Yet with all the advantages over both friends and enemies which I now possessed I could not honestly say I was happy. I knew I could have every possible enjoyment and amusement the world had to offer,—I knew I was one of the most envied among men, and yet,—as I stood looking out of the window at the persistently falling rain, I was conscious of a bitterness rather than a sweetness in the full cup of fortune. Many things that I had imagined would give me intense satisfaction had fallen curiously flat. For example, I had flooded the press with the most carefully worded and prominent advertisements of my forthcoming book, and when I was poor I had pictured to myself how I should revel in doing this,—now that it was done I cared nothing at all about it. I was simply weary of the sight of my own advertised
name. I certainly did look forward with very genuine feeling and expectation to the publication of my work when that should be an accomplished fact,—but to-day even that idea had lost some of its attractiveness owing to this new and unpleasant impression on my mind that the contents of that book were as utterly the reverse of my own true thoughts as they could well be. A fog began to darken down over the streets in company with the rain,—and disgusted with the weather and with myself, I turned away from the window and settled into an arm-chair by the fire, poking the coal till it blazed, and wondering what I should do to rid my mind of the gloom that threatened to envelop it in as thick a canopy [p 75] as that of the London fog. A tap came at the door, and in answer to my somewhat irritable “Come in!” Rimânez entered.
“What, all in the dark Tempest!” he exclaimed cheerfully—“Why don’t you light up?”
“The fire’s enough,”—I answered crossly—“Enough at any rate to think by.”
“And have you been thinking?” he inquired laughing—“Don’t do it. It’s a bad habit. No one thinks now-a-days,—people can’t stand it—their heads are too frail. Once begin to think and down go the foundations of society,—besides thinking is always dull work.”
“I have found it so,” I said gloomily—“Lucio, there is something wrong about me somewhere.”
His eyes flashed keen, half-amused inquiry into mine.
“Wrong? Oh no, surely not! What can there be wrong about you, Tempest? Are you not one of the richest men living?”
I let the satire pass.
“Listen, my friend,” I said earnestly—“You know I have been busy for the last fortnight correcting the proofs of my book for the press,—do you not?”