"I should not," he resumed--"propose your putting yourself to the
trouble of getting into Parliament. That is no longer necessary to the
career of a gentleman. But I should strongly recommend your winning the
Derby."
"I daresay you would!" I answered mirthfully--"It's an admirable
suggestion,--but not very easy to follow!"
"If you wish to win the Derby," he rejoined quietly--"you _shall_ win
it. I'll guarantee both horse and jockey!"
Something in his decisive tone impressed me, and I leaned forward to
study his features more closely.
"Are you a worker of miracles?" I asked him jestingly--"Do you mean it?"
"Try me!" he responded--"Shall I enter a horse for you?"
"You can't; it's too late," I said. "You would need to be the devil
himself to do it. Besides I don't care about racing."
"You will have to amend your taste then,"--he replied--"That is, if you
want to make yourself agreeable to the English aristocracy, for they are
interested in little else. No really great lady is without her betting
book, though she may be deficient in her knowledge of spelling. You may
make the biggest literary _furore_ of the season, and that will count as
nothing among 'swagger' people, but if you win the Derby you will be a
really famous man. Personally speaking I have a great deal to do with
racing,--in fact I am devoted to it. I am always present at every great
race,--I never miss one; I always bet, and I never lose! And now let me
proceed with your social plan of action. After winning the Derby you
will enter for a yacht race at Cowes, and allow the Prince of Wales to
beat you just narrowly. Then you will give a grand dinner, arranged by a
perfect _chef_,--and you will entertain His Royal 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."