He was happy in his death. It saved him from the thing he dreaded1 above everything, certainty of the ultimate extinction2. It has not come yet. We are feeling still the long reverberation3 of his vogue4. We miss him still in the gleam, the jest gone forever from the papers. There is no doubt but that his death staved off the ultimate extinction. It revived the public interest in him. It jogged the feeble pulse of his once vast circulation. It brought the familiar portrait back again into the papers, between the long, long columns. And there was more laurel and a larger crowd at Brookwood than on the day when we first met him in the churchyard at Chenies.
And then we said there had been stuff in him. We talked (in the papers) of his "output." He had been, after all, a prodigious5, a gigantic worker. He appealed to our profoundest national instincts, to our British admiration6 of sound business, of the self-made, successful man. He might not have done anything for posterity7, but he had provided magnificently for his child and widow.
So we appraised8 him. Then on the top of it all the crash came, the tremendous crash that left his child and widow almost penniless. He hadn't provided for them at all. He had provided for nothing but his own advertisement. He had been living, not only beyond his income, but beyond, miles beyond, his capital, beyond even the perennial9 power that was the source [Pg 197] of it. And he had been afraid, poor fellow! to retrench10, to reduce by one cucumber-frame the items of the huge advertisement; why, it would have been as good as putting up the shop windows—his publishers would instantly have paid him less.
His widow explained tearfully how it all was, and how wise and foreseeing he had been; what a thoroughly11 sound man of business. And really we thought the dear lady wouldn't be left so very badly off. We calculated that Burton would marry Antigone, and that the simple, self-denying woman could live in modest comfort on the mere12 proceeds of the inevitable13 sale. Then we heard that the Tudor mansion14, the "Grounds," the very cucumber-frames, were sunk in a mortgage; and the sale of his "effects," the motor-cars and furniture, the books and the busts15, paid his creditors16 in full, but it left a bare pittance17 for his child and widow.
They had come up to town in that exalted18 state with which courageous19 women face adversity. In her excitement Antigone tried hard to break off her engagement to Grevill Burton. She was going to do typewriting, she was going to be somebody's secretary, she was going to do a thousand things; but she was not going to hang herself like a horrid20 millstone round his neck and sink him. She had got it into her head, poor girl, that Wrackham had killed himself, ruined himself by his efforts to provide for his child and widow. They had been the millstones round his neck. She even talked openly now about the "pot-boilers" they had compelled Papa to write; by which she gave us to understand that he had been made for better things. It would have broken your heart to hear her.
Her mother, ravaged21 and reddened by grief, met us day after day (we were doing all we could for her) [Pg 198] with her indestructible, luminous22 smile. She could be tearful still on provocation23, through the smile, but there was something about her curiously24 casual and calm, something that hinted almost complacently25 at a little mystery somewhere, as if she had up her sleeve resources that we were not allowing for. But we caught the gist26 of it, that we, affectionate and well-meaning, but thoroughly unbusiness-like young men, were not to worry. Her evident conviction was that he had foreseen, he had provided for them.
"Lord only knows," I said to Burton, "what the dear soul imagines will turn up."
Then one day she sent for me; for me, mind you, not Burton. There was something that she and her daughter, desired to consult me about. I went off at once to the dreadful little lodgings27 in the Fulham Road where they had taken refuge. I found Antigone looking, if anything, more golden and more splendid, more divinely remote and irrelevant28 against the dingy29 background. Her mother was sitting very upright at the head and she at the side of the table that almost filled the room. They called me to the chair set for me facing Antigone. Throughout the interview I was exposed, miserably30, to the clear candor31 of her gaze.
Her mother, with the simplicity32 which was her charming quality, came straight to the point. It seemed that Wrackham had thought better of us, of Burton and me, than he had ever let us know. He had named us his literary executors. Of course, his widow expounded33, with the option of refusal. Her smile took for granted that we would not refuse.
What did I say? Well, I said that I couldn't speak for Burton, but for my own part I—I said I was honored (for Antigone was looking at me with those eyes) and of course I shouldn't think of refusing, and I didn't [Pg 199] imagine Burton would either. You see I'd no idea what it meant. I supposed we were only in for the last piteous turning out of the dead man's drawers, the sorting and sifting34 of the rubbish heap. We were to decide what was worthy35 of him and what was not.
There couldn't, I supposed, be much of it. He had been hard pressed. He had always published up to the extreme limit of his production.
I had forgotten all about the "Life and Letters." They had been only a fantastic possibility, a thing our profane36 imagination played with; and under the serious, chastening influences of his death it had ceased to play.
And now they were telling me that this thing was a fact. The letters were, at any rate. They had raked them all in, to the last postcard (he hadn't written any to us), and there only remained the Life. It wasn't a perfectly37 accomplished38 fact; it would need editing, filling out, and completing from where he had left it off. He had not named his editor, his biographer, in writing—at least, they could find no note of it among his papers—but he had expressed a wish, a wish that they felt they could not disregard. He had expressed it the night before he died to Antigone, who was with him.
"Did he not, dearest?"
I heard Antigone say, "Yes, Mamma." She was not looking at me then.
There was a perfectly awful silence. And then Antigone did look at me, and she smiled faintly.
"It isn't you," she said.
No, it was not I. I wasn't in it. It was Grevill Burton.
I ought to tell you it wasn't an open secret any longer that Burton was editing the "Life and Letters [Pg 200] of Ford39 Lankester," with a Critical Introduction. The announcement had appeared in the papers a day or two before Wrackham's death. He had had his eye on Burton. He may have wavered between him and another, he may have doubted whether Burton was after all good enough; but that honor, falling to Burton at that moment, clinched40 it. There was prestige, there was the thing he wanted. Burton was his man.
There wouldn't, Mrs. Wrackham said, be so very much editing to do. He had worked hard in the years before his death. He had gathered in all the material, and there were considerable fragments—whole blocks of reminiscences, which could be left, which should be left as they stood (her manner implied that they were monuments). What they wanted, of course, was something more than editing. Anybody could have done that. There was the Life to be completed in the later years, the years in which Mr. Burton had known him more intimately than any of his friends. Above all, what was necessary, what had been made so necessary, was a Critical Introduction, the summing up, the giving of him to the world as he really was.
Did I think they had better approach Mr. Burton direct, or would I do that for them? Would I sound him on the subject?
I said cheerfully that I would sound him. If Burton couldn't undertake it (I had to prepare them for this possibility), no doubt we should find somebody who could.
But Antigone met this suggestion with a clear "No." It wasn't to be done at all unless Mr. Burton did it. And her mother gave a little cry. It was inconceivable that it should not be done. Mr. Burton must. He would. He would see the necessity, the importance of it. [Pg 201]
Of course I saw it. And I saw that my position and Burton's was more desperate than I had imagined. I couldn't help but see the immense importance of the "Life and Letters." They were bound, even at this time of day, to "fetch" a considerable sum, and the dear lady might be pardoned if she were incidentally looking to them as a means of subsistence. They were evidently what she had had up her sleeve. Her delicacy41 left the financial side of the question almost untouched; but in our brief discussion of the details, from her little wistful tone in suggesting that if Mr. Burton could undertake it at once and get it done soon, if they could in fact launch it on the top of the returning tide—from the very way that she left me to finish her phrases for her I gathered that they regarded the "Life and Letters" as Wrackham's justification42 in more ways than one. They proved that he had not left them unprovided for.
Well, I sounded Burton. He stared at me aghast. I was relieved to find that he was not going to be sentimental43 about it. He refused flatly.
"I can't do him and Lankester," he said.
I saw his point. He would have to keep himself clean for him. I said of course he couldn't, but I didn't know how he was going to make it straight with Antigone.
"I shan't have to make it straight with Antigone," he said. "She'll see it. She always has seen."
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1
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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2
extinction
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| n.熄灭，消亡，消灭，灭绝，绝种 | |
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reverberation
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| 反响； 回响； 反射； 反射物 | |
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4
Vogue
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| n.时髦，时尚；adj.流行的 | |
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prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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7
posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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8
appraised
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| v.估价( appraise的过去式和过去分词 )；估计；估量；评价 | |
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9
perennial
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| adj.终年的；长久的 | |
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10
retrench
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| v.节省，削减 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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12
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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15
busts
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| 半身雕塑像( bust的名词复数 )； 妇女的胸部； 胸围； 突击搜捕 | |
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16
creditors
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| n.债权人，债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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pittance
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| n.微薄的薪水，少量 | |
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18
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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21
ravaged
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| 毁坏( ravage的过去式和过去分词 )； 蹂躏； 劫掠； 抢劫 | |
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22
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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23
provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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24
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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gist
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| n.要旨；梗概 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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28
irrelevant
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| adj.不恰当的，无关系的，不相干的 | |
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29
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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candor
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| n.坦白，率真 | |
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32
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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33
expounded
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| 论述，详细讲解( expound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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34
sifting
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| n.筛，过滤v.筛( sift的现在分词 )；筛滤；细查；详审 | |
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35
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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Ford
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| n.浅滩，水浅可涉处；v.涉水，涉过 | |
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40
clinched
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| v.（尤指两人）互相紧紧抱[扭]住( clinch的过去式和过去分词 )；解决（争端、交易），达成（协议） | |
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41
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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42
justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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43
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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