Part 14 (1/2)
The diarist was one of Keith's favourite authors. He called him a representative Englishman and regretted that the type was becoming extinct. Eames would reply:
”Your Pepys was a disgusting climber. He makes me ill with his sn.o.bbishness and silver plate and monthly gloatings over his gains. I wonder you can read the man. He may have been a capable official, but he was not a gentleman.”
”Have you ever seen a gentleman, except on a tailor's fas.h.i.+on-plate?”
”Yes. One, at all events; my father. However, we won't labour that point; we have discussed it before, haven't we? Your money would sweeten nothing for me. It would procure me neither health of body nor peace of mind. Thanks all the same.”
Mr. Keith, true to his ancestral tenacity, was not easily put off. He would begin again:
”George Gissing was a scholar and a man of refinement, like yourself.
You know what he says? 'Put money in thy purse, for to lack the current coin of the realm is to lack the privileges of humanity.' The privileges of humanity: you understand, Eames?”
”Does he say that? Well, I am not surprised. I have sometimes noticed gross, unhealthy streaks in Gissing.”
”I will tell you what is unhealthy, Eames. Your own state of mind. You derive a morbid pleasure from denying yourself the common emoluments of life. It's a form of self-indulgence. I wish you would open your windows and let the sun in. You are living by candlelight. If you a.n.a.lysed yourself closely--”
”I don't a.n.a.lyse myself closely. I call it a mistake. I try to see soberly. I try to think logically. I try to live becomingly.”
”I am glad you don't always succeed,” Keith would reply, with a horrible accent on the word ”always.” ”Heaven s.h.i.+eld me from a clean-minded man!”
”We have touched on that subject once or twice already, have we not?
Your arguments will never entangle me, though I think I can be fair to them. Money enables you to multiply your sensations--to travel about, and so forth. In doing so, you multiply your personality, as it were; you lengthen your days, figuratively speaking; you come in contact with more diversified aspects of life than a person of my limited means can afford to do. The body, you say, is a subtle instrument to be played upon in every variety of manner and rendered above all things as sensitive as possible to pleasurable impressions. In fact, you want to be a kind of Aeolian harp. I admit that this is more than a string of sophisms; you may call it a philosophy of life. But it is not my philosophy. It does not appeal to me in the least. You will get no satisfaction out of me, Keith, with your hedonism. You are up against a brick wall. You speak of my deliberately closing up avenues of pleasure. They ought to be closed up, I say, if a man is to respect himself. I do not call my body a subtle instrument; I call it a d.a.m.ned nuisance. I don't want to be an Aeolian harp. I don't want my sensations multiplied; I don't want my personality extended; I don't want my outlook widened; I don't want money; I don't want aspects of life. I'm positive, I'm literal. I know exactly what I want. I want to concern myself with what lies under my hand. I want to be allowed to get on with my work. I want to bring old Perrelli up to date.”
”My dear fellow! We all love you for that. And I am delighted to think you are not really clean-minded, in spite of all these lofty protestations. Because you aren't, are you?”
If, after such discourse, the bibliographer still remained mulishly clean-minded, Keith would return to the psychological necessity of ”appropriate reaction” and cite an endless list of sovereigns, popes, and other heroes who, in their moments of leisure, were wise enough to react against the persistent strain of purity. Then, via Alexander of Macedon, ”one of the greatest sons of earth,” as Bishop Thirlwall had called him--Alexander, with whose deplorable capacity for ”unbending” a scholar like Eames was perfectly familiar--he would switch the conversation into realms of military science, and begin to expatiate upon the wonderful advance which has been made since those days in the arts of defensive and offensive warfare--the decline of the phalanx, the rise of artillery, the changed system of fortifications, those modern inventions in the department of land defences, sea defences and, above all, aerial defences, parachutes, hydroplanes....
Whereupon a curious change would creep over the bibliographer's honest face. He knew what this talk portended. His features would a.s.sume an air of strained but polite attention, and he generally broke off the conversation and took his departure at the earliest moment consistent with ordinary civility. On such occasions he was wont to think his friend Keith an offensive cad. Sadly shaking his head, he would say to himself:
”NIHIL QUOD TETIGIT NON INQUINAVIT.”
CHAPTER X
Mr. Keith was apt to be a bore, but he could do things properly when he wanted, as for example on the occasion of his annual bean-feast. There were no two opinions about that. The trees, arbours, and winding ways of his garden were festooned that evening with hundreds of Chinese lamps whose multi-coloured light mingled pleasantly with the purer radiance of the moon, s.h.i.+ning directly overhead. It was like fairyland, the d.u.c.h.ess was wont to declare, year after year. And Don Francesco who, on this particular night, clung closely to her skirts in view of that impending conversion to the Roman Church, replied laughingly:
”If fairyland is anything like this, I would not object to living there. Provided always, dear lady, that you are to be found somewhere on the premises. What do you say, Mr. Heard?”
”I will gladly join your party, if you will allow me,” replied the bishop. ”This aspic could not be better. It seems to open up a new world of delights. Dear me. I fear I am becoming a gourmand, like Lucullus. Though Lucullus, to be sure, was a temperate man. No, thank you, Don Francesco; not a drop more! My liver, you know. I declare it's making me feel quite dizzy.”
As Marten had foretold, the wine flowed in torrents. There was a bewildering display of cool dishes, too, prepared under the personal supervision of the chef--that celebrated artist whom Keith had inveigled out of the service of a life-loving old Amba.s.sador by the threat of disclosing to the police some hideously disreputable action in the man's past life which His Excellently had artlessly confided to him, under the seal of secrecy.
Mr. Samuel, a commercial gentleman who had got stuck somehow or other at the Alpha and Omega Club, cast a practised eye over the wines, chaud-froids, fruits, salads, ices, the lanterns and other joys of the evening and announced, after a rough computation, that Keith's outlay for that little show must have run well into three figures. Mr. White agreed, adding that it did one good to get a mouthful of drinkable fizz after Parker's poison.
”Ah, but you ought to try the punch.”
”Come on then,” said White.