"Pardon me!--I spoke in haste of course,--but you know my theories--"
"Most thoroughly!" and he laughed, with an immediate resumption of his
old manner--"'Every man his own theory' is the fashionable motto of the
hour. Each little biped tells you that he has his 'own idea' of God, and
equally 'his own' idea of the Devil. It is very droll! But let us return
to the theme of love. I feel I have not congratulated you half
enough,--for surely Fortune favours you singularly. Out of the teeming
mass of vain and frivolous femininity, you have secured a unique example
of beauty, truth and purity,--a woman, who apart from all self-interest
and worldly advantage, weds you, with five millions, for yourself alone!
The prettiest poem in the world could be made out of such an exquisitely
innocent maiden type! You are one of the luckiest men alive; in fact,
you have nothing more to wish for!"
I did not contradict him, though in my own mind I felt that the
circumstances of my engagement left much to be desired. I, who scoffed
at religion, wished it had formed part of the character of my future
wife,--I, who sneered at sentiment, craved for some expression of it in
the woman whose beauty attracted my desires. However I determinedly
smothered all the premonitions of my own conscience, and accepted what
each day of my idle and useless life brought me without considering
future consequences.
The papers soon had the news that "a marriage has been arranged and will
shortly take place between Sibyl, only daughter of the Earl of Elton,
and Geoffrey Tempest, the famous millionaire." Not 'famous author' mark
you!--though I was still being loudly 'boomed.' Morgeson, my publisher,
could offer me no consolation as to my chances of winning and keeping a
steady future fame. The Tenth Edition of my book was announced, but we
had not actually disposed of more than two thousand copies, including a
One-Volume issue which had been hastily thrust on the market. And the
work I had so mercilessly and maliciously slated,--'Differences' by
Mavis Clare was in its thirtieth thousand! I commented on this with some
anger to Morgeson, who was virtuously aggrieved at my complaint.
"Dear me, Mr Tempest, you are not the only writer who has been 'boomed'
by the press and who nevertheless does not sell,"--he exclaimed--"No one
can account for the caprices of the public; they are entirely beyond the
most cautious publisher's control or calculation. Miss Clare is a sore
subject to many authors besides yourself,--she always 'takes' and no one
can help it. I sympathize with you in the matter heartily, but I am not
to blame. At any rate the reviewers are all with you,--their praise has
been almost unanimous. Now Mavis Clare's 'Differences,' though to my
thinking a very brilliant and powerful book, has been literally cut to
pieces whenever it has been noticed at all,--and yet the public go for
her and don't go for you. It isn't my fault. You see people have got
Compulsory Education now, and I'm afraid they begin to mistrust
criticism, preferring to form their own independent opinions; if this is
so, of course it will be a terrible thing, because the most carefully
organized clique in the world will be powerless. Everything has been
done for you that can be done, Mr Tempest,--I am sure I regret as much
as yourself that the result has not been all you expected or desired.
Many authors would not care so much for the public approval; the
applause of cultured journalism such as you have obtained, would be more
than sufficient for them."
I laughed bitterly. 'The applause of cultured journalism!' I thought I
knew something of the way in which such applause was won. Almost I began
to hate my millions,--golden trash that could only secure me the
insincere flattery of fair-weather friends,--and that could not give me
fame,--such fame as has sometimes been grasped in a moment by a starving
and neglected genius, who in the very arms of death, succeeds in
mastering the world. One day in a fit of disappointment and petulance I
said to Lucio--
"You have not kept all your promises, my friend!--you told me you could
give me fame!"
He looked at me curiously.
"Did I? Well,--and are you not famous?"
"No. I am merely notorious," I retorted.
He smiled.
"The word fame, my good Geoffrey, traced to its origin means 'a
breath'--the breath of popular adulation. You have that--for your
wealth."
"But not for my work!"
"You have the praise of the reviewers!"
"What is that worth!"
"Everything!" he answered smiling--"In the reviewers' own opinion!"