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Nor give.
I am very glad, he observed, that you are determined not to go about doing good as the humbugs say, with your money. You are wise. Spend on yourself! As for me, I always help charities, and put my name on subscription-lists[14], and I 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 seems strange, doesnt it? he said with a derision. But many of the clergy are doing their best to destroy religion, by cant, by hypocrisy, by sensuality, by shams. When they seek my help in this noble work, I give it, freely!
I laughed. 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 Rimanez with a kind of triumph. He smiled.
Of course! What else did you expect? It actually means: Accept money for publishing book with pleasure. Well, what are you going to do?
The book must be published as quickly as possible, and I shall personally attend to all the details concerning it. For the rest of my plans
Leave them to me! said Rimanez.
7
The next three or four weeks flew by in a whirl. 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. The creative faculty was now dormant in me. I did very little, and thought less. But this intellectual apathy was but a passing phase, a mental holiday and desirable cessation from brain-work. My book was nearly through the press. 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 theories which I personally did not believe in. Now, how had this happened, I asked myself? How came I to write the book at all? My pen, consciously or unconsciously, had written down things which my reasoning faculties entirely repudiated.
I thought 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. I was quite alone, for I had my own suite of rooms now in the hotel, not far from those occupied by Prince Rimanez. I also had my own servant, a respectable, good fellow. Then I had my own carriage and horses with coachman and groom. I was in full possession of my fortune, I enjoyed excellent health, and I had everything I wanted. Lucios management was very good, and I saw myself mentioned in almost every paper in London and the provinces as the famous millionaire. For forty pounds, a well-known agency will guarantee the insertion of any paragraph in no less than four hundred newspapers. Money can buy everything.
The persistent paragraphing of my name, together with a description of my personal appearance and my marvellous literary gifts, combined with a deferential and almost awestruck allusion to the millions which made me so interesting, the paragraph was written out by Lucio, all this brought upon me two inflictions. First many invitations to social and artistic functions[15], and secondly, a stream of begging-letters[16]. I employed a secretary, who occupied a room near my suite, and who was kept hard at work all day. Needless to say I refused all appeals for money; no one had helped me in my distress, with the exception of my old chum Boffles.
Yet with all the advantages which I now possessed I could not honestly say I was happy. I knew I could have every possible enjoyment and amusement the world had to offer. I knew I was one of the most envied among men, and yet, I was conscious of a bitterness rather than a sweetness in the full cup of fortune. For example, I had flooded the press with the prominent advertisements of my forthcoming book.
A fog began to darken down over the streets in company with the rain, and disgusted with the weather and with myself, I turned away from the window and settled into an arm-chair by the fire. A tap came at the door, and in answer to my somewhat irritable Come in! Rimanez entered.
What, all in the dark Tempest! he exclaimed cheerfully. Why dont you light up?
The fires enough, I answered crossly. Enough at any rate to think by.
And have you been thinking? he inquired laughing. Dont do it. Its a bad habit. No one thinks nowadays, people cant stand it[17]. Their heads are too frail. Just begin to think and the foundations of society will go down. Besides thinking is always dull work.
I have found it so, I said gloomily. Lucio, there is something wrong about me somewhere.
Wrong? Oh no, surely not! What can there be wrong about you, Tempest? Are you not one of the richest men living?
Listen, my friend, I said earnestly. You know I have been busy for the last fortnight correcting my book for the press. I have come to the conclusion that the book is not Me. It is not a reflex of my feelings at all. I cannot understand how I wrote it.
You find it stupid perhaps? said Lucio sympathetically.
No, I answered with indignation. I do not find it stupid.
Dull then?
No, it is not dull.
Melodramatic?
No, not melodramatic.
Well, my good fellow, if it is not dull or stupid or melodramatic, what is it! he exclaimed merrily. It must be something!
Yes, it is this, it is beyond me altogether. And I spoke with some bitterness. Quite beyond me. I could not write it now. I wonder I could write it then. Lucio, I daresay I am talking foolishly, but it seems to me I must have been on some higher altitude of thought when I wrote the book. A height from which I have since fallen.
Im sorry to hear this, he answered, with twinkling eyes. From what you say it appears to me you have been guilty of literary sublimity. Oh bad, very bad! Nothing can be worse. To write sublimely is a grievous sin, and one which critics never forgive. Im really grieved for you, my friend.
I laughed in spite of my depression.
You are incorrigible, Lucio! I said. But your cheerfulness is very inspiriting. All I wanted to explain to you is this, that my book expresses a certain tone of thought which is not me. I, in my present self have no sympathy with it. I must have changed very much since I wrote it.
Changed? Why yes, I should think so! and Lucio laughed heartily. The possession of five millions changes a man considerably for the better or worse! But you seem to be worrying yourself about nothing. Not one author in many centuries writes from his own heart or as he truly feels. When he does, he becomes immortal. This planet is too limited to hold more than one Homer, one Plato, one Shakespeare. Dont distress yourself you are neither of these three! You belong to the age, Tempest. Observe the signs of the time. Art is subordinate to the love of money literature, politics and religion the same. You cannot escape from the general disease. The only thing to do is to make the best of it[18]. No one can reform it.
He paused. I was silent.
What I am going to say now, he proceeded, will sound ridiculous. In order to write with intense feeling, you must first feel. When you wrote this book of yours, you were almost a human hedgehog in the way of feeling. The change you complain of is this: you have nothing to feel about.