artist of fiction, which after all is but truth often dragged out of a
well and clothed in the painted robe of imagined phrases--even he has
his place among kings, demagogues, priests, charlatans, dukes, giraffes,
cabinet ministers, Fabians, bricklayers, apostles, ants, scientists,
Kafirs, soldiers, sailors, elephants, lawyers, dandies, microbes, and
constellations of a universe whose amazing spectacle is a moral end in
itself.

Here I perceive (without speaking offense) the reader assuming a subtle
expression, as if the cat were out of the bag. I take the novelist's
freedom to observe the reader's mind formulating the exclamation:
"That's it! The fellow talks pro domo."

Indeed it was not the intention! When I shouldered the bag I was not
aware of the cat inside. But, after all, why not? The fair courtyards of
the House of Art are thronged by many humble retainers. And there is
no retainer so devoted as he who is allowed to sit on the doorstep. The
fellows who have got inside are apt to think too much of themselves.
This last remark, I beg to state, is not malicious within the definition
of the law of libel. It's fair comment on a matter of public interest.
But never mind. _Pro domo_. So be it. For his house _tant que vous
voudrez_. And yet in truth I was by no means anxious to justify my
existence. The attempt would have been not only needless and absurd, but
almost inconceivable, in a purely spectacular universe, where no such
disagreeable necessity can possibly arise. It is sufficient for me to
say (and I am saying it at some length in these pages): _J'ai vecu_. I
have existed, obscure among the wonders and terrors of my time, as the
Abbe Sieyes, the original utterer of the quoted words, had managed to
exist through the violences, the crimes, and the enthusiasms of the
French Revolution. _J'ai vecu_, as I apprehend most of us manage to