"We mail you 45 clippings of The Handful. Has your Agency sent you that many? If you like our way of business, mail us $1.50, and we will continue to collect clippings under your name."
He disliked their way of business. He flung the clippings unread into the fireplace. The next letter asked him to lecture to the Torchbearers' Guild, who, it seemed, admired "the virile manliness" of his style. Last of all came a letter from an unknown clergyman denouncing the pernicious influence of The Handful in words which, without being rude, were offensive beyond measure. He took up the papers.
The first paper, The Daily Dawn, treated him d'haut en bas, as follows:—
"M. Falempin's latest theatrical adventure, A Roman Matron, by Mr. Roger Naldrett (whom we suspect, from internal evidence, to be a not very old lady), was produced last night at the King's Theatre. As far as the audience permitted us to judge, before the piece ended in a storm of groans, we think that it is entirely unsuited to the modern stage. The character of Petronius, finely played by Mr. Danvers, showed some power of psychological analysis; but Mr. (or Miss) Naldrett would do well to remember that the Aristotelian definition of tragedy cannot be disregarded lightly."
The criticism in the second paper, The Dayspring, was written in more stately prose than that of The Dawn.
"An unreasonable amount of excitement was begotten by the entourage," it ran; "but the piece, which was dull, and occasionally disgusting, convinced us that the New Drama, about which we have heard so much lately, would do better to adequately study a drama more germane to modern ideas, such as we fortunately possess, than libel the institutions from which our glorious Constitution is derived," which was certainly a home-thrust from The Dayspring.
The third paper, The Morning, in its news column, referred to a disgraceful fracas at the King's Theatre. "The police," said The Morning, "were soon on the spot, and removed the more noisy members of the audience. Neither M. Falempin, the manager of the theatre, nor Miss Hanlon, who took a leading part in the offending play, would consent to be interviewed, when waited on, late last night, by a representative of this paper."
The fourth paper, The Day, said savagely that The Matron should never have passed the Censor, and that its production was an indelible blot on M. Falempin's (hitherto spotless) artistic record. Roger had written occasional reviews for The Day, about a dozen, all told. On the same page, and in the column next to that containing the "Dramatic Notes," was a review signed by him. Roger turned to this review, to see how it read. It was a review of a worthless book of verse by a successful versifier. The literary editor of The Day had asked Roger to write a column on the book. As the book deserved, at most, three scathing words in a Dunciad, Roger had written a column about poetry, a very pretty piece of critical writing, worth five thousand such books fifty times over. Its only fault was that, being about poetry, it had little reference to the book of verse by the successful poet. So the literary editor had "cut" and "written in" and altered the article, till Roger, reading it, on this tragical morning, found himself self-accused of despicable truckling to Mammon, and the palliation of iniquity, in sentences the rhythms of which jarred, and in platitudes which stung him. He flung down the paper. He would never again write for The Day. He would never write another word for any daily or weekly paper. He remembered what d'Arthez says in Les Illusions Perdues. He blamed himself for not having remembered before.
He ate very hurriedly, so that he might lose no time in getting to the flat in Shaftesbury Avenue, to find out if Ottalie were really there. Ottalie; the sight of Ottalie; the sound of her voice even, would end his troubles for him. The thought of her calmed him. The thought of her brought back the dream, with a glow of pleasure. The dream came and went in his mind, seeming now strange, now beautiful. His impression of it was that given by all moving dreams. He thought of it as a kind of divine adventure in which he had taken part. He felt that he had apprehended spiritually the mysterious life beyond ours, and had learned, finally, forever, that Ottalie's soul was linked to his soul by bonds forged by powers greater than man. A cab came clattering up. There came a vehement knocking at the outer door. "Ottalie," he thought. Selina, the house-maid, entered.
"A lady to see you, sir," she said.