"Who isn't?" I said with a shrug, and, to get the conversation on to safer ground, I added hastily that in some ways I almost liked "Consolatrice" best.
He shook my hand again. So did he. A great book.
"But of course," he said, "one must read it in the original French. It is the book of all others which loses by translation."
"Of course," I agreed. Really, I don't see what else I could have done.
"Do you remember that wonderful phrase—" and he rattled it off. "Magnificent, is it not?"
"Magnificent," I said, remembering an appointment instead. "Well, I must be getting on. Good–bye." And, as I walked off, I patted my forehead with my handkerchief and wondered why the day had grown so warm suddenly.
However the next day was even warmer. Henri came to see me with a book under his arm. We all have one special book of our own which we recommend to our acquaintances, regarding the love of it as perhaps the best passport to our friendship. This was Henri's. He was about to test me. I had read and admired his favourite Vaurelle—in the original French. Would I love his darling Laforgue? My reputation as a man, as a writer, as a critic, depended on it. He handed me the book—in French.
"It is all there," he said reverently, as he gave it to me. "All your English masters, they all come from him. Perhaps, most of all, your ― But you shall tell me when you have read it. You shall tell me whom most you seem to see there. Your Meredith? Your Shaw? Your ― But you shall tell me."
"I will tell you," I said faintly.
And I've got to tell him.
Don't think that I shall have any difficulty in reading the book. Glancing through it just now I came across this:—
"'Kate, avez–vous soupé avant le spectacle?'
'Non, je n'avais guère le coeur à manger.'"
Well, that's easy enough. But I doubt if it is one of the most characteristic passages. It doesn't give you a clue to Laforgue's manner, any more than "'Must I sit here, mother?' 'Yes, without a doubt you must,'" tells you all that you want to know about Meredith. There's more in it than that.
And I've got to tell him.
But fancy holding forth on an author's style after reading him laboriously with a dictionary!
However, I must do my best; and in my more hopeful moments I see the conversation going like this:—
"Well?"
"Oh, wonderful." (With emotion) "Really wonderful."
"You see them all there?"
"Yes, yes. It's really—wonderful. Meredith—I mean—well, it's simply—(after a pause) wonderful."
"You see Meredith there most?"
"Y–yes. Sometimes. And then (with truth) sometimes I—I don't. It's difficult to say. Sometimes I—er—Shaw—er—well, it's—" (with a gesture somewhat Gallic) "How can I put it?"
"Not Thackeray at all?" he says, watching me eagerly.
I decide to risk it.
"Oh, but of course! I mean—Thackeray! When I said Meredith I was thinking of the others. But Thackeray—I mean Thackeray is—er—" (I've forgotten the author's name for the moment and go on hastily) "I mean—er—Thackeray, obviously."
He shakes me by the hand. I am his friend.
But this conversation only takes place in my more hopeful moments. In my less hopeful ones I see myself going into the country for quite a long time.
Part III
Summer Days
A Song for the Summer
The Season's Prospects
The great question in the Mallory family just now is whether Dick will get into the eleven this year. Confident as he is himself, he is taking no risks.
"We're going to put the net up to–morrow," he said to me as soon as I arrived, "and then you'll be able to bowl to me. How long are you staying?"
"Till to–night," I said quickly.
"Rot! You're fixed up here till Tuesday any how."
"My dear Dick, I've come down for a few days' rest. If the weather permits, I may have the croquet things out one afternoon and try a round, or possibly—"
"I don't believe you can bowl," said Bobby rudely. Bobby is twelve—five years younger than Dick. It is not my place to smack Bobby's head, but somebody might do it for him.
"Then that just shows how little you know about it," I retorted. "In a match last September I went on to bowl—"
"Why?"
"I knew the captain," I explained. "Well, as I say, he asked me to go on to bowl, and I took four wickets for thirteen runs. There!"
"Good man," said Dick.
"Was it against a girls' school?" said Bobby. (You know, Bobby is simply asking for it.)
"It was not. Nor were children of twelve allowed in without their perambulators."
"Well, anyhow," said Bobby, "I bet Phyllis can bowl better than you."
"Is this true?" I said to Phyllis. I asked her, because in a general way my bowling is held to be superior to that of girls of fifteen. Of course, she might be something special.
"I can bowl Bobby out," she said modestly.
I looked at Bobby in surprise and then shook my head sadly.
"You jolly well shut up," he said, turning indignantly to his sister. "Just because you did it once when the sun was in my eyes—"
"Bobby, Bobby," I said, "this is painful hearing. Let us be thankful that we don't have to play against girls' schools. Let us—"
But Bobby was gone. Goaded to anger, he had put his hands in his pockets and made the general observation "Rice–pudding"—an observation inoffensive enough to a stranger, but evidently of such deep, private significance to Phyllis that it was necessary for him to head a pursuit into the shrubbery without further delay.
"The children are gone," I said to Dick. "Now we can discuss the prospects for the season in peace." I took up "The Sportsman" again. "I see that Kent is going to—"
"The prospects are all right," said Dick, "if only I can get into form soon enough. Last year I didn't get going till the end of June. By the way, what sort of stuff do you bowl?"
"Ordinary sort of stuff," I said, "with one or two bounces in it. Do you see that Surrey—"
"Fast or slow?"
"Slow—that is, you know, when I do bowl at all. I'm not quite sure this season whether I hadn't better—"
"Slow," said Dick thoughtfully; "that's really what I want. I want lots of that."
"You must get Phyllis to bowl to you," I said with detachment. "You know, I shouldn't be surprised if Lancashire—"