 I am half afraid -
as for example when I talk to him seriously about his books - that I may have
been to him more like a father than I ought; if I have I trust he has forgiven
me. His books are the only bone of contention between us. I want him to write
like other people, and not offend so many of his readers; he says he can no more
change his manner of writing than the colour of his hair and that he must write
as he does or not at all.
    With the public generally he is not a favourite. He is admitted to have
talent, but it is considered generally to be of a queer unpractical kind, and no
matter how serious he is, he is always accused of being in jest. His first book,
for reasons which I have already explained, was a success, but none of his
others have been more than creditable failures. He is one of those unfortunate
men each one of whose books is sneered at by literary critics as soon as it
comes out, but becomes excellent reading as soon as it has been followed by a
later work which may in its turn be condemned.
    He never asked a reviewer to dinner in his life. I have told him over and
over again that this is madness, and find that this is the only thing I can say
to him which makes him angry with me.
    »What can it matter to me,« he says, »whether people read my books or not?
It may matter to them - but I have too much money to want more, and if the books
have any stuff in them it will work by and by. I do not know nor greatly care
whether they are good or not. What opinion can any sane man form about his own
work? Some people must write stupid books just as there must be junior ops and
third class poll men. Why should I complain of being among the mediocrities? If
a man is not absolutely below mediocrity let him be thankful - besides, the
books will have to stand by themselves some day, so the sooner they begin the
better.«
    I spoke to his publisher about him not long since. »Mr. Pontifex,« he said,
»is a homo unius libri, but it doesn't do to tell him so.«
    I could see the publisher, who ought to know, had lost all faith in Ernest's
literary position, and looked upon him as a man whose failure was all the more
hopeless for the fact of his having once made a coup. »He
