魅せられた旅人 — ニコライ・レスコフ
Unvarnished Tales, by William Mackay You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org . If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook. Title : Unvarnished Tales Author : William Mackay Release date : May 9, 2016 [eBook #52029] Language : English Other information and formats : www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/52029 Credits : Transcribed from the 1886 edition by David Price *** START OF org UNVARNISHED TALES. BY WILLIAM MACKAY. LONDON: SWAN SONNENSCHEIN, LOWREY AND CO., PATERNOSTER SQUARE. 1886. Printed by Hazell, Watson, & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury. TO REGINALD SHIRLEY BROOKS. CONTENTS. PAGE I. A QUEER QUEST 1 II. THE SAWDUST MAN’S CURSE 11 III. LORD LUNDY’S SNUFF-BOX 23 IV. “ONE WAS RENT AND LEFT TO DIE” 32 V. THE GRIGSBY LIVING 41 VI. RES EST SACRA MISER 51 VII. MR. GREY 60 VIII. THE PRODIGAL’S RETURN 69 IX. A PHILANTHROPIC “MASHER” 78 X. A DISHONOURED BILL 87 XI. A MAN OF GENIUS 96 XII. A DIGNIFIED DIPSOMANIAC 106 XIII. “OLD BOOTS” 115 XIV. A MISSING HEIRESS 124 XV. TEDDY MARTIN’S BRIEF 135 XVI. BLUEBEARD’S CUPBOARD 144 XVII. TRUE TO POLL 154 XVIII. JOHN PHILP, MASTER CARPENTER 166 XIX. PICTURES ON THE LINE 177 XX. THE DEVIL’S PLAYTHINGS 186 XXI. LOVE AND A DIARY 199 I. A QUEER QUEST . In the Times newspaper of Monday, 1st July, 18–, there appeared a notice of Mr. White’s last novel. The notice—for one cannot dignify with the name of review an article which did not exceed a quarter of a column—contained the following sentence:— “Mr. White’s novels appear to us to lack but one element. Having achieved that one thing needful, Mr. White at once and without cavil takes his place in the first rank of modern novelists. In one word, Mr. White must learn to study Human Nature from the life. His characters are too often evolved from his inner consciousness, and as beings thus produced are apt to be wanting in backbone, it is not surprising that many of this popular author’s works are weak and flabby—shadows without substance—pictures without colour. If Mr. White were to give one-half of the time to the study of the men and women by whom he is surrounded, which he gives to the elaboration of plot and the cultivation of style, we do not know that there is any seat in the republic of letters which we would deny him.” Mr. White was a timid gentleman, with thin reddish hair—a very tall forehead and weak eyes. He was also a very well tailored man, and lived in a neatly-appointed villa, in the Hilgrove Road, St. John’s Wood, N.W. He was married, but had no children. He was by profession a briefless barrister, but he made his name by writing novels. It so happened that the public applauded Mr. White from the very first moment that he appealed to them—at least in book form: his tentative efforts in periodicals having fallen very short of creating a furor . His nonsense, which, it must be confessed, was not of a very rollicking description, suited their nonsense. And that was the whole secret of his success. Being a very industrious man, he wrote a great many fictions, and being modest withal, attributed his fame to hard work rather than to any endowment of genius. When Mr. White neglected his grilled bone, his buttered toast, his hot coffee, and his new-laid egg, and seemed spell-bound by what appeared in the Times newspaper, his wife instinctively knew that there was a notice of her husband’s book in that great organ, and she guessed by the twitching of his mouth, and the flushing of his face, that the notice was the reverse of favourable. “It is quite true. It is quite true,” said Mr. White, aloud, but to himself, as he laid the paper down. “What is quite true?” asked Mrs. White, who, while greatly appreciating the pecuniary results of her husband’s labour, had but little sympathy with the work itself. “I am all wrong,” he replied, grimly. “Good gracious! What is the matter with you?” “I am wanting in backbone,” he explained, gloomily—“criminally deficient in backbone.” “Why, John, you must be mad,” said the wife of his bosom. And, indeed, there was a seeming irrelevancy in his remarks, which favoured his helpmate’s theory. But John knew quite well what he was about. “Tell Edward to fetch my coat and hat,” he said, having trifled with his breakfast instead of eating it like a Briton; “and lend me your scissors.” The dutiful young woman handed her lord and master the scissors, with which he proceeded to cut out the Times review—the which, when carefully abstracted, he placed in his pocket-book. But before Edward came with his coat and hat, Mrs. White, with natural and justifiable curiosity asked,— “Where are you going so early, John?” “I am going,” said John, quoting from the article, “I am going among the men and women by whom I am surrounded. I am going to study human character from the life.” Mrs. White shrugged her little shoulders, elevated her little eyebrows, kissed her husband, and when she heard the hall-door close behind him, she said very quietly, as though she were making an observation which did not affect her even remotely,— “He doesn’t seem to study me very much.” John White’s great crony was Anthony Lomax, of Paper Buildings. And John White took a ticket to the Temple Station, being determined to consult his old friend on this new revelation which the great Times newspaper had opened up to him. He was fortunate in finding Mr. Lomax at home, devouring a frugal meal of brandy and soda, preparatory to appearing before Vice-Chancellor Bacon in the celebrated case of Breeks v. Woolfer. “You see,” said John White, with characteristic modesty, “you see I never thought of achieving a first rank. My books take well and I make money—thank heaven. But this fellow in the newspaper absolutely says that I am possessed of genius!” “And haven’t I always said it?” asked Tony, with an offended air; “haven’t we all al