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    James Pethel
    James Pethel
    James Pethel
    Ebook46 pages30 minutes

    James Pethel

    By Max Beerbohm

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    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateNov 27, 2013
    James Pethel
    Author

    Max Beerbohm

    Sir Henry Maximilian Beerbohm (1872-1956) was an English essayist, parodist, and caricaturist. Going by the name of Max Beerbohm, he became known for his big personality and humor. Beerbohm began writing while being educated at the Charterhouse School and then at Merton College, Oxford. However, as he was not an enthusiastic student, Beerbohm dropped out of school when he became popular in social circles. He continued his career as a writer, illustrator and later worked as a radio broadcaster. Beerbohm released several collections of his work, including short fiction, caricature sketches, and one novel.

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      Book preview

      James Pethel - Max Beerbohm

      The Project Gutenberg EBook of James Pethel, by Max Beerbohm

      This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net

      Title: James Pethel

      Author: Max Beerbohm

      Posting Date: July 23, 2008 [EBook #759] Release Date: December, 1996

      Language: English

      *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JAMES PETHEL ***

      Produced by Judith Boss.

      James Pethel

      By

      MAX BEERBOHM

      I was shocked this morning when I saw in my newspaper a paragraph announcing his sudden death. I do not say that the shock was very disagreeable. One reads a newspaper for the sake of news. Had I never met James Pethel, belike I should never have heard of him: and my knowledge of his death, coincident with my knowledge that he had existed, would have meant nothing at all to me. If you learn suddenly that one of your friends is dead, you are wholly distressed. If the death is that of a mere acquaintance whom you have recently seen, you are disconcerted, pricked is your sense of mortality; but you do find great solace in telling other people that you met the poor fellow only the other day, and that he was so full of life and spirits, and that you remember he said—whatever you may remember of his sayings. If the death is that of a mere acquaintance whom you have not seen for years, you are touched so lightly as to find solace enough in even such faded reminiscence as is yours to offer. Seven years have passed since the day when last I saw James Pethel, and that day was the morrow of my first meeting with him.

      I had formed the habit of spending August in Dieppe. The place was then less overrun by trippers than it is now. Some pleasant English people shared it with some pleasant French people. We used rather to resent the race-week—the third week of the month—as an intrusion on our privacy. We sneered as we read in the Paris edition of The New York Herald the names of the intruders, though by some of these we were secretly impressed. We disliked the nightly crush in the baccarat-room of the casino, and the croupiers' obvious excitement at the high play. I made a point of avoiding that room during that week, for the special reason that the sight of serious, habitual gamblers has always filled me with a depression bordering on disgust. Most of the men, by some subtle stress of their ruling passion, have grown so monstrously fat, and most of the women so harrowingly thin. The rest of the women seem to be marked out for apoplexy, and the rest of the men to be wasting away. One feels that anything thrown at them would be either embedded or shattered, and looks vainly among them for one person furnished with a normal amount of flesh. Monsters they are, all of them, to the eye, though I believe that many of them have excellent moral qualities in private life; but just

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