'
'Then I will tell you,' said Carrel, standing up suddenly. 'I fabricated
the poems of Sappho,--yes, the manuscript from which _you_ are reaping so
much credit'--he took up the newspaper--'from the morning press. When I
take to art criticism, as you kindly suggested a dishonest man might do,
it will be of a livelier description than any to which you are usually
accustomed. Vain dupe, you think yourself impeccable. Infallible ass,
there is hardly a museum in Europe where my manuscripts are not carefully
preserved for the greatest and rarest treasures by senile curators, too
ignorant to know their errors or too vain to acknowledge them. I fancied
you clever; until now I do not know that I ever caught you out, though
you may have bought many of my wares for all I know. I find you,
however, like the rest--dull, pedantic, and Pecksniffian. At Cambridge
we were not taught pretty manners, but we knew enough not to give
fellowships to pretentious charlatans like yourself.'
The room swam round Professor Lachsyrma, and the mummy behind the door
grinned. The plaster casts and the statues seemed to wave their
mutilated limbs with the joy of demoniacal possession. Dead things were
startled into life. Sick giddiness permeated his brain. It was some
horrible nightmare. Yet his soul's tempest was entirely subjective;
outwardly his demeanour suffered no change. His tormentor noted with
astonishment and admiration his apparent self-control.
Pages:
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29