It is almost impossible for me to describe the feverish, irritated and
contradictory state of mind in which I now began to pass my days. With
the absolute fixity of my fortunes, my humours became more changeful
than the wind, and I was never absolutely contented for two hours
together. I joined in every sort of dissipation common to men of the
day, who with the usual inanity of noodles, plunged into the filth of
life merely because to be morally dirty was also at the moment
fashionable and much applauded by society. I gambled recklessly, solely
for the reason that gambling was considered by many leaders of the
'upper ten' as indicative of 'manliness' and 'showing _grit_.'
"I hate a fellow who grudges losing a few pounds at play,"--said one of
these 'distinguished' titled asses to me once--"It shows such a cowardly
and currish disposition."
Guided by this 'new' morality, and wishing to avoid the possibility of
being called "cowardly and currish," I indulged in baccarat and other
ruinous games almost every night, willingly losing the 'few pounds'
which in my case meant a few hundreds, for the sake of my occasional
winnings, which placed a number of 'noble' rakes and blue-blooded
blacklegs in my power for 'debts of honour,' which are supposed to be
more strictly attended to and more punctually paid than any debts in the
world, but which, as far as I am concerned, are still owing. I also
betted heavily, on everything that could be made the subject of a
bet,--and not to be behind my peers in 'style' and 'knowledge of the
world' I frequented low houses and allowed a few half-nude brandy-soaked
dancers and vulgar music-hall 'artistes' to get a couple of thousand
pounds worth of jewels out of me, because this sort of thing was called
'seeing life' and was deemed part of a 'gentleman's' diversion.
Heavens!--what beasts we all were, I and my aristocratic boon
companions!--what utterly worthless, useless, callous scoundrels!--and
yet,--we associated with the best and the highest in the land;--the
fairest and noblest ladies in London received us in their houses with
smiles and softly-worded flatteries--we--whose presence reeked with
vice; we, 'young men of fashion' whom, if he had known our lives as they
were, an honest cobbler working patiently for daily bread, might have
spat upon, in contempt and indignation that such low rascals should be
permitted to burden the earth! Sometimes, but very seldom, Rimânez
joined our gambling and music-hall parties, and on such occasions I
noticed that he, as it were, 'let himself go' and became the wildest of
us all. But though wild he was never coarse,--as _we_ were; his deep and
mellow laughter had a sonorous richness in it that was totally unlike
the donkey's 'hee-haw' of our 'cultured' mirth,--his manners were never
vulgar; and his fluent discourse on men and things, now witty and
satirical, now serious almost to pathos, strangely affected many of
those who heard him talk, myself most of all. Once, I remember, when we
were returning late from some foolish carouse,--I with three young sons
of English peers, and Rimânez walking beside us,--we came upon a poorly
clad girl sobbing and clinging to the iron railing outside a closed
church door.
"Oh God!" she wailed--"Oh dear God! Do help me!"
One of my companions seized her by the arm with a lewd jest, when all at
once Rimânez stepped between.
"Leave her alone!" he said sternly--"Let her find God if she can!"
The girl looked up at him terrified, her eyes streaming with tears, and
he dropped two or three gold pieces into her hand. She broke out crying
afresh.
"Oh God bless you!" she cried wildly--"God bless you!"
He raised his hat and stood uncovered in the moonlight, his dark beauty
softened by a strangely wistful expression.
"I thank you!" he said simply--"You make me your debtor."
And he passed on; we followed, somewhat subdued and silenced, though one
of my lordling friends sniggered idiotically.
"You paid dearly for that blessing, Rimânez!" he said--"You gave her
three sovereigns;--by Jove! I'd have had something more than a blessing
if I had been you."
"No doubt!" returned Rimânez--"You deserve more,--much more! I hope you
will get it! A blessing would be of no advantage whatever to _you_;--it
is, to _me_."
How often I have thought of this incident since! I was too dense to
attach either meaning or importance to it then,--self-absorbed as I was,
I paid no attention to circumstances which seemed to have no connection
with my own life and affairs. And in all my dissipations and so-called
amusements, a perpetual restlessness consumed me,--I obtained no real
satisfaction out of anything except my slow and somewhat tantalizing
courtship of Lady Sibyl. She was a strange girl; she knew my intentions
towards her well enough; yet she affected not to know. Each time I
ventured to treat her with more than the usual deference, and to infuse
something of the ardour of a lover into my looks or manner, she feigned
surprise. I wonder why it is that some women are so fond of playing the
hypocrite in love? Their own instinct teaches them when men are amorous;
but unless they can run the fox to earth, or in other words, reduce
their suitors to the lowest pitch of grovelling appeal, and force them
to such abasement that the poor passion-driven fools are ready to fling
away life, and even honour, dearer than life, for their sakes, their
vanity is not sufficiently gratified. But who, or what am I that I
should judge of vanity,--I whose egregious and flagrant self-approbation
was of such a character that it blinded me to the perception and
comprehension of everything in which my own Ego was not represented! And
yet,--with all the morbid interest I took in myself, my surroundings, my
comfort, my social advancement, there was one thing which soon became a
torture to me,--a veritable despair and loathing,--and this, strange to
say, was the very triumph I had most looked forward to as the crown and
summit of all my ambitious dreams. My book,--the book I had presumed to
consider a work of genius,--when it was launched on the tide of
publicity and criticism, resolved itself into a sort of literary monster
that haunted my days and nights with its hateful presence; the thick,
black-lettered, lying advertisements scattered broadcast by my
publisher, flared at me with an offensive insistence in every paper I
casually opened. And the praise of the reviewers! ... the exaggerated,
preposterous, fraudulent 'boom'! Good God!--how sickening it was!--how
fulsome! Every epithet of flattery bestowed upon me filled me with
disgust, and one day when I took up a leading magazine and saw a long
article upon the 'extraordinary brilliancy and promise' of my book,
comparing me to a new Æschylus and Shakespeare combined, with the
signature of David McWhing appended to it, I could have thrashed that
erudite and assuredly purchased Scot within an inch of his life. The
chorus of eulogy was well-nigh universal; I was the 'genius of the
day'--the 'hope of the future generation,'--I was the "Book of the
Month,"--the greatest, the wittiest, most versatile, most brilliant
scribbling pigmy that had ever honoured a pot of ink by using it! Of
course I figured as McWhing's 'discovery,'--five hundred pounds bestowed
on his mysterious 'charity' had so sharpened his eyesight that he had
perceived me shining brightly on the literary horizon before anyone else
had done so. The press followed his 'lead' obediently,--for though the
press,--the English press at least,--is distinctly unbribable, the
owners of newspapers are not insensible to the advantages of largely
paying advertisements. Moreover, when Mr McWhing announced me as his
'find' in the oracular style which distinguished him, some other
literary gentlemen came forward and wrote effective articles about me,
and sent me their compositions carefully marked. I took the hint,--wrote
at once to thank them, and invited them to dinner. They came, and
feasted royally with Rimânez and myself;--(one of them wrote an 'Ode' to
me afterwards),--and at the conclusion of the revels, we sent two of the
'oracles' home, considerably overcome by champagne, in a carriage with
Amiel to look after them, and help them out at their own doors. And my
'boom' expanded,--London 'talked' as I had said it should; the growling
monster metropolis discussed me and my work in its own independent and
peculiar fashion. The 'upper ten' subscribed to the circulating
libraries, and these admirable institutions made a two or three hundred
copies do for all demands, by the simple expedient of keeping
subscribers waiting five or six weeks till they grew tired of asking for
the book, and forgot all about it. Apart from the libraries, the public
did not take me up. From the glowing criticisms that appeared in all the
papers, it might have been supposed that 'everybody who was anybody' was
reading my 'wonderful' production. Such however was not the case. People
spoke of me as 'the great millionaire,' but they were indifferent to the
bid I had made for literary fame. The remark they usually made to me
wherever I went was--"You have written a novel, haven't you? What an odd
thing for _you_ to do!"--this, with a laugh;--"I haven't read it,--I've
so little time--I must ask for it at the library." Of course a great
many never did ask, not deeming it worth their while; and I whose money,
combined with the resistless influence of Rimânez, had started the
favourable criticisms that flooded the press, found out that the
majority of the public never read criticisms at all. Hence, my anonymous
review of Mavis Clare's book made no effect whatever on _her_
popularity, though it appeared in the most prominent manner. It was a
sheer waste of labour,--for everywhere this woman author was still
looked upon as a creature of altogether finer clay than ordinary, and
still her book was eagerly devoured and questioned and admired; and
still it sold by thousands, despite a lack of all favourable criticism
or prominent advertisement. No one guessed that I had written what I am
now perfectly willing to admit was a brutally wanton misrepresentation
of her work,--no one, except Rimânez. The magazine in which it appeared
was a notable one, circulating in every club and library, and he, taking
it up casually one afternoon, turned to that article at once.
"You wrote this!" he said, fixing his eyes upon me,--"It must have been
a great relief to your mind!"