The Professor, all the while, was leading a double life. While the
author of "The Vital Thing" reaped the fruits of popular approval, the
distinguished microscopist continued his laboratory work unheeded save
by the few who were engaged in the same line of investigations. His
divided allegiance had not hitherto affected the quality of his work:
it seemed to him that he returned to the laboratory with greater zest
after an afternoon in a drawing-room where readings from "The Vital
Thing" had alternated with plantation melodies and tea. He had long
ceased to concern himself with what his colleagues thought of his
literary career. Of the few whom he frequented, none had referred to
"The Vital Thing"; and he knew enough of their lives to guess that
their silence might as fairly be attributed to indifference as to
disapproval. They were intensely interested in the Professor's views on
beetles, but they really cared very little what he thought of the
Almighty.
The Professor entirely shared their feelings, and one of his chief
reasons for cultivating the success which accident had bestowed on him,
was that it enabled him to command a greater range of appliances for
his real work. He had known what it was to lack books and instruments;
and "The Vital Thing" was the magic wand which summoned them to his
aid. For some time he had been feeling his way along the edge of a
discovery: balancing himself with professional skill on a plank of
hypothesis flung across an abyss of uncertainty. The conjecture was the
result of years of patient gathering of facts: its corroboration would
take months more of comparison and classification. But at the end of
the vista victory loomed. The Professor felt within himself that
assurance of ultimate justification which, to the man of science, makes
a life-time seem the mere comma between premiss and deduction. But he
had reached the point where his conjectures required formulation. It
was only by giving them expression, by exposing them to the comment and
criticism of his associates, that he could test their final value; and
this inner assurance was confirmed by the only friend whose confidence
he invited.
Professor Pease, the husband of the lady who had opened Mrs. Linyard's
eyes to the triumph of "The Vital Thing," was the repository of her
husband's scientific experiences. What he thought of "The Vital Thing"
had never been divulged; and he was capable of such vast exclusions
that it was quite possible that pervasive work had not yet reached him.
In any case, it was not likely to affect his judgment of the author's
professional capacity.
"You want to put that all in a book, Linyard," was Professor Pease's
summing-up. "I'm sure you've got hold of something big; but to see it
clearly yourself you ought to outline it for others. Take my
advice--chuck everything else and get to work tomorrow. It's time you
wrote a book, anyhow."
_ It's time you wrote a book, anyhow!_ The words smote the Professor
with mingled pain and ecstasy: he could have wept over their
significance. But his friend's other phrase reminded him with a start
of Harviss. "You have got hold of a big thing--" it had been the
publisher's first comment on "The Vital Thing." But what a world of
meaning lay between the two phrases! It was the world in which the
powers who fought for the Professor were destined to wage their final
battle; and for the moment he had no doubt of the outcome. The next day
he went to town to see Harviss. He wanted to ask for an advance on the
new popular edition of "The Vital Thing." He had determined to drop a
course of supplementary lectures at the University, and to give himself
up for a year to his book. To do this, additional funds were necessary;
but thanks to "The Vital Thing" they would be forthcoming.
The publisher received him as cordially as usual; but the response to
his demand was not as prompt as his previous experience had entitled
him to expect.
"Of course we'll be glad to do what we can for you, Linyard; but the
fact is, we've decided to give up the idea of the new edition for the
present."
"You've given up the new edition?"
"Why, yes--we've done pretty well by 'The Vital Thing,' and we're
inclined to think it's _your_ turn to do something for it now."
The Professor looked at him blankly. "What can I do for it?" he
asked--"what _more_" his accent added.
"Why, put a little new life in it by writing something else. The secret
of perpetual motion hasn't yet been discovered, you know, and it's one
of the laws of literature that books which start with a rush are apt to
slow down sooner than the crawlers. We've kept 'The Vital Thing' going
for eighteen months--but, hang it, it ain't so vital any more. We
simply couldn't see our way to a new edition. Oh, I don't say it's dead
yet--but it's moribund, and you're the only man who can resuscitate it."
The Professor continued to stare. "I--what can I do about it?" he
stammered.
"Do? Why write another like it--go it one better: you know the trick.
The public isn't tired of you by any means; but you want to make
yourself heard again before anybody else cuts in. Write another
book--write two, and we'll sell them in sets in a box: The Vital Thing
Series. That will take tremendously in the holidays. Try and let us
have a new volume by October--I'll be glad to give you a big advance if
you'll sign a contract on that."
The Professor sat silent: there was too cruel an irony in the
coincidence.
Harviss looked up at him in surprise.
"Well, what's the matter with taking my advice--you're not going out of
literature, are you?"
The Professor rose from his chair. "No--I'm going into it," he said
simply.
"Going into it?"
"I'm going to write a real book--a serious one."
"Good Lord! Most people think 'The Vital Thing' 's serious."
"Yes--but I mean something different."
"In your old line--beetles and so forth?"
"Yes," said the Professor solemnly.
Harviss looked at him with equal gravity. "Well, I'm sorry for that,"
he said, "because it takes you out of our bailiwick. But I suppose
you've made enough money out of 'The Vital Thing' to permit yourself a
little harmless amusement. When you want more cash come back to
us--only don't put it off too long, or some other fellow will have
stepped into your shoes. Popularity don't keep, you know; and the
hotter the success the quicker the commodity perishes."
He leaned back, cheerful and sententious, delivering his axioms with
conscious kindliness.
The Professor, who had risen and moved to the door, turned back with a
wavering step.
"When did you say another volume would have to be ready?" he faltered.
"I said October--but call it a month later. You don't need any pushing
nowadays."
"And--you'd have no objection to letting me have a little advance now?
I need some new instruments for my real work."
Harviss extended a cordial hand. "My dear fellow, that's talking--I'll
write the cheque while you wait; and I daresay we can start up the
cheap edition of 'The Vital Thing' at the same time, if you'll pledge
yourself to give us the book by November.--How much?" he asked, poised
above his cheque-book.
In the street, the Professor stood staring about him, uncertain and a
little dazed.
"After all, it's only putting it off for six months," he said to
himself; "and I can do better work when I get my new instruments."
He smiled and raised his hat to the passing victoria of a lady in whose
copy of "The Vital Thing" he had recently written:
_Labor est etiam ipsa voluptas._