The Morals of Marcus Ordeyne - William John Locke

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universe who has a spark of admiration for this most puissant and most felicitous monarch crowned by God Emperor and King of the greater part of Europe (and docked of most of his pretensions by the Treaty of Utrecht)? We only remember the forcible-feeble person by his Pragmatic Sanction, and otherwise his personality has left in history not the remotest trace. And yet, on the 12th February, 1723, a profoundly erudite, subtle, and picturesque historian grovels before the man and subscribes himself “Of your Holy Caesarean and Catholic Majesty the most humble and most devoted and most obsequious vassal and slave Pietro Gianone.” What ruthless judgments posterity passes on once enormous reputations! In Gianone’s admirable introduction we hear of “il celebre Arthur Duck, il quale oltro a’ con confini della sua Inghilterra volle in altri a piu lontani Paesi andav rintracciando l’uso a l’autorita delle romane leggi ne’ nuovi domini de’ Principi cristiani; e di quelle di ciascheduna Nazione volle ancora aver conto: le ricerco nella vicina Scozia, e nell’ Ibernia; trapasso nella Francia, e nella Spagna; in Germania, in Italia, a nel nostro Regno ancora: si stese in oltre in Polonia, Boemia, in Ungheria, Danimarca, nella Svezia, ed in piu remote parti.” A devil of a fellow this celebrated English Arthur Duck, who besides writing a learned treatise De Usu et Auth. Jur. Civ. Rom. in Dominiis Principum Christianorum, was a knight, a member of Parliament, chancellor of the diocese of London, and a master in chancery. Gianone flattens himself out for a couple of pages before this prodigy whom he lovingly calls Ariuro, as who should say Raffaelo or Giordano; and now, where in the hearts of men lingers Sir Arthur Duck? For one thing he had a bad name. Our English sense of humour revolts from making a popular hero of a man called Duck. Yet we made one of Drake. But there was something masculine about the latter: in fact, everything.

      I am afraid it was rather late when I got to Judith.

       Table of Contents

      May 22d.

      I wonder whether I should be happier now if I had lived in a garret “in the brave days when I was twenty-one,” if I had undergone the lessons of misery with the attendant compensations of “une folle maitresse, de francs amis et l’amour des chansons,” and had joyous-heartedly mounted my six flights of stairs. I lived modestly, it is true; but never for a moment was I doubtful as to my next meal, and I have always enjoyed the creature comforts of the respectable classes; never did Lisette pin her shawl curtain-wise across my window. Sometimes, nowadays, I almost wish she had. I never dreamed of glory, love, pleasure, madness, or spent my lifetime in a moment, like the singer of the immortal song. Often the weary moments seemed a lifetime.

      And now that I am forty, “it is too late a week.” Boon companions, of whom I am thankful to say I have none, would drive me crazy with their intolerable heartiness. I once spent an evening at the Savage Club. As for the folle maitresse—as a concomitant of my existence she transcends imagination.

      “What are you thinking of?” asked Judith.

      “I was thinking how the ‘Dans un grenier qu’on est bien a vingt ans’’ principle would have worked in my own case,” I answered truthfully, for the above reflections had been Passing through my mind.

      Judith laughed.

      “You in a garret? Why, you haven’t got a temperament!”

      I suppose I haven’t. It never occurred to me before. Beranger omitted that from his list of attendant compensations.

      “That’s the difference between us,” she added, after a pause. “I have a temperament and you haven’t.”

      “I hope you find it a great comfort.”

      “It is ten times more uncomfortable than a conscience. It is the bane of one’s existence.”

      “Why be so proud of having it?”

      “You wouldn’t understand if I told you,” said Judith.

      I rose and walked to the window and gazed meditatively at the rain which swept the uninspiring little street. Judith lives in Tottenham Mansions, in the purlieus of the Tottenham Court Road. The ground floor of the building is a public-house, and on summer evenings one can sit by the open windows, and breathe in the health-giving fumes of beer and whisky, and listen to the sweet, tuneless strains of itinerant musicians. When my new fortunes enabled me to give the dear woman just the little help that allowed her to move into a more commodious flat, she had the many mansions of London to choose from. Why she insisted on this abominable locality I could never understand. It isn’t as if the flat were particularly cheap; indeed the fact of its being situated over a public-house seems to enhance the rent. She said she liked the shape of the knocker and the pattern of the bathroom taps. I dimly perceive that it must have had something to do with the temperament.

      “It always seems to rain when we propose an outing together. This is the fourth time since Easter,” I remarked.

      We had planned a sedate country jaunt, but as the day was pouring wet we remained at home.

      “Perhaps this is the way the bon Dieu has of expressing his disapproval of us,” said Judith.

      “Why should he disapprove?” I asked.

      A shrug of her shoulders ended in a shiver.

      “I am chilled through.”

      “My dear girl,” I cried, “why on earth haven’t you lit the fire?”

      “The last time I lit it you said the room was stuffy.”

      “But then it was beautiful blazing sunshine, you illogical woman,” I exclaimed, searching my pockets for a match-box.

      I struck a match. To apply it to the fire I had to kneel by her chair. She stretched out her hand—she has delicate white hands with slender fingers—and lightly touched my head.

      “How long have we known each other?” she asked.

      “About eight years.”

      “And how long shall we go on?”

      “As long as you like,” said I, intent on the fire.

      Judith withdrew her hand. I knelt on the hearthrug until the merry blaze and crackle of the wood assured me of successful effort.

      “These are capital grates,” I said, cheerfully, drawing a comfortable arm-chair to the front of the fire.

      “Excellent,” she replied, in a tone devoid of interest.

      There was a long silence. To me this is one of the great charms of human intercourse. Is there not a legend that Tennyson and Carlyle spent the most enjoyable evenings of their lives enveloped in impenetrable silence and tobacco-smoke, one on each side of the hob? A sort of Whistlerian nocturne of golden fog!

      I offered Judith a cigarette. She declined it with a shake of the head. I lit one myself and leaning back contentedly in my chair watched her face in half-profile. Most people would call her plain. I can’t make up my mind on the point. She is what is termed a negative blonde—that is to say, one with very fair hair (in marvellous abundance—it is one of her beauties), a sallow complexion and deep violet eyes. Her face is thin, a little worn, that of the woman who has suffered—temperament again! Her mouth, now, as she looks into the new noisy flames, is drawn down at the corners. Her figure is slight but graceful. She has pretty feet. One protruded from her skirt, and a slipper dangled from the tip. At last it fell off. I knew it would. She has a craze for the minimum of material in slippers—about an inch of leather (I suppose it’s leather) from the toe. I picked the vain thing up and balanced it again on her stocking-foot.

      “Will you do that eight years hence?” said Judith.

      “My dear, as I’ve done it eight thousand times the last eight years, I suppose I shall,” I replied, laughing. “I’m a creature

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