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unearths some literary gems.
I recommend this comic novel from 1901, about a young gentleman with a telescope who gets caught in an increasingly farcical mess involving his long-suffering grandmother, a pompous bully of an astronomer (who speaks of himself in the third person), a pair of self-conscious but insistent astrologers (one of whom frequently speaks in broken Latin), and an enthusiastic mischief maker who has intentionally embarked on a double life as a "silly" person because she was frustrated with being thought of as a "sensible" young woman. You'll meet a secret-mail librarian (at an establishment called Jellybrand's) who quibbles pedantically at every figure of speech; an affable Drones Club-type idiot who thinks Thackeray and his contemporaries are the latest thing; and a lady's companion named Mrs. Fancy Quinglet, who ends many of her speeches with "I can’t speak different nor mean other," and has refused to say the name of a dog called Beau after learning it's not spelled "Bow." I know Wodehouse was already active by this time, by I think Hichens was ahead of him in terms of this sort of ridiculously but cleverly entangled plot, its fashionable-London setting, and some of the characterizations--and here and there are some impressively Wodehousian paragraphs, stylistically speaking. (And just wait until you see what Hichens does with spates of telegrams, in chapter X!) Hichens also has a gift for some positively cartoonish descriptions of physical antics.Here's a link; snippets below, if you want a preview or a shortcut or snippets only.https://www.gutenberg.org/files/2463/2463-h/2463-h.htm#link2HCH0001***A grandmother’s clock pronounced the hour of ten in a frail and elegant voice***He was a neatly-made little man of fashionable, even of modish, cut, spare, smart and whimsical, with a clean-shaved, small-featured face, large, shining brown eyes, abundant and slightly-waving brown hair, that could only be parted, with the sweetest sorrow, in the centre of his well-shaped, almost philosophical head, and movements light and temperate as those of a meditative squirrel.***As he spoke he threw his black overcoat wide open, seated himself on the edge of one of the chairs in a dignified attitude, and crossed his feet—which were not innocent of spats—one over the other.***[One Letter Word dept.]"Sagittarius Lodge on the river—the river—what river did you say—?”“The River Mouse,” rejoined Malkiel in a muffled voice, and shaking his head sadly.“Exactly—on the River Mouse at Crompton—”“Crampton.”“Crampton St. Peter total—”“N.!”“What?”“Crampton St. Peter. N. That is the point.”[...]“I ask you what does en mean? I am, I fear, a very ill-informed person, and I really don’t know.”“Think of an envelope, sir,” said Malkiel, with gentle commiseration. “Well, are you thinking?”The Prophet grew purple.“I am—but it is no use. Besides, why on earth should I think of an envelope? I beg you to explain.”“North, sir, the northern postal district of the metropolis. Fairly simple that—I think, sir.”“N.!” cried the illuminated Prophet. “I see. I was thinking of en all the time. I beg your pardon. Please go on. N.—of course!”***The young librarian helped the fatigued-looking wine into the two glasses, where it lay as if thoroughly exhausted by the effort of getting there.***The torrent of knocks roared louder, slightly failed upon the ear, made a crescendo, emulated Niagara, surpassed that very American effort of nature, wavered, faltered to Lodore, died away to a feeble tittup like water dropping from a tap to flagstones, rose again in a final spurt that would have made Southey open his dictionary for adjectives, and drained away to death.***The venerable astronomer was already very stout in person and very inflamed in appearance. But at this point in the discourse he suddenly became so very much stouter and so very much more inflamed, that his audience of three gazed upon him rather as little children gaze upon dough which has been set by the cook to “rise” and which is fulfilling its mission with an unexpected, and indeed intemperate, vivacity. Their eyes grew round, their features rigid, their hands tense, their attitudes expectant. Leaning forward, they stared upon Sir Tiglath with an unwinking fixity and preternatural determination that was almost entirely infantine. And while they did so he continued slowly to expand in size and to deepen in colour until mortality seemed to drop from him. He ceased to be a man and became a phenomenon, a purple thing that journeyed towards some unutterable end, portentous as marching judgment, tragic as fate, searching as epidemic, and yet heavily painted and generally touched up by the brush of some humorous demon, such as lays about him in preparation for Christmas pantomime, sworn to provide the giants’ faces and the ogres’ heads for Drury Lane.“Don’t!” at last cried a young voice. “Don’t, Sir Tiglath!”A peal of laughter followed the remark, of that laughter which is loud and yet entirely without the saving grace of merriment, a mere sudden demonstration of hysteria.“Oh, Sir Tiglath—don’t!”A second laugh joined the first and rang up with it, older, but also hysterical—Mrs. Merillia’s.“No, no—please don’t, Sir Tig—Tig—”A third laugh burst into the ring, seeming to complete it fatally—the Prophet’s.“Sir Tiglath—for Heaven’s sake—don’t!”The adjuration came from a trio of choked voices, and might have given pause even to a descending lift or other inflexible and blind machine.But still the astronomer grew steadily more gigantic in person and more like the god of wine in hue. The three voices failed, and the terrible, united laughter was just upon the point of breaking forth again when a diversion occurred. The door of the drawing-room was softly opened, and Mrs. Fancy Quinglet appeared upon the threshold, holding in her hands an ice-wool shawl for the comfort of her mistress. It chanced that as the phenomenon of the astronomer was based upon a large elbow chair exactly facing the door she was instantly and fully confronted by it. She did not drop the shawl, as any ordinary maid would most probably have done. Mrs. Fancy was not of that kidney. She did not even turn tail, or give a month’s warning or a scream. She was of those women who, when they meet the inevitable, instinctively seem to recognise that it demands courage as a manner and truth as a greeting. She, therefore, stared straight at Sir Tiglath—much as she stared at Mrs. Merillia when she was about to arrange that lady’s wig for an assembly—and remarked in a decisive, though very respectful, tone of voice,—“The gentleman’s about to burst, ma’am. I can’t speak different nor mean other.”Upon finding their thoughts thus deftly gathered up and woven into a moderately grammatical sentence, Mrs. Merillia, Lady Enid and the Prophet experienced a sense of extraordinary relief, and no longer felt the stern necessity of laughing. But this was not the miracle worked by Mrs. Fancy. Had she, even then, rested satisfied with her acumen, maintained silence and awaited the immediate fulfilment of her prediction, what must have happened can hardly be in doubt. But she was seized by that excess of bravery which is called foolhardiness, and driven by it to that peculiar and thoughtless vehemence of action which sometimes wins V.C.‘s for men who, in later days, conceal amazement under the cherished decoration. She suddenly laid down the ice-wool shawl upon a neighbouring sociable, walked up to the phenomenon of the astronomer, and remarked to it with great distinctness,—“You’re about to burst, sir. I know it, sir, and I can’t know other.”[a little later]He began to expand once more, but Mrs. Merillia perceived the tendency and checked it in time.“Pray, Sir Tiglath,” she said almost severely, “don’t. With my sprained ankle I am really not equal to it.”***There are moments when the mere expression in another person’s eyes seems to shout a request at one. The expression in the Prophet’s eyes performed this feat at this moment, with such abrupt vehemence, that Lady Enid felt almost deafened.***The Prophet glanced towards Lady Enid. She was looking almost narrow and not at all pleased. She, and all her family, had a habit of suddenly appearing thinner than usual when they were put out.***“Sir Tiglath is really, as an old man, what everybody thinks I am, as a young woman. D’you see?”“You mean?”“The opposite of me. And in this way too. While I hide my silliness under my eyebrows, and hair, and smile, and manner, he hides his sensibleness under his. When people meet me they always think—what a common-sense young woman! When they meet him they always think—what a preposterous old man!”“Well, but then,” cried the Prophet, struck by a sudden idea, “if that is so, how can you live a double life as Miss Minerva Partridge? You can’t change your eyebrows with your name!”***“Here’s a go, Gustavus,” remarked Mr. Ferdinand a moment later as he entered the servants’ hall.“Where, Mr. Ferdinand?” replied Gustavus***On the left side of her pelisse reposed a round bouquet of violets about the size of a Rugby football.***So saying the Prophet hurried away, leaving Mr. Ferdinand almost as firmly rooted to the Turkey carpet with surprise as if he had been woven into the pattern at birth, and never unpicked in later years.***An eight-day clock, which was carefully and lovingly wound up by the prudent Mrs. Fancy Quinglet every morning and evening, snored peacefully in a recess by the hearth.***To say that Mr. Ferdinand ceased from looking through the telescope for the Lord Chancellor’s second-cook at this juncture would, perhaps, not convey quite a fair idea of the activity which he could on occasion display even at his somewhat advanced age. It might be more just to state that, without wasting any precious time in useless elongation, he described an exceedingly rapid circular movement, still preserving the shortened form of himself which had so deceived and startled his master, and brought his eye from the orifice of the telescope to a level with the Prophet’s knees exactly at the moment when the Prophet rebounded from the plate chest into the centre of the apartment.***[Being Confused by a Horse dept.]“I beg your pardon. I—the horse confuses me.”***“You’re worse than I am! It’s splendid!”“Worse!”“Why, yes. You’re foolish enough to think your silly acts sensible. I wish I could get to that.”***Lady Enid and the Prophet discovered the astronomer sitting there tete-a-tete with a muffin.***"Madame is possessed of a magnificent library, sir, encyclopaedic in its scope and cosmopolitan in its point of view. In it are represented every age and every race since the dawn of letters; thousands upon thousands of authors, sir, Rabelais and Dean Farrar, Lamb and the Hindoos, Mettlelink and the pith of the great philosophers such as John Oliver Hobbes, Locke, Hume and Earl Spencer; the biting sarcasm of Hiny, the pathos of Peps, the oratorical master-strokes of such men as Gladstone, Demosthenes and Keir Hardie; the romance of Kipling, sir, of Bret Harte and Danty Rossini; the poetry of Kempis a Browning and of Elizabeth Thomas Barrett—all, all are there bound in Persian calf."***“What have I always said! All prophets are what they call outsiders—hors d’oeuvres, neither more nor less.”***He began to steal, like a shadow, across the hall, and, impressed by his surreptitious manner, his old and valued friends instinctively followed his example. All three of them, then, with long steps and theatrical pauses, were stagily upon the move, when suddenly the door that led to the servants’ quarters swung open and Mrs. Fancy Quinglet debouched into their midst, succeeded by Mr. Ferdinand, who carried in his hand a menu card in a silver holder. At the moment of their appearance the Prophet, holding his finger to his lips, was taking a soft and secret stride in the direction of the library door, his body bent forward and his head protruded towards the sanctum he longed to gain, and Madame and Mr. Sagittarius, true to the instinct of imitation that dwells in our monkey race, were in precisely similar attitudes behind him. The hall being rather dark, and the gait of the trio it contained thus tragically surreptitious, it was perhaps not unnatural that Mrs. Fancy should give vent to a piercing cry of terror, and that Mr. Ferdinand should drop the menu and crouch back against the wall in a hunched position expressive of alarm. At any rate, such were their actions, while—for their part—the Prophet and his two old and valued friends uttered a united exclamation and struck three attitudes that were pregnant with defensive amazement.***“I am an outside broker. I swear it. My dress, my manner proclaim the fact. Sophronia, tell the gentleman that I am an outside broker and that all Margate has recognised me as such.”“My husband states the fact,” said Madame, in response to this impassioned appeal. “My husband brokes outside, and has done for the last twenty years."***[Pathetic Fallacy with Ice Cream dept.]Mr. Ferdinand, who was trembling in every limb at having to assist at such a scene in his dining-room, which had hitherto been the very temple of soft conversation and the most exquisite decorum, advanced towards Madame, clattering the flat silver dish, and causing the frozen delicacy that the cook had elegantly posed upon it to run first this way and then that as if in imitative agitation.***“Mrs. Eliza Doubleway!” shouted the footman.“Mrs. Eliza!” cried Mr. Sagittarius, in great excitement. “That’s the soothsayer from the Beck!”“Madame Charlotte Humm!” yelled the footman.“Madame Humm!” vociferated Mr. Sagittarius, “the crystal-gazer from the Hill!”“Professor Elijah Chapman!” bawled the footman.“The nose-reader!” piped Mr. Sagittarius. “The nose-reader from the Butts!”[...]“Dr. Birdie Soames!” interposed the vibrant bass of the footman.“The physiognomy lady from the Common!” said Mr. Sagittarius, on the point of breaking down under the emotion of the moment.***From all sides rose the hum of comment and the murmur of speculation. Pince-nez were adjusted, eyeglasses screwed into eyes, fingers pointed, feet elevated upon uneasy toes.***Mittens, too, were visible covered with cabalistic inscriptions in glittering beadwork.***[Disguised as Oneself dept.]“I know!” she cried, after a moment’s thought. “I’ll masquerade to-night as myself.”“As yourself?”“Yes. All these dear silly people here think that I’ve got an astral body.”“What’s that?”“A sort of floating business—a business that you can set floating.”“What—a company?”“No, no. A replica of yourself. The great Towle—”“He’s here to-night.”“I knew he was coming. Well, the great Towle detached this astral body once at a séance and, for a joke—a silly joke, you know—”“Yes, yes.”“I christened it by my real name, Lady Enid Thistle, and said Lady Enid was an ancestress of mine.”“Why did you?”“Because it was so idiotic.”“I see.”“Well, I’ve only now to spread a report among these dear creatures that I’m astral to-night, and get Towle to back me up, and I can easily be Lady Enid for an hour or two. In this crowd Sir Tiglath need never find out that I’m generally known in these circles as Miss Partridge.”***"I suddenly began to feel astral just as I was going to eat a sandwich."***“The old astronomer does not know the meaning of the word—fear.”Exactly as he uttered these inspiring words the hall clock growled, like a very large dog, and struck two. Sir Tiglath started and caught hold of Gustavus, who started in his turn and shrank away. The Prophet alone stood up to the clock, which finished its remark with a click, and resumed its habitual occupation of ticking.the_silly_life
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