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A GREAT MAN
A FROLIC
BY
ARNOLD BENNETT
AUTHOR OF
'THE GRAND BABYLON HOTEL,' 'ANNA OF THE FIVE TOWNS,'
'LEONORA,' ETC.
[Illustration]
LONDON
CHATTO & WINDUS
1904
TO
MY DEAR FRIEND
FREDERICK MARRIOTT
AND TO
THE IMPERISHABLE MEMORY
OF
OLD TIMES
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. HIS BIRTH 1
II. TOM 8
III. HIS CHRISTENING 17
IV. AGED TWELVE 26
V. MARRONS GLACES 36
VI. A CALAMITY FOR THE SCHOOL 49
VII. CONTAGIOUS 58
VIII. CREATIVE 72
IX. SPRING ONIONS 85
X. MARK SNYDER 95
XI. SATIN 105
XII. HIS FAME 117
XIII. A LION IN HIS LAIR 135
XIV. HER NAME WAS GERALDINE 148
XV. HIS TERRIBLE QUANDARY 161
XVI. DURING THE TEA-MEETING 169
XVII. A NOVELIST IN A BOX 181
XVIII. HIS JACK-HORNERISM 195
XIX. HE JUSTIFIES HIS FATHER 201
XX. PRESS AND PUBLIC 215
XXI. PLAYING THE NEW GAME 226
XXII. HE LEARNS MORE ABOUT WOMEN 239
XXIII. SEPARATION 249
XXIV. COSETTE 256
XXV. THE RAKE'S PROGRESS 273
XXVI. THE NEW LIFE 289
XXVII. HE IS NOT NERVOUS 308
XXVIII. HE SHORTENS HIS NAME 325
XXIX. THE PRESIDENT 337
A GREAT MAN
CHAPTER I
HIS BIRTH
On an evening in 1866 (exactly eight hundred years after the Battle of
Hastings) Mr. Henry Knight, a draper's manager, aged forty, dark,
clean-shaven, short, but not stout, sat in his sitting-room on the
second-floor over the shop which he managed in Oxford Street, London. He
was proud of that sitting-room, which represented the achievement of an
ideal, and he had a right to be proud of it. The rich green wall-paper
covered with peonies in full bloom (poisoning by arsenical wall-paper
had not yet been invented, or Mr. Knight's peonies would certainly have
had to flourish over a different hue) matched the magenta table-cloth of
the table at which Mr. Knight was writing, and the magenta table-cloth
matched the yellow roses which grew to more than exhibition size on the
Axminster carpet; and the fine elaborate effect thus produced was in no
way impaired, but rather enhanced and invigorated, by the mahogany
bookcase full of imperishable printed matter, the horsehair sofa netted
in a system of antimacassars, the waxen flowers in their glassy domes on
the marble mantelpiece, the Canterbury with its spiral columns, the
rosewood harmonium, and the posse of chintz-protected chairs. Mr.
Knight, who was a sincere and upright man, saw beauty in this apartment.
It uplifted his soul, like soft music in the gloaming, or a woman's
face.
Mr. Knight was writing in a large book. He paused in the act of
composition, and, putting the pen between his teeth, glanced through the
pages of the volume. They were filled with the drafts of letters which
he had addressed during the previous seven years to the editors of
various newspapers, including the _Times_, and several other organs
great then but now extinct. In a space underneath each letter had been
neatly gummed the printed copy, but here and there a letter lacked this
certificate of success, for Mr. Knight did not always contrive to reach
his public. The letters were signed with pseudonyms, such as A British
Citizen, Fiat Justitia, Audi Alteram Partem, Indignant, Disgusted, One
Who Knows, One Who Would Like to Know, Ratepayer, Taxpayer, Puzzled, and
Pro Bono Publico--especially Pro Bono Publico. Two letters, to a trade
periodical, were signed A Draper's Manager of Ten Years' Standing, and
one, to the _Clerkenwell News_, bore his own real name.
The letter upon which he was now engaged was numbered seventy-five in
the series, and made its appeal to the editor of the _Standard_. Having
found inspiration, Mr. Knight proceeded, in a hand distinguished by many
fine flourishes:
' ... It is true that last year we only paid off some four
millions, but the year before we paid, I am thankful to say, more
than nine millions. Why, then, this outcry against the allocation
of somewhat less than nine millions out of our vast national
revenue towards the further extinction of the National Debt? _It is
not the duty of the State, as well as of the individual, to pay its
debts?_ In order to support the argument with which I began this
communication, perhaps you will permit me, sir, to briefly outline
the history of the National Debt, our national shame. In 1688 the
National Debt was little more than six hundred thousand pounds....'
After briefly outlining the history of the National Debt, Mr. Knight
began a new paragraph thus:
'In the immortal words of Shakspere, wh----'
But at this point he was interrupted. A young and pleasant woman in a
white apron pushed open the door.
'Henry,' she called from the doorway.
'Well?'
'You'd better go now.'
'Very well, Annie; I'll go instantly.'
He dropped the pen, reduced the gas to a speck of blue, and in half a
minute was hurrying along Oxford Street. The hour was ten o'clock, and
the month was July; the evening favoured romance. He turned into Bury
Street, and knocked like fate at a front-door with a brass tablet on it,
No. 8 of the street.
'No, sir. He isn't in at the moment, sir,' said the maid who answered
Mr. Knight's imperious summons.
'Not in!' exclaimed Mr. Knight.
'No, sir. He was called away half an hour ago or hardly, and may be out
till very late.'
'Called away!' exclaimed Mr. Knight. He was astounded, shocked, pained.
'But I warned him three months ago!'
'Did you, sir? Is it anything very urgent, sir?'
'It's----' Mr. Knight hesitated, blushing. The girl looked so young and
innocent.
'Because if it is, master left word that anyone was to go to Dr.
Christopher's, 22, Argyll Street.'
'You will be sure to tell your master that I came,' said Mr. Knight
frigidly, departing.
At 22, Argyll Street he was informed that Dr. Christopher had likewise
been called away, and had left a recommendation that urgent cases, if
any, should apply to Dr. Quain Short, 15, Bury Street. His anger was
naturally increased by the absence of this second doctor, but it was far
more increased by the fact that Dr. Quain Short happened to live in Bury
Street. At that moment the enigma of the universe was wrapped up for him
in the question, Why should he have been compelled to walk all the way
from Bury Street to Argyll Street merely in order to walk all the way
back again? And he became a trinity consisting of Disgusted, Indignant,
and One Who Would Like to Know, the middle term predominating. When he
discovered that No. 15, Bury Street, was exactly opposite No. 8, Bury
Street, his feelings were such as break bell-wires.
'Dr. Quain Short is at the Alhambra Theatre this evening with the
family,' a middle-aged and formidable housekeeper announced in reply to
Mr. Knight's query. 'In case of urgency he is to be fetched. His box is
No. 3.'
'The Alhambra Theatre! Where is that?' gasped Mr. Knight.
It should be explained that he held the stage in abhorrence, and,
further, that the Alhambra had then only been opened for a very brief
period.
'Two out, and the third at the theatre!' Mr. Knight mused grimly,
hastening through Seven Dials. 'At the theatre, of all places!'
A letter to the _Times_ about the medical profession was just shaping
itself in his mind as he arrived at the Alhambra and saw that a piece
entitled _King Carrot_ filled the bill.
'_King Karrot!_' he muttered scornfully, emphasizing the dangerously
explosive consonants in a manner which expressed with complete adequacy,
not only his indignation against the entire medical profession, but his
utter and profound contempt for the fatuities of the modern stage.
The politeness of the officials and the prompt appearance of Dr. Quain
Short did something to mollify the draper's manager of ten years'
standing, though he was not pleased when the doctor insisted on going
first to his surgery for certain requisites. It was half-past eleven
when he returned home; Dr. Quain Short was supposed to be hard behind.
'How long you've been!' said a voice on the second flight of stairs,
'It's all over. A boy. And dear Susan is doing splendidly. Mrs.
Puddiphatt says she never saw such a----'
From the attic floor came the sound of a child crying shrilly and
lustily:
'Aunt Annie! Aunt Annie! Aunt _Annie_!'
'Run up and quieten him!' Mr. Knight commanded. 'It's like him to begin
making a noise just now. I'll take a look at Susan--and my firstborn.'