“What put it into your head, my dear Tempest, to write a book dealing with, as you say, ‘the noblest forms of life’? There are no noble forms of life left on this planet,—it is all low and commercial,—man is a pigmy, and his aims are pigmy like himself. For noble forms of life seek other worlds!—there are others. Then again, people don’t want their thoughts raised or purified in the novels they read for amusement—they go to church for that, and get very bored [p 36] during the process. And why should you wish to comfort folks who, out of their own sheer stupidity generally, get into trouble? They wouldn’t comfort you,—they would not give you sixpence to save you from starvation. My good fellow, leave your quixotism behind you with your poverty. Live your life to yourself,—if you do anything for others they will only treat you with the blackest ingratitude,—so take my advice, and don’t sacrifice your own personal interests for any consideration whatever.”
He rose from the table as he spoke and stood with his back to the bright fire, smoking his cigar tranquilly,—and I gazed at his handsome figure and face with just the faintest thrill of pained doubt darkening my admiration.
“If you were not so good-looking I should call you heartless”—I said at last—“But your features are a direct contradiction to your words. You have not really that indifference to human nature which you strive to assume,—your whole aspect betokens a generosity of spirit which you cannot conquer if you would. Besides, are you not always trying to do good?”
He smiled.
“Always! That is, I am always at work endeavouring to gratify every man’s desire. Whether that is good of me, or bad, remains to be proved. Men’s wants are almost illimitable,—the only thing none of them ever seem to wish, so far as I am concerned, is to cut my acquaintance!”
“Why, of course not! After once meeting you, how could they!” I said, laughing at the absurdity of the suggestion.
He gave me a whimsical side-look.
“Their desires are not always virtuous,” he remarked, turning to flick off the ash of his cigar into the grate.
“But of course you do not gratify them in their vices!” I rejoined, still laughing—“That would be playing the part of a benefactor somewhat too thoroughly!”
“Ah now I see we shall flounder in the quicksands of theory if we go any further”—he said—“You forget, my dear fellow, that nobody can decide as to what is vice, or what is [p 37] virtue. These things are chameleon-like, and take different colours in different countries. Abraham had two or three wives and several concubines, and he was the very soul of virtue according to sacred lore,—whereas my Lord Tom-Noddy in London to-day has one wife and several concubines, and is really very much like Abraham in other particulars, yet he is considered a very dreadful person. ‘Who shall decide when doctors disagree!’ Let’s drop the subject, as we shall never settle it. What shall we do with the rest of the evening? There is a stout-limbed, shrewd wench at the Tivoli, dancing her way into the affections of a ricketty little Duke,—shall we go and watch the admirable contortions with which she is wriggling into a fixed position among the English aristocracy? Or are you tired, and would you prefer a long night’s rest?”