Chapter V: Front Matter (5)

'My dear North,' he began, addressing the first speaker, 'your eloquent advocacy of the anonymous reminds me of a curious incident that occurred many years ago when I was assistant-editor of the "Acropolis." The facts were never known to the public, and my old chief, Curtis, met with much misplaced abuse in consequence. There were reasons for which he could never break silence; but it happened so long ago that I cannot be betraying any confidence. All of you have heard of, and some of you have seen, Quentin Burrage, whose articles practically made the "Acropolis" what it now is. His opinion on all subjects was looked forward to by the public each week. Young poetasters would tremble when their time should come to be pulverised by the scathing epigrams which fell from his anonymous pen. Essayists, novelists, statesmen were pale for weeks until a review appeared that would make or mar their fame. In the various literary coteries of London no one knew that Quentin Burrage was the slater who thrilled, irritated, or amused them, though he was of course recognised as an occasional contributor. The secret was well kept. He was practically critical censor of London for ten years. A whole school of novelists ceased to exist after three of his notices in the "Acropolis." The names of painters famous before his time you will not find in the largest dictionaries now. Four journalists committed suicide after he had burlesqued their syntax, and two statesmen resigned office owing to his masterly examination of their policy. We were all much shocked when a popular actor set fire to his theatre on a first night because Curtis and his dramatic critic refused to take champagne and chicken between the acts. This may give you some idea of Burrage's power in London for a decade of the last century.

'One day a curious change came over him. It was Monday when he and I were in the office receiving our instructions. Curtis, after going over some books, handed to Quentin a vellum-covered volume of poems, saying with a grim smile: "There are some more laurels for you to hash."

'An expression of pain spread over Quentin's serene features.

'"I'll see what I can do," he said wearily. But his curious manner struck both Curtis and myself. The book was a collection of very indifferent verse which already enjoyed a wide popularity. I cannot tell you the title, for that is a secret not my own. It was early work of one of our most esteemed poets who for some time was regarded by _his friends_ as the natural successor to Mr. Alfred Austin. The "Acropolis" had not spoken. We were sometimes behindhand in our reviews. The public waited to learn if the new poet was really worth anything. You may imagine the general surprise when a week afterwards there appeared a flamingly favourable review of the poems. It made a perfect sensation and was quoted largely. The public became quite conceited with its foresight. The reputation of the poet was assured. "Snarley-ow must be dead," some one remarked in my hearing at the club, and members tried to pump me. One day a telegram came from Curtis asking me to go down to his house at once. A request from him was a command. I found him in a state of some excitement, his manner a little artificial. "My dear Rivers, I suppose you think me mad. The geese have got into the Capitol at last." Without correcting his classical allusion, I said: "Where is Burrage?" "He is coming here presently. Of course, I glanced at the thing in proof, and thought it a splendid joke, but reading it this morning, I have come to the conclusion that something is wrong with Burrage. You remember his agitated manner the other day?" I was about to reply, when Burrage was announced. His haggard and pale appearance startled both of us. "My dear Burrage, what _is_ the matter with you?" we exclaimed simultaneously. He gave a sickly nervous smile. "Of course you have sent to ask me about that review. Well, I have changed my opinions, I have altered. I think we should praise everything or ignore everything. To slate a book, good or bad, is taking the bread out of a fellow's mouth. I have been the chief sinner in this way, and I am going to be the first reformer." "Not in my paper," said Curtis, angrily.

'Then we all fell to discussing that old question with all the warmth that North and the rest of you were doing just now. We lost our tempers and Curtis ended the matter by saying: "I tell you what it is, Burrage, if you ever bring out a book yourself I'll send it to you to review. You can praise it as much as you like. But don't let this occur again, with any one else's work." Burrage turned quite white, I thought, and Curtis, noticing the effect of his words, went up and taking him by the hand, added more kindly, "My poor Burrage, are you quite well? I never saw you in so morbid a state before. All this is mere sentimentality--so different from your usual manly spirit. Go away for a change, to Brighton or Eastbourne, and you must come back with that wholesome contempt for your contemporaries that characterises most of your writings. I'll look over the matter this time, and we'll say no more about it." And here Curtis was so overcome that he dashed a tear from his eye. A few hours later I saw Burrage off to the sea. He was very strange in his manner. "I'll never be quite the same again. If I only dared to tell you," he said. And the train rolled out of the station.

'Some weeks later I was again in the editorial room and Curtis showed me a curiously bound book, printed on hand-made paper, entitled _Prejudices_. I had already seen it. "That book," Curtis remarked, "ought to have been noticed long ago. I was keeping it for Burrage when he gets better. Shall I send it to him?"

'_Prejudices_ for some weeks had been the talk of London. It was a series of very ineffectual essays on different subjects. Sight, Colour, Sound, Art, Letters, and Religion were all dealt with in that highly glowing and original manner now termed _Style_. It was delightfully unwholesome and extraordinarily silly. Young persons had already begun to get foolish over it, and leaving the more stimulating pages of Mr. Pater they hailed the work as an earnest of the English Renaissance. Instead of stroking _Marius the Epicurean_ they fondled a copy of _Prejudices_. I prophesied that Burrage would vindicate himself over it and that the public would hear very little of _Prejudices_ in a year's time. The book was sent; and the first part of my prophecy was fulfilled, Burrage spared neither the author nor his admirers. The pedantry, the affected style, the cheap hedonism were all pitilessly exposed. London, rocked with laughter. Some of the admirers, with the generosity of youth, nobly came to the rescue. They made a paper war and talked of "The cruelty and cowardice of the attack," "The stab in the dark," "Journalistic marauding," "Disappointed author turned critic." The slate was one that I am bound to say was _killing_ in both senses of the word. A book less worthless could never have lived under it. It was one of those decisive reviews of all ages. _Prejudices_ was withdrawn by the publisher fearful of damaging his prestige. Yet it was never looked on as a rarity, and fell at book auctions for a shilling, for some time after, amidst general tittering. The daily papers meanwhile devoted columns to the discussion. I telegraphed to Burrage in cipher and congratulated him, knowing that secrets leak out sometimes through the post office. I was surprised to get no reply for some weeks, but Curtis said he was lying low while the excitement lasted. One day I got a letter simply saying, "For God's sake come. I am very ill." I went at once. How shall I describe to you the pitiful condition I found him in? The doctor told me he was suffering from incipient tuberculosis due to cerebral excitement and mental trouble. When I went in to see him he was lying in bed, pale and emaciated as a corpse, surrounded by friends and relations. He asked every one to go out of the room; he had something of importance to say to me. I then learned what you have divined already. The anonymous author of _Prejudices_ was no other than Quentin Burrage himself. Or rather not himself, but the other self of which neither I nor Curtis knew anything. He had been living a double existence. As a writer of trashy essays and verse, an incomplete sentimentalist surrounded by an admiring band of young ladies and gentlemen, he was not recognised as the able critic and the anonymous slater of the "Acropolis."

'When he first received his own book for review he recalled the words of Curtis. He must be honest, impartial, and just. No one knew better the faults of _Prejudices_. As he began to write, the old spirit of the slater came over him. His better self conquered. He forgot for the moment that he was the author. He hardly realised the sting of his own sarcasms even when he saw them in proof. It was not until it appeared, and the papers were full of the controversy, that the _cruelty_ and _unfairness_ of the attack dawned on him. I was much shocked at the confession, and the extraordinary duplicity of Burrage, who had been living a lie for the last ten years. His denunciation of poor Curtis pained me. I would have upbraided him, but his tortured face and hacking cough made me relent. I need not prolong the painful story. Burrage never recovered. He sank into galloping consumption, only aggravated by a broken heart. I saw him on his deathbed at Rome. He was attended by Strange, and died in his arms. His last words to me were, "Rivers, tell Curtis I forgive him."

'We buried in the Protestant cemetery near Keats and Shelley one whose name was written in hot water. His sad death provoked a good deal of comment, as you may suppose. Strange has often promised to write his life. But he could never get through _Prejudices_, and I pointed out to him that you can hardly write an author's life without reading one of his works, even though he did die in your arms. That is the worst of literary martyrs with a few brilliant exceptions: their works are generally dull.'

'Is that all?' asked North.

'That is all, and I hope you understand the moral.'

'Perfectly; but your reminiscences have too much construction, my dear Rivers.'

'The story is perfectly true for all that,' remarked the Editor, drily.

A LITTLE DOCTORED FAUST. A PROLOGUE.

'The version of _Faust_ which Mr. Stephen Phillips is contemplating will, it is interesting to learn from the author, be a "compact drama," of which the spectacular embellishment will form no part. In Mr. Phillips's view the story is in itself so strong and so rich in all the elements that make for dramatic effectiveness that to treat the subject as one for elaborate scenic display would be to diminish the direct appeal of a great tragedy. "First let me say," said Mr. Stephen Phillips, "how gladly I approach a task which will bring me again into association with Mr. George Alexander, whose admirable treatment of _Paolo and Francesco_, you will no doubt remember. In the version of _Faust_ which I am going to prepare there will be nothing spectacular, nothing to overshadow or intrude upon an immortal theme. As to how I shall treat the story, and as to the form in which it will be written, I am not yet sure--it may be a play in blank verse, or in prose with lyrics . . ." Mr. Phillips added that he had also in view a play on the subject of _Harold_."--_The Tribune_.

_Scene: The British Museum_.

SIDNEY COLVIN. Ah! my dear Stephen, when they told me Phillips Was waiting in my study, I imagined That it was Claude, whom I have been expecting. I have arranged that you shall have this room All to yourself and friends. Now I must leave you. I have to go and speak to Campbell Dodgson About some prints we've recently acquired.

STEPHEN PHILLIPS. How can I ever thank you? Love to Binyon!

[COLVIN _goes out_.

_Enter_ Mr. GEORGE ALEXANDER, GOETHE, MARLOWE, GOUNOD.

ALEXANDER (_from force of habit_). I always told you he was reasonable.

GOETHE. Well, I consent. Mein Gott! how colossal You English are! 'Tis nigh impossible For poets to refuse you anything, And German thought beneath some English shade-- _Unter den Linden_, as we say at home-- Sounds really quite as well on British soil. Our good friend Marlowe hardly seems so pleased.

MARLOWE. Oh, Goethe! cease these frivolous remarks. Think you that I, who knew Elizabeth, And tasted all the joys of literature And played the dawn to Shakespeare's larger day, And heralded a mighty line of verse With half-a-dozen mighty lines my own, Am feeling well?

GOUNOD (_brightening_). Ah! Monsieur Wells, Auteur d'une histoire fine et romanesque Traduit par Davray; il a des idees C'est une chose rare la-bas . . .

STEPHEN PHILLIPS. He does not speak of Huysmans; 'tis myself. I thank you, gentlemen, with all my heart; I thank you, gentlemen, with all my soul; I thank you, sirs, with all my soul and strength. So for your leave much thanks. You know my weakness: I love to be at peace with all the past. The present and the future I can manage; The stirrup of posterity may dangle Against the heaving flanks of Pegasus. I feel my spurs against the saucy mare And Alexander turned Bucephalus.

MARLOWE. Neigh! Neigh! though you have told us what you are, And we have witnessed Nero several times, You do not tell us of this wretched Faustus, Who must be damned in any case, I fear.

S. P. Of course, I treat you as material On which to work; but then I simplify And purify the story for our stage. The English stage is nothing if not pure. For instance, we will not allow _Salome_. So in Act II. of _Faust_ I represent The marriage feast of beauteous Margaret;