1 lo LIFE OF PROFESSOR HUXLEY chap, vii 



As it is I have waited for official confirmation and a convenient 

 season. 



And now . . . shall I be very naughty and make a con- 

 fession? The thing that a fortnight ago (before I got it) I 

 thought so much of, I give you my word I do not care a pin 

 for. I am sick of it and ashamed of having thought so much 

 of it, and the congratulations I get give me a sort of internal 

 sardonic grin. I think this has come about partly because I 

 did not get the official confirmation of what I had heard for 

 some days, and with my habit of facing the ill side of things 

 I came to the conclusion that Weld had made a mistake, and I 

 went in thought through the whole enormous mortification of 

 having to explain to those whom I had mentioned it that it was 

 quite a mistake. I found that all this, when I came to look at 

 it, was by no means so dreadful as it seemed — quite bearable in 

 short — and then I laughed at myself and have cared nothing 

 about the whole concern ever since. In truth ... I do not 

 think that I am in the proper sense of the word ambitious. I have 

 an enormous longing after the highest and best in all shapes — 

 a longing which haunts me and is the demon which ever impels 

 me to work, and will let me have no rest unless I am doing his 

 behests. The honours of men I value so far as they are evi- 

 dences of power, but with the cynical mistrust of their judg- 

 ment and my own worthiness, which always haunts me, I put 

 very little faith in them. Their praise makes me sneer inwardly. 

 God forgive me if I do them any great wrong. 



... I feel and know that all the rewards and honours in the 

 world will ever be worthless for me as soon as they are obtained. 

 I know that always, as now, they will make me more sad than 

 joyful. I know that nothing that could be done would give me 

 the pure and heartfelt joy and peace of mind that your love has 

 given me, and, please God, shall give for many a long year to 

 come, and yet my demon says work ! work ! you shall not even 

 love unless you work. 



Not blinded by any vanity, then, I hope . . . but viewing 

 this stroke of fortune as respects its public estimation only, I 

 think I must look upon the award of this medal as the turning- 

 point of my life, as the finger-post teaching me as clearly as 

 anything can what is the true career that lies open before me. 

 For whatever may be my own private estimation of it, there can 

 be no doubt as to the general feeling about this thing, and in 

 case of my candidature for any office it would have the very 

 greatest weight. And as you will have seen by my last letter, 



