which she had not visited, and a new novel, of which she had vaguely heard. I tried in vain to infuse some life into the conversation. I don’t believe she is interested in anything. She even spoke lukewarmly of Farm Street.
I pity her intensely. She is thin, thirty, colourless, bosomless. I should say she was passionless—a predestined spinster. She has never drunk hot tea or lived in the sun or laughed a hearty laugh. I remember once, at my wit’s end for talk, telling her the old story of Theodore Hook accosting a pompous stranger on the street with the polite request that he might know whether he was anybody in particular. She said, without a smile, “Yes, it was astonishing how rude some people could be.”
And her godfathers and godmothers gave her the name of Rosalie. Mine might just as well have called me Hercules or Puck.
She told me that her mother intended to ask me to dine with them one evening next week. When was I free? I chose Thursday. Oddly enough I enjoy dining there, although we are on the most formal terms, not having got beyond the “Sir Marcus” and “Mrs. Ordeyne.” But both mother and daughter are finely bred gentlewomen, and one meets few, oh, very, very few among the ladies of to-day.
I reached home about six and found a telegram awaiting me.
“Sorry can’t give you dinner. Cook in an impossible condition. Come later. Judith.”
I must confess to a sigh of relief. I am fond of Judith and sorry for her domestic infelicities, though why she should maintain that alcoholized wretch in her kitchen passes my comprehension. If there is one thing women do not understand it is the selection, the ordering, and the treatment of domestic servants. The mere man manages much better. But, that aside, Antoinette has spoiled me for Judith’s cook’s cookery. I breathed a little sigh of content and summoned Stenson to inform him that I would dine at home.
A great package of books from a second-hand bookseller arrived during dinner. Among them were the nine volumes of Pietro Gianone’s Istoria Civile del Regno di Napoli, a copy of which I ought to have possessed long ago. It is dedicated to the “Most Puissant and Felicitous Prince Charles VI, the Great, by God crowned Emperor of the Romans, King of Germany, Spain, Naples, Hungary, Bohemia, Sicily, etcetera.” Is there a living soul in God’s universe who has a spark of admiration for this most puissant and most felicitous monarch crowned by God Emperor and King of the greater part of Europe (and docked of most of his pretensions by the Treaty of Utrecht)? We only remember the forcible-feeble person by his Pragmatic Sanction, and otherwise his personality has left in history not the remotest trace. And yet, on the 12th February, 1723, a profoundly erudite, subtle, and picturesque historian grovels before the man and subscribes himself “Of your Holy Caesarean and Catholic Majesty the most humble and most devoted and most obsequious vassal and slave Pietro Gianone.” What ruthless judgments posterity passes on once enormous reputations! In Gianone’s admirable introduction we hear of “il celebre Arthur Duck, il quale oltro a’ con confini della sua Inghilterra volle in altri a piu lontani Paesi andav rintracciando l’uso a l’autorita delle romane leggi ne’ nuovi domini de’ Principi cristiani; e di quelle di ciascheduna Nazione volle ancora aver conto: le ricerco nella vicina Scozia, e nell’ Ibernia; trapasso nella Francia, e nella Spagna; in Germania, in Italia, a nel nostro Regno ancora: si stese in oltre in Polonia, Boemia, in Ungheria, Danimarca, nella Svezia, ed in piu remote parti.” A devil of a fellow this celebrated English Arthur Duck, who besides writing a learned treatise De Usu et Auth. Jur. Civ. Rom. in Dominiis Principum Christianorum, was a knight, a member of Parliament, chancellor of the diocese of London, and a master in chancery. Gianone flattens himself out for a couple of pages before this prodigy whom he lovingly calls Ariuro, as who should say Raffaelo or Giordano; and now, where in the hearts of men lingers Sir Arthur Duck? For one thing he had a bad name. Our English sense of humour revolts from making a popular hero of a man called Duck. Yet we made one of Drake. But there was something masculine about the latter: in fact, everything.
I am afraid it was rather late when I got to Judith.
CHAPTER II
May 22d.
I wonder whether I should be happier now if I had lived in a garret “in the brave days when I was twenty-one,” if I had undergone the lessons of misery with the attendant compensations of “une folle maitresse, de francs amis et l’amour des chansons,” and had joyous-heartedly mounted my six flights of stairs. I lived modestly, it is true; but never for a moment was I doubtful as to my next meal, and I have always enjoyed the creature comforts of the respectable classes; never did Lisette pin her shawl curtain-wise across my window. Sometimes, nowadays, I almost wish she had. I never dreamed of glory, love, pleasure, madness, or spent my lifetime in a moment, like the singer of the immortal song. Often the weary moments seemed a lifetime.
And now that I am forty, “it is too late a week.” Boon companions, of whom I am thankful to say I have none, would drive me crazy with their intolerable heartiness. I once spent an evening at the Savage Club. As for the folle maitresse—as a concomitant of my existence she transcends imagination.
“What are you thinking of?” asked Judith.
“I was thinking how the ‘Dans un grenier qu’on est bien a vingt ans’’ principle would have worked in my own case,” I answered truthfully, for the above reflections had been Passing through my mind.
Judith laughed.
“You in a garret? Why, you haven’t got a temperament!”
I suppose I haven’t. It never occurred to me before. Beranger omitted that from his list of attendant compensations.
“That’s the difference between us,” she added, after a pause. “I have a temperament and you haven’t.”
“I hope you find it a great comfort.”
“It is ten times more uncomfortable than a conscience. It is the bane of one’s existence.”
“Why be so proud of having it?”
“You wouldn’t understand if I told you,” said Judith.
I rose and walked to the window and gazed meditatively at the rain which swept the uninspiring little street. Judith lives in Tottenham Mansions, in the purlieus of the Tottenham Court Road. The ground floor of the building is a public-house, and on summer evenings one can sit by the open windows, and breathe in the health-giving fumes of beer and whisky, and listen to the sweet, tuneless strains of itinerant musicians. When my new fortunes enabled me to give the dear woman just the little help that allowed her to move into a more commodious flat, she had the many mansions of London to choose from. Why she insisted on this abominable locality I could never understand. It isn’t as if the flat were particularly cheap; indeed the fact of its being situated over a public-house seems to enhance the rent. She said she liked the shape of the knocker and the pattern of the bathroom taps. I dimly perceive that it must have had something to do with the temperament.
“It always seems to rain when we propose an outing together. This is the fourth time since Easter,” I remarked.
We had planned a sedate country jaunt, but as the day was pouring wet we remained at home.
“Perhaps this is the way the bon Dieu has of expressing his disapproval of us,” said Judith.
“Why
