3 books to know Horatian Satire. Anthony Trollope. Читать онлайн. Newlib. NEWLIB.NET

Автор: Anthony Trollope
Издательство: Bookwire
Серия: 3 books to know
Жанр произведения: Языкознание
Год издания: 0
isbn: 9783968585017
Скачать книгу
must be done.

      ‘Vossner must get the money,’ said Nidderdale. ‘Let’s have him up again.’

      ‘I don’t think it’s my fault,’ said Miles. ‘Of course no one thought he was to be called upon in this sort of way.’

      ‘Why shouldn’t you be called upon?’ said Carbury. ‘You acknowledge that you owe the money.’

      ‘I think Carbury ought to have paid it,’ said Grasslough.

      ‘Grassy, my boy,’ said the baronet, ‘your attempts at thinking are never worth much. Why was I to suppose that a stranger would be playing among us? Had you a lot of ready money with you to pay if you had lost it? I don’t always walk about with six hundred pounds in my pocket; — nor do you!’

      ‘It’s no good jawing,’ said Nidderdale. ‘let’s get the money.’ Then Montague offered to undertake the debt himself, saying that there were money transactions between him and his partner. But this could not be allowed. He had only lately come among them, had as yet had no dealing in I.O.U.‘s, and was the last man in the company who ought to be made responsible for the impecuniosity of Miles Grendall. He, the impecunious one — the one whose impecuniosity extended to the absolute want of credit — sat silent, stroking his heavy moustache.

      There was a second conference between Herr Vossner and the two lords, in another room, which ended in the preparation of a document by which Miles Grendall undertook to pay to Herr Vossner £450 at the end of three months, and this was endorsed by the two lords, by Sir Felix, and by Paul Montague; and in return for this the German produced £322 10s. in notes and gold. This had taken some considerable time. Then a cup of tea was prepared and swallowed; after which Nidderdale, with Montague, started off to meet Fisker at the railway station. ‘It’ll only be a trifle over £100 each,’ said Nidderdale, in the cab.

      ‘Won’t Mr Grendall pay it?’

      ‘Oh, dear no. How the devil should he?’

      ‘Then he shouldn’t play.’

      ‘That’d be hard, on him, poor fellow. If you went to his uncle the duke, I suppose you could get it. Or Buntingford might put it right for you. Perhaps he might win, you know, some day, and then he’d make it square. He’d be fair enough if he had it. Poor Miles!’

      They found Fisker wonderfully brilliant with bright rugs, and greatcoats with silk linings. ‘We’ve brought you the tin,’ said Nidderdale, accosting him on the platform.

      ‘Upon my word, my lord, I’m sorry you have taken so much trouble about such a trifle.’

      ‘A man should always have his money when he wins.’

      ‘We don’t think anything about such little matters at Frisco, my lord.’

      ‘You’re fine fellows at Frisco, I dare say. Here we pay up when we can. Sometimes we can’t, and then it is not pleasant.’ Fresh adieus were made between the two partners, and between the American and the lord — and then Fisker was taken off on his way towards Frisco.

      ‘He’s not half a bad fellow, but he’s not a bit like an Englishman,’ said Lord Nidderdale, as he walked out of the station.

      Chapter XI

      Lady Carbury at Home

      ––––––––

image

      During the last six weeks Lady Carbury had lived a life of very mixed depression and elevation. Her great work had come out — the ‘Criminal Queens,’— and had been very widely reviewed. In this matter it had been by no means all pleasure, inasmuch as many very hard words had been said of her. In spite of the dear friendship between herself and Mr Alf, one of Mr Alf’s most sharp-nailed subordinates had been set upon her book, and had pulled it to pieces with almost rabid malignity. One would have thought that so slight a thing could hardly have been worthy of such protracted attention. Error after error was laid bare with merciless prolixity. No doubt the writer of the article must have had all history at his finger-ends, as in pointing out the various mistakes made he always spoke of the historical facts which had been misquoted, misdated, or misrepresented, as being familiar in all their bearings to every schoolboy of twelve years old. The writer of the criticism never suggested the idea that he himself, having been fully provided with books of reference, and having learned the art of finding in them what he wanted at a moment’s notice, had, as he went on with his work, checked off the blunders without any more permanent knowledge of his own than a housekeeper has of coals when she counts so many sacks into the coal-cellar. He spoke of the parentage of one wicked ancient lady, and the dates of the frailties of another, with an assurance intended to show that an exact knowledge of all these details abided with him always. He must have been a man of vast and varied erudition, and his name was Jones. The world knew him not, but his erudition was always there at the command of Mr Alf — and his cruelty. The greatness of Mr Alf consisted in this, that he always had a Mr Jones or two ready to do his work for him. It was a great business, this of Mr Alf’s, for he had his Jones also for philology, for science, for poetry, for politics, as well as for history, and one special Jones, extraordinarily accurate and very well posted up in his references, entirely devoted to the Elizabethan drama.

      There is the review intended to sell a book — which comes out immediately after the appearance of the book, or sometimes before it; the review which gives reputation, but does not affect the sale, and which comes a little later; the review which snuffs a book out quietly; the review which is to raise or lower the author a single peg, or two pegs, as the case may be; the review which is suddenly to make an author, and the review which is to crush him. An exuberant Jones has been known before now to declare aloud that he would crush a man, and a self-confident Jones has been known to declare that he has accomplished the deed. Of all reviews, the crushing review is the most popular, as being the most readable. When the rumour goes abroad that some notable man has been actually crushed — been positively driven over by an entire Juggernaut’s car of criticism till his literary body be a mere amorphous mass — then a real success has been achieved, and the Alf of the day has done a great thing; but even the crushing of a poor Lady Carbury, if it be absolute, is effective. Such a review will not make all the world call for the ‘Evening Pulpit’, but it will cause those who do take the paper to be satisfied with their bargain. Whenever the circulation of such a paper begins to slacken, the proprietors should, as a matter of course, admonish their Alf to add a little power to the crushing department.

      Lady Carbury had been crushed by the ‘Evening Pulpit.’ We may fancy that it was easy work, and that Mr Alf’s historical Mr Jones was not forced to fatigue himself by the handling of many books of reference. The errors did lie a little near the surface; and the whole scheme of the work, with its pandering to bad tastes by pretended revelations of frequently fabulous crime, was reprobated in Mr Jones’s very best manner. But the poor authoress, though utterly crushed, and reduced to little more than literary pulp for an hour or two, was not destroyed. On the following morning she went to her publishers, and was closeted for half an hour with the senior partner, Mr Leadham. ‘I’ve got it all in black and white,’ she said, full of the wrong which had been done her, ‘and can prove him to be wrong. It was in 1522 that the man first came to Paris, and he couldn’t have been her lover before that. I got it all out of the “Biographie Universelle.” I’ll write to Mr Alf myself — a letter to be published, you know.’

      ‘Pray don’t do anything of the kind, Lady Carbury.’

      ‘I can prove that I’m right.’

      ‘And they can prove that you’re wrong.’

      ‘I’ve got all the facts — and the figures.’

      Mr Leadham did not care a straw for facts or figures — had no opinion of his own whether the lady or the reviewer were right; but he knew very well that the ‘Evening Pulpit’ would surely get the better of any mere author in such a contention. ‘Never