________________________________________________
_ The Professor, all the while, was leading a double life. While the
author of "The Vital Thing" reaped the fruits of popular approval,
the distinguished microscopist continued his laboratory work
unheeded save by the few who were engaged in the same line of
investigations. His divided allegiance had not hitherto affected the
quality of his work: it seemed to him that he returned to the
laboratory with greater zest after an afternoon in a drawing-room
where readings from "The Vital Thing" had alternated with plantation
melodies and tea. He had long ceased to concern himself with what
his colleagues thought of his literary career. Of the few whom he
frequented, none had referred to "The Vital Thing"; and he knew
enough of their lives to guess that their silence might as fairly be
attributed to indifference as to disapproval. They were intensely
interested in the Professor's views on beetles, but they really
cared very little what he thought of the Almighty.
The Professor entirely shared their feelings, and one of his chief
reasons for cultivating the success which accident had bestowed on
him, was that it enabled him to command a greater range of
appliances for his real work. He had known what it was to lack books
and instruments; and "The Vital Thing" was the magic wand which
summoned them to his aid. For some time he had been feeling his way
along the edge of a discovery: balancing himself with professional
skill on a plank of hypothesis flung across an abyss of uncertainty.
The conjecture was the result of years of patient gathering of
facts: its corroboration would take months more of comparison and
classification. But at the end of the vista victory loomed. The
Professor felt within himself that assurance of ultimate
justification which, to the man of science, makes a life-time seem
the mere comma between premiss and deduction. But he had reached the
point where his conjectures required formulation. It was only by
giving them expression, by exposing them to the comment and
criticism of his associates, that he could test their final value;
and this inner assurance was confirmed by the only friend whose
confidence he invited.
Professor Pease, the husband of the lady who had opened Mrs.
Linyard's eyes to the triumph of "The Vital Thing," was the
repository of her husband's scientific experiences. What he thought
of "The Vital Thing" had never been divulged; and he was capable of
such vast exclusions that it was quite possible that pervasive work
had not yet reached him. In any case, it was not likely to affect
his judgment of the author's professional capacity.
"You want to put that all in a book, Linyard," was Professor Pease's
summing-up. "I'm sure you've got hold of something big; but to see
it clearly yourself you ought to outline it for others. Take my
advice--chuck everything else and get to work tomorrow. It's time
you wrote a book, anyhow."
_ It's time you wrote a book, anyhow!_ The words smote the Professor
with mingled pain and ecstasy: he could have wept over their
significance. But his friend's other phrase reminded him with a
start of Harviss. "You have got hold of a big thing--" it had been
the publisher's first comment on "The Vital Thing." But what a world
of meaning lay between the two phrases! It was the world in which
the powers who fought for the Professor were destined to wage their
final battle; and for the moment he had no doubt of the outcome. The
next day he went to town to see Harviss. He wanted to ask for an
advance on the new popular edition of "The Vital Thing." He had
determined to drop a course of supplementary lectures at the
University, and to give himself up for a year to his book. To do
this, additional funds were necessary; but thanks to "The Vital
Thing" they would be forthcoming.
The publisher received him as cordially as usual; but the response
to his demand was not as prompt as his previous experience had
entitled him to expect.
"Of course we'll be glad to do what we can for you, Linyard; but the
fact is, we've decided to give up the idea of the new edition for
the present."
"You've given up the new edition?"
"Why, yes--we've done pretty well by 'The Vital Thing,' and we're
inclined to think it's _your_ turn to do something for it now."
The Professor looked at him blankly. "What can I do for it?" he
asked--"what _more_" his accent added.
"Why, put a little new life in it by writing something else. The
secret of perpetual motion hasn't yet been discovered, you know, and
it's one of the laws of literature that books which start with a
rush are apt to slow down sooner than the crawlers. We've kept 'The
Vital Thing' going for eighteen months--but, hang it, it ain't so
vital any more. We simply couldn't see our way to a new edition. Oh,
I don't say it's dead yet--but it's moribund, and you're the only
man who can resuscitate it."
The Professor continued to stare. "I--what can I do about it?" he
stammered.
"Do? Why write another like it--go it one better: you know the
trick. The public isn't tired of you by any means; but you want to
make yourself heard again before anybody else cuts in. Write another
book--write two, and we'll sell them in sets in a box: The Vital
Thing Series. That will take tremendously in the holidays. Try and
let us have a new volume by October--I'll be glad to give you a big
advance if you'll sign a contract on that."
The Professor sat silent: there was too cruel an irony in the
coincidence.
Harviss looked up at him in surprise.
"Well, what's the matter with taking my advice--you're not going out
of literature, are you?"
The Professor rose from his chair. "No--I'm going into it," he said
simply.
"Going into it?"
"I'm going to write a real book--a serious one."
"Good Lord! Most people think 'The Vital Thing' 's serious."
"Yes--but I mean something different."
"In your old line--beetles and so forth?"
"Yes," said the Professor solemnly.
Harviss looked at him with equal gravity. "Well, I'm sorry for
that," he said, "because it takes you out of our bailiwick. But I
suppose you've made enough money out of 'The Vital Thing' to permit
yourself a little harmless amusement. When you want more cash come
back to us--only don't put it off too long, or some other fellow
will have stepped into your shoes. Popularity don't keep, you know;
and the hotter the success the quicker the commodity perishes."
He leaned back, cheerful and sententious, delivering his axioms with
conscious kindliness.
The Professor, who had risen and moved to the door, turned back with
a wavering step.
"When did you say another volume would have to be ready?" he
faltered.
"I said October--but call it a month later. You don't need any
pushing nowadays."
"And--you'd have no objection to letting me have a little advance
now? I need some new instruments for my real work."
Harviss extended a cordial hand. "My dear fellow, that's
talking--I'll write the cheque while you wait; and I daresay we can
start up the cheap edition of 'The Vital Thing' at the same time, if
you'll pledge yourself to give us the book by November.--How much?"
he asked, poised above his cheque-book.
In the street, the Professor stood staring about him, uncertain and
a little dazed.
"After all, it's only putting it off for six months," he said to
himself; "and I can do better work when I get my new instruments."
He smiled and raised his hat to the passing victoria of a lady in
whose copy of "The Vital Thing" he had recently written:
_ Labor est etiam ipsa voluptas._
THE END.
The Descent of Man, by Edith Wharton. _
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