the knowledge of the other person? The proceedings must be very -astounding." His knowledge of America was not equal to my own, much -as I had spoken to him about that country. The proceedings in -divorce courts in some of the United States have long ceased to -astonish anybody. He told me, however, that he had actually heard of -American lawyers advertising for would-be divorcers, and he prayed -devoutly that he could get hold of such a man. I did my best to rake -up for him every possible piece of information on the subject, and no -doubt his friend in Baltimore, of whom I know nothing, on his part -sent him information. It seemed, however, that any proceeding would -involve some difficulties, and on discovering this he instantly -dropped the whole scheme. I find that he wrote to me afterwards, -saying: "It is probable that I leave England at the end of April. -Not one syllable about me to any one, of course. The step is so bold -as to be really impudent, and I often have serious fears, not, of -course, on my own account. You shall hear from abroad.... If some -day one could know tranquillity and all meet together decently." - -After many qualms, hot and cold fits, despondency, and inspirations -of courage, he at last took the decisive step. In May he was in -Paris, and I think it was in that month that the "marriage" took -place. I am singularly ignorant of the details, for he seemed to be -somewhat reluctant to speak of them, and I do not even know whether -any actual ceremony took place or not, nor am I much concerned to -know. They were at any rate together, and no doubt tolerably happy. -He wrote me nothing either about this subject or anything else for -some time, and I was content to hear nothing. I do know, however, -that they spent the summer together in Switzerland, moving from -Trient, near the Col de Balme, to Locarno, on Lago Maggiore. He -wrote to me once from the Rhône Valley saying that as a result of his -new domestic peace and comfort, even though it were but the comfort -of Swiss hotels, and owing also to the air of the mountains, which -always suited him very well, he was in much better health than he had -been for years past. His lung, the perpetual subject of his -preoccupation, appears to have given him little trouble, although, -knowing that its state was attributable in some measure to emphysema, -he wrote to me for detailed explanations of that particular -complaint. During the whole of this time, the only honeymoon he had -ever had, he was, however, obliged to work very hard, for he was in -ceaseless trouble about money. In his own words, he had to "publish -furiously" in order to keep pace with his expenses. There was his -wife in England, and there were also his children to be partially -provided for. But for the time all went well with him. There were -fears of all sorts, he told me, but they were to be forgotten as much -as possible. He and Thérèse returned to Paris for the winter. - -During this time, or just about this time, which was when the South -African War was raging, I wrote for a weekly journal, which I used to -send regularly to Paris with my own contributions marked in it. This -temporary aberration into journalism so late in my literary life -interested him much. He wrote to me: "In the old garret days who -would have imagined the strange present? I suppose you have now a -very solid footing in journalism as well as in fiction. Of course it -was wise to get it, as it seems more than probable that the novelists -will be starved out very soon. With Europe in a state of war, which -may last for a decennium, there will be little chance for -story-tellers." Then, in spite of his new happiness, his inherited -or acquired pessimism got the worst of him. He adds: "I wish I had -died ten years ago. I should have gone away with some hope for -civilisation, of which I now have none. One's choice seems to be -between death in the workhouse, or by some ruffian's bullet. As for -those who come after one, it is too black to think about." - -No doubt this was only his fun, or partly such. There is one phrase -in Boswell's "Johnson" that he always loved amazingly; it is where -Johnson declares that some poor creature had "no skill in -inebriation." Maitland perhaps had no skill in inebriation when he -drank at the fountain of literary pessimism, for indeed when he did -drink there his views were fantastic and preposterous. As a matter -of fact he was doing very well, in spite of the workhouse in -Marylebone Road, from which he was now far enough. There might be -little chance for story-tellers, yet his financial position, for the -first time in his life, was tolerably sound. One publisher even gave -him three hundred pounds on account for a book which I think was "The -Best of all Things." For this book he also received five hundred -dollars from America; so, for him, or indeed for almost any writer, -he was very well paid. Little as the public may believe it, a sum of -three hundred pounds on account of royalties is as much as any -well-known man gets--unless by some chance he happens to be one of -the half-dozen amazingly successful writers in the country, and they -are by no means the best. It has been at my earnest solicitation -that he had at last employed an agent, though, with his peculiar -readiness to receive certain impressions, he had not gone to one I -recommended, but to another, suddenly mentioned to him when he was -just in the mood to act as I suggested. This agent worked for him -very well, and Maitland was now getting five guineas a thousand words -for stories, which is also a very good price for a man who does -really good work. It is true that very bad work is not often well -paid, but the very best work of all is often not to be sold at any -price. About this time I obtained for him a very good offer for a -book, and he wrote to me: "It is good to know that people care to -make offers for my work. What I aim at is to get a couple of -thousand pounds safely invested for my two boys. Probably I shall -not succeed--and if I get the money, what security have I that it -will be safe in a year or two? As likely as not the Bank of England -will lie in ruins." After all, I must confess that he was skilful in -the inebriation of his pessimism, for to me these phrases are -delightful, in spite of the half-belief with which they were uttered. - -During the last winter of 1900 he wrote to me from Paris that he -proposed to be in London for a few days in the spring of 1901, but -much depended on the relation, which seemed to him highly -speculative, between the money he received and the money he was -obliged to spend. Apparently he found Paris anything but cheap. -According to his own account, he was therefore in perpetual straits, -in spite of the good prices he now obtained for his work. He added -in this letter: "I hope to speak with you once more, before we are -both shot or starved." This proposal to come across the Channel in -the spring ended in smoke. He was not able to afford it, or was -reluctant to move, or more likely reluctant to expose himself to any -of the troubles still waiting for him in England. So long as his -good friends who were looking after his wife, and more or less -looking after his children, could do their work and save him from -anxiety, he was not likely to wish his peace disturbed by any -discussions on the subject. When he had decided not to come he sent -me a letter in which one of the paragraphs reads: "I am still trying -to believe that there is a King of England, and cannot take to the -idea, any more than to the moral and material ruin which seems to be -coming upon the old country. Isn't it astounding that we have the -courage to write books? We shall do so, I suppose, until the day -when publishers find their business at an end. I fear it may not be -far off." At this moment, being more or less at peace, and working -with no peculiar difficulty, he declared himself in tolerable health, -although he affirmed he coughed a great deal. It seemed to me that -he did not think so much about his health as he had done before and -was to do later, and he displayed something like his old real nature -with regard to literary enterprise. It was just about this time that -he reminded me of his cherished project for a story of the sixth -century A.D. This, of course, was the book published after his -death, "Basil." He had then begun to work upon it, and said he hoped -to finish it that summer. This cheered him up wonderfully, and he -ended one letter to me with: "Well, well, let us be glad that again -we exchange letters with address other than that of workhouse or -hospital. It is a great demand, this, to keep sane and solvent--I -dare hope for nothing more." Occasionally in his letters there -seemed to me to be slight indications that he was perhaps not quite -so happy as he wished to be. - -During that summer my wife and I were in Switzerland, and he wrote to -me, while we were on the Lake of Geneva, from Vernet-les-Bains in the -Eastern Pyrenees. By this time Thérèse and I, although we had never -met, were accustomed to send messages to each other. It was a -comfort to me to feel that he was with some one of whom I could think -pleasantly, and whom I much wished to know. We had, indeed, proposed -to meet somewhere on the Continent, but that fell through, partly -because we were obliged to return to England earlier than we had -proposed. Nevertheless, although we did not meet, and though I had -some fears for him, I was tolerably happy about him and his affairs, -and certainly did not anticipate the new crisis which was -approaching, nor the form it would take. - - - - -CHAPTER XI - -It was Maitland's custom to rely for advice and assistance on -particular people at certain crises. In some cases he now appealed -to Rivers; in very many he appealed to me; but when his health was -particularly involved it was his custom to relapse desperately on his -friend Dr. Lake. He even came to Lake on his return from Magna -Graecia when he had taken Potsdam on his way home to England. He had -gone there at Schmidt's strong invitation and particular desire that -he should taste for once a real Westphalian ham. It is a peculiarly -savage and not wholly safe custom of Germans to eat such hams -uncooked, and Maitland, having fallen in with this custom, though he -escaped trichinosis, procured for himself a peculiarly severe attack -of indigestion. He came over from Folkestone to Lake in order to get -cured. The ham apparently had not given him the lasting satisfaction -which he usually got out of fine fat feeding. As I have said, Lake -and Maitland had been friends from the time that Maitland's father -bought his chemist's business from the Doctor's father. For they had -been schoolfellows together at Hinkson's school in Mirefields. -Nevertheless it was only in 1894 that they renewed their old -acquaintance. Dr. Lake saw him once at Ewell, soon after a local -practitioner had frightened Maitland very seriously by diagnosing -phthisis and giving a gloomy prognosis. On that occasion Lake went -over Maitland's chest and found very little wrong. Technically -speaking, there was perhaps a slight want of expansion at the apex of -each lung, and apparently some emphysema at the base of the left one, -but certainly no active tubercular mischief. - -I speak of these things more or less in detail because health played -so great a part in the drama of his life; as, indeed, it does in most -lives. It is not the casual thing that novelists mostly make of it. -It is a perpetually acting cause. Steady ill-health, even more than -actually acute disease, is what helps to bring about most tragedies. -When Lake made his diagnosis, with which I agree, though there is -something else I must presently add to it, he took him to London, -that he might see a notable physician, in order to reassure -Maitland's mind thoroughly. They went together to Dr. Prior -Smithson. I have never noted that it was Maitland who introduced Dr. -Lake to Rivers. When Lake had arranged this London visit Maitland -wrote to Rivers saying: "I am coming up to town to see a scoundrel -specialist in diseases of the lung, who is as likely as not to upset -all my plans of life. But don't be afraid of my company; you shall -have no pathology. There will be with me an old schoolfellow of -mine, a country surgeon, in whose house I am staying at present. He -would think it very delightful to meet you." They did meet upon that -occasion, when Dr. Smithson confirmed Lake's diagnosis and -temporarily did a great deal to reassure Maitland. From my own -medical knowledge and my general study of Maitland, combined with -what some of his doctors have told me, I have come to the conclusion -that he did suffer from pulmonary tuberculosis, but that it was -practically arrested at an early stage. However, even arrested -tuberculosis in many cases leaves a very poor state of nutrition. -That his joy in food remained with him, though with a few lapses, -points strongly to the conclusion that at this time tuberculosis was -certainly not very active in him. He always needed much food, and -food, especially, which he liked and desired. To want it was a -tragedy, as I shall show presently. - -In 1897 when he went down to Salcombe he reported to Lake a great -improvement in health, saying that his cough was practically gone, -and that of course the wonderful weather accounted for it. He ate -heartily, and even walked five miles a day without fatigue. He -added: "The only difficulty is breathing through the nose. The other -day a traction engine passed me on the road, and the men upon it -looked about them wondering where the strange noises came from. It -was my snoring! All the nasal cavities are excoriated! But I shall -get used to this. I have a suspicion that it is _not_ the lung that -accounts for this difficulty, for it has been the same ever since I -can remember." By this he probably meant merely that it had lasted a -long time. There was a specific reason for it. From Salcombe he -reported to Lake that he had recovered a great deal of weight, but -that for some time his wheezing had been worse than ever when the -weather got very bad. He wrote: "Then again a practical paradox that -frenzies one, for sleep came when bad weather prevented me from being -so much out of doors!" All this he did not understand, but it is -highly probable that at that time he had a little actual tubercular -mischief, and a slight rise of temperature. As frequently happens, -enforced rest in the house did for him what nothing else could do. -But his health certainly was something of a puzzle. In 1898, when he -was in Paris with Thérèse, he saw a Dr. Piffard, apparently not a -lung specialist, but, as I am told, a physician of high standing. -This doctor spoke rather gravely to him, and of course told him that -he was working much too hard, for he was still keeping up his -ridiculous habit of writing eight hours a day. He said that there -was a moist spot in the right lung, with a little chronic bronchitis, -and that the emphysema was very obvious. He had, too, some chronic -rheumatism, and also on the right side of his forehead what Maitland -described as a patch of psoriasis. Psoriasis, however, is not as a -rule unilateral, and it was due to something else. This patch had -been there for about a year, and was slowly getting worse. Dr. -Piffard prescribed touching him under the right clavicle with the -actual cautery, and for the skin gave him some subcutaneous -injections of an arsenical preparation. He fed him with eggs, milk, -and cod-liver oil, ordering much sleep and absolute rest. During -this treatment he improved somewhat, and owned that he was really -better. The cough had become trifling, his breath was easier and his -sleep very good. His strength had much increased. He also declared -that he saw a slight amelioration in the patch of so-called -psoriasis. The truth is, I think, that nearly all this improvement -was due to making him rest and eat. No doubt very much of his -ill-health was the result of his abnormal habits, although there was -something else at the back of it. For one thing he had rarely taken -sufficient exercise, the exercise necessary for his really fine -physique. As I have said, he never played a game in his life after -he left Hinkson's school in Mirefields. Cricket he knew not. -Football was a mystery to him, and a brutal mystery at that. It is -true that occasionally he rowed in a boat at the seaside, for he did -so at Salcombe when his eldest boy was there with him, but any kind -of game or sport he actually loathed. It was a surprise to me to -find out that Rivers, while he was at Folkestone, actually persuaded -him to take to a bicycle. He even learned to like it. Rivers told -Lake that he rode not badly, and with great dignity; and as Rivers -rode beside him he heard him murmur: "Marvellous proceedings! Was -the like ever seen?" - -However, the time was now coming when he was to appeal to Lake once -more. In 1901 he had proposed to come over to England and see me, -but he said that the doctor in Paris had forbidden him to go north, -rather indicating the south for him. He wrote to me: "Now I must go -to the centre of France--I don't think the Alps are possible--and -vegetate among things which serve only to remind me that here is -_not_ England. Then, again, I had thought night and day of an -English potato, of a slice of English meat, of tarts and puddings, -and of teacakes. Night and day had I looked forward to ravening on -these things. Well, well!" But he did at last come back to England -for some time. - -There is no doubt that the feeding in his French home was not fat, or -fine, or confused feeding. Probably the notion of a Scotch haggis -would give any French cook a fit of apoplexy. Just before he did -come over from Paris, Lake had a letter from him which was much like -the one he wrote to me: "Best wishes for the merry, merry time,--if -merriment can be in the evil England of these days. I wish I could -look in upon you at Christmas. I should roar with joy at an honest -bit of English roast beef. Could you post a slice in a letter?--with -gravy?" Lake said to his wife when he received this letter: "Why, -this is written by a starving man!" Naturally enough, although I -heard from him comparatively seldom, I had always been aware of these -hankerings of his for England and English food. He did not take -kindly to exile, or to the culinary methods of a careful French -interior. Truly as he loved the Latin countries, there was much in -their customs which troubled him greatly, and the food was his -especial trouble when he was not being fed in Italy with oil and -Chianti. I find occasional melancholy letters of his upon the -subject, when he indulged in dithyrambs about the fine abundance of -feeding in England--eggs and bacon and beer. There was no doubt he -was not living in the way he should have lived. At any rate, it was -about this time--although I did not know it, as I was either in the -North of England or abroad, I forget which--that he came once more to -Lake, and was found standing on his doorstep tolerably early in the -morning. According to the doctor, on his arrival from Paris he was -in the condition of a starved man. The proof of this is very simple. -At that time, and for long after, Rivers was living at Folkestone, -and as Lake's house was at that time full he was unable to entertain -Maitland for long, and it was proposed that he should go over for a -time and stay at Folkestone. When Lake examined Maitland he was -practically no more than a skeleton, but after one week in Rivers' -house he had picked up no less than seven pounds weight. There were -then no physical signs of active mischief in the lungs except the -remaining and practically incurable patch of emphysema. Although -this sudden increase of weight does not entirely exclude -tuberculosis, it is yet rather uncommon for so rapid an increase to -take place in such cases, and it rather puts tuberculosis out of -court as being in any way the real cause of much of his ill-health. -Now of all this I knew very little, or next door to nothing, until -afterwards. Although I was aware that he was uneasy about many -things, I had not gathered that there was anything seriously wrong -with him except his strong and almost irresistible desire to return -to England. I now know that his reticence in speaking to me was due -to his utter inability to confess that his third venture had almost -come to disaster over the mere matter of the dining-table. I knew so -much of the past that he feared to tell me of the present, though I -do not think he could have imagined that I should say anything to -make him feel that he had once again been a sad fool for not -insisting good-humouredly on having the food he wanted. But he was -ashamed to speak to me of his difficulties, fearing, perhaps, that I -might not understand, or understand too well. - -Now he and Thérèse lived together with Madame Espinel. The old lady, -a very admirable and delicate creature of an aristocratic type, was -no longer young, and was typically French. She was in a poor state -of health, and lived, like Cornaro, on next to nothing. Her views on -food were what Maitland would have described as highly exiguous. She -stood bravely by the French breakfast, a thing Maitland could endure -with comfort for no more than a week or two at a time. Her notions -as to the midday meal and dinner were not characterised by that early -English abundance which he so ardently desired. After a long period -of subdued friction on the subject it appears that his endurance of -what he called prolonged starvation actually broke down. He demanded -something for breakfast, something fat, something in the nature of -bacon. How this was procured I do not know; I presume that bacon can -be bought in Paris, though I do not remember having ever seen it -there; perhaps it was imported from England for his especial benefit. -However pleasing for the moment the result may have been to him from -the gastronomic point of view, it led Madame Espinel to make as he -alleged, uncalled-for and bitter remarks upon the English grossness -of his tastes. As he was certainly run down and much underfed, his -nerves were starved too, and he got into one of his sudden rages and -practically ran away from France. I hinted, or said, not long ago -that he was in a way an intellectual coward because he would never -entertain any question as to the nature of the universe, or of our -human existence in it. Things were to be taken as they stood, and -not examined, for fear of pain or mental disturbance. It was a -little later than this that Rivers said acutely to Lake: "Why, the -man is a moral coward. He stands things up to a certain point and -then runs away." So now he ran away from French feeding to Lake's -doorstep, and Lake, as I have said, sent him to Rivers with the very -best results, for Mrs. Rivers took a great interest in him, looking -on him no doubt as a kind of foolish child of genius, and fed him, by -Lake's direction, for all that she was worth. As soon as he was in -anything like condition, or getting on towards it, he was unable to -remain any longer at Folkestone and proposed to return once more to -France. This, however, the doctor forbade, and thinking that a -prolonged course of feeding and rest was the one thing he required, -induced him to go to a sanatorium in the east of England. At this -time Lake had practically no belief whatever in the man being -tuberculous, but he used Maitland's firm conviction that he was in -that condition to induce him to enter this establishment. It was -perhaps the best thing which could be done for him. He was looked -after very well, and the doctor at the sanatorium agreed with Lake in -finding no evidence of active pulmonary trouble. - -As I have said, Maitland kept much, or most, of this from me--it was -very natural. He wrote to me from the sanatorium very many letters, -from which I shall not quote, as they were after all only the natural -moans of a solitary invalid. But he forbade me to come to him, and I -did not insist on making the visit which I proposed. I was quite -aware, if it were only by instinct and intuition, that he had no -desire for me to discover exactly how things had been going with him -in France. Nevertheless I did understand vaguely, though it was not -till afterwards that I discovered there had been a suggestion made -that he should not return there, or, indeed, go back to the -circumstances which had proved so nearly disastrous. I do not think -that this suggestion was ever made personally to him, although I -understand it was discussed by some of his friends. It appears that -a year or so afterwards when he was talking to Miss Kingdon, she told -him that it had been thought possible that he might not return to -France. This he received with much amazement and indignation, for -certainly he did go back, and henceforth I believe the management of -the kitchen was conducted on more reasonable lines. Certainly he -recovered his normal weight, and soon after his return was actually -twelve stone. As a matter of fact, even before he left the -sanatorium, he protested that he was actually getting obese. - -He was perfectly conscious after these experiences at Folkestone, and -the east of England, that he owed very much both to Lake and Rivers. -In fact he wrote to the doctor afterwards, saying that he and Rivers -had picked him out of a very swampy place. He had always a great -admiration for Rivers as a writer, and used to marvel wonderfully at -his success. It seemed an extraordinary thing to Maitland that a man -could do good work and succeed by it in England. - -It was in 1902 that Maitland and Thérèse took up their abode in St. -Pée d'Ascain, under the shadow of the Pyrenees. From there he wrote -me very frequently, and seemed to be doing a great deal of work. He -liked the place, and, as there was an English colony in the town, had -made not a few friends or acquaintances. By now it was a very long -time since I had seen him, for we had not met during the time of his -illness in England; and as I had been very much overworked, it -occurred to me that three or four days at sea, might do something for -me, and that I could combine this with a visit to my old friend. I -did not, however, write to him that I was coming. Knowing his ways -and his peculiar nervousness, which at this time most visibly grew -upon him, I thought it best to say nothing until I actually came to -Bordeaux. When I reached the city on the Gironde I put up at a hotel -and telegraphed to know whether he could receive me. The answer I -got was one word only, "Venez," and I went down by the early train, -through the melancholy Landes, and came at last to St. Pée by the way -of Bayonne. He met me at the station--which, by the way, has one of -the most beautiful views I know--and I found him looking almost -exactly as he had looked before, save that he wore his hair for the -time a little differently from his custom in order to hide a fading -scar upon his forehead, the result of that mysterious skin trouble. -We were, I know, very glad to meet. - -I stayed at a little hotel by myself as he could not put me up, but -went later to his house. It was now that I at last met Thérèse. As -I have said, she was a very beautiful woman, tall and slender, of a -pale, but clear complexion, very melancholy lovely eyes, and a voice -that was absolute music. I could not help thinking that he had at -last come home, for at that time my knowledge of their little -domestic difficulties owing to the warring customs of their different -countries was very vague, and she impressed me greatly. And yet I -knew before I left that night that all was not well with Maitland, -though it seemed so well with him. He complained to me when we were -alone about his health, and even then protested somewhat forcibly -against the meals. The house itself, or their apartment, was--from -the foreign point of view--quite comfortable, but it did not suggest -the kind of surroundings which I knew Maitland loved. There is, save -in the best, a certain air of cold barrenness about so many foreign -houses. The absence of rugs or carpets and curtains, the polish and -exiguity of the furniture, the general air of having no more in the -rooms than that which will just serve the purposes of life did not -suit his sense of abundance and luxury. - -Blake has said, though I doubt if I quote with accuracy: "We do not -know that we have enough until we have had too much," and this is a -saying of wisdom as well concerning the things of the mind as those -of the body. He had had at last a little too much domesticity, and, -besides that, his desires were set towards London and the British -Museum, with possibly half the year spent in Devonshire. He yearned -to get away from the little polished French home he had made for -himself and take Thérèse back to England with him. But this was -impossible, for her mother still lived with them and naturally would -not consent to expatriate herself at her age from her beloved France. -It had been truly no little sacrifice for her, a very gentle and -delicate woman even then suffering from cardiac trouble, to leave -Paris and its neighbourhood and stay with her child nigh upon the -frontier of Spain, almost beyond the borders of French civilisation. - -I stayed barely a week in St. Pée d'Ascain, but during that time we -talked much both of his work and of mine. Once more his romance of -the sixth century was in his mind and on his desk, though he worked -more, perhaps, at necessary pot-boilers than at this long pondered -task. Although he did not write so much as of old I found it almost -impossible to get him to go out with me, save now and again for half -an hour in the warmest and quietest part of the day. He had -developed a great fear of death, and life seemed to him -extraordinarily fragile. Such a feeling is ever the greatest warning -to those who know, and yet I think if he had been rather more -courageous and had faced the weather a little more, it might have -been better for him. During these few days I became very friendly -with Madame Espinel and her daughter, but more especially with the -latter, because she spoke English, and my French has never been very -fluent. It requires at least a month's painful practice for me to -become more or less intelligible to those who speak it by nature. As -I went away he gave me a copy of his new book "The Meditations of -Mark Sumner." It is one of those odd things which occur so -frequently in literary life that I myself had in a way given to him -the notion of this book. It was not that I suggested that he should -write it, indeed I had developed the idea of such a book to him upon -my own account, for I proposed at that time to write a short life of -an imaginary man of letters to whom I meant to attribute what I -afterwards published in "Apteryx." Perhaps this seed had lain -dormant in Maitland's mind for years, and when he at last wrote the -book he had wholly forgotten that it was I who first suggested the -idea. Certainly no two books could have been more different, -although my own plan was originally much more like his. In the same -way I now believe that my story "The Purification" owed its inception -without my being aware of it to the suppressed passage in "Outside -the Pale" of which I spoke some time ago. This passage I never read; -but, when Maitland told me of it, it struck me greatly and remained -in my mind. These influences are one of the great uses of literary -companionship among men of letters. As Henry Maitland used to say: -"We come together and strike out sparks." - -As I went north by train from St. Pée d'Ascain to Bordeaux, passing -ancient Dax and all the sombre silences of the wounded serried rows -of pines which have made an infertile soil yield something to -commerce, Maitland's spirit, his wounded and often sickly spirit, was -with me. I say "sickly" with a certain reluctance, and yet that is -what I felt, for I know I read "The Meditations" with great revolt in -spite of its obvious beauty and literary sincerity. Life, as I know -well, is hard and bitter enough to break any man's spirit, and I knew -that Maitland had been through a fire that not many men had known, -yet as I read I thought, and still think, that in this book he showed -an undue failure of courage. If he had been through so many -disasters yet there was still much left for him, or should have been. -He had not suffered the greatest disaster of all, for since the death -of his father in his early youth he had lost none that he loved. The -calculated dispirited air of the book afflicted me, and yet, -naturally enough, I found it wonderfully interesting; for here was so -much of my lifelong friend, even though now and again there are -little lapses in sincerity when he put another face on things, and -pretended, even to himself, that he had felt in one way and not in -another. There is in it only a brief mention of myself, when he -refers to the one solitary friend he possessed in London through so -many years which were only not barren to him in the acquisition of -knowledge. - -But even as I read in the falling night I came to the passage in -which he speaks of the Anabasis. It is curious to think of, but I -doubt if he had ever heard that modern scholarship refuses to believe -it was Xenophon who wrote this book. Most assuredly had he heard it -he would have rejected so revolutionary a notion with rage and -indignation, for to him Xenophon and the Anabasis were one. In -speaking of the march of the Greeks he quotes the passage where they -rewarded and dismissed the guide who had led them through very -dangerous country. The text says: "when evening came he took leave -of us, and went his way by night." On reaching Bordeaux I surprised -and troubled the telegraph clerk at the railway station by -telegraphing to Henry Maitland those words in the original Greek, -though naturally I had to write them in common script. Often-times I -had been his guide but had never led him in safety. - -When I reached England again I wrote him a very long letter about -"The Meditations," and in answer received one which I may here quote: -"My dear old boy, it is right and good that the first word about -'Mark Sumner' should come from you. I am delighted that you find it -readable. For a good ten years I had this book in mind vaguely, and -for two years have been getting it into shape. You will find that -there is not very much reminiscence; more philosophising. Why, of -course, the solitary friend is you. Good old Schmidt is mentioned -later. But the thing is a curious blend, of course, of truth and -fiction. Why, it's just because the world is 'inexplicable' that I -feel my interest in it and its future grows less and less. I am a -little oppressed by 'the burden of the mystery'; not seldom I think -with deep content of the time when speculation will be at an end. -But my delight in the beauty of the visible world, and my enjoyment -of the great things of literature, grow stronger. My one desire now -is to _utter_ this passion--yet the result of one's attempt is rather -a poor culmination for Life." - -During this year, and indeed during the greater part of 1902, I was -myself very ill and much troubled, though I worked exceedingly hard -upon my longest book, "Rachel." In consequence of all I went through -during the year I wrote to him very seldom until the beginning of the -following spring I was able to send him the book. For a long time -after discovering the almost impossibility of making more than a mere -living out of fiction, I had in a sense given up writing for the -public, as every man is more or less bound to do at last if he be not -gratified with commercial success. Indeed for many years I wrote for -some three people: for my wife; for Rawson, the naturalist, my almost -lifelong friend; and for Maitland, the only man I had known longer -than Rawson. Provided they approved, and were a little enthusiastic, -I thought all was well, even though I could earn no more than a mere -living. And yet I was conscious through all these working years that -I had never actually conquered Maitland's utmost approval. For I -knew what his enthusiasm was when he was really roused; how obvious, -how sincere, and how tremendous. When I reflect that I did at last -conquer it just before he died I have a certain melancholy pleasure -in thinking of that book of mine, which indeed in many ways means -very much to me, much more than I can put down, or would put down for -any one now living. Were this book which I am now doing a life of -myself rather than a sketch of him, I should certainly put in the -letter, knowing that I should be forgiven for inserting it because it -was a letter of Maitland's. It was, indeed, a highly characteristic -epistle, for when he praised he praised indeed, and his words carried -conviction to me, ever somewhat sceptical of most men's approval. He -did even more than write to me, for I learnt that he spoke about this -book to other friends of his, especially, as I know, to Edmund Roden; -and also to George Meredith, who talked to me about it with obvious -satisfaction when I next met him. Nothing pleased Maitland better -than that any one he loved should do good work. If ever a man lived -who was free from the prevalent vices of artistic and literary -jealousy, it was Maitland. - -But now his time was drawing to an end. He and Thérèse and Madame -Espinel left St. Pée d'Ascain in June 1903 and went thirty miles -further into the Pyrenees. He wrote to me a few days after reaching -the little mountain town of St. Christophe. The change apparently -did him good. He declared that he had now no more sciatica, of which -disease, by the way, I had not previously heard, and he admitted that -his general health was improving. St. Christophe is very -picturesquely situated, and Maitland loved it not the less for its -associations in ancient legend, since it is not very far from the -Port or Col de Roncesvalles, where the legendary Roland was slain -fighting in the rearguard to protect Charlemagne's army. He and -Thérèse went once further down the valley and stayed a night at -Roncesvalles. If any man's live imagination heard the horn of Roland -blow I think it should be Maitland. And yet though he took a great -pleasure in this country of his, it was not England, nor had he all -things at his command which he desired. I find that he now greatly -missed the British Museum, which readers of "The Meditations" will -know he much frequented in those old days. For he was once more hard -at work upon "Basil," and wrote to me that he was greatly in want of -exact knowledge as to the procedure in the execution of wills under -the later Roman Empire. This was a request for information, and such -requests I not infrequently received, always doing my best to tell -him what I could discover, or to give him the names of authorities -not known to himself. He frequently referred to me about points of -difficulty, even when he was in England but away from London. At -that time, naturally enough, I knew nothing whatever about wills -under the Roman Empire, but in less than a week after he had written -to me I think it highly probable that I knew more than any lawyer in -London who was not actually lecturing on the subject to some pupils. -I sent him a long screed on the matter. Before this reached him I -got another letter giving me more details of what he required, and -since this is certainly of some interest as showing his literary -methods and conscientiousness I think it may be quoted. He says: -"And now, hearty thanks for troubling about the legal question. The -time with which I am concerned is about A.D. 540. I know, of course, -that degeneration and the Gothic War made semi-chaos of Roman -civilisation; but as a matter of fact the Roman law still existed. -The Goths never interfered with it, and portions even have been -handed down. Now the testator is a senator. He has one child only, -a daughter, and to her leaves most of his estate. There are legacies -to two nephews, and to a sister. A very simple will, you see--no -difficulty about it. But he dying, all the legatees being with him -at the time, how, as a matter of fact, were things settled? Was an -executor appointed? Might an executor be a legatee? - -Probate, I think, as you say, there was none, but who inherited? -Still fantastic things were done in those times, but what would the -law have dictated? Funny, too, that this is the only real difficulty -which bothers me in the course of my story. As regards all else that -enters into the book I believe I know as much as one can without -being a Mommsen. The senator owns property in Rome and elsewhere. I -rather suppose it was a case of taking possession if you could, and -holding if no one interfered with you. Wills of this date were -frequently set aside on the mere assertion of a powerful senator that -the testator had verbally expressed a wish to benefit him.... It is -a glorious age for the romancer." As a full answer to this letter I -borrowed and sent to him Saunders' "Justinian," and received -typically exaggerated thanks. - - - - -CHAPTER XII - -Now again he and I were but correspondents, and I do not think that -in those days when I had so much to do, and had also very bad health, -I was a very good correspondent. Maitland, although he sometimes -apologised humorously, or even nervously, for writing at great -length, was an admirable letter writer. He practised a lost art. -Sometimes he put into his letters very valuable sketches of people. -He did so both to me and to Rivers, and to others, and frequently -made sharply etched portraits of people whom he knew at St Pée. He -had a curious habit of nicknaming everybody. These nicknames were -perhaps not the highest form of art, nor were they even always -humorous, still it was a practice of his. He had a peculiarly verbal -humor in these matters. Never by any chance, unless he was -exceedingly serious, did he call any man by his actual name. Rawson, -my most particular friend, whom he knew well, and whose books he -admired very much for their style, was always known as "The -Rawsonian," and I myself was referred to by a similarly formed name. -These are matters of no particular importance, but still they show -the man in his familiar moods and therefore have a kind of value--as -if one were to show a score of photographs or sketches that were -serious and then insert one where the wise man plays the child, or -even the fool. There was not a person of any importance in St. Pée -d'Ascain, although nobody knew it, who did not rejoice in some absurd -nickname. - -However he went further than mere nicknames, and there is in one -letter of his to Rivers a very admirable sketch of a certain -personage: "one of the most cantankerous men I ever came across; -fierce against the modern tendencies of science, especially in -England; an anti-Darwinite &c. He rages against Huxley, accusing him -of having used his position for personal vanity and gain, and of -ruining the scientific and industrial prospects of England; charges -of the paltriest dishonesty against H. and other such men abound in -his conversation. X., it seems, was one of the original students of -the Jermyn Street School of Mines, and his root grievance is the -transformation of that establishment--brought about, he declares, for -the personal profit of Huxley and of--the clerks of the War Office! -_You_, he regards as a most valuable demonstration of the evils -resulting from the last half-century of 'progress,' protesting loudly -that every one of your books is a bitter satire on Huxley, his -congeners, and his disciples. The man tells me that no scientific -papers in England will print his writing, merely from personal -enmity. He has also quarrelled with the scientific societies of -France, and now, being a polyglot, he writes for Spain and -Germany--the only two countries in Europe where scientific -impartiality is to be found." - -In another letter of his he says: "By the bye, an English paper -states that Henley died worth something more than eight hundred -pounds." One might imagine that he would then proceed to condole -with him on having had so little to leave, but that was not our -Maitland. He went on: "Amazing! How on earth did he amass that -wealth? I am rejoiced to know that his latter years have been passed -without struggle for bread." - -The long letter about the Roman Empire and Roman law from which I -quoted in the last chapter, was dated August 6, 1903, and I did not -hear again from Maitland until November 1. I had written to him -proposing to pay another visit to the south-west of France in order -to see him in his Pyrenean home, but he replied very gloomily, saying -that he was in evil case, that Thérèse had laryngitis, and that -everything was made worse by incredibly bad weather. The -workhouse--still the workhouse--was staring him in the face. He had -to labour a certain number of hours each day in direly unfavourable -conditions. If he did not finish his book at the end of the year -sheer pauperdom would come upon him. In these circumstances I was to -see that he dreaded a visit from any friend, indeed he was afraid -that they would not be able to stay in St. Christophe on account of -its excessive dampness. According to this pathetically exaggerated -account they lived in a thick mist day and night. How on earth it -came to be thought that such a dreadful country was good for -consumptive people he could not imagine; though he owned, somewhat -grudgingly, that he himself had got a good deal of strength there. -He told me that as soon as the eternal rain ceased they were going -down to Bayonne to see a doctor, and if he did no good Thérèse would -go to the south of France. Finally, he was hanged if he knew how it -would be managed. He ended up with: "In short I have not often in my -life been nearer to an appalling crisis." At the end of this dismal -letter, which did not affect me so much as might be thought, he spoke -to me of my book, "Rachel," and said: "I have been turning the pages -with great pleasure to keep my thoughts from the workhouse." - -As I have hinted, those will have gathered very little of Maitland -who imagine that I took this _au pied de lettre_. Maitland had cried -"Wolf!" so often, that I had almost ceased to believe that there were -wolves, even in the Pyrenees. All things had gradually become -appalling crises and dreadful disasters. A mere disturbance and an -actual catastrophe were alike dire and irremediable calamities. And -yet, alas, there was more truth underlying his words than even he -knew. If a man lives for ever in shadow the hour comes at last when -there is no more light; and even for those who look forward, one -would think with a certain relief, to the workhouse, there comes a -day that they shall work no more. I smiled when I read this letter, -but, of course, telegraphed to him deferring my visit until the rain -had ceased, or laryngitis had departed from his house, or until his -spirits recovered their tone on the completion of his great romance. -One could do no other, much as I desired to see him and have one of -our prodigious and preposterously long talks in his new home. I do -not think that I wrote to him after this lamentable reply of his, but -on November 16 I received my last communication from him. It was -three lines on a post-card, still dated from St. Christophe. He -referred in it once more to my book, and said: "Delighted to see the -advertisement in ------ to-day, especially after their very base -notice last week. Hurrah! Illness and struggle still going on -here." The struggle I believed in, but, as ever with one's friends, -one doubted if the illness were serious. And yet the catastrophe was -coming. - -At this time I was myself seriously ill. A chronic disease which had -not been diagnosed resulted in a more or less serious infection of my -own lungs, and, if I recollect truly, I had been in bed for nearly a -fortnight. During the early days of my convalescence I went down to -my club, and there one afternoon got this telegram from Rivers: "Have -received following telegram from Maitland, 'Henry dying. Entreat you -to come. In greatest haste.' I cannot go, can you?" This message -to me was dated Folkestone, where Rivers was then living. Now at -this time I was feeling very ill and utterly unfit to travel. I -hardly knew what to do, but thought it best to go home and consult -with my wife before I replied to Rivers. Anxious as she was to do -everything possible for Maitland, she implored me not to venture on -so long a journey, especially as it was mid-winter, just at -Christmas-time. If I had not felt really ill she would not have -placed any obstacles in my path, of that I am sure. She would, -indeed, have urged me to go. After a little reflection I therefore -replied to Rivers that I was myself very ill, but added that if he -could not possibly go I would. At the same time I telegraphed to -Maitland, or rather to Thérèse, saying that I was ill, but that I -would come if she found it absolutely necessary. I do not think I -received any answer to this message, a fact one easily understands -when one learns how desperate things really were; but on December 26 -I got another telegram from Rivers. I found that he had gone to St. -Christophe in spite of not being well. He wired to me: "No nurse. -Nursing help may save Maitland. Come if possibly can. Am here but -ill." Such an appeal could not be resisted. I went straight home, -and showing this telegram to my wife she agreed with me that I ought -to go. If Rivers was ill at St. Christophe it now seemed my absolute -duty to go, whatever my own state of health. - -I left London that night by the late train, crossing to Paris by way -of Newhaven and Dieppe in order that I might get at least three hours -of rest in a recumbent position in the steamer, as I did not at that -time feel justified in going all the way first class and taking a -sleeper. I did manage to obtain some rest during the sea-passage, -but on reaching Paris early in the morning I felt exceedingly unwell, -and at the Gare St.-Lazare found at that hour no means of obtaining -even a cup of coffee. I drove over to the Quai d'Orsay, and spent an -hour or two in the coffee-room waiting for the departure of the -express to Bordeaux. Ill as I was, and full of anxiety about -Maitland, and now about Rivers, that journey was one long nightmare -to me. I had not been able to take the Sud Express, and when at -last, late in the evening, I reached Bayonne, I found that the last -train to St. Christophe in its high Pyrenean valley had already gone -hours before my arrival. While I was on my journey I had again -telegraphed from Morcenx to Rivers or to Thérèse asking them to -telegraph to me at the Hotel du Commerce, Bayonne, in case I was -unable to get on that night, as I had indeed feared, although I was -unable to get accurate information. On reaching this hotel I found -waiting for me a telegram, which I have now lost, that was somehow -exceedingly obscure but yet portended disaster. That I expected the -worst I know, for I telegraphed to my wife the news in code that -Maitland was dying and that the doctor gave no hope. - -If I had been a rich man, or even moderately furnished with money on -that journey, I should have taken a motor-car if it could have been -obtained, and have gone on at once without waiting for the morning. -But now I was obliged to spend the night in that little old-fashioned -hotel in the old English city of Bayonne, the city whose fortress -bears the proud emblem "Nunquam polluta." I wondered much if I -should yet see my old friend alive. It was possible, and I hoped. -At any rate, he must know that I was coming and was near at hand if -only he were yet conscious. How much I was needed I did not know -till afterwards, for even as I was going south Rivers was once more -returning to Paris on his homeward journey. As I learnt afterwards, -he was far too unwell to stay. In the morning I took the first train -to St. Christophe, passing Cambo, where Rostand, the poet, makes his -home. On reaching the town where Maitland lived I found no one -waiting for me as I had expected; for, naturally enough, I thought it -possible that unless Rivers were very ill he would be able to meet -me. It was a cold and gloomy morning when I left the station. -Taking my bag in my hand, I hired a small boy to show me the house in -which Maitland lived on the outskirts of the little Pyrenean town. -This house, it seems, was let in flats, and the Maitlands occupied -the first floor. On entering the hall I found a servant washing down -the stone flooring. I said to her, "Comment Monsieur se porte-t-il?" -and she replied, "Monsieur est mort." I then asked her where I -should find the other Englishman. She answered that he had gone back -to England the day before, and then took me upstairs and went in to -tell Thérèse that I had come. - -I found her with her mother. She was the only woman who had given -him any happiness. Now she was completely broken down by the anxiety -and distress which had come upon her so suddenly. For indeed it -seems that it had been sudden. Only four or five days ago Maitland -had been working hard upon "Basil," the book from which he hoped so -much, and in which he believed so fervently. Then it seems that he -developed what he called a cold, some slight affection of the lungs -which raised his temperature a little. Strangely enough he did not -take the care of himself that he should have taken, or that care -which I should have expected him to use, considering his curiously -expressed nervousness about himself. By some odd fatality he became -suddenly courageous at the wrong time, and went out for a walk in -desperately bad weather. On the following day he was obviously very -seriously ill, and sent for the doctor, who suspended judgment but -feared that he had pneumonia. On the day succeeding this yet another -doctor was called into consultation, and the diagnosis of pneumonia -was confirmed without any doubt. But that was not, perhaps, what -actually killed him. There was a very serious complication, -according to Maitland's first physician, with whom I afterwards had a -long conversation, partly through the intermediary of the nurse, an -Englishwoman from Bayonne, who talked French more fluently than -myself. He considered that Maitland also had myocarditis. I -certainly did not think, and do not think, that he was right in this. -Myocarditis is rarely accompanied with much or severe pain, while the -anguish of violent pericarditis is often very great, and Maitland had -suffered most atrociously. He was not now a strong man, not one with -big reserves and powers of passive endurance, and in his agony he -cried aloud for death. - -In these agonies there were periods of comparative ease when he -rested and was quiet, and even spoke a little. In one of these -intermissions Thérèse came to him and told him that I was now -actually on my way. There is no reason, I think, why I should not -write what he said. It was simply, "Good old H----." By this time -Rivers had gone; but before his departure he had, I understand, -procured the nurse. The last struggle came early that morning, -December 28, while I was at the Bayonne hotel preparing to catch the -early train. He died quietly just before dawn, I think at six -o'clock. - -I was taken in to see Thérèse, who was still in bed, and found her -mother with her. They were two desolate and lonely women, and I had -some fears that Thérèse would hardly recover from the blow, so deeply -did his death affect her. She was always a delicate woman, and came -from a delicate, neurotic stock, as one could see so plainly in the -elder woman. I did my best to say what one could say, though all -that can possibly be said in such cases is nothing after all. There -is no physic for grief but the slow, inevitable years. I stayed not -long, but went into the other chamber and saw my dead friend. The -bed on which he lay stood in a little alcove at the end of the room -farthest from the window. I remember that the nurse, who behaved -most considerately to me, stood by the window while I said farewell -to him. He looked strangely and peculiarly intellectual, as so often -happens after death. The final relaxation of the muscles about his -chin and mouth accentuated most markedly the strong form of the -actual skull. Curiously enough, as he had grown a little beard in -his last illness, it seemed to me that he resembled very strongly -another English writer not yet dead, one whom nature had, indeed, -marked out as a story-teller, but who lacked all those qualities -which made Maitland what he was. As I stood by this dead-bed -knowing, as I did know, that he had died at last in the strange -anguish which I was aware he had feared, it seemed to me that here -was a man who had been born to inherit grief. He had never known -pure peace or utter joy as even some of the very humblest know it. I -looked back across the toilsome path by which he had come hither to -the end, and it seemed to me that from the very first he had been -doomed. In other times or some other age he might have had a better -fate, but he was born out of his time and died in exile doubly. I -put my hand upon his forehead and said farewell to him and left the -room, for I knew that there was much to do and that in some way I had -to do it. - -Thérèse was most anxious that he should not be buried in St. -Christophe, of which she had conceived a natural horror. There was -at this time an English clergyman in the village, the chaplain of the -English church at St. Pée, about whom I shall have something to say -later. With him I concerted what was to be done, and he obtained the -necessary papers from the _mairie_. And all this time, across the -road from the stone house in which Henry Maitland lay dead, I heard -the sound of his coffin being made in the little carpenter's shop -which stood there. When all was done that could be done, and -everything was in order, I went to the little hotel and had my lunch -all alone, and afterwards dined alone and slept that night in the -same hotel. The next day, late in the afternoon, I went down to St. -Pée d'Ascain in charge of his body. During this journey the young -doctor who had attended Maitland accompanied me part of the way, and -for the rest of it his nurse was my companion. At St. Pée d'Ascain, -where it was then quite dark, we were received by the clergyman, who -had preceded us, and by a hearse, into which we carried Maitland's -body. I accompanied it to the English chapel, where it remained all -night before the altar. I slept at my old hotel, where I was known, -as I had stayed there at the time I last saw Maitland alive. - -In the morning a service was held for him according to the rites of -the English Church. This was the desire of Thérèse and Madame -Espinel, who, if it had been possible, I think would have desired to -bury him according to the rites of the Catholic Church. Maitland, of -course, had no orthodox belief. He refused to think of these things, -for they were disturbing and led no-whither. Attending this service -there were many English people, some who knew him, and some again who -did not know him but went there out of respect for his name and -reputation, and perhaps because they felt that they and he were alike -in exile. We buried him in the common cemetery of St. Pée, a place -not unbeautiful, nor unbeautifully situated. And while the service -went on over his grave I was somehow reminded of the lovely cemetery -at Lisbon where another English man of letters lies in a tomb far -from his own country. I speak of Fielding. - -I left Thérèse and Madame Espinel still at St. Christophe, and did -not see them again before I started for England. They, I knew, would -probably return to Paris, or perhaps would go to relatives of theirs -in Spain. I could help them no more, and by now I discovered that my -winter journey, or perhaps even my short visit to the death-chamber -of Henry Maitland, had given me some kind of pulmonary catarrh which -in my overwrought and nervous state seemed likely, perhaps, to result -in something more serious. Therefore, having done all that I could, -and having seen him put in the earth, I returned home hurriedly. On -reaching England I was very ill for many days, but recovered without -any serious results. Soon afterwards some one, I know not who it -was, sent me a paragraph published in a religious paper which claimed -Maitland as a disciple of the Church, for it said that he had died -"in the fear of God's holy name, and with the comfort and strength of -the Catholic faith." When some men die there are for ever crows and -vultures about. Although I was very loath to say anything which -would raise an angry discussion, I felt that this could not be passed -by and that he would not have wished it to be passed by. Had he not -written of a certain character in one of his books "that he should be -buried as a son of the Church, to whom he had never belonged, was a -matter of indignation"? That others felt as I did is proved by a -letter I got from his friend Edmund Roden, who wrote to me: "You have -seen the report that the ecclesiastical buzzards have got hold of -Henry Maitland in articulo mortis and dragged him into the fold." - -My own views upon religion did not matter. They were stronger and -more pronounced, and, it may be, more atheistical than his own. -Nevertheless I knew what he felt about these things, and in -consequence wrote the following letter to the editor of the paper -which had claimed him for the Church: "My attention has been drawn to -a statement in your columns that Henry Maitland died in communion -with the Church of England, and I shall be much obliged if you will -give to this contradiction the same publicity you granted, without -investigation, to the calumny. I was intimate with Maitland for -thirty years, and had every opportunity of noting his attitude -towards all theological speculation. He not only accepted none of -the dogmas formulated in the creeds and articles of the Church of -England, but he considered it impossible that any Church's definition -of the undefinable could have any significance for any intelligent -man. During the whole of our long intimacy I never knew him to waver -from that point of view. - -"What communication may have reached you from any one who visited -Maitland during his illness I do not know. But I presume you do not -maintain that a change in his theological standpoint can reasonably -be inferred from any words which he may have been induced to speak in -a condition in which, according to the law of every civilised -country, he would have been incompetent to sign a codicil to his will. - -"The attempt to draw such a deduction will seem dishonest to every -fair-minded man; and I rely upon your courtesy to publish this -vindication of the memory of an honest and consistent thinker which -you have, however unintentionally, aspersed." - -Of course this letter was refused publication. The editor answered -it in a note in which he maintained the position that the paper had -taken up, stating that he was thoroughly satisfied with the sources -of his information. Naturally enough I knew what those sources were, -and I wrote a letter in anger to the chaplain of St. Pée, which, I -fear, was full of very gross insults. - -Seeing that the paper refused my letter admission to its columns, on -the advice of certain other people I wrote to a London daily saying: -"As the intimate friend of Henry Maitland for thirty years, I beg to -state definitely that he had not the slightest intellectual sympathy -with any creed whatsoever. From his early youth he had none, save -for a short period when, for reasons other than intellectual, he -inclined to a vague and nebulous Positivism. His mental attitude -towards all theological explanations was more than critical, it was -absolutely indifferent; he could hardly understand how any one in the -full possession of his faculties could subscribe to any formulated -doctrines. No more than John Stuart Mill or Herbert Spencer could he -have entered into communion with any Church." - -Of course I knew, as any man must know who is acquainted with -humanity and its frailties, that it was possible for Maitland, during -the last few poisoned hours of his life, to have gone back in his -delirium upon the whole of his previous convictions. He knew that he -was dying. When he asked to know the truth he had been told it. In -such circumstances some men break down. There are what people call -death-bed repentances. Therefore I did my best to satisfy myself as -to whether anything whatever had occurred which would give any colour -to these theologic lies. I could not trouble Thérèse upon this -particular point, but it occurred to me that the nurse, who was a -very intelligent woman, must be in a position to know something of -the matter, and I therefore wrote to her asking her to tell me all -she knew. She replied to me about the middle of January, telling me -that she had just then had a long talk with Mrs. Maitland, and giving -me the following facts. - -It appears that on Monday, December 21, Maitland was so ill that a -consultation was thought necessary, and that both the doctors agreed -that it was impossible for the patient to live through the night, -though in fact he did not die till nearly a week afterwards. On -Thursday, December 24, the chaplain was sent for, not for any -religious reasons, or because Maitland had called for him, but simply -because Thérèse thought that he might find some pleasure in seeing an -English face. When the clergyman came it did indeed have this -effect, for Maitland's face lit up and he shook him heartily by the -hand. At this moment the young doctor came in and told the clergyman -privately that Maitland had no chance whatever, and that it was a -wonder that he was still alive. It is quite certain that there was -no religious conversation between the clergyman and the patient at -this time. The nurse arrived at eleven o'clock on Sunday morning, -and insisted on absolute quietness in the room. The clergyman simply -peeped in at the door to say good-bye, for at that time Mr. Rivers -was in charge in the bedroom. - -The chaplain did not see Maitland again until the day I myself came -to St. Christophe, when all was over. While Maitland was delirious -it appears that he chanted some kind of _Te Deum_ repeatedly. To -what this was attributable no man can say with certainty, but it is a -curious thing to reflect upon that "Basil" was about the time of -Gregory, and that Maitland had been studying most minutely the -history of the early Church in many ecclesiastical works. According -to those who heard his delirious talk, it seems that all he did say -had reference to "Basil," the book about which he had been so -anxious, and was never to finish. At any rate it is absolutely -certain that Maitland never accepted the offices of the Church before -his death, even in delirium. Before I leave this matter I may -mention that the chaplain complicated matters in no small degree -before he retired from the scene, by declaring most disingenuously -that he had not written the notice which appeared in print. Now this -was perfectly true. He did not write it. He had asked a friend of -his to do so. When he learnt the truth this friend very much -regretted having undertaken the task. I understand that though the -editor refused to withdraw this statement the authorities of the -paper wrote to the chaplain in no pleased spirit after they had -received my somewhat severely phrased communication. It is a sad and -disagreeable subject, and I am glad to leave it. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII - -For ever on looking backwards one is filled with regrets, and one -thing I regret greatly about Henry Maitland is that, though I might -perhaps have purchased his little library, the books he had -accumulated with so much joy and such self-sacrifice, I never thought -of this until it was too late. Books made up so much of his life, -and few of his had not been bought at the cost of what others would -consider pleasure, or by the sacrifice of some sensation which he -himself would have enjoyed at the time. Now I possess none of his -books but those he gave me, save only the little "Anthologia Latina" -which Thérèse herself sent to me. This was a volume in which he took -peculiar delight, perhaps even more delight than he did in the Greek -anthology, which I myself preferred so far as my Greek would then -carry me. Many times I have seen him take down the little Eton -anthology and read aloud. Now I myself may quote: - - _Animula vagula, blandula, - Hospes comesque corporis, - Qua nunc abibis in loca - Pallidula, rigida, nudula----_ - - -I believe his library was sold in Paris, for now that Thérèse had no -settled home it was impossible to carry it about with her. Among -these books were all those beautifully bound volumes which he had -obtained as prizes at Moorhampton College, and others which he had -picked up at various times in the various bookshops of London, so -many of which he speaks of in "The Meditations"--his old Gibbon in -quarto, and some hundreds of others chosen with joy because they -appealed to him in a way only a book-lover can understand. He had a -strange pleasure in buying old copies of the classics, which shows -that he was perhaps after all more of a bookman than a scholar. He -would perhaps have rather possessed such a copy of Lucretius as is on -my own shelves, which has no notes but is wonderfully printed, than -the newest edition by the newest editor. He was conscious that his -chief desire was literature rather than scholarship. Few indeed -there are who know the classics as well as he did, who read them for -ever with so much delight. - -Maitland, for an Englishman, knew many languages. His Greek, though -not extraordinarily deep, was most familiar. He could read -Aristophanes lying on the sofa, thoroughly enjoying it, and rarely -rising to consult Liddell and Scott, a book which he adored in the -most odd fashion, perhaps because it knew so much Greek. There was -no Latin author whom he could not read fluently. I myself frequently -took him up a difficult passage in Juvenal and Persius, and rarely, -if ever, found him at fault, or slow to give me help. French he knew -very nearly as well as a Frenchman, and spoke it very fluently. His -Italian was also very good, and he spoke that too without hesitation. -Spanish he only read; I do not think he often attempted to speak it. -Nevertheless he read "Don Quixote" in the original; and his Italian -can be judged by the fact that he read Dante's "Divina Commedia" -almost as easily as he read his Virgil. German too was an open book -to him, and he had read most of the great men who wrote in it, -understanding even the obscurities of "Titan." I marked down the -other day many of the books in which he chiefly delighted, or rather, -let me say, many of the authors. Homer, of course, stood at the head -of the list, for Homer he knew as well as he knew Shakespeare. His -adoration for Shakespeare was, indeed, I think, excessive, but the -less said of that the better, for I have no desire to express fully -what I think concerning the general English over-estimation of that -particular author. I do, however, understand how it was that -Maitland worshipped him so, for whatever may be thought of -Shakespeare's dramatic ability, or his characterisation, or his -general psychology, there can be no dispute about his having been a -master of "beautiful words." Milton he loved marvellously, and -sometimes he read his sonnets to me. Much of "Lycidas" he knew by -heart, and some of "Il Penseroso." Among the Latins, Virgil, -Catullus, and Tibullus were his favourites, although he took a -curious interest in Cicero, a thing in which I was never able to -follow him. I once showed to Maitland in the "Tusculan Disputations" -what Cicero seemed to think a good joke. It betrayed such an -extraordinary lack of humour that I was satisfied to leave the -"Disputations" alone henceforth. The only Latin book which I myself -introduced to Maitland was the "Letters" of Pliny. They afterwards -became great favourites with him because some of them dealt with his -beloved Naples and Vesuvius. Lucian's "Dialogues" he admired very -much, finding them, as indeed they are, always delightful; and it was -very interesting to him when I showed him to what extent Disraeli was -indebted to Lucian in those clever _jeux d'esprit_ "Ixion in Heaven," -"Popanilla," and "The Infernal Marriage." The "Golden Ass" of -Apuleius he knew almost by heart. Petronius he read very frequently; -it contained some of the actual life of the old world. He knew -Diogenes Laertius very well, though he read that author, as Montaigne -did, rather for the light he throws upon the private life of the -Greeks than for the philosophy in the book; and he frequently dipped -into Athenæus the Deipnosophist. Occasionally, but very -occasionally, he did read some ancient metaphysics, for Plato was a -favourite of his--not, I think, on account of his philosophy, but -because he wrote so beautifully. Aristotle he rarely touched, -although he knew the "Poetics." He had a peculiar admiration for the -Stoic Marcus Aurelius, in which I never followed him because the -Stoic philosophy is so peculiarly inhuman. But, after all, among the -Greeks his chief joy was the tragedians, and there was no single play -or fragment of Æschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides that he did not -know almost by heart. Among the Frenchmen his great favourites were -Rabelais and Montaigne and, later, Flaubert, Maupassant, Victor Hugo, -Zola, Balzac, and the Goncourts. As I have said before, he had a -great admiration for the Russian writers of eminence, and much -regretted that he did not know Russian. He once even attempted it, -but put it aside. I think Balzac was the only writer of importance -that he read much of who did not possess a style; he owned that he -found him on that account at times almost impossible to read. -Nevertheless he did read him, and learnt much from him; but his chief -admiration among the French on the ground of their being artists was -for Flaubert and Maupassant. Zola's style did not appeal to him; in -fact in many of his books it is little better than Balzac's. -Maitland's love of beautiful words and the rhythms of prose was as -deep as that of Meredith; and as I have said, his adoration of -Shakespeare was founded on the fact that Shakespeare still remains -the great enchanter in the world of phrases. He read English very -deeply. There was little among the fields of English prose that he -did not know well; but again he loved best those who had a noble -style of their own, notably Sir Thomas Browne. If a man had -something to say and did not say it well, Maitland read him with -difficulty and held him at a discount. That is why he loved Landor -at his best, why he loved Meredith, and why he often adored Hardy, -especially in Hardy's earlier works, before he began to "rail at the -universe" and disturb him. I think among other living writers of -English fiction I can hardly mention more than one of whom he spoke -with much respect, and he was Henry James. As he was a conservative -he was especially a conservative critic. He found it difficult to -appreciate anything which was wholly new, and the rising school of -Celtic literature, which means much, and may mean more, in English -literature, did not appeal to him greatly. He lived in the past, -even in English, and often went back to Chaucer and drank at his well -and at the everlasting fountain of Malory. So, as I have said, he -loved old Walton. Boswell he read yearly at least, for he had an -amazing admiration for old Johnson, a notable truth-teller. The man -who could say what he thought, and say it plainly, was ever his -favourite, although I could never induce him to admire Machiavelli, -for the coldness of Machiavelli's intellect was a little too much for -him. The pure intellect never appealed to Maitland. I think if he -had attempted "The Critique of Pure Reason" he would have died before -he had learnt Kant's vocabulary. Yet I once gave him a copy of it in -the original. The only very modern writer that he took to was Walt -Whitman, and the trouble I had in getting him to see anything in him -was amazing, though at last he succumbed and was characteristically -enthusiastic. - -What he wanted in literature was emotion, feeling, and -humour--literature that affected him sensuously, and made him happy, -and made him forget. For it is strange when one looks back at his -books to think how much he loved pure beauty, though he found himself -compelled to write, only too often, of the sheer brutality of modern -civilisation and the foulest life of London. Of course he loved -satire, and his own mind was essentially in some ways satiric. His -greatest gift was perhaps that of irony, which he frequently -exercised at the expense of his public. I remember very well his joy -when something he had written which was ironically intended from the -first word to the last was treated seriously by the critics. He was -reminded, as he indeed reminded me, of Samuel Butler's "Fairhaven," -that book on Christianity which was reviewed by one great religious -paper as an essay in religious apologetics. This recalls to my mind -the fact that I have forgotten to say how much he loved Samuel -Butler's books, or those with which he was more particularly -acquainted, "Erewhon" and "Erewhon Revisited." Anything which dug -knives into the gross stupidity of the mass of English opinion -afforded him the intensest gratification. If it attacked their -religion or their vanity he was equally delighted, and when it came -to their hypocrisy--in spite of the defence he made later in "The -Meditations" of English hypocrisy--he was equally pleased. In this -connection I am reminded of a very little thing of no particular -importance which occurred to him when he was upon one occasion at the -Royal Academy. That year Sir Frederick Leighton exhibited a very -fine decorative panel of a nude figure. While Maitland was looking -at it a typical English matron with three young flappers of daughters -passed him. One of the girls stood in front of this nude and said, -"Oh, mamma, what is this?" Whereupon her mother replied hurriedly, -"Only a goddess, my dear, only a goddess! Come along,--only a -goddess." And he quoted to himself and afterwards to me, from "Roman -Women": "And yet I love you not, nor ever can, Distinguished woman on -the Pincian!" If I remember rightly, the notable address to -Englishwomen in T.E. Brown's poem was published separately in a -magazine which I brought to him. It gave great occasion for -chuckling. - -I have not attempted to give any far-reaching notion of all -Maitland's reading, but I think what I have said will indicate not -unfairly what its reach was. What he desired was to read the best -that had been written in all western languages; and I think, indeed, -that very few men have read so much, although he made, in some ways, -but little use of it. Nevertheless this life among books was his -true life. Among books he lived, and among them he would have died. -Had any globe-trotting Gillman offered to show him the world, he -would have declined, I think, to leave the littoral of the -Mediterranean, though with a book-loving Gillman he might have -explored all literature. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV - -There have been few men so persecuted by Fortune as to lead lives of -unhappiness, lighted only by transient gleams of the sun, who are yet -pursued beyond the grave by outcries and misfortune, but this was -undoubtedly the case with Maitland. Of course he always had notable -ill luck, as men might say and indeed do say, but his ill luck sprang -from his nature as well as from the nature of things. When a man -puts himself into circumstances to which he is equal he may have -misfortunes, or sometimes disasters, but he has not perpetual -adversity. Maitland's nature was for ever thrusting him into -positions to which he was not equal. His disposition, his very -heredity, seems to have invited trouble. So out of his first great -disaster sprang all the rest. He had not been equal to the stress -laid upon him, and in later life he was never equal to the stress he -laid upon himself. This is what ill luck is. It is an instinctive -lack of wisdom. I think I said some chapters ago that I had not -entirely disposed of the question of his health. I return to the -subject with some reluctance. Nevertheless I think what I have to -say should be said. It at any rate curiously links the last days of -Maitland's life to the earlier times of his trouble, or so it will -seem to physicians. I shall do no more than quote a few lines from a -letter which he wrote to Lake. He says: "You remember that patch of -skin disease on my forehead? Nothing would touch it; it had lasted -for more than two years, and was steadily extending itself. At last -a fortnight ago I was advised to try iodide of potassium. -Result--perfect cure after week's treatment! I had resigned myself -to being disfigured for the rest of my life; the rapidity of the cure -is extraordinary. I am thinking of substituting iodide of potassium -for coffee at breakfast and wine at the other meals. I am also -meditating a poem in its praise--which may perhaps appear in the -_Fortnightly Review_." Dr. Lake replied to these dithyrambs with a -letter which Maitland did not answer. There is no need to comment -upon this more particularly; it will at any rate be clear to those -who are not uninstructed in medicine. - -His ill luck began early. It lasted even beyond the grave. Some men -have accounted it a calamity to have a biography written of them. -The first who said so must have been English, for in this country the -absence of biographic art is rendered the more peculiarly dreadful by -the existence in our language of one or two masterpieces. In some -ways I would very willingly cease to speak now, for I have written -nearly all that I had in my mind, and I know that I have spoken -nothing which would really hurt him. As I have said in the very -first chapter, he had an earnest desire that if anything were written -about him after his death it should be something true. Still there -are some things yet to be put down, especially about "Basil" and its -publication. He left this book unfinished: it still lacked some few -chapters which would have dealt with the final catastrophe. It fell -to the executors to arrange for the publication of the incomplete -book. As Maitland had left no money, certainly not that two thousand -pounds which he vainly hoped for, there were still his children to -consider; and it was thought necessary, for reasons I do not -appreciate, to get a preface written for the book with a view, which -seemed to me idle, of procuring it a great sale. - -It appears that Rivers offered to write this preface if it were -wanted. What he wrote was afterwards published. The executors did -not approve it, again for reasons which I do not appreciate, for I -think that it was on the whole a very admirable piece of work. Yet I -do not believe Rivers was sincere in the view he took of "Basil" as a -work of art. In later years he acknowledged as much to me, but he -thought it was his duty to say everything that could possibly be said -with a view of imposing it on a reluctant public. The passage in -this article mainly objected to was that which speaks obscurely of -his early life at Moorhampton College and refers as obscurely to his -initial great disaster. The reference was needed, and could hardly -be avoided. Rivers said nothing openly but referred to "an abrupt -incongruous reaction and collapse." This no doubt excited certain -curiosities in certain people, but seeing that so many already knew -the truth, I cannot perceive what was to be gained by entire silence. -However, this preface was rejected and Mr. Harold Edgeworth was asked -to write another. This he did, but it was a frigid performance. The -writer acknowledged his ignorance of much that Maitland had written, -and avowed his want of sympathy with most of it. - -Naturally enough, the trouble growing out of this dispute gave rise -to considerable comment. As some theological buzzards had dropped -out of a murky sky upon Maitland's corpse, so some literary kites now -found a subject to gloat upon. Nevertheless the matter presently -passed. "Basil," unhappily, was no success; and if one must speak -the truth, it was rightly a failure. It is curious and bitter to -think of that when he was dealing at the last in some kind of peace -and quiet with his one chosen subject, that he had thought of for so -many years and prepared for so carefully, it should by no means have -proved what he believed it. There is, indeed, no such proof as -"Basil" in the whole history of letters that the writer was not doing -the work that his nature called for. Who that knows "Magna Graecia," -and who, indeed, that ever spoke with him, will not feel that if he -had visited one by one all the places that he mentions in the book, -and had written about them and about the historical characters that -he hoped to realise, the book might have been as great or even -greater than the shining pages of "Magna Graecia"? It was in the -consideration of these things, while reviving the aspects of the past -that he felt so deeply and loved so much, that his native and natural -genius came out. In fiction it was only when rage and anger and -disgust inspired him that he could hope to equal anything of the -passion which he felt about his temperamental and proper work. Those -books in which he let himself go perfectly naturally, and those books -which came out of him as a terrible protest against modern -civilisation, are alone great. Yet it is hard to speak without -emotion and without pain of "Basil." He believed in it so greatly, -and yet believed in it no more than any writer must while he is at -work. The artist's own illusion of a book's strength and beauty is -necessary to any accomplishment. He must believe with faith or do -nothing. Maitland failed because it was not his real work. - -In one sense the great books of his middle period were what writers -and artists know as "pot-boilers." They were, indeed, written for an -actual living, for bread and for cheese and occasionally a very -little butter. But they had to be written. He was obliged to do -something, and did these best; he could do no other. He was always -in exile. That was the point in my mind when I wrote one long -article about him in a promising but passing magazine which preened -its wings in Bond Street and died before the end of its first month. -This article I called "The Exile of Henry Maitland." There is -something of the same feeling in much that has been written of him by -men perhaps qualified in many ways better than myself had they known -him as well as I did. I have, I believe, spoken of the able -criticism Thomas Sackville wrote of him in the foreword of the book -of short stories which was published after Maitland's death. In the -_Fortnightly Review_ Edwin Warren wrote a feeling and sympathetic -article about him. Jacob Levy wrote not without discernment of the -man. And of one thing all these men seemed tolerably sure, that in -himself Maitland stood alone. But he only stood alone, I think, in -the best work of his middle period. And even that work was alien -from his native mind. - -In an early article written about him while he yet lived I said that -he stood in a high and solitary place, because he belonged to no -school, and most certainly not to any English school. No one could -imitate, and no one could truly even caricature him. The essence of -his best work was that it was founded on deep and accurate knowledge -and keen observation. Its power lay in a bent, in a mood of mind, -not by any means in any subject, even though his satiric discussion -of what he called the "ignobly decent" showed his strength, and -indirectly his inner character. His very repugnance to his early -subjects led him to choose them. He showed what he wished the world -to be by declaring and proving that it possessed every conceivable -opposite to his desires. I pointed out some time ago, but should -like to insist upon it again, that in one sense he showed an -instinctive affinity for the lucid and subtle Tourgeniev. There is -no more intensely depressing book in the entire English language than -"Isabel." The hero's desires reached to the stars, but he was not -able to steal or take so much as a farthing rushlight. Not even -Demetri Roudine, that futile essence of futility, equals this, -Maitland's literary child of bitter, unable ambitions. These -Russians indeed were the writers with whom Maitland had most -sympathy. They moved what Zola had never been able to stir in him, -for he was never a Zolaist, either in mind or method. No man without -a style could really influence him for more than a moment. Even his -beloved Balzac, fecund and insatiable, had no lasting hold upon him, -much as he admired the man's ambitions, his unparalleled industry, -his mighty construction. For Balzac was truly architectonic, even if -barbarous, and though these constructions of his are often imaginary -and his perspectives a mystery. But great construction is obviously -alien from Maitland. He wanted no elaborate architecture to do his -thinking in. He would have been contented in a porch, or preferably -in a cloister. - -I have declared that his greatest book is "The Exile"--I mean his -greatest book among his novels. To say it is a masterpiece is for -once not to abuse the word; for it is intense, deeply psychological, -moving, true. "_L'anatomia presuppone il cadavere_," says Gabriele -D'Annunzio, but "The Exile" is intolerable and wonderful vivisection. -Yet men do bleed and live, and the protagonist in this book--in much, -in very much, Henry Maitland--bleeds but will not die. He was born -out of the leisured classes and resented it with an incredible -bitterness, with a bitterness unparalleled in literature. I know -that on one occasion Maitland spoke to me with a certain joy of -somebody who had written to him about his books and had selected "The -Exile" as the greatest of them. I think he knew it was great. It -was, of course, an ineffable failure from the commercial point of -view. - -On more than one occasion, as it was known that I was acquainted with -Maitland, men asked me to write about him. I never did so without -asking his permission to do it. This happened once in 1895. He -answered me: "What objection could I possibly have, unless it were -that I should not like to hear you reviled for log-rolling? But it -seems to me that you might well write an article which would incur no -such charge; and indeed, by so doing, you would render me a very -great service. For I have in mind at present a careful and -well-written attack in the current _Spectator_. Have you seen it? -Now I will tell you what my feelings are about this frequent attitude -in my critics." - -Maitland's views upon critics and reviewing were often somewhat -astounding. He resented their folly very bitterly. Naturally -enough, we often spoke of reviewers, for both of us, in a sense, had -some grievances. Mine, however, were not bitter. Luckily for me, I -sometimes did work which appealed more to the general, while his -appeal was always to the particular. Apropos of a review of one of -Rivers' books he says: "I have also, unfortunately, seen the ----. -Now, can you tell me (in moments of extreme idleness one wishes to -know such things) who the people are who review fiction for the ----? -Are they women, soured by celibacy, and by ineffectual attempts to -succeed as authors? Even as they treat you this time they have -consistently treated me--one continuous snarl and sneer. They are -beastly creatures--I can think of no other term." - -It was unfortunate that he took these things so seriously, for nobody -knows so well as the reviewers that their work is not serious. Yet, -according to them the general effect of Maitland's books, especially -"Jubilee," was false, misleading, and libellous; and was in essence -caricature. One particular critic spoke of "the brutish stupefaction -of his men and women," and said, "his realism inheres only in his -rendering of detail." Now Maitland declared that the writer -exhibited a twofold ignorance--first of the life he depicted, and -again of the books in which he depicted it. Maitland went on to say: -"He--the critic--speaks specially of 'Jubilee,' so for the moment we -will stick to that. I have selected from the great mass of lower -middle-class life a group of people who represent certain of its -grossnesses, weaknesses, &c., peculiar to our day. Now in the first -place, this group of people, on its worst side, represents a -degradation of which the critic has obviously no idea. In the second -place, my book, if properly read, contains abundant evidence of good -feeling and right thinking in those members of the group who are not -hopelessly base. Pass to instances: 'The seniors live a ... life -unglorified by a single fine emotion or elevating instinct.' Indeed? -What about Mr. Ward, who is there precisely to show that there can -be, and are, these emotions and instincts in individuals? Of the -young people (to say not a word about Nancy, at heart an admirable -woman), how is it possible to miss the notes of fine character in -poor Halley? Is not the passionate love of one's child an 'elevating -instinct'? nor yet a fine emotion? Why, even Nancy's brother shows -at the end that favourable circumstances could bring out in him -gentleness and goodness." - -There indeed spoke Maitland. He felt that everything was -circumstance, and that for nine hundred and ninety-nine out of a -thousand circumstance was truly too much, as it had been for him. It -appears that the critic added that the general effect of the book was -false; and Maitland replied that it would be so to a very rapid -skimmer of the book, precisely as the general effect upon a rapid -observer of the people themselves would be false. He was enraged to -think that though people thought it worth while to write at length -about his books, they would not take the trouble to study them -seriously. He added: "In this section of the lower middle class the -good is not on the surface; neither will it be found on the surface -of my narrative." - -In this letter he went on to say something more of his books in -general. Apropos of a paragraph written by Mr. Glass about his work -as a whole, he said: "My books deal with people of many social -strata; there are the vile working class, the aspiring and capable -working class, the vile lower middle, the aspiring and capable lower -middle, and a few representatives of the upper middle class. My -characters range from the vileness of 'Arry Parson to the genial and -cultured respectability of Mr. Comberbatch. There are books as -disparate as 'The Under World' and 'The Unchosen.' But what I desire -to insist upon is this, that the most characteristic, the most -important, part of my work is that which deals with a class of young -men distinctive of our time--well-educated, fairly bred, _but without -money_. It is this fact, as I gather from reviews and conversation, -of the poverty of my people which tells against their recognition as -civilised beings. 'Oh,' said some one to Butler, 'do ask Mr. -Maitland to make his people a little better off.' There you have it." - -And there one has also the source of Maitland's fountain of -bitterness. He went on to say: "Now think of some of these young -men, Hendon, Gifford, Medwin, Pick, Early, Hillward, Mallow. Do you -mean to say that books containing such a number of such men deal, -first and foremost, with the commonplace and the sordid? Why, these -fellows are the very reverse of commonplace; most of them are -martyred by the fact of possessing uncommon endowments. Is it not -so? This side of my work, to me the most important, I have never yet -seen recognised. I suppose Glass would class these men as 'at best -genteel, and not so very genteel.' Why, 'ods bodikins! there's -nothing in the world so hateful to them as gentility. But you know -all this, and can you not write of it rather trenchantly? I say -nothing about my women. That is a moot point. But surely there are -some of them who help to give colour to the groups I draw." The end -of the letter was: "I write with a numbed hand. I haven't been warm -for weeks. This weather crushes me. Let me have a line about this -letter." - -The sort of poverty which crushed the aspiring is the keynote to the -best work he did. He knew it, and was right in knowing it. He -played all these parts himself. In many protean forms Maitland -himself is discerned under the colour and character of his chosen -names; and so far as he depicted a class hitherto untouched, or -practically untouched, in England, as he declares, he was a great -writer of fiction. But he was not a romantic writer. There were -some books of romance he loved greatly. We often and often spoke of -Murger's "Vie de Bohème." I do not think there was any passage in -that book which so appealed to him as when Rodolphe worked in his -adventitious fur-coat in his windy garret, declaring genially: -"Maintenant le thermomètre va être furieusement vexé." Nevertheless, -as I have said before, he knew, and few knew so well, the very bitter -truth that Murger only vaguely indicated here and there in scattered -passages. In the "Vie de Bohème" these characters "range" themselves -at last; but mostly such men did not. They went under, they died in -the hospital, they poisoned themselves, they blew out their brains, -they sank and became degraded parasites of an uncomprehending -bourgeoisie. - -I spoke some time back of the painful hour when Maitland came to me -to declare his considered opinion that I myself could not write -successful fiction. It is an odd thing that I never returned the -compliment in any way, for though I knew he could, and did, write -great fiction, I knew his best work would not have been fiction in -other circumstances. Out of martyrdom may come great things, but not -out of martyrdom spring the natural blossoms of the natural mind. -That he lived in the devil's twilight between the Dan of Camberwell -and the Beersheba of Camden Town, when his natural environment should -have been Italy, and Rome, or Sorrento, is an unfading tragedy. Only -once or twice in his life did a spring or summer come to him in which -he might grow the flowers he loved best and knew to be his natural -destiny. The greatest tragedy of all, to my mind, is that final -tragedy of "Basil" where at last, after long years of toil in fiction -while fiction was yet necessary to his livelihood, he was compelled -by his training to put into the form of a novel a theme not fit for -such treatment save in the hands of a native and easy story-teller. - -I have said nothing, or little except by implication, of the man's -style. In many ways it was notable and even noble. To such a -literary intelligence, informed with all the learning of the past -towards which he leant, much of his style was inevitable; it was the -man and his own. For the greater part it is lucid rather than -sparkling, clear, if not cold; yet with a subdued rhythm, the result -of much Latin and more Greek, for the metres of the Greek tragedies -always inspired him with their noble rhythms. Though he was often -cold and bitter, especially in his employment of irony, of which he -is the only complete master in English literature except Samuel -Butler, he could rise to heights of passionate description; and here -and there a sense of luxury tinges his words with Tyrian purple--and -this in spite of all his sense of restraint, which was more marked -than that of almost any living writer. - -When I think of it all, and consider his partly wasted years, I even -now wonder how it was he induced himself to deal with the life he -knew so well; but while that commercialism exists which he abhorred -as much as he abhorred the society in which it flourishes, there -seems no other practicable method for a man of letters to attain -speech and yet to live. I often declared that fiction as we wrote it -was truly diagnostic of a disordered and unnecessarily degraded form -of civilisation; and he replied with deep feeling that to him the -idylls of Theocritus, of Moschus, the simple tragedies, the natural -woes and joys of men who ploughed the soil or worked at the -winepress, were the truest and most vivid forms and subjects of Art. -Neither before his death nor after did he attain the artist's true -and great reward of recognition in the full sense that would have -satisfied him even if he had remained poor. Nevertheless there were -some who knew. There are perhaps a few more who know now that he is -gone and cannot hear them. Popularity he never hoped for, and never -will attain, but he has a secure place in the hierarchy of the -literature of England which he loved. But he appeals now, as he -appealed while he lived, not to the idle and the foolish, not to the -fashionable mob, but to the more august tribunal of those who have -the sympathy which comes from understanding. - - - - - - - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PRIVATE LIFE OF HENRY -MAITLAND *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law 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. 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