The Death of the Lion

The Death of the Lion

The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Death of the Lion, by Henry
James (#11 in our series by Henry James)
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Title: The Death of the Lion
Author: Henry James
Release Date: September, 1996 [EBook #643] [This file was first
posted on September 10, 1996] [Most recently updated: September 2,
2002]
Edition: 10

Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, THE
DEATH OF THE LION ***

Transcribed from the 1915 Martin Secker edition by David Price, email
[email protected]

THE DEATH OF THE LION

CHAPTER I.

I had simply, I suppose, a change of heart, and it must have begun
when I received my manuscript back from Mr. Pinhorn. Mr. Pinhorn
was my "chief," as he was called in the office: he had the high mission
of bringing the paper up. This was a weekly periodical, which had been
supposed to be almost past redemption when he took hold of it. It was
Mr. Deedy who had let the thing down so dreadfully: he was never
mentioned in the office now save in connexion with that misdemeanour.
Young as I was I had been in a manner taken over from Mr. Deedy,
who had been owner as well as editor; forming part of a promiscuous
lot, mainly plant and office- furniture, which poor Mrs. Deedy, in her
bereavement and depression, parted with at a rough valuation. I could
account for my continuity but on the supposition that I had been cheap.
I rather resented the practice of fathering all flatness on my late
protector, who was in his unhonoured grave; but as I had my way to
make I found matter enough for complacency in being on a "staff." At
the same time I was aware of my exposure to suspicion as a product of
the old lowering system. This made me feel I was doubly bound to
have ideas, and had doubtless been at the bottom of my proposing to
Mr. Pinhorn that I should lay my lean hands on Neil Paraday. I
remember how he looked at me--quite, to begin with, as if he had never
heard of this celebrity, who indeed at that moment was by no means in

the centre of the heavens; and even when I had knowingly explained he
expressed but little confidence in the demand for any such stuff. When
I had reminded him that the great principle on which we were supposed
to work was just to create the demand we required, he considered a
moment and then returned: "I see--you want to write him up."
"Call it that if you like."
"And what's your inducement?"
"Bless my soul--my admiration!"
Mr. Pinhorn pursed up his mouth. "Is there much to be done with him?"
"Whatever there is we should have it all to ourselves, for he hasn't been
touched."
This argument was effective and Mr. Pinhorn responded. "Very well,
touch him." Then he added: "But where can you do it?"
"Under the fifth rib!"
Mr. Pinhorn stared. "Where's that?"
"You want me to go down and see him?" I asked when I had enjoyed
his visible search for the obscure suburb I seemed to have named.
"I don't 'want' anything--the proposal's your own. But you must
remember that that's the way we do things NOW," said Mr. Pinhorn
with another dig Mr. Deedy.
Unregenerate as I was I could read the queer implications of this speech.
The present owner's superior virtue as well as his deeper craft spoke in
his reference to the late editor as one of that baser sort who deal in false
representations. Mr. Deedy would as soon have sent me to call on Neil
Paraday as he would have published a "holiday-number"; but such
scruples presented themselves as mere ignoble thrift to his successor,
whose own sincerity took the form of ringing door-bells and whose
definition of genius was the art of finding