“I say nothing, my friend. I know but little of art, so it would be an impertinence of me to talk about that of which I am ignorant.”
“The longer we live the less we discover we know,” said Roylands sententiously.
“I suppose that is true,” replied Caliphronas indolently; “but, thank heaven, I have not the soul of an artist, for it seems to cause its owner perpetual anxiety. No; I live healthy, joyous, and free, like the other animals of Nature, and I am quite satisfied.”
“Is that not rather ignoble?”
“Perhaps; but that is nothing to me. I am happy, which is, to my mind, the main aim of life. Why should I slave for money? I do not wish it. Why should I toil for years at art, and gain at the end but ephemeral fame? Besides, when one dies, what good does fame do? A large marble tomb would not please me.”
“Still, the fame of being spoken of by succeeding generations.”
“Who would do nothing but wrangle over their different opinions regarding one’s work. Present happiness is what I wish, not future praise; but in this narrow island of yours you cannot understand the joy of life. Come with me to the isles of Greece, and you will be so fascinated with the free, wild life that you will never return to your prison-house.”
“If all men thought like you, the world would not progress.”
“I don’t want all men to think the same as I do,” replied the Count selfishly. “I suppose there must be slaves as well as freemen. I prefer to be the last.”
“Slaves!”