LV
Sometime during the forenoon of the following day the unprepossessing outline of an undersized young man with a short black bristling moustache, who wore a bowler hat, a pair of smart brown boots, and trim overcoat of blue melton cloth with a velvetcollar, might have been observed in conference with one of the stalwart custodians of the portals of a massive building in the purlieus of Bloomsbury. The young man, who was somewhat pale and rather excited in his manner, bore under his right arm a brown-paper parcel of not inconsiderable bulk.
“Can’t deal with it ’ere,” said the custodian of the portals, without any display of amiability that would have incurred the charge of excessive. “Better take it round to Mr. Tovey. First to the left, second to the right when you come to the top of the second flight of stairs.”
In the course of a few minutes the bearer of the brown-paper parcel had made his way into the presence of Mr. Tovey—a bald-headed and black-coated gentleman whose mien was one of determined and unalterable impassiveness.
Mr. Tovey viewed the bearer of the parcel, and particularly the parcel itself, with a polite disfavour, which, however, did not in any sense transcend the bounds indicated by an official courtesy.
“The English Museum Authorities,” said Mr. Tovey, as his visitor took the liberty of depositing the brown-paper parcel upon a table without seeking permission to do so, “the English Museum Authorities are not empowered to undertake the care of the written manuscripts or typescripts of living persons.”
“Yes, but you see,” said the bearer of the parcel anxiously, “but you see, the poor chap happens to be dying.”
“I am afraid, sir,” said Mr. Tovey, with a sympathy that was very nicely poised, “that even that unfortunate contingency is not sufficient to justify the Museum Authorities from breaking through their fixed rule. That rule is perfectly explicit; it cannot admit the manuscripts or typescripts of living persons.”
“Are there no exceptions?” said the bearer of the parcel.
“If exceptions there are,” said Mr. Tovey impressively, “and as I speak there are none I can call to mind, they would only be in favour of persons of such remarkable distinction that they would form no precedent.”
“That is all right, then,” said the bearer of the parcel with an air of relief, “because it happens that this is the work of the greatest poet in the world.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Tovey with a very well-bred air.
The bearer of the parcel repeated his assertion.
“Is not that a somewhat comprehensive claim to advance on behalf of a living person?” said Mr. Tovey, enunciating his words very delicately.
“Well, he seems to think so, at any rate,” said the bearer of the parcel, “and I suppose he ought to know.”
“Would you mind informing me of the name of this accomplished person?” said Mr. Tovey, with an effective combination of polite interest and equally polite deprecation.
“His name is to be kept a secret,” said the bearer of the parcel. “He doesn’t want it to be known.”
“I assume that his poems have been published?” said Mr. Tovey.
“Not yet,” said the bearer of the parcel; “but,” he added, with an air of weight that was not without its effect, “they are going to be published by Crumpett and Hawker on the twelfth of January.”
“Curious, curious,” said Mr. Tovey.
However, the announcement itself seemed in some measure to reassure this very courteous black-coated gentleman, since he requested the bearer of the parcel to untie the string that he might take a glance at the manuscript. This the young man proceeded to do; and it must be said that for one whose proud boast had once been that his self-possession was invincible, his heart began to beat with a preposterous violence, as soon as Mr. Tovey came to examine the contents of the parcel.
Jimmy Dodson narrowly scrutinized Mr. Tovey’s impassive countenance as he ran his fingers through the pages of the manuscript, all stained and defaced by contact with compositors’ pencils and with printers’ thumbs.
“Rather incoherent, is it not?” said Mr. Tovey mildly, as he turned the pages over. “Is it not somewhat pagan in tone—that is, as far as there is a tone—there does not appear to be any very definite conception of Deity—and rather incoherent—rather incoherent. I am afraid this will never do.”
The last by now familiar phrase seemed to pierce the heart and brain of James Dodson.
“I—I suppose, sir,” he said with scared eyes, “you occupying a responsible position in the English Museum, you would be rather a judge of poetry?”
“I am not accustomed to make such a claim on my own behalf,” said Mr. Tovey, in whose well-regulated bosom a sympathetic chord seemed to have been touched, for at least he seemed to unbend a little and he seemed to do it very nicely, “but perhaps I am entitled to say that the Oxbridge Press paid me the compliment of inviting me to edit their Chaucer, their Spenser, their Keats, their Felicia Hemans, and their James Russell Lowell. And I have also competed for the Newdigate Prize.”
Jimmy Dodson strangled a groan. He clenched his hands in desperation.
“Well, all I can say is,” he said, breaking out with a violence which was so unexpected that it somewhat alarmed the courteous and self-possessed Mr. Tovey, “I don’t care what you’ve done or what you haven’t done; I don’t care what you think or what you don’t think, you’ve got there the manuscript of the greatest poem ever written—ab-so-lute-ly the greatest ever written, mark you—and you’ve got to have it whether you want it or not. Mind you, I know nothing about poetry myself—never cared for it—never had time to read it—but whether you believe it, or whether you don’t, I know I amspeaking the truth. I promised the poor chap who wrote this poem—he has been blind for weeks and he is dying by inches—that I would carry his manuscript to the English Museum—and here it is. And now you’ve got it you had better take care of it—and just see that you do. Good-morning.”
Before the astonished Mr. Tovey could interpose a word of expostulation and remonstrance, this somewhat ill-favoured and rather vulgar person who had waxed so vehement all at once had passed from his ken; and he descended the stairs and passed out of the doors of the building with a violence of demeanour which not only scandalized the austere custodians of its portals, but caused them to reprove him as he went by.
Mr. Tovey, when at last his very natural and proper astonishment had permitted him to realize that this vulgarian had gone away, and further, that his trimly kept domain had been encumbered with a piece of brown paper and string and a thousand or so pages of foolscap all smudged and dishevelled by contact with the printers, he rang his bell.
The summons was heeded by a young middle-aged gentleman who in years might have been five-and-twenty, but who in manner, demeanour and cultivated deference to all the things that were, foremost of whom was Mr. Tovey himself, was of no particular period of life.
“Mr. Toplady,” said Mr. Tovey, with a well-bred concealment of what his feelings had recently undergone, “I shall be grateful if you will ask Mr. Bessy to ask Mr. Fairservice to ask Mr. MacFayden to ask Perry to ask one of the porters to remove this parcel.”
Mr. Toplady bowed, thanked Mr. Tovey and withdrew delicately.
In a little while there came a knock on the door of Mr. Tovey’s domain, and in response to that gentleman’s invitation, a stalwart son of labour, six feet six inches high and broad in proportion, cladin a bright brown uniform with a liberal display of gold braid, entered the room, and removed the brown paper, the string, and also the manuscript in a remarkably efficient, solemn, and dignified manner.
A quarter of an hour after his feat had been performed with such admirable success, this same impressive gold-braided figure knocked again on Mr. Tovey’s door and entered his domain.
“Beg pardon, sir,” said the stalwart, “but what is us to do with that there parcel?”
Mr. Tovey looked up from his weekly perusal of theJournal of Literature, to which he was a constant and esteemed contributor.
“The parcel?” he said. “What parcel, Wordsworth? Oh, yes, I think I remember.” And then with a slightly humorous deprecation which had cost him two-thirds of a lifetime to acquire, “Suppose, Wordsworth, you light the fires with that parcel—and, Wordsworth, suppose you don’t make a noise when you close the door.”