“Luney, my son,” said the mellifluous accents of Mr. M. A. Dodson,
ascending upwards to the high stool on which was perched the assiduous
form of William Jordan, Junior, “I want you to do me a personal favour.
I’ve got here an advance copy of Octavius’s translation of the Odyssey.
Now, my good and virtuous boy, I want you to take it home with you
to-night, read it carefully, and criticize it for all you are worth.
Just make a note, like a good chap, of any particular points that
strike you. If any of his truck strikes you as better than the truck of
the other johnnies, you had better underline it. Or if you think some
of his truck is worse than the truck of the other johnnies, put a bit
of blue pencil round it. If you can suggest any improvements, so much
the better. I want an expert like yourself to handle this by Monday
next, before the reviews come out, see? Do this for me, Luney, old boy,
and about the end of next week we’ll do a music-hall together.”
The brand new volume that the boy carried home reverently under his
arm, was a source of great bewilderment to him that evening in the
little room. Again and again he scanned the virgin pages with wondering
eyes. Great names were there, great events, things and men who had
been his constant companions all his life long, but one and all were
envisaged in an alien tongue. A strange metamorphosis had taken place.
He was filled with despair. An acute sense of mystery oppressed him. He
compared this new and shining tome with the old black volumes that were
his priceless treasures. The mystery deepened. The letter was there
in almost its original integrity; but an incommunicable something had
passed away.
On the following day during the luncheon hour, William Jordan, Junior,
resigned the new volume to the care of Mr. M. Arnold Dodson.
“It has not taken you long to go through it,” said that gentleman,
with a light of admiration in his eye, for he himself was prosecuting
researches into the subject which were fraught with pain. “Let me see
your notes, my son. They will help me a good deal.”
William Jordan, Junior, was fain to confess that he had not thought fit
to commit to paper the result of his own researches.
“You had better do so at once,” said Mr. Dodson, whose stern
countenance showed plainly that it would brook no trifling. “I want to
take ’em to-night to the British Museum. They will help me no end.”
“B-b-but,” said the boy nervously, “it is n-n-not Homer.”
For the moment the attitude of horror adopted by Mr. M. Arnold Dodson
seemed designed to suggest that the heavens were about to fall.
“Not Homer!” exclaimed Mr. Dodson. “Not Homer!”
He appeared to gather up each particular unit of his four feet ten
inches, to lend emphasis to a reply which somehow refused to come forth.
“Not Homer!” he said after a pause whose length had ceased to make it
dramatic. “Now look here, my son, I have only one word of advice to
give you. You have only to let that come to the ears of Octavius, and
you will be fired out of this old-established publishing house with one
week’s salary and no character.”
In spite, however, of the total failure of this source, to which
he looked chiefly for sustenance and inspiration in his arduous
undertaking, Mr. Dodson was of far too considerable a mental and moral
calibre to relinquish his self-imposed task. Thus early in his career
he had adopted the saying of a compatriot, for he too, like so many of
our national heroes, claimed the blood of Caledonia stern and wild,
upon his mother’s side, “genius is an infinite capacity for taking
pains,” and had made it his own. Therefore in a crisis where one of
other clay would have been daunted indeed, Mr. M. A. Dodson girt his
loins like a veritable giant, and re-addressed himself to his labours
with the greatest possible valour. Luney had failed him, as it was only
reasonable to expect such a lunatic to do. It was a Napoleonic visage
that crossed the threshold of a monumental building in Bloomsbury
Square, immediately opposite the Hotel Thackeray, on three consecutive
evenings at the hour of seven-thirty, and stayed there with its nose
pinned to unaccustomed documents until it was turned out.
Upon the afternoon of that Monday which was made memorable in the
national life by the fact that upon that day, Mr. Octavius Crumpett’s
version of Homer was issued to the Trade, towards five o’clock on that
epoch-making afternoon, the calm and self-contained right hand of Mr.
M. A. Dodson smote the portal of the sanctum sanctorum of Mr. Octavius
Crumpett, while in his equally calm and self-contained left hand he
bore the sacred volume upon which he had been concentrating the whole
of his critical faculty, which was not inconsiderable, for three days
past.
“Ah, Mr. Dodson, good-morning,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, with a
benign beam in his mild eyes, as he looked up from the perusal of the
list of books received by his favourite _Journal of English and Foreign
Literature, Science, the Fine Arts, Music and the Drama_. It is to be
observed _inter alia_ that the seeming inconsistency of which this
great and good man was guilty of ascribing the name of morning to five
o’clock in the afternoon, was in strict accordance with the higher
usage.
“Good-morning, sir,” said Mr. M. Arnold Dodson, with a slightly austere
but perfectly amiable self-possession.
“Is it to be my privilege, Mr. Dodson, to hear the first verdict which
has been passed upon--ah, my little book?” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett,
with the expansive pleasantness of one who had received already that
morning, at his favourite hall of physical and mental refreshment, the
sonorously-tendered compliment of a stalwart of the Episcopal Bench,
upon its long-expected-and-eagerly-looked-for appearance.
“Well, sir,” said Mr. Dodson, opening at a leisure which conferred an
adventitious weight upon an utterance which stood not in the least need
of it; “well, sir, it is not my intention to enter into petty details
nor into the minutiæ and fine points of scholarship. I think, sir,
those can be resigned with every propriety into more competent hands.
But what I would like to do, sir, with your kind indulgence, is to
view this work as a whole. I do not know, sir, that I have any special
claim to do this, but I would like to say just in what manner your--ah,
achievement strikes me----”
“Pray proceed, Mr. Dodson, pray proceed,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett,
as Mr. M. A. Dodson inserted one of those masterful pauses in his
oratory which in after days were likely to stand him in such good stead
in both houses of parliament, and on political platforms in the United
Kingdom far too numerous to mention.
“My survey of your achievement as a whole, sir,” Mr. M. A. Dodson
continued at a forensically magnificent leisure, “can be summed up in
one word. That word is the word _consummate_. To my mind, sir, the
word consummate alone envisages in any adequate sense that which you
have achieved. I say, sir, I do not propose to go into fine points of
scholarship, which even under the most favourable auspices are apt to
be vexed and over-nice. I speak merely as an amateur, sir, as a humble,
but ardent lover of letters. And in that capacity, sir, and in no
other, as I hope, sir, you will please understand, I have been unable
to refrain from underlining certain passages of your--ah, rendering
which to my mind are in-comparably fe-lic-i-tous.”
Mr. M. A. Dodson paused to take from his pocket a slip of paper on
which was set forth a collocation of mystic numerals. Mr. Octavius
Crumpett lay back in his revolving chair with closed eyes, and with his
hands folded over that portion of his being that was embellished by his
waistcoat of immaculate whiteness; and he seemed to vibrate internally
with that large content which it is only given to the good and great to
feel.
“Page sixty-four, the line beginning, ‘Behold the deep-shaking
thunder,’” Mr. M. A. Dodson continued as he ran his fingers through
the pages with that precision which is the fruit of a long and loving
intercourse with books. “Now, sir, to my mind, the whole passage as
far as ‘all-fostering Zeus’ could not be improved. To my mind, it is
an incomparable advance upon Pope and upon Chapman, and even upon the
extremely skilful version of the late Lord Derby. If I may be permitted
to say it, sir, to my mind, the manner in which you have surmounted
the well-nigh _in-superable_ difficulties of metre is worthy of the
highest praise; and yet, sir, you do not appear to have sacrificed one
iota of the sense or the spirit of the peerless original. Then, sir,
page seventy-two, beginning with line eighteen, ‘Treads the waves of
the many-tremulous seas.’ Or page ninety-one, that matchless rendering
of---- But I must not pause to enumerate.”
As Mr. M. A. Dodson ran his fingers with extreme rapidity through
one after another of these underlined passages, a kind of generous
enthusiasm communicated itself to his wizened countenance. His
diction, ever touched by Attic grace, seemed presently to glow with
a little of the Promethean fire. Yet never for a moment did it fall
into incoherence, nor lapse from the ideal of style in spoken diction,
however rapidly uttered, which was ever before him.
“In fact, sir,” Mr. M. A. Dodson concluded as he came to the last
passage he had underlined, “language fails me, as, sir, it has failed
me from the first, to say in precisely what manner your consummate
achievement has addressed my critical sense.”
With this striking peroration, Mr. M. A. Dodson made as if to withdraw,
but suddenly he appeared to think better of his resolution, for he
returned again to the near proximity of his great and good master,
and said in a modest voice, from which all traces of his infinitely
creditable mental excitement had been removed, “If I dare, sir, I would
ask of the author one small boon. I feel, sir, I have no right to ask
it, but if it were granted to me, it would mean the overflowing of the
cup. I should cherish beyond expression, sir, and I think I can vouch
for it, that in after life my children also will do the same; I should
cherish beyond expression, sir, the autograph of one who is at once the
author of this great book, and who is at the same time the head of this
great house.”
Immediately Mr. Octavius Crumpett dipped his pen in the ink and
inscribed upon the first page of the volume, _Mr. Matthew Arnold
Dodson, with the Author’s good wishes_.
“Mr. Dodson,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, after handing back the
volume to that gentleman, and curtailing in some measure a gratitude
that already had been choicely expressed; “Mr. Dodson, when you go
down-stairs, I shall be obliged if you will have the goodness to ask
Mr. Walkinshaw to have the kindness to come and see me.”
As Mr. M. A. Dodson pursued his meritorious way towards the basement
of the famous building, he took occasion to knock at the door of the
adjoining room.
“Enter,” said a clear official tone.
“Mr. Davis,” said Mr. Dodson, with a formidable politeness as he
entered, and laying an unmistakable stress upon the prefix, “I have the
honour to inform you that your goose is already cooked. Perhaps you
will have the condescension to look at this.”
With immemorial calm Mr. M. Arnold Dodson disclosed for the edification
of Mr. G. Eliot Davis, the fly-leaf of the volume he carried. A short
exclamation of surprise and incredulity escaped the lips of that young
gentleman, which Mr. Dodson did not pause to elucidate.
As the thin, tall, melancholy but intellectual form of Mr. Walter Pater
Walkinshaw wended its way up-stairs, Mr. Dodson turned to William
Jordan, Junior, with a Napoleonic air.
“Luney,” he said, “you can fetch me the time-book.”
William Jordan, Junior, descended from his stool obediently. Mr.
Dodson, with the aid of a ruler and some red ink, crossed out the name
of M. Arnold Dodson from the current page of that work, and wrote
thereunder, _G. Eliot Davis 8.30, vice M. Arnold Dodson gone up-stairs_.
No sooner had Mr. Dodson performed this operation than Mr. W. P.
Walkinshaw returned to that sphere over which he presided with so much
distinction, and said in his kind but cultivated voice, “Mr. Dodson,
Mr. Octavius will be glad if you will go up and see him.”
“I will, sir,” said Mr. Dodson in a tone which, subdued as it was,
resounded through the counting-house.
As for the second time within a very short period Mr. Dodson took his
meritorious way up the familiar stairs to Mount Olympus, he knocked
again on the door of Mr. G. Eliot Davis.
“Mr. Davis,” said Mr. Dodson, thrusting in his head, “prepare to
receive cavalry.”
Before Mr. Davis could demand the meaning of this enigmatic injunction,
Mr. Dodson had entered the august presence yet again.
Mr. Octavius Crumpett was seated _in pontificalibus_ with the glass in
his benign right eye, and the tips of his white and beautifully-kept
hands pressed together.
“Mr. Dodson,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, “I learn from Mr. Walkinshaw
that during the four years you have been associated with this house,
your conduct has been exemplary in the highest degree. I learn that
your attainments are entirely worthy of the--ah, traditions of this
house. It gives me more pleasure, Mr. Dodson, than I can express to
ask you to accept an increase of honorarium from £90 per annum, which
I understand you enjoy at present, to the sum of £200 per annum, which
will date from to-day. Further, it is my intention to ask you to take
up your duties to-morrow morning in the next room, which at present
is in the occupation of Mr. Davis. I think I may say that I concur
entirely with Mr. Walkinshaw in the opinion to which he has given
recent expression, that your considerable natural talent marks you out
for a higher destiny than that which you enjoy at present. I shall be
obliged, Mr. Dodson, if you will ask Mr. Davis to come here.”
“Mr. Davis,” said Mr. Dodson, projecting a somewhat sinister
countenance into the ante-room, whose accomplished occupant was
studying the _Sporting Times_, “Mr. Octavius will be obliged if you
will have the condescension to go next door.”