“THE next story,” said the author, “will be an example of grim realism. It will have no characters and no incidents and no meaning. It will continue for some three or four hundred pages, and will begin in the middle and not end at all. There will also be a tendency for verbs and punctuation to disappear simultaneously, and a slightly stagnant atmosphere of muddled gloom will reproduce the sensation of a London fog.” “I did not know,” said the publisher, “that you had read Tchekov. For my part I have not, and let me add I do not intend that my public should.” “I do not even know,” replied the author, “what Tchekov is, though by the sound it might be a Slavonic parlour game. But if, as always, you are going to thwart me just when I am about to strike a modern note, I will tell you quite simply and (I hope) beautifully an old-fashioned Christmas story. About the year 1840,” said the author, “in “I do not,” interjected the publisher, “wish to be unduly curious. But may I ask whether there are any other sentences in this story?” “Of course,” retorted the author, with justifiable heat, “but if I am to tell this story at all perhaps you will permit me to tell it in an old-fashioned way. Let me tell you that in 1840 people had time to finish sentences like that, yes and to understand them. A man who could stand the factory system of the time could stand anything. “Well,” continued the author, “there existed in that neighbourhood Jonathan Gogglesnape, and as is general with persons who had acquired names of that sort, he was the hardest, grindingest miser that you would “A sharp fall of snow, as yet untrodden into filth and mud, had smoothed out the vices of the pavement and given that touch of happy contrast between the radiant revellers within and the homeless wanderers without so typical of Christmas feeling.” “I do not think that I can stand much more of this,” said the publisher faintly. “In that case,” said the author, “I shall, without delay, recite a poem which I have called ‘In vino veritas.’” In Vino Veritas. “Singing ’e was. I tell yer, singing as sweet as kiss me ’and— a drunken sort o’chune, but swinging the feet like if yer understand. “I stood and watched ’is dancin’ shadder, Lord wot a dancer! ’eel an’ toe. ‘Oo’s for the ladder—Jacob’s ladder— one good ’eave and up yer go!’ “Drunk as God ’e was—the liquor, like a flare of naphthaline, burning as it run, but quicker— brightest thing I ever seen! “’Appy? well I arsk yer! Drinking, laughing, singing, dance ’e went, Tell yer straight I kep’ on thinking— ’appy! that’s wot ’appy meant. “‘I’ve a ladder—Jacob’s ladder— one good ’eave and up yer go. Men are mad, but God is madder—’ Meaning? ‘Ow am I ter know?’ “Laughing, singing, dancing, mumming— looking soft and sly behind ’im, ‘Are yer coming? Aren’t yer coming?’ Damn ’is eyes—I’m off to find ’im.” “There is a good deal,” remarked the publisher, “to be said for Prohibition.” |