The Death of the LionТекст

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“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  I discreetly avert my eyes, and when I next look round the precarious joy has been superseded by the book of life.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 Sèvres 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.”

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