“Nothing?” murmured Heliobas, in a tone of suggestive inquiry—­ “really nothing?”

“Nothing!” repeated Alwyn, with an air of resigned hopelessness; “for I learned that, according to the results arrived at by the most advanced thinkers of the day, there was no God, no Soul, no Hereafter—­the loftiest efforts of the highest heaven—­aspiring minds were doomed to end in non-fruition, failure, and annihilation.  Among all the desperately hard truths that came rattling down upon me like a shower of stones, I think this was the crowning one that killed whatever genius I had.  I use the word ‘genius’ foolishly—­though, after all, genius itself is nothing to boast of, since it is only a morbid and unhealthy condition of the intellectual faculties, or at least was demonstrated to me as such by a scientific friend of my own who, seeing I was miserable, took great pains to make me more so if possible.  He proved,—­to his own satisfaction if not altogether to mine,—­that the abnormal position of certain molecules in the brain produced an eccentricity or peculiar bias in one direction which, practically viewed, might be described as an intelligent form of monomania, but which most people chose to term ‘genius,’ and that from a purely scientific standpoint it was evident that the poets, painters, musicians, sculptors, and all the widely renowned ’great ones’ of the earth should be classified as so many brains more or less affected by abnormal molecular formation, which strictly speaking amounted to brain-deformity.  He assured me, that to the properly balanced, healthily organized brain of the human animal, genius was an impossibility—­it was a malady as unnatural as rare.  ‘And it is singular, very singular,’ he added with a complacent smile, ’that the world should owe all its finest art and literature merely to a few varieties of molecular disease!’ I thought it singular enough, too,—­however, I did not care to argue with him; I only felt that if the illness of genius had at any time affected me, it was pretty well certain I should now suffer no more from its delicious pangs and honey-sweet fever.  I was cured!  The probing-knife of the world’s cynicism had found its way to the musically throbbing centre of divine disquietude in my brain, and had there cut down the growth of fair imaginations for ever.  I thrust aside the bright illusions that had once been my gladness; I forced myself to look with unflinching eyes at the wide waste of universal Nothingness revealed to me by the rigid positivists and iconoclasts of the century; but my heart died within me; my whole being froze as it were into an icy apathy,—­I wrote no more; I doubt whether I shall ever write again.  Of a truth, there is nothing to write about.  All has been said.  The days of the Troubadours are past,—­one cannot string canticles of love for men and women whose ruling passion is the greed of gold.  Yet I have sometimes thought life would be drearier even than it is, were the voices of poets altogether silent; and I wish—­yes!  I wish I had it in my power to brand my sign-manual on the brazen face of this coldly callous age-brand it deep in those letters of living lire called Fame!”