The Way We Live Now | Page 5

an entrance at two or three others, and had
learned a manner of speaking of those which had rejected him
calculated to leave on the minds of hearers a conviction that the
societies in question were antiquated, imbecile, and moribund. He was
never weary of implying that not to know Mr Alf, not to be on good
terms with Mr Alf, not to understand that let Mr Alf have been born
where he might and how ho might he was always to be recognized as a
desirable acquaintance, was to be altogether out in the dark. And that
which he so constantly asserted, or implied, men and women around
him began at last to believe and Mr Alf became an acknowledged
something in the different worlds of politics, letters, and fashion.
He was a good-looking man, about forty years old, but carrying himself
as though he was much younger, spare, below the middle height, with
dark brown hair which would have shown a tinge of grey but for the
dyer's art, with well-cut features, with a smile constantly on his mouth
the pleasantness of which was always belied by the sharp severity of
his eyes. He dressed with the utmost simplicity, but also with the
utmost care. He was unmarried, had a small house of his own close to
Berkeley Square at which he gave remarkable dinner parties, kept four
or five hunters in Northamptonshire, and was reputed to earn L6,000 a
year out of the 'Evening Pulpit' and to spend about half of that income.
He also was intimate after his fashion with Lady Carbury, whose
diligence in making and fostering useful friendships Lad been
unwearied. Her letter to Mr Alf was as follows:

'DEAR MR ALF,
Do tell me who wrote the review on Fitzgerald Barker's last poem.
Only I know you won't. I remember nothing done so well. I should

think the poor wretch will hardly hold his head up again before the
autumn. But it was fully deserved. I have no patience with the
pretensions of would-be poets who contrive by toadying and
underground influences to get their volumes placed on every
drawing-room table. I know no one to whom the world has been so
good-natured in this way as to Fitzgerald Barker, but I have heard of no
one who has extended the good nature to the length of reading his
poetry.
Is it not singular how some men continue to obtain the reputation of
popular authorship without adding a word to the literature of their
country worthy of note? It is accomplished by unflagging assiduity in
the system of puffing. To puff and to get one's self puffed have become
different branches of a new profession. Alas, me! I wish I might find a
class open in which lessons could be taken by such a poor tyro as
myself. Much as I hate the thing from my very soul, and much as I
admire the consistency with which the "Pulpit" has opposed it, I myself
am so much in want of support for my own little efforts, and am
struggling so hard honestly to make for myself a remunerative career,
that I think, were the opportunity offered to me, I should pocket my
honour, lay aside the high feeling which tells me that praise should be
bought neither by money nor friendship, and descend among the low
things, in order that I might one day have the pride of feeling that I had
succeeded by my own work in providing for the needs of my children.
But I have not as yet commenced the descent downwards; and therefore
I am still bold enough to tell you that I shall look, not with concern but
with a deep interest, to anything which may appear in the "Pulpit"
respecting my "Criminal Queens." I venture to think that the book
though I wrote it myself has an importance of its own which will secure
for it some notice. That my inaccuracy will be laid bare and
presumption scourged I do not in the least doubt, but I think your
reviewer will be able to certify that the sketches are lifelike and the
portraits well considered. You will not hear me told, at any rate, that I
had better sit at home and darn my stockings, as you said the other day
of that poor unfortunate Mrs Effington Stubbs.
I have not seen you for the last three weeks. I have a few friends every
Tuesday evening pray come next week or the week following. And
pray believe that no amount of editorial or critical severity shall make

me receive you otherwise than with a smile.
Most sincerely yours,
MATILDA CARBURY.'

Lady Carbury, having finished her third letter, threw herself back in her
chair, and for a moment