But they tell me that that is impracticable. Won't work at all. I can
_have_ some of both, of course. Certainly. But I cannot _trust_ both.
Like all other men I have my own inner fountain of strength, and it's
been a faithful old thing; it has done a lot for me. It has vigor in it
yet--but it isn't big and fiery, or strong. I could only have made it
work abundantly if I had relied wholly on it. If I had done that, it
would have probably called out my full powers. But instead I have
relied partly on money, for fear my strength might desert me; and that
fear has naturally had an effect on my strength. I work hard, but with
less fire. Less eagerness. Progressively less. Any man who doesn't trust
his spirit will find it will ebb.
And the same's true of money. Unless you are in love with your wealth,
it will slip through your fingers. If you want to get a whole lot of
money, worship gold all your days.
This isn't a sure recipe, I must add, to get a whole lot of money. I
should be sorry to have my readers spring out of their chairs at these
words, and rush happily off to make money their god, so as to be
millionaires. It doesn't work so quickly or surely as that, I admit. But
this much is true, anyhow: if you do not care enough about money you
will hardly grow rich. You must be pretty devoted to win a jealous
mistress like gold.
They are both jealous mistresses, that's the worst of it.
It is an awkward predicament.
* * * * *
I don't like to face this problem squarely. I don't get it settled. I
keep on, like a hopeful old bigamist, in love with both mistresses: my
money and my spirit or mettle.
I try to soothe each. I say to my mettle, "I care much more for you
than for money: it's true that I keep money, too; but it's you that I
love. You and I are one, aren't we? Very well, then. Come on. Let's be
happy."
And I say to my money, "Now be faithful: for God's sake be faithful:
don't slip off and desert me and leave me alone in the world." She looks
jealously at me. "Alone?" she says; "how about that mettle of yours,
you're so fond of?" "Ah, my dear," I say sadly, giving her an
affectionate squeeze, "my mettle is no better than she should be. I
don't like to talk of it. You are the one that I expect to comfort me in
my dark moments; and I hope you and I will be here together long after
my mettle has gone."
There you have my menage. It's been difficult. But I cannot complain. As
a bigamist I suppose on the whole I've been fairly successful. Yet I
know I'd have more money to-day--I think a great deal more money--if I
had been more faithful to Mammon, as they call the poor creature. And
similarly I might have led an heroic, ardent life with my mettle, if I
had ever trusted it fully.
That's the trouble with bigamy.