"It would be quite as fair a plan of action as is adopted by many modern
publishers," I said--"The loud hawking of literary wares now-a-days
reminds me of the rival shouting of costermongers in a low
neighbourhood. But I will not go quite so far,--I'll win my fame
legitimately if I can."
"You can't!" declared Lucio with a serene smile--"It's impossible. You
are too rich. That of itself is not legitimate in Literature, which
great art generally elects to wear poverty in its button-hole as a
flower of grace. The fight cannot be equal in such circumstances. The
fact that you are a millionaire must weigh the balance apparently in
your favour for a time. The world cannot resist money. If I, for
example, became an author, I should probably with my wealth and
influence, burn up every one else's laurels. Suppose that a desperately
poor man comes out with a book at the same time as you do, he will have
scarcely the ghost of a chance against you. He will not be able to
advertise in your lavish style,--nor will he see his way to dine the
critics as you can. And if he should happen to have more genius than
you, and you succeed, your success will _not_ be legitimate. But after
all, that does not matter much--in Art, if in nothing else, things
always right themselves."
I made no immediate reply, but went over to my table, rolled up my
corrected proofs and directed them to the printers,--then ringing the
bell I gave the packet to my man, Morris, bidding him post it at once.
This done, I turned again towards Lucio and saw that he still sat by the
fire, but that his attitude was now one of brooding melancholy, and that
he had covered his eyes with one hand on which the glow from the flames
shone red. I regretted the momentary irritation I had felt against him
for telling me unwelcome truths,--and I touched him lightly on the
shoulder.
"Are _you_ in the dumps now Lucio?" I said--"I'm afraid my depression
has proved infectious."
He moved his hand and looked up,--his eyes were large and lustrous as
the eyes of a beautiful woman.
"I was thinking," he said, with a slight sigh--"of the last words I
uttered just now,--_things always right themselves_. Curiously enough in
art they always do,--no charlatanism or sham lasts with the gods of
Parnassus. But in other matters it is different. For instance _I_ shall
never right myself! Life is hateful to me at times, as it is to
everybody."
"Perhaps you are in love?" I said with a smile.
He started up.
"In love! By all the heavens and all the earths too, that suggestion
wakes me with a vengeance! In love! What woman alive do you think could
impress _me_ with the notion that she was anything more than a frivolous
doll of pink and white, with long hair frequently not her own? And as
for the tom-boy tennis-players and giantesses of the era, I do not
consider them women at all,--they are merely the unnatural and strutting
embryos of a new sex which will be neither male nor female. My dear
Tempest, I hate women. So would you if you knew as much about them as I
do. They have made me what I am, and they keep me so."
"They are to be much complimented then,"--I observed--"You do them
credit!"
"I do!" he answered slowly--"In more ways than one!" A faint smile was
on his face, and his eyes brightened with that curious jewel-like gleam
I had noticed several times before. "Believe me, I shall never contest
with you such a slight gift as woman's love, Geoffrey. It is not worth
fighting for. And _apropos_ of women, that reminds me,--I have promised
to take you to the Earl of Elton's box at the Haymarket to-night,--he is
a poor peer, very gouty and somewhat heavily flavoured with port-wine,
but his daughter, Lady Sibyl, is one of the belles of England. She was
presented last season and created quite a _furore_. Will you come?"
"I am quite at your disposition"--I said, glad of any excuse to escape
the dullness of my own company and to be in that of Lucio, whose talk,
even if its satire galled me occasionally, always fascinated my mind and
remained in my memory--"What time shall we meet?"
"Go and dress now, and join me at dinner,"--he answered; "And we'll
drive together to the theatre afterwards. The play is on the usual theme
which has lately become popular with stage-managers,--the glorification
of a 'fallen' lady, and the exhibition of her as an example of something
superlatively pure and good, to the astonished eyes of the innocent. As
a play it is not worth seeing,--but perhaps Lady Sibyl is."
He smiled again as he stood facing me,--the light flames of the fire had
died down to a dull uniform coppery red,--we were almost in darkness,
and I pressed the small button near the mantelpiece that flooded the
room with electric light. His extraordinary beauty then struck me afresh
as something altogether singular and half unearthly.
"Don't you find that people look at you very often as you pass, Lucio?"
I asked him suddenly and impulsively.
He laughed. "Not at all. Why should they? Every man is so intent on his
own aims, and thinks so much of his own personality that he would
scarcely forget his _ego_ if the very devil himself were behind him.
Women look at me sometimes, with the affected coy and kitten-like
interest usually exhibited by the frail sex for a personable man."
"I cannot blame them!" I answered, my gaze still resting on his stately
figure and fine head with as much admiration as I might have felt for a
noble picture or statue--"What of this Lady Sibyl we are to meet
to-night,--how does she regard you?"
"Lady Sibyl has never seen me,"--he replied--"And I have only seen her
at a distance. It is chiefly for the purpose of an introduction to her
that the Earl has asked us to his box this evening."
"Ha ha! Matrimony in view!" I exclaimed jestingly.
"Yes--I believe Lady Sibyl is for sale,"--he answered with the callous
coldness that occasionally distinguished him and made his handsome
features look like an impenetrable mask of scorn--"But up to the present
the bids have not been sufficiently high. And I shall not purchase. I
have told you already, Tempest, I hate women."
"Seriously?"
"Most seriously. Women have always done me harm,--they have wantonly
hindered me in my progress. And why I specially abominate them is, that
they have been gifted with an enormous power for doing good, and that
they let this power run to waste and will not use it. Their deliberate
enjoyment and choice of the repulsive, vulgar and common-place side of
life disgusts me. They are much less sensitive than men, and infinitely
more heartless. They are the mothers of the human race, and the faults
of the race are chiefly due to them. That is another reason for my
hatred."
"Do you want the human race to be perfect?" I asked
astonished--"Because, if you do, you will find that impossible."
He stood for a moment apparently lost in thought.
"Everything in the Universe is perfect,"--he said, "except that curious
piece of work--Man. Have you never thought out any reason why he should
be the one flaw,--the one incomplete creature in a matchless Creation?"
"No, I have not,"--I replied--"I take things as I find them."
"So do I,"--and he turned away, "And as I find _them_, so they find
_me_! Au revoir! Dinner in an hour's time remember!"
The door opened and closed--he was gone. I remained alone for a little,
thinking what a strange disposition was his,--what a curious mixture of
philosophy, worldliness, sentiment and satire seemed to run like the
veins of a leaf through the variable temperament of this brilliant,
semi-mysterious personage who had by mere chance become my greatest
friend. We had now been more or less together for nearly a month, and I
was no closer to the secret of his actual nature than I had been at
first. Yet I admired him more than ever,--without his society I felt
life would be deprived of half its charm. For though, attracted as human
moths will be by the glare of my glittering millions, numbers of
so-called 'friends' now surrounded me, there was not one among them who
so dominated my every mood and with whom I had so much close sympathy
as this man,--this masterful, half cruel, half kind companion of my
days, who at times seemed to accept all life as the veriest bagatelle,
and myself as a part of the trivial game.
[1] A fact.