teeled heart, is worthy
of a place, providing he looks on with undimmed eyes and keeps laughter
out of his voice, let who will laugh or cry. Yes! Even he, the prose
artist of fiction, which after all is but truth often dragged out of a
well and clothed in the painted robe of imaged phrases--even he has his
place amongst kings, demagogues, priests, charlatans, dukes, giraffes,
Cabinet Ministers, Fabians, bricklayers, apostles, ants, scientists,
Kaffirs, soldiers, sailors, elephants, lawyers, dandies, microbes and
constellations of a universe whose amazing spectacle is a moral end in
itself.

Here I perceive (speaking without offence) the reader assuming a subtle
expression, as if the cat were out of the bag. I take the novelist's
freedom to observe the reader's mind formulating the exclamation,
"That's it! The fellow talks pro domo."

Indeed it was not the intention! When I shouldered the bag I was not
aware of the cat inside. But, after all, why not? The fair courtyards of
the House of Art are thronged by many humble retainers. And there is
no retainer so devoted as he who is allowed to sit on the doorstep. The
fellows who have got inside are apt to think too much of themselves.
This last remark, I beg to state, is not malicious within the definition
of the law of libel. It's fair comment on a matter of public interest.
But never mind. Pro domo. So be it. For his house tant que vous voudrez.
And yet in truth I was by no means anxious to justify my existence.
The attempt would have been not only needless and absurd, but almost
inconceivable, in a purely spectacular universe, where no such
disagreeable necessity can possibly arise. It is sufficient for me to
say (and I am saying it at some length in these pages): "J'ai vecu." I
have existed, obscure amongst the wonders and terrors of my time, as the
Abbe Sieyes, the original utterer of the quoted words, had managed to
exist through the violences, the crimes, and the enthusiasms of the
French Revolution. "J'ai vecu", as I apprehend most of us manage
to exist, missing all along the varied forms of destruction by a
hair's-breadth, saving my body, that's clear, and perhaps my soul
also, but not without some damage here and there to the fine edge of my
conscience, that heirloom of the ages, of the race, of the group, of the
family, colourable and plastic, fashioned by the words, the looks,
the acts, and even by the silences and abstentions surrounding one's
childhood; tinged