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“I live out of mere curiosity,” he said.

“I have heard of people dying from the same motive.”

He looked at me a moment, as if to ascertain whether I were laughing at him. And then, after a pause, “Perhaps you don’t know that I disbelieve in a future life,” he remarked, blandly.

At these words Theodore got up and walked to the fire.

“Well, we shan’t quarrel about that,” said I. Theodore turned round, staring.

“Do you mean that you agree with me?” the old man asked.

“I certainly haven’t come here to talk theology! Don’t ask me to disbelieve, and I’ll never ask you to believe.”

“Come,” cried Mr. Sloane, rubbing his hands, “you’ll not persuade me you are a Christian–like your friend Theodore there.”

“Like Theodore–assuredly not.” And then, somehow, I don’t know why, at the thought of Theodore’s Christianity I burst into a laugh. “Excuse me, my dear fellow,” I said, “you know, for the last ten years I have lived in pagan lands.”

“What do you call pagan?” asked Theodore, smiling.

I saw the old man, with his hands locked, eying me shrewdly, and waiting for my answer. I hesitated a moment, and then I said, “Everything that makes life tolerable!”

Hereupon Mr. Sloane began to laugh till he coughed. Verily, I thought, if he lives for curiosity, he’s easily satisfied.

We went into dinner, and this repast showed me that some of his curiosity is culinary. I observed, by the way, that for a victim of neuralgia, dyspepsia, and a thousand other ills, Mr. Sloane plies a most inconsequential knife and fork. Sauces and spices and condiments seem to be the chief of his diet. After dinner he dismissed us, in consideration of my natural desire to see my friend in private. Theodore has capital quarters–a downy bedroom and a snug little salon. We talked till near midnight–of ourselves, of each other, and of the author of the memoirs, down stairs. That is, I spoke of myself, and Theodore listened; and then Theodore descanted upon Mr. Sloane, and I listened. His commerce with the old man has sharpened his wits. Sloane has taught him to observe and judge, and Theodore turns round, observes, judges–him! He has become quite the critic and analyst. There is something very pleasant in the discriminations of a conscientious mind, in which criticism is tempered by an angelic charity. Only, it may easily end by acting on one’s nerves. At midnight we repaired to the library, to take leave of our host till the morrow–an attention which, under all circumstances, he rigidly exacts. As I gave him my hand he held it again and looked at me as he had done on my arrival. “Bless my soul,” he said, at last, “how much you look like your mother!”

To-night, at the end of my third day, I begin to feel decidedly at home. The fact is, I am remarkably comfortable. The house is pervaded by an indefinable, irresistible love of luxury and privacy. Mr. Frederick Sloane is a horribly corrupt old mortal. Already in his relaxing presence I have become heartily reconciled to doing nothing. But with Theodore on one side–standing there like a tall interrogation-point–I honestly believe I can defy Mr. Sloane on the other. The former asked me this morning, with visible solicitude, in allusion to the bit of dialogue I have quoted above on matters of faith, whether I am really a materialist–whether I don’t believe something? I told him I would believe anything he liked. He looked at me a while, in friendly sadness. “I hardly know whether you are not worse than Mr. Sloane,” he said.

But Theodore is, after all, in duty bound to give a man a long rope in these matters. His own rope is one of the longest. He reads Voltaire with Mr. Sloane, and Emerson in his own room. He is the stronger man of the two; he has the larger stomach. Mr. Sloane delights, of course, in Voltaire, but he can’t read a line of Emerson. Theodore delights in Emerson, and enjoys Voltaire, though he thinks him superficial. It appears that since we parted in Paris, five years ago, his conscience has dwelt in many lands. C’est tout une histoire–which he tells very prettily. He left college determined to enter the church, and came abroad with his mind full of theology and Tuebingen. He appears to have studied, not wisely but too well. Instead of faith full-armed and serene, there sprang from the labor of his brain a myriad sickly questions, piping for answers. He went for a winter to Italy, where, I take it, he was not quite so much afflicted as he ought to have been at the sight of the beautiful spiritual repose that he had missed. It was after this that we spent those three months together in Brittany–the best-spent months of my long residence in Europe. Theodore inoculated me, I think, with some of his seriousness, and I just touched him with my profanity; and we agreed together that there were a few good things left–health, friendship, a summer sky, and the lovely byways of an old French province. He came home, searched the Scriptures once more, accepted a “call,” and made an attempt to respond to it. But the inner voice failed him. His outlook was cheerless enough. During his absence his married sister, the elder one, had taken the other to live with her, relieving Theodore of the charge of contribution to her support. But suddenly, behold the husband, the brother-in-law, dies, leaving a mere figment of property; and the two ladies, with their two little girls, are afloat in the wide world. Theodore finds himself at twenty-six without an income, without a profession, and with a family of four females to support. Well, in his quiet way he draws on his courage. The history of the two years that passed before he came to Mr. Sloane is really absolutely edifying. He rescued his sisters and nieces from the deep waters, placed them high and dry, established them somewhere in decent gentility–and then found at last that his strength had left him–had dropped dead like an over-ridden horse. In short, he had worked himself to the bone. It was now his sisters’ turn. They nursed him with all the added tenderness of gratitude for the past and terror of the future, and brought him safely through a grievous malady. Meanwhile Mr. Sloane, having decided to treat himself to a private secretary and suffered dreadful mischance in three successive experiments, had heard of Theodore’s situation and his merits; had furthermore recognized in him the son of an early and intimate friend, and had finally offered him the very comfortable position he now occupies. There is a decided incongruity between Theodore as a man–as Theodore, in fine–and the dear fellow as the intellectual agent, confidant, complaisant, purveyor, pander–what you will–of a battered old cynic and dilettante–a worldling if there ever was one. There seems at first sight a perfect want of agreement between his character and his function. One is gold and the other brass, or something very like it. But on reflection I can enter into it–his having, under the circumstances, accepted Mr. Sloane’s offer and been content to do his duties. Ce que c’est de nous! Theodore’s contentment in such a case is a theme for the moralist–a better moralist than I. The best and purest mortals are an odd mixture, and in none of us does honesty exist on its own terms. Ideally, Theodore hasn’t the smallest business dans cette galere. It offends my sense of propriety to find him here. I feel that I ought to notify him as a friend that he has knocked at the wrong door, and that he had better retreat before he is brought to the blush. However, I suppose he might as well be here as reading Emerson “evenings” in the back parlor, to those two very plain sisters–judging from their photographs. Practically it hurts no one not to be too much of a prig. Poor Theodore was weak, depressed, out of work. Mr. Sloane offers him a lodging and a salary in return for–after all, merely a little tact. All he has to do is to read to the old man, lay down the book a while, with his finger in the place, and let him talk; take it up again, read another dozen pages and submit to another commentary. T
hen to write a dozen pages under his dictation–to suggest a word, polish off a period, or help him out with a complicated idea or a half-remembered fact. This is all, I say; and yet this is much. Theodore’s apparent success proves it to be 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 distinguee 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!