"A right royal banquet."
At seven o'clock on the great Wednesday Gilead Beck was pacing
restlessly in his inner room, the small apartment which formed his
sanctum, waiting to receive his guests. All the preparations were
complete: a quartette of singers was in readiness, with a piano, to
discourse sweet music after the dinner; the noblest bouquet ever
ordered at the Langham was timed for a quarter to eight punctually;
the wine was in ice; the waiters were adding the last touches to the
artistic decorations of a table which, laid for thirteen only, might
have been prepared for the Prince of Wales. In fact, when the bill
came up a few days later, even Gilead Beck, man of millions, quailed
for a moment before its total. Think of the biggest bill you ever had
at Vèfour's--for francs read pounds, and then multiply by ten; think
of the famous Lord Warden bill for the Emperor Napoleon when he landed
in all his glory, and then consider that the management of the Langham
is in no way behind that of the Dover hostelry. But this was to come,
and when it did come, was received lightly.
Gilead Beck took a last look at the dinner-table. The few special
injunctions he had given were carried out; they were not many, only
that the shutters should be partly closed and the curtains drawn, so
that they might dine by artificial light; that the table and the room
should be entirely illuminated by wax-candles, save for one central
light, in which should be burning, like the sacred flame of Vesta, his
own rock-oil. He also stipulated that the flowers on the table should
be disposed in shallow vessels, so as to lie low, and not interfere
with the freedom of the eyes across the table. Thus there was no
central tower of flowers and fruit. To compensate for this he allowed
a whole bower of exotics to be erected round the room.
The long wall opposite the window was decorated with his famous piece
by an unknown master, bought of Bartholomew Burls, known as "Sisera
and Jael." As the frame had not yet been made it was wreathed about
for its whole length and breadth with flowers. The other pictures,
also wreathed with flowers, were genuine originals, bought of the same
famous collector. For the end of the room Gilead Beck had himself
designed, and partly erected with his own hands, an allegorical
trophy. From a pile of books neatly worked in cork, there sprang a jet
of water illuminated on either side by a hidden lamp burning rock-oil.
He had wished to have the fountain itself of oil, but was overruled by
Jack Dunquerque. Above, by an invisible wire, hovered a golden
butterfly in gilded paper. And on either side hung a flag--that on the
right displaying the Stars and Stripes, that on the left the equally
illustrious Union Jack.
At every man's place lay a copy of the _menu_, in green and gold,
elaborately decorated, a masterpiece of illumination. Gilead Beck,
after making quite sure that nothing was neglected, took his own, and,
retiring to the inner room, read it for the fiftieth time with a
pleasure as intense as that of the young author who reads his first
proof-sheet. It consisted of a large double card. On the top of the
left-hand side was painted in colours and gold a butterfly. And that
side read as follows (I regret that the splendours of the original
cannot be here reproduced):
+-----------------------------------------------------+
| _LANGHAM HOTEL_, |
| MAY 20, 1875. |
| |
| _Dinner in Honour of Literature, Science, and Art_, |
| |
| GIVEN BY |
| |
| GILEAD P. BECK, |
| |
| AN OBSCURE AMERICAN CITIZEN RAISED AT LEXINGTON, |
| WHO STRUCK ILE IN A MOST SURPRISING MANNER |
| BY THE HELP OF |
| |
| THE GOLDEN BUTTERFLY, |
| |
| BUT WHO DESPISES SHODDY AND RESPECTS GENIUS. |
| |
| |
| _Representatives of Literature, Art, and Science._ |
| |
| THOMAS CARLYLE, |
| ALFRED TENNYSON, |
| JOHN RUSKIN, |
| ALGERNON SWINBURNE, |
| GEORGE AUGUSTUS SALA, |
| CHARLES DARWIN, |
| PROFESSOR HUXLEY, |
| FREDERICK LEIGHTON, R.A., |
| CORNELIUS JAGENAL, AND |
| HUMPHREY JAGENAL, |
| |
| WITH CAPTAIN LADDS, THE HON. RONALD DUNQUERQUE, |
| AND GILEAD P. BECK. |
+-----------------------------------------------------+
After this preamble, which occupied a whole side of the double card,
followed the _menu_ itself.
I unwillingly suppress this. There are weaker brethren who might on
reading it feel dissatisfied with the plain lamb and rhubarb-tart of
the sweet spring season. As a present dignitary of the Church, now a
colonial bishop, once a curate, observed to me many years ago, _à
propos_ of thirst, university reminiscences, a neighbouring
public-house, a craving for tobacco, and the fear of being observed,
"These weaker brethren are a great nuisance."
Let it suffice that at the Langham they still speak of Gilead Beck's
great dinner with tears in their eyes. I believe a copy of the green
and gold card is framed, and hung in the office so as to catch the eye
of poorer men when they are ordering dinners. It makes those of lower
nature feel envious, and even takes the conceit out of the nobler
kind.
Gilead Beck, dressed for the banquet, was nervous and restless. It
seemed as if, for the first time, his wealth was about to bring him
something worth having. His face, always grave, was as solemn as if he
were fixing it for his own funeral. From time to time he drew a paper
from his pocket and read it over. Then he replaced it, and with lips
and arms went through the action of speaking. It was his speech of the
evening, which he had carefully written and imperfectly committed to
memory. Like a famous American lawyer, the attitude he assumed was to
stand bent a little forward, the feet together, the left hand hanging
loosely at his side, while he brandished the right above his head.
In this attitude he was surprised by the Twins, who came a quarter of
an hour before the time. They were dressed with great care, having
each the sweetest little eighteenpenny bouquet, bought from the little
shop at the right hand of the Market as you go in, where the young
lady makes it up before your eyes, sticks the wire into it, and pins
it at your buttonhole with her own fair hands. Each brother in turn
winked at her during the operation. A harmless wink, but it suggested
no end of possible devilries should these two young gentlemen of fifty
find themselves loose upon the town. Those who saw it thought of
Mohocks, and praised the Lord for the new police.
They both looked very nice; they entered with a jaunty step, a
careless backward toss of the head, parted lips, and bright eyes which
faced fearlessly a critical but reverent world. Nothing but the
crow's-feet showed that the first glow of youth was over; nothing but
a few streaks of grey in Humphrey's beard and in Cornelius's hair
showed that they were nearing the Indian summer of life. Mr. Beck,
seeing them enter so fresh, so bright, and so beaming, was more than
ever puzzled at their age. He was waiting for them in a nervous and
rather excitable state of mind, as becomes one who is about to find
himself face to face with the greatest men of his time.
"You, gentlemen," he said, "will sit near me, one each side, if you
will be so kind, just to lend a helping-hand to the talk when it
flags. Phew! it will be a rasper, the talk of to-day. I've read all
their works, if I can only remember them, and I bought the _History
of English Literature_ yesterday to get a grip of the hull subject.
No use. I haven't got farther than Chaucer. Do you think they can talk
about Chaucer? He wrote the _Canterbury Tales_."
"Cornelius," said Humphrey, "you will be able to lead the conversation
to the Anglo-Saxon period."
"That period is too early, brother Humphrey," said Cornelius. "We
shall trust to you to turn the steam in the direction of the
Renaissance."
Humphrey shifted in his seat uneasily. Why this unwillingness in
either Twin to assume the lead on a topic which had engaged his
attention for twenty years?
Mr. Beck shook his head.
"I most wish now," he said, "that I hadn't asked them. But it's a
thundering great honour. Mr. Dunquerque did it all for me. That young
gentleman met these great writers, I suppose, in the baronial halls of
his brother, the Earl of Isleworth."
"Do we know Lord Isleworth?" asked Cornelius of Humphrey.
"Lord Isleworth, Cornelius? No; I rather think we have never met him,"
said Humphrey to Cornelius.
"None of your small names to-night," said Gilead Beck, with serious
and even pious joy. "The Lord Mayor may have them at Guildhall. Mine
are the big guns. I did want to get a special report for my own
_Gazette_, but Mr. Dunquerque thought it better not to have it.
P'r'aps 'twould have seemed kind o' shoddy. I ought to be satisfied
with the private honour, and not want the public glory of it. What
would they say in Boston if they knew, or even in New York?"
"You should have a dinner for poets alone," said Humphrey, anxious for
his brother.
"Or for Artists only," said Cornelius.
"Wal, gentlemen, we shall get on. As there's five minutes to spare,
would you like to give an opinion on the wine-list, and oblige me by
your advice?"
The Twins perused the latter document with sparkling eyes. It was a
noble list. Gilead Beck's plan was simple. He just ordered the best of
everything. For Sauterne, he read Château Iquem: for Burgundy, he took
Chambertin; for Claret, Château Lafite; for Champagne, Heidsieck; for
Sherry, Montilla; a Box Boutel wine for Hock; and for Port the '34.
Never before, in all its experiences of Americans, Russians, and
returned colonials, had the management of the Langham so "thorough" a
wine-bill to make out as for this dinner.
"Is that satisfactory, gentlemen?"
"Cornelius, what do you think?"
"Humphrey, I think as you do; and that is, that this princely
selection shows Mr. Beck's true appreciation of Literature and Art."
"It is kind of you, gentlemen, to say so. I talked over the dinner
with the _chef_, and I have had the menou printed, as you see it,
in gilt and colours, which I am given to understand is the correct
thing at the Guildhall. Would you like to look at that?"
They showed the greatest desire to look at it. Humphrey read it aloud
with emphasis. While he read and while his brother listened, Mr. Beck
thought they seemed a good deal older than before. Perhaps that was
before their faces were turned to the light, and the reflection
through an open window of the sinking sun showed up the crow's-feet
round their eyes.
"Humph! Plovers' eggs. Clear mulligatawny; clear, Cornelius.
Turtle-fins. Salmon--I translate the French. Turbot. Lochleven
trout----"
"Very good indeed, so far," said Cornelius, with a palpable smack of
his lips.
"Lamb-cutlets with peas--a simple but excellent dish; aspic of _foie
gras_--ah, two or three things which I cannot translate; a preparation
of pigeon; haunch of venison; yes----"
"An excellent dinner, indeed," said Cornelius. "Pray go on, Humphrey."
He began to feel like Sancho in Barataria. So good a dinner seemed
really impossible.
"Duckling; cabob curry of chicken-liver with Bombay ducks--really, Mr.
Beck, this dinner is worth a dukedom."
"It is indeed," said Cornelius feelingly.
"Canvas-back--ah!--from Baltimore--Cornelius, this is almost too much;
apricots in jelly, ice-pudding, grated Parmesan, strawberries, melons,
peaches, nectarines, (and only May, Cornelius!), pines, West India
bananas, custard apples from Jamaica, and dried litchis from China,
Cornelius."
Humphrey handed the document to his brother with a look of appeal
which said volumes. One sentence in the volumes was clearly, "Say
something appropriate."
Quoth Cornelius deeply moved--
"This new Mæcenas ransacks the corners of the earth to find a fitting
entertainment for men of genius. Humphrey, you shall paint him."
"Cornelius, you shall sing his praises."
By a simultaneous impulse the Twins turned to their patron, and
presented each a right hand. Gilead Beck had only one right hand to
give. He gave that to Cornelius, and the left to Humphrey.
While this sacrament of friendship was proceeding was heard a sound as
of many men simultaneously stifling much laughter. The door opened,
and the other guests arrived in a body. They were preceded by Jack
Dunquerque, and on entering the room dropped, as if by word of
command, into line, like soldiers on parade. Eight of them were
strangers, but Captain Ladds brought up the rear.
They were, as might be expected of such great men, a remarkable
assemblage. At the extreme right stood a tall well-set-up old man,
with tangled grey locks, long grey eye-brows, and an immense grey
beard. His vigorous bearing belied the look of age, and what part of
his face could be seen had a remarkably youthful appearance.
Next to him were other two aged men, one of whom was bent and bowed by
the weight of years. They also had large eyebrows and long grey
beards; and Mr. Beck remarked at once that so far as could be judged
from the brightness of their eyes they had wonderfully preserved their
mental strength. The others were younger men, one of them being
apparently a boy of eighteen or so.
Then followed a ceremony like a _levée_. Gilead Beck stood in the
centre of the room, the table having been pushed back into the corner.
He was supported, right and left, by the Twins, who formed a kind of
Court, and above whom he towered grandly with his height of
six-feet-two. He held himself as erect, and looked as solemn as if he
were the President of the United States. The Twins, for their part,
looked a little as if they were his sons.
Jack Dunquerque acted as Lord Chamberlain or Master of the Ceremonies.
He wore an anxious face, and looked round among the great men whom he
preceded, as soon as they had all filed in, with a glance which might
have meant admonition, had that been possible. And, indeed, a broad
smile, which was hovering like the sunlight upon their venerable
faces, disappeared at the frown of this young gentleman. It was very
curious.
It was in the Grand Manner--that peculiar to Courts--in which Jack
Dunquerque presented the first of the distinguished guests to Mr.
Beck.
"Sir," he said, with low and awe-struck voice, "before you stands
Thomas Carlyle."
A thrill ran through the American's veins as he grasped the hand which
had written so many splendid things, and looked into the eyes which
harboured such splendid thought. Then he said, in softened tones,
because his soul was moved; "This is a proud moment, sir, for Gilead
P. Beck. I never thought to have shaken by the hand the author of the
_French Revolution_ and the _Stones of Venice_."
(It really was unfortunate that his reading had been so miscellaneous
during the four days preceding the dinner.)
The venerable Philosopher opened his mouth and spake. His tones were
deep and his utterance slow.
"You are proud, Mr. Beck? The only Pride should be the pride of work.
Beautiful the meanest thing that works; even the rusty and unmusical
Meatjack. All else belongs to the outlook of him whom men call
Beelzebub. The brief Day passes with its poor paper crowns in tinsel
gilt; Night is at hand with her silences and her veracities. What hast
thou done? All the rest is phantasmal. Work only remains. Say,
brother, what is thy work?"
"I have struck Ile," replied Gilead proudly, feeling that his Work
(with a capital W) had been well and thoroughly done.
The Philosopher stepped aside.
Jack Dunquerque brought up the next.
"Mr. Beck, Alfred Tennyson, the Poet Laureate."
This time it was a man with robust frame and strongly-marked features.
He wore a long black beard, streaked with grey and rather ragged, with
a ragged mass of black hair, looking as he did at Oxford when they
made him an honorary D.C.L., and an undergraduate from the gallery
asked him politely, "_Did_ they wake and call you early?"
"Mr. Tennyson," said Mr. Beck, "I do assure you, sir, that this is the
kindest thing that has been done to me since I came to England. I hope
I see you well, sir. I read your _Fifine at the Fair_, sir--no, that
was the other man's--I mean, sir, your _Songs before Sunrise_; and I
congratulate you. We've got some poets on our side of the water, sir.
I've written poetry myself for the papers. We've got Longfellow and
Lowell, and take out you and Mr. Swinburne, with them we'll meet your
lot."
Mr. Tennyson opened his mouth to speak, but shut it again in silence,
and looking at Jack mournfully as if he had forgotten something, he
stepped aside.
Jack presented another.
"Mr. John Ruskin."
A sharp-featured, clever-looking man, with grey locks and shaven face.
He seized Mr. Beck by the hand and spoke first, not giving his host
time to utter his little set speech.
"I welcome," he said, "one of our fellow-workers from the other side of
the Atlantic. I cannot utter to you what I would. We all see too dimly
as yet what are our great world-duties, for we try and outline their
enlarging shadows. You in America do not seek peace as Menahem sought
it, when he gave the King of Assyria a thousand pieces of silver. You
fight for your peace and have it. You do not buy what you want; you
take it. That is strength; that is harmony. You do not sit at home
lisping comfortable prayers; you go out and work. For many a year to
come, sir, the sword of your nation shall be whetted to save and to
subdue."
He stopped suddenly, and closed his lips with a snap.
Mr. Beck turned rather helplessly to the Twins. He wanted a diversion
to this utterly unintelligible harangue. They stared straight before
them, and pretended to be absorbed in meditation.
"Mr. Beck, Mr. Swinburne. Deaf people think Mr. Browning is musical,
sir; but all people allow Mr. Swinburne to be the most musical of
poets."
It was the very young man. He stood before his host and laughed aloud.
"Sir," said Mr. Beck, "I have read some of your verses. I can't say
what they were about, but I took to singin' them softly as I read
them, and I seemed to be in a green field, lyin' out among the
flowers, while the bees were bummin' around, and the larks were
liftin' their hymns in the sky."
Mr. Swinburne laughed again and made way for the next comer.
"Mr. Beck, let me introduce Mr. George Augustus Sala."
"This," said the Man of Oil, "is indeed a pleasure. Mr. Sala, when I
say that I am an old and personal friend of Colonel Quagg, you will be
glad to meet me."
Contrary to reasonable expectation, the face of Mr. Sala showed no
sign of joy at the reminiscence. He only looked rather helplessly at
Jack Dunquerque, who turned red, and brought up the rest of his men
together, as if to get the introductions over quickly.
"Mr. Beck, these gentlemen are Mr. Darwin, Professor Huxley, and Mr.
Frederick Leighton. Ladds you know well enough already. Step up,
Tommy."
Gilead Beck shook hands with each, and then, drawing himself up to his
full height, laid his left hand within his waistcoat, brandished his
right above his head with a preliminary flourish, and began his
speech.
"Gentlemen all," he said, "I am more than proud to make your
acquaintance. Across the foaming waves of the mighty Atlantic there is
a land whose institootions--known to Mr. Sala--air not unlike your
own, whose literature is your own up to a hundred years ago ["Hear,
hear!" from Cornelius], whose language is the same as yours. We say
hard things of each other, gentlemen; but the hard things are said on
the low levels, not on the heights where you and your kindred spirits
dwell. No, gentlemen,"--here he raised both arms and prepared for a
rhetorical burst,--"when the American eagle, proudly bearing the stars
and stripes----"
"Dinner on the table, sir!" bawled the head waiter, throwing open the
doors with the grandest flourish and standing in the open doorway.
"Hear, hear!" cried Humphrey a little late, because he meant the cheer
for the speech, and it sounded like a joy bell ringing for the
announcement of dinner. Mr. Beck thought it rather rude, but he did
not say so, and vented his wrath upon the waiter.
"Great Jehoshaphat!" he cried, "can't you see when a gentleman is on
the stump? Who the devil asked you to shove in?"
"Never mind," said Jack irreverently. "Spout the rest after dinner."
A sigh of relief escaped the lips of all, and the party, headed, after
some demur, by the host, who was escorted, one on each side, like a
great man with his private secretary, by the Twins, passed into the
dining-room.
Oddly enough, when their host passed on before them, the guests turned
to each other, and the same extraordinary smile which Jack Dunquerque
checked on their first appearance passed from one to the other. Why
should Alfred Tennyson look in the face of Thomas Carlyle and laugh?
What secret relationship is there between John Ruskin, Swinburne, and
George Augustus Sala, that they should snigger and grin on catching
each other's eyes? And, if one is to go on asking questions, why did
Jack Dunquerque whisper in an agitated tone, "For Heaven's sake, Tom,
and you fellows, keep it up?"
There was some little difficulty in seating the guests, because they
all showed a bashful reluctance to sitting near their host, and
crowded together to the lower end. At last, however, they were settled
down. Mr. Carlyle, who, with a modesty worthy of his great name,
seized the lowest chair of all--on the left of Jack Dunquerque, who
was to occupy the end of the table--was promptly dragged out and
forcibly led to the right of the host. Facing him was Alfred Tennyson.
The Twins, one on each side, came next. Mr. Sala faced John Ruskin.
The others disposed themselves as they pleased.
A little awkwardness was caused at the outset by the host, who, firm
in the belief that Professor Huxley was in the Moody and Sankey line,
called upon him to say Grace. The invitation was warmly seconded by
all the rest, but the Professor, greatly confused, blushed, and after
a few moments of reflection was fain to own that he knew no Grace. It
was a strange confession, Gilead Beck thought, for a clergyman. The
singers, however--Miss Claribelle, Signors Altotenoro, Bassoprofondo,
and Mr. Plantagenet Simpkins--performed _Non nobis_ with great
feeling and power, and dinner began.
It was then that Gilead Beck first conceived, against his will,
suspicion of the Twins. So far from being the backbone and stay of the
whole party, so far from giving a lead to the conversation, and
leading up to the topics loved by the guests, they gave themselves
unreservedly and from the very first to "tucking in." They went at the
dinner with the go of a Rugby boy--a young gentleman of Eton very soon
teaches himself that the stomach is not to be trifled with. So did the
rest. Considering the overwhelming amount of genius at the table, and
the number of years represented by the guests collectively, it was
really wonderful to contemplate the vigour with which all, including
the octogenarian, attacked the courses, sparing none. Could it have
been believed by an outsider that the author of _Maud_ was so
passionately critical over the wine? It is sad to be disillusioned,
but pleasant, on the other hand, to think that you are no longer an
outsider. Individually the party would have disappointed their host,
but he did not allow himself to be disappointed. Mr. Beck expected a
battery of wit. He heard nothing but laudation of the wine and remarks
upon the cookery. No anecdotes, no criticism, no literary talk, no
poetical enthusiasm.
"In my country, sir," he began, glancing reproachfully at the Twins,
whose noses were over their plates, and feeling his way feebly to a
conversation with Carlyle,--"in my country, sir, I hope we know how to
appreciate what we cannot do ourselves."
Mr. Carlyle stared for a moment. Then he replied--
"Hope you do, Mr. Beck, I'm sure. Didn't know you'd got so good a
_chef_ at the Langham."
This was disheartening, and for a space no one spoke.
Presently Mr. Carlyle looked round the table as if he was about to
make an utterance.
Humphrey Jagenal, who happened at the moment to have nothing before
him, raised his hand and said solemnly, "Hush!" Cornelius bent forward
in an attitude of respectful attention.
Said the Teacher--
"Clear mulligatawny's about the best thing I know to begin a dinner
upon. Some fellows like Palestine soup. That's a mistake."
"The greatest minds," said Cornelius to the Poet Laureate, "condescend
to the meanest things----"
"'Gad!" said Tennyson, "if you call such a dinner as this mean, I
wonder what you'd call respectable."
Cornelius felt snubbed. But he presently rallied and went on again. It
was between the courses.
"Pray, Mr. Carlyle," he asked, with the sweetest smile, "what was the
favourite soup of Herr Teufelsdröckh?"
"Who?" asked the Philosopher. "Beg your pardon, Herr how much?"
"From your own work, Mr. Carlyle," Jack sang out from his end. It was
remarkable to notice how anxiously he followed the conversation.
"Oh, ah! quite so," said Mr. Carlyle. "Well, you see, the fact is
that--Jack Dunquerque knows."
This was disconcerting too, and the more because everybody began to
laugh. What did they laugh at?
The dinner went on. Gilead Beck, silent and grave, sat at the head of
the table, watching his guests. He ought, he said to himself, to be a
proud man that day. But there were one or two crumpled rose-leaves in
his bed. One thing was that he could not for the life of him remember
each man's works, so as to address him in honeyed tones of adulation.
And he also rightly judged that the higher a man's position in the
world of letters, the more you must pile up the praise. No doubt the
lamented George the Fourth, the Fourteenth Louis, and John Stuart
Mill, grew at last to believe in the worth of the praise-painting
which surrounded their names.
And then the Twins were provoking. Only one attempt on the part of
Cornelius, at which everybody laughed. And nothing at all from
Humphrey.
Carlyle and Tennyson, for their part, sat perfectly silent. Lower
down--below the Twins, that is--Sala, Huxley, and the others were
conversing freely, but in a low tone. And when Gilead Beck caught a
few words it seemed to him as if they talked of horse-racing.
Presently, to his relief, John Ruskin leaned forward and spoke to him.
"I have been studying lately, Mr. Beck, the Art growth of America."
"Is that so, sir? And perhaps you have got something to tell my
countrymen?"
"Perhaps, Mr. Beck. You doubtless know my principle, that Art should
interpret, not create. You also know that I have preached all my life
the doctrine that where Art is followed for Art's own sake, there
infallibly ensues a distinction of intellectual and moral principles,
while, devoted honestly and self-forgetfully to the clear statement
and record of the facts of the universe, Art is always helpful and
beneficial to mankind. So much you know, Mr. Beck, I'm sure."
"Well, sir, if you would not mind saying that over again--slow--I
might be able to say I know it."
"I have sometimes gone on to say," pursued Mr. Ruskin, "that a time
has always hitherto come when, having reached a singular perfection,
Art begins to contemplate that perfection and to deduce rules from it.
Now all this has nothing to do with the relations between Art and
mental development in the United States of America."
"I am glad to hear that, sir," said Gilead Beck, a little relieved.
He looked for help to the Twins, but he leaned upon a slender reed,
for they were both engaged upon the duckling, and proffered no help at
all. They did not even seem to listen. The dinner was far advanced,
their cheeks were red, and their eyes were sparkling.
"What is it all about?" Mr. Carlyle murmured across the table to
Tennyson.
"Don't know," replied the Maker. "Didn't think he had it in him."
Could these two great men be jealous of Mr. Ruskin's fame?
"Your remarks, Mr. Ruskin," said the host, "sound very pretty. But I
should like to have them before me in black and white, so I could
tackle them quietly for an hour. Then I'd tell you what I think. I was
reading, last week, all your works."
"All my works in a week!" cried Ruskin. "Sir, my works require loving
thought and lingering tender care. You must get up early in the
morning with them, you must watch the drapery of the clouds at sunrise
when you read them, you must take them into the fields at spring-time
and mark, as you meditate on the words of the printed page, the young
leaflets breathing low in the sunshine. Then, as the thoughts grow and
glow in the pure ether of your mind--hock, if you please--you will
rise above the things of the earth, your wings will expand, you will
care for nothing of the mean and practical--I will take a little more
duckling--your faculties will be woven into a cunning subordination
with the wondrous works of Nature, and all will be beautiful alike,
from a blade of grass to a South American forest."
"There are very good forests in the Sierra Nevada," said Mr. Beck, who
had just understood the last words; "we needn't go to South America
for forests, I guess."
"That, Mr. Beck, is what you will get from a study of my works. But a
week--a week, Mr. Beck!"
He shook his head with a whole library of reproach.
"My time was limited, Mr. Ruskin, and I hope to go through your books
with more study, now I have had the pleasure of meeting you. What I
was going to say was, that I am sorry not to be able to talk with you
gentlemen on the subjects you like best, because things have got
mixed, and I find I can't rightly remember who wrote what."
"Thank goodness!" murmured Mr. Tennyson, under his breath.
Presently the diners began to thaw, and something like general
conversation set in.
About the grated Parmesan period, Mr. Beck observed with satisfaction
that they were all talking together. The Twins were the loudest. With
flushed faces and bright eyes they were laying down the law to their
neighbours in Poetry and Art. Cornelius gave Mr. Tennyson some home
truths on his later style, which the Poet Laureate received without so
much as an attempt to defend himself. Humphrey, from the depth of his
Roman experiences, treated Mr. Ruskin to a brief treatise on his
imperfections as a critic, and Mr. Leighton to some remarks on his
paintings, which those great men heard with a polite stare. Gilead
Beck observed also that Jack Dunquerque was trying hard to keep the
talk in literary grooves, though with small measure of success. For as
the dinner went on the conversation resolved itself into a general
discussion on horses, events, Aldershot, Prince's, polo, the drama
from its lightest point of view, and such topics as might perhaps be
looked for at a regimental mess, but hardly at a dinner of Literature.
It was strange that the two greatest men among them all, Carlyle and
Tennyson, appeared as interested as any in this light talk.
The Twins were out of it altogether. If there was one thing about
which they were absolutely ignorant, it was the Turf. Probably they
had never seen a race in their lives. They talked fast and a little at
random, but chiefly to each other, because no one, Mr. Beck observed,
took any notice of what they said. Also, they drank continuously, and
their host remarked that to the flushed cheeks and the bright eyes was
rapidly being added thickness of speech.
Mr. Beck rose solemnly, at the right moment, and asked his guests to
allow him two or three toasts only. The first, he said, was England
and America. Ile, he said briefly, had not yet been found in the old
country, and so far she was behind America. But she did her best; she
bought what she could not dig.
By special request of the host Mademoiselle Claribelle sang "Old John
Brown lies a-mouldering in his grave."
The next toast, Mr. Beck said, was one due to the peculiar position of
himself. He would not waste their time in telling his own story, but
he would only say that until the Golden Butterfly brought him to
Limerick City and showed him Ile, he was but a poor galoot. Therefore,
he asked them to join him in a sentiment. He would give them, "More
Ile."
Signor Altotenoro, an Englishman who had adopted an Italian name, sang
"The Light of other Days."
Then Mr. Beck rose for the third time and begged the indulgence of his
friends. He spoke slowly and with a certain sadness.
"I am not," he said, "going to orate. You did not come here, I guess,
to hear me pay out chin music. Not at all. You came to do honour to an
American. Gentlemen, I am an obscure American; I am half educated; I
am a man lifted out of the ranks. In our country--and I think in yours
as well, though some of you have got handles to your names--that is
not a thing to apologise for. No, gentlemen. I only mention it because
it does me the greater honour to have received you. But I can read and
I can think. I see here to-night some of the most honoured names in
England and I can tell you all what I was goin' to say before dinner,
only the misbegotten cuss of a waiter took the words out of my mouth:
that I feel this kindness greatly, and I shall never forget it. I did
think, gentlemen, that you would have been too many for me in the
matter of tall talk, but exceptin' Mr. Ruskin, to whom I am grateful
for his beautiful language, though it didn't all get in, not one of
you has made me feel my own uneducated ignorance. That is kind of you,
and I thank you for it. It was true feeling, Mr. Carlyle, which
prompted you, sir, to give the conversation such a turn that I might
join in without bein' ashamed or makin' myself feel or'nary.
Gentlemen, what a man like me has to guard against is shoddy. If I
talk Literature, it's shoddy. If I talk Art, it's shoddy. Because I
know neither Literature nor Art. If I pretend to be what I am not,
it's shoddy. Therefore, gentlemen, I thank you for leavin' the tall
talk at home, and tellin' me about your races and your amusements. And
I'll not ask you, either, to make any speeches; but if you'll allow
me, I will drink your healths. Mr. Carlyle, sir, the English-speaking
race is proud of you. Mr. Tennyson, our gells, I'm told, love your
poems more than any others in this wide world. What an American gell
loves is generally worth lovin', because she's no fool. Mr. Ruskin, if
you'd come across the water you might learn a wrinkle yet in the
matter of plain speech. Mr. Sala, we know you already over thar, and I
shall be glad to tell the Reverend Colonel Quagg of your welfare when
I see him. Mr. Swinburne, you air young, but you air getting on.
Professor Huxley and Mr. Darwin, I shall read your sermons and your
novels, and I shall be proud to have seen you at my table. Mr.
Cornelius and Mr. Humphrey Jagenal, I would drink your healths, too,
if you were not sound asleep." This was unfortunately the case; the
Twins, having succumbed to the mixture and quantity of the drinks
almost before the wine went round once, were now leaning back in their
chairs, slumbering with the sweetest of smiles. "Captain Ladds, you
know, sir, that you are always welcome. Mr. Dunquerque, you have done
me another favour. Gentlemen all, I drink your health."
"Jack," whispered Mr. Swinburne, "I call this a burning shame. He's a
rattling good fellow, this, and you must tell him."
"I will, some time; not now," said Jack, looking remorseful. "I
haven't the heart. I thought he would have found us out long ago. I
wonder how he'll take it."
They had coffee and cigars, and presently Gilead Beck began telling
about American trotting matches, which was interesting to everybody.
It was nearly twelve when Mr. Beck's guests departed.
Mr. Carlyle, in right of his seniority, solemnly "up and spake."
"Mr. Beck," he said, "you are a trump. Come down to the Derby with me,
and we will show you a race worth twenty of your trotting. Good night,
sir, you've treated us like a prince."
He grasped his hand with a grip which had all its youthful vigour, and
strode out of the room with the step of early manhood.
"A wonderful man!" said Mr. Beck. "Who would have thought it?"
The rest shook hands in silence, except Mr. Ruskin.
"I am sorry, Mr. Beck," he said meekly, "that the nonsense I talked at
dinner annoyed you. It's always the way if a fellow tries to be
clever; he overdoes it, and makes himself an ass. Good night, sir, and
I hope we shall meet on the racecourse next Wednesday."
Mr. Beck was left alone with Jack Dunquerque, the waiter, and the
Twins still sleeping.
"What am I to do with these gentlemen, sir?" asked the waiter.
Mr. Beck looked at them with a little disdain.
"Get John, and yank them both to bed, and leave a brandy-and-soda at
their elbows in case they're thirsty in the night. Mr. Dunquerque and
Captain Ladds, don't go yet. Let us have a cigar together in the
little room."
They sat in silence for a while. Then Jack said, with a good deal of
hesitation:
"I've got something to tell you, Beck."
"Then don't tell it to-night," replied the American. "I'm thinking
over the evening, and I can't get out of my mind that I might have
made a better speech. Seems as if I wasn't nigh grateful enough. Wal,
it's done. Mr. Dunquerque, there is one thing which pleases me. Great
authors are like the rest of us. They are powerful fond of racing;
they shoot, they ride, and they hunt; they know how to tackle a
dinner; and all of 'em, from Carlyle to young Mr. Swinburne, seem to
love the gells alike. That's a healthy sign, sir. It shows that their
hearts air in the right place. The world's bound to go on well,
somehow, so long as its leaders like to talk of a pretty woman's eyes;
because it's human. And then for me to hear these great men actually
doing it! Why, Captain Ladds, it adds six inches to my stature to feel
sure that they like what I like, and that, after all said and done,
Alfred Tennyson and Gilead P. Beck are men and brothers."