And everyone obtained his just Deserts!

We pay dearly for our want of sincerity.  We are denied the payment of praise: it has ceased to have any value.  People shake me warmly by the hand and tell me that they like my books.  It only bores me.  Not that I am superior to compliment—nobody is—but because I cannot be sure that they mean it.  They would say just the same had they never read a line I had written.  If I visit a house and find a book of mine open face downwards on the window-seat, it sends no thrill of pride through my suspicious mind.  As likely as not, I tell myself, the following is the conversation that has taken place between my host and hostess the day before my arrival:

“Don’t forget that man J--- is coming down to-morrow.”

“To-morrow!  I wish you would tell me of these things a little earlier.”

“I did tell you—told you last week.  Your memory gets worse every day.”

“You certainly never told me, or I should have remembered it.  Is he anybody important?”

“Oh, no; writes books.”

“What sort of books?—I mean, is he quite respectable?”

“Of course, or I should not have invited him.  These sort of people go everywhere nowadays.  By the by, have we got any of his books about the house?”

“I don’t think so.  I’ll look and see.  If you had let me know in time I could have ordered one from Mudie’s.”

“Well, I’ve got to go to town; I’ll make sure of it, and buy one.”

“Seems a pity to waste money.  Won’t you be going anywhere near Mudie’s?”

“Looks more appreciative to have bought a copy.  It will do for a birthday present for someone.”

On the other hand, the conversation may have been very different.  My hostess may have said:

“Oh, I am glad he’s coming.  I have been longing to meet him for years.”

She may have bought my book on the day of publication, and be reading it through for the second time.  She may, by pure accident, have left it on her favourite seat beneath the window.  The knowledge that insincerity is our universal garment has reduced all compliment to meaningless formula.  A lady one evening at a party drew me aside.  The chief guest—a famous writer—had just arrived.

“Tell me,” she said, “I have so little time for reading, what has he done?”

I was on the point of replying when an inveterate wag, who had overheard her, interposed between us.

“‘The Cloister and the Hearth,’” he told her, “and ‘Adam Bede.’”

He happened to know the lady well.  She has a good heart, but was ever muddle-headed.  She thanked that wag with a smile, and I heard her later in the evening boring most evidently that literary lion with elongated praise of the “Cloister and the Hearth” and “Adam Bede.”  They were among the few books she had ever read, and talking about them came easily to her.  She told me afterwards that she had found that literary lion a charming man, but—

“Well,” she laughed, “he has got a good opinion of himself.  He told me he considered both books among the finest in the English language.”

It is as well always to make a note of the author’s name.  Some people never do—more particularly playgoers.  A well-known dramatic author told me he once took a couple of colonial friends to a play of his own.  It was after a little dinner at Kettner’s; they suggested the theatre, and he thought he would give them a treat.  He did not mention to them that he was the author, and they never looked at the programme.  Their faces as the play proceeded lengthened; it did not seem to be their school of comedy.  At the end of the first act they sprang to their feet.

“Let’s chuck this rot,” suggested one.

“Let’s go to the Empire,” suggested the other.  The well-known dramatist followed them out.  He thinks the fault must have been with the dinner.

A young friend of mine—a man of good family—contracted a mésalliance: that is, he married the daughter of a Canadian farmer, a frank, amiable girl, bewitchingly pretty, with more character in her little finger than some girls possess in their whole body.  I met him one day, some three months after his return to London.