Novel Notes [35]
professional critic.
As soon as I paused from my sport he rose, and, taking his manuscript from the table, tore it in two, and flung it in the fire- -he was but a very young man, you must remember--and then, standing before me with a white face, told me, unsolicited, his opinion of me and of my art. After which double event, it is perhaps needless to say that we parted in hot anger.
I did not see him again for years. The streets of life are very crowded, and if we loose each other's hands we are soon hustled far apart. When I did next meet him it was by accident.
I had left the Whitehall Rooms after a public dinner, and, glad of the cool night air, was strolling home by the Embankment. A man, slouching along under the trees, paused as I overtook him.
"You couldn't oblige me with a light, could you, guv'nor?" he said. The voice sounded strange, coming from the figure that it did.
I struck a match, and held it out to him, shaded by my hands. As the faint light illumined his face, I started back, and let the match fall:-
"Harry!"
He answered with a short dry laugh. "I didn't know it was you," he said, "or I shouldn't have stopped you."
"How has it come to this, old fellow?" I asked, laying my hand upon his shoulder. His coat was unpleasantly greasy, and I drew my hand away again as quickly as I could, and tried to wipe it covertly upon my handkerchief.
"Oh, it's a long, story," he answered carelessly, "and too conventional to be worth telling. Some of us go up, you know. Some of us go down. You're doing pretty well, I hear."
"I suppose so," I replied; "I've climbed a few feet up a greasy pole, and am trying to stick there. But it is of you I want to talk. Can't I do anything for you?"
We were passing under a gas-lamp at the moment. He thrust his face forward close to mine, and the light fell full and pitilessly upon it.
"Do I look like a man you could do anything for?" he said.
We walked on in silence side by side, I casting about for words that might seize hold of him.
"You needn't worry about me," he continued after a while, "I'm comfortable enough. We take life easily down here where I am. We've no disappointments."
"Why did you give up like a weak coward?" I burst out angrily. "You had talent. You would have won with ordinary perseverance."
"Maybe," he replied, in the same even tone of indifference. "I suppose I hadn't the grit. I think if somebody had believed in me it might have helped me. But nobody did, and at last I lost belief in myself. And when a man loses that, he's like a balloon with the gas let out."
I listened to his words in indignation and astonishment. "Nobody believed in you!" I repeated. "Why, I always believed in you, you know that I--"
Then I paused, remembering our "candid criticism" of one another.
"Did you?" he replied quietly, "I never heard you say so. Good- night."
In the course of our Strandward walking we had come to the neighbourhood of the Savoy, and, as he spoke, he disappeared down one of the dark turnings thereabouts.
I hastened after him, calling him by name, but though I heard his quick steps before me for a little way, they were soon swallowed up in the sound of other steps, and, when I reached the square in which the chapel stands, I had lost all trace of him.
A policeman was standing by the churchyard railings, and of him I made inquiries.
"What sort of a gent was he, sir?" questioned the man.
"A tall thin gentleman, very shabbily dressed--might be mistaken for a tramp."
"Ah, there's a good many of that sort living in this town," replied the man. "I'm afraid you'll have some difficulty in finding him."
Thus for a second time had I heard his footsteps die away, knowing I should never listen for their drawing near again.
I wondered as I walked on--I have wondered before and since--whether Art, even with a capital A, is quite worth all the suffering that is inflicted in her behalf--whether she and we are better for all the scorning and the sneering, all the envying and the hating, that
As soon as I paused from my sport he rose, and, taking his manuscript from the table, tore it in two, and flung it in the fire- -he was but a very young man, you must remember--and then, standing before me with a white face, told me, unsolicited, his opinion of me and of my art. After which double event, it is perhaps needless to say that we parted in hot anger.
I did not see him again for years. The streets of life are very crowded, and if we loose each other's hands we are soon hustled far apart. When I did next meet him it was by accident.
I had left the Whitehall Rooms after a public dinner, and, glad of the cool night air, was strolling home by the Embankment. A man, slouching along under the trees, paused as I overtook him.
"You couldn't oblige me with a light, could you, guv'nor?" he said. The voice sounded strange, coming from the figure that it did.
I struck a match, and held it out to him, shaded by my hands. As the faint light illumined his face, I started back, and let the match fall:-
"Harry!"
He answered with a short dry laugh. "I didn't know it was you," he said, "or I shouldn't have stopped you."
"How has it come to this, old fellow?" I asked, laying my hand upon his shoulder. His coat was unpleasantly greasy, and I drew my hand away again as quickly as I could, and tried to wipe it covertly upon my handkerchief.
"Oh, it's a long, story," he answered carelessly, "and too conventional to be worth telling. Some of us go up, you know. Some of us go down. You're doing pretty well, I hear."
"I suppose so," I replied; "I've climbed a few feet up a greasy pole, and am trying to stick there. But it is of you I want to talk. Can't I do anything for you?"
We were passing under a gas-lamp at the moment. He thrust his face forward close to mine, and the light fell full and pitilessly upon it.
"Do I look like a man you could do anything for?" he said.
We walked on in silence side by side, I casting about for words that might seize hold of him.
"You needn't worry about me," he continued after a while, "I'm comfortable enough. We take life easily down here where I am. We've no disappointments."
"Why did you give up like a weak coward?" I burst out angrily. "You had talent. You would have won with ordinary perseverance."
"Maybe," he replied, in the same even tone of indifference. "I suppose I hadn't the grit. I think if somebody had believed in me it might have helped me. But nobody did, and at last I lost belief in myself. And when a man loses that, he's like a balloon with the gas let out."
I listened to his words in indignation and astonishment. "Nobody believed in you!" I repeated. "Why, I always believed in you, you know that I--"
Then I paused, remembering our "candid criticism" of one another.
"Did you?" he replied quietly, "I never heard you say so. Good- night."
In the course of our Strandward walking we had come to the neighbourhood of the Savoy, and, as he spoke, he disappeared down one of the dark turnings thereabouts.
I hastened after him, calling him by name, but though I heard his quick steps before me for a little way, they were soon swallowed up in the sound of other steps, and, when I reached the square in which the chapel stands, I had lost all trace of him.
A policeman was standing by the churchyard railings, and of him I made inquiries.
"What sort of a gent was he, sir?" questioned the man.
"A tall thin gentleman, very shabbily dressed--might be mistaken for a tramp."
"Ah, there's a good many of that sort living in this town," replied the man. "I'm afraid you'll have some difficulty in finding him."
Thus for a second time had I heard his footsteps die away, knowing I should never listen for their drawing near again.
I wondered as I walked on--I have wondered before and since--whether Art, even with a capital A, is quite worth all the suffering that is inflicted in her behalf--whether she and we are better for all the scorning and the sneering, all the envying and the hating, that