A. V. Laider — Text and Context
Edition facts
A. V. Laider — Text and Context can be approached with a clearer sense of reading commitment from its source measurements: 11,466 words, 50 min estimated reading time, and 2 detected text sections.
The text analysis averages about 14.6 words per sentence, while the detected sections provide another way to judge how the source is divided.
Project Gutenberg metadata also associates the work with “Short stories,” connecting these edition facts with the source record’s subject description.
Calculated from edition completeness, EPUB availability, text structure and catalogue metadata. Not a user rating.
How this score is calculated
- Description quality20 pts
- Title & short description10 pts
- Source metadata20 pts
- Text length15 pts
- Chapters / structure15 pts
- EPUB file integrity20 pts
Total of 100 points, scaled to a 2.5-5.0 range. Editions with an empty description or a missing EPUB file are not scored.
Read the Text
Nothing was changed. It had been raining when I left, and the waiter--there was but a single, a very old waiter--had told me it was only a shower. That waiter was still here, not a day older. And the shower had not ceased.
Steadfastly it fell on to the sands, steadfastly into the iron-gray sea. I stood looking out at it from the windows of the hall, admiring it very much. There seemed to be little else to do. What little there was I did. I mastered the contents of a blue hand-bill which, pinned to the wall just beneath the framed engraving of Queen Victoria's Coronation, gave token of a concert that was to be held--or, rather, was to have been held some weeks ago--in the town hall for the benefit of the Life-Boat Fund. I looked at the barometer, tapped it, was not the wiser. I wandered to the letter-board.
These letter-boards always fascinate me. Usually some two or three of the envelops stuck into the cross-garterings have a certain newness and freshness. They seem sure they will yet be claimed. Why not? Why SHOULDN'T John Doe, Esq., or Mrs. Richard Roe turn up at any moment? I do not know. I can only say that nothing in the world seems to me more unlikely. Thus it is that these young bright envelops touch my heart even more than do their dusty and sallowed seniors. Sour resignation is less touching than impatience for what will not be, than the eagerness that has to wane and wither. Soured beyond measure these old envelops are. They are not nearly so nice as they should be to the young ones. They lose no chance of sneering and discouraging. Such dialogues as this are only too frequent:
A Very Young Envelop: Something in me whispers that he will come to-day!
A Very Old Envelop: He? Well, that's good! Ha, ha, ha! Why didn't he come last week, when YOU came? What reason have you for supposing he'll ever come now? It isn't as if he were a frequenter of the place. He's never been here. His name is utterly unknown here. You don't suppose he's coming on the chance of finding YOU?
A. V. Y. E.: It may seem silly, but--something in me whispers--
A. V. O. E.: Something in YOU? One has only to look at you to see there's nothing in you but a note scribbled to him by a cousin. Look at ME! There are three sheets, closely written, in ME. The lady to whom I am addressed--
A. V. Y. E.: Yes, sir, yes; you told me all about her yesterday.
A. V. O. E.: And I shall do so to-day and to-morrow and every day and all day long. That young lady was a widow. She stayed here many times. She was delicate, and the air suited her. She was poor, and the tariff was just within her means. She was lonely, and had need of love. I have in me for her a passionate avowal and strictly honorable proposal, written to her, after many rough copies, by a gentleman who had made her acquaintance under this very roof. He was rich, he was charming, he was in the prime of life. He had asked if he might write to her. She had flutteringly granted his request. He posted me to her the day after his return to London. I looked forward to being torn open by her. I was very sure she would wear me and my contents next to her bosom. She was gone. She had left no address. She never returned. This I tell you, and shall continue to tell you, not because I want any of your callow sympathy,--no, THANK you!--but that you may judge how much less than slight are the probabilities that you yourself--
The story opens with a first-person narrator returning to a quiet seaside hostel after an illness, noting that nothing has changed—the same elderly waiter, the same persistent rain. The tone is leisurely and observant, with the narrator amusing himself by studying a blue handbill for a past concert and, most notably, the letter-board. Beerbohm devotes several paragraphs to a whimsical, imagined dialogue between a very young envelope and a very old one, personifying them as hopeful and cynical. This playful digression establishes the narrator's idle, reflective mood and sets the stage for a more serious encounter. The pace is slow, the voice dry and ironic, until the arrival of A. V. Laider shifts the narrative toward confession and moral weight.
From Whimsy to Confession
The story’s opening is dominated by the narrator’s solitary observations—the rain, the barometer, the letter-board. Beerbohm’s prose is leisurely, even fussy, as he describes the envelopes with mock-seriousness: “Sour resignation is less touching than impatience for what will not be.” This tone is consistent with the narrator’s character: a man who enjoys small details and ironic commentary. When Laider appears, the pace does not immediately quicken. They talk of palmistry, and Laider shows his hands—described as “the hands of a very weak man.” The narrator is skeptical but intrigued. The shift from idle chatter to Laider’s story of a railway accident is gradual, marked by Laider’s hesitation and the narrator’s growing attention. The change in pace mirrors the narrator’s own movement from detached amusement to moral engagement.
The Weight of a Decision
Laider’s confession is the emotional core. He recounts a train journey where he foresaw a collision but failed to act. Beerbohm renders this in Laider’s own voice, with halting sentences and repeated self-justifications: “I was determined, yes.” The narrative slows as Laider describes his paralysis, then jumps forward to his hospital recovery and the moment of remembering. The language becomes stark: “I had a racking headache. And when I said so, I was told not to talk.” The contrast with the earlier whimsy is sharp. Laider’s fatalism—his belief that his hands proved he could not have pulled the emergency cord—is presented without authorial comment. The narrator’s response is initially blunt: “You blame me.” The dialogue that follows is tense, with Laider defending his weakness as innate. The story does not resolve the moral question; instead, it leaves the reader weighing the evidence of Laider’s hands against the possibility of choice.
Hands as Evidence
Throughout the story, hands function as a recurring motif and a source of ambiguity. Laider first offers his palms as proof of his character: “They are the hands of a very weak man.” The narrator, a skeptic, challenges this, asking whether the failure to pull the cord was “actually marked in your hands.” Laider’s reply is evasive: “it is rather the things one IS going to do that are actually marked.” This exchange encapsulates the story’s central tension between determinism and free will. Beerbohm does not tip the balance. The narrator’s final “Yes” to Laider’s accusation of blame suggests judgment, but the story ends without a clear verdict. The reader is left to consider whether Laider’s hands are a genuine sign or a convenient excuse. The motif is handled with restraint, never becoming heavy-handed, and it ties the story’s playful opening to its somber conclusion.
Beerbohm’s story rewards attention to its shifts in register—from the narrator’s amused personification of envelopes to Laider’s halting confession. The letter-board, initially a source of comedy, becomes a quiet symbol of waiting and disappointment, mirroring Laider’s own suspended moral state. Readers may find that the story’s power lies not in its plot but in the space between what is said and what is withheld: the narrator’s final judgment, Laider’s unspoken remorse, and the unanswered question of whether weakness is fate or failure.
That rainy afternoon, I kept returning to Laider’s confession about intention and paralysis, the way a word unspoken becomes a weight. Afterwards, the damp light made me think of softer absurdities, and I found myself drifting toward The Quest of the Golden Girl: A Romance — A Reader’s Guide, its whimsy a gentle counterpoint to all that fatalism—a different kind of wandering, purely for its own sake.
There are no reviews for this eBook.
What did you think of this book?
Answer a few questions and save a private reflection on this device.