The fact was that my successful story had ruined
me. My income was at an end, and want actually stared me in the
face; and I must admit that I did not like the expression of its
countenance. It was of no use for me to try to write another
story like "His Wife's Deceased Sister." I could not get married
every time I began a new manuscript, and it was the
exaltation of mind caused by my wedded felicity which produced
that story.
"It's perfectly dreadful!" said my wife. "If I had had a
sister, and she had died, I would have thought it was my fault."
"It could not be your fault," I answered, "and I do not think
it was mine. I had no intention of deceiving anybody into the
belief that I could do that sort of thing every time, and it
ought not to be expected of me. Suppose Raphael's patrons had
tried to keep him screwed up to the pitch of the Sistine Madonna,
and had refused to buy anything which was not as good as that.
In that case I think he would have occupied a much earlier and
narrower grave than the one on which Mr. Morris Moore hangs his
funeral decorations."
"But, my dear," said Hypatia, who was posted on such
subjects, "the Sistine Madonna was one of his latest paintings."
"Very true," said I. "But if he had married as I did, he
would have painted it earlier."
I was walking homeward one afternoon about this time, when I
met Barbel, a man I had known well in my early literary career.
He was now about fifty years of age, but looked older.
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