Read Online The Way Through Doors by Jesse Ball - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jesse Ball
Ads: Link
looked at the guess artist with a question in his eyes. The guess artist returned the question to him unopened. At that moment, the door was thrown wide, and Caroline stood there, in a fury.
—Did someone call for the servant? she asked.
—Not me, said the guess artist. I was just standing here by the window.
Without making any examination of the room, Caroline called out,
—Was it you, Piers Golp? Did you ring the bell?
—Not me, Mrs. O’Shea. It wasn’t me.
He came out from hiding and stood there fragilely holding his hands.
—I can smell him, you know, even when he hides, she said.
At this the old Mr. Golp shrank even more, and seemed on the verge of breaking.
—Leave him alone, said S. I’m the one who rang the bell.
—YOU RANG THE BELL? she shouted.
—That’s right, he said. I rang the bell because I want some water. Now go and fetch it, on the double.
—Very good, sir, said Caroline, curtsying.
She left the room.
The guess artist and Piers Golp looked at each other in shock.
—Not bad, said the guess artist. But how are we to get out of here?
—I have an idea, said S.
He drew his map out of his sleeve again and looked at it a moment.
—The next bit is a little odd, he said.
—Anything has to be better than this, said the guess artist. No offense intended to you, Mr. Golp.
Piers Golp sank into a chair and nodded to indicate that he had taken no offense and also to indicate that he knew very well the undesirable nature of life at 14 Beard Street.
S. came over and knelt down by Piers Golp’s chair.
—Haven’t you something to say to us, Mr. Golp? he asked.
—Well, said Piers Golp, as a matter of fact, I do.
A tiny bit of light came from the out-of-doors around the edges of the shuttered and draped windows. It made its way slowly and carefully over to the three friends and settled on them.
—There is, said Piers Golp, in this city, a certain anonymous pamphleteer whose work I greatly admire.
He held up the book he had been reading. This turned out in fact not to be a book at all but a substantial pamphlet, neatly and elegantly folded to produce the illusion of a book if viewed from a distance of twelve to fifteen feet. On its cover it said, An Inquiry into the Ultimate Utility of the Silly, as Prefigured in the Grave and Inhospitable.
—Is this a particularly good one? asked the guess artist.
—I’ve only just begun it, said Piers Golp. My very favorite is one entitled, Entering Rooms, a Grammar and Method.
To all this S. said nothing, but only sat upon his heels, watching very carefully the tides and eddies of expression pass over the face of Piers Golp.
—About this pamphleteer, Golp continued, almost nothing is known. A friend of mine who knows about my predicament here sends me every pamphlet he can get his hands on. He knows how I long for news of the outside world. After all, I was for many years a war correspondent.
—A war correspondent, exclaimed the guess artist.
—Except that, said Piers Golp a bit ashamedly, there were no wars at the time, so I stayed home.
The guess artist and S. nodded in an understanding way.
—The first of these pamphlets appeared about two years ago, said Piers Golp. Then, about a year ago, new pamphlets began to appear with much greater frequency. Also, they were better printed, and displayed an obviously greater degree of attention and skill. About him I can hazard little, save that he is a young man of great leaps. He is very sly and is best pleased only when he surprises himself. I think that it is most certainly the case that the best artists are the best because they have in their hearts an infinite affection for the objects of the world.
In one of these pamphlets, The Foreknowledge of Grief, he plots out a rubric for creating a person to fall in love with.
First, he says, you have to go out into the world. This is not a simple matter of going outside one’s door. No, that is simply going out. That’s what one does when
—Did someone call for the servant? she asked.
—Not me, said the guess artist. I was just standing here by the window.
Without making any examination of the room, Caroline called out,
—Was it you, Piers Golp? Did you ring the bell?
—Not me, Mrs. O’Shea. It wasn’t me.
He came out from hiding and stood there fragilely holding his hands.
—I can smell him, you know, even when he hides, she said.
At this the old Mr. Golp shrank even more, and seemed on the verge of breaking.
—Leave him alone, said S. I’m the one who rang the bell.
—YOU RANG THE BELL? she shouted.
—That’s right, he said. I rang the bell because I want some water. Now go and fetch it, on the double.
—Very good, sir, said Caroline, curtsying.
She left the room.
The guess artist and Piers Golp looked at each other in shock.
—Not bad, said the guess artist. But how are we to get out of here?
—I have an idea, said S.
He drew his map out of his sleeve again and looked at it a moment.
—The next bit is a little odd, he said.
—Anything has to be better than this, said the guess artist. No offense intended to you, Mr. Golp.
Piers Golp sank into a chair and nodded to indicate that he had taken no offense and also to indicate that he knew very well the undesirable nature of life at 14 Beard Street.
S. came over and knelt down by Piers Golp’s chair.
—Haven’t you something to say to us, Mr. Golp? he asked.
—Well, said Piers Golp, as a matter of fact, I do.
A tiny bit of light came from the out-of-doors around the edges of the shuttered and draped windows. It made its way slowly and carefully over to the three friends and settled on them.
—There is, said Piers Golp, in this city, a certain anonymous pamphleteer whose work I greatly admire.
He held up the book he had been reading. This turned out in fact not to be a book at all but a substantial pamphlet, neatly and elegantly folded to produce the illusion of a book if viewed from a distance of twelve to fifteen feet. On its cover it said, An Inquiry into the Ultimate Utility of the Silly, as Prefigured in the Grave and Inhospitable.
—Is this a particularly good one? asked the guess artist.
—I’ve only just begun it, said Piers Golp. My very favorite is one entitled, Entering Rooms, a Grammar and Method.
To all this S. said nothing, but only sat upon his heels, watching very carefully the tides and eddies of expression pass over the face of Piers Golp.
—About this pamphleteer, Golp continued, almost nothing is known. A friend of mine who knows about my predicament here sends me every pamphlet he can get his hands on. He knows how I long for news of the outside world. After all, I was for many years a war correspondent.
—A war correspondent, exclaimed the guess artist.
—Except that, said Piers Golp a bit ashamedly, there were no wars at the time, so I stayed home.
The guess artist and S. nodded in an understanding way.
—The first of these pamphlets appeared about two years ago, said Piers Golp. Then, about a year ago, new pamphlets began to appear with much greater frequency. Also, they were better printed, and displayed an obviously greater degree of attention and skill. About him I can hazard little, save that he is a young man of great leaps. He is very sly and is best pleased only when he surprises himself. I think that it is most certainly the case that the best artists are the best because they have in their hearts an infinite affection for the objects of the world.
In one of these pamphlets, The Foreknowledge of Grief, he plots out a rubric for creating a person to fall in love with.
First, he says, you have to go out into the world. This is not a simple matter of going outside one’s door. No, that is simply going out. That’s what one does when
Similar Books
