rance.

"We shall not be here," I briskly, but fatuously, added.

"We shall not be here. No," he droned, "but the museum will still be
just where it is. And the reading-room just where it is. And people
will be able to go and read there." He inhaled sharply, and a spasm as
of actual pain contorted his features.

I wondered what train of thought poor Soames had been following. He
did not enlighten me when he said, after a long pause, "You think I
haven't minded."

"Minded what, Soames?"

"Neglect. Failure."

"FAILURE?" I said heartily. "Failure?" I repeated vaguely.
"Neglect--yes, perhaps; but that's quite another matter. Of course you
haven't been--appreciated. But what, then? Any artist who--who
gives--" What I wanted to say was, "Any artist who gives truly new and
great things to the world has always to wait long for recognition"; but
the flattery would not out: in the face of his misery--a misery so
genuine and so unmasked--my lips would not say the words.

And then he said them for me. I flushed. "That's what you were going
to say, isn't it?" he asked.

"How did you know?"

"It's what you said to me three years ago, when 'Fungoids' was
published." I flushed the more. I need not have flushed at all.
"It's the only important thing I ever heard you say," he continued.
"And I've never forgotten it. It's a true thing. It's a horrible
truth. But--d'you remember what I answered? I said, 'I don't care a
sou for recognition.' And you believed me. You've gone on believing
I'm above that sort of thing. You're shallow. What should YOU know of
the feelings of a man like me? You imagine that a great artist's faith
in himself and in the verdict of posterity is enough to keep him happy.
You've never guessed at the bitterness and loneliness, the"--his voice
broke; but presently he resumed, speaking with a force that I had never
known in him. "Posterity! What use is it to ME? A dead man doesn't
know that people are visiting his grave, visiting his birthplace,
putting up tablets to him, unveiling statues of him. A dead man can't
read the books that are written about him. A hundred years hence!
Think of it! If I could come back to life THEN--just for a few
hours--and go to the reading-room and READ! Or, better still, if I
could be projected now, at this moment, into that future, into that
reading-room, just for this one afternoon! I'd sell myself body and
soul to the devil for that! Think of