III
WHEN the Professor left Harviss's office, the manuscript
remained behind. He thought he had been taken by the huge irony of
the situation—by the enlarged circumference of the joke. In its
original form, as Harviss had said, the book would have addressed
itself to a very limited circle: now it would include the world.
The elect would understand; the crowd would not; and his work would
thus serve a double purpose. And, after all, nothing was changed
in the situation; not a word of the book was to be altered. The
change was merely in the publisher's point of view, and in the
"tip" he was to give the reviewers. The Professor had only to hold
his tongue and look serious.
These arguments found a strong reinforcement in the large
premium which expressed Harviss's sense of his opportunity. As a
satire, the book would have brought its author nothing; in fact,
its
cost would have come out of his own pocket, since, as
Harviss assured him, no publisher would have risked taking it. But
as a profession of faith, as the recantation of an eminent
biologist, whose leanings had hitherto been supposed to be toward
a cold determinism, it would bring in a steady income to author and
publisher. The offer found the Professor in a moment of financial
perplexity. His illness, his unwonted holiday, the necessity of
postponing a course of well-paid lectures, had combined to diminish
his resources; and when Harviss offered him an advance of a
thousand dollars the esoteric savour of the joke became
irresistible. It was still as a joke that he persisted in
regarding the transaction; and though he had pledged himself not to
betray the real intent of the book, he held
in petto the notion
of some day being able to take the public into his confidence. As
for the initiated, they would know at once: and however long a face
he pulled, his colleagues would see the tongue in his cheek.
Meanwhile it fortunately happened that, even if the book should
achieve the kind of triumph prophesied by Harviss, it would not
appreciably injure its author's professional standing. Professor
Linyard was known chiefly as a microscopist. On the structure and
habits of a certain class of coleoptera he was the most
distinguished living authority; but none save his intimate friends
knew what generalizations on the destiny of man he had drawn from
these special studies. He might have published a treatise on the
Filioque without disturbing the confidence of those on whose
approval his reputation rested; and moreover he was sustained by
the thought that one glance at his book would let them into its
secret. In fact, so sure was he of this that he wondered the
astute Harviss had cared to risk such speedy exposure. But Harviss
had probably reflected that even in this reverberating age the
opinions of the laboratory do not easily reach the street; and the
Professor, at any rate, was not bound to offer advice on this
point.
The determining cause of his consent was the fact that the
book was already in press. The Professor knew little about the
workings of the press, but the phrase gave him a sense of finality,
of having been caught himself in the toils of that mysterious
engine. If he had had time to think the matter over, his scruples
might have dragged him back; but his conscience was eased by the
futility of resistance.