Also it is wise not to believe everything you hear, not immediately to carry to the ears of others what you have either heard or believed.THOMAS A KEMPIS.
Though I was read in silence at the breakfast table and not passed on to the Archdeacon, I lay dormant in Mrs.Selldon's mind all day, and came to her aid that night when she was at her wits' end for something to talk about.
Mrs.Selldon, though a most worthy and estimable person, was of a phlegmatic temperament; her sympathies were not easily aroused, her mind was lazy and torpid, in conversation she was unutterably dull.There were times when she was painfully conscious of this, and would have given much for the ceaseless flow of words which fell from the lips of her friend Mrs.Milton-Cleave.And that evening after my arrival chanced to be one of these occasions, for there was a dinner-party at the Archdeaconry, given in honour of a well-known author who was spending a few days in the neighbourhood.
"I wish you could have Mr.Shrewsbury at your end of the table, Thomas," Mrs.Selldon had remarked to her husband with a sigh, as she was arranging the guests on paper that afternoon.
"Oh, he must certainly take you in, my dear," said the Archdeacon."And he seems a very clever, well-read man, I am sure you will find him easy to talk to."Poor Mrs.Selldon thought that she would rather have had some one who was neither clever nor well-read.But there was no help for her, and, whether she would or not, she had to go in to dinner with the literary lion.
Mr.Mark Shrewsbury was a novelist of great ability.Some twenty years before, he had been called to the bar, and, conscious of real talent, had been greatly embittered by the impossibility of getting on in his profession.At length, in disgust, he gave up all hopes of success and devoted himself instead to literature.In this field he won the recognition for which he craved; his books were read everywhere, his name became famous, his income steadily increased, and he had the pleasantconsciousness that he had found his vocation.Still, in spite of his success, he could not forget the bitter years of failure and disappointment which had gone before, and though his novels were full of genius they were pervaded by an undertone of sarca**, so that people after reading them were more ready than before to take cynical views of life.
He was one of those men whose quiet impassive faces reveal scarcely anything of their character.He was neither tall nor short, neither dark nor fair, neither handsome nor the reverse; in fact his personality was not in the least impressive; while, like most true artists, he observed all things so quietly that you rarely discovered that he was observing at all.
"Dear me!" people would say, "Is Mark Shrewsbury really here? Which is he? I don't see any one at all like my idea of a novelist.""There he is--that man in spectacles," would be the reply.
And really the spectacles were the only noteworthy thing about him.
Mrs.Selldon, who had seen several authors and authoresses in her time, and knew that they were as a rule most ordinary, hum-drum kind of people, was quite prepared for her fate.She remembered her astonishment as a girl when, having laughed and cried at the play, and taken the chief actor as her ideal hero, she had had him pointed out to her one day in Regent Street, and found him to be a most commonplace- looking man, the very last person one would have supposed capable of stirring the hearts of a great audience.
Meanwhile dinner progressed, and Mrs.Selldon talked to an empty- headed but loquacious man on her left, and racked her brains for something to say to the alarmingly silent author on her right.She remembered hearing that Charles Dickens would often sit silent through the whole of dinner, observing quietly those about him, but that at dessert he would suddenly come to life and keep the whole table in roars of laughter.She feared that Mr.Shrewsbury meant to imitate the great novelist in the first particular, but was scarcely likely to follow his example in the last.At length she asked him what he thought of the cathedral, and a few tepid remarks followed.
"How unutterably this good lady bores me!" thought the author.
"How odd it is that his characters talk so well in his books, and that heis such a stick!" thought Mrs.Selldon.
"I suppose it's the effect of cathedral-town atmosphere," reflected the author.
"I suppose he is eaten up with conceit and won't trouble himself to talk to me," thought the hostess.
By the time the fish had been removed they had arrived at a state of mutual contempt.Mindful of the reputation they had to keep up, however, they exerted themselves a little more while the entrees went round.
"Seldom reads, I should fancy, and never thinks!" reflected the author, glancing at Mrs.Selldon's placid unintellectual face."What on earth can I say to her?""Very unpractical, I am sure," reflected Mrs.Selldon."The sort of man who lives in a world of his own, and only lays down his pen to take up a book.What subject shall I start?""What delightful weather we have been having the last few days!" observed the author."Real genuine summer weather at last." The same remark had been trembling on Mrs.Selldon's lips.She assented with great cheerfulness and alacrity; and over that invaluable topic, which is always so safe, and so congenial, and so ready to hand, they grew quite friendly, and the conversation for fully five minutes was animated.
An interval of thought followed.
