I HAD simply, I suppose, a change of heart, and it must have begun when I
received my manuscript back from Mr. Pinhorn. Mr. Pinhorn was my "chief," as he
was called in the office: he had the high mission of bringing the paper up. This
was a weekly periodical, which had been supposed to be almost past redemption
when he took hold of it. It was Mr. Deedy who had let the thing down so
dreadfully: he was never mentioned in the office now save in connexion with that
misdemeanour. Young as I was I had been in a manner taken over from Mr. Deedy,
who had been owner as well as editor; forming part of a promiscuous lot, mainly
plant and office- furniture, which poor Mrs. Deedy, in her bereavement and
depression, parted with at a rough valuation. I could account for my continuity
but on the supposition that I had been cheap. I rather resented the practice of
fathering all flatness on my late protector, who was in his unhonoured grave;
but as I had my way to make I found matter enough for complacency in being on a
"staff." At the same time I was aware of my exposure to suspicion as a product
of the old lowering system. This made me feel I was doubly bound to have ideas,
and had doubtless been at the bottom of my proposing to Mr. Pinhorn that I
should lay my lean hands on Neil Paraday. I remember how he looked at me -
quite, to begin with, as if he had never heard of this celebrity, who indeed at
that moment was by no means in the centre of the heavens; and even when I had
knowingly explained he expressed but little confidence in the demand for any
such stuff. When I had reminded him that the great principle on which we were
supposed to work was just to create the demand we required, he considered a
moment and then returned: "I see - you want to write him up."
"Call it that if you like."
"And what's your inducement?"
"Bless my soul - my admiration!"
Mr. Pinhorn pursed up his mouth. "Is there much to be done with him?"
"Whatever there is we should have it all to ourselves, for he hasn't been
This argument was effective and Mr. Pinhorn responded. "Very well, touch
him." Then he added: "But where can you do it?"
"Under the fifth rib!"
Mr. Pinhorn stared. "Where's that?"
"You want me to go down and see him?" I asked when I had enjoyed his visible
search for the obscure suburb I seemed to have named.
"I don't 'want' anything - the proposal's your own. But you must remember
that that's the way we do things NOW," said Mr. Pinhorn with another dig Mr.
Unregenerate as I was I could read the queer implications of this speech. The
present owner's superior virtue as well as his deeper craft spoke in his
reference to the late editor as one of that baser sort who deal in false
representations. Mr. Deedy would as soon have sent me to call on Neil Paraday as
he would have published a "holiday-number"; but such scruples presented
themselves as mere ignoble thrift to his successor, whose own sincerity took the
form of ringing door-bells and whose definition of genius was the art of finding
people at home. It was as if Mr. Deedy had published reports without his young
men's having, as Pinhorn would have said, really been there. I was unregenerate,
as I have hinted, and couldn't be concerned to straighten out the journalistic
morals of my chief, feeling them indeed to be an abyss over the edge of which it
was better not to peer. Really to be there this time moreover was a vision that
made the idea of writing something subtle about Neil Paraday only the more
inspiring. I would be as considerate as even Mr. Deedy could have wished, and
yet I should be as present as only Mr. Pinhorn could conceive. My allusion to
the sequestered manner in which Mr. Paraday lived - it had formed part of my
explanation, though I knew of it only by hearsay - was, I could divine, very
much what had made Mr. Pinhorn nibble. It struck him as inconsistent with the
success of his paper that any one should be so sequestered as that. And then
wasn't an immediate exposure of everything just what the public wanted? Mr.
Pinhorn effectually called me to order by reminding me of the promptness with
which I had met Miss Braby at Liverpool on her return from her fiasco in the
States. Hadn't we published, while its freshness and flavour were unimpaired,
Miss Braby's own version of that great international episode? I felt somewhat
uneasy at this lumping of the actress and the author, and I confess that after
having enlisted Mr. Pinhorn's sympathies I procrastinated a little. I had
succeeded better than I wished, and I had, as it happened, work nearer at hand.
A few days later I called on Lord Crouchley and carried off in triumph the most
unintelligible statement that had yet appeared of his lordship's reasons for his
change of front. I thus set in motion in the daily papers columns of virtuous
verbiage. The following week I ran down to Brighton for a chat, as Mr. Pinhorn
called it, with Mrs. Bounder, who gave me, on the subject of her divorce, many
curious particulars that had not been articulated in court. If ever an article
flowed from the primal fount it was that article on Mrs. Bounder. By this time,
however, I became aware that Neil Paraday's new book was on the point of
appearing and that its approach had been the ground of my original appeal to Mr.
Pinhorn, who was now annoyed with me for having lost so many days. He bundled me
off - we would at least not lose another. I've always thought his sudden
alertness a remarkable example of the journalistic instinct. Nothing had
occurred, since I first spoke to him, to create a visible urgency, and no
enlightenment could possibly have reached him. It was a pure case of profession
flair - he had smelt the coming glory as an animal smells its distant prey.
I MAY as well say at once that this little record pretends in no degree to be
a picture either of my introduction to Mr. Paraday or of certain proximate steps
and stages. The scheme of my narrative allows no space for these things, and in
any case a prohibitory sentiment would hang about my recollection of so rare an
hour. These meagre notes are essentially private, so that if they see the light
the insidious forces that, as my story itself shows, make at present for
publicity will simply have overmastered my precautions. The curtain fell lately
enough on the lamentable drama. My memory of the day I alighted at Mr. Paraday's
door is a fresh memory of kindness, hospitality, compassion, and of the
wonderful illuminating talk in which the welcome was conveyed. Some voice of the
air had taught me the right moment, the moment of his life at which an act of
unexpected young allegiance might most come home to him. He had recently
recovered from a long, grave illness. I had gone to the neighbouring inn for the
night, but I spent the evening in his company, and he insisted the next day on
my sleeping under his roof. I hadn't an indefinite leave: Mr. Pinhorn supposed
us to put our victims through on the gallop. It was later, in the office, that
the rude motions of the jig were set to music. I fortified myself, however, as
my training had taught me to do, by the conviction that nothing could be more
advantageous for my article than to be written in the very atmosphere. I said
nothing to Mr. Paraday about it, but in the morning, after my remove from the
inn, while he was occupied in his study, as he had notified me he should need to
be, I committed to paper the main heads of my impression. Then thinking to
commend myself to Mr. Pinhorn by my celerity, I walked out and posted my little
packet before luncheon. Once my paper was written I was free to stay on, and if
it was calculated to divert attention from my levity in so doing I could reflect
with satisfaction that I had never been so clever. I don't mean to deny of
course that I was aware it was much too good for Mr. Pinhorn; but I was equally
conscious that Mr. Pinhorn had the supreme shrewdness of recognising from time
to time the cases in which an article was not too bad only because it was too
good. There was nothing he loved so much as to print on the right occasion a
thing he hated. I had begun my visit to the great man on a Monday, and on the
Wednesday his book came out. A copy of it arrived by the first post, and he let
me go out into the garden with it immediately after breakfast, I read it from
beginning to end that day, and in the evening he asked me to remain with him the
rest of the week and over the Sunday.
That night my manuscript came back from Mr. Pinhorn, accompanied with a
letter the gist of which was the desire to know what I meant by trying to fob
off on him such stuff. That was the meaning of the question, if not exactly its
form, and it made my mistake immense to me. Such as this mistake was I could now
only look it in the face and accept it. I knew where I had failed, but it was
exactly where I couldn't have succeeded. I had been sent down to be personal and
then in point of fact hadn't been personal at all: what I had dispatched to
London was just a little finicking feverish study of my author's talent.
Anything less relevant to Mr. Pinhorn's purpose couldn't well be imagined, and
he was visibly angry at my having (at his expense, with a second-class ticket)
approached the subject of our enterprise only to stand off so helplessly. For
myself, I knew but too well what had happened, and how a miracle - as pretty as
some old miracle of legend - had been wrought on the spot to save me. There had
been a big brush of wings, the flash of an opaline robe, and then, with a great
cool stir of the air, the sense of an angel's having swooped down and caught me
to his bosom. He held me only till the danger was over, and it all took place in
a minute. With my manuscript back on my hands I understood the phenomenon
better, and the reflexions I made on it are what I meant, at the beginning of
this anecdote, by my change of heart. Mr. Pinhorn's note was not only a rebuke
decidedly stern, but an invitation immediately to send him - it was the case to
say so - the genuine article, the revealing and reverberating sketch to the
promise of which, and of which alone, I owed my squandered privilege. A week or
two later I recast my peccant paper and, giving it a particular application to
Mr. Paraday's new book, obtained for it the hospitality of another journal,
where, I must admit, Mr. Pinhorn was so far vindicated as that it attracted not
the least attention.
I WAS frankly, at the end of three days, a very prejudiced critic, so that
one morning when, in the garden, my great man had offered to read me something I
quite held my breath as I listened. It was the written scheme of another book -
something put aside long ago, before his illness, but that he had lately taken
out again to reconsider. He had been turning it round when I came down on him,
and it had grown magnificently under this second hand. Loose liberal confident,
it might have passed for a great gossiping eloquent letter - the overflow into
talk of an artist's amorous plan. The theme I thought singularly rich, quite the
strongest he had yet treated; and this familiar statement of it, full too of
fine maturities, was really, in summarised splendour, a mine of gold, a precious
independent work. I remember rather profanely wondering whether the ultimate
production could possibly keep at the pitch. His reading of the fond epistle, at
any rate, made me feel as if I were, for the advantage of posterity, in close
correspondence with him - were the distinguished person to whom it had been
affectionately addressed. It was a high distinction simply to be told such
things. The idea he now communicated had all the freshness, the flushed
fairness, of the conception untouched and untried: it was Venus rising from the
sea and before the airs had blown upon her. I had never been so throbbingly
present at such an unveiling. But when he had tossed the last bright word after
the others, as I had seen cashiers in banks, weighing mounds of coin, drop a
final sovereign into the tray, I knew a sudden prudent alarm.
"My dear master, how, after all, are you going to do it? It's infinitely
noble, but what time it will take, what patience and independence, what assured,
what perfect conditions! Oh for a lone isle in a tepid sea!"
"Isn't this practically a lone isle, and aren't you, as an encircling medium,
tepid enough?" he asked, alluding with a laugh to the wonder of my young
admiration and the narrow limits of his little provincial home. "Time isn't what
I've lacked hitherto: the question hasn't been to find it, but to use it. Of
course my illness made, while it lasted, a great hole - but I dare say there
would have been a hole at any rate. The earth we tread has more pockets than a
billiard-table. The great thing is now to keep on my feet."
"That's exactly what I mean."
Neil Paraday looked at me with eyes - such pleasant eyes as he had - in
which, as I now recall their expression, I seem to have seen a dim imagination
of his fate. He was fifty years old, and his illness had been cruel, his
convalescence slow. "It isn't as if I weren't all right."
"Oh if you weren't all right I wouldn't look at you!" I tenderly said.
We had both got up, quickened as by this clearer air, and he had lighted a
cigarette. I had taken a fresh one, which with an intenser smile, by way of
answer to my exclamation, he applied to the flame of his match. "If I weren't
better I shouldn't have thought of THAT!" He flourished his script in his hand.
"I don't want to be discouraging, but that's not true," I returned. "I'm sure
that during the months you lay here in pain you had visitations sublime. You
thought of a thousand things. You think of more and more all the while. That's
what makes you, if you'll pardon my familiarity, so respectable. At a time when
so many people are spent you come into your second wind. But, thank God, all the
same, you're better! Thank God, too, you're not, as you were telling me
yesterday, 'successful.' If YOU weren't a failure what would be the use of
trying? That's my one reserve on the subject of your recovery - that it makes
you 'score,' as the newspapers say. It looks well in the newspapers, and almost
anything that does that's horrible. 'We are happy to announce that Mr. Paraday,
the celebrated author, is again in the enjoyment of excellent health.' Somehow I
shouldn't like to see it."
"You won't see it; I'm not in the least celebrated - my obscurity protects
me. But couldn't you bear even to see I was dying or dead?" my host enquired.
"Dead - passe encore; there's nothing so safe. One never knows what a living
artist may do - one has mourned so many. However, one must make the worst of it.
You must be as dead as you can."
"Don't I meet that condition in having just published a book?"
"Adequately, let us hope; for the book's verily a masterpiece."
At this moment the parlour-maid appeared in the door that opened from the
garden: Paraday lived at no great cost, and the frisk of petticoats, with a
timorous "Sherry, sir?" was about his modest mahogany. He allowed half his
income to his wife, from whom he had succeeded in separating without redundancy
of legend. I had a general faith in his having behaved well, and I had once, in
London, taken Mrs. Paraday down to dinner. He now turned to speak to the maid,
who offered him, on a tray, some card or note, while, agitated, excited, I
wandered to the end of the precinct. The idea of his security became supremely
dear to me, and I asked myself if I were the same young man who had come down a
few days before to scatter him to the four winds. When I retraced my steps he
had gone into the house, and the woman - the second London post had come in -
had placed my letters and a newspaper on a bench. I sat down there to the
letters, which were a brief business, and then, without heeding the address,
took the paper from its envelope. It was the journal of highest renown, THE
EMPIRE of that morning. It regularly came to Paraday, but I remembered that
neither of us had yet looked at the copy already delivered. This one had a great
mark on the "editorial" page, and, uncrumpling the wrapper, I saw it to be
directed to my host and stamped with the name of his publishers. I instantly
divined that THE EMPIRE had spoken of him, and I've not forgotten the odd little
shock of the circumstance. It checked all eagerness and made me drop the paper a
moment. As I sat there conscious of a palpitation I think I had a vision of what
was to be. I had also a vision of the letter I would presently address to Mr.
Pinhorn, breaking, as it were, with Mr. Pinhorn. Of course, however, the next
minute the voice of THE EMPIRE was in my ears.
The article wasn't, I thanked heaven, a review; it was a "leader," the last
of three, presenting Neil Paraday to the human race. His new book, the fifth
from his hand, had been but a day or two out, and THE EMPIRE, already aware of
it, fired, as if on the birth of a prince, a salute of a whole column. The guns
had been booming these three hours in the house without our suspecting them. The
big blundering newspaper had discovered him, and now he was proclaimed and
anointed and crowned. His place was assigned him as publicly as if a fat usher
with a wand had pointed to the topmost chair; he was to pass up and still up,
higher and higher, between the watching faces and the envious sounds - away up
to the dais and the throne. The article was "epoch-making," a landmark in his
life; he had taken rank at a bound, waked up a national glory. A national glory
was needed, and it was an immense convenience he was there. What all this meant
rolled over me, and I fear I grew a little faint - it meant so much more than I
could say "yea" to on the spot. In a flash, somehow, all was different; the
tremendous wave I speak of had swept something away. It had knocked down, I
suppose, my little customary altar, my twinkling tapers and my flowers, and had
reared itself into the likeness of a temple vast and bare. When Neil Paraday
should come out of the house he would come out a contemporary. That was what had
happened: the poor man was to be squeezed into his horrible age. I felt as if he
had been overtaken on the crest of the hill and brought back to the city. A
little more and he would have dipped down the short cut to posterity and
WHEN he came out it was exactly as if he had been in custody, for beside him
walked a stout man with a big black beard, who, save that he wore spectacles,
might have been a policeman, and in whom at a second glance I recognised the
highest contemporary enterprise.
"This is Mr. Morrow," said Paraday, looking, I thought, rather white: "he
wants to publish heaven knows what about me."
I winced as I remembered that this was exactly what I myself had wanted.
"Already?" I cried with a sort of sense that my friend had fled to me for
Mr. Morrow glared, agreeably, through his glasses: they suggested the
electric headlights of some monstrous modem ship, and I felt as if Paraday and I
were tossing terrified under his bows. I saw his momentum was irresistible. "I
was confident that I should be the first in the field. A great interest is
naturally felt in Mr. Paraday's surroundings," he heavily observed.
"I hadn't the least idea of it," said Paraday, as if he had been told he had
"I find he hasn't read the article in THE EMPIRE," Mr. Morrow remarked to me.
"That's so very interesting - it's something to start with," he smiled. He had
begun to pull off his gloves, which were violently new, and to look
encouragingly round the little garden. As a "surrounding" I felt how I myself
had already been taken in; I was a little fish in the stomach of a bigger one.
"I represent," our visitor continued, "a syndicate of influential journals, no
less than thirty-seven, whose public - whose publics, I may say - are in
peculiar sympathy with Mr. Paraday's line of thought. They would greatly
appreciate any expression of his views on the subject of the art he so nobly
exemplifies. In addition to my connexion with the syndicate just mentioned I
hold a particular commission from THE TATLER, whose most prominent department,
'Smatter and Chatter' - I dare say you've often enjoyed it - attracts such
attention. I was honoured only last week, as a representative of THE TATLER,
with the confidence of Guy Walsingham, the brilliant author of 'Obsessions.' She
pronounced herself thoroughly pleased with my sketch of her method; she went so
far as to say that I had made her genius more comprehensible even to herself."
Neil Paraday had dropped on the garden-bench and sat there at once detached
and confounded; he looked hard at a bare spot in the lawn, as if with an anxiety
that had suddenly made him grave. His movement had been interpreted by his
visitor as an invitation to sink sympathetically into a wicker chair that stood
hard by, and while Mr. Morrow so settled himself I felt he had taken official
possession and that there was no undoing it. One had heard of unfortunate
people's having "a man in the house," and this was just what we had. There was a
silence of a moment, during which we seemed to acknowledge in the only way that
was possible the presence of universal fate; the sunny stillness took no pity,
and my thought, as I was sure Paraday's was doing, performed within the minute a
great distant revolution. I saw just how emphatic I should make my rejoinder to
Mr. Pinhorn, and that having come, like Mr. Morrow, to betray, I must remain as
long as possible to save. Not because I had brought my mind back, but because
our visitors last words were in my ear, I presently enquired with gloomy
irrelevance if Guy Walsingham were a woman.
"Oh yes, a mere pseudonym - rather pretty, isn't it? - and convenient, you
know, for a lady who goes in for the larger latitude. 'Obsessions, by Miss
So-and-so,' would look a little odd, but men are more naturally indelicate. Have
you peeped into 'Obsessions'?" Mr. Morrow continued sociably to our companion.
Paraday, still absent, remote, made no answer, as if he hadn't heard the
question: a form of intercourse that appeared to suit the cheerful Mr. Morrow as
well as any other. Imperturbably bland, he was a man of resources - he only
needed to be on the spot. He had pocketed the whole poor place while Paraday and
I were wool- gathering, and I could imagine that he had already got his "heads."
His system, at any rate, was justified by the inevitability with which I
replied, to save my friend the trouble: "Dear no - he hasn't read it. He doesn't
read such things!" I unwarily added.
"Things that are TOO far over the fence, eh?" I was indeed a godsend to Mr.
Morrow. It was the psychological moment; it determined the appearance of his
note-book, which, however, he at first kept slightly behind him, even as the
dentist approaching his victim keeps the horrible forceps. "Mr. Paraday holds
with the good old proprieties - I see!" And thinking of the thirty-seven
influential journals, I found myself, as I found poor Paraday, helplessly
assisting at the promulgation of this ineptitude. "There's no point on which
distinguished views are so acceptable as on this question - raised perhaps more
strikingly than ever by Guy Walsingham - of the permissibility of the larger
latitude. I've an appointment, precisely in connexion with it, next week, with
Dora Forbes, author of 'The Other Way Round,' which everybody's talking about.
Has Mr. Paraday glanced at 'The Other Way Round'?" Mr. Morrow now frankly
appealed to me. I took on myself to repudiate the supposition, while our
companion, still silent, got up nervously and walked away. His visitor paid no
heed to his withdrawal; but opened out the note-book with a more fatherly pat.
"Dora Forbes, I gather, takes the ground, the same as Guy Walsingham's, that the
larger latitude has simply got to come. He holds that it has got to be squarely
faced. Of course his sex makes him a less prejudiced witness. But an
authoritative word from Mr. Paraday - from the point of view of HIS sex, you
know - would go right round the globe. He takes the line that we HAVEN'T got to
I was bewildered: it sounded somehow as if there were three sexes. My
interlocutor's pencil was poised, my private responsibility great. I simply sat
staring, none the less, and only found presence of mind to say: "Is this Miss
Forbes a gentleman?"
Mr. Morrow had a subtle smile. "It wouldn't be 'Miss' - there's a wife!"
"I mean is she a man?"
"The wife?" - Mr. Morrow was for a moment as confused as myself. But when I
explained that I alluded to Dora Forbes in person he informed me, with visible
amusement at my being so out of it, that this was the "pen-name" of an
indubitable male - he had a big red moustache. "He goes in for the slight
mystification because the ladies are such popular favourites. A great deal of
interest is felt in his acting on that idea - which IS clever, isn't it? - and
there's every prospect of its being widely imitated." Our host at this moment
joined us again, and Mr. Morrow remarked invitingly that he should be happy to
make a note of any observation the movement in question, the bid for success
under a lady's name, might suggest to Mr. Paraday. But the poor man, without
catching the allusion, excused himself, pleading that, though greatly honoured
by his visitor's interest, he suddenly felt unwell and should have to take leave
of him - have to go and lie down and keep quiet. His young friend might be
trusted to answer for him, but he hoped Mr. Morrow didn't expect great things
even of his young friend. His young friend, at this moment, looked at Neil
Paraday with an anxious eye, greatly wondering if he were doomed to be ill
again; but Paraday's own kind face met his question reassuringly, seemed to say
in a glance intelligible enough: "Oh I'm not ill, but I'm scared: get him out of
the house as quietly as possible." Getting newspaper-men out of the house was
odd business for an emissary of Mr. Pinhorn, and I was so exhilarated by the
idea of it that I called after him as he left us: "Read the article in THE
EMPIRE and you'll soon be all right!"
"DELICIOUS my having come down to tell him of it!" Mr. Morrow ejaculated. "My
cab was at the door twenty minutes after THE EMPIRE had been laid on my
breakfast-table. Now what have you got for me?" he continued, dropping again
into his chair, from which, however, he the next moment eagerly rose. "I was
shown into the drawing-room, but there must be more to see - his study, his
literary sanctum, the little things he has about, or other domestic objects and
features. He wouldn't be lying down on his study- table? There's a great
interest always felt in the scene of an author's labours. Sometimes we're
favoured with very delightful peeps. Dora Forbes showed me all his
table-drawers, and almost jammed my hand into one into which I made a dash! I
don't ask that of you, but if we could talk things over right there where he
sits I feel as if I should get the keynote."
I had no wish whatever to be rude to Mr. Morrow, I was much too initiated not
to tend to more diplomacy; but I had a quick inspiration, and I entertained an
insurmountable, an almost superstitious objection to his crossing the threshold
of my friend's little lonely shabby consecrated workshop. "No, no - we shan't
get at his life that way," I said. "The way to get at his life is to - But wait
a moment!" I broke off and went quickly into the house, whence I in three
minutes reappeared before Mr. Morrow with the two volumes of Paraday's new book.
"His life's here," I went on, "and I'm so full of this admirable thing that I
can't talk of anything else. The artist's life's his work, and this is the place
to observe him. What he has to tell us he tells us with THIS perfection. My dear
sir, the best interviewer is the best reader."
Mr. Morrow good-humouredly protested. "Do you mean to say that no other
source of information should be open to us?"
"None other till this particular one - by far the most copious - has been
quite exhausted. Have you exhausted it, my dear sir? Had you exhausted it when
you came down here? It seems to me in our time almost wholly neglected, and
something should surely be done to restore its ruined credit. It's the course to
which the artist himself at every step, and with such pathetic confidence,
refers us. This last book of Mr. Paraday's is full of revelations."
"Revelations?" panted Mr. Morrow, whom I had forced again into his chair.
"The only kind that count. It tells you with a perfection that seems to me
quite final all the author thinks, for instance, about the advent of the 'larger
"Where does it do that?" asked Mr. Morrow, who had picked up the second
volume and was insincerely thumbing it.
"Everywhere - in the whole treatment of his case. Extract the opinion,
disengage the answer - those are the real acts of homage."
Mr. Morrow, after a minute, tossed the book away. "Ah but you mustn't take me
for a reviewer."
"Heaven forbid I should take you for anything so dreadful! You came down to
perform a little act of sympathy, and so, I may confide to you, did I. Let us
perform our little act together. These pages overflow with the testimony we
want: let us read them and taste them and interpret them. You'll of course have
perceived for yourself that one scarcely does read Neil Paraday till one reads
him aloud; he gives out to the ear an extraordinary full tone, and it's only
when you expose it confidently to that test that you really get near his style.
Take up your book again and let me listen, while you pay it out, to that
wonderful fifteenth chapter. If you feel you can't do it justice, compose
yourself to attention while I produce for you - I think I can! - this scarcely
less admirable ninth."
Mr. Morrow gave me a straight look which was as hard as a blow between the
eyes; he had turned rather red, and a question had formed itself in his mind
which reached my sense as distinctly as if he had uttered it: "What sort of a
damned fool are YOU?" Then he got up, gathering together his hat and gloves,
buttoning his coat, projecting hungrily all over the place the big transparency
of his mask. It seemed to flare over Fleet Street and somehow made the actual
spot distressingly humble: there was so little for it to feed on unless he
counted the blisters of our stucco or saw his way to do something with the
roses. Even the poor roses were common kinds. Presently his eyes fell on the
manuscript from which Paraday had been reading to me and which still lay on the
bench. As my own followed them I saw it looked promising, looked pregnant, as if
it gently throbbed with the life the reader had given it. Mr. Morrow indulged in
a nod at it and a vague thrust of his umbrella. "What's that?"
"Oh, it's a plan - a secret."
"A secret!" There was an instant's silence, and then Mr. Morrow made another
movement. I may have been mistaken, but it affected me as the translated impulse
of the desire to lay hands on the manuscript, and this led me to indulge in a
quick anticipatory grab which may very well have seemed ungraceful, or even
impertinent, and which at any rate left Mr. Paraday's two admirers very erect,
glaring at each other while one of them held a bundle of papers well behind him.
An instant later Mr. Morrow quitted me abruptly, as if he had really carried
something off with him. To reassure myself, watching his broad back recede, I
only grasped my manuscript the tighter. He went to the back door of the house,
the one he had come out from, but on trying the handle he appeared to find it
fastened. So he passed round into the front garden, and by listening intently
enough I could presently hear the outer gate close behind him with a bang. I
thought again of the thirty-seven influential journals and wondered what would
be his revenge. I hasten to add that he was magnanimous: which was just the most
dreadful thing he could have been. THE TATLER published a charming chatty
familiar account of Mr. Paraday's "Home-life," and on the wings of the
thirty-seven influential journals it went, to use Mr. Morrow's own expression,
right round the globe.
A WEEK later, early in May, my glorified friend came up to town, where, it
may be veraciously recorded he was the king of the beasts of the year. No
advancement was ever more rapid, no exaltation more complete, no bewilderment
more teachable. His book sold but moderately, though the article in THE EMPIRE
had done unwonted wonders for it; but he circulated in person to a measure that
the libraries might well have envied. His formula had been found - he was a
"revelation." His momentary terror had been real, just as mine had been - the
overclouding of his passionate desire to be left to finish his work. He was far
from unsociable, but he had the finest conception of being let alone that I've
ever met. For the time, none the less, he took his profit where it seemed most
to crowd on him, having in his pocket the portable sophistries about the nature
of the artist's task. Observation too was a kind of work and experience a kind
of success; London dinners were all material and London ladies were fruitful
toil. "No one has the faintest conception of what I'm trying for," he said to
me, "and not many have read three pages that I've written; but I must dine with
them first - they'll find out why when they've time." It was rather rude justice
perhaps; but the fatigue had the merit of being a new sort, while the
phantasmagoric town was probably after all less of a battlefield than the
haunted study. He once told me that he had had no personal life to speak of
since his fortieth year, but had had more than was good for him before. London
closed the parenthesis and exhibited him in relations; one of the most
inevitable of these being that in which he found himself to Mrs. Weeks Wimbush,
wife of the boundless brewer and proprietress of the universal menagerie. In
this establishment, as everybody knows, on occasions when the crush is great,
the animals rub shoulders freely with the spectators and the lions sit down for
whole evenings with the lambs.
It had been ominously clear to me from the first that in Neil Paraday this
lady, who, as all the world agreed, was tremendous fun, considered that she had
secured a prime attraction, a creature of almost heraldic oddity. Nothing could
exceed her enthusiasm over her capture, and nothing could exceed the confused
apprehensions it excited in me. I had an instinctive fear of her which I tried
without effect to conceal from her victim, but which I let her notice with
perfect impunity. Paraday heeded it, but she never did, for her conscience was
that of a romping child. She was a blind violent force to which I could attach
no more idea of responsibility than to the creaking of a sign in the wind. It
was difficult to say what she conduced to but circulation. She was constructed
of steel and leather, and all I asked of her for our tractable friend was not to
do him to death. He had consented for a time to be of india-rubber, but my
thoughts were fixed on the day he should resume his shape or at least get back
into his box. It was evidently all right, but I should be glad when it was well
over. I had a special fear - the impression was ineffaceable of the hour when,
after Mr. Morrow's departure, I had found him on the sofa in his study. That
pretext of indisposition had not in the least been meant as a snub to the envoy
of THE TATLER - he had gone to lie down in very truth. He had felt a pang of his
old pain, the result of the agitation wrought in him by this forcing open of a
new period. His old programme, his old ideal even had to be changed. Say what
one would, success was a complication and recognition had to be reciprocal. The
monastic life, the pious illumination of the missal in the convent cell were
things of the gathered past. It didn't engender despair, but at least it
required adjustment. Before I left him on that occasion we had passed a bargain,
my part of which was that I should make it my business to take care of him. Let
whoever would represent the interest in his presence (I must have had a mystical
prevision of Mrs. Weeks Wimbush) I should represent the interest in his work -
or otherwise expressed in his absence. These two interests were in their essence
opposed; and I doubt, as youth is fleeting, if I shall ever again know the
intensity of joy with which I felt that in so good a cause I was willing to make
One day in Sloane Street I found myself questioning Paraday's landlord, who
had come to the door in answer to my knock. Two vehicles, a barouche and a smart
hansom, were drawn up before the house.
"In the drawing-room, sir? Mrs. Weeks Wimbush."
"And in the dining-room?"
"A young lady, sir - waiting: I think a foreigner."
It was three o'clock, and on days when Paraday didn't lunch out he attached a
value to these appropriated hours. On which days, however, didn't the dear man
lunch out? Mrs. Wimbush, at such a crisis, would have rushed round immediately
after her own repast. I went into the dining-room first, postponing the pleasure
of seeing how, upstairs, the lady of the barouche would, on my arrival, point
the moral of my sweet solicitude. No one took such an interest as herself in his
doing only what was good for him, and she was always on the spot to see that he
did it. She made appointments with him to discuss the best means of economising
his time and protecting his privacy. She further made his health her special
business, and had so much sympathy with my own zeal for it that she was the
author of pleasing fictions on the subject of what my devotion had led me to
give up. I gave up nothing (I don't count Mr. Pinhorn) because I had nothing,
and all I had as yet achieved was to find myself also in the menagerie. I had
dashed in to save my friend, but I had only got domesticated and wedged; so that
I could do little more for him than exchange with him over people's heads looks
of intense but futile intelligence.
THE young lady in the dining-room had a brave face, black hair, blue eyes,
and in her lap a big volume. "I've come for his autograph," she said when I had
explained to her that I was under bonds to see people for him when he was
occupied. "I've been waiting half an hour, but I'm prepared to wait all day." I
don't know whether it was this that told me she was American, for the propensity
to wait all day is not in general characteristic of her race. I was enlightened
probably not so much by the spirit of the utterance as by some quality of its
sound. At any rate I saw she had an individual patience and a lovely frock,
together with an expression that played among her pretty features like a breeze
among flowers. Putting her book on the table she showed me a massive album,
showily bound and full of autographs of price. The collection of faded notes, of
still more faded "thoughts," of quotations, platitudes, signatures, represented
a formidable purpose.
I could only disclose my dread of it. "Most people apply to Mr. Paraday by
letter, you know."
"Yes, but he doesn't answer. I've written three times."
"Very true," I reflected; "the sort of letter you mean goes straight into the
"How do you know the sort I mean?" My interlocutress had blushed and smiled,
and in a moment she added: "I don't believe he gets many like them!"
"I'm sure they're beautiful, but he burns without reading." I didn't add that
I had convinced him he ought to.
"Isn't he then in danger of burning things of importance?"
"He would perhaps be so if distinguished men hadn't an infallible nose for
She looked at me a moment - her face was sweet and gay. "Do YOU burn without
reading too?" - in answer to which I assured her that if she'd trust me with her
repository I'd see that Mr. Paraday should write his name in it.
She considered a little. "That's very well, but it wouldn't make me see him."
"Do you want very much to see him?" It seemed ungracious to catechise so
charming a creature, but somehow I had never yet taken my duty to the great
author so seriously.
"Enough to have come from America for the purpose."
I stared. "All alone?"
"I don't see that that's exactly your business, but if it will make me more
seductive I'll confess that I'm quite by myself. I had to come alone or not come
She was interesting; I could imagine she had lost parents, natural protectors
- could conceive even she had inherited money. I was at a pass of my own
fortunes when keeping hansoms at doors seemed to me pure swagger. As a trick of
this bold and sensitive girl, however, it became romantic - a part of the
general romance of her freedom, her errand, her innocence. The confidence of
young Americans was notorious, and I speedily arrived at a conviction that no
impulse could have been more generous than the impulse that had operated here. I
foresaw at that moment that it would make her my peculiar charge, just as
circumstances had made Neil Paraday. She would be another person to look after,
so that one's honour would be concerned in guiding her straight. These things
became clearer to me later on; at the instant I had scepticism enough to observe
to her, as I turned the pages of her volume, that her net had all the same
caught many a big fish. She appeared to have had fruitful access to the great
ones of the earth; there were people moreover whose signatures she had
presumably secured without a personal interview. She couldn't have worried
George Washington and Friedrich Schiller and Hannah More. She met this argument,
to my surprise, by throwing up the album without a pang. It wasn't even her own;
she was responsible for none of its treasures. It belonged to a girl-friend in
America, a young lady in a western city. This young lady had insisted on her
bringing it, to pick up more autographs: she thought they might like to see, in
Europe, in what company they would be. The "girl-friend," the western city, the
immortal names, the curious errand, the idyllic faith, all made a story as
strange to me, and as beguiling, as some tale in the Arabian Nights. Thus it was
that my informant had encumbered herself with the ponderous tome; but she
hastened to assure me that this was the first time she had brought it out. For
her visit to Mr. Paraday it had simply been a pretext. She didn't really care a
straw that he should write his name; what she did want was to look straight into
I demurred a little. "And why do you require to do that?"
"Because I just love him!" Before I could recover from the agitating effect
of this crystal ring my companion had continued: "Hasn't there ever been any
face that you've wanted to look into?"
How could I tell her so soon how much I appreciated the opportunity of
looking into hers? I could only assent in general to the proposition that there
were certainly for every one such yearnings, and even such faces; and I felt the
crisis demand all my lucidity, all my wisdom. "Oh yes, I'm a student of
physiognomy. Do you mean," I pursued, "that you've a passion for Mr. Paraday's
"They've been everything to me and a little more beside - I know them by
heart. They've completely taken hold of me. There's no author about whom I'm in
such a state as I'm in about Neil Paraday."
"Permit me to remark then," I presently returned, "that you're one of the
"One of the enthusiasts? Of course I am!"
"Oh there are enthusiasts who are quite of the wrong. I mean you're one of
those to whom an appeal can be made."
"An appeal?" Her face lighted as if with the chance of some great sacrifice.
If she was ready for one it was only waiting for her, and in a moment I
mentioned it. "Give up this crude purpose of seeing him! Go away without it.
That will be far better."
She looked mystified, then turned visibly pale. "Why, hasn't he any personal
charm?" The girl was terrible and laughable in her bright directness.
"Ah that dreadful word 'personally'!" I wailed; "we're dying of it, for you
women bring it out with murderous effect. When you meet with a genius as fine as
this idol of ours let him off the dreary duty of being a personality as well.
Know him only by what's best in him and spare him for the same sweet sake."
My young lady continued to look at me in confusion and mistrust, and the
result of her reflexion on what I had just said was to make her suddenly break
out: "Look here, sir - what's the matter with him?"
"The matter with him is that if he doesn't look out people will eat a great
hole in his life."
She turned it over. "He hasn't any disfigurement?"
"Nothing to speak of!"
"Do you mean that social engagements interfere with his occupations?"
"That but feebly expresses it."
"So that he can't give himself up to his beautiful imagination?"
"He's beset, badgered, bothered - he's pulled to pieces on the pretext of
being applauded. People expect him to give them his time, his golden time, who
wouldn't themselves give five shillings for one of his books."
"Five? I'd give five thousand!"
"Give your sympathy - give your forbearance. Two-thirds of those who approach
him only do it to advertise themselves."
"Why it's too bad!" the girl exclaimed with the face of an angel. "It's the
first time I was ever called crude!" she laughed.
I followed up my advantage. "There's a lady with him now who's a terrible
complication, and who yet hasn't read, I'm sure, ten pages he ever wrote."
My visitor's wide eyes grew tenderer. "Then how does she talk - ?"
"Without ceasing. I only mention her as a single case. Do you want to know
how to show a superlative consideration? Simply avoid him."
"Avoid him?" she despairingly breathed.
"Don't force him to have to take account of you; admire him in silence,
cultivate him at a distance and secretly appropriate his message. Do you want to
know," I continued, warming to my idea, "how to perform an act of homage really
sublime?" Then as she hung on my words: "Succeed in never seeing him at all!"
"Never at all?" - she suppressed a shriek for it.
"The more you get into his writings the less you'll want to, and you'll be
immensely sustained by the thought of the good you're doing him."
She looked at me without resentment or spite, and at the truth I had put
before her with candour, credulity, pity. I was afterwards happy to remember
that she must have gathered from my face the liveliness of my interest in
herself. "I think I see what you mean."
"Oh I express it badly, but I should be delighted if you'd let me come to see
you - to explain it better."
She made no response to this, and her thoughtful eyes fell on the big album,
on which she presently laid her hands as if to take it away. "I did use to say
out West that they might write a little less for autographs - to all the great
poets, you know - and study the thoughts and style a little more."
"What do they care for the thoughts and style? They didn't even understand
you. I'm not sure," I added, "that I do myself, and I dare say that you by no
means make me out."
She had got up to go, and though I wanted her to succeed in not seeing Neil
Paraday I wanted her also, inconsequently, to remain in the house. I was at any
rate far from desiring to hustle her off. As Mrs. Weeks Wimbush, upstairs, was
still saving our friend in her own way, I asked my young lady to let me briefly
relate, in illustration of my point, the little incident of my having gone down
into the country for a profane purpose and been converted on the spot to
holiness. Sinking again into her chair to listen she showed a deep interest in
the anecdote. Then thinking it over gravely she returned with her odd
intonation: "Yes, but you do see him!" I had to admit that this was the case;
and I wasn't so prepared with an effective attenuation as I could have wished.
She eased the situation off, however, by the charming quaintness with which she
finally said: "Well, I wouldn't want him to be lonely!" This time she rose in
earnest, but I persuaded her to let me keep the album to show Mr. Paraday. I
assured her I'd bring it back to her myself. "Well, you'll find my address
somewhere in it on a paper!" she sighed all resignedly at the door.
I BLUSH to confess it, but I invited Mr. Paraday that very day to transcribe
into the album one of his most characteristic passages. I told him how I had got
rid of the strange girl who had brought it - her ominous name was Miss Hurter
and she lived at an hotel; quite agreeing with him moreover as to the wisdom of
getting rid with equal promptitude of the book itself. This was why I carried it
to Albemarle Street no later than on the morrow. I failed to find her at home,
but she wrote to me and I went again; she wanted so much to hear more about Neil
Paraday. I returned repeatedly, I may briefly declare, to supply her with this
information. She had been immensely taken, the more she thought of it, with that
idea of mine about the act of homage: it had ended by filling her with a
generous rapture. She positively desired to do something sublime for him, though
indeed I could see that, as this particular flight was difficult, she
appreciated the fact that my visits kept her up. I had it on my conscience to
keep her up: I neglected nothing that would contribute to it, and her conception
of our cherished author's independence became at last as fine as his very own.
"Read him, read him - THAT will be an education in decency," I constantly
repeated; while, seeking him in his works even as God in nature, she represented
herself as convinced that, according to my assurance, this was the system that
had, as she expressed it, weaned her. We read him together when I could find
time, and the generous creature's sacrifice was fed by our communion. There were
twenty selfish women about whom I told her and who stirred her to a beautiful
rage. Immediately after my first visit her sister, Mrs. Milsom, came over from
Paris, and the two ladies began to present, as they called it, their letters. I
thanked our stars that none had been presented to Mr. Paraday. They received
invitations and dined out, and some of these occasions enabled Fanny Hurter to
perform, for consistency's sake, touching feats of submission. Nothing indeed
would now have induced her even to look at the object of her admiration. Once,
hearing his name announced at a party, she instantly left the room by another
door and then straightway quitted the house. At another time when I was at the
opera with them - Mrs. Milsom had invited me to their box - I attempted to point
Mr. Paraday out to her in the stalls. On this she asked her sister to change
places with her and, while that lady devoured the great man through a powerful
glass, presented, all the rest of the evening, her inspired back to the house.
To torment her tenderly I pressed the glass upon her, telling her how
wonderfully near it brought our friend's handsome head. By way of answer she
simply looked at me in charged silence, letting me see that tears had gathered
in her eyes. These tears, I may remark, produced an effect on me of which the
end is not yet. There was a moment when I felt it my duty to mention them to
Neil Paraday, but I was deterred by the reflexion that there were questions more
relevant to his happiness.
These question indeed, by the end of the season, were reduced to a single one
- the question of reconstituting so far as might be possible the conditions
under which he had produced his best work. Such conditions could never all come
back, for there was a new one that took up too much place; but some perhaps were
not beyond recall. I wanted above all things to see him sit down to the subject
he had, on my making his acquaintance, read me that admirable sketch of.
Something told me there was no security but in his doing so before the new
factor, as we used to say at Mr. Pinhorn's, should render the problem
incalculable. It only half- reassured me that the sketch itself was so copious
and so eloquent that even at the worst there would be the making of a small but
complete book, a tiny volume which, for the faithful, might well become an
object of adoration. There would even not be wanting critics to declare, I
foresaw, that the plan was a thing to be more thankful for than the structure to
have been reared on it. My impatience for the structure, none the less, grew and
grew with the interruptions. He had on coming up to town begun to sit for his
portrait to a young painter, Mr. Rumble, whose little game, as we also used to
say at Mr. Pinhorn's, was to be the first to perch on the shoulders of renown.
Mr. Rumble's studio was a circus in which the man of the hour, and still more
the woman, leaped through the hoops of his showy frames almost as electrically
as they burst into telegrams and "specials." He pranced into the exhibitions on
their back; he was the reporter on canvas, the Vandyke up to date, and there was
one roaring year in which Mrs. Bounder and Miss Braby, Guy Walsingham and Dora
Forbes proclaimed in chorus from the same pictured walls that no one had yet got
ahead of him.
Paraday had been promptly caught and saddled, accepting with characteristic
good-humour his confidential hint that to figure in his show was not so much a
consequence as a cause of immortality. From Mrs. Wimbush to the last
"representative" who called to ascertain his twelve favourite dishes, it was the
same ingenuous assumption that he would rejoice in the repercussion. There were
moments when I fancied I might have had more patience with them if they hadn't
been so fatally benevolent. I hated at all events Mr. Rumble's picture, and had
my bottled resentment ready when, later on, I found my distracted friend had
been stuffed by Mrs. Wimbush into the mouth of another cannon. A young artist in
whom she was intensely interested, and who had no connexion with Mr. Rumble, was
to show how far he could make him go. Poor Paraday, in return, was naturally to
write something somewhere about the young artist. She played her victims against
each other with admirable ingenuity, and her establishment was a huge machine in
which the tiniest and the biggest wheels went round to the same treadle. I had a
scene with her in which I tried to express that the function of such a man was
to exercise his genius - not to serve as a hoarding for pictorial posters. The
people I was perhaps angriest with were the editors of magazines who had
introduced what they called new features, so aware were they that the newest
feature of all would be to make him grind their axes by contributing his views
on vital topics and taking part in the periodical prattle about the future of
fiction. I made sure that before I should have done with him there would
scarcely be a current form of words left me to be sick of; but meanwhile I could
make surer still of my animosity to bustling ladies for whom he drew the water
that irrigated their social flower-beds.
I had a battle with Mrs. Wimbush over the artist she protected, and another
over the question of a certain week, at the end of July, that Mr. Paraday
appeared to have contracted to spend with her in the country. I protested
against this visit; I intimated that he was too unwell for hospitality without a
nuance, for caresses without imagination; I begged he might rather take the time
in some restorative way. A sultry air of promises, of ponderous parties, hung
over his August, and he would greatly profit by the interval of rest. He hadn't
told me he was ill again that he had had a warning; but I hadn't needed this,
for I found his reticence his worst symptom. The only thing he said to me was
that he believed a comfortable attack of something or other would set him up: it
would put out of the question everything but the exemptions he prized. I'm
afraid I shall have presented him as a martyr in a very small cause if I fail to
explain that he surrendered himself much more liberally than I surrendered him.
He filled his lungs, for the most part; with the comedy of his queer fate: the
tragedy was in the spectacles through which I chose to look. He was conscious of
inconvenience, and above all of a great renouncement; but how could he have
heard a mere dirge in the bells of his accession? The sagacity and the jealousy
were mine, and his the impressions and the harvest. Of course, as regards Mrs.
Wimbush, I was worsted in my encounters, for wasn't the state of his health the
very reason for his coming to her at Prestidge? Wasn't it precisely at Prestidge
that he was to be coddled, and wasn't the dear Princess coming to help her to
coddle him? The dear Princess, now on a visit to England, was of a famous
foreign house, and, in her gilded cage, with her retinue of keepers and feeders,
was the most expensive specimen in the good lady's collection. I don't think her
august presence had had to do with Paraday's consenting to go, but it's not
impossible he had operated as a bait to the illustrious stranger. The party had
been made up for him, Mrs. Wimbush averred, and every one was counting on it,
the dear Princess most of all. If he was well enough he was to read them
something absolutely fresh, and it was on that particular prospect the Princess
had set her heart. She was so fond of genius in ANY walk of life, and was so
used to it and understood it so well: she was the greatest of Mr. Paraday's
admirers, she devoured everything he wrote. And then he read like an angel. Mrs.
Wimbush reminded me that he had again and again given her, Mrs. Wimbush, the
privilege of listening to him.
I looked at her a moment. "What has he read to you?" I crudely enquired.
For a moment too she met my eyes, and for the fraction of a moment she
hesitated and coloured. "Oh all sorts of things!"
I wondered if this were an imperfect recollection or only a perfect fib, and
she quite understood my unuttered comment on her measure of such things. But if
she could forget Neil Paraday's beauties she could of course forget my rudeness,
and three days later she invited me, by telegraph, to join the party at
Prestidge. This time she might indeed have had a story about what I had given up
to be near the master. I addressed from that fine residence several
communications to a young lady in London, a young lady whom, I confess, I
quitted with reluctance and whom the reminder of what she herself could give up
was required to make me quit at all. It adds to the gratitude I owe her on other
grounds that she kindly allows me to transcribe from my letters a few of the
passages in which that hateful sojourn is candidly commemorated.
"I SUPPOSE I ought to enjoy the joke of what's going on here," I wrote, "but
somehow it doesn't amuse me. Pessimism on the contrary possesses me and cynicism
deeply engages. I positively feel my own flesh sore from the brass nails in Neil
Paraday's social harness. The house is full of people who like him, as they
mention, awfully, and with whom his talent for talking nonsense has prodigious
success. I delight in his nonsense myself; why is it therefore that I grudge
these happy folk their artless satisfaction? Mystery of the human heart - abyss
of the critical spirit! Mrs. Wimbush thinks she can answer that question, and as
my want of gaiety has at last worn out her patience she has given me a glimpse
of her shrewd guess. I'm made restless by the selfishness of the insincere
friend - I want to monopolise Paraday in order that he may push me on. To be
intimate with him is a feather in my cap; it gives me an importance that I
couldn't naturally pretend to, and I seek to deprive him of social refreshment
because I fear that meeting more disinterested people may enlighten him as to my
real motive. All the disinterested people here are his particular admirers and
have been carefully selected as such. There's supposed to be a copy of his last
book in the house, and in the hall I come upon ladies, in attitudes, bending
gracefully over the first volume. I discreetly avert my eyes, and when I next
look round the precarious joy has been superseded by the book of life. There's a
sociable circle or a confidential couple, and the relinquished volume lies open
on its face and as dropped under extreme coercion. Somebody else presently finds
it and transfers it, with its air of momentary desolation, to another piece of
furniture. Every one's asking every one about it all day, and every one's
telling every one where they put it last. I'm sure it's rather smudgy about the
twentieth page. I've a strong impression, too, that the second volume is lost -
has been packed in the bag of some departing guest; and yet everybody has the
impression that somebody else has read to the end. You see therefore that the
beautiful book plays a great part in our existence. Why should I take the
occasion of such distinguished honours to say that I begin to see deeper into
Gustave Flaubert's doleful refrain about the hatred of literature? I refer you
again to the perverse constitution of man.
"The Princess is a massive lady with the organisation of an athlete and the
confusion of tongues of a valet de place. She contrives to commit herself
extraordinarily little in a great many languages, and is entertained and
conversed with in detachments and relays, like an institution which goes on from
generation to generation or a big building contracted for under a forfeit. She
can't have a personal taste any more than, when her husband succeeds, she can
have a personal crown, and her opinion on any matter is rusty and heavy and
plain - made, in the night of ages, to last and be transmitted. I feel as if I
ought to 'tip' some custode for my glimpse of it. She has been told everything
in the world and has never perceived anything, and the echoes of her education
respond awfully to the rash footfall - I mean the casual remark - in the cold
Valhalla of her memory. Mrs. Wimbush delights in her wit and says there's
nothing so charming as to hear Mr. Paraday draw it out. He's perpetually
detailed for this job, and he tells me it has a peculiarly exhausting effect.
Every one's beginning - at the end of two days - to sidle obsequiously away from
her, and Mrs. Wimbush pushes him again and again into the breach. None of the
uses I have yet seen him put to infuriate me quite so much. He looks very fagged
and has at last confessed to me that his condition makes him uneasy - has even
promised me he'll go straight home instead of returning to his final engagements
in town. Last night I had some talk with him about going to-day, cutting his
visit short; so sure am I that he'll be better as soon as he's shut up in his
lighthouse. He told me that this is what he would like to do; reminding me,
however, that the first lesson of his greatness has been precisely that he can't
do what he likes. Mrs. Wimbush would never forgive him if he should leave her
before the Princess has received the last hand. When I hint that a violent
rupture with our hostess would be the best thing in the world for him he gives
me to understand that if his reason assents to the proposition his courage hangs
woefully back. He makes no secret of being mortally afraid of her, and when I
ask what harm she can do him that she hasn't already done he simply repeats:
'I'm afraid, I'm afraid! Don't enquire too closely,' he said last night; 'only
believe that I feel a sort of terror. It's strange, when she's so kind! At any
rate, I'd as soon overturn that piece of priceless Sevres as tell her I must go
before my date.' It sounds dreadfully weak, but he has some reason, and he pays
for his imagination, which puts him (I should hate it) in the place of others
and makes him feel, even against himself, their feelings, their appetites, their
motives. It's indeed inveterately against himself that he makes his imagination
act. What a pity he has such a lot of it! He's too beastly intelligent. Besides,
the famous reading's still to come off, and it has been postponed a day to allow
Guy Walsingham to arrive. It appears this eminent lady's staying at a house a
few miles off, which means of course that Mrs. Wimbush has forcibly annexed her.
She's to come over in a day or two - Mrs. Wimbush wants her to hear Mr. Paraday.
"To-day's wet and cold, and several of the company, at the invitation of the
Duke, have driven over to luncheon at Bigwood. I saw poor Paraday wedge himself,
by command, into the little supplementary seat of a brougham in which the
Princess and our hostess were already ensconced. If the front glass isn't open
on his dear old back perhaps he'll survive. Bigwood, I believe, is very grand
and frigid, all marble and precedence, and I wish him well out of the adventure.
I can't tell you how much more and more your attitude to him, in the midst of
all this, shines out by contrast. I never willingly talk to these people about
him, but see what a comfort I find it to scribble to you! I appreciate it - it
keeps me warm; there are no fires in the house. Mrs. Wimbush goes by the
calendar, the temperature goes by the weather, the weather goes by God knows
what, and the Princess is easily heated. I've nothing but my acrimony to warm
me, and have been out under an umbrella to restore my circulation. Coming in an
hour ago I found Lady Augusta Minch rummaging about the hall. When I asked her
what she was looking for she said she had mislaid something that Mr. Paraday had
lent her. I ascertained in a moment that the article in question is a
manuscript, and I've a foreboding that it's the noble morsel he read me six
weeks ago. When I expressed my surprise that he should have bandied about
anything so precious (I happen to know it's his only copy - in the most
beautiful hand in all the world) Lady Augusta confessed to me that she hadn't
had it from himself, but from Mrs. Wimbush, who had wished to give her a glimpse
of it as a salve for her not being able to stay and hear it read.
"'Is that the piece he's to read,' I asked, 'when Guy Walsingham arrives?'
"'It's not for Guy Walsingham they're waiting now, it's for Dora Forbes,'
Lady Augusta said. 'She's coming, I believe, early to- morrow. Meanwhile Mrs.
Wimbush has found out about him, and is actively wiring to him. She says he also
must hear him.'
"'You bewilder me a little,' I replied; 'in the age we live in one gets lost
among the genders and the pronouns. The clear thing is that Mrs. Wimbush doesn't
guard such a treasure so jealously as she might.'
"'Poor dear, she has the Princess to guard! Mr. Paraday lent her the
manuscript to look over.'
"'She spoke, you mean, as if it were the morning paper?'
"Lady Augusta stared - my irony was lost on her. 'She didn't have time, so
she gave me a chance first; because unfortunately I go to- morrow to Bigwood.'
"'And your chance has only proved a chance to lose it?'
"'I haven't lost it. I remember now - it was very stupid of me to have
forgotten. I told my maid to give it to Lord Dorimont - or at least to his man.'
"'And Lord Dorimont went away directly after luncheon.'
"'Of course he gave it back to my maid - or else his man did,' said Lady
Augusta. 'I dare say it's all right.'
"The conscience of these people is like a summer sea. They haven't time to
look over a priceless composition; they've only time to kick it about the house.
I suggested that the 'man,' fired with a noble emulation, had perhaps kept the
work for his own perusal; and her ladyship wanted to know whether, if the thing
shouldn't reappear for the grand occasion appointed by our hostess, the author
wouldn't have something else to read that would do just as well. Their questions
are too delightful! I declared to Lady Augusta briefly that nothing in the world
can ever do so well as the thing that does best; and at this she looked a little
disconcerted. But I added that if the manuscript had gone astray our little
circle would have the less of an effort of attention to make. The piece in
question was very long - it would keep them three hours.
"'Three hours! Oh the Princess will get up!' said Lady Augusta.
"'I thought she was Mr. Paraday's greatest admirer.'
"'I dare say she is - she's so awfully clever. But what's the use of being a
Princess - '
"'If you can't dissemble your love?' I asked as Lady Augusta was vague. She
said at any rate she'd question her maid; and I'm hoping that when I go down to
dinner I shall find the manuscript has been recovered."
"IT has NOT been recovered," I wrote early the next day, "and I'm moreover
much troubled about our friend. He came back from Bigwood with a chill and,
being allowed to have a fire in his room, lay down a while before dinner. I
tried to send him to bed and indeed thought I had put him in the way of it; but
after I had gone to dress Mrs. Wimbush came up to see him, with the inevitable
result that when I returned I found him under arms and flushed and feverish,
though decorated with the rare flower she had brought him for his button-hole.
He came down to dinner, but Lady Augusta Minch was very shy of him. To-day he's
in great pain, and the advent of ces dames - I mean of Guy Walsingham and Dora
Forbes - doesn't at all console me. It does Mrs. Wimbush, however, for she has
consented to his remaining in bed so that he may be all right to-morrow for the
listening circle. Guy Walsingham's already on the scene, and the Doctor for
Paraday also arrived early. I haven't yet seen the author of 'Obsessions,' but
of course I've had a moment by myself with the Doctor. I tried to get him to say
that our invalid must go straight home - I mean to-morrow or next day; but he
quite refuses to talk about the future. Absolute quiet and warmth and the
regular administration of an important remedy are the points he mainly insists
on. He returns this afternoon, and I'm to go back to see the patient at one
o'clock, when he next takes his medicine. It consoles me a little that he
certainly won't be able to read - an exertion he was already more than unfit
for. Lady Augusta went off after breakfast, assuring me her first care would be
to follow up the lost manuscript. I can see she thinks me a shocking busybody
and doesn't understand my alarm, but she'll do what she can, for she's a
good-natured woman. 'So are they all honourable men.' That was precisely what
made her give the thing to Lord Dorimont and made Lord Dorimont bag it. What use
HE has for it God only knows. I've the worst forebodings, but somehow I'm
strangely without passion - desperately calm. As I consider the unconscious, the
well-meaning ravages of our appreciative circle I bow my head in submission to
some great natural, some universal accident; I'm rendered almost indifferent, in
fact quite gay (ha-ha!) by the sense of immitigable fate. Lady Augusta promises
me to trace the precious object and let me have it through the post by the time
Paraday's well enough to play his part with it. The last evidence is that her
maid did give it to his lordship's valet. One would suppose it some thrilling
number of THE FAMILY BUDGET. Mrs. Wimbush, who's aware of the accident, is much
less agitated by it than she would doubtless be were she not for the hour
inevitably engrossed with Guy Walsingham."
Later in the day I informed my correspondent, for whom indeed I kept a loose
diary of the situation, that I had made the acquaintance of this celebrity and
that she was a pretty little girl who wore her hair in what used to be called a
crop. She looked so juvenile and so innocent that if, as Mr. Morrow had
announced, she was resigned to the larger latitude, her superiority to prejudice
must have come to her early. I spent most of the day hovering about Neil
Paraday's room, but it was communicated to me from below that Guy Walsingham, at
Prestidge, was a success. Toward evening I became conscious somehow that her
superiority was contagious, and by the time the company separated for the night
I was sure the larger latitude had been generally accepted. I thought of Dora
Forbes and felt that he had no time to lose. Before dinner I received a telegram
from Lady Augusta Minch. "Lord Dorimont thinks he must have left bundle in train
- enquire." How could I enquire - if I was to take the word as a command? I was
too worried and now too alarmed about Neil Paraday. The Doctor came back, and it
was an immense satisfaction to me to be sure he was wise and interested. He was
proud of being called to so distinguished a patient, but he admitted to me that
night that my friend was gravely ill. It was really a relapse, a recrudescence
of his old malady. There could be no question of moving him: we must at any rate
see first, on the spot, what turn his condition would take. Meanwhile, on the
morrow, he was to have a nurse. On the morrow the dear man was easier, and my
spirits rose to such cheerfulness that I could almost laugh over Lady Augusta's
second telegram: "Lord Dorimont's servant been to station - nothing found. Push
enquiries." I did laugh, I'm sure, as I remembered this to be the mystic scroll
I had scarcely allowed poor Mr. Morrow to point his umbrella at. Fool that I had
been: the thirty-seven influential journals wouldn't have destroyed it, they'd
only have printed it. Of course I said nothing to Paraday.
When the nurse arrived she turned me out of the room, on which I went
downstairs. I should premise that at breakfast the news that our brilliant
friend was doing well excited universal complacency, and the Princess graciously
remarked that he was only to be commiserated for missing the society of Miss
Collop. Mrs. Wimbush, whose social gift never shone brighter than in the dry
decorum with which she accepted this fizzle in her fireworks, mentioned to me
that Guy Walsingham had made a very favourable impression on her Imperial
Highness. Indeed I think every one did so, and that, like the money-market or
the national honour, her Imperial Highness was constitutionally sensitive. There
was a certain gladness, a perceptible bustle in the air, however, which I
thought slightly anomalous in a house where a great author lay critically ill.
"Le roy est mort - vive le roy": I was reminded that another great author had
already stepped into his shoes. When I came down again after the nurse had taken
possession I found a strange gentleman hanging about the hall and pacing to and
fro by the closed door of the drawing-room. This personage was florid and bald;
he had a big red moustache and wore showy knickerbockers - characteristics all
that fitted to my conception of the identity of Dora Forbes. In a moment I saw
what had happened: the author of "The Other Way Round" had just alighted at the
portals of Prestidge, but had suffered a scruple to restrain him from
penetrating further. I recognised his scruple when, pausing to listen at his
gesture of caution, I heard a shrill voice lifted in a sort of rhythmic uncanny
chant. The famous reading had begun, only it was the author of "Obsessions" who
now furnished the sacrifice. The new visitor whispered to me that he judged
something was going on he oughtn't to interrupt.
"Miss Collop arrived last night," I smiled, "and the Princess has a thirst
for the inedit."
Dora Forbes lifted his bushy brows. "Miss Collop?"
"Guy Walsingham, your distinguished confrere - or shall I say your formidable
"Oh!" growled Dora Forbes. Then he added: "Shall I spoil it if I go in?"
"I should think nothing could spoil it!" I ambiguously laughed.
Dora Forbes evidently felt the dilemma; he gave an irritated crook to his
moustache. "SHALL I go in?" he presently asked.
We looked at each other hard a moment; then I expressed something bitter that
was in me, expressed it in an infernal "Do!" After this I got out into the air,
but not so fast as not to hear, when the door of the drawing-room opened, the
disconcerted drop of Miss Collop's public manner: she must have been in the
midst of the larger latitude. Producing with extreme rapidity, Guy Walsingham
has just published a work in which amiable people who are not initiated have
been pained to see the genius of a sister-novelist held up to unmistakeable
ridicule; so fresh an exhibition does it seem to them of the dreadful way men
have always treated women. Dora Forbes, it's true, at the present hour, is
immensely pushed by Mrs. Wimbush and has sat for his portrait to the young
artists she protects, sat for it not only in oils but in monumental alabaster.
What happened at Prestidge later in the day is of course contemporary
history. If the interruption I had whimsically sanctioned was almost a scandal,
what is to be said of that general scatter of the company which, under the
Doctor's rule, began to take place in the evening? His rule was soothing to
behold, small comfort as I was to have at the end. He decreed in the interest of
his patient an absolutely soundless house and a consequent break-up of the
party. Little country practitioner as he was, he literally packed off the
Princess. She departed as promptly as if a revolution had broken out, and Guy
Walsingham emigrated with her. I was kindly permitted to remain, and this was
not denied even to Mrs. Wimbush. The privilege was withheld indeed from Dora
Forbes; so Mrs. Wimbush kept her latest capture temporarily concealed. This was
so little, however, her usual way of dealing with her eminent friends that a
couple of days of it exhausted her patience, and she went up to town with him in
great publicity. The sudden turn for the worse her afflicted guest had, after a
brief improvement, taken on the third night raised an obstacle to her seeing him
before her retreat; a fortunate circumstance doubtless, for she was
fundamentally disappointed in him. This was not the kind of performance for
which she had invited him to Prestidge, let alone invited the Princess. I must
add that none of the generous acts marking her patronage of intellectual and
other merit have done so much for her reputation as her lending Neil Paraday the
most beautiful of her numerous homes to die in. He took advantage to the utmost
of the singular favour. Day by day I saw him sink, and I roamed alone about the
empty terraces and gardens. His wife never came near him, but I scarcely noticed
it: as I paced there with rage in my heart I was too full of another wrong. In
the event of his death it would fall to me perhaps to bring out in some charming
form, with notes, with the tenderest editorial care, that precious heritage of
his written project. But where was that precious heritage and were both the
author and the book to have been snatched from us? Lady Augusta wrote me that
she had done all she could and that poor Lord Dorimont, who had really been
worried to death, was extremely sorry. I couldn't have the matter out with Mrs.
Wimbush, for I didn't want to be taunted by her with desiring to aggrandise
myself by a public connexion with Mr. Paraday's sweepings. She had signified her
willingness to meet the expense of all advertising, as indeed she was always
ready to do. The last night of the horrible series, the night before he died, I
put my ear closer to his pillow.
"That thing I read you that morning, you know."
"In your garden that dreadful day? Yes!"
"Won't it do as it is?"
"It would have been a glorious book."
"It IS a glorious book," Neil Paraday murmured. "Print it as it stands -
"Beautifully!" I passionately promised.
It may be imagined whether, now that he's gone, the promise seems to me less
sacred. I'm convinced that if such pages had appeared in his lifetime the Abbey
would hold him to-day. I've kept the advertising in my own hands, but the
manuscript has not been recovered. It's impossible, and at any rate intolerable,
to suppose it can have been wantonly destroyed. Perhaps some hazard of a blind
hand, some brutal fatal ignorance has lighted kitchen- fires with it. Every
stupid and hideous accident haunts my meditations. My undiscourageable search
for the lost treasure would make a long chapter. Fortunately I've a devoted
associate in the person of a young lady who has every day a fresh indignation
and a fresh idea, and who maintains with intensity that the prize will still
turn up. Sometimes I believe her, but I've quite ceased to believe myself. The
only thing for us at all events is to go on seeking and hoping together; and we
should be closely united by
this firm tie even were we not at present by another.