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Final Gentleman
Clifford D. Simak
After thirty years and several million words there finally came a day when he couldn't write a line.
There was nothing more to say. He had said it all.
The book, the last of many of them, had been finished weeks ago and would be published soon and there was an
emptiness inside of him, a sense of having been completely drained away.
He sat now at the study window, waiting for the man from the news magazine to come, looking out across the
wilderness of lawn, with its evergreens and birches and the gayness of the tulips. And he wondered why he cared that
he would write no more, for certainly he had said a great deal more than most men in his trade and most of it more to
the point than was usual, and cloaked though it was in fictional garb, he'd said it with sincerity and, he hoped,
convincingly.
His place in literature was secure and solid. And, perhaps, he thought, this was the way it should be - to stop now at
the floodtide of his art rather than to go into his declining years with the sharp tooth of senility nibbling away the
bright valor of his work.
And yet there remained the urge to write, an inborn feeling that to fail to write was treachery, although to whom it
might be traitorous he had no idea. And there was more to it than that: An injured pride, perhaps, and a sense of panic
such as the newly blind must feel.
Although that was foolishness, he told himself. In his thirty years of writing, he had done a lifetime's work. And he'd
made a _good_ life of it. Not frivolous or exciting, but surely satisfying.
He glanced around the study and thought how a room must bear the imprint of the man who lives within it - the rows
of calf-bound books, the decorous neatness of the massive oaken desk, the mellow carpet on the floor, the old chairs
full of comfort, the sense of everything firmly and properly in place.
A knock came. 'Come in.' said Harrington.
The door opened and old Adams stood there, bent shoulders, snow white hair - the perfect picture of the old
retainer.
'It's the gentleman from _Situation_, sir.'
'Fine,' said Harrington. 'Will you show him in?'
It wasn't fine - he didn't want to see this man from the magazine. But the arrangements had been made many weeks
before and there was nothing now but to go through with it.
The man from the magazine looked more like a businessman than a writer, and Harrington caught himself wondering
how such a man could write the curt, penetrating journalistic prose which had made _Situation_ famous.
'John Leonard, sir,' said the man, shaking hands with Harrington.
'I'm glad to have you here,' said Harrington, falling into his pat pattern of hospitality. 'Won't you take this chair? I feel
I know you people down there. I've read your magazine for years. I always read the Harvey column immediately it
arrives.'
Leonard laughed a little. 'Harvey,' he said, 'seems to be our best known columnist and greatest attraction. All the
visitors want to have a look at him.'
He sat down in the chair Harrington had pointed out.
'Mr. White,' he said, 'sends you his best wishes.'
'That is considerate of him,' said Harrington. 'You must thank him for me. It's been years since I have seen him.'
And thinking back upon it, he recalled that he'd met Preston White only once, all of twenty years ago. The man, he
remembered, had made a great impression upon him at the time - a forceful, driving, opinionated man, an exact
reflection of the magazine he published.
'A few weeks ago,' said Leonard. 'I talked with another friend of yours. Senator Johnson Enright.'
Harrington nodded. 'I've known the senator for years and have admired him greatly. I suppose you could call it a
dissimilar association. The senator and I are not too much alike.'
'He has a deep respect and affection for you.'
'And I for him.' said Harrington. 'But this secretary of state business. I am concerned...'
'Yes?'
'Oh, he's the man for it, all right.' said Harrington. 'or I would suppose he is. He is intellectually honest and he has a
strange, hard streak of stubbornness and a rugged constitution, which is what we need. But there are considerations...'
Leonard showed surprise. 'Surely you do not...' [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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Final Gentleman
Clifford D. Simak
After thirty years and several million words there finally came a day when he couldn't write a line.
There was nothing more to say. He had said it all.
The book, the last of many of them, had been finished weeks ago and would be published soon and there was an
emptiness inside of him, a sense of having been completely drained away.
He sat now at the study window, waiting for the man from the news magazine to come, looking out across the
wilderness of lawn, with its evergreens and birches and the gayness of the tulips. And he wondered why he cared that
he would write no more, for certainly he had said a great deal more than most men in his trade and most of it more to
the point than was usual, and cloaked though it was in fictional garb, he'd said it with sincerity and, he hoped,
convincingly.
His place in literature was secure and solid. And, perhaps, he thought, this was the way it should be - to stop now at
the floodtide of his art rather than to go into his declining years with the sharp tooth of senility nibbling away the
bright valor of his work.
And yet there remained the urge to write, an inborn feeling that to fail to write was treachery, although to whom it
might be traitorous he had no idea. And there was more to it than that: An injured pride, perhaps, and a sense of panic
such as the newly blind must feel.
Although that was foolishness, he told himself. In his thirty years of writing, he had done a lifetime's work. And he'd
made a _good_ life of it. Not frivolous or exciting, but surely satisfying.
He glanced around the study and thought how a room must bear the imprint of the man who lives within it - the rows
of calf-bound books, the decorous neatness of the massive oaken desk, the mellow carpet on the floor, the old chairs
full of comfort, the sense of everything firmly and properly in place.
A knock came. 'Come in.' said Harrington.
The door opened and old Adams stood there, bent shoulders, snow white hair - the perfect picture of the old
retainer.
'It's the gentleman from _Situation_, sir.'
'Fine,' said Harrington. 'Will you show him in?'
It wasn't fine - he didn't want to see this man from the magazine. But the arrangements had been made many weeks
before and there was nothing now but to go through with it.
The man from the magazine looked more like a businessman than a writer, and Harrington caught himself wondering
how such a man could write the curt, penetrating journalistic prose which had made _Situation_ famous.
'John Leonard, sir,' said the man, shaking hands with Harrington.
'I'm glad to have you here,' said Harrington, falling into his pat pattern of hospitality. 'Won't you take this chair? I feel
I know you people down there. I've read your magazine for years. I always read the Harvey column immediately it
arrives.'
Leonard laughed a little. 'Harvey,' he said, 'seems to be our best known columnist and greatest attraction. All the
visitors want to have a look at him.'
He sat down in the chair Harrington had pointed out.
'Mr. White,' he said, 'sends you his best wishes.'
'That is considerate of him,' said Harrington. 'You must thank him for me. It's been years since I have seen him.'
And thinking back upon it, he recalled that he'd met Preston White only once, all of twenty years ago. The man, he
remembered, had made a great impression upon him at the time - a forceful, driving, opinionated man, an exact
reflection of the magazine he published.
'A few weeks ago,' said Leonard. 'I talked with another friend of yours. Senator Johnson Enright.'
Harrington nodded. 'I've known the senator for years and have admired him greatly. I suppose you could call it a
dissimilar association. The senator and I are not too much alike.'
'He has a deep respect and affection for you.'
'And I for him.' said Harrington. 'But this secretary of state business. I am concerned...'
'Yes?'
'Oh, he's the man for it, all right.' said Harrington. 'or I would suppose he is. He is intellectually honest and he has a
strange, hard streak of stubbornness and a rugged constitution, which is what we need. But there are considerations...'
Leonard showed surprise. 'Surely you do not...' [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]