The Death of the Lion. Генри ДжеймсЧитать онлайн книгу.

      CHAPTER I

      I had simply, I suppose, a change of heart, and it must have begun when I received my manuscript back from Mr. Pinhorn.  Mr. Pinhorn was my “chief,” as he was called in the office: he had the high mission of bringing the paper up.  This was a weekly periodical, which had been supposed to be almost past redemption when he took hold of it.  It was Mr. Deedy who had let the thing down so dreadfully: he was never mentioned in the office now save in connexion with that misdemeanour.  Young as I was I had been in a manner taken over from Mr. Deedy, who had been owner as well as editor; forming part of a promiscuous lot, mainly plant and office-furniture, which poor Mrs. Deedy, in her bereavement and depression, parted with at a rough valuation.  I could account for my continuity but on the supposition that I had been cheap.  I rather resented the practice of fathering all flatness on my late protector, who was in his unhonoured grave; but as I had my way to make I found matter enough for complacency in being on a “staff.”  At the same time I was aware of my exposure to suspicion as a product of the old lowering system.  This made me feel I was doubly bound to have ideas, and had doubtless been at the bottom of my proposing to Mr. Pinhorn that I should lay my lean hands on Neil Paraday.  I remember how he looked at me—quite, to begin with, as if he had never heard of this celebrity, who indeed at that moment was by no means in the centre of the heavens; and even when I had knowingly explained he expressed but little confidence in the demand for any such stuff.  When I had reminded him that the great principle on which we were supposed to work was just to create the demand we required, he considered a moment and then returned: “I see—you want to write him up.”

      “Call it that if you like.”

      “And what’s your inducement?”

      “Bless my soul—my admiration!”

      Mr. Pinhorn pursed up his mouth.  “Is there much to be done with him?”

      “Whatever there is we should have it all to ourselves, for he hasn’t been touched.”

      This argument was effective and Mr. Pinhorn responded.  “Very well, touch him.”  Then he added: “But where can you do it?”

      “Under the fifth rib!”

      Mr. Pinhorn stared.  “Where’s that?”

      “You want me to go down and see him?” I asked when I had enjoyed his visible search for the obscure suburb I seemed to have named.

      “I don’t ‘want’ anything—the proposal’s your own.  But you must remember that that’s the way we do things now,” said Mr. Pinhorn with another dig Mr. Deedy.

      Unregenerate as I was I could read the queer implications of this speech.  The present owner’s superior virtue as well as his deeper craft spoke in his reference to the late editor as one of that baser sort who deal in false representations.  Mr. Deedy would as soon have sent me to call on Neil Paraday as he would have published a “holiday-number”; but such scruples presented themselves as mere ignoble thrift to his successor, whose own sincerity took the form of ringing door-bells and whose definition of genius was the art of finding people at home.  It was as if Mr. Deedy had published reports without his young men’s having, as Pinhorn would have said, really been there.  I was unregenerate, as I have hinted, and couldn’t be concerned to straighten out the journalistic morals of my chief, feeling them indeed to be an abyss over the edge of which it was better not to peer.  Really to be there this time moreover was a vision that made the idea of writing something subtle about Neil Paraday only the more inspiring.  I would be as considerate as even Mr. Deedy could have wished, and yet I should be as present as only Mr. Pinhorn could conceive.  My allusion to the sequestered manner in which Mr. Paraday lived—it had formed part of my explanation, though I knew of it only by hearsay—was, I could divine, very much what had made Mr. Pinhorn nibble.  It struck him as inconsistent with the success of his paper that any one should be so sequestered as that.  And then wasn’t an immediate exposure of everything just what the public wanted?  Mr. Pinhorn effectually called me to order by reminding me of the promptness with which I had met Miss Braby at Liverpool on her return from her fiasco in the States.  Hadn’t we published, while its freshness and flavour were unimpaired, Miss Braby’s own version of that great international episode?  I felt somewhat uneasy at this lumping of the actress and the author, and I confess that after having enlisted Mr. Pinhorn’s sympathies I procrastinated a little.  I had succeeded better than I wished, and I had, as it happened, work nearer at hand.  A few days later I called on Lord Crouchley and carried off in triumph the most unintelligible statement that had yet appeared of his lordship’s reasons for his change of front.  I thus set in motion in the daily papers columns of virtuous verbiage.  The following week I ran down to Brighton for a chat, as Mr. Pinhorn called it, with Mrs. Bounder, who gave me, on the subject of her divorce, many curious particulars that had not been articulated in court.  If ever an article flowed from the primal fount it was that article on Mrs. Bounder.  By this time, however, I became aware that Neil Paraday’s new book was on the point of appearing and that its approach had been the ground of my original appeal to Mr. Pinhorn, who was now annoyed with me for having lost so many days.  He bundled me off—we would at least not lose another.  I’ve always thought his sudden alertness a remarkable example of the journalistic instinct.  Nothing had occurred, since I first spoke to him, to create a visible urgency, and no enlightenment could possibly have reached him.  It was a pure case of profession flair—he had smelt the coming glory as an animal smells its distant prey.

      CHAPTER II

      I may as well say at once that this little record pretends in no degree to be a picture either of my introduction to Mr. Paraday or of certain proximate steps and stages.  The scheme of my narrative allows no space for these things, and in any case a prohibitory sentiment would hang about my recollection of so rare an hour.  These meagre notes are essentially private, so that if they see the light the insidious forces that, as my story itself shows, make at present for publicity will simply have overmastered my precautions.  The curtain fell lately enough on the lamentable drama.  My memory of the day I alighted at Mr. Paraday’s door is a fresh memory of kindness, hospitality, compassion, and of the wonderful illuminating talk in which the welcome was conveyed.  Some voice of the air had taught me the right moment, the moment of his life at which an act of unexpected young allegiance might most come home to him.  He had recently recovered from a long, grave illness.  I had gone to the neighbouring inn for the night, but I spent the evening in his company, and he insisted the next day on my sleeping under his roof.  I hadn’t an indefinite leave: Mr. Pinhorn supposed us to put our victims through on the gallop.  It was later, in the office, that the rude motions of the jig were set to music.  I fortified myself, however, as my training had taught me to do, by the conviction that nothing could be more advantageous for my article than to be written in the very atmosphere.  I said nothing to Mr. Paraday about it, but in the morning, after my remove from the inn, while he was occupied in his study, as he had notified me he should need to be, I committed to paper the main heads of my impression.  Then thinking to commend myself to Mr. Pinhorn by my celerity, I walked out and posted my little packet before luncheon.  Once my paper was written I was free to stay on, and if it was calculated to divert attention from my levity in so doing I could reflect with satisfaction that I had never been so clever.  I don’t mean to deny of course that I was aware it was much too good for Mr. Pinhorn; but I was equally conscious that Mr. Pinhorn had the supreme shrewdness of recognising from time to time the cases in which an article was not too bad only because it was too good.  There was nothing he loved so much as to print on the right occasion a thing he hated.  I had begun my visit to the great man on a Monday, and on the Wednesday his book came out.  A copy of it arrived by the first post, and he let me go out into the garden with it immediately after breakfast, I read it from beginning to end that day, and in the evening he asked me to remain with him the rest of the week and over the Sunday.

      That night my manuscript came back from Mr. Pinhorn, accompanied with a letter the gist of which was the desire to know what I meant by trying to fob off on him such stuff.  That was the meaning of the question, if not exactly its form, and it made my mistake immense to me.  Such as this mistake was I could now only look it in the face and accept it.  I knew where I had failed, but it was exactly where I couldn’t have succeeded.  I had been sent down to be personal and then in point of fact hadn’t been personal at all: what