“Expect!” he echoed—“My good fellow, I expect nothing at all,—from men. They, on the contrary,—at least all those I know—expect everything from me. And they get it,—generally. As for ‘despising’ you, have I not said that I admire you? I do. I think there is something positively stupendous in the brilliant progress of your fame and rapid social success.”
“My fame!” I repeated bitterly—“How has it been obtained? What is it worth?”
“That is not the question;” he retorted with a little smile; “How unpleasant it must be for you to have these gouty twinges of conscience Geoffrey! Of course no fame is actually worth much now-a-days,—because it is not classic fame, strong in reposeful old-world dignity,—it is blatant noisy notoriety merely. But yours, such as it is, is perfectly legitimate, judged by its common-sense commercial aspect, which is the only aspect in which anyone looks at anything. You must bear in mind that no one works out of disinterestedness in the present age,—no matter how purely benevolent an action may appear on the surface, Self lies [p 186] at the bottom of it. Once grasp this fact, and you will perceive that nothing could be fairer or more straightforward than the way you have obtained your fame. You have not ‘bought’ the incorruptible British Press; you could not do that; that is impossible, for it is immaculate, and bristles stiffly all over with honourable principles. There is no English paper existing that would accept a cheque for the insertion of a notice or a paragraph; not one!” His eyes twinkled merrily,—then he went on—“No,—it is only the Foreign Press that is corrupt, so the British Press says;—John Bull looks on virtuously aghast at journalists who, in dire stress of poverty, will actually earn a little extra pay for writing something or somebody ‘up’ or ‘down.’ Thank Heaven, he employs no such journalists; his pressmen are the very soul of rectitude, and will stoically subsist on a pound a week rather than take ten for a casual job ‘to oblige a friend.’ Do you know Geoffrey, when the Judgment Day arrives, who will be among the first saints to ascend to Heaven with the sounding of trumpets?”
I shook my head, half vexed, half amused.
“All the English (not foreign) editors and journalists!” said Lucio with an air of pious rapture—“and why? Because they are so good, so just, so unprejudiced! Their foreign brethren will be reserved for the eternal dance of devils of course—but the Britishers will pace the golden streets singing Alleluia! I assure you I consider British journalists generally the noblest examples of incorruptibility in the world—they come next to the clergy as representatives of virtue, and exponents of the three evangelical counsels,—voluntary poverty, chastity, and obedience!” Such mockery glittered in his eyes, that the light in them might have been the reflection of clashing steel. “Be consoled, Geoffrey,” he resumed—“your fame is honourably won. You have simply, through me, approached one critic who writes in about twenty newspapers and influences others to write in other twenty,—that critic being a noble creature, (all critics are noble creatures) has a pet ‘society’ for the relief [p 187] of authors in need (a noble scheme you will own) and to this charity I subscribe out of pure benevolence, five hundred pounds. Moved by my generosity and consideration, (particularly as I do not ask what becomes of the five hundred) McWhing ‘obliges’ me in a little matter. The editors of the papers for which he writes accept him as a wise and witty personage; they know nothing about the charity or the cheque,—it is not necessary for them to know. The whole thing is really quite a reasonable business arrangement;—it is only a self-tormenting analyst like you who would stop to think of such a trifle a second time.”
“If McWhing really and conscientiously admired my book for itself;” I began.
“Why should you imagine he does not?” asked Lucio—“Myself, I believe that he is a perfectly sincere and honorable man. I think he means all he says and writes. I consider that if he had found your work not worthy of his commendation, he would have sent me back that cheque for five hundred pounds, torn across in a noble scorn!”
And with this, throwing himself back in his chair, he laughed till the tears came into his eyes.
But I could not laugh; I was too weary and depressed. A heavy sense of despair was on my mind; I felt that the hope which had cheered me in my days of poverty,—the hope of winning real Fame, so widely different a thing to notoriety, had vanished. There was some quality in the subtle glory which could not be won by either purchase or influence. The praise of the press could not give it. Mavis Clare, working for her bread, had it,—I, with millions of money, had not. Like a fool I had thought to buy it; I had yet to learn that all the best, greatest, purest and worthiest things in life are beyond all market-value and that the gifts of the gods are not for sale.
About a fortnight after the publication of my book, we went to Court, my comrade and I, and were presented by a distinguished officer connected with the immediate and intimate surroundings of the Royal household. It was a brilliant scene enough,—but, without doubt, the most brilliant personage [p 188] there was Rimânez. I was fairly startled at the stately and fascinating figure he made in his court suit of black velvet and steel ornaments; accustomed as I was to his good looks, I had never seen them so enhanced by dress as on this occasion. I had been tolerably well satisfied with my own appearance in the regulation costume till I saw him; then my personal vanity suffered a decided shock, and I realized that I merely served as a foil to show off and accentuate the superior attractions of my friend. But I was not envious of him in any way,—on the contrary I openly expressed the admiration I frankly felt.