back； he was the reporter on canvas； the Vandyke up to date； and
there was one roaring year in which Mrs。 Bounder and Miss Braby；
Guy Walsingham and Dora Forbes proclaimed in chorus from the same
pictured walls that no one had yet got ahead of him。
Paraday had been promptly caught and saddled； accepting with
characteristic good…humour his confidential hint that to figure in
his show was not so much a consequence as a cause of immortality。
From Mrs。 Wimbush to the last 〃representative〃 who called to
ascertain his twelve favourite dishes； it was the same ingenuous
assumption that he would rejoice in the repercussion。 There were
moments when I fancied I might have had more patience with them if
they hadn't been so fatally benevolent。 I hated at all events Mr。
Rumble's picture； and had my bottled resentment ready when； later
on； I found my distracted friend had been stuffed by Mrs。 Wimbush
into the mouth of another cannon。 A young artist in whom she was
intensely interested； and who had no connexion with Mr。 Rumble； was
to show how far he could make him go。 Poor Paraday； in return； was
naturally to write something somewhere about the young artist。 She
played her victims against each other with admirable ingenuity； and
her establishment was a huge machine in which the tiniest and the
biggest wheels went round to the same treadle。 I had a scene with
her in which I tried to express that the function of such a man was
to exercise his genius … not to serve as a hoarding for pictorial
posters。 The people I was perhaps angriest with were the editors
of magazines who had introduced what they called new features； so
aware were they that the newest feature of all would be to make him
grind their axes by contributing his views on vital topics and
taking part in the periodical prattle about the future of fiction。
I made sure that before I should have done with him there would
scarcely be a current form of words left me to be sick of； but
meanwhile I could make surer still of my animosity to bustling
ladies for whom he drew the water that irrigated their social
flower…beds。
I had a battle with Mrs。 Wimbush over the artist she protected； and
another over the question of a certain week； at the end of July；
that Mr。 Paraday appeared to have contracted to spend with her in
the country。 I protested against this visit； I intimated that he
was too unwell for hospitality without a nuance； for caresses
without imagination； I begged he might rather take the time in some
restorative way。 A sultry air of promises； of ponderous parties；
hung over his August； and he would greatly profit by the interval
of rest。 He hadn't told me he was ill again that he had had a
warning； but I hadn't needed this； for I found his reticence his
worst symptom。 The only thing he said to me was that he believed a
comfortable attack of something or other would set him up： it
would put out of the question everything but the exemptions he
prized。 I'm afraid I shall have presented him as a martyr in a
very small cause if I fail to explain that he surrendered himself
much more liberally than I surrendered him。 He filled his lungs；
for the most part； with the comedy of his queer fate： the tragedy
was in the spectacles through which I chose to look。 He was
conscious of inconvenience； and above all of a great renouncement；
but how could he have heard a mere dirge in the bells of his
accession？ The sagacity and the jealousy were mine； and his the
impressions and the harvest。 Of course； as regards Mrs。 Wimbush； I
was worsted in my encounters； for wasn't the state of his health
the very reason for his coming to her at Prestidge？ Wasn't it
precisely at Prestidge that he was to be coddled； and wasn't the
dear Princess coming to help her to coddle him？ The dear Princess；
now on a visit to England； was of a famous foreign house； and； in
her gilded cage； with her retinue of keepers and feeders； was the
most expensive specimen in the good lady's collection。 I don't
think her august presence had had to do with Paraday's consenting
to go； but it's not impossible he had operated as a bait to the
illustrious stranger。 The party had been made up for him； Mrs。
Wimbush averred； and every one was counting on it； the dear
Princess most of all。 If he was well enough he was to read them
something absolutely fresh； and it was on that particular prospect
the Princess had set her heart。 She was so fond of genius in ANY
walk of life； and was so used to it and understood it so well： she
was the greatest of Mr。 Paraday's admirers； she devoured everything
he wrote。 And then he read like an angel。 Mrs。 Wimbush reminded
me that he had again and again given her； Mrs。 Wimbush； the
privilege of listening to him。
I looked at her a moment。 〃What has he read to you？〃 I crudely
enquired。
For a moment too she met my eyes； and for the fraction of a moment
she hesitated and coloured。 〃Oh all sorts of things！〃
I wondered if this were an imperfect recollection or only a perfect
fib； and she quite understood my unuttered comment on her measure
of such things。 But if she could forget Neil Paraday's beauties
she could of course forget my rudeness； and three days later she
invited me； by telegraph； to join the party at Prestidge。 This
time she might indeed have had a story about what I had given up to
be near the master。 I addressed from that fine residence several
communications to a young lady in London； a young lady whom； I
confess； I quitted with reluctance and whom the reminder of what
she herself could give up was required to make me quit at all。 It
adds to the gratitude I owe her on other grounds that she kindly
allows me to transcribe from my letters a few of the passages in
which that hateful sojourn is candidly commemorated。
CHAPTER IX。
〃I SUPPOSE I ought to enjoy the joke of what's going on here；〃 I
wrote； 〃but somehow it doesn't amuse me。 Pessimism on the contrary
possesses me and cynicism deeply engages。 I positively feel my own
flesh sore from the brass nails in Neil Paraday's social harness。
The house is full of people who like him； as they mention； awfully；
and with whom his talent for talking nonsense has prodigious
success。 I delight in his nonsense myself； why is it therefore
that I grudge these happy folk their artless satisfaction？ Mystery
of the human heart … abyss of the critical spirit！ Mrs。 Wimbush
thinks she can answer that question； and as my want of gaiety has
at last worn out her patience she has given me a glimpse of her
shrewd guess。 I'm made restless by the selfishness of the
insincere friend … I want to monopolise Paraday in order that he
may push me on。 To be intimate with him is a feather in my cap； it
gives me an importance that I couldn't naturally pretend to； and I
seek to deprive him of social refreshment because I fear that
meeting more disinterested people may enlighten him as to my real
motive。 All the disinterested people here are his particular
admirers and have been carefully selected as such。 There's
supposed to be a copy of his last book in the house； and in the
hall I come upon ladies； in attitudes； bending gracefully over the
first volume。 I discreetly avert my eyes； and when I next look
round the precarious joy has been superseded by the book of life。
There's a sociable circle or a confidential couple； and the
relinquished volume lies open on its face and as dropped under
extreme coercion。 Somebody else presently finds it and transfers
it； with its air of momentary desolation； to another piece of
furniture。 Every one's asking every one about it all day； and
every one's telling every one where they put it last。 I'm sure
it's rather smudgy about the twentieth page。 I've a strong
impression； too； that the second volume is lost … has been packed
in the bag of some departing guest； and yet everybody has the
impression that somebody else has read to the end。 You see
therefore that the beautiful book plays a great part in our
existence。 Why should I take the occasion of such distinguished
honours to say that I begin to see deeper into Gustave Flaubert's
doleful refrain about the hatred of literature？ I refer you again
to the perverse constitution of man。
〃The Princess is a massive lady with the organisation of an athlete
and the confusion of tongues of a valet de place。 She contrives to
commit herself extraordinarily little in a great many languages；
and is entertained and conversed with in detachments and relays；
like an institution which goes on from generation to generation or
a big building contracted for under a forfeit。 She can't have a
personal taste any more than； when her husband succeeds； she can
have a personal crown； and her opinion on any matter is rusty and
heavy and plain … made； in the night of ages； to last and be
transmitted。 I feel as if I ought to 'tip' some custode for my
glimpse of it。 She has been told everything in the world and has
never perceived anything； and the echoes of her education respond
awfully to the rash footfal