The Inmost Light

One evening in autumn, when the deformities of London were veiled in
faint blue mist, and its vistas and far-reaching streets seemed
splendid, Mr. Charles Salisbury was slowly pacing down Rupert Street,
drawing nearer to his favourite restaurant by slow degrees. His eyes
were downcast in study of the pavement, and thus it was that as he
passed in at the narrow door a man who had come up from the lower end of
the street jostled against him.

'I beg your pardon--wasn't looking where I was going. Why, it's Dyson!'

'Yes, quite so. How are you, Salisbury?'

'Quite well. But where have you been, Dyson? I don't think I can have
seen you for the last five years?'

'No; I dare say not. You remember I was getting rather hard up when you
came to my place at Charlotte Street?'

'Perfectly. I think I remember your telling me that you owed five weeks'
rent, and that you had parted with your watch for a comparatively small
sum.'

'My dear Salisbury, your memory is admirable. Yes, I was hard up. But
the curious thing is that soon after you saw me I became harder up. My
financial state was described by a friend as "stone broke." I don't
approve of slang, mind you, but such was my condition. But suppose we go
in; there might be other people who would like to dine--it's a human
weakness, Salisbury.'

'Certainly; come along. I was wondering as I walked down whether the
corner table were taken. It has a velvet back you know.'

'I know the spot; it's vacant. Yes, as I was saying, I became even
harder up.'

'What did you do then?' asked Salisbury, disposing of his hat, and
settling down in the corner of the seat, with a glance of fond
anticipation at the _menu_.

'What did I do? Why, I sat down and reflected. I had a good classical
education, and a positive distaste for business of any kind: that was
the capital with which I faced the world. Do you know, I have heard
people describe olives as nasty! What lamentable Philistinism! I have
often thought, Salisbury, that I could write genuine poetry under the
influence of olives and red wine. Let us have Chianti; it may not be
very good, but the flasks are simply charming.'

'It is pretty good here. We may as well have a big flask.'

'Very good. I reflected, then, on my want of prospects, and I determined
to embark in literature.'

'Really; that was strange. You seem in pretty comfortable circumstances,
though.'

'Though! What a satire upon a noble profession. I am afraid, Salisbury,
you haven't a proper idea of the dignity of an artist. You see me
sitting at my desk--or at least you can see me if you care to call--with
pen and ink, and simple nothingness before me, and if you come again in
a few hours you will (in all probability) find a creation!'