“And how is your book getting on, Pro—the book that was to do so much?”
“I had to send it to London; there is not demand enough out here, they told me, for that kind of work, to make its publication profitable. I dare say they are right, so I sent it on to London; but that takes time, and I have had no answer yet.”
“I’m afraid you will never be a rich man, Pro.”
“I’m not afraid, I’m sure of it, unless an unforeseen accident should put it in my way. I will not pay the price. And he who will not pay cannot expect to have.”
“What price do you mean?”
“I will not sell my soul for the wealth of this life. Hard work will not get it, industry will not get it—nothing but the subjection of the whole mind and intelligence to money-grubbing, to besting your competitors, to out-lying your fellow-liars, to taking every advantage that the credulity or ignorance of your fellow-creatures may give you, and a remorseless selfishness—that is the price for the lottery ticket of life, which even then has more blanks than prizes.”
“And do you always mean to be poor, then?” said Bertha, not much surprised at the Professor’s statement, for she had heard him in the same strain before.
“Yes, poverty in cash will be mine, and I am coming day by day to think more and more that it is better so. The truth is not to be learned or kept in a mind from which the howling wolf of necessity is not present to sound for ever the cry of anguish, pain, and affliction. Not from a spring mattress but the hard ground man rises with his eyes widely opened to the true realities of life. But it is not about myself I wish to speak, but you, Bertha. You have had your wish. You are in Sydney, surrounded day after day by a crowd of admirers. Is it what your fancy painted it?”
“No, Pro, I can’t say it is. I am getting sick of it, in spite of the fine dresses and the fine place. I always feel ashamed of myself when you come in the bar. Other men are not like you. Oh, how I wish I was rich!”
“And what then, Bertha?”