Produced by Arthur DiBianca
Dedicated
TO ONE
WHO BESIDES BEING MY WIFE
HAS ALSO BEEN MY TRUEST FRIEND AND
MY BEST ADVISER.
Explanatory.
"You've no idea what a poor opinion I have of myself, and how littleI deserve it."—Ruddigore.
It was one dark, dank, dreary, dismal night in February, 1888 (Ibelieve that is the way to commence a book, no matter what thesubject be), when the present writer might have been seen standing,with other gentlemen, in a sombre dining-room brilliantlyilluminated with one ceiling-lamp buried in a deep red shade. Wewere standing round the dining-room table, each with a dinner-napkinin the left hand; while the right hand was occupied in moving backchairs, to permit of the departure of the ladies for thedrawing-room. I could not help thinking that, as they filed off, theladies looked like queens; while we (especially with the aid of theserviettes) looked like waiters. The gentlemen drew their chairsround the host, and wine was languidly passed round. A tallgentleman, with a heavy beard, to whom I had not been introduced,approached me, and sat by my side. He passed me the spirit-lamp, forwhich I thanked him while lighting my cigarette. He then commenced aconversation in earnest.
"Did you see that Mr. —— is writing his reminiscences?"
"Yes."
"Don't you think it rather a pity that he should do so?"
"Why a pity?" I asked in reply to his question.
"Well, I always think the moment a man begins to write hisreminiscences he is bound, more or less, to make an ass of himself."
"In what way?" I asked.
"In the first place, he is hampered by having to be so egotistical.He must talk about himself, which is never a nice thing to do. Hecannot very well tell stories in his own favour; and if he tellsthem against himself, he affects humility: if he talks about hisdistinguished acquaintances, he becomes a snob; in short, I can onlyrepeat my former observation, that he is bound to make an ass ofhimself."
For a moment or two I did not know what to say, for my consciencesmote me. At last I said:
"I am very pleased to hear your candid, and certainly unbiassed,opinion; for I have just accepted an offer from Mr. Arrowsmith to doa shilling book of my own reminiscences for the Bristol LibrarySeries."
My friend did not know what to say for a moment. His conscienceevidently smote him. At last he remarked:
"I fear I have said one of those things that are best left unsaid."
"I'm glad you said it," I replied. "You have rather opened my eyes.It will be necessary for me to explain that I cannot very well backout of my agreement with Mr. Arrowsmith, although, candidlyspeaking, I have no desire to do so; and I shall certainly have toapologise to the reading public for making an ass of myself."
I have thought over the above conversation many a time since, andhave concluded that I could not do better