ty in a poor patient ass toiling along a rough road under
a brutal burden that in the entire human race put together, from Adam
to myself. The conception of dignity is notional, most entirely. I
never see a poor wretch of a general, or king, or any such animal,
adorned in his toggery of dignity without laughing at him, and his
dignity again leads him to suppose that my smile is the result of the
pleasurable sensations his experience excites in me. Nature has
dignity at times; some animals have it; but man, never. What man
mistakes for it in himself is his vanity,--a vanity much more
pernicious than mine, because it deceives its possessor, who is also
wholly possessed by it, and is its slave. I have had a great many
illusions in my life, Signor Grandi."

"One would say, baron, that you had parted with them."

"Yes, and that is my chief vanity,--the vanity of vanities which I
prefer to all the others. It is only a man of no imagination who has
no vanity. He cannot imagine himself any better than he is. A creative
genius makes for his own person a 'self' which he thinks he is, or
desires other people to believe him to be. It makes little difference
whether he succeeds or not, so long as he flatters himself he does. He
complacently takes all his images from the other animals, or from
natural objects and phenomena, depicting himself bold as an eagle,
brave as a lion, strong as an ox, patient as an ass, vain as a
popinjay, talkative as a parrot, wily as a serpent, gentle as a dove,
cunning as a fox, surly as a bear; his glance is lightning, his voice
thunder, his heart stone, his hands are iron, his conscience a hell,
his sinews of steel, and his love like fire. In short, he is like
anything alive or dead, except a man, saving when he is mad. Then he
is a fool. Only man can be a fool. It distinguishes him from the
higher animals."

I cannot describe the unutterable scorn that blazed in his eyes as
Benoni poured out the vials of his wrath on the unlucky human race.
With my views, we were not likely to agree in this matter.

"Who are you?" I asked. "What right can you possibly have to abuse us
all in such particularly strong terms? Do you ever make proselytes to
your philosophy?"

"No," said he, answering my last question, and recovering his serenity
with that strange quickness of transition I had remarked when he had
made music during his previous visit. "No, they all die before I have
taught them anything."

"That doe