"Is the book such wretched stuff as you make it out to be?" he asked
presently.
"I suppose some people might admire it,"--I said curtly, "I do not."
This was a lie; and of course he knew it was a lie. The work of Mavis
Clare had excited my most passionate envy,--while the very fact that
Sibyl Elton had read her book before she had thought of looking at mine,
had accentuated the bitterness of my feelings.
"Well," said Rimânez at last, smiling as he finished reading my
onslaught--"all I can say Geoffrey, is that this will not touch Mavis
Clare in the least. You have overshot the mark, my friend! Her public
will simply cry "what a shame!" and clamour for her work more than ever.
And as for the woman herself,--she has a merry heart, and she will laugh
at it. You must see her some day."
"I don't want to see her," I said.
"Probably not. But you will scarcely be able to avoid doing so when you
live at Willowsmere Court."
"One is not obliged to know everybody in the neighbourhood,"--I observed
superciliously.
Lucio laughed aloud.
"How well you carry your fortunes, Geoffrey!" he said--"For a poor devil
of a Grub-street hack who lately was at a loss for a sovereign, how
perfectly you follow the fashions of your time! If there is one man more
than another that moves me to wondering admiration it is he who asserts
his wealth strenuously in the face of his fellows, and who comports
himself in this world as though he could bribe death and purchase the
good-will of the Creator. It is such splendid effrontery,--such
superlative pride! Now I, though over-wealthy myself, am so curiously
constituted that I cannot wear my bank-notes in my countenance as it
were,--I have put in a claim for intellect as well as gold,--and
sometimes, do you know, in my travels round the world, I have been so
far honoured as to be taken for quite a poor man! Now _you_ will never
have that chance again;--you are rich and you look it!"
"And you,--" I interrupted him suddenly, and with some warmth--"do you
know what _you_ look? You imply that I assert my wealth in my face; do
you know what _you_ assert in your every glance and gesture?"
"I cannot imagine!" he said smiling.
"Contempt for us all!" I said--"Immeasurable contempt,--even for me,
whom you call friend. I tell you the truth, Lucio,--there are times,
when in spite of our intimacy I feel that you despise me. I daresay you
do; you have an extraordinary personality united to extraordinary
talents; you must not however expect all men to be as self-restrained
and as indifferent to human passions as yourself."
He gave me a swift, searching glance.
"Expect!" he echoed--"My good fellow, I expect nothing at all,--from
men. They, on the contrary,--at least all those _I_ know--expect
everything from me. And they get it,--generally. As for 'despising' you,
have I not said that I admire you? I do. I think there is something
positively stupendous in the brilliant progress of your fame and rapid
social success."
"My fame!" I repeated bitterly--"How has it been obtained? What is it
worth?"
"That is not the question;" he retorted with a little smile; "How
unpleasant it must be for you to have these gouty twinges of conscience
Geoffrey! Of course no fame is actually worth much now-a-days,--because
it is not classic fame, strong in reposeful old-world dignity,--it is
blatant noisy notoriety merely. But yours, such as it is, is perfectly
legitimate, judged by its common-sense commercial aspect, which is the
only aspect in which anyone looks at anything. You must bear in mind
that no one works out of disinterestedness in the present age,--no
matter how purely benevolent an action may appear on the surface, Self
lies at the bottom of it. Once grasp this fact, and you will perceive
that nothing could be fairer or more straightforward than the way you
have obtained your fame. You have not 'bought' the incorruptible British
Press; you could not do that; that is impossible, for it is immaculate,
and bristles stiffly all over with honourable principles. There is no
English paper existing that would accept a cheque for the insertion of a
notice or a paragraph; not one!" His eyes twinkled merrily,--then he
went on--"No,--it is only the Foreign Press that is corrupt, so the
British Press says;--John Bull looks on virtuously aghast at journalists
who, in dire stress of poverty, will actually earn a little extra pay
for writing something or somebody 'up' or 'down.' Thank Heaven, _he_
employs no such journalists; his pressmen are the very soul of
rectitude, and will stoically subsist on a pound a week rather than take
ten for a casual job 'to oblige a friend.' Do you know Geoffrey, when
the Judgment Day arrives, who will be among the first saints to ascend
to Heaven with the sounding of trumpets?"