Raphael Sabatini - "The Life of Cesare Borgia"

Harold MacGrath - "The Man on the Box"

Thomas Dixon - "The One Woman"

Thucydides - "The History of the Peloponnesian War"

New Philadelphia Book Publisher Highlights Local Talent
Book and Publishing News from Publishers Newswire(tm)

Looking for Child to be on Cover of a New Book, 'The Model Child'
PHILADELPHIA, Pa. -- The Philadelphia literary world will celebrate the launch of two new players today, April 10th: Kay Square Press, a new publishing company focused on Philadelphia-area artists, their stories, and their art; and Kay Square's first release, 'With the Rich and Mighty: Emlen Etting of Philadelphia' (ISBN: 978-0-9815129-0-7), a critical biography by Kenneth C. Kaleta.

FlatSigned Press Alleges Don Imus Remarks Damage Legacy of President Gerald R. Ford
NEW YORK, N.Y. -- Nathan Yungerberg, an accomplished model scout and professional child photographer is launching a nation-wide casting call to find the cover model for his highly anticipated book release, 'The Model Child: A Parents Guide to the Child Modeling Industry' (ISBN: 978-0-9817018-0-6).

Books: Our Friend the Charlatan

G >> George Gissing >> Our Friend the Charlatan




"Not so many words," interposed the listener, smiling rather
disdainfully. "I see the upshot of it all. You promised to send Len
to school."

Mrs. Woolstan panted and fluttered and regarded Lashmar with eyes of
agitated appeal.

"If you think I ought to have held out--please say just what you
think--let us be quite frank and comradelike with each other--I
can write to Mr. Wrybolt."--

"Tell me plainly," said Dyce, leaning towards her. "What was your
reason for giving way at once? You really think, don't you, that it
will be better for the boy?"

"Oh, how _could_ I think so, Mr. Lashmar! You _know_ what a high
opinion--"

"Exactly. I am quite ready to believe all that. But you will be
easier in mind with Len at school, taught in the ordinary way? Now
be honest--make an effort."

"I--perhaps--one has to think of a boy's future--"

The pale face was suffused with rose, and for a moment looked pretty
in its half-tearful embarrassment.

"Good. That's all right. We'll talk no more of it."

There was a brief silence. Dyce gazed slowly about him. His eyes
fell on nothing of particular value, nothing at all unusual in the
drawing-room of a small house of middle-suburb type. There were
autotypes and etchings and photographs; there was good, comfortable
furniture; the piano stood for more than mere ornament, as Mrs.
Woolstan had some skill in music. Iris's widowhood was of five
years' duration. At two and twenty she had married a
government-office clerk, a man nearly twice her age, exasperated by
routine and lack of advancement; on her part it was a marriage of
generosity; she did not love the man, but was touched by his railing
against fate, and fancied she might be able to aid his ambitions.
Woolstan talked of a possible secretaryship under the chief of his
department; he imagined himself gifted for diplomacy, lacking only
the chance to become a power in statecraft. But when Iris had given
herself and her six hundred a year, she soon remarked a decline in
her husband's aspiration. Presently Woolstan began to complain of an
ailment, the result of arduous labour and of disillusion, which
might make it imperative for him to retire from the monotonous toil
of the Civil Service; before long, he withdrew to a pleasant cottage
in Surrey, where he was to lead a studious life and compose a great
political work. The man had, in fact, an organic disorder, which
proved fatal to him before he could quite decide whether to write
his book on foolscap or on quarto paper. Mrs. Woolstan devoted
herself to her child, until, when Leonard was nine, she entrusted
him to a tutor very highly spoken of by friends of hers, a young
Oxford man, capable not only of instructing the boy in the most
efficient way, but of training whatever force and originality his
character might possess. She paid a hundred and fifty pounds a year
for these invaluable services--in itself not a large stipend, but
large in proportion to her income. And Iris had never grudged the
expenditure, for in Dyce Lashmar she found, not merely a tutor for
her son, but a director of her own mind and conscience. Under Dyce's
influence she had read or tried to read--many instructive books;
he had fostered, guided, elevated her native enthusiasm; he had
emancipated her soul. These, at all events, were the terms in which
Iris herself was wont to describe the results of their friendship,
and she was eminently a sincere woman, ever striving to rise above
the weakness, the disingenuousness, of her sex.

"If you knew how it pains me!" she murmured, stealing a glance at
Lashmar. "But of course it won't make any difference--between us."

"Oh, I hope not. Why should it?" said Dyce, absently. "Now I'll tell
you something that has happened since I saw you last."

"Yes--yes--your own news! Oh, I'm afraid it is something bad!"

"Perhaps not. I rather think I'm at a crisis in my life--probably
_the_ crisis. I shouldn't wonder if these things prove to have
happened just at the right time. My news is this. Things are going
rather badly down at the vicarage. There's serious diminution of
income, which I knew nothing about. And the end of it is, that I
mustn't count on any more supplies; they have no more money to spare
for me. You see, I _am_ thoroughly independent."

He laughed; but Mrs. Woolstan gazed at him in dismay.

"Oh! Oh! How very serious! What a dreadful thing!"

"Pooh! Not at all. That's a very feminine way of talking."

"I'm afraid it is. I didn't mean to use such expressions. But
really--what are you going to do?"

"That'll have to be thought about."

Iris, with fluttering bosom, leaned forward.

"You'll talk it over with me? You'll treat me as a real friend--
just like a man friend? You know how often you have promised to."

"I shall certainly ask your advice."

"Oh! that's kind, that's good of you! We'll talk it over _very_
seriously."

How many hours had they spent in what Iris deemed "serious"
conversation? When Dyce stayed to luncheon, as he did about once a
week, the talk was often prolonged to tea-time. Subjects of
transcendent importance were discussed with the most hopeful
amplitude. Mrs. Woolstan could not be satisfied with personal
culture; her conscience was uneasy about the destinies of mankind;
she took to herself the sorrows of the race, and burned with zeal
for the great causes of civilisation. Vast theories were tossed
about between them; they surveyed the universe from the origin to
the end of all things. Of course it was Dyce who led the way in
speculation; Iris caught at everything he propounded with breathless
fervour and a resolute liberality of mind, determined to be afraid
of no hypothesis. Oh, the afternoons of endless talk! Iris felt that
this was indeed to live the higher life.

"By the bye," fell from Lashmar, musingly, "did you ever hear of a
Lady Ogram?"

"I seem to know the name," answered Mrs. Woolstan, keenly attentive.
"Ogram?--Yes, of course; I have heard Mrs. Toplady speak of her;
but I know nothing more. Who is she? What about her?"

A maidservant entered with the tea-tray. Dyce lay back in his chair,
gazing vacantly, until his hostess offered him a cup of tea. As he
bent forward to take it, his eyes for a moment dwelt with unusual
intentness on the face and figure of Iris Woolstan. Then, as he
sipped, he again grew absent-minded. Iris, too, was absorbed in
thought.

"You were speaking of Lady Ogram," she resumed, gently.

"Yes. A friend of mine down at Alverholme knows her very well, and
thought I might like to meet her. I half think I should. She lives
at Hollingford; a rich old woman, going in a good deal for social
questions. A widow, no children. Who knows?" he added, raising his,
eyebrows and looking straight at Iris. "She might interest herself
in--in my view of things."

"She might," replied the listener, as if overcoming a slight
reluctance. "Of course it all depends on her own views."

"To be sure, I know very little about her. It's the vaguest
suggestion. But, you see, I'm at the moment, when any suggestion,
however vague, has a possible value. One point is certain; I shan't
take any more pupils. Without meaning it, you have decided this
question for me; it's time I looked to other things."

"I _felt_ that!" exclaimed Mrs. Woolstan, her eyes brightening.
"That was what decided me; I see now that it was--though perhaps.
I hardly understood myself at the time. No more pupils! It is time
that your serious career began."

Lashmar smiled, nodding in reflective approval. His eyes wandered,
with an upward tendency; his lips twitched.

"Opportunity, opportunity," he murmured. "Of course it will come.
I'm not afraid."

"Oh it will come!" chanted his companion. "Only make yourself known
to people of influence, who can appreciate you."

"That's it." Dyce nodded again. "I must move about. For the present,
I have read and thought enough; now I have to make myself felt as a
force."

Mrs. Woolstan gazed at him, in a rapture of faith. His countenance
wore its transforming light; he had passed into a dream of conquest.
By constitution very temperate in the matter of physical indulgence,
Lashmar found exciting stimulus even in a cup of tea. For the
grosser drinks he had no palate; wine easily overcame him; tea and
coffee were the chosen aids of his imagination.

"Yes, I think I shall go down to Hollingford."

"Who," asked Iris, "is the friend who promised to introduce you?"

There was a scarcely perceptible pause before his reply.

"A parson--once my father's curate," he added, vaguely. "A
liberal-minded man, as so many parsons are nowadays."

Iris was satisfied. She gave the project her full approval, and
launched into forecast of possible issues.

"But. it's certain," she said presently, in a lower voice, "that
after this I shall see very little of you. You won't have time to
come here."

"If you think you are going to get quite rid of me so easily,"
answered Dyce, laughing--his laugh seldom sounded altogether
natural--"you're much mistaken. But come now, let us talk about
Len. Where are you going to send him? Has Wrybolt chosen a school?"

During the conversation that followed, Dyce was but half attentive.
Once and again his eyes fell upon Mrs. Woolstan with peculiar
observancy. Not for the first time, he was asking himself what might
be the actual nature and extent of her pecuniary resources, for he
had never been definitely informed on that subject. He did not face
the question crudely, but like a civilised man and a philosopher;
there were reasons why it should interest him just now. He mused,
too, on the question of Mrs. Woolstan's age, regarding which he
could arrive at but a vague conclusion; sometimes he had taken her
for hardly more than thirty, sometimes he suspected her of all but
ten years more. But, after all, what were these things to him? The
future beckoned, and he persuaded himself that its promise was such
as is set only before fortune's favourites.

Before leaving, he promised to come and lunch in a day or two, for
the purpose of saying good-bye to Leonard. Yet what, in truth, did
he care about the boy? Leonard was a rather precocious child,
inclined to work his brain more than was good for a body often
ailing. Now and then Dyce had been surprised into a feeling of
kindly interest, when Len showed himself peculiarly bright, but on
the whole he was tired of his tutorial duties, and not for a moment
would regret the parting.

"I'm sorry," he said, in a moved voice. "I hoped to make a man of
him, after my own idea. Well, well, we shall often see each other
again, and who knows whether I mayn't be of use to him some day."

"What a fine sensibility he has, together with his great
intelligence!" was Iris Woolstan's comment in her own heart. And she
reproached herself for not having stood out against Wrybolt.

As he walked away from the house, Dyce wondered why he had told that
lie about the friend at Alverholme. Would it not have been better,
from every point of view, to speak plainly of Connie Bride? Where
was the harm? He recognised in himself a tortuous tendency, not to
be overcome by reflection and moral or utilitarian resolve. He could
not, much as he desired it, be an entirely honest man. His ideal was
honesty, even as he had a strong prejudice in favour of personal
cleanliness. But occasionally he shirked the cold tub; and, in the
same way, he found it difficult at times to tell the truth.





CHAPTER IV




In the morning he had a letter from Mrs. Woolstan. Opening it
hurriedly, he was pleased, but not surprised, to discover a cheque
folded in the note-paper. Iris wrote that, as a matter of course,
she wished to pay what was owing to him in respect of his tutorial
engagement so abruptly brought to an end. "Even between friends, one
must be businesslike. You ought to have received a quarter's notice,
and, as it is now nearly the end of April, you must allow me to
reckon my debt as up to the quarterday in September. If you say a
word about it, I shall be angry, So _no nonsense, please_!"

The phrase underlined was a quotation from Dyce himself, who often
used it, in serio-joking tone, when he had occasion to reprove Mrs.
Woolstan for some act or word which jarred with his system. He was
glad to have the cheque, and knew quite well that he should keep it,
but a certain uneasiness hung about his mind all the morning. Dyce
had his ideal of manly independence; it annoyed him that
circumstances made the noble line of conduct so difficult. He
believed himself strong, virile, yet so often it happened that he
was constrained to act in what seemed rather a feeble and
undignified way. But, after all, it was temporary; the day of his
emancipation from paltry necessities would surely come, and all the
great qualities latent in him would have ample scope.

Plainly, he must do something. He could live for the next few
months, but, after that, had no resources to count upon. Such hopes
as he had tried to connect with the name of Lady Ogram might be the
veriest dream, but for the moment no suggestion offered in any other
quarter. It would be better, perhaps, to write to Connie Bride
before going down to Hollingford. Yes, he would write to Connie.

Having breakfasted, he stood idly at the window of his sitting-room.
His lodgings were in Upper Woburn Place, nearly opposite the church
of St. Pancras. He had read, he knew not where, that the crowning
portion of that remarkable edifice was modelled on the Temple of the
Winds at Athens, and, as he gazed at it this morning, he suffered
from the thought of his narrow experience in travel. A glimpse of
the Netherlands, of France, of Switzerland, was all he could boast.
His income had only just covered his expenditure; the holiday season
always found him more or less embarrassed, and unable to go far
afield. What Can one do on a paltry three hundred a year? Yet he
regretted that he had not used a stricter economy. He might have
managed in cheaper rooms; he might have done without this and the
other little luxury. To have travelled widely would now be of some
use to him; it gave a man a certain freedom in society, added an
octave to the compass of his discourse. Acquaintance with books did
not serve the same end; and, though he read a good deal, Dyce was
tolerably aware that not by force of erudition could he look for
advancement. He began to perceive it as a misfortune that he had not
earlier in life become clear as to the nature of his ambition. Until
a couple of years ago he had scarcely been conscious of any aim at
all, for the literary impulses which used to inspire his talk with
Connie Bride were merely such as stir in every youth of our time;
they had never got beyond talk, and, on fading away, left him
without intellectual motive. Now that he knew whither his desires
and his abilities tended, he was harassed by consciousness of
imperfect equipment. Even academically he had not distinguished
himself; he had made no attempt at journalism; he had not brought
himself into useful contact with any political group. All he could
claim for encouragement was a personal something which drew
attention, especially the attention of women, in circles of the
liberal-minded--that is to say, among people fond of talking more
or less vaguely about very large subjects. For talk he never found
himself at a loss, and his faculty in this direction certainly grew.
But as yet he had not discovered the sphere which was wholly
sympathetic and at the same time fertile of opportunity.

Among the many possibilities of life which lie before a young and
intelligent man, one never presented itself to Dyce Lashmar's
meditation. The thought of simply earning his living by
conscientious and useful work, satisfied with whatever distinction
might come to him in the natural order of things, had never entered
his mind. Every project he formed took for granted his unlaborious
pre-eminence in a toiling world. His natural superiority to mankind
at large was, with Dyce, axiomatic. If he used any other tone about
himself, he affected it merely to elicit contradiction; if in a
depressed mood he thought otherwise, the reflection was so at
conflict with his nature that it served only to strengthen his
self-esteem when the shadow had passed.

The lodgings he occupied were just like any other for which a man
pays thirty shillings a week. Though he had lived here for two or
three years, there was very little to show that the rooms did not
belong to some quite ordinary person; Dyce spent as little time at
home as possible, and, always feeling that his abode in such poor
quarters must be transitory, he never troubled himself to increase
their comfort, or in any way to give character to his surroundings.
His library consisted only of some fifty volumes, for he had never
felt himself able to purchase books; Mudie, and the shelves of his
club, generally supplied him with all he needed. The club, of
course, was an indispensable luxury; it gave him a West-end address,
enabled him to have a friend to lunch or dine in decent
circumstances without undue expense, and supplied him with very good
stationery for his correspondence. Moreover, it pleasantly enlarged
his acquaintance. At the club he had got to know Lord Dymchurch, a
month or two ago, and this connection he did not undervalue. His
fellow members, it is true, were not, for the most part, men of the
kind with whom Dyce greatly cared to talk; as yet, they did not seem
much impressed with his conversational powers; but Lord Dymchurch
promised to be an exception, and of him Dyce had already a very high
opinion.

After an hour or so of smoking and musing and mental vacillation, he
sat down to write his letter. "Dear Miss Connie," he began. It was
the name by which he addressed Miss Bride in the old days, and it
seemed good to him to preserve their former relations as far as
possible; for Constance, though a strange sort of girl, nowadays
decidedly cold and dry, undeniably had brains, and might still be
capable of appreciating him. "Yesterday I had to come back to town
in a hurry, owing to the receipt of some disagreeable news, so of
necessity I postponed my visit to Hollingford. It occurs to me that
I had better ask whether you were serious in your suggestion that
Lady Ogram might be glad to make my acquaintance. I know nothing
whatever about her, except what you told me on our walk to the
station, so cannot be sure whether she is likely to take any real
interest in my ideas. Our time together was too short for me to
explain my stand-point; perhaps I had better say a word or two about
it now. I am a Socialist--but not a Social-democrat; democracy
(which, for the rest, has never existed) I look upon as an absurdity
condemned by all the teachings of modern science. I am a Socialist,
for I believe that the principle of association is the only
principle of progress."

Here he paused, his pen suspended. He was on the point of referring
to the French book which he had read with so much profit of late,
and which now lay on the table before him. It might interest
Constance; she might like to know of it. He mused for some moments,
dipped his pen, and wrote on.

"But association means division of labour, and that labour may be
efficient there must be some one capable of directing it. What the
true Socialism has to keep in view is a principle of justice in the
balance of rights and duties between the few who lead and the
multitude who follow. In the history of the world hitherto, the
multitude has had less than its share, the ruling classes have
tyrannised. At present it's pretty obvious that we're in danger of
just the opposite excess; Demos begins to roar alarmingly, and
there'll be a poor look out for us if he gets all he wants. What we
need above all things is a reform in education. We are teaching the
people too much and too little. The first duty of the State is to
make citizens, and that can only be done by making children
understand from the beginning what is meant by citizenship. When
every child grows up in the knowledge that neither can the State
exist without him, nor he without the State--that no individual
can live for himself alone--that every demand one makes upon one's
fellow men carries with it a reciprocal obligation--in other
words, when the principle of association, of solidarity, becomes a
part of the very conscience, we shall see a true State and a really
progressive civilisation.

"I could point out to you the scientific (biological and zoological)
facts which support this view, but very likely your own knowledge
will supply them."

He paused to smile. That was a deft touch. Constance, he knew, took
pride in her scientific studies.

"We shall talk all this over together, I hope. Enough at present to
show you where I stand. Is this attitude likely to recommend itself
to Lady Ogram? Do you think she would care to hear more about it?
Write as soon as you have time, and let me know your opinion."

On re-reading his letter, Dyce was troubled by only one reflection.
He had committed himself to a definite theory, and, should it jar
with Lady Ogram's way of thinking, there would probably be little
use in his going down to Hollingford. Might he not have left the
matter vague? Was it not enough to describe himself as a student of
sociology? In which case--

He did not follow out the argument. Neither did he care to dwell
upon the fact that the views he had been summarising were all taken
straight from a book which he had just read. He had thoroughly
adopted them; they exactly suited his temper and his mind--always
premising that he spoke as one of those called by his author
_L'Elite_, and by no means as one of _la Foule_. Indeed, he was
beginning to forget that he was not himself the originator of the
bio-sociological theory of civilisation.

Economy being henceforth imposed upon him, he lunched at home on a
chop and a glass of ale. In the early afternoon, not knowing exactly
how to spend his time, he walked towards the busy streets, and at
length entered his club. In the library sat only one man, sunk in an
easy chair, busied with a book. It was Lord Dymchurch; at Lashmar's
approach, he looked up, smiled, and rose to take the offered hand.

"I disturb you," said Dyce.

"There's no denying it," was the pleasant answer, "but I am quite
ready to be disturbed. You know this, of course?"

He showed Spencer's "The Man versus the State."

"Yes," answered Dyce, "and I think it a mistake from beginning to
end."

"How so?"

Lord Dymchurch was about thirty, slight in build, rather languid in
his movements, conventionally dressed but without any gloss or
scrupulous finish, and in manners peculiarly gentle. His
countenance, naturally grave, expressed the man of thought rather
than of action; its traits, at the same time, preserved a curious
youthfulness, enhanced by the fact of his wearing neither moustache
nor beard; when he smiled, it was with an almost boyish frankness,
irresistible in its appeal to the good will of the beholder. Yet the
corners of his eyes were touched with the crow's foot, and his hair
began to be brindled, tokens which had their confirmation on brow
and lip as often as he lost himself in musing. He had a soft voice,
habitually subdued. His way of talking inclined to the quietly
humorous, and was as little self-assertive as man's talk can be; but
he kept his eyes fixed on anyone who conversed with him, and that
clear, kindly gaze offered no encouragement to pretentiousness or
any other idle characteristic. Dyce Lashmar, it might have been
noticed, betrayed a certain deference before Lord Dymchurch, and was
not wholly at his ease; however decidedly he spoke, his accent
lacked the imperturbable confidence which usually distinguished it.

"The title itself I take to be meaningless," was his reply to the
other's question. "How can there possibly be antagonism between the
individual and the aggregate in which he is involved? What rights or
interests can a man possibly have which are apart from the rights
and interests of the body politic without which he could not exist?
One might just as well suppose one of the cells which make up an
organic body asserting itself against the body as a whole."

Lord Dymchurch reflected, playing, as he commonly did, with a seal
upon his watchguard.

"That's suggestive," he said.

Dyce might have gone on to say that the suggestion, with reference
to this very book of Herbert Spencer's, came from a French
sociologist he had been reading; but it did not seem to him worth
while.

"You look upon the State as an organism," pursued Lord Dymchurch. "A
mere analogy, I suppose?"

"A scientific fact. It's the final stage of evolution. Just as cells
combine to form the physiological unit, so do human beings combine
to form the social-political unit the State. Did it ever occur to
you that the science of biology throws entirely new light on
sociological questions? The laws operating are precisely the same in
one region as in the other. A cell in itself is blind motion; an
aggregate of cells is a living creature. A man by himself is only an
animal with superior possibilities; men associated produce reason,
civilisation, the body politic. Could reason ever have come to birth
in a man alone?"