VI
But there are certain persons who, although their minds are logicalenough, have illogical bodies. Mr. Prohack was one of these. Hisridiculous physical organism (as he had once informed Dr. Veiga) wasleast capable of going to sleep when it was most fatigued. If Mr.Prohack's body had retired to bed four hours earlier than in fact itdid, Mr. Prohack would have slept instantly and with ease. Now, despitedelicious contact with the pillow, he could not 'get off.' And his mind,influenced by his body, grew restless, then excited, then distressinglyrealistic. His mind began to ask fundamental questions, questions not abit original but none the less very awkward.
"You've had your first idle day, Mr. Prohack," said his mindchallengingly instead of composing itself to slumber. "It was organisedon scientific lines. It was carried out with conscientiousness. And lookat you! And look at me! You've had a few good moments, as for example atthe Turkish bath, but do you want a succession of such days? Could yousurvive a succession of such days? Would you even care to acquire ahundred and fifty thousand pounds every day? You have eaten too much anddrunk too much, and run too hard after pleasure, and been too muchbored, and met too many antipathetic people, and squandered too muchmoney, and set a thoroughly bad example to your family. You have beenhappy only in spasms. Your health is good; you are cured of your malady.Does that render you any more contented? It does not. You havecomplicated your existence in the hope of improving it. But have youimproved it? No. You ought to simplify your existence. But will you? Youwill not. All your strength of purpose will be needed to prevent stillfurther complications being woven into your existence. To inherit ahundred thousand pounds was your misfortune. But deliberately toincrease the sum to a quarter of a million was your fault. You werehappier at the Treasury. You left the Treasury on account of illness.You are not ill any more. Will you go back to the Treasury? No. You willnever go back, because your powerful commonsense tells you that toreturn to the Treasury with an income of twenty thousand a year would begrotesque. And rather than be grotesque you would suffer. Again,rightly. Nothing is worse than to be grotesque."
"Further," said his mind, "you have started your son on a sinistercareer of adventure that may end in calamity. You have ministered toyour daughter's latent frivolity. You have put temptations in the way ofyour wife which she cannot withstand. You have developed yourself into awaster. What is the remedy? Obviously to dispose of your money. But yourladies would not permit you to do so and they are entitled to be heardon the point. Moreover, how could you dispose of it? Not in charity,because you are convinced of the grave social mischievousness ofcharity. And not in helping any great social movement, because you arenot silly enough not to know that the lavishing of wealth never reallyaids, but most viciously hinders, the proper evolution of a society. Andyou cannot save your income and let it accumulate, because if you didyou would once again be tumbling into the grotesque; and you would,further, be leaving to your successors a legacy of evil which no man isjustified in leaving to his successors. No! Your case is in practiceirremediable. Like the murderer on the scaffold, you are the victim ofcircumstances. And not one human being in a million will pity you. Youare a living tragedy which only death can end."
During this disconcerting session Eve had been mysteriously engaged inthe boudoir. She now came into the dark bedroom.
"What?" she softly murmured, hearing Mr. Prohack's restlessness. "Notasleep, darling?" She bent over him and kissed him and her kiss was evensofter, more soporific, than her voice. "Now do go to sleep."
And Mr. Prohack went to sleep, and his last waking thought was, with thefeel of the kiss on his nose (the poor woman had aimed badly in thedark): "Anyway this tragedy has one compensation, of which a hundredquarter of a millions can't deprive me."