The Descent of Man Other Stories | Page 8

been training myself to do
for the last twenty years. It's a mission like another--the thing is to do it
thoroughly; not to cheat and compromise. I know fellows who are
publishers in business hours and dilettantes the rest of the time. Well,
they never succeed: convictions are just as necessary in business as in
religion. But that's not the point--I was going to say that if you'll let me
handle this book as a genuine thing I'll guarantee to make it go."
The Professor stood motionless, his hand still on the manuscript.
"A genuine thing?" he echoed.
"A serious piece of work--the expression of your convictions. I tell you
there's nothing the public likes as much as convictions--they'll always
follow a man who believes in his own ideas. And this book is just on
the line of popular interest. You've got hold of a big thing. It's full of
hope and enthusiasm: it's written in the religious key. There are
passages in it that would do splendidly in a Birthday Book--things that
popular preachers would quote in their sermons. If you'd wanted to
catch a big public you couldn't have gone about it in a better way. The
thing's perfect for my purpose--I wouldn't let you alter a word of it. It'll
sell like a popular novel if you'll let me handle it in the right way."

III

When the Professor left Harviss's office, the manuscript remained
behind. He thought he had been taken by the huge irony of the
situation--by the enlarged circumference of the joke. In its original
form, as Harviss had said, the book would have addressed itself to a
very limited circle: now it would include the world. The elect would

understand; the crowd would not; and his work would thus serve a
double purpose. And, after all, nothing was changed in the situation;
not a word of the book was to be altered. The change was merely in the
publisher's point of view, and in the "tip" he was to give the reviewers.
The Professor had only to hold his tongue and look serious.
These arguments found a strong reinforcement in the large premium
which expressed Harviss's sense of his opportunity. As a satire, the
book would have brought its author nothing; in fact, its cost would
have come out of his own pocket, since, as Harviss assured him, no
publisher would have risked taking it. But as a profession of faith, as
the recantation of an eminent biologist, whose leanings had hitherto
been supposed to be toward a cold determinism, it would bring in a
steady income to author and publisher. The offer found the Professor in
a moment of financial perplexity. His illness, his unwonted holiday, the
necessity of postponing a course of well-paid lectures, had combined to
diminish his resources; and when Harviss offered him an advance of a
thousand dollars the esoteric savour of the joke became irresistible. It
was still as a joke that he persisted in regarding the transaction; and
though he had pledged himself not to betray the real intent of the book,
he held in petto the notion of some day being able to take the public
into his confidence. As for the initiated, they would know at once: and
however long a face he pulled, his colleagues would see the tongue in
his cheek. Meanwhile it fortunately happened that, even if the book
should achieve the kind of triumph prophesied by Harviss, it would not
appreciably injure its author's professional standing. Professor Linyard
was known chiefly as a microscopist. On the structure and habits of a
certain class of coleoptera he was the most distinguished living
authority; but none save his intimate friends knew what generalizations
on the destiny of man he had drawn from these special studies. He
might have published a treatise on the Filioque without disturbing the
confidence of those on whose approval his reputation rested; and
moreover he was sustained by the thought that one glance at his book
would let them into its secret. In fact, so sure was he of this that he
wondered the astute Harviss had cared to risk such speedy exposure.
But Harviss had probably reflected that even in this reverberating age
the opinions of the laboratory do not easily reach the street; and the
Professor, at any rate, was not bound to offer advice on this point.

The determining cause of his consent was the fact that the book was
already in press. The Professor knew little about the workings of the
press, but the phrase gave him a sense of finality, of having been caught
himself in the toils of that mysterious engine. If he had had time to
think the matter over, his scruples might have dragged him back; but
his conscience was