"I don't think so," replied Cyril, "and I don't think you understand me
at all in this instance. There was no vanity in this matter. You know
that since some time I have been asking myself what moral right a man
has to consume his life writing verses, when there is so much evil to
remove, and every drop of thought or feeling we have is needed to make
the great river which is to wash out this Augean stable of a world. I
tried to put the doubt behind me, and to believe in Art for Art's own
sake, and such bosh. But the doubt pricked me. And when suddenly my
uncle left me all he had, I felt I must decide. As long as I was a mere
penniless creature I might write poetry, because there seemed nothing
else for me to do. But now it is different. This money and the power it
gives are mine only as long as I live; after my death they may go to
some blackguard; so, while I have them, I must give all my energies to
doing with them all the good that I possibly can."
"In that case better give them over to people who know best what to do
with them--societies or hospitals, or that sort of thing--and write your
verses as before. For I don't think your thoughts will add much to the
value of your money, Cyril. You've not a bit of practical head. Of
course you may, if you choose, look on idly while other people are
using your money. But I don't think it is specially worth doing."