“How very imprudent of you, Christian!” said his wife.
“But the Bishop didn’t know the circumstances,” said Christian. “It was the subtlest kind of deviltry, not humanity, that prompted the act. If I hadn’t given her my coat, the old lady would have frozen to death and been soon out of her misery. As it was, my wet coat saved her from an immediate surcease of sorrow, and, as I had foreseen, gave her muscular rheumatism of the most painful sort, from which she has suffered ever since.”
“You should have explained to the Bishop.”
“I did.”
“And what did he say?”
“He said my methods were too damned artistic.”
“What?” cried Mrs. Goodheart. “The Bishop?”
“Oh, well,” said Christian, “words to that effect. He doesn’t appreciate the subtleties of gloom distinction. What he looks for is sheer brutality. Might as well employ an out-and-out desperado for the work. I like to infuse a little art into my work. I’ve tried to bring Gloomsterism up to the level of an art, a science. Slapping a man in the face doesn’t make him gloomy; it makes him mad. But subtlely infusing woe into his daily life, so that he doesn’t know whence all his trouble comes—ah! that is the perfect flower of the Gloomster’s work!”
“H’m!” said Mrs. Goodheart. “That’s well enough, Christian. If you are rich enough to consume your own product with profit, it’s all right to be artistic; but if you are dependent on a salary, don’t forget your consumer. What else have they against you?”
“Read on, woman,” said the Gloomster.