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Resolving instantly that if an unpleasant thing had to be done it should at least be done well, she smiled brightly. "See what you have driven me to breaking the Sabbath," she cried, holding up the bag of cakes. "Tea and bread-and-butter with you would be a feast for the gods," said Siddle. "Now you're adapting Omar Khayyam." "Who's he?" "A Persian poet of long ago." "I never read poetry.
Perhaps it will not be impertinent for me to remark, in reference to this admirable and delightful letter, that its writer here exemplifies the best feelings about Hawthorne's art without quite knowing it. We see him bubbling glad ejaculations in the true style of an Omar Khayyam who has drained the magic cup handed to him.
The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám. He was a grave personable Moor of middle age, and full of the dignity that would seem to be the birthright of his race. His official position gave him a certain knowledge of political developments without affecting his serene outlook upon life.
"There are only dreams," she thought very lucidly, "to keep our souls alive. We are lucky if we get good dreams. We'll never get anything better." Through the glass between the patriotic posters that darkened the windows she could see the morbid colour of London air. "Apart from dreams," thought this busconducting Omar Khayyám, "there is nothing but disappointment. We expected too much.
As I stood there among the worshippers in the wide colonnade, near the exquisitely carved pulpit in the shadow of which an old man who looked like Abraham was swaying to and fro and whispering his prayers, I thought of Omar Khayyam and how he would have loved this garden.
He was shy of her only because he was still so ignorant, but he felt no barriers, rather an overlapping of something they both had in common, which is the surest herald sometimes of friendship, sometimes of other things. Killigrew arrived with a copy of "Richard Feverel" under one arm and the first edition of Fitzgerald's "Omar Khayyam" under the other.
The key is in it." "Then what " began Grace. "Yes, what?" quizzed Elfreda dryly. "'There was a door to which I had no key," quoted Miriam, as she joined the group. "Don't tease, Miriam," returned Grace, "even through the medium of Omar Khayyam. The key is a reality, but there is some one on the other side of that door who doesn't belong there.
"What was the sight that greeted your eyes, Confucius?" asked Cassius. "Omar Khayyam stretched over five of the most comfortable chairs in the library," returned Confucius; "and when I ventured to remonstrate with him he lost his temper, and said I'd spoiled the whole second volume of the Rubaiyat.
Isn't that what it's called? Man: Has Omar Khayyam reached the theatrical world? Well, there's no doubt the earth does move, after all. Woman: A little more soda, please. And just a trifle less impudence. What book ought one to be reading, then? Man: Socialism's the thing just now. Read Wells on Socialism. It'll be all over the theatrical world in a few years' time. Woman: No fear!
The first edition of FitzGerald's Omar Khayyám, issued at one shilling, was totally unrecognised, and copies of it might have been bought for twopence in the trays and boxes of trash on the pavement outside old bookshops! But if once a work is published, time will with almost irresistible force place it ultimately in the station it deserves in the literature of the world.
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