Stories by American Authors, Volume 5 | Page 6

much, as well as the old
man's satisfaction. It is a part; he has to simulate. He has to "make
believe" a little--a good deal; he has to put his pride in his pocket and
send his conscience to the wash. He has to be accommodating--to listen
and pretend and flatter; and he does it as well as many a worse
man--does it far better than I. I might bully the old man, but I don't

think I could humor him. After all, however, it is not a matter of
comparative merit. In every son of woman there are two men--the
practical man and the dreamer. We live for our dreams--but, meanwhile,
we live by our wits. When the dreamer is a poet, the other fellow is an
artist. Theodore, at bottom, is only a man of taste. If he were not
destined to become a high priest among moralists, he might be a prince
among connoisseurs. He plays his part, therefore, artistically, with
spirit, with originality, with all his native refinement. How can Mr.
Sloane fail to believe that he possesses a paragon? He is no such fool as
not to appreciate a _nature distinguée_ when it comes in his way. He
confidentially assured me this morning that Theodore has the most
charming mind in the world, but that it's a pity he's so simple as not to
suspect it. If he only doesn't ruin him with his flattery!
19th.--I am certainly fortunate among men. This morning when,
tentatively, I spoke of going away, Mr. Sloane rose from his seat in
horror and declared that for the present I must regard his house as my
home. "Come, come," he said, "when you leave this place where do
you intend to go?" Where, indeed? I graciously allowed Mr. Sloane to
have the best of the argument. Theodore assures me that he appreciates
these and other affabilities, and that I have made what he calls a
"conquest" of his venerable heart. Poor, battered, bamboozled old
organ! he would have one believe that it has a most tragical record of
capture and recapture. At all events, it appears that I am master of the
citadel. For the present I have no wish to evacuate. I feel, nevertheless,
in some far-off corner of my soul, that I ought to shoulder my
victorious banner and advance to more fruitful triumphs.
I blush for my beastly laziness. It isn't that I am willing to stay here a
month, but that I am willing to stay here six. Such is the charming,
disgusting truth. Have I really outlived the age of energy? Have I
survived my ambition, my integrity, my self-respect? Verily, I ought to
have survived the habit of asking myself silly questions. I made up my
mind long ago to go in for nothing but present success; and I don't care
for that sufficiently to secure it at the cost of temporary suffering. I
have a passion for nothing--not even for life. I know very well the
appearance I make in the world. I pass for a clever, accomplished,
capable, good-natured fellow, who can do anything if he would only try.
I am supposed to be rather cultivated, to have latent talents. When I was

younger I used to find a certain entertainment in the spectacle of human
affairs. I liked to see men and women hurrying on each other's heels
across the stage. But I am sick and tired of them now; not that I am a
misanthrope, God forbid! They are not worth hating. I never knew but
one creature who was, and her I went and loved. To be consistent, I
ought to have hated my mother, and now I ought to detest Theodore.
But I don't--truly, on the whole, I don't--any more than I dote on him. I
firmly believe that it makes a difference to him, his idea that I am fond
of him. He believes in that, as he believes in all the rest of it--in my
culture, my latent talents, my underlying "earnestness," my sense of
beauty and love of truth. Oh, for a man among them all--a fellow with
eyes in his head--eyes that would know me for what I am and let me
see they had guessed it. Possibly such a fellow as that might get a "rise"
out of me.
In the name of bread and butter, what am I to do? (I was obliged this
morning to borrow fifty dollars from Theodore, who remembered
gleefully that he has been owing me a trifling sum for the past four
years, and in fact has preserved a note to this effect.) Within the last
week I have hatched a desperate plan: I have made up my mind to take
a wife--a rich one, bien entendu. Why not