[Illustration: ‘BEGONE!’ HE CRIED; ‘BEGONE! BOTH OF YOU.’]
THE TALK OF THE TOWN
BY
JAMES PAYN
AUTHOR OF ‘BY PROXY’ ETC. ETC.
IN TWO VOLUMES
VOL. II.
_SECOND EDITION_
LONDON
SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 WATERLOO PLACE
1885
[_All rights reserved_]
CONTENTS
OF
THE SECOND VOLUME.
CHAP. PAGE
XIX. ANOTHER DISCOVERY 1
XX. A TRUE LOVER 13
XXI. A TIFF 30
XXII. A BARGAIN 46
XXIII. AN UNEXPECTED ALLY 63
XXIV. MANAGERS 81
XXV. TWO DISTINGUISHED VISITORS 99
XXVI. TWO ACTRESSES 113
XXVII. A ROYAL PATRON 134
XXVIII. THE GREEN-EYED MONSTER 154
XXIX. THE CYPHER 172
XXX. THE PLAY 185
XXXI. THE MESSENGER OF DISGRACE 207
XXXII. THE FEET OF CLAY 223
XXXIII. BREAKING IT 239
XXXIV. A COMFORTER 252
XXXV. FAREWELL 266
_ILLUSTRATIONS TO VOL. II._
‘BEGONE!’ HE CRIED; ‘BEGONE! BOTH OF YOU.’ _Frontispiece_
‘THEN, IF YOU PLEASE, SIR, I WILL TAKE
MARGARET.’ _to face p._ 54
THE OTHER, INSTEAD OF TAKING HIS HAND,
DREW HIMSELF UP ” 100
‘THAT’S MUCH BETTER,’ SMILED MRS. JORDAN
APPROVINGLY ” 128
‘I KNOW WHAT YOU ARE COME FOR. YOU
ARE COME FOR THIS LETTER.’ ” 172
THE NEXT MOMENT THE CORRIDOR WAS FULL
OF AN EXCITED RABBLE ” 194
‘SO GOOD OF YOU; SO LIKE YOU, MARGARET,’
HE MURMURED ” 274
THE TALK OF THE TOWN.
CHAPTER XIX.
ANOTHER DISCOVERY.
[Illustration]
WHEN folks are not in accord, and especially if there is fear on one
side, communication of all kinds is difficult enough, but personal
companionship is well-nigh unendurable. Often and often in evenings
not so long ago William Henry had hesitated to come in on his father’s
very doorstep, and turned away into the wet and wind-swept streets
rather than thrust his unwelcome companionship upon him. Not seldom,
in the days between the death of his wife and Margaret’s coming to
Norfolk Street, Mr. Erin had left the supper table without a word, and
sought his own chamber an hour before his time, rather than endure the
sight of the boy whose very existence was a reproach to him, who had
had the ill taste to survive his own beloved child, and who had not
a pleasure or pursuit in common with him. Now, however, all this was
changed; and nothing was more significant of the alteration in the old
man’s feelings towards William Henry than the satisfaction he took
in his society. So close an attachment the young man might well have
dispensed with, since it kept him sometimes from his Margaret; but he
nevertheless was far from discouraging it, since he knew that such
familiarity tended in the end to ensure her to him.
It was the antiquary’s whim—or perhaps he thought that association of
ideas might help to incline the young man’s heart towards him—to read
at night Shakespeare’s plays with him, as they had been wont to do
when William Henry was yet a child and no coldness had as yet sprung
up between them. At times the young fellow’s attention would flag a
little; his thoughts would fly after his heart, which was upstairs in
Margaret’s keeping; but as a rule he shared, or seemed to share, the
old man’s enthusiasm. His comments and suggestions on the text were
always received with a respect which, considering what would have been
their fate had they been hazarded six months ago, was almost ludicrous.
Such illogical changes in personal estimation are not unexampled; even
in modern times there have been instances where the sudden acquisition
of wealth, or the unexpected succession to a title, have invested
their astonished possessors with attributes in no way connected with
either rank or riches; in the present case the admiration expressed
was, however, remarkable, because the very qualities of literary
judgment and the like, which were now acknowledged, had been of old
contemptuously ignored. William Henry, who had never himself ignored
them, was content to find them recognised at last by whatever means,
and exchanged his views upon the character of Hamlet with the antiquary
with cheerful confidence and upon equal terms.
One night they were reading ‘Lear’ together, and had come to those
lines wherein the Duke offers Kent half the administration of the
kingdom. To this Kent replies—
I have a journey, sir, shortly to go:
My master calls me; I must not say ‘No.’
‘Do you not think, sir,’ observed William Henry, ‘that such a couplet
is somewhat inappropriate to the occasion?’
‘How so?’ inquired the antiquary. It was noteworthy that he took the
objection with such mildness. The notion of anything in Shakespeare
being inappropriate was like suggesting to a fire-worshipper that there
were spots on the sun.
‘Well, sir, it strikes me as somewhat too brief and trivial,
considering the subject on which he speaks. Now what do you think of
this by way of an emendation?’ He drew from his pocket a slip of paper
on which the following lines were written in his own handwriting:—
Thanks, sir; but I go to that unknown land
That chains each pilgrim fast within its soil,
By living men most shunned, most dreaded.
Still my good master this same journey took:
He calls me; I am content and straight obey.
Then farewell, world; the busy scene is done:
Kent lived most true; Kent died most like a man.
The antiquary’s face was a study. A few months ago it is doubtful
whether anything from William Henry’s pen would have obtained so much
as patient consideration. Of his son’s genius Mr. Erin had always
thought very little; he esteemed him indeed no more worthy of the
title of man of letters than his friend Mr. Talbot himself; but his
productions were now on a very different plane. They demanded his best
attention and such admiration as it was possible to give.
‘Still my good master this same journey took:
He calls me; I am content and straight obey,’
he murmured. ‘That is harmonious and natural; a certain simplicity
pervades it: yes, my lad, that is creditable.’
‘I venture to think,’ said the young man deferentially, ‘that the
opening lines—
Thanks, sir; but I go to that unknown land, &c—
are not devoid of merit.’
‘Devoid? No, certainly not devoid. Courteous in expression and—um—to
the point, but somewhat modern in tone.’
Without speaking, but with a smile full of significance, the young man
produced a roll of paper and laid it before his companion.
‘Great heavens! what is this?’ exclaimed Mr. Erin, straightening out
the manuscript with trembling fingers, while he devoured it with his
eyes.
‘It is something that you hoped to find at Stratford—at Clapton
House,’ returned William Henry, quietly. ‘How often have you told me
that some manuscripts of Shakespeare’s plays must needs be in existence
somewhere! You were right; this is the original, or at all events a
very early manuscript, of “Lear.”’
‘“Lear”? Shakespeare’s “Lear”? My dear Samuel, you take my breath
away. And yet the handwriting seems incontestable; and here is the jug
watermark, a clear proof at least of its antiquity. You have read it,
of course: does it differ from the quartos?’
‘Yes, materially.’
‘Thank Heaven!—I mean, how extraordinary! One can hardly, indeed, wish
a line of Shakespeare’s to differ from what is already engraven in our
hearts; but still to get his first thoughts! Truly a rapturous day!’
‘I rather think, sir,’ said William Henry, ‘that after investigation
you will acknowledge that these were not only his first thoughts but
his best thoughts. There is a polish on the gem that has heretofore
been lacking. The manuscript will, if I am not mistaken, prove
Shakespeare to have been a more finished writer than has been hitherto
imagined. There are many new readings, but once again to refer to
that speech of Kent’s: you admired it in its modern form, into which
I purposely cast it, confident that its merits would not escape you
even in that guise; out in its proper and antique dress just be so good
as to reperuse it; perhaps you will give it voice, the advantage of a
trained utterance.’
Thus advised, Mr. Erin, nothing loth, repeated the lines aloud:—
Thanks, Sir; butte I goe toe thatte unknowne land
That chaynes each Pilgrime faste within its soyle.
He read sonorously and with a somewhat pompous air, but effectively;
the dignity of the subject sustained him; moreover the sight of the old
spelling and quaint calligraphy stirred him as the clang of the trumpet
moves the war-horse to exhibit his best paces.
‘It is certainly very fine,’ was his verdict upon his own performance.
‘Who does not pronounce that speech replete with pathos and energy must
resign all pretensions to poetical taste.’
‘But as an emendation on the received version,’ persisted William
Henry—
‘I have a journey, sir, shortly to go—
will you not admit that it compares favourably with _that_?’
‘I consider it, my dear Samuel,’ was the solemn reply, ‘a decided
improvement.’
He spoke in a tone of conviction, which admitted of no question; sudden
as his conversion was (for in praising what in fact he had believed
to be his son’s composition he had gone to the extreme limit that his
conscience would permit), it was perfectly genuine.
There are only a very few people in the world who form an independent
judgment on anything upon its intrinsic merits. Most of us are the
slaves of authority, or what is supposed to be authority, in matters of
opinion. In letters men are almost as much victims to a name as in art.
The scholar blind to the beauties of a modern poem can perceive them
in an ancient one even where they do not exist. He cannot be persuaded
that Æschylus was capable of writing a dull play; the antiquary prefers
a _torso_ of two thousand years old to a full-length figure by Canova.
This may not be good sense, but it is human nature.
‘I need not ask you,’ continued Mr. Erin, after a pause, during which
he gazed at the manuscript like Cortez, on his peak, at the Pacific,
‘whether this precious document came from the same treasure house as
the rest?’
‘Yes, sir; it almost seems as if there were no end to them. I have not
yet explored half the curious papers on which my patron seems to set so
little store.’
The antiquary’s eyes sparkled under his shaggy brows; if the young
man had read his very heart he could not have replied to its secret
thoughts more pertinently. An hour before he had hardly dreamt of the
existence of such a prize, but, now that it had been found, it at once
began to suggest the most magnificent possibilities. This was the
first, but why should it be the last? If the manuscript of the ‘Lear’
had survived all the accidents of time and chance, why not that of
the ‘Hamlet’ also—the ‘Hamlet,’ with its ambiguous utterances, so
differently rendered by the Shakespearean oracles, and which stood so
much in need of an authoritative exponent?
When a man (for no merit of his own beyond a little bribery at
elections) is made a baronet, he is not so enraptured but that he
beholds in the perspective a peerage, and even dreams that upon a
somewhat ampler waistcoat (but still his own) may one day repose the
broad riband of the Garter.
‘What is very remarkable in the present manuscript,’ continued William
Henry, ‘is that it is free from the ribaldry which but too often
disfigures the plays of Shakespeare.’
‘The taste of the time was somewhat coarse,’ observed Mr. Erin. It
was almost incredible even to himself, but he felt that his tone was
deprecatory; he was actually making apologies for the Bard of Avon to
this young gentleman of seventeen.
‘Nevertheless I cannot believe that Shakespeare pandered to it,’
observed William Henry gravel. ‘These things are in my opinion
introduced by the players of the period, and afterwards inserted in
the stage copies of the plays from which they were literally printed;
and thus the ear of England has been abused. If the discovery of this
manuscript should clear Shakespeare’s memory from these ignoble
stains, it will be a subject of national congratulation.’
‘Very true,’ assented Mr. Erin. He felt that the remark was
insufficient, wanting in enthusiasm, and altogether upon a lower level
than the other’s arguments; but the fact was his mind was dwelling
upon more personal considerations. He was reflecting upon his own high
position as the proprietor of this unique treasure and on what Malone
would say _now_.
These reflections, while they filled him with self-complacency,
made him set a higher value upon William Henry than ever; for, like
the magician in the Arabian story, he could do nothing without his
Aladdheen to help him.