It was at most true that he had acquired a set of artificially precise

habits to which he clung most tenaciously, and which certainly

harmonised with the natural appearance of neatness that had formerly

been his despair. Why he had taken so much trouble to become orderly

was his own business. Possibly he had got tired of that state of life

in which it is impossible to find anything in less than half an hour

when one wants it in half a minute. At all events, he had taken pains

to acquire orderliness, and, for reasons which will appear hereafter,

it is worth while to note the fact.

When everything was arranged to his satisfaction, he sat down in the

most comfortable chair in the room, filled another of the three wooden

pipes that now lay side by side on the writing-table, and continued to

smoke as if his welfare depended on consuming a certain quantity of

tobacco in a given time. He must have had a sound heart and a strong

head, for he did not desist from his occupation for many hours, though

he had not eaten anything particular at breakfast, at Mrs. Rushmore's,

and nothing at all since.

The afternoon was wearing on when he knocked the ashes out of his pipe

very carefully, laid it in its place, rose from his seat and uttered a

single profane ejaculation.

'Damn!' Having said this, he said no more, for indeed, if taken literally,

there could be nothing more to be said. The malediction, however, was

directed against nothing particular, and certainly against no person

living or dead; it only applied to the aggregate of the awkward

circumstances in which he found himself, and as he was alone he felt

quite sure of not being misunderstood.

He did not even take a servant with him when he travelled, though he

had an excellent Scotchman for a valet, who could do a great variety of

useful things, besides holding his tongue, which is one of the finest

qualities in the world, in man or dog. And he also had a dog in London,

a particularly rough Irish terrier called Tim; but as Tim would have

been quarantined every time he came home it was practically impossible

to bring him to the Continent. It will be seen, therefore, that

Lushington was really quite alone in the quiet hotel in the Rue des

Saints Pères.

He might have had company enough if he had wanted it, for he knew many

men of letters in Paris and was himself known to them, which is another

thing. They liked him, too, in their own peculiar way of liking their

foreign colleagues. Most of them, without affectation and in perfect

good faith, are convinced that there never was, is not, and never can

be any literature equal to the French except that of Edgar Poe; but

they feel that it would be rude and tactless of them to let us know

that they think so. They are the most agreeable men in the world, as a

whole, and considering what they really think of us--rightly or

wrongly, but honestly--the courtesy and consideration they show us are

worthy of true gentlemen. The most modest among ourselves seem a little

arrogant and self-asserting in comparison with them. They praise us,

sometimes, and not faintly either; but their criticism of us compares

us with each other, not with them. The very highest eulogy they can

bestow on anything we do is to say that it is 'truly French,' but they

never quite believe it and they cannot understand why that is perhaps

the very compliment that pleases us least, though we may have the

greatest admiration for their national genius. With all our vanity,

should we ever expect to please a French writer by telling him that his

work was 'truly English'?




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