Transcribed from the 1915 Martin Secker edition by DavidPrice,
THE DEATH
OF THE LION
BY HENRY JAMES
LONDON: MARTIN SECKER
number five john street adelphi
This edition first published1915
The text follows that of the
Definitive Edition
CHAPTER I.
I had simply, I suppose, a change of heart, and it must havebegun when I received my manuscript back from Mr. Pinhorn. Mr. Pinhorn was my “chief,” as he was called in theoffice: he had the high mission of bringing the paper up. This was a weekly periodical, which had been supposed to bealmost past redemption when he took hold of it. It was Mr.Deedy who had let the thing down so dreadfully: he was nevermentioned in the office now save in connexion with thatmisdemeanour. Young as I was I had been in a manner takenover from Mr. Deedy, who had been owner as well as editor;forming part of a promiscuous lot, mainly plant andoffice-furniture, which poor Mrs. Deedy, in her bereavement anddepression, parted with at a rough valuation. I couldaccount for my continuity but on the supposition that I had beencheap. I rather resented the practice of fathering allflatness on my late protector, who was in his unhonoured grave;but as I had my way to make I found matter enough for complacencyin being on a “staff.” At the same time I wasaware of my exposure to suspicion as a product of the oldlowering system. This made me feel I was doubly bound tohave ideas, and had doubtless been at the bottom of my proposingto Mr. Pinhorn that I should lay my lean hands on NeilParaday. I remember how he looked at me—quite, tobegin with, as if he had never heard of this celebrity, whoindeed at that moment was by no means in the centre of theheavens; and even when I had knowingly explained he expressed butlittle confidence in the demand for any such stuff. When Ihad reminded him that the great principle on which we weresupposed to work was just to create the demand we required, heconsidered a moment and then returned: “I see—youwant 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 tobe 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’sthat?”
“You want me to go down and see him?” I asked whenI had enjoyed his visible search for the obscure suburb I seemedto have named.
“I don’t ‘want’ anything—theproposal’s your own. But you must remember thatthat’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 ofthis speech. The present owner’s superior virtue aswell as his deeper craft spoke in his reference to the lateeditor as one of that baser sort who deal in falserepresentations. Mr. Deedy would as soon have sent me tocall on Neil Paraday as he would have published a“holiday-number”; but such scruples presentedthemselves as mere ignoble thrift to his successor, whose ownsincerity took the form of ringing door-bells and whosedefinition of