no doubt. But though, as I said in the beginning, I take delight in
boring you because I think the majority of you deserve it, I have an
objection to boring myself. Besides, I notice that some of you have
begun to hate me; I can see a few biliously-rolling eyes, angry frowns,
and threatening hands directed towards my masked figure, as I leisurely
begin to make my way out of your noisy, tumultuous, malodorous social
throng. Spare yourselves, good people! Keep cool! I am going. I have
had enough of you, just as you have had enough of me. I told you,
when I first started these "remarks aside," that I did not wish to
offend any of you; but it is quite probable that, considering the
overweening opinion you have of your own virtues and excellencies, you
are somewhat thin-skinned, and apt to take merely general observations
as personal ones. Do not err in this respect, I beseech you! If any
fool finds a fool's cap that fits him, I do not ask him to put it on.
I assure you that for Persons I have neither liking nor disliking,
and one of you is no more and no less than t'other. Loathe me an' you
choose, I shall care little; love me, I shall care less. Both your
loathing and your love are sentiments that can only be awakened by
questions of self-interest; and you will gain nothing and lose nothing
by me, as I am the very last person in the world to be "of use" to
anybody. I do not intend to be of use. A useful person is one who is
willing to lie down in the mud for others to walk dryshod over him, or
who will amiably carry a great hulking sluggard across a difficulty
pick-a-back. Now, I object to being "walked over," and if any one
wanted to try "pick-a-back" with me, he would find himself flung in
the nearest gutter. Wherefore, you observe, I am not "Christianly"
disposed, and should not be an advantageous acquaintance. Though, if
I were to tell you all the full extent of my income, I dare say you
would offer me many delicate testimonies of affectionate esteem. Sweet
women's eyes might smile upon me, and manly hands might grip mine in
that warm grasp of true friendship which is the result of a fat balance
at the banker's. But, all the same, these attentions would not affect
me. I am not one to be relied upon for "dinner invitations" or "good
introductions," and I never "lend out" my horses. I keep my opera-box
to myself too, with an absolutely heartless disregard of other people's
desires. I learned the gospel of "looking after Number One" when I
was poor; rich folks taught it me. They never did anything for me or
for anybody else without a leading personal motive, and I now follow
their wise example. I live my life as I choose, thinking the thoughts
that come naturally to me, my mind not being the humble reflex of any
one morning or evening newspaper; so I am not surprised that some of
you, whose opinions are the mere mirror of journalism, hang back and
look askance at me, the while I pass by and take amused observation of
your cautious attitudes through the eye-holes of my domino. Certes,
by all the codes of social "sets" you ought to respect me. I am the
member of a House, the adherent of a Party, and the promoter of a
Cause, and your biggest men, both in politics and literature, know me
well enough. I might even claim to have a "mission," if I were only
properly "boomed"--that is, of course, if the Grand Old _Struldbrug_,
as the irreverent ghost of Lord Byron calls him, Gladdy, were to rub
his noddle against that of Knowles, and emit intellectual sparks about
me in the _Nineteenth Century_. But I don't suppose I could ever live
"up" to such a dazzling height of fame as this. It would be a wild
jump to the topmost peak of Parnassus, such as few mortals would have
strength to endure. So on the whole I think I am better and safer where
I am, as an "unboomed" nobody. And where am I? Dear literary brothers
and sisters, dear "society" friends, I am just now in your very midst;
but I am retiring from among you because--well, because I do not feel
at home in a human menagerie. The noise is as great, the ferocity is as
general, the greed is as unsatisfied, and the odour is as bad as in any
den of the lower animals. I want air and freedom. I would like to see
a few real men and women just by way of a change--men who are manly,
women who are womanly. Such ideal beings may be found in Mars perhaps.
Some scientists assure us there are great discoveries pending there.
Let us hope so. We really require a new planet, for we have almost
exhausted this.
And now adieu! Who is this that clutches me and says, will I unmask?
What, Labby? Now, Labby, you know very well I would do anything to
please you; but on this occasion I must, for the first time in my
life, refuse a request of yours. Presently, my dear fellow, presently!
The domino I wear shall be flung off in your pleasant study in Old
Palace Yard on the earliest possible occasion. Believe it! It would
be worse than useless to try to hide myself from your eagle ken. The
"lady with the lamp" on the cover of _Truth_ shall flash her glittering
searchlight into my eyes, and discover there a friendly smile enough.
Meanwhile, permit me to pass. That's kind of you! A thousand thanks!
And now, with a few steps more, I leave the crowd behind me, and,
loitering on its outskirts, look back and pause. I note its wild
confusion with a smile; I hear its frantic uproar with a sigh. And with
the smile still on my lips, and the sigh still in my heart, I slowly
glide away from the social and literary treadmill where the prisoners
curse each other and groan--away and back to whence I came, out into
the wide open spaces of unfettered thought, the "glorious liberty
of the free." I wave my hand to you, dear friends and enemies, in
valediction. I have often laughed at you, but upon my soul, when I
come to think of the lives you lead, full of small effronteries and
shams, I cannot choose but pity you all the same. I would not change
my estate with yours for millions of money. Many of you have secured
what in these trifling days is called fame; many others rejoice in
what are pleasantly termed "world-wide" reputations; but I doubt if
there is any one among you who is as thoroughly happy, as careless, as
independent, and as indifferent to opinion, fate, and fortune, as the
idle masquerader who has strolled casually through your midst, seeking
no favours at your hands, and making no apologies for existence, and
who now leaves you without regret, bidding you a civil "Farewell!"
Remaining in unabashed candour and good faith, one who is neither your
friend nor enemy,
THE SILVER DOMINO.
The Gresham Press,
UNWIN BROTHERS,
CHILWORTH AND LONDON.