To a running fire of semi-serious sympathy Wynne dressed himself and went out. In a sense he was a little distressed to sacrifice his accustomed cup of early morning chocolate—but this, he argued, was a matter of small concern. A plethora of victuals stagnates the mind, and on this day he had every reason to desire a clear head.
In the Elysée Gardens he found a bench and contracted his brow in meditation. What, he ruminated, were the essentials required to gain a livelihood? Obviously there was a place for every one in this world, or mankind would not survive the ordeal of birth. There was a place for people of every kind of intelligence—a glance at the passers-by proved it, and proved that even the stupid may sometimes prosper. This being so, it was obvious that the wise must prosper even more greatly.
“What have I got to sell?” he asked himself. “What have I got that these other people desire? What can I do that other people can’t do?”
But though he racked his brain he could find no answer to the questions.
After a while he rose and started to walk. He walked fast, as if to escape from his own thoughts, and Fear, so it seemed, walked by his side.
“Nothing,” said Fear—“you have nothing to sell. Nobody wants you—nobody will care if you starve.”
“Go away,” said Wynne. “I tell you I am wanted. I say I shan’t starve.”
“Little idiot! What have you learnt to do but sneer at the real worker? There is no market price for sneers. Sneerers starve—starve! Who are you to laugh at the honest people of the world?”
“I didn’t laugh. I only pitied.”
“How dared you pity—you, who have achieved nothing? Even that small errand boy yonder is a worthier citizen than you—he at least earns his ten francs a week. What have you earned? Only the wage-slave deserves to be a freeman. What is the value of all this trash of art and æsthetics? These are only accessories of life—life itself must be learnt before you can deal in these.”