XXII
“Luney, my son,” said the mellifluous accents of Mr. M. A. Dodson, ascending upwards to the high stool on which was perched the assiduous form of William Jordan, Junior, “I want you to do me a personal favour. I’ve got here an advance copy of Octavius’s translation of the Odyssey. Now, my good and virtuous boy, I want you to take it home with you to-night, read it carefully, and criticize it for all you are worth. Just make a note, like a good chap, of any particular points that strike you. If any of his truck strikes you as better than the truck of the other johnnies, you had better underline it. Or if you think some of his truck is worse than the truck of the other johnnies, put a bit of blue pencil round it. If you can suggest any improvements, so much the better. I want an expert like yourself to handle this byMonday next, before the reviews come out, see? Do this for me, Luney, old boy, and about the end of next week we’ll do a music-hall together.”
The brand new volume that the boy carried home reverently under his arm, was a source of great bewilderment to him that evening in the little room. Again and again he scanned the virgin pages with wondering eyes. Great names were there, great events, things and men who had been his constant companions all his life long, but one and all were envisaged in an alien tongue. A strange metamorphosis had taken place. He was filled with despair. An acute sense of mystery oppressed him. He compared this new and shining tome with the old black volumes that were his priceless treasures. The mystery deepened. The letter was there in almost its original integrity; but an incommunicable something had passed away.
On the following day during the luncheon hour, William Jordan, Junior, resigned the new volume to the care of Mr. M. Arnold Dodson.
“It has not taken you long to go through it,” said that gentleman, with a light of admiration in his eye, for he himself was prosecuting researches into the subject which were fraught with pain. “Let me see your notes, my son. They will help me a good deal.”
William Jordan, Junior, was fain to confess that he had not thought fit to commit to paper the result of his own researches.
“You had better do so at once,” said Mr. Dodson, whose stern countenance showed plainly that it would brook no trifling. “I want to take ’em to-night to the British Museum. They will help me no end.”
“B-b-but,” said the boy nervously, “it is n-n-not Homer.”
For the moment the attitude of horror adopted by Mr. M. Arnold Dodson seemed designed to suggest that the heavens were about to fall.
“Not Homer!” exclaimed Mr. Dodson. “Not Homer!”
He appeared to gather up each particular unit of his four feet ten inches, to lend emphasis to a reply which somehow refused to come forth.
“Not Homer!” he said after a pause whose length had ceased to make it dramatic. “Now look here, my son, I have only one word of advice to give you. You have only to let that come to the ears of Octavius, and you will be fired out of this old-established publishing house with one week’s salary and no character.”
In spite, however, of the total failure of this source, to which he looked chiefly for sustenance and inspiration in his arduous undertaking, Mr. Dodson was of far too considerable a mental and moral calibre to relinquish his self-imposed task. Thus early in his career he had adopted the saying of a compatriot, for he too, like so many of our national heroes, claimed the blood of Caledonia stern and wild, upon his mother’s side, “genius is an infinite capacity for taking pains,” and had made it his own. Therefore in a crisis where one of other clay would have been daunted indeed, Mr. M. A. Dodson girt his loins like a veritable giant, and re-addressed himself to his labours with the greatest possible valour. Luney had failed him, as it was only reasonable to expect such a lunatic to do. It was a Napoleonic visage that crossed the threshold of a monumental building in Bloomsbury Square, immediately opposite the Hotel Thackeray, on three consecutive evenings at the hour of seven-thirty, and stayed there with its nose pinned to unaccustomed documents until it was turned out.
Upon the afternoon of that Monday which was made memorable in the national life by the fact that upon that day, Mr. Octavius Crumpett’s version of Homer was issued to the Trade, towards five o’clock on that epoch-making afternoon, the calm and self-contained right hand of Mr. M. A. Dodson smote the portal of the sanctum sanctorum of Mr.Octavius Crumpett, while in his equally calm and self-contained left hand he bore the sacred volume upon which he had been concentrating the whole of his critical faculty, which was not inconsiderable, for three days past.
“Ah, Mr. Dodson, good-morning,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, with a benign beam in his mild eyes, as he looked up from the perusal of the list of books received by his favouriteJournal of English and Foreign Literature, Science, the Fine Arts, Music and the Drama. It is to be observedinter aliathat the seeming inconsistency of which this great and good man was guilty of ascribing the name of morning to five o’clock in the afternoon, was in strict accordance with the higher usage.
“Good-morning, sir,” said Mr. M. Arnold Dodson, with a slightly austere but perfectly amiable self-possession.
“Is it to be my privilege, Mr. Dodson, to hear the first verdict which has been passed upon—ah, my little book?” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, with the expansive pleasantness of one who had received already that morning, at his favourite hall of physical and mental refreshment, the sonorously-tendered compliment of a stalwart of the Episcopal Bench, upon its long-expected-and-eagerly-looked-for appearance.
“Well, sir,” said Mr. Dodson, opening at a leisure which conferred an adventitious weight upon an utterance which stood not in the least need of it; “well, sir, it is not my intention to enter into petty details nor into the minutiæ and fine points of scholarship. I think, sir, those can be resigned with every propriety into more competent hands. But what I would like to do, sir, with your kind indulgence, is to view this work as a whole. I do not know, sir, that I have any special claim to do this, but I would like to say just in what manner your—ah, achievement strikes me——”
“Pray proceed, Mr. Dodson, pray proceed,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, as Mr. M. A. Dodsoninserted one of those masterful pauses in his oratory which in after days were likely to stand him in such good stead in both houses of parliament, and on political platforms in the United Kingdom far too numerous to mention.
“My survey of your achievement as a whole, sir,” Mr. M. A. Dodson continued at a forensically magnificent leisure, “can be summed up in one word. That word is the wordconsummate. To my mind, sir, the word consummate alone envisages in any adequate sense that which you have achieved. I say, sir, I do not propose to go into fine points of scholarship, which even under the most favourable auspices are apt to be vexed and over-nice. I speak merely as an amateur, sir, as a humble, but ardent lover of letters. And in that capacity, sir, and in no other, as I hope, sir, you will please understand, I have been unable to refrain from underlining certain passages of your—ah, rendering which to my mind are in-comparably fe-lic-i-tous.”
Mr. M. A. Dodson paused to take from his pocket a slip of paper on which was set forth a collocation of mystic numerals. Mr. Octavius Crumpett lay back in his revolving chair with closed eyes, and with his hands folded over that portion of his being that was embellished by his waistcoat of immaculate whiteness; and he seemed to vibrate internally with that large content which it is only given to the good and great to feel.
“Page sixty-four, the line beginning, ‘Behold the deep-shaking thunder,’” Mr. M. A. Dodson continued as he ran his fingers through the pages with that precision which is the fruit of a long and loving intercourse with books. “Now, sir, to my mind, the whole passage as far as ‘all-fostering Zeus’ could not be improved. To my mind, it is an incomparable advance upon Pope and upon Chapman, and even upon the extremely skilful version of the late Lord Derby. If I may be permitted to say it, sir, to my mind, the manner in which you have surmounted the well-nighin-superabledifficulties of metre is worthy of the highest praise; and yet, sir, you do not appear to have sacrificed one iota of the sense or the spirit of the peerless original. Then, sir, page seventy-two, beginning with line eighteen, ‘Treads the waves of the many-tremulous seas.’ Or page ninety-one, that matchless rendering of—— But I must not pause to enumerate.”
As Mr. M. A. Dodson ran his fingers with extreme rapidity through one after another of these underlined passages, a kind of generous enthusiasm communicated itself to his wizened countenance. His diction, ever touched by Attic grace, seemed presently to glow with a little of the Promethean fire. Yet never for a moment did it fall into incoherence, nor lapse from the ideal of style in spoken diction, however rapidly uttered, which was ever before him.
“In fact, sir,” Mr. M. A. Dodson concluded as he came to the last passage he had underlined, “language fails me, as, sir, it has failed me from the first, to say in precisely what manner your consummate achievement has addressed my critical sense.”
With this striking peroration, Mr. M. A. Dodson made as if to withdraw, but suddenly he appeared to think better of his resolution, for he returned again to the near proximity of his great and good master, and said in a modest voice, from which all traces of his infinitely creditable mental excitement had been removed, “If I dare, sir, I would ask of the author one small boon. I feel, sir, I have no right to ask it, but if it were granted to me, it would mean the overflowing of the cup. I should cherish beyond expression, sir, and I think I can vouch for it, that in after life my children also will do the same; I should cherish beyond expression, sir, the autograph of one who is at once the author of this great book, and who is at the same time the head of this great house.”
Immediately Mr. Octavius Crumpett dipped hispen in the ink and inscribed upon the first page of the volume,Mr. Matthew Arnold Dodson, with the Author’s good wishes.
“Mr. Dodson,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, after handing back the volume to that gentleman, and curtailing in some measure a gratitude that already had been choicely expressed; “Mr. Dodson, when you go down-stairs, I shall be obliged if you will have the goodness to ask Mr. Walkinshaw to have the kindness to come and see me.”
As Mr. M. A. Dodson pursued his meritorious way towards the basement of the famous building, he took occasion to knock at the door of the adjoining room.
“Enter,” said a clear official tone.
“Mr. Davis,” said Mr. Dodson, with a formidable politeness as he entered, and laying an unmistakable stress upon the prefix, “I have the honour to inform you that your goose is already cooked. Perhaps you will have the condescension to look at this.”
With immemorial calm Mr. M. Arnold Dodson disclosed for the edification of Mr. G. Eliot Davis, the fly-leaf of the volume he carried. A short exclamation of surprise and incredulity escaped the lips of that young gentleman, which Mr. Dodson did not pause to elucidate.
As the thin, tall, melancholy but intellectual form of Mr. Walter Pater Walkinshaw wended its way up-stairs, Mr. Dodson turned to William Jordan, Junior, with a Napoleonic air.
“Luney,” he said, “you can fetch me the time-book.”
William Jordan, Junior, descended from his stool obediently. Mr. Dodson, with the aid of a ruler and some red ink, crossed out the name of M. Arnold Dodson from the current page of that work, and wrote thereunder,G. Eliot Davis 8.30, vice M. Arnold Dodson gone up-stairs.
No sooner had Mr. Dodson performed this operation than Mr. W. P. Walkinshaw returned to thatsphere over which he presided with so much distinction, and said in his kind but cultivated voice, “Mr. Dodson, Mr. Octavius will be glad if you will go up and see him.”
“I will, sir,” said Mr. Dodson in a tone which, subdued as it was, resounded through the counting-house.
As for the second time within a very short period Mr. Dodson took his meritorious way up the familiar stairs to Mount Olympus, he knocked again on the door of Mr. G. Eliot Davis.
“Mr. Davis,” said Mr. Dodson, thrusting in his head, “prepare to receive cavalry.”
Before Mr. Davis could demand the meaning of this enigmatic injunction, Mr. Dodson had entered the august presence yet again.
Mr. Octavius Crumpett was seatedin pontificalibuswith the glass in his benign right eye, and the tips of his white and beautifully-kept hands pressed together.
“Mr. Dodson,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, “I learn from Mr. Walkinshaw that during the four years you have been associated with this house, your conduct has been exemplary in the highest degree. I learn that your attainments are entirely worthy of the—ah, traditions of this house. It gives me more pleasure, Mr. Dodson, than I can express to ask you to accept an increase of honorarium from £90 per annum, which I understand you enjoy at present, to the sum of £200 per annum, which will date from to-day. Further, it is my intention to ask you to take up your duties to-morrow morning in the next room, which at present is in the occupation of Mr. Davis. I think I may say that I concur entirely with Mr. Walkinshaw in the opinion to which he has given recent expression, that your considerable natural talent marks you out for a higher destiny than that which you enjoy at present. I shall be obliged, Mr. Dodson, if you will ask Mr. Davis to come here.”
“Mr. Davis,” said Mr. Dodson, projecting asomewhat sinister countenance into the ante-room, whose accomplished occupant was studying theSporting Times, “Mr. Octavius will be obliged if you will have the condescension to go next door.”