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Updated: May 9, 2025
The reviews came in slowly, and, excepting for the smaller provincial papers, treated him with an indifference that was worse than neglect. "This interesting novel by Mr. Westcott" "A pleasant tale of country life by the author of 'Reuben Hallard. Will please those who like a quiet agreeable book without too much incident."
But I'm going to tell the truth about it. I know better, you know...." Chancing, before I turned in that night, to reopen one of his folios, I came across a drawing, there by accident, I don't doubt, that confirmed me in my suspicion that Andriaovsky had had his quiet joke with Schofield, Hallard, Connolly and Co.
"Ye'll know with what foolish generosity poor Michael always gave his things away," he said. "Hallard has a grand set; so has Connolly; and from time to time he behaved varry handsomely to myself. Artists of varry considerable talents both Hallard and Connolly are; Michael thought varry highly of their abilities.
Of this the best was undoubtedly "The Sea Road," but in his heart of hearts Peter knew that there was something the matter with all of them. "Reuben Hallard" he had written because he had to write it, these four things he had written because he ought to write them ... difference sufficient. Nevertheless, he put them into halfpenny wrappes and sent them away.
Peter's little room was very cold, but his body was burning he was in a state of overpowering excitement; his hands trembled so that he could scarcely hold his pen ... "So died Reuben Hallard, a fool and a gentleman" and then "Finis" with a hard straight line underneath it.... He had been working at it for three years, and he had been in London seven.
"He was leading his proper life in those days at Dawson's when they were beating him at home and hating him at school, and it was that old bookshop and the queer people he met in it that produced 'Reuben Hallard.
On the following Tuesday "Reuben Hallard" was published and on the Thursday afternoon Henry Galleon and Clare Rossiter were to come to tea. "Reuben Hallard" arrived in a dark red cover with a white paper label. The six copies lay on the table and looked at Peter as though he had had nothing whatever to do with their existence.
But Peter was now in a fever that saw an enemy round every corner. The English News Supplement only gave him a line: "'Mortimer Stant. A new novel by the author of 'Reuben Hallard, depicting agreeably enough the amorous adventures of a stockbroker of middle-age." To this had all his fine dreams, his moments of exultation, his fevered inspiration come!
He was with the Gods ... there on the Olympian heights he drank with them, he sang songs with them, with mighty voices they applauded "Reuben Hallard." He drank in his excitement many whiskies and sodas and soon the white room with its books was like the inside of a golden shell.
"You might get board somewheres." This was a new idea. "Why so I might! Does Mrs. Hallard who raises chickens or Miss What's-her-name who cures ham, keep boarders?" "Nope. But they're not the only oysters in the soup There's the bell! They never give a man a minute's peace. Say, if you don't really like that pie, don't waste it see? Tell you about boarding-houses later."
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