about that which will not do for me. I have tried
editor after editor, and have invariably had my articles
returned. I will venture to say—and
I do not think you will contradict me—that
they are all thorough, sound, and accurate pieces
of work, far more reliable than much of the stuff which
appears every day; all I want is just the personal
touch with an editor or two; but, of course, if you
will not help me, I must try elsewhere—but
I must confess that I am very much disappointed,”
He looked drearily at me, leaning on his stick.
I do not think he had any idea where we were, nor
had he seen any single object which we had passed;
but at this moment he noticed a flower in the hedge,
and looked tenderly at it. “Ha! there is
ailanthus vulgaris,” he said—“very
unusual. Excuse my interrupting you, but botany
is rather a passion of mine. It may interest
you to hear...” and I had a few minutes’
botany thrown in. “But we must return to
our muttons,” he said, after a short pause, with
a convulsion of the jaw that was meant for a smile;
and we did. He went over the whole ground again—and
then suddenly came a human
cri du coeur which
gave me one of those fruitless pangs which are the
saddest things in the world. He was dusting the
sleeve of his coat, and I could not help feeling with
what unnecessary conscientiousness he was doing it.
He turned to me, “Do help me, if you can.
I really have done my best, but I can’t get
any work to do. I have not the position to which
I may fairly say my abilities and diligence entitle
me. I don’t understand why it is—I
can’t see where I am to blame.” Of
course I promised to do what I could, and Gregory
handed me a corresponding slip of paper to his own
which he had prepared for me.
We drew near to the little wayside station where he
was to catch a train. It was a summer day of
extraordinary loveliness. The great green fen
slept peacefully in the sun, and the low green hills
beyond lay quivering in the haze. Gregory, lost
in bitter musings, in his careful threadbare clothes,
rather unpleasantly hot, hopelessly bewildered as
to his place in the universe, conscious of virtue,
equipped with information, desiring neither pity nor
affection, but only work and due recognition, was
a sad blot upon nature. The whole business of
his creation and preservation seemed an ugly and a
heartless one, and his redemption beyond the power
of imagination. The train came in, and he got
wearily in, shook hands, and immersed himself in a
book. He said no more, made no sign, waved no
hand of farewell. He did not feel any sentimental
emotion; he had come on business, and he went away
on business.
Of course it was of no use. I wrote a few letters,
read Gregory’s manuscript, and had to take a
course of Sherlock Holmes in order to obliterate the
nauseous memory of its dulness. Nothing came of
it all, except a very offensive letter from Gregory
about my ineffectiveness and general duplicity.