A divine patience sustained the poet through those weary days until
there came the hour in which the miracle of miracles was consummated,
and the printed and bound volumes of his labour, emerging at last from
all the vicissitudes of the press were at last laid on his knees.
The right hand he could not raise; and the left had no longer the power
to support the weight of the three volumes of _Reconciliation: A Poem_.
Therefore were they poised upon the poet’s knees, and his hands dangled
upon their covers helplessly.
“This perfunctory clay has only one other duty to discharge,” he said,
as a slow and calm radiance overspread his face, “ere it be released
from its bonds. I must await the verdict of the street-persons upon
my little treatise. I must stay yet awhile until some authentic voice
among them has spoken in their name. By that means I shall know that my
destiny is at last complete.”
His friend James Dodson assured him that that day copies of the poem
had been sent to fifty of the foremost English journals.
“It may be a month, old boy, before we hear what they have got to say
about it,” he said.
“A month,” said the poet with a slight shiver. “It is a long term. Yet
shall it seem as but a day.”
“They are always slow at reviewing poetry, you know,” said Jimmy
Dodson. “Perhaps they might even take longer than a month. You see, it
is such a long poem that it will take a lot of reading; and then, of
course, when they have read it, they will have to think about it before
they can express their opinion. In fact, old boy, they are certain to
have to think about it a good deal.”
“Truly,” said the poet, “they will have to think about it a good deal.”
From that time forth the days as they passed were fraught with
inexpressible pain for James Dodson. Up till the time of the issue
of this strange and bewildering poem in three volumes, which all
the expert minds of his acquaintance had promptly and unsparingly
condemned, he had sought to keep up his heart with the reflection,
frail though it was, that they might be mistaken after all. For he
gathered from the researches he had recently begun to conduct upon the
subject that such things had happened before.
Yet how incomprehensible it was, in the teeth of all the uncompromising
hostility that had been visited upon the manuscript itself, and
the remarkable apathy of all who had been brought in contact with
it--publishers, printers, proof-readers, the official at the English
Museum--that the author himself, lying all broken in the clutch of
death, should yet possess the occult and mysterious power to convince
such a one as James Dodson against his judgment, his reason, his
knowledge of the world, and all the standards by which he understood
life, that his own extravagant estimate, his own ridiculous,
preposterous, overweening estimate of the merits of his work should yet
derive an ample sanction from the presence of him who proclaimed it.
“When I am away from that place I know the poor chap is hopelessly
mad,” Jimmy Dodson would say to himself in his unhappy self-communion;
“and I know his old father is hopelessly mad as well; it is proved by
the judgment of others; yet as soon as I enter that accursed little
room behind that accursed little shop they both seem to have such
marvellous sanity that they make me ashamed of my own.”
From the time his friend’s poem was given to the world Jimmy Dodson
spent his days hoping against hope. In the face of such emphatic
denial of the merits of the work it called for great courage to
venture to believe that after all it might vindicate itself. Yet day
after day he scanned the columns of the newspapers in the vain search
for a vindication that he might carry to the dying man. Nor was he able
to elicit any favourable tidings from the firm of Crumpett and Hawker.
Their interest in the work terminated with its issue to the press. They
had not engaged to advertise it, nor to canvass for its sale among
their clients the booksellers. Therefore, at the end of the first
month of its issue not only had it been passed over in silence by the
newspapers, but also not a single copy had been sold to the public.
In the face of these cold facts Dodson had scarcely the courage to
approach his dying friend, yet an irresistible power seemed to draw
him to his presence. It pierced his heart to observe the ludicrous,
pathetic, overweening faith of the dying poet in that which he had
given to the world. As he grew weaker and weaker in body, this sense of
achievement seemed to mount to greater heights in his veins, so that
the unhappy Dodson felt that he had no alternative but to continue to
enact the amazing role he had already played so many times.
One evening he said to the white-haired man who welcomed him into the
shop, “I suppose we must keep it up till the end comes, but God knows
it is wearing me out. I have lost a stone in weight; I can’t eat my
meals; I can’t sleep at night. Old man, this business is killing James
Dodson by inches; but I suppose he must keep it up to the bitter end.”
“Yes,” said the old man faintly, “the truth must be concealed from
the dying Achilles that the great world out of doors has rejected
his labours. Yet it is meet that we ourselves should continue in our
homage to this mighty one, for we do but anticipate the verdict of ages
unborn.”
“Verdict of ages unborn!” said Dodson, with contempt and bitterness,
for his own dire suffering appeared to be overcoming his resolve;
“there will be no verdict of ages unborn if we go on at this rate. Not
a single copy has been sold up to date. If I could only scrape together
the money, which I can’t, I would insert a full-page advertisement
in the _Times_. I see the _Journal of Literature_ has acknowledged
it among the books received, but they take care not to give a bit of
recognition to the author. They must have found out that he’s a long
while a-dying.”
As the unhappy Dodson entered this evening the presence of the poet, he
seemed to discern a curious anguish in the eyes of his dying friend.
“Jimmy,” said the poet in a scarcely audible voice, “the hand of death
is upon me. There hardly remains more than a day and a night of the
sands of life. Yet I would like to hear that my labours have received
some sort of sanction. Have they made no sign? Have they said nothing?”
The entreaty in the sightless gaze filled the unhappy Dodson with a
kind of reckless despair.
“Have they said nothing?” he said in choking accents, yet his strange
cockney speech sounded like music, so intense was the emotion with
which it vibrated. “Have they made no sign, old boy? Why--why, you
can’t believe what a sensation your poem is making! They are printing
a second edition, and it will run to--to a hundred thousand copies.
The--the first was--was over ten thousand, you know, and that has
already been over subscribed. The papers are full of it--greatest
thing ever done--better than Homer, better than Shakespeare and so
on, although, of course, old boy, they put it more literary. I wish
you could see the face of Octavius. He is the proudest man in London
because Crumpett and Hawker happen to have had the luck to publish it.
But Octavius deserves credit, doesn’t he, old boy, because from the
first he saw its merits? He says poetry is going to be fashionable.
Duchesses in fur coats drive up in their motors to inquire the name of
the author, and when Octavius says he can’t tell ’em because he don’t
know, they get--well, they get _ratty_! I believe Octavius would give
his ears to know the name of the author. He has offered to double my
screw if I will tell him. And every paper in London pesters us to death
for your photograph and a few details concerning your life.”
“And--and the persons in the street, do you think they read with
knowledge?”
“I am sure they do. As I went round the corner to get my lunch to-day I
saw two chaps with copies of it under their arms.”
“And--and in what manner do they express themselves concerning it? Do
you suppose they understand? Do you suppose these poor purblind ones
accept the ampler interpretation of human destiny?”
“Of course they do, old boy--that is as well as they can. I don’t
know much about literature myself, but some of the reviews that are
coming out in the highest quarters are enough to make you dizzy.
They--they say this--this poem of yours, old boy, is going--is going to
rev-revolutionize thought and--and philosophy and--and everything else.”
“My friend,” said the dying man softly, “I would have you bring me the
words of one among these poor street-persons; and the aged man, my
father, shall read them to me; and then--and then I shall ask no more.”
The face of Dodson was the colour of snow. His eyes were full of
despair.
“Very well, old boy,” he stammered, “I--I will bring you one of these
reviews--and--and you shall hear for yourself what they think about
this marvellous work of yours.”
“Bring it to-morrow evening at eight o’clock,” said the poet in a voice
that could hardly be heard. “I will wait until then.”
“I will not fail,” promised his friend.
As Dodson burst out of the shop in a paroxysm of wild despair, he
prayed that when he came on the morrow, this mighty spirit which
contended with death should have yielded already.