Highness to the strains of ‘Britannia rules the waves,’ which will serve as a pretty compliment. You will allude to the same well-worn song in a graceful speech,—and the probable result of all this will be one, or perhaps two Royal invitations. So far, so good. With the heats of summer you will go to Homburg to drink the waters there whether you require them or not,—and in the autumn you will assemble a shooting-party at the country seat before-mentioned which you will have purchased, and invite Royalty to join you in killing the poor little partridges. Then your name in society may be considered as made, and you can marry whatever fair lady happens to be in the market!”
“Thanks!—much obliged!” and I gave way to hearty laughter—“Upon my word Lucio, your programme is perfect! It lacks nothing!”
“It is the orthodox round of social success,” said Lucio with admirable gravity—“Intellect and originality have nothing whatever to do with it,—only money is needed to perform it all.”
“You forget my book”—I interposed—“I know there is some intellect in that, and some originality too. Surely that will give me an extra lift up the heights of fashionable light and leading.”
“I doubt it!” he answered—“I very much doubt it. It will be received with a certain amount of favour of course, as a production of a rich man amusing himself with literature as a sort of whim. But, as I told you before, genius seldom develops itself under the influence of wealth. Then again ‘swagger’ folks can never get it out of their fuddled heads that Literature belongs to Grub Street. Great poets, great philosophers, great romancists are always vaguely alluded to by ‘swagger’ society as ‘those sort of people.’ Those sort of people are so ‘interesting’ say the blue-blooded noodles deprecatingly, excusing themselves as it were for knowing any members of the class literary. You can fancy a ‘swagger’ lady of Elizabeth’s time asking a friend—‘O do you mind, my dear, if I bring one Master William Shakespeare to see you? He writes plays, and does something or other at the Globe theatre,—in fact I’m afraid he acts a little—he’s not very well off poor man,—but these sort of people are always so amusing!’ Now you, my dear Tempest, are not a Shakespeare, but your millions will give you a better chance than he ever had in his life-time, as you will not have to sue for patronage, or practise a reverence for ‘my lord’ or ‘my lady,’—these exalted personages will be only too delighted to borrow money of you if you will lend it.”
“I shall not lend,”—I said.
“Nor give?”
“Nor give.”
His keen eyes flashed approval.
“I am very glad,” he observed, “that you are determined not to ‘go about doing good’ as the canting humbugs say, with your money. You are wise. Spend on yourself,—because your very act of spending cannot but benefit others through various channels. Now I pursue a different course. I always help charities, and put my name on subscription-lists,—and I never fail to assist a certain portion of clergy.”
“I rather wonder at that—” I remarked—“Especially as you tell me you are not a Christian.”
“Yes,—it does seem strange,—doesn’t it?”—he said with an extraordinary accent of what might be termed apologetic derision—“But perhaps you don’t look at it in the proper light. Many of the clergy are doing their utmost best to destroy religion,—by cant, by hypocrisy, by sensuality, by shams of every description,—and when they seek my help in this noble work, I give it,—freely!”
I laughed “You must have your joke evidently”—I said, throwing the end of my finished cigar into the fire—“And I see you are fond of satirizing your own good actions. Hullo, what’s this?”
For at that moment Amiel entered, bearing a telegram for me on a silver salver. I opened it,—it was from my friend the publisher, and ran as follows—
“Accept book with pleasure. Send manuscript immediately.”
I showed this to Rimânez with a kind of triumph. He smiled.
“Of course! what else did you expect? Only the man should have worded his telegram differently, for I do not suppose he would accept the book with pleasure if he had to lay out his own cash upon it. ‘Accept money for publishing book with pleasure’ should have been the true message of the wire. Well, what are you going to do?”
“I shall see about this at once”—I answered, feeling a thrill of satisfaction that at last the time of vengeance on certain of my enemies was approaching—“The book must be hurried through the press as quickly as possible,—and I shall take a particular pleasure in personally attending to all the details concerning it. For the rest of my plans,—”
“Leave them to me!” said Rimânez laying his finely shaped white hand with a masterful pressure on my shoulder; “Leave them to me!—and be sure that before very long I shall have set you aloft like the bear who has successfully reached the bun on the top of a greased pole,—a spectacle for the envy of men, and the wonder of angels!”
VII
The next three or four weeks flew by in a whirl of excitement, and by the time they were ended I found it hard to recognize myself in the indolent, listless, extravagant man of fashion I had so suddenly become. Sometimes at stray and solitary moments the past turned back upon me like a revolving picture in a glass with a flash of unwelcome recollection, and I saw myself worn and hungry, and shabbily clothed, bending over my writing in my dreary lodging, wretched, yet amid all my wretchedness receiving curious comfort from my own thoughts which created beauty out of penury, and love out of loneliness. This creative faculty was now dormant in me,—I did very little, and thought less. But I felt certain that this intellectual apathy was but a passing phase,—a mental holiday and desirable cessation from brain-work to which I was deservedly entitled after all my sufferings at the hands of poverty and disappointment. My book was nearly through the press,—and perhaps the chiefest pleasure of any I now enjoyed was the correction of the proofs as they passed under my supervision. Yet even this, the satisfaction of authorship, had its drawback,—and my particular grievance was somewhat singular. I read my own work with gratification of course, for I was not behind my contemporaries in thinking well of myself in all I did,—but my complacent literary egoism was mixed with a good deal of disagreeable astonishment and incredulity, because my work, written with enthusiasm and feeling, propounded sentiments and inculcated theories which I personally did not believe in. Now, how had this happened, I asked myself? Why had I thus invited the public to accept me at a false valuation? I paused to consider,—and I found the suggestion puzzling. How came I to write the book at all, seeing that it was utterly unlike me as I now knew myself? My pen, consciously or unconsciously, had written down things which my reasoning faculties entirely repudiated,—such as belief in a God,—trust in the eternal possibilities of man’s diviner progress,—I credited neither of these doctrines. When I imagined such transcendental and foolish dreams I was poor,—starving,—and without a friend in the world;—remembering all this, I promptly set down my so-called ‘inspiration’ to the action of an ill-nourished brain. Yet there was something subtle in the teaching of the story, and one afternoon when I was revising some of the last proof sheets I caught myself thinking that the book was nobler than its writer. This idea smote me with a sudden pang,—I pushed my papers aside, and walking to the window, looked out. It was raining hard, and the streets were black with mud and slush,—the foot-passengers were drenched and miserable,—the whole prospect was dreary, and the fact that I was a rich man did not in the least lift from my mind the depression that had stolen on me unawares. I was quite alone, for I had my own suite of rooms now in the hotel, not far from those occupied by Prince Rimânez; I also had my own servant, a respectable, good sort of fellow whom I rather liked because he shared to the full
