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                                                                            Things went so well that first day that I managed to get through Montreal before nightfall and twenty miles on down Route 9 that would take me over the border into New York State the next morning. I put up at a place called The Southern Trail Motel, where I was treated as if I was Amelia Earhart or Amy Mollison-a rather pleasurable routine that I became accustomed to-and, after a square meal in the cafeteria and the shy acceptance of one drink with the proprietor, I retired to bed feeling excited and happy. It had been a long and wonderful day. The Vespa was a dream, and my whole plan was working out fine.

                                                                                                                Once more it seemed to me possible that from this utter debasement man might now once more take the first step on the long journey towards lucidity. The whole lethal social order which had hitherto frustrated it had now vanished. Reduced once more to the primitive family, surely men would rediscover their essential humanity. But this could not be. The dead hand of the past still gripped even their most intimate relationships. Debased intelligence, debased self-consciousness, debased sensibility towards others made it impossible for the new sub-men to realize the folly and cruelty that they were constantly perpetrating. No individual was ever treated with respect even for such rudiments of personality as he might possess. Every man and woman was merely the node of a number of formal social relations. Everyone was either a chieftain or a slave or a free hunter, either a husband or bachelor, a wife or a virgin, and so on. And for each relationship there was an intricate pattern of conventional conduct, which must never be infringed. These patterns were in the main not expressions of existing circumstances but confused survivals of a past culture, in many cases cruelly frustrating to the individual. This state of affairs was damaging to everyone, not only because of the discrepancy between his actual circumstances and the behaviour imposed by convention, but also because in everyone there still lurked a tortured and bewildered germ of that spirit which in the past had flowered as Jesus, Socrates, Gautama, and the hosts of the wise and the good.

                                                                                                                                                    It has, however, been a great satisfaction to me to intrust the preparation of the Life to Miss Giberne; and I am glad to have this opportunity of expressing my hearty appreciation of the literary skill, the sympathy, and the fidelity to truth with which she has accomplished her task.

                                                                                                                                                                                        iii. Progress

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    Mr. Peggotty was no less pleased than his nephew, though his modesty forbade him to claim a personal compliment so vociferously.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        On Christmas day, 1863, we were startled by the news of Thackeray’s death. He had then for many months given up the editorship of the Cornhill Magazine — a position for which he was hardly fitted either by his habits or temperament — but was still employed in writing for its pages. I had known him only for four years, but had grown into much intimacy with him and his family. I regard him as one of the most tender-hearted human beings I ever knew, who, with an exaggerated contempt for the foibles of the world at large, would entertain an almost equally exaggerated sympathy with the joys and troubles of individuals around him. He had been unfortunate in early life — unfortunate in regard to money — unfortunate with an afflicted wife — unfortunate in having his home broken up before his children were fit to be his companions. This threw him too much upon clubs, and taught him to dislike general society. But it never affected his heart, or clouded his imagination. He could still revel in the pangs and joys of fictitious life, and could still feel — as he did to the very last — the duty of showing to his readers the evil consequences of evil conduct. It was perhaps his chief fault as a writer that he could never abstain from that dash of satire which he felt to be demanded by the weaknesses which he saw around him. The satirist who writes nothing but satire should write but little — or it will seem that his satire springs rather from his own caustic nature than from the sins of the world in which he lives. I myself regard Esmond as the greatest novel in the English language, basing that judgment upon the excellence of its language, on the clear individuality of the characters, on the truth of its delineations in regard to the tine selected, and on its great pathos. There are also in it a few scenes so told that even Scott has never equalled the telling. Let any one who doubts this read the passage in which Lady Castlewood induces the Duke of Hamilton to think that his nuptials with Beatrice will be honoured if Colonel Esmond will give away the bride. When he went from us he left behind living novelists with great names; but I think that they who best understood the matter felt that the greatest master of fiction of this age had gone.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            The fixed smile widened minutely. 'That would give me much satisfaction, Sir Hilary. I am the Comte de Bleuville.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                The exclamations and interruptions had, of course, been many. The subject was now discussed by Mrs. Montgomery and Frances. Also by Mr. Jackson; for he generally came in soon after the post hour. Julia did not venture a word. Lady Susan’s marriage was agreed upon by all as, of course, the principal cause of Edmund’s “ridiculously violent despair,” as Frances pettishly called it.

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