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| committer | nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org> | 2025-02-20 21:21:03 -0800 |
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diff --git a/75431-h/75431-h.htm b/75431-h/75431-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a6e34f6 --- /dev/null +++ b/75431-h/75431-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,8616 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> +<head> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <title> + Abracadabra & other satires | Project Gutenberg + </title> + <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + <style> + +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + + h1,h2,h3 { + text-align: center; + clear: both; +} + +p { + margin-top: .51em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .49em; +} + +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: 33.5%; + margin-right: 33.5%; + clear: both; +} + +hr.tiny {width: 10%; margin-left: 45%; margin-right: 45%;} + +hr.chap {width: 65%; margin-left: 17.5%; margin-right: 17.5%;} +@media print { hr.chap {display: none; visibility: hidden;} } + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always;} +h2.nobreak {page-break-before: avoid;} + +table { + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; +} + +.tdr {text-align: right;} + +.pagenum { + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: small; + text-align: right; + font-style: normal; + font-weight: normal; + font-variant: normal; + text-indent: 0; +} + +.blockquot { + margin-left: 17.5%; + margin-right: 17.5%; +} + +.blockquot2 { + margin-left: 5%; +} + +.x-ebookmaker .blockquot { + margin-left: 7.5%; + margin-right: 7.5%; +} + +.bb {border-bottom: 2px solid;} + +.center {text-align: center;} + +.right {text-align: right;} + +.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + +.allsmcap {font-variant: small-caps; text-transform: lowercase;} + +.ph1 {text-align: center; font-size: large; font-weight: bold;} +.ph3 {text-align: center; font-size: x-large; font-weight: bold;} + +div.titlepage {text-align: center; page-break-before: always; page-break-after: always;} +div.titlepage p {text-align: center; font-weight: bold; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: 2em;} + +.xxlarge {font-size: 200%;} +.xlarge {font-size: 150%;} +.large {font-size: 125%;} + +.x-ebookmaker .hide {display: none; visibility: hidden;} + +.figcenter { + margin: auto; + text-align: center; + page-break-inside: avoid; + max-width: 100%; +} + +.footnote {margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} + +.footnote .label {position: absolute; right: 75%; text-align: right;} + +.fnanchor { + vertical-align: super; + font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: + none; +} + +.poetry-container {display: flex; justify-content: center;} +.poetry-container {text-align: center;} +.poetry {text-align: left; margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%;} + +.transnote {background-color: #E6E6FA; + color: black; + font-size:smaller; + margin-left: 17.5%; + margin-right: 17.5%; + padding: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + font-family:sans-serif, serif; } + + </style> +</head> +<body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75431 ***</div> + +<div class="figcenter hide"><img src="images/coversmall.jpg" width="450" alt=""></div> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h1>ABRACADABRA<br> +&<br> +OTHER SATIRES</h1> +</div> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> +<p class="ph3"><i>The Works of John Galsworthy</i></p> + +<p class="center">Cloth, 5<i>s.</i> net; Leather, 7<i>s.</i> 6<i>d.</i></p> + +<p><i>NOVELS</i></p> + +<div class="blockquot2"> +<p>VILLA RUBEIN<br> +THE ISLAND PHARISEES<br> +THE MAN OF PROPERTY<br> +THE COUNTRY HOUSE<br> +FRATERNITY<br> +THE PATRICIAN<br> +THE DARK FLOWER<br> +THE FREELANDS<br> +BEYOND<br> +FIVE TALES<br> +SAINT’S PROGRESS<br> +IN CHANCERY<br> +TO LET</p> +</div> + +<p><i>STORIES AND STUDIES</i></p> + +<div class="blockquot2"> +<p>A COMMENTARY<br> +A MOTLEY<br> +THE INN OF TRANQUILLITY<br> +TATTERDEMALION<br> +ABRACADABRA & OTHER SATIRES</p> +</div> + +<hr class="tiny"> + +<p class="center"><span class="smcap">London: William Heinemann Ltd.</span></p> +</div></div></div> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/title_page.jpg" alt="title page"></div> +</div> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="titlepage"> +<p class="ph3"><span class="bb">THE WORKS OF JOHN GALSWORTHY</span></p> + +<p><span class="xxlarge">ABRACADABRA</span><br> +<span class="xlarge">&</span><br> +<span class="xlarge">OTHER SATIRES</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/title_page_logo.jpg" alt="1924"></div> + +<p><span class="large">LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN LTD.</span></p> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p class="center"><i>Printed in Great Britain.</i></p> +</div> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_v">[v]</span> +<h2 class="nobreak">CONTENTS</h2> +</div> + +<table> + +<tr><td class="tdr" colspan="2"><small>PAGE</small></td></tr> + +<tr><td>ABRACADABRA</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_1"> 1</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td>THE VOICE OF ——!</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_11"> 11</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td>A SIMPLE TALE</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_18"> 18</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td>ULTIMA THULE</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_29"> 29</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td>STUDIES OF EXTRAVAGANCE     </td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_47"> 47</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td>FOR LOVE OF BEASTS</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_121"> 121</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td>REVERIE OF A SPORTSMAN</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_144"> 144</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td>GROTESQUES</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_156"> 156</a></td></tr> +</table> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_1">[1]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">ABRACADABRA</h2> +</div> + +<p><span class="smcap">Our</span> families occupied neighbouring houses in the +country, and Minna used to hide in the bathroom +whenever our governess took us round. She was to us +but a symbol of shyness for months before she became a +body—a very thin body, with dark, straggly hair, and +dark eyes, and very long legs and arms for an eight-year-old. +Looking back on her hardihoods from eight +to fifteen, I find difficulty in assigning to the bathroom +period its full significance, to realise that she actually +used to make herself invisible because she could not face +strange people even of her own age. She faced us so +beautifully afterward, would steal up behind and pull +our hairs, and bag our caps and throw them up on to +the tops of wardrobes, and then, as likely as not, +climb up, throw them down, and follow with a jump. +Few were the tops of our trees that did not know her in +her blue jersey and red cap, and stockings green at the +knees and showing little white portions of her. She +had a neck long as a turkey’s and feet narrow as canoes. +She was certainly going to be tall. Though quite +normal about sticking pins into a body, making the lives +of calves and dogs burdensome, giving fizzy magnesia +to cats, fetching stray souls down with a booby-trap, +and other salutary pastimes, she would dissolve into tears +and rush away if anybody played Chopin, or caught and +killed a butterfly; and, if one merely shot a little bird<span class="pagenum" id="Page_2">[2]</span> +with a catapult, would dash up and thump him. When +she fought she was like a tiger-cat, but afterward would +sit and shake uncontrollably with most dreadful dry +sobs. So there was no relying on her.</p> + +<p>She could not have been called pretty in those +days.</p> + +<p>She became fifteen and went to school. We saw +little of her for three years. At eighteen she came home, +and out. Then we would meet her at dances, and +picnics, skating and playing tennis—always languid, pale, +dark-eyed; still not quite regular in her features, and +with angles not perfectly covered; but, on the whole, +like a tall lily with a dark centre. She was very earnest, +too, and beginning to be æsthetic, given to standing +against walls, with her dark-brown eyes immovably fixed +on persons playing violins; given to Russian linen and +embroidering book covers; to poetry and the sermons +of preachers just unorthodox enough; dreamy, too, +but puffing and starting at things that came too near. +She was very attractive.</p> + +<p>Going to college, one saw little more of Minna till +she was twenty-two. She was working then at a “Settlement,” +and looked unhappy and anæmic. Two months +later we were told she had broken down. The work +was too painful; her nerves had gone all wrong. She +was taken abroad.</p> + +<p>We did not see her again till she was twenty-six. +She was then marrying a Quaker, a handsome, big fellow +with reddish hair, ten years older than herself. More +like a swaying lily than ever she looked in her long white +veil. A tall, striking couple! The Quaker had warm +eyes, and by the way he looked at her, one wondered.</p> + +<p>Another four years had passed before I, at all events,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_3">[3]</span> +saw much of Minna again. She was now thirty, and had +three children, two girls and a boy, and was evidently +soon to have another. There was a pathetic look in her +eyes. They said that the Quaker should have been a +Turk, for his physique was powerful and his principles +extremely strict. His wife had grown to have a shrinking, +fagged-out air, and worried terribly over her infants. +She was visibly unhappy; had gone off, too, in looks; +grown sallow and thin-cheeked, and seemed not to care +to hold herself up.</p> + +<p>I recollect the Quaker coming in one day, full of health +and happiness, and putting his affectionate hand on her +shoulder. To me—not to the Quaker, from whom +many things were hidden—it was apparent that she +flinched, and when his back was turned I saw in a mirror +that she was actually trembling all over, and on her face +an expression as if she saw before her suffering from which +she could not possibly escape. It was clear that the +quivering, lilylike creature had been brought almost to +her last gasp by the physique and principles of that +healthy, happy Quaker. It was quite painful to see +one for whom life seemed so terribly too much.</p> + +<p>She was, I think, about thirty-two when one noticed +how much better she was looking. She had begun to +fill out and hold herself up; her eyes had light in them +again. Though she was more attractive than ever, and +the Quaker had abated no jot of either principle or +physique, she had given up quivering and starting, and +had a way of looking tranquilly through or over him, +as if he were not there, though her amiability was +obviously perfect, and from all accounts she fulfilled +every duty better than ever. She no longer worried +over her children, of whom there were now five. It<span class="pagenum" id="Page_4">[4]</span> +was mysterious. I can only describe the impression she +made by saying that she seemed in a sort of trance, +seeing and listening to something far away. There was +a curious intentness in her eyes, and her voice had +acquired a slight but not unpleasing drawl, as though +what she was talking of had little reality. Every afternoon +from three to four she was invisible.</p> + +<p>Having in those days a certain interest in psychology, +one used to concern oneself to account for the extraordinary +change in her that was becoming more marked +every year. By the time she was thirty-five it really +seemed impossible that she could ever have been a sensitive, +high-strung creature, hiding in the bathroom, +thumping us for killing butterflies, sobbing afterward +so uncontrollably; suffering such tortures from the +“Settlement,” and the Quaker, and her children, whose +ailments and troubles she now supported with an equanimity +which any one, seeing her for the first time, would +surely have mistaken for callousness. And all the time +she was putting on flesh without, however, losing her +figure. Indeed, in those days she approached corporeal +perfection.</p> + +<p>And at last one afternoon I learned the reason.</p> + +<p>She no longer believed she had a body!</p> + +<p>She told me so, almost with tears of earnestness. And +when I pointed out to her humbly that she had never had +more, she insisted that I saw nothing really sitting there +except the serene and healthy condition of her spirit. +Long she talked to me that afternoon, explaining again +and again, in her slightly drawling voice, that she could +never have gone on but for this faith; and how comforting +and uplifting it was, so that no one who lacked +it could be really happy! Every afternoon—she told<span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">[5]</span> +me—from three to four she “held” that idea of “no +body.”</p> + +<p>This was all so startling to me that I went away and +thought it over. Next day I came back and said that I +did not see how it could be much good to her to have +no body, so long as other people still had theirs; since +it was their bodies, not hers, which had caused her pain +and grief.</p> + +<p>“But, of course,” she said, “they haven’t.”</p> + +<p>I had just met the Quaker coming in from golf, and +could only murmur:</p> + +<p>“Is that really so?”</p> + +<p>“I couldn’t bear, now,” she said, “to think they had.”</p> + +<p>“Then, do you really mean, Minna, that when they +are there they are not there?”</p> + +<p>“Yes!” And her eyes shone.</p> + +<p>I thought of her eldest boy, who happened to be ill +with mumps.</p> + +<p>“What, then, is Willy’s mumps,” I said, “if not an +affection of the fleshy tissue of his cheeks and neck? +Why should he cry with pain, and why should he look +so horrid?”</p> + +<p>She frowned, as if reflecting hard.</p> + +<p>“When you came in,” she said, “I’d just been holding +the thought that he has no body, and I don’t—I +really don’t feel any longer that he has mumps. So I +don’t worry. And that’s splendid both for him and +me.”</p> + +<p>I saw that it was splendid for her; but how was it +splendid for him? I did not ask, however, because +she looked so earnest and uplifted, and I was afraid of +seeming unkind.</p> + +<p>The next day I came back again, and said:</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">[6]</span>“I’ve been thinking over your faith, Minna. Candidly, +I’ve never seen any one improve so amazingly in +health and looks since you’ve had it. But what I’ve +been wondering is, whether it’s in the nature of fresh +air, hard work, and plain living, or in the nature of a +drug or anodyne. Whether it’s prevention, or cure. +In fact, whether you could hold it, or ever have held it, +unless you had been sick <i>before</i> you held it?”</p> + +<p>She evidently did not grasp my meaning. I could, of +course, have made it plain enough by saying: “Suppose +you had not been a self-conscious, self-absorbed, high-strung, +anæmic girl, like so many nowadays, quivering +at life and Quakers with strong physique and principles; +suppose you had been an Italian peasant woman or an +English cottage lass, obliged to work and think of others +all her time; suppose, in a word, you had not had the +chance to be so desperately sensitive and conscious of +your body—do you think you would ever have felt the +necessity for becoming unconscious of it?” But she +looked so serene and puzzled, so corporeally charming on +her sofa, that I hadn’t the heart to put it thus brutally; +and I merely said:</p> + +<p>“Do tell me how the idea first came to you?”</p> + +<p>“It was put there. It could never have come of its +own accord.”</p> + +<p>“No doubt; but what exactly?”</p> + +<p>She grew rather pink.</p> + +<p>“It was one evening when Willy—he was only four +then—had been very naughty, and Tom” (this was the +Quaker) “insisted on my whipping him. I was obliged +to, you see, for fear he would do it himself. Poor Willy +cried so that I was simply in despair. It hurt me awfully; +I remember thinking: ‘Ah! but it’s not really me;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">[7]</span> +not me—not my arm.’ It seemed to me that there was +a dreadful unreality about myself; that I was not really +doing it, and so I surely could not be hurting him. It +was such a comfort—and I wanted comfort.”</p> + +<p>I felt the sacredness and the pathos of that; I felt, +too, that her despair, before that comfort came, had been +her farewell to truth; but I would not for the world +have said that, nor asked what Willy’s tears had really +been, if not real tears.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” I murmured; “and after that?”</p> + +<p>“After that—I tried every day, and gradually the +whole beauty of it came to me—because, you know, +there are so many things to fret one, and it’s so splendid +to feel uplifted above it all.”</p> + +<p>They tell me the morphia habit is wonderful! But I +only said:</p> + +<p>“And so you really never suffer now?”</p> + +<p>“Oh!” she answered, “I often have the beginnings; +but I just hold that thought and—it goes. I do wish—I +<i>do</i> wish you would try!”</p> + +<p>“Yes, yes,” I murmured; “yes, yes!” She looked +so pathetically earnest and as if she would be so disappointed. +“But just one thing: Don’t you ever feel +that the knowledge that people have no bodies and don’t +really suffer——” and there I stopped. I had meant +to add—“blunts sympathy and dries up the springs of +fellow-feeling from which all kindly action comes?” +But I hadn’t the heart.</p> + +<p>“Oh! do put any questions to me!” she said. “You +can’t shake my faith! It’s religion with me, you know.”</p> + +<p>“You certainly seem fitter and stronger every day. +I quite understand that you’re being saved by it. And +that’s the essence of religion, isn’t it?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">[8]</span>She drew herself up and smiled. “Tom says I’m +getting fat!”</p> + +<p>I looked at her. I must say that, for one who had no +body, she was superb.</p> + +<p>After that I again left London and did not see her +for two years.</p> + +<p>A few days after my return I asked after her at my +sister’s.</p> + +<p>“Oh! haven’t you heard? The most dreadful +tragedy happened there six weeks ago. Kitty and +Willy” (they were the two eldest children) “were run +over by a motor; poor little Kitty was killed on the +spot, and Willy will be lame for life, they say.”</p> + +<p>Thinking of Kitty blotted out like that—a little thing +all shyness, sensibility, and pranks, just as Minna had +been at her age—I could scarcely ask: “How does poor +Minna take it?”</p> + +<p>My sister wrinkled her brows.</p> + +<p>“I was there,” she said, “when they brought the +children in. It was awful to see Tom—he broke down +utterly. He’s been quite changed ever since.”</p> + +<p>“But Minna?”</p> + +<p>“Minna—yes. I shall never forget the expression of +her face that first minute. It reminded me of—I don’t +know what—like nerves moving under the skin. Dreadful! +And then, ten minutes later, it was quite calm; +you’d have thought nothing had happened. She’s very +wonderful. I’ve watched her since, and I don’t—I really +don’t believe she feels it!”</p> + +<p>“How is she looking?”</p> + +<p>“Oh! just the same—very well and handsome. +Rather too fat.”</p> + +<p>It was with very curious feelings that I went next day<span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[9]</span> +to see Minna. Truly she looked magnificent in her +black clothes. Her curves had become ampler, her complexion +deeper, perhaps a little coarse, and her drawl +was more pronounced. Her husband came in while I +was there. The poor man was indeed a changed Quaker. +He seemed to have shrivelled. When she put her hand +on his shoulder, I noticed with surprise that he jibbed +away and seemed to avoid the gaze of her rather short-sighted, +beautiful brown eyes that had grown appreciably +warmer. It was strange indeed—his body had become +so meagre and hers had so splendidly increased! We +made no mention of the tragedy while he was there, but +when he had left us I hazarded the question:</p> + +<p>“How is poor little Willy?”</p> + +<p>Her eyes shone, and she said, with a sort of beautiful +earnestness:</p> + +<p>“You mustn’t call him that. He’s not a bit unhappy. +We hold the thought together. It’s coming wonderfully!”</p> + +<p>In a sudden outburst of sympathy I said:</p> + +<p>“I’m so sorry. It must be terrible for you all.”</p> + +<p>Her brow contracted just a little.</p> + +<p>“Yes! I can’t get Tom—if only he would see that +it’s nothing, really—that there’s no such thing as the +body. He’s simply wearing himself away; he’s grown +quite thin; he’s——” She stopped. And there rose +up in me a kind of venom, as if I felt that she was about +to say ‘—no longer fit to be my mate.’ And, trying to +keep that feeling out of my eyes, I looked at the magnificent +creature. How marvellously she had flourished +under the spell of her creed! How beautifully preserved +and encased against the feelings of this life she +had become! How grandly she had cured her sensitive<span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[10]</span> +and neurasthenic girlhood! How nobly, against the +disease of self-consciousness and self-absorption, she had +put on the armour of a subtler and deeper self-absorption!</p> + +<p>And suddenly I pitied or I envied her—Ah! which? +For, to achieve immunity from her own suffering, I +perceived that for the suffering of others she had become +incapable of caring two brass buttons.</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[11]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">THE VOICE OF——!</h2> +</div> + + +<p><span class="smcap">The</span> proprietor of “The Paradise” had said freely that +she would “knock them.” Broad, full-coloured, and +with the clear, swimming eye of an imaginative man, +he was trusted when he spoke thus of his new “turns.” +There was the feeling that he had once more discovered +a good thing.</p> + +<p>And on the afternoon of the new star’s dress rehearsal +it was noticed that he came down to watch her, smoking +his cigar calmly in the front row of the stalls. When she +had finished and withdrawn, the <i>chef d’orchestre</i>, while +folding up his score, felt something tickling his ear.</p> + +<p>“Bensoni, this is hot goods!”</p> + +<p>Turning that dim, lined face of his, whose moustache +was always coming out of wax, Signor Bensoni answered: +“A bit of all right, boss!”</p> + +<p>“If they hug her real big to-night, send round to my +room.”</p> + +<p>“I will.”</p> + +<p>Evening came, and under the gilt-starred dome the +house was packed. Rows and rows of serious seekers for +amusement; and all the customary crowd of those who +“drop in”—old clients with hair and without hair, in +evening clothes, or straight from their offices or race-course; +bare-necked ladies sitting; ladies who never +sat, but under large hats stood looking into the distance, +or moved with alacrity in no particular direction, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[12]</span> +halted swiftly with a gentle humming; lounging and +high-collared youths, furtively or boldly staring, and +unconsciously tightening their lips; distinguished goatee-bearded +foreigners wandering without rest. And always +round the doorways the huge attendants, in their long, +closely buttoned coats.</p> + +<p>The little Peruvian bears had danced. The Volpo +troupe in claret-coloured tights had gone once more +without mishap through their hairbreadth tumbles. +The Mulligatawny quartet had contributed their “unparalleled +plate spray.” “Donks, the human ass,” had +brayed. Signor Bensoni had conducted to its close his +“Pot-pourriture” which afforded so many men an +opportunity to stretch their legs. Arsenico had swallowed +many things with conspicuous impunity. “Great +and Small Scratch” had scratched. “Fraulein Tizi, +the charming female vocalist,” had suddenly removed +his stays. There had been no minute dull; yet over the +whole performance had hung that advent of the new +star, that sense of waiting for a greater moment.</p> + +<p>She came at last—in black and her own whiteness, +“La Bellissima,” straight from Brazil; tall, with raven-dark +hair, and her beautiful face as pale as ivory. Tranquilly +smiling with eyes only, she seemed to draw the +gaze of all into those dark wells of dancing life; and, +holding out her arms, that seemed fairer and rounder +than the arms of women, she said: “Ladies and gentlemen, +I will dance for you de latest Gollywog Brazilian +caterpillar crawl.”</p> + +<p>Then, in lime-light streaming down on her from the +centre of the gallery, she moved back to the corner of the +stage. Those who were wandering stood still; every +face craned forward. For, sidelong, with a mouth<span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[13]</span> +widened till it nearly reached her ears, her legs straddling, +and her stomach writhing, she was moving incomparably +across the stage. Her face, twisted on her neck, at an +alarming angle, was distorted to a strange, inimitable +hideousness. She reached the wings, and turned. A +voice cried out: “<i>Épatant!</i>” Her arms, those round +white arms, seemed yellow and skinny now, her obviously +slender hips had achieved miraculous importance; each +movement of her whole frame was attuned to a perfect +harmony of ugliness. Twice she went thus marvellously +up and down, in the ever-deepening hush. Then +the music stopped, the lime-light ceased to flow, and she +stood once more tranquil and upright, beautiful, with her +smiling eyes. A roar of enthusiasm broke, salvo after +salvo—clapping and “Bravos,” and comments flying +from mouth to mouth.</p> + +<p>“Rippin’!” “Bizarre—I say—how bizarre!” “Of +the most chic!” “<i>Wunderschön!</i>” “Bully!”</p> + +<p>Raising her arms again for silence, she said quite +simply: “Good! I will now, ladies and gentlemen, +sing you the latest Patagonian Squaw Squall. I sing +you first, however, few bars of ‘Che farò’ old-fashion, +to show you my natural tones—so you will see.” And +in a deep, sweet voice began at once: “Che farò senz’ +Euridice”; while through the whole house ran a shuffle +of preparation for the future. Then all was suddenly +still; for from her lips, remarkably enlarged, was issuing +a superb cacophony. Like the screeching of parrots, +and miauling of tiger-cats fighting in a forest, it forced +attention from even the least musical.</p> + +<p>Before the first verse was ended, the uncontrollable +applause had drowned her; and she stood, not bowing, +smiling with her lips now—her pretty lips. Then raising<span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[14]</span> +a slender forefinger, she began the second verse. Even +more strangely harsh and dissonant, from lips more +monstrously disfigured, the great sound came. And, as +though in tune with that crescendo, the lime-light +brightened till she seemed all wrapped in flame. Before +the storm of acclamation could burst from the enraptured +house, a voice coming from the gallery was heard suddenly +to cry:</p> + +<p>“Woman! Blasphemous creature! You have profaned +Beauty!”</p> + +<p>For a single second there was utter silence, then a +huge, angry “Hush!” was hurled up at the speaker; +and all eyes turned toward the stage.</p> + +<p>There stood the beautiful creature, motionless, staring +up into the lime-light. And the voice from the gallery +was heard again.</p> + +<p>“The blind applaud you; it is natural. But you—unnatural! +Go!” The beautiful creature threw up +her head, as though struck below the jaw, and with +hands flung out, rushed from the stage. Then, amidst +the babel of a thousand cries—“Chuck the brute out!” +“Throw him over!” “Where’s the manager?” “Encore, +encore!”—the manager himself came out from +the wings. He stood gazing up into the stream of +lime-light, and there was instant silence.</p> + +<p>“Hullo! up there! Have you got him?”</p> + +<p>A voice, far and small, travelled back in answer: +“It’s no one up here, sir!”</p> + +<p>“What? Limes! It was in front of you!” A +second faint, small voice came quavering down: “There’s +been no one hollerin’ near me, sir.”</p> + +<p>“Cut off your light!”</p> + +<p>Down came the quavering voice: “I ’ave cut off, sir.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[15]</span>“What?”</p> + +<p>“I ’ave cut off—I’m disconnected.”</p> + +<p>“Look at it!” And, pointing toward the brilliant +ray still showering down onto the stage, whence a faint +smoke seemed rising, the manager stepped back into the +wings.</p> + +<p>Then, throughout the house, arose a hustling and a +scuffling, as of a thousand furtively consulting; and +through it, of it, continually louder, the whisper—“Fire!”</p> + +<p>And from every row some one stole out; the women +in the large hats clustered, and trooped toward the +doors. In five minutes “The Paradise” was empty, +save of its officials. But of fire there was none.</p> + +<p>Down in the orchestra, standing well away from the +centre, so that he could see the stream of lime-light, the +manager said:</p> + +<p>“Electrics!”</p> + +<p>“Yes, sir.”</p> + +<p>“Cut off every light.”</p> + +<p>“Right, sir.”</p> + +<p>With a clicking sound the lights went out; and all +was black—but for that golden pathway still flowing +down the darkness. For a moment the manager blinked +silently at the strange effulgence. Then his scared voice +rose: “Send for the Boss—look alive! Where’s Limes?”</p> + +<p>Close to his elbow a dark little quick-eyed man, with +his air of professional stupidity, answered in doubt: +“Here, sir.”</p> + +<p>“It’s up to you, Limes!”</p> + +<p>The little man, wiping his forehead, gazed at the +stream of golden light, powdering out to silver at its +edges.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[16]</span>“I’ve took out me limes, and I’m disconnected, and +this blanky ray goes on. What am I to do? There’s +nothing up there to cause it. Go an’ see for yourself, +sir!” Then, passing his hand across his mouth, he +blurted out: “It’s got to do with that there voice—I +shouldn’t be surprised. Unnat’ral-like; the voice +o’——”</p> + +<p>The manager interrupted sharply: “Don’t be a +d—d ass, Limes!”</p> + +<p>And, suddenly, all saw the proprietor passing from +the prompt side behind that faint mist where the ray +fell.</p> + +<p>“What’s the theatre dark like this for? Why is it +empty? What’s happened?”</p> + +<p>The manager answered.</p> + +<p>“We’re trying to find out, sir; a madman in the +gallery, whom we couldn’t locate, made a disturbance, +called the new turn ‘A natural’; and now there’s some +hanky with this lime. It’s been taken out, and yet it +goes on like that!”</p> + +<p>“What cleared the house?”</p> + +<p>The manager pointed at the stage.</p> + +<p>“It looked like smoke,” he said. “That light’s +loose; we can’t get hold of its end anywhere.”</p> + +<p>From behind him Signor Bensoni suddenly pushed +up his dim, scared face.</p> + +<p>“Boss!” he stammered: “it’s the most bizarre—the +most bizarre—thing I ever struck—Limes thinks——”</p> + +<p>“Yes?” The Boss turned and spoke very quickly: +“What does he think—yes?”</p> + +<p>“He thinks—the voice wasn’t from the gallery—but +higher; he thinks—he thinks—it was the voice of—voice +of——”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[17]</span>A sudden sparkle lit up the Boss’s eyes. “Yes?” he +hissed out; “yes?”</p> + +<p>“He thinks it was the voice of—— Hullo!”</p> + +<p>The stream of light had vanished. All was darkness.</p> + +<p>Some one called: “Up with your lights!”</p> + +<p>As the lights leaped forth, all about the house, the +Boss was seen to rush to the centre of the stage, where +the ray had been.</p> + +<p>“Bizarre! By gum!... Hullo! Up there!”</p> + +<p>No sound, no ray of light, answered that passionately +eager shout.</p> + +<p>The Boss spun round: “Electrics! You blazing +ass! Ten to one but you’ve cut my connection, turning +up the lights like that. The voice of——! Great +snakes! What a turn! What a turn! I’d have given +it a thou’ a week!... <i>Hullo! up there! Hullo!</i>”</p> + +<p>But there came no answer from under the gilt-starred +dome.</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[18]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">A SIMPLE TALE</h2> +</div> + +<p><span class="smcap">Talking</span> of anti-Semitism one of those mornings, +Ferrand said: “Yes, <i>monsieur</i>, plenty of those gentlemen +in these days esteem themselves Christian, but I have +only once met a Christian who esteemed himself a Jew. +<i>C’était très drôle—je vais vous conter cela.</i></p> + +<p>“It was one autumn in London, and, the season being +over, I was naturally in poverty, inhabiting a palace in +Westminster at fourpence the night. In the next bed +to me that time there was an old gentleman, so thin +that one might truly say he was made of air. English, +Scotch, Irish, Welsh—I shall never learn to distinguish +those little differences in your race—but I well think he +was English. Very feeble, very frail, white as paper, +with a long grey beard, and caves in the cheeks, and +speaking always softly, as if to a woman.... For me +it was an experience to see an individual so gentle in a +palace like that. His bed and bowl of broth he gained +in sweeping out the kennels of all those sorts of types +who come to sleep there every night. There he spent +all his day long, going out only at ten hours and a half +every night, and returning at midnight less one quarter. +Since I had not much to do, it was always a pleasure for +me to talk with him; for, though he was certainly a +little <i>toqué</i>,” and Ferrand tapped his temple, “he had +great charm, of an old man, never thinking of himself, +no more than a fly that turns in dancing all day beneath<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[19]</span> +a ceiling. If there was something he could do for one +of those specimens—to sew on a button, clean a pipe, +catch beasts in their clothes, or sit to see they were not +stolen, even to give up his place by the fire—he would +always do it with his smile so white and gentle; and +in his leisure he would read the Holy Book! He inspired +in me a sort of affection—there are not too many old men +so kind and gentle as that, even when they are ‘crackey,’ +as you call it. Several times I have caught him in +washing the feet of one of those sots, or bathing some +black eye or other, such as they often catch—a man of +a spiritual refinement really remarkable; in clothes also +so refined that one sometimes saw his skin. Though he +had never great thing to say, he heard you like an angel, +and spoke evil of no one; but, seeing that he had no +more vigour than a swallow, it piqued me much how he +would go out like that every night in all the weather at +the same hour for so long a promenade of the streets. +And when I interrogated him on this, he would only +smile his smile of one not there, and did not seem to +know very much of what I was talking. I said to myself: +‘There is something here to see, if I am not mistaken. +One of these good days I shall be your guardian angel +while you fly the night.’ For I am a connoisseur of +strange things, <i>monsieur</i>, as you know; though, you may +well imagine, being in the streets all day long between +two boards of a sacred sandwich does not give you too +strong a desire to <i>flâner</i> in the evenings. <i>Eh, bien!</i> +It was a night in late October that I at last pursued +him. He was not difficult to follow, seeing he had no +more guile than an egg; passing first at his walk of an +old shadow into your St. James’s Park along where your +military types puff out their chests for the nursemaids<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[20]</span> +to admire. Very slowly he went, leaning on a staff—<i>une +canne de promenade</i> such as I have never seen, nearly +six feet high, with an end like a shepherd’s crook or the +handle of a sword, a thing truly to make the <i>gamins</i> +laugh—even me it made to smile though I am too well +accustomed to mock at age and poverty, to watch him +march in leaning on that cane. I remember that night—very +beautiful, the sky of a clear dark, the stars as bright +as they can ever be in these towns of our high civilisation, +and the leaf-shadows of the plane-trees, colour of +grapes on the pavement, so that one had not the heart +to put foot on them. One of those evenings when the +spirit is light, and policemen a little dreamy and well-wishing. +Well, as I tell you, my Old marched, never +looking behind him, like a man who walks in sleep. +By that big church—which, like all those places, had its +air of coldness, far and ungrateful among us others, +little human creatures who have built it—he passed, +into the great Eaton Square, whose houses ought well to +be inhabited by people very rich. There he crossed to +lean him against the railings of the garden in the centre, +very tranquil, his long white beard falling over hands +joined on his staff, in awaiting what—I could not figure +to myself at all. It was the hour when your high <i>bourgeoisie</i> +return from the theatre in their carriages, whose +manikins sit, the arms crossed, above horses fat as snails. +And one would see through the window some lady <i>bercée +doucement</i>, with the face of one who has eaten too much +and loved too little. And gentlemen passed me, marching +for a mouthful of fresh air, <i>très comme il faut</i>, their concertina +hats pushed up, and nothing at all in their eyes. +I remarked my Old, who, making no movement watched +them all as they went by, till presently a carriage stopped<span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[21]</span> +at a house nearly opposite. At once, then he began to +cross the road quickly, carrying his great stick. I +observed the lackey pulling the bell and opening the +carriage door, and three people coming forth—a man, a +woman, a young man. Very high <i>bourgeoisie</i>, some judge, +knight, mayor—what do I know?—with his wife and son, +mounting under the porch. My Old had come to the +bottom of the steps, and spoke, in bending himself forward, +as if supplicating. At once those three turned +their faces, very astonished. Although I was very +intrigued, I could not hear what he was saying, for, if +I came nearer, I feared he would see me spying on him. +Only the sound of his voice I heard, gentle as always; +and his hand I saw wiping his forehead, as though he +had carried something heavy from very far. Then the +lady spoke to her husband, and went into the house, +and the young son followed in lighting a cigarette. +There rested only that good father of the family, with +his grey whiskers and nose a little bent, carrying an +expression as if my Old were making him ridiculous. +He made a quick gesture, as though he said, ‘Go!’ +then he too fled softly. The door was shut. At once +the lackey mounted, the carriage drove away, and all +was as if it had never been, except that my Old was, +standing there, quite still. But soon he came returning +carrying his staff as if it burdened him. And recoiling +in a porch to see him pass, I saw his visage full of dolour, +of one overwhelmed with fatigue and grief; so that I +felt my heart squeeze me. I must well confess, <i>monsieur</i>, +I was a little shocked to see this old sainted father asking +as it seemed for alms. That is a thing I myself have +never done, not even in the greatest poverty—one is not +like your ‘gentlemen’—one does always some little thing<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[22]</span> +for the money he receives, if it is only to show a drunken +man where he lives. And I returned in meditating deeply +over this problem, which well seemed to me fit for the +angels to examine; and knowing what time my Old +was always re-entering, I took care to be in my bed +before him. He came in as ever, treading softly so as +not to wake us others, and his face had again its serenity, +a little ‘crackey.’ As you may well have remarked, +<i>monsieur</i>, I am not one of those individuals who let +everything grow under the nose without pulling them +up to see how they are made. For me the greatest +pleasure is to lift the skirts of life, to unveil what there +is under the surface of things which are not always what +they seem, as says your good little poet. For that one +must have philosophy, and a certain industry, lacking to +all those gentlemen who think they alone are industrious +because they sit in chairs and blow into the telephone all +day, in filling their pockets with money. Myself, I +coin knowledge of the heart—it is the only gold they +cannot take from you. So that night I lay awake. I +was not content with what I had seen; for I could +not imagine why this old man, so unselfish, so like a saint +in thinking ever of others, should go thus every night to +beg, when he had always in this palace his bed, and +that with which to keep his soul within his rags. Certainly +we all have our vices, and gentlemen the most +revered do, in secret, things they would cough to see +others doing; but that business of begging seemed +scarcely in his character of an old altruist—for in my +experience, <i>monsieur</i>, beggars are not less egoist than +millionaires. As I say, it piqued me much, and I resolved +to follow him again. The second night was of the most +different. There was a great wind, and white clouds<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[23]</span> +flying in the moonlight. He commenced his pilgrimage +in passing by your House of Commons, as if toward the +river. I like much that great river of yours. There is +in its career something of very grand; it ought to know +many things, although it is so silent, and gives to no one +the secrets which are confided to it. He had for objective, +it seemed, that long row of houses very respectable, +which gives on the embankment, before you arrive at +Chelsea. It was painful to see the poor Old, bending +almost double against that great wind coming from the +west. Not too many carriages down here, and few +people—a true wilderness, lighted by tall lamps which +threw no shadows, so clear was the moon. He took his +part soon, as of the other night, standing on the far +side of the road, watching for the return of some lion +to his den. And presently I saw one coming, accompanied +by three lionesses, all taller than himself. This one was +bearded, and carried spectacles—a real head of learning; +walking, too, with the step of a man who knows his +world. Some professor—I said to myself—with his +harem. They gained their house at fifty paces from my +Old; and, while this learned one was opening the door, +the three ladies lifted their noses in looking at the moon. +A little of æsthetic, a little of science—as always with +that type there! At once I had perceived my Old +coming across, blown by the wind like a grey stalk of +thistle; and his face, with its expression of infinite +pain as if carrying the sufferings of the world. At the +moment they see him those three ladies drop their noses, +and fly within the house as if he were the pestilence, +in crying, ‘Henry!’ And out comes my <i>monsieur</i> again, +in his beard and spectacles. For me, I would freely +have given my ears to hear, but I saw that this good<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[24]</span> +Henry had his eye on me, and I did not budge, for fear +to seem in conspiracy. I heard him only say: ‘Impossible! +Impossible! Go to the proper place!’ and +he shut the door. My Old remained, with his long +staff resting on a shoulder bent as if that stick were of +lead. And presently he commenced to march again +whence he had come, curved and trembling, the very +shadow of a man, passing me, too, as if I were the air. +That time also I regained my bed before him, in meditating +very deeply, still more uncertain of the psychology +of this affair, and resolved once again to follow him, +saying to myself: ‘This time I shall run all risks to +hear.’ There are two kinds of men in this world, +<i>monsieur</i>, one who will not rest content till he has become +master of all the toys that make a fat existence—in never +looking to see of what they are made; and the other, +for whom life is tobacco and a crust of bread, and liberty +to take all to pieces, so that his spirit may feel good +within him. Frankly I am of that kind. I rest never +till I have found out why this is that; for me mystery +is the salt of life, and I must well eat of it. I put myself +again, then, to following him the next night. This +time he traversed those little dirty streets of your great +Westminster, where all is mixed in a true pudding of +lords and poor wretches at two sous the dozen; of cats +and policemen; kerosene flames, abbeys, and the odour +of fried fish. Ah! truly it is frightful to see your low +streets in London; that gives me a conviction of hopelessness +such as I have never caught elsewhere; piquant, +too, to find them so near to that great House which +sets example of good government to all the world. There +is an irony so ferocious there, <i>monsieur</i>, that one can +well hear the good God of your <i>bourgeois</i> laugh in every<span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[25]</span> +wheel that rolls, and the cry of each cabbage that is +sold; and see him smile in the smoky light of every flare, +and in the candles of your cathedral, in saying to himself: +‘I have well made this world. Is there not variety +here?—<i>en voilà une bonne soupe!</i>’ This time, however, +I attended my Old like his very shadow, and could hear +him sighing as he marched, as if he also found the +atmosphere of those streets too strong. But all of a +sudden he turned a corner, and we were in the most +quiet, most beautiful little street I have seen in all your +London. It was of small, old houses, very regular, +which made as if they inclined themselves in their two +rows before a great church at the end, grey in the moonlight, +like a mother. There was no one in that street, +and no more cover than hair on the head of a pope. +But I had some confidence now that my Old would not +remark me standing there so close, since in these pilgrimages +he seemed to remark nothing. Leaning on his +staff, I tell you he had the air of an old bird in a desert, +reposing on one leg by a dry pool, his soul looking for +water. It gave me that notion one has sometimes in +watching the rare spectacles of life—that sentiment +which, according to me, pricks artists to their work. +We had not stayed there too long before I saw a couple +marching from the end of the street, and thought: +‘Here they come to their nest.’ Vigorous and gay +they were, young married ones, eager to get home; +one could see the white neck of the young wife, the +white shirt of the young man, gleaming under their +cloaks. I know them well, those young couples in great +cities, without a care, taking all things, the world before +them, <i>très amoureux</i>, without, as yet, children; jolly +and pathetic, having life still to learn—which, believe<span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[26]</span> +me, <i>monsieur</i>, is a sad enough affair for nine rabbits out +of ten. They stopped at the house next to where I +stood; and, since my Old was coming fast as always to +the feast, I put myself at once to the appearance of +ringing the bell of the house before me. This time I +had well the chance of hearing. I could see, too, the +faces of all three, because I have by now the habit of +seeing out of the back hair. The pigeons were so anxious +to get to their nest that my Old had only the time to +speak, as they were in train to vanish. ‘Sir, let me +rest in your doorway!’ <i>Monsieur</i>, I have never seen a +face so hopeless, so crippled with fatigue, yet so full of +a gentle dignity as that of my Old while he spoke those +words. It was as if something looked from his visage +surpassing what belongs to us others, so mortal and so +cynic as human life must well render all who dwell in +this earthly paradise. He held his long staff upon one +shoulder, and I had the idea, sinister enough, that it +was crushing his body of a spectre down into the pavement. +I know not how the impression came, but it +seemed to me that this devil of a stick had the nature +of a heavy cross reposing on his shoulder; I had pain +to prevent myself turning, to find if in truth ‘I had +them’ as your drunkards say. Then the young man +called out: ‘Here’s a shilling for you, my friend!’ +But my old did not budge, answering always: ‘Sir, let +me rest in your doorway!’ As you may well imagine, +<i>monsieur</i>, we were all in the silence of astonishment, I +pulling away at my bell next door, which was not ringing, +seeing I took care it did not; and those two young +people regarding my Old with eyes round as moons, +out of their pigeon-house, which I could well see was +prettily feathered. Their hearts were making seesaw, I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[27]</span> +could tell; for at that age one is still impressionable. +Then the girl put herself to whispering, and her husband +said those two words of your young ‘gentlemen,’ ‘Awfully +sorry!’ and put out his hand, which held now a coin +large as a saucer. But again my Old only said: ‘Sir, +let me rest in your doorway!’ And the young man +drew back his hand quickly as if he were ashamed, and +saying again, ‘Sorry!’ he shut the door. I have heard +many sighs in my time—they are the good little accompaniments +to the song we sing, we others who are in +poverty; but the sigh my Old pushed then—how can I +tell you—had an accent as if it came from Her, the +faithful companion, who marches holding the hands of +men and women so that they may never make the grand +mistake to imagine themselves for a moment the good +God. Yes, <i>monsieur</i>, it was as if pursued by Suffering +herself, that bird of the night, never tired of flying in +this world where they talk always of cutting her wings. +Then I took my resolution, and, coming gently from +behind, said: ‘My Old—what is it? Can I do anything +for you?’ Without looking at me, he spoke as to himself: +‘I shall never find one who will let me rest in +his doorway. For my sin I shall wander forever!’ At +this moment, <i>monsieur</i>, there came to me an inspiration +so clear that I marvelled I had not already had it a long +time before. He thought himself the Wandering Jew! +I had well found it. This was certainly his fixed idea, +of a cracked old man! And I said: ‘My Jew, do you +know this? In doing what you do, you have become +as Christ, in a world of wandering Jews!’ But he did +not seem to hear me, and only just as we arrived at our +palace became again that old gentle being, thinking never +of himself.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[28]</span>Behind the smoke of his cigarette, a smile curled +Ferrand’s red lips under his long nose a little on one +side.</p> + +<p>“And, if you think of it, <i>monsieur</i>, it is well like that. +Provided there exists always that good man of a Wandering +Jew, he will certainly have become as Christ, in all +these centuries of being refused from door to door. Yes, +yes, he must well have acquired charity the most profound +that this world has ever seen, in watching the +crushing virtue of others. All those gentry, of whom +he asks night by night to let him rest in their doorways, +they tell him where to go, how to <i>ménager</i> his life, even +offer him money, as I had seen; but, to let him rest, to +trust him in their houses—this strange old man—as a +fellow, a brother voyager—that they will not; it is +hardly in the character of good citizens in a Christian +country. And, as I have indicated to you, this Old of +mine, cracked as he was, thinking himself that Jew who +refused rest to the good Christ, had become, in being +refused for ever, the most Christ-like man I have ever +encountered on this earth, which, according to me, is +composed almost entirely of those who have themselves +the character of the Wandering Jew.”</p> + +<p>Puffing out a sigh of smoke, Ferrand added: “I do +not know whether he continued to pursue his idea, for +I myself took the road next morning, and I have never +seen him since.”</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[29]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">ULTIMA THULE</h2> +</div> + +<p><span class="smcap">Ultima Thule!</span> The words come into my head this +winter night. That is why I write down the story, as +I know it, of a little old friend.</p> + +<p>I used to see him first in Kensington Gardens, where +he came in the afternoons, accompanied by a very small +girl. One would see them silent before a shrub or flower, +or with their heads inclined to heaven before a tree, +or leaning above water and the ducks, or stretched on +their stomachs watching a beetle, or on their backs +watching the sky. Often they would stand holding +crumbs out to the birds, who would perch about them, +and even drop on their arms little white marks of affection +and esteem. They were admittedly a noticeable couple. +The child, who was fair-haired and elfinlike, with dark +eyes and a pointed chin, wore clothes that seemed somewhat +hard put to it. And, if the two were not standing +still, she went along pulling at his hand, eager to get +there; and, since he was a very little light old man, he +seemed always in advance of his own feet. He was +garbed, if I remember, in a daverdy brown overcoat and +broad-brimmed soft grey hat, and his trousers, what was +visible of them, were tucked into half-length black gaiters +which tried to join with very old brown shoes. Indeed, +his costume did not indicate any great share of prosperity. +But it was his face that riveted attention. Thin, cherry-red, +and wind-dried as old wood, it had a special sort of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[30]</span> +brightness, with its spikes and waves of silvery hair, +and blue eyes that seemed to shine. Rather mad, I used +to think. Standing by the rails of an enclosure, with +his withered lips pursed and his cheeks drawn in till you +would think the wind might blow through them, he would +emit the most enticing trills and pipings, exactly imitating +various birds.</p> + +<p>Those who rouse our interest are generally the last +people we speak to, for interest seems to set up a kind +of special shyness; so it was long before I made his +acquaintance. But one day by the Serpentine, I saw +him coming along alone, looking sad, but still with that +queer brightness about him. He sat down on my bench +with his little dried hands on his thin little knees, and +began talking to himself in a sort of whisper. Presently +I caught the words: “God cannot be like us.” And +for fear that he might go on uttering such precious +remarks that were obviously not intended to be heard, +I had either to go away or else address him. So, on an +impulse, I said:</p> + +<p>“Why?”</p> + +<p>He turned without surprise.</p> + +<p>“I’ve lost my landlady’s little girl,” he said. “Dead! +And only seven years old.”</p> + +<p>“That little thing! I used to watch you.”</p> + +<p>“Did you? Did you? I’m glad you saw her.”</p> + +<p>“I used to see you looking at flowers, and trees, and +those ducks.”</p> + +<p>His face brightened wistfully. “Yes; she was a great +companion to an old man like me.” And he relapsed +into his contemplation of the water. He had a curious, +precise way of speaking, that matched his pipchinesque +little old face. At last he again turned to me those<span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[31]</span> +blue youthful eyes that seemed to shine out of a perfect +little nest of crow’s-feet.</p> + +<p>“We were great friends! But I couldn’t expect it. +Things don’t last, do they?” I was glad to notice that +his voice was getting cheerful. “When I was in the +orchestra at the Harmony Theatre, it never used to occur +to me that some day I shouldn’t play there any more. +One felt like a bird. That’s the beauty of music, sir. +You lose yourself; like that blackbird there.” He +imitated the note of a blackbird so perfectly that I could +have sworn the bird started.</p> + +<p>“Birds and flowers! Wonderful things; wonderful! +Why, even a buttercup——!” He pointed at one of +those little golden flowers with his toe. “Did you ever +see such a marvellous thing?” And he turned his face +up at me. “And yet, somebody told me once that they +don’t agree with cows. Now can that be? I’m not a +countryman—though I was born at Kingston.”</p> + +<p>“The cows do well enough on them,” I said, “in +my part of the world. In fact, the farmers say they like +to see buttercups.”</p> + +<p>“I’m glad to hear you say that. I was always sorry +to think they disagreed.”</p> + +<p>When I got up to go, he rose, too.</p> + +<p>“I take it as very kind of you,” he said, “to have +spoken to me.”</p> + +<p>“The pleasure was mine. I am generally to be found +hereabouts in the afternoons any time you like a talk.”</p> + +<p>“Delighted,” he said; “delighted. I make friends +of the creatures and flowers as much as possible, but they +can’t always make us understand.” And after we had +taken off our respective hats, he reseated himself, with +his hands on his knees.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[32]</span>Next time I came across him standing by the rails +of an enclosure, and, in his arms, an old and really +wretched-looking cat.</p> + +<p>“I don’t like boys,” he said, without preliminary of +any sort. “What do you think they were doing to this +poor old cat? Dragging it along by a string to drown +it; see where it’s cut into the fur! I think boys despise +the old and weak!” He held it out to me. At the +ends of those little sticks of arms the beast looked more +dead than alive; I had never seen a more miserable +creature.</p> + +<p>“I think a cat,” he said, “is one of the most marvellous +things in the world. Such a depth of life in it.”</p> + +<p>And, as he spoke, the cat opened its mouth as if protesting +at that assertion. It <i>was</i> the sorriest-looking +beast.</p> + +<p>“What are you going to do with it?”</p> + +<p>“Take it home: it looks to me as if it might die.”</p> + +<p>“You don’t think that might be more merciful?”</p> + +<p>“It depends; it depends. I shall see. I fancy a +little kindness might do a great deal for it. It’s got +plenty of spirit. I can see from its eye.”</p> + +<p>“May I come along with you a bit?”</p> + +<p>“Oh!” he said; “delighted.”</p> + +<p>We walked on side by side, exciting the derision of +nearly every one we passed—his face looked so like a +mother’s when she is feeding her baby!</p> + +<p>“You’ll find this’ll be quite a different cat to-morrow,” +he said. “I shall have to get in, though, without my +landlady seeing; a funny woman! I have two or three +strays already.”</p> + +<p>“Can I help in any way?”</p> + +<p>“Thank you,” he said. “I shall ring the area bell,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[33]</span> +and as she comes out below I shall go in above. She’ll +think it’s boys. They <i>are</i> like that.”</p> + +<p>“But doesn’t she do your rooms, or anything?”</p> + +<p>A smile puckered his face. “I’ve only one; I do it +myself. Oh, it’d never do to have her about, even if I +could afford it. But,” he added, “if you’re so kind as +to come with me to the door, you might engage her by +asking where Mr. Thompson lives. That’s me. In the +musical world my name was Moronelli; not that I have +Italian blood in me, of course.”</p> + +<p>“And shall I come up?”</p> + +<p>“Honoured; but I live very quietly.”</p> + +<p>We passed out of the gardens at Lancaster Gate, +where all the house-fronts seem so successful, and out of +it into a little street that was extremely like a grubby +child trying to hide under its mother’s skirts. Here he +took a newspaper from his pocket and wrapped it round +the cat.</p> + +<p>“She’s a funny woman,” he repeated; “Scotch +descent, you know.” Suddenly he pulled an area bell +and scuttled up the steps.</p> + +<p>When he had opened the door, however, I saw before +him in the hall a short, thin woman dressed in black, +with a sharp and bumpy face. Her voice sounded brisk +and resolute.</p> + +<p>“What have you got there, Mr. Thompson?”</p> + +<p>“Newspaper, Mrs. March.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, indeed! Now, you’re not going to take that +cat upstairs!”</p> + +<p>The little old fellow’s voice acquired a sudden shrill +determination. “Stand aside, please. If you stop me, +I’ll give you notice. The cat is going up. It’s ill, and +it is going up.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[34]</span>It was then I said:</p> + +<p>“Does Mr. Thompson live here?”</p> + +<p>In that second he shot past her, and ascended.</p> + +<p>“That’s him,” she said; “and I wish it wasn’t, with +his dirty cats. Do you want him?”</p> + +<p>“I do.”</p> + +<p>“He lives at the top.” Then, with a grudging apology: +“I can’t help it; he tries me—he’s very trying.”</p> + +<p>“I am sure he is.”</p> + +<p>She looked at me. The longing to talk that comes +over those who answer bells all day, and the peculiar +Scottish desire to justify oneself, rose together in that +face which seemed all promontories dried by an east +wind.</p> + +<p>“Ah!” she said; “he is. I don’t deny his heart; +but he’s got no sense of anything. Goodness knows what +he hasn’t got up there. I wonder I keep him. An old +man like that ought to know better; half-starving +himself to feed them.” She paused, and her eyes, that +had a cold and honest glitter, searched me closely.</p> + +<p>“If you’re going up,” she said, “I hope you’ll give +him good advice. He never lets me in. I wonder I +keep him.”</p> + +<p>There were three flights of stairs, narrow, clean, and +smelling of oilcloth. Selecting one of two doors at +random, I knocked. His silvery head and bright, pinched +face were cautiously poked out.</p> + +<p>“Ah!” he said; “I thought it might be her!”</p> + +<p>The room, which was fairly large, had a bare floor +with little on it save a camp-bed and chest of drawers +with jug and basin. A large bird-cage on the wall hung +wide open. The place smelt of soap and a little of +beasts and birds. Into the walls, whitewashed over a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[35]</span> +green wall-paper which stared through in places, were +driven nails with their heads knocked off, onto which +bits of wood had been spiked, so that they stood out as +bird-perches high above the ground. Over the open +window a piece of wire netting had been fixed. A little +spirit-stove and an old dressing-gown hanging on a peg +completed the accoutrements of a room which one +entered with a certain diffidence. He had not exaggerated. +Besides the new cat, there were three other +cats and four birds, all—save one, a bullfinch—invalids. +The cats kept close to the walls, avoiding me, but wherever +my little old friend went, they followed him with their +eyes. The birds were in the cage, except the bullfinch, +which had perched on his shoulder.</p> + +<p>“How on earth,” I said, “do you manage to keep +cats and birds in one room?”</p> + +<p>“There is danger,” he answered, “but I have not had +a disaster yet. Till their legs or wings are mended, they +hardly come out of the cage; and after that they keep +up on my perches. But they don’t stay long, you know, +when they’re once well. That wire is only put over the +window while they’re mending; it’ll be off to-morrow, +for this lot.”</p> + +<p>“And then they’ll go?”</p> + +<p>“Yes. The sparrow first, and then the two thrushes.”</p> + +<p>“And this fellow?”</p> + +<p>“Ask him,” he said. “Would <i>you</i> go, bully?” But +the bullfinch did not deign to answer.</p> + +<p>“And were all those cats, too, in trouble?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” he said. “They wouldn’t want me if they +weren’t.”</p> + +<p>Thereupon he began to warm some blue-looking milk, +contemplating the new cat, which he had placed in a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[36]</span> +round basket close to the little stove, while the bullfinch +sat on his head. It seemed time to go.</p> + +<p>“Delighted to see you, sir,” he said, “any day.” +And, pointing up at the bullfinch on his head, he added: +“Did you ever see anything so wonderful as that bird? +The size of its heart! Really marvellous!”</p> + +<p>To the rapt sound of that word marvellous, and full +of the memory of his mysterious brightness while he +stood pointing upward to the bird perched on his thick, +silvery hair, I went.</p> + +<p>The landlady was still at the bottom of the stairs, +and began at once: “So you found him! I don’t know +why I keep him. Of course, he was kind to my little +girl.” I saw tears gather in her eyes.</p> + +<p>“With his cats and his birds, I wonder I keep him! +But where would he go? He’s no relations, and no +friends—not a friend in the world, I think! He’s a +character. Lives on air—feeding them cats! I’ve no +patience with them, eating him up. He never lets +me in. Cats and birds! I wonder I keep him. Losing +himself for those rubbishy things! It’s my belief +he was always like that; and that’s why he never got on. +He’s no sense of anything.”</p> + +<p>And she gave me a shrewd look, wondering, no doubt, +what the deuce I had come about.</p> + +<p>I did not come across him again in the gardens for +some time, and went at last to pay him a call. At the +entrance to a mews just round the corner of his grubby +little street, I found a knot of people collected round +one of those bears that are sometimes led through the +less conspicuous streets of our huge towns. The yellowish +beast was sitting up in deference to its master’s nod, +uttering little grunts, and moving its uplifted snout from<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[37]</span> +side to side, in the way bears have. But it seemed to +be extracting more amusement than money from its +audience.</p> + +<p>“Let your bear down off its hind legs and I’ll give +you a penny.” And suddenly I saw my little old friend +under his flopping grey hat, amongst the spectators, +all taller than himself. But the bear’s master only +grinned and prodded the animal in the chest. He +evidently knew a good thing when he saw it.</p> + +<p>“I’ll give you twopence to let him down.”</p> + +<p>Again the bear-man grinned. “More!” he said, +and again prodded the bear’s chest. The spectators +were laughing now.</p> + +<p>“Threepence! And if you don’t let him down for +that, I’ll hit you in the eye.”</p> + +<p>The bear-man held out his hand. “All a-right,” he +said, “threepence; I let him down.”</p> + +<p>I saw the coins pass and the beast dropping on his +forefeet; but just then a policeman coming in sight, +the man led his bear off, and I was left alone with my +little old friend.</p> + +<p>“I wish I had that poor bear,” he said; “I could +teach him to be happy. But, even if I could buy him, +what could I do with him up there? She’s such a funny +woman.”</p> + +<p>He looked quite dim, but brightened as we went +along.</p> + +<p>“A bear,” he said, “is really an extraordinary animal. +What wise little eyes he has! I do think he’s a marvellous +creation! My cats will have to go without +their dinner, though. I was going to buy it with that +threepence.”</p> + +<p>I begged to be allowed the privilege.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[38]</span>“Willingly!” he said. “Shall we go in here? They +like cod’s head best.”</p> + +<p>While we stood waiting to be served I saw the usual +derisive smile pass over the fishmonger’s face. But my +little old friend by no means noticed it; he was too busy +looking at the fish. “A fish is a marvellous thing, when +you come to think of it,” he murmured. “Look at its +scales. Did you ever see such mechanism?”</p> + +<p>We bought five cod’s heads, and I left him carrying +them in a bag, evidently lost in the anticipation of five +cats eating them.</p> + +<p>After that I saw him often, going with him sometimes +to buy food for his cats, which seemed ever to increase +in numbers. His talk was always of his strays, and the +marvels of creation, and that time of his life when he +played the flute at the Harmony Theatre. He had been +out of a job, it seemed, for more than ten years; and, +when questioned, only sighed and answered: “Don’t +talk about it, please!”</p> + +<p>His bumpy landlady never failed to favour me with a +little conversation. She was one of those women who +have terrific consciences, and terrible grudges against them.</p> + +<p>“I never get out,” she would say.</p> + +<p>“Why not?”</p> + +<p>“Couldn’t leave the house.”</p> + +<p>“It won’t run away!”</p> + +<p>But she would look at me as if she thought it might, +and repeat:</p> + +<p>“Oh! I never get out.”</p> + +<p>An extremely Scottish temperament.</p> + +<p>Considering her descent, however, she was curiously +devoid of success, struggling on apparently from week +to week, cleaning, and answering the bell, and never<span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[39]</span> +getting out, and wondering why she kept my little old +friend; just as he struggled on from week to week, +getting out and collecting strays, and discovering the +marvels of creation, and finding her a funny woman. +Their hands were joined, one must suppose, by that dead +child.</p> + +<p>One July afternoon, however, I found her very much +upset. He had been taken dangerously ill three days +before.</p> + +<p>“There he is,” she said; “can’t touch a thing. It’s +my belief he’s done for himself, giving his food away +all these years to those cats of his. I shooed ’em out +to-day, the nasty creatures; they won’t get in again.”</p> + +<p>“Oh!” I said, “you shouldn’t have done that. +It’ll only make him miserable.”</p> + +<p>She flounced her head up. “Hoh!” she said; “I +wonder I’ve kept him all this time, with his birds and +his cats dirtying my house. And there he lies, talking +gibberish about them. He made me write to a Mr. +Jackson, of some theatre or other—I’ve no patience with +him. And that little bullfinch all the time perching on +his pillow, the dirty little thing! I’d have turned it +out, too, only it wouldn’t let me catch it.”</p> + +<p>“What does the doctor say?”</p> + +<p>“Double pneumonia—caught it getting his feet wet, +after some stray, I’ll be bound. I’m nursing him. +There has to be some one with him all the time.”</p> + +<p>He was lying very still when I went up, with the +sunlight falling across the foot of his bed, and, sure +enough, the bullfinch perching on his pillow. In that +high fever he looked brighter than ever. He was not +exactly delirious, yet not exactly master of his thoughts.</p> + +<p>“Mr. Jackson! He’ll be here soon. Mr. Jackson!<span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[40]</span> +He’ll do it for me. I can ask him, if I die. A funny +woman. I don’t want to eat; I’m not a great eater—I +want my breath, that’s all.”</p> + +<p>At sound of his voice the bullfinch fluttered off the +pillow and flew round and round the room, as if alarmed +at something new in the tones that were coming from +its master.</p> + +<p>Then he seemed to recognise me. “I think I’m going +to die,” he said; “I’m very weak. It’s lucky, there’s +nobody to mind. If only he’d come soon. I wish”—and +he raised himself with feeble excitement—“I wish +you’d take that wire off the window; I want my cats. +She turned them out. I want him to promise me to +take them, and bully-boy, and feed them with my money, +when I’m dead.”</p> + +<p>Seeing that excitement was certainly worse for him +than cats, I took the wire off. He fell back, quiet at +once; and presently, first one and then another cat +came stealing in, till there were four or five seated against +the walls. The moment he ceased to speak the bullfinch, +too, came back to his pillow. His eyes looked most +supernaturally bright, staring out of his little, withered-up +old face at the sunlight playing on his bed; he said just +audibly: “Did you ever see anything more wonderful +than that sunlight? It’s really marvellous!” After +that he fell into a sort of doze or stupor. And I continued +to sit there in the window, relieved, but rather +humiliated, that he had not asked me to take care of his +cats and bullfinch.</p> + +<p>Presently there came the sound of a motor-car in the +little street below. And almost at once the landlady +appeared. For such an abrupt woman, she entered very +softly.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[41]</span>“Here he is,” she whispered.</p> + +<p>I went out and found a gentleman, perhaps sixty years +of age, in a black coat, buff waistcoat, gold watch-chain, +light trousers, patent-leather boots, and a wonderfully +shining hat. His face was plump and red, with a glossy +grey moustache; indeed, he seemed to shine everywhere, +save in the eyes, which were of a dull and somewhat +liverish hue.</p> + +<p>“Mr. Jackson?”</p> + +<p>“The same. How is the little old chap?”</p> + +<p>Opening the door of the next room, which I knew +was always empty, I beckoned Mr. Jackson in.</p> + +<p>“He’s really very ill; I’d better tell you what he +wants to see you about.”</p> + +<p>He looked at me with that air of “You can’t get at +me—whoever you may be,” which belongs to the very +successful.</p> + +<p>“Right-o!” he said. “Well?”</p> + +<p>I described the situation. “He seems to think,” I +ended, “that you’ll be kind enough to charge yourself +with his strays, in case he should die.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Jackson prodded the unpainted wash-stand with +his gold-headed cane.</p> + +<p>“Is he really going to kick it?”</p> + +<p>“I’m afraid so; he’s nothing but skin, bone, and +spirit, as it is.”</p> + +<p>“H’m! Stray cats, you say, and a bird! Well, +there’s no accounting. He was always a cracky little +chap. So that’s it! When I got the letter I wondered +what the deuce! We pay him his five quid a quarter +regular to this day. To tell truth, he deserved it. +Thirty years he was at our shop; never missed a night. +First-rate flute he was. He ought never to have given<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[42]</span> +it up, though I always thought it showed a bit of heart +in him. If a man don’t look after number one, he’s as +good as gone; that’s what I’ve always found. Why, I +was no more than he was when I started. Shouldn’t +have been worth a plum if I’d gone on his plan, that’s +certain.” And he gave that profound chuckle which +comes from the very stomach of success. “We were +having a rocky time at the Harmony; had to cut down +everything we could—music, well, that came about first. +Little old Moronelli, as we used to call him—old Italian +days before English names came in, you know—he was +far the best of the flutes; so I went to him and said: +‘Look here, Moronelli, which of these other boys had +better go?’ ‘Oh!’ he said—I remember his funny +little old mug now—‘has one of them to go, Mr. Jackson? +Timminsa’—that was the elder—‘he’s a wife and family; +and Smetoni’—Smith, you know—‘he’s only a boy. +Times are bad for flutes.’ ‘I know it’s a bit hard,’ I +said, ‘but this theatre’s goin’ to be run much cheaper; +one of ’em’s got to get.’ ‘Oh!’ he said, ‘dear me!’ +he said. What a funny little old chap it was! Well—what +do you think? Next day I had his resignation. +Give you my word I did my best to turn him. Why, +he was sixty then if he was a day—at sixty a man don’t +get jobs in a hurry. But, not a bit of it! All he’d say +was: ‘I shall get a place all right!’ But that’s it, you +know—he never did. Too long in one shop. I heard by +accident he was on the rocks; that’s how I make him +that allowance. But that’s the sort of hopeless little +old chap he is—no idea of himself. Cats! Why not? +I’ll take his old cats on; don’t you let him worry about +that. I’ll see to his bird, too. If I can’t give ’em a +better time than ever they have here, it’ll be funny!”<span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[43]</span> +And, looking round the little empty room, he again +uttered that profound chuckle: “Why, he was with us +at the Harmony thirty years—that’s time, you know; +<i>I</i> made my fortune in it.”</p> + +<p>“I’m sure,” I said, “it’ll be a great relief to him.”</p> + +<p>“Oh! Ah! That’s all right. You come down to +my place”—he handed me a card: “Mr. Cyril Porteus +Jackson, Ultima Thule, Wimbledon”—“and see how I +fix ’em up. But if he’s really going to kick it, I’d like to +have a look at the little old chap, just for old times’ sake.”</p> + +<p>We went, as quietly as Mr. Jackson’s bright boots +would permit, into his room, where the landlady was +sitting gazing angrily at the cats. She went out without +noise, flouncing her head as much as to say: “Well, +now you can see what I have to go through, sitting up +here. I never get out.”</p> + +<p>Our little old friend was still in that curious stupor. +He seemed unconscious, but his blue eyes were not +closed, staring brightly out before them at things we did +not see. With his silvery hair and his flushed frailty, +he had an unearthly look. After standing perhaps three +minutes at the foot of the bed, Mr. Jackson whispered:</p> + +<p>“Well, he does look queer. Poor little old chap! +You tell him from me I’ll look after his cats and birds; +he needn’t worry. And now, I think I won’t keep the +car. Makes me feel a bit throaty, you know. Don’t +move; he might come to.”</p> + +<p>And, leaning all the weight of his substantial form +on those bright and creaking toes, he made his way to the +door, flashed at me a diamond ring, whispered hoarsely: +“So long! That’ll be all right!” and vanished. And +soon I heard the whirring of his car and just saw the top +of his shiny hat travelling down the little street.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[44]</span>Some time I sat on there, wanting to deliver that +message. An uncanny vigil in the failing light, with +those five cats—yes, five at least—lying or sitting against +the walls, staring like sphinxes at their motionless protector. +I could not make out whether it was he in his +stupor with his bright eyes that fascinated them, or the +bullfinch perched on his pillow, whom they knew perhaps +might soon be in their power. I was glad when the +landlady came up and I could leave the message with her.</p> + +<p>When she opened the door to me next day at six +o’clock I knew that he was gone. There was about her +that sorrowful, unmistakable importance, that peculiar +mournful excitement, which hovers over houses where +death has entered.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” she said, “he went this morning. Never +came round after you left. Would you like to see him?”</p> + +<p>We went up.</p> + +<p>He lay, covered with a sheet, in the darkened room. +The landlady pulled the window-curtains apart. His +face, as white now almost as his silvery head, had in the +sunlight a radiance like that of a small, bright angel +gone to sleep. No growth of hair, such as comes on most +dead faces, showed on those frail cheeks that were now +smooth and lineless as porcelain. And on the sheet +above his chest the bullfinch sat, looking into his face.</p> + +<p>The landlady let the curtains fall, and we went out.</p> + +<p>“I’ve got the cats in here”—she pointed to the +room where Mr. Jackson and I had talked—“all ready +for that gentleman when he sends. But that little bird, +I don’t know what to do; he won’t let me catch him, +and there he sits. It makes me feel all funny.”</p> + +<p>It had made me feel all funny, too.</p> + +<p>“He hasn’t left the money for his funeral. Dreadful,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[45]</span> +the way he never thought about himself. I’m glad I +kept him, though.” And, not to my astonishment, she +suddenly began to cry.</p> + +<p>A wire was sent to Mr. Jackson, and on the day of +the funeral I went down to ‘Ultima Thule,’ Wimbledon, +to see if he had carried out his promise.</p> + +<p>He had. In the grounds, past the vinery, an outhouse +had been cleaned and sanded, with cushions placed at +intervals against the wall, and a little trough of milk. +Nothing could have been more suitable or luxurious.</p> + +<p>“How’s that?” he said. “I’ve done it thoroughly.” +But I noticed that he looked a little glum.</p> + +<p>“The only thing,” he said, “is the cats. First night +they seemed all right; and the second, there were three +of ’em left. But to-day the gardener tells me there’s +not the ghost of one anywhere. It’s not for want of +feeding. They’ve had tripe, and liver, and milk—as +much as ever they liked. And cod’s heads, you know—they’re +very fond of them. I must say it’s a bit of a +disappointment to me.”</p> + +<p>As he spoke, a sandy cat which I perfectly remembered, +for it had only half its left ear, appeared in the +doorway, and stood, crouching, with its green eyes +turned on us; then, hearing Mr. Jackson murmur, +“Puss, puss!” it ran for its life, slinking almost into +the ground, and vanished among some shrubs.</p> + +<p>Mr. Jackson sighed. “Perversity of the brutes!” +he said. He led me back to the house through a conservatory +full of choice orchids. A gilt bird-cage was +hanging there, one of the largest I had ever seen, replete +with every luxury the heart of bird could want.</p> + +<p>“Is that for the bullfinch?” I asked him.</p> + +<p>“Oh!” he said; “didn’t you know? The little<span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[46]</span> +beggar wouldn’t let himself be caught, and the second +morning, when they went up, there he lay on the old +chap’s body, dead. I thought it was very touchin’. +But I kept the cage hung up for you to see that I should +have given him a good time here. Oh, yes, ‘Ultima +Thule’ would have done him well!”</p> + +<p>And from a bright leather case Mr. Jackson offered +me a cigar.</p> + +<p>The question I had long been wishing to ask him +slipped out of me then:</p> + +<p>“Do you mind telling me why you called your house +‘Ultima Thule’?”</p> + +<p>“Why?” he said. “Found it on the gate. Think +it’s rather distingué, don’t you?” and he uttered his +profound chuckle.</p> + +<p>“First-rate. The whole place is the last word in +comfort.”</p> + +<p>“Very good of you to say so,” he said. “I’ve laid +out a goodish bit on it. A man must have a warm +corner to end his days in. ‘Ultima Thule,’ as you say—it +isn’t bad. There’s success about it, somehow.”</p> + +<p>And with that word in my ears, and in my eyes a +vision of the little old fellow in <i>his</i> ‘Ultima Thule,’ +with the bullfinch lying dead on a heart that had never +known success, I travelled back to town.</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[47]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak">STUDIES OF EXTRAVAGANCE</h2> +</div> + +<h3>I.—<span class="smcap">The Writer</span></h3> + +<p><span class="smcap">Every</span> morning when he awoke his first thought was: +How am I? For it was extremely important that he +should be well, seeing that when he was not well he +could neither produce what he knew he ought, nor +contemplate that lack of production with equanimity. +Having discovered that he did not ache anywhere, he +would say to his wife: “Are you all right?” and, while +she was answering, he would think: “Yes—if I make +that last chapter pass subjectively through Blank’s personality, +then I had better——” and so on. Not having +heard whether his wife were all right, he would get out +of bed and do that which he facetiously called “abdominable +cult,” for it was necessary that he should digest his +food and preserve his figure, and while he was doing it +he would partly think: “I am doing this well,” and +partly he would think: “That fellow in <i>The Parnassus</i> +is quite wrong—he simply doesn’t see——” And pausing +for a moment with nothing on, and his toes level with +the top of a chest of drawers, he would say to his wife: +“What I think about that <i>Parnassus</i> fellow is that he +doesn’t grasp the fact that my books——” And he +would not fail to hear her answer warmly: “Of course +he doesn’t; he’s a perfect idiot.” He would then shave. +This was his most creative moment, and he would soon +cut himself and utter a little groan, for it would be<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[48]</span> +needful now to find to find his special cotton wool and +stop the bleeding, which was a paltry business and not +favourable to the flight of genius. And if his wife, +taking advantage of the incident, said something which +she had long been waiting to say, he would answer, +wondering a little what it was she had said, and thinking: +“There it is, I get no time for steady thought.”</p> + +<p>Having finished shaving he would bathe, and a philosophical +conclusion would almost invariably come to him +just before he douched himself with cold—so that he +would pause, and call out through the door: “You +know, I think the supreme principle——” And while +his wife was answering, he would resume the drowning +of her words, having fortunately remembered just in +time that his circulation would suffer if he did not douse +himself with cold while he was still warm. He would +dry himself, dreamily developing that theory of the +universe and imparting it to his wife in sentences that +seldom had an end, so that it was not necessary for her +to answer them. While dressing he would stray a little, +thinking: “Why can’t I concentrate myself on my work; +it’s awful!” And if he had by any chance a button +off, he would present himself rather unwillingly, feeling +that it was a waste of his time. Watching her frown +from sheer self-effacement over her button-sewing, he +would think: “She is wonderful! How can she put up +with doing things for me all day long?” And he would +fidget a little, feeling in his bones that the postman +had already come.</p> + +<p>He went down always thinking: “Oh, hang it! +this infernal post taking up all my time!” And as he +neared the breakfast-room, he would quicken his pace; +seeing a large pile of letters on the table, he would say<span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[49]</span> +automatically: “Curse!” and his eyes would brighten. +If—as seldom happened—there were not a green-coloured +wrapper enclosing mentions of him in the press, he would +murmur: “Thank God!” and his face would fall.</p> + +<p>It was his custom to eat feverishly, walking a good +deal and reading about himself, and when his wife tried +to bring him to a sense of his disorder he would tighten +his lips without a word and think: “I have a good deal +of self-control.”</p> + +<p>He seldom commenced work before eleven, for, though +he always intended to, he found it practically impossible +not to dictate to his wife things about himself, such as +how he could not lecture here; or where he had been +born; or how much he would take for this; and why he +would not consider that; together with those letters +which began:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p>“<span class="smcap">My dear ——</span>,</p> + +<p>“Thanks tremendously for your letter about my +book, and its valuable criticism. Of course, I think you +are quite wrong.... You don’t seem to have grasped.... +In fact, I don’t think you ever quite do me justice....</p> + +<p class="right">“Yours affectionately,    <br> +“——.”</p> +</div> + +<p>When his wife had copied those that might be valuable +after he was dead, he would stamp the envelopes and, +exclaiming: “Nearly eleven—my God!” would go +somewhere where they think.</p> + +<p>It was during those hours when he sat in a certain +chair with a pen in his hand that he was able to rest +from thought about himself; save, indeed, in those +moments, not too frequent, when he could not help<span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[50]</span> +reflecting: “That’s a fine page—I have seldom written +anything better”; or in those moments, too frequent, +when he sighed deeply and thought: “I am not the man +I was.” About half-past one, he would get up, with +the pages in his hand, and, seeking out his wife, would +give them to her to read, remarking: “Here’s the +wretched stuff, no good at all”; and, taking a position +where he thought she could not see him, would do such +things as did not prevent his knowing what effect the +pages made on her. If the effect were good he would +often feel how wonderful she was; if it were not good +he had at once a chilly sensation in the pit of his stomach, +and ate very little lunch.</p> + +<p>When, in the afternoons, he took his walks abroad, +he passed great quantities of things and people without +noticing, because he was thinking deeply on such questions +as whether he were more of an observer or more +of an imaginative artist; whether he were properly +appreciated in Germany; and particularly whether one +were not in danger of thinking too much about oneself. +But every now and then he would stop and say to himself: +“I really must see more of life, I really must take +in more fuel”; and he would passionately fix his eyes +on a cloud, or a flower, or a man walking, and there +would instantly come into his mind the thought: “I +have written twenty books—ten more will make thirty—that +cloud is grey”; or: “That fellow X—— is jealous +of me! This flower is blue”; or: “This man is +walking very—very—— D—n <i>The Morning Muff</i>, it +always runs me down!” And he would have a sort of +sore, beaten feeling, knowing that he had not observed +those things as accurately as he would have wished to.</p> + +<p>During these excursions, too, he would often reflect<span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[51]</span> +impersonally upon matters of the day, large questions +of art, public policy, and the human soul; and would +almost instantly find that he had always thought this or +that; and at once see the necessity for putting his +conclusion forward in his book or in the press, phrasing +it, of course, in a way that no one else could; and there +would start up before him little bits of newspaper with +these words on them: “No one, perhaps, save Mr. ——, +could have so ably set forth the case for Baluchistan”; +or, “In <i>The Daily Miracle</i> there is a noble letter from +that eminent writer, Mr. ——, pleading against the +hyperspiritualism of our age.”</p> + +<p>Very often he would say to himself, as he walked +with eyes fixed on things that he did not see: “This +existence is not healthy. I really must get away and +take a complete holiday, and not think at all about my +work; I am getting too self-centred.” And he would +go home and say to his wife: “Let’s go to Sicily, or +Spain, or somewhere. Let’s get away from all this, +and just live.” And when she answered: “How jolly!” +he would repeat, a little absently: “How jolly!” considering +what would be the best arrangement for forwarding +his letters. And if, as sometimes happened, they +<i>did</i> go, he would spend almost a whole morning living, +and thinking how jolly it was to be away from everything; +but toward the afternoon he would feel a sensation +as though he were a sofa that had been sat on too +much, a sort of subsidence very deep within him. This +would be followed in the evening by a disinclination to +live; and that feeling would grow until on the third +day he received his letters, together with a green-coloured +wrapper enclosing some mentions of himself, and he +would say: “Those fellows—no getting away from<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[52]</span> +them!” and feel irresistibly impelled to sit down. Having +done so he would take up his pen, not writing +anything, indeed—because of the determination to +“live,” as yet not quite extinct—but comparatively +easy in his mind. On the following day he would say +to his wife: “I believe I can work here.” And she +would answer, smiling: “That’s splendid”; and he +would think: “She’s wonderful!” and begin to +write.</p> + +<p>On other occasions, while walking the streets or about +the countryside, he would suddenly be appalled at his +own ignorance, and would say to himself: “I know +simply nothing—I must read.” And going home he +would dictate to his wife the names of a number of +books to be procured from the library. When they +arrived he would look at them a little gravely and think: +“By Jove! Have I got to read those?” and the same +evening he would take one up. He would not, however, +get beyond the fourth page, if it were a novel, before he +would say: “Muck! He can’t write!” and would +feel absolutely stimulated to take up his own pen and +write something that was worth reading. Sometimes, +on the other hand, he would put the novel down after +the third page, exclaiming: “By Jove! He can write!” +And there would rise within him such a sense of dejection +at his own inferiority that he would feel simply compelled +to try to see whether he really was inferior.</p> + +<p>But if the book were not a novel he sometimes finished +the first chapter before one or two feelings came over +him: Either that what he had just read was what he +had himself long thought—that, of course, would be +when the book was a good one; or that what he had +just read was not true, or at all events debatable. In<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[53]</span> +each of these events he found it impossible to go on +reading, but would remark to his wife: “This fellow +says what I’ve always said”; or, “This fellow says so +and so, now I say——” and he would argue the matter +with her, taking both sides of the question, so as to save +her all unnecessary speech.</p> + +<p>There were times when he felt that he absolutely +must hear music, and he would enter the concert-hall +with his wife in the pleasurable certainty that he was +going to lose himself. Toward the middle of the second +number, especially if it happened to be music that he +liked, he would begin to nod; and presently, on waking +up, would get a feeling that he really was an artist. +From that moment on he was conscious of certain noises +being made somewhere in his neighbourhood causing a +titillation of his nerves favourable to deep and earnest +thoughts about his work. On going out his wife would +ask him: “Wasn’t the Mozart lovely?” or, “How did +you like the Strauss?” and he would answer: “Rather!” +wondering a little which was which; or he would look +at her out of the corner of his eye and glance secretly +at the programme to see whether he had really heard +them, and which Strauss it might be.</p> + +<p>He was extremely averse to being interviewed, or +photographed, and all that sort of publicity, and only +made exceptions in most cases because his wife would +say to him: “Oh! I think you ought”; or because +he could not bear to refuse anybody anything; together, +perhaps, with a sort of latent dislike of waste, deep down +in his soul. When he saw the results he never failed to +ejaculate: “Never again! No, really—never again! +The whole thing is wrong and stupid!” And he would +order a few copies.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[54]</span>For he dreaded nothing so much as the thought that +he might become an egoist, and, knowing the dangers +of his profession, fought continually against it. Often +he would complain to his wife: “I don’t think of you +enough.” And she would smile and say: “Don’t +you?” And he would feel better, having confessed +his soul. Sometimes for an hour at a time he would +make really heroic efforts not to answer her before having +really grasped what she had said; and to check a tendency, +that he sometimes feared was growing on him, to say: +“What?” whether he had heard or no. In truth, he +was not (as he often said) constitutionally given to small +talk. Conversation that did not promise a chance of +dialectic victory was hardly to his liking; so that he +felt bound in sincerity to eschew it, which sometimes +caused him to sit silent for “quite a while,” as the +Americans have phrased it. But once committed to an +argument he found it difficult to leave off, having a +natural, if somewhat sacred, belief in his own convictions.</p> + +<p>His attitude to his creations was, perhaps, peculiar. +He either did not mention them, or touched on them, +if absolutely obliged, with a light and somewhat disparaging +tongue; this did not, indeed, come from any +real distrust of them, but rather from a superstitious +feeling that one must not tempt Providence in the +solemn things of life. If other people touched on them +in the same way, he had, not unnaturally, a feeling of +real pain, such as comes to a man when he sees an instance +of cruelty or injustice. And, though something always +told him that it was neither wise nor dignified to notice +outrages of this order, he would mutter to his wife: +“Well, I suppose it <i>is</i> true—I can’t write”; feeling, +perhaps, that—if <i>he</i> could not with decency notice such<span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[55]</span> +injuries, she might. And, indeed, she did, using warmer +words than even he felt justified, which was soothing.</p> + +<p>After tea it was his habit to sit down a second time, +pen in hand; not infrequently he would spend those +hours divided between the feeling that it was his duty +to write something and the feeling that it was his duty +not to write anything if he had nothing to say; and +he generally wrote a good deal; for deep down he was +convinced that if he did not write he would gradually +fade away till there would be nothing left for him to +read and think about, and, though he was often tempted +to believe and even to tell his wife that fame was an +unworthy thing, he always deferred that pleasure, afraid, +perhaps, of too much happiness.</p> + +<p>In regard to the society of his fellows he liked almost +anybody, though a little impatient with those, especially +authors, who took themselves too seriously; and there +were just one or two that he really could not stand, +they were so obviously full of jealousy, a passion of which +he was naturally intolerant and had, of course, no need +to indulge in. And he would speak of them with +extreme dryness—nothing more, disdaining to disparage. +It was, perhaps, a weakness in him that he found it +difficult to accept adverse criticism as anything but an +expression of that same yellow sickness; and yet there +were moments when no words would adequately convey +his low opinion of his own powers. At such times he +would seek out his wife and confide to her his conviction +that he was a poor thing, no good at all, without a +thought in his head; and while she was replying: +“Rubbish! You know there’s nobody to hold a candle +to you,” or words to that effect, he would look at her +tragically, and murmur: “Ah! you’re prejudiced!”<span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[56]</span> +Only at such supreme moments of dejection, indeed, did +he feel it a pity that he had married her, seeing how +much more convincing her words would have been if he +had not.</p> + +<p>He never read the papers till the evening, partly +because he had not time, and partly because he so seldom +found anything in them. This was not remarkable, for +he turned their leaves quickly, pausing, indeed, naturally, +if there were any mention of his name; and if his wife +asked him whether he had read this or that he would +answer: “No,” surprised at the funny things that +seemed to interest her.</p> + +<p>Before going up to bed he would sit and smoke. And +sometimes fancies would come to him, and sometimes +none. Once in a way he would look up at the stars, +and think: “What a worm I am! This wonderful +Infinity! I must get more of it—more of it into my +work; more of the feeling that the whole is marvellous +and great, and man a little clutch of breath and dust, +an atom, a straw, a nothing!”</p> + +<p>And a sort of exaltation would seize on him, so that +he knew that if only he did get that into his work, as +he wished to, as he felt at that moment that he could, +he would be the greatest writer the world had ever +seen, the greatest man, almost greater than he wished +to be, almost too great to be mentioned in the press, +greater than Infinity itself—for would he not be Infinity’s +creator? And suddenly he would check himself with +the thought: “I must be careful—I must be careful. +If I let my brain go at this time of night, I sha’n’t write +a decent word to-morrow!”</p> + +<p>And he would drink some milk and go to bed.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[57]</span></p> + +<h3>II.—<span class="smcap">The Critic</span></h3> + +<p>He often thought: “This is a dog’s life! I must +give it up, and strike out for myself. If I can’t write +better than most of these fellows, it’ll be very queer.” +But he had not yet done so. He had in his extreme +youth published fiction, but it had never been the best +work of which he was capable—it was not likely that it +could be, seeing that even then he was constantly diverted +from the ham-bone of his inspiration by the duty of +perusing and passing judgment on the work of other +men.</p> + +<p>If pressed to say exactly why he did not strike out +for himself, he found it difficult to answer, and what he +answered was hardly as true as he could have wished; +for, though truthful, he was not devoid of the instinct +of self-preservation. He could hardly, for example, +admit that he preferred to think what much better +books he could have written if only he had not been +handicapped, to actually striking out and writing them. +To believe this was an inward comfort not readily to +be put to the rude test of actual experience. Nor would +it have been human of him to acknowledge a satisfaction +in feeling that he could put in their proper places those +who had to an extent, as one might say, retarded his +creative genius by compelling him to read their books. +But these, after all, were but minor factors in his long +hesitation, for he was not a conceited or malicious person. +Fundamentally, no doubt, he lived what he called “a +dog’s life” with pleasure, partly because he was used to +it—and what a man is used to he is loath to part with; +partly because he really had a liking for books; and partly +because to be a judge is better than to be judged. And<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[58]</span> +no one could deny that he had a distinctly high conception +of his functions. He had long laid down for +himself certain leading principles of professional conduct, +from which he never departed, such as that a critic +must not have any personal feelings, or be influenced +by any private considerations whatever. This, no doubt, +was why he often went a little out of his way to be +more severe than usual with writers whom he suspected +of a secret hope that personal acquaintanceship might +incline him to favour them. He would, indeed, carry +that principle further, and, where he had, out of an +impersonal enthusiasm at some time or another, written +in terms of striking praise, he would make an opportunity +later on of deliberately taking that writer down a peg or +two lower than he deserved, lest his praise might be +suspected of having been the outcome of personal motives, +or of gush—for which he had a great abhorrence. In +this way he preserved a remarkably pure sense of independence; +a feeling that he was master in his own house, +to be dictated to only by a proper conviction of his +own importance. It is true that there were certain +writers whom, for one reason or another, he could not +very well stand; some having written to him to point +out inaccuracies, or counter one of his critical conclusions, +or, still worse, thanked him for having seen exactly what +they had meant—a very unwise and even undignified +thing to do, as he could not help thinking; others, again, +having excited in him a natural dislike by their appearance, +conduct, or manner of thought, or by having, +perhaps, acquired too rapid or too swollen a reputation +to be, in his opinion, good for them. In such cases, of +course, he was not so unhuman as to disguise his convictions. +For he was, before all things, an Englishman<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[59]</span> +with a very strong belief in the freest play for individual +taste. But of almost any first book by an unknown +author he wrote with an impersonality which it would +have been difficult to surpass.</p> + +<p>Then there was his principle that one must never be +influenced in judging a book by anything one has said +of a previous book by the same writer—each work standing +entirely on its own basis. He found this important +and made a point of never rereading his own criticisms; +so that the rhythm of his judgment, which, if it had risen +to a work in 1920, would fall over the author’s next in +1921, was entirely unbiassed by recollection, and followed +merely those immutable laws of change and the moon +so potent in regard to tides and human affairs.</p> + +<p>For sameness and consistency he had a natural contempt. +It was the unexpected both in art and criticism +that he particularly looked for; anything being, as he +said, preferable to dulness—a sentiment in which he was +supported by the public; not that, to do him justice, +this weighed with him, for he had a genuine distrust of +the public, as was proper for one sitting in a seat of +judgment. He knew that there were so-called critics +who had a kind of formula for each writer, as divines +have sermons suitable to certain occasions. For example: +“We have in ‘The Mazy Swim’ another of +Mr. Hyphen Dash’s virile stories.... We can thoroughly +recommend this pulsating tale, with its true and +beautiful character study of Little Katie, to every +healthy reader as one of the best that Mr. Hyphen Dash +has yet given us.” Or: “We cannot say that ‘The +Mazy Swim’ is likely to increase Mr. Hyphen Dash’s +reputation. It is sheer melodrama, such as we are +beginning to expect from this writer.... The whole is<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[60]</span> +artificial to a degree.... No sane reader will, for a +moment, believe in Little Katie.” Toward this sort of +thing he showed small patience, having noticed with +some acumen a relationship between the name of the +writer, the politics of the paper, and the temper of the +criticism. No! For him, if criticism did not embody +the individual mood and temper of the critic, it was not +worthy of the name.</p> + +<p>But the canon which of all he regarded as most sacred +was this: A critic must surrender himself to the mood +and temper of the work he is criticising, take the thing +as it is with his own special method and technique, its +own point of view, and, only when all that is admitted, +let his critical faculty off the chain. He was never tired +of insisting on this, both to himself and others, and +never sat down to a book without having it firmly in +his mind. Not infrequently, however, he found that +the author was, as it were, wilfully employing a technique +or writing in a mood with which he had no sympathy, +or had chosen a subject obviously distasteful, or a set of +premises that did not lead to the conclusion which he +would have preferred. In such cases his scrupulous +honesty warned him not to compromise with his conscience, +but to say outright that it would have been +better if the technique of the story had been objective +instead of subjective; that the morbidity of the work +prevented serious consideration of a subject which should +never have been chosen; or that he would ever maintain +that the hero was too weak a character to be a hero, +and the book, therefore, of little interest. If any one +pointed out to him that had the hero been a strong +character there would have been no book, it being, in +point of fact, the study of a weak character, he would<span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[61]</span> +answer: “That may be so, but it does not affect what I +say—the book would have been better and more important +if it had been the study of a strong character.” +And he would take the earliest opportunity of enforcing +his recorded criticism that the hero was no hero, and +the book no book to speak of. For, though not obstinate, +he was a man who stood to his guns. He took his duty +to the public very seriously, and felt it, as it were, a point +of honour never to admit himself in the wrong. It was +so easy to do that and so fatal; and the fact of being +anonymous, as on the whole he preferred to be, made +it all the harder to abstain (on principle and for the +dignity of criticism) from noticing printed contradictions +to his conclusions.</p> + +<p>In spite of all the heart he put into his work, there +were times when, like other men, he suffered from dejection, +feeling that the moment had really come when he +must either strike out for himself into creative work, +or compile a volume of synthetic criticism. And he +would say: “None of us fellows are doing any constructive +critical work; no one nowadays seems to have +any conception of the first principles of criticism.” +Having talked that theory out thoroughly he would feel +better, and next day would take an opportunity of writing: +“We are not like the academic French, to whom the +principles of criticism are so terribly important; our +genius lies rather in individual judgments, pliant and +changing as the works they judge.”</p> + +<p>There was that in him which, like the land from which +he sprang, could ill brook control. He approved of +discipline, but knew exactly where it was deleterious to +apply it to himself; and no one, perhaps, had a finer +and larger conception of individual liberty. In this way<span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[62]</span> +he maintained the best traditions of a calling whose very +essence was superiority. In course of conversation he +would frequently admit, being a man of generous calibre, +that the artist, by reason of long years of devoted craftsmanship, +had possibly the most intimate knowledge of +his art, but he would not fail to point out, and very +wisely, that there was no such unreliable testimony as +that of experts, who had an axe to grind, each of his own +way of doing things; for comprehensive views of literature +seen in due perspective there was nothing—he +thought—like the trained critic, rising superior, as it +were professionally, to myopia and individual prejudice.</p> + +<p>Of the new school who maintained that true criticism +was but reproduction in terms of sympathy, and just as +creative as the creative work it reproduced, he was a +little impatient, not so much on the ground that to make +a model of a mountain was not quite the same thing as +to make the mountain; but because he felt in his bones +that the true creativeness of criticism (in which he had +a high belief) was its destructive and satiric quality; +its power of reducing things to rubbish and clearing them +away, ready for the next lot. Instinct, fortified by his +own experience, had guided him to that conclusion. +Possibly, too, the conviction, always lurking deep within +him, that the time was coming when he would strike +out for himself and show the world how a work of art +really should be built, was in some sort responsible for +the necessity he felt to keep the ground well cleared.</p> + +<p>He was nearly fifty when his clock chimed, and he +began seriously to work at the creation of that masterpiece +which was to free him from “a dog’s life,” and, +perhaps, fill its little niche in the gallery of immortality. +He worked at it happily enough till one day, at the end<span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[63]</span> +of the fifth month, he had the misfortune to read through +what he had written. With his critical faculty he was +able to perceive that which gave him no little pain—every +chapter, most pages, and many sentences destroyed +the one immediately preceding. He searched with +intense care for that coherent thread which he had +suspected of running through the whole. Here and +there he seemed to come on its track, then it would vanish. +This gave him great anxiety.</p> + +<p>Abandoning thought for the moment, he wrote on. +He paused again toward the end of the seventh month, +and once more patiently reviewed the whole. This +time he found four distinct threads that did not seem to +meet; but still more puzzling was the apparent absence +of any individual flavour. He was staggered. Before +all he prized that quality, and throughout his career had +fostered it in himself. To be unsapped in whim or fancy, +to be independent, had been the very salt of his existence +as a critic. And now, and now—when his hour had struck, +and he was in the very throes of that long-deferred +creation, to find——! He put thought away again, +and doggedly wrote on.</p> + +<p>At the end of the ninth month, in a certain exaltation, +he finished; and slowly, with intense concentration, +looked at what he had produced from beginning to end. +And as he looked something clutched at him within +and he felt frozen. The thing did not move, it had no +pulse, no breath, no colour—it was dead.</p> + +<p>And sitting there before that shapeless masterpiece, +still-born, without a spirit or the impress of a personality, +a horrid thought crept and rattled in his brain. Had he, +in his independence, in his love of being a law unto himself, +<i>become so individual that he had no individuality left</i>?<span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[64]</span> +Was it possible that he had judged, and judged, and—not +been judged, too long? It was not true—not true! +Locking the soft and flavourless thing away, he took up +the latest novel sent him, and sat down to read it. But, +as he read, the pages of his own work would implant +themselves above those that he turned and turned. At +last he put the book down, and took up pen to review it. +“This novel,” he wrote, “is that most pathetic thing, +the work of a man who has burned the lamp till the lamp +has burned him; who has nourished and cultured his +savour, and fed his idiosyncrasies, till he has dried and +withered, without savour left.” And, having written +that damnation of the book that was not his own, the +blood began once more flowing in his veins, and he felt +warm.</p> + +<h3>III.—<span class="smcap">The Plain Man</span></h3> + +<p>He was plain. It was his great quality. Others +might have graces, subtleties, originality, fire, and charm; +they had not his plainness. It was that which made +him so important, not only in his country’s estimation, +but in his own. For he felt that nothing was more +valuable to the world than for a man to have no doubts, +and no fancies, but to be quite plain about everything. +And the knowledge that he was looked up to by the +press, and pulpit, and the politician sustained him in the +daily perfecting of that unique personality which he +shared with all other plain men. In an age which bred +so much that was freakish and peculiar, to know that there +was always himself with his sane and plain outlook to +fall back on, was an extraordinary comfort to him. He +knew that he could rely on his own judgment, and never<span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[65]</span> +scrupled to give it to a public which never tired of asking +for it.</p> + +<p>In literary matters especially was it sought for, as +invaluable. Whether he had read an author or not, +he knew what to think of him. For he had in his time +unwittingly lighted on books before he knew what he +was doing. They had served him as fixed stars forever +after; so that if he heard any writer spoken of as “advanced,” +“erotic,” “socialistic,” “morbid,” “pessimistic,” +“tragic,” or what not unpleasant, he knew +exactly what he was like, and thereafter only read him +by accident. He liked a healthy tale, preferably of love +or of adventure (of detective stories he was, perhaps, +fondest), and insisted upon a happy ending, for, as he very +justly said, there was plenty of unhappiness in life without +gratuitously adding to it, and as to “ideas,” he could +get all he wanted and to spare from the papers. He +deplored altogether the bad habit that literature seemed +to have of seeking out situations which explored the +recesses of the human spirit or of the human institution. +As a plain man he felt this to be unnecessary. He himself +was not conscious of having these recesses, or perhaps too +conscious, knowing that if he once began to look, there +would be no end to it; nor would he admit the use of +staring through the plain surface of society’s arrangements. +To do so, he thought, greatly endangered, if it did not +altogether destroy, those simple faculties which men +required for the fulfilment of the plain duties of everyday +life, such as: Item, the acquisition and investment of +money; item, the attendance at church and maintenance +of religious faith; item, the control of wife and children; +item, the serenity of nerves and digestion; item, contentment +with things as they were.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[66]</span>For there was just that difference between him and +all those of whom he strongly disapproved, that whereas +<i>they</i> wanted to <i>see</i> things as they were, <i>he</i> wanted to <i>keep</i> +things as they were. But he would not for a moment +have admitted this little difference to be sound, since +his instinct told him that he himself saw things as they +were better than ever did such cranky people. If a +human being had got to get into spiritual fixes, as those +fellows seemed to want one to believe, then certainly +the whole unpleasant matter should be put into poetry, +and properly removed from comprehension. “And, +anyway,” he would say: “In real life, I shall know it +fast enough when I get there, and I’m not going to waste +my time nosin’ it over beforehand.” His view of literary +and, indeed, all art, was that it should help him to be +cheerful. And he would make a really extraordinary +outcry if amongst a hundred cheerful plays and novels +he inadvertently came across one that was tragic. At +once he would write to the papers to complain of the +gloomy tone of modern literature; and the papers, +with few exceptions, would echo his cry, because he was +the plain man, and took them in. “What on earth,” +he would remark, “is the good of showin’ me a lot of +sordid sufferin’? It doesn’t make me any happier. +Besides”—he would add—“it isn’t art. The function +of art is beauty.” Some one had told him this, and he +was very emphatic on the point, going religiously to any +show where there was a great deal of light and colour. +The shapes of women pleased him, too, up to a point. +But he knew where to stop; for he felt himself, as it were, +the real censor of the morals of his country. When the +plain man was shocked it was time to suppress the entertainment, +whether play, dance, or novel. Something<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[67]</span> +told him that he, beyond all other men, knew what was +good for his wife and children. He often meditated +on that question coming in to the City from his house +in Surrey; for in the train he used to see men reading +novels, and this stimulated his imagination. Essentially +a believer in liberty, like every Englishman, he was only +for putting down a thing when it offended his own taste. +In speaking with his friends on this subject, he would express +himself thus: “These fellows talk awful skittles. +Any plain man knows what’s too hot and what isn’t. +All this ‘flim-flam’ about art, and all that, is beside the +point. The question simply is: Would you take your +wife and daughters? If not, there’s an end of it, and it +ought to be suppressed.” And he would think of his +own daughters, very nice, and would feel sure. Not that +he did not himself like a “full-blooded” book, as he +called it, provided it had the right moral and religious +tone. Indeed, a certain kind of fiction which abounded +in descriptions “of her lovely bosom” often struck him +pink, as he hesitated to express it; but there was never +in such masterpieces of emotion any nasty subversiveness, +or wrong-headed idealism, but frequently the opposite.</p> + +<p>Though it was in relation to literature and drama, +perhaps, that his quality of plainness was most valuable, +he felt the importance of it, too, in regard to politics. +When they had all done “messing about,” he knew that +they would come to him, because, after all, there he was, +a plain man wanting nothing but his plain rights, not +in the least concerned with the future, and Utopia, and +all that, but putting things to the plain touchstone: +“How will it affect me?” and forming his plain +conclusions one way or the other. He felt, above all +things, each new penny of the income tax before they put<span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[68]</span> +it on, and saw to it if possible that they did not. He +was extraordinarily plain about that, and about national +defence, which instinct told him should be kept up to the +mark at all costs. But there must be ways, he felt, of +doing the latter without having recourse to the income tax, +and he was prepared to turn out any government +that went on lines unjust to the plainest principles of +property. In matters of national honour he was even +plainer, for he never went into the merits of the question, +knowing, as a simple patriot, that his country must be +right; or that, if not right, it would never do to say +she wasn’t. So aware were statesmen and the press of +this sound attitude of his mind, that, without waiting +to ascertain it, they acted on it in perfect confidence.</p> + +<p>In regard to social reform, while recognising, of course, +the need for it, he felt that, in practice, one should do +just as much as was absolutely necessary and no more; +a plain man did not go out of his way to make quixotic +efforts, but neither did he sit upon a boiler till he was +blown up.</p> + +<p>In the matter of religion he regarded his position as +the only sound one, for however little in these days one +could believe and all that, yet, as a plain man, he did not +for a moment refuse to go to church and say he was a +Christian; on the contrary, he was rather more particular +about it than formerly, since when a spirit has departed, +one must be very careful of the body, lest it fall to pieces. +He continued, therefore, to be a churchman—living in +Hertfordshire.</p> + +<p>He often spoke of science, medical or not, and it was +his plain opinion that these fellows all had an axe to grind; +for <i>his</i> part he only believed in them just in so far as they +benefited a plain man. The latest sanitary system, the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[69]</span> +best forms of locomotion and communication, the newest +antiseptics, and time-saving machines—of all these, +of course, he made full use; but as to the researches, +speculations, and theories of scientists—to speak plainly, +they were, he thought, “pretty good rot.”</p> + +<p>He abominated the word “humanitarian.” No plain +man wanted to inflict suffering, especially on himself. +He would be the last person to do any such thing, but +the plain facts of life must be considered, and convenience +and property duly safeguarded. He wrote to the papers +perhaps more often on this subject than on any other, +and was gratified to read in their leading articles continual +allusion to himself: “The plain man is not prepared +to run the risks which a sentimental treatment of this +subject would undoubtedly involve”; “After all, +it is to the plain man that we must go for the sanity and +common sense of this matter.” For he had no dread +in life like that of being called a sentimentalist. If an +instance of cruelty came under his own eyes he was as +much moved as any man, and took immediate steps to +manifest his disapproval. To act thus on his feelings +was not at all his idea of being sentimental. But what +he could not stand was making a fuss about cruelties, +as people called them, which had not actually come under +his own plain vision; to be indignant in regard to such +<i>was</i> sentimental, he was sure, involving as it did an exercise +of imagination, than which there was nothing he distrusted +more. Some deep instinct no doubt informed +him perpetually that if he felt anything, other than what +disturbed him personally at first hand, he would suffer +unnecessarily, and perhaps be encouraging such public +action as might diminish his comfort. But he was no +alarmist, and, on the whole, felt pretty sure that while<span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[70]</span> +he was there, living in Kent, with his plain views, there +was no chance of anything being done that would cause +him any serious inconvenience.</p> + +<p>On the woman’s question generally he had long made +his position plain. He would move when the majority +moved, and not before. And he expected all plain men +(and women—if there were any, which he sometimes +doubted) to act in the same way. In this policy he felt +instinctively, rather than consciously, that there was +no risk. No one—at least, no one that mattered, no +plain, solid person—would move until he did, and he +would not, of course, move until they did; in this way +there was a perfectly plain position. And it was an extraordinary +gratification to him to feel, from the tone of +politicians, the pulpit, and the press, that he had the +country with him. He often said to his wife: “One +thing’s plain to me; we shall never have the suffrage till +the country wants it.” But he rarely discussed the +question with other women, having observed that many +of them could not keep their tempers when he gave them +his plain view of the matter.</p> + +<p>He was sometimes at a loss to think what on earth +they would do without him on juries, of which he was +usually elected foreman. And he never failed to listen +with pleasure to the words that never failed to be spoken +to him: “As plain men, gentlemen, you will at once +see how improbable in every particular is the argument +of my friend.” That he was valued in precisely the same +way by both sides and ultimately by the judge filled him +sometimes with a modest feeling that only a plain man +was of any value whatever, certainly that he was the only +kind of man who had any sort of judgment.</p> + +<p>He often wondered what the country would do<span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[71]</span> +without him; into what abysmal trouble she would get +in her politics, her art, her law, and her religion. It +seemed to him that he alone stood between her and manifold +destructions. How many times had he not seen her +reeling in her cups and sophistries, and beckoning to +him to save her! And had he ever failed her, with his +simple philosophy of a plain man: “Follow me, and the +rest will follow itself”? Never! As witness the veneration +in which he saw that he was held every time he opened +a paper, attended the performance of a play, heard a +sermon, or listened to a speech. Some day he meant +to sit for his portrait, believing that this was due from him +to posterity; and now and then he would look into the +glass to fortify his resolution. What he saw there always +gave him secret pleasure. Here was a face that he knew +he could trust, and even in a way admire. Nothing +brilliant, showy, eccentric, soulful; nothing rugged, +devotional, profound, or fiery; not even anything proud, +or stubborn; no surplus of kindliness, sympathy, or +aspiration; but just simple, solid lines, a fresh colour, +and sensible, rather prominent eyes—just the face that he +would have expected and desired, the face of a plain man.</p> + +<h3>IV.—<span class="smcap">The Superlative</span></h3> + +<p>Though he had not yet arrived, he had personally +no doubt about the matter. It was merely a question +of time. Not that for one moment he approved of +“arriving” as a general principle. Indeed, there was no +one whom he held in greater contempt than a man who +had arrived. It was to him the high-water mark of +imbecility, commercialism, and complacency. For what +did it mean save that this individual had pleased a sufficient<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[72]</span> +number of other imbeciles, hucksterers, and fat-heads, +to have secured for himself a reputation? These +pundits, these mandarins, these so-called “masters”—they +were an offence to his common sense. He had +passed them by, with all their musty and sham-Abraham +achievements. That fine flair of his had found them out. +Their mere existence was a scandal. Now and again +one died; and his just anger would wane a little before +the touch of the Great Remover. No longer did that +pundit seem quite so objectionable now that he no longer +cumbered the ground. It might even, perhaps, be admitted +that there had been something coming out of +that one; and, as the years rolled on, this something +would roll on too, till it became quite a big thing; and +he would compare those miserable pundits who still +lived with the one who had so fortunately died, to their +great disadvantage. There were, in truth, very few living +beings that he could stand. Somehow they were not—no, +they really <i>were not</i>. The great—as they were +called forsooth—artists, writers, politicians—what were +they? He would smile down one side of his long nose. +It was enough. Forthwith those reputations ceased to +breathe—for him. Their theories, too, of art, reform, +what-not—how puerile! How utterly and hopelessly +old-fashioned, how worthy of all the destruction that his +pen and tongue could lavish on them!</p> + +<p>For, to save his country’s art, his country’s literature +and politics—that was, he well knew, his mission. And he +periodically founded, or joined, the staff of papers that +were going to do this trick. They always lasted several +months, some several years, before breathing the last +impatient sigh of genius. And while they lived, with +what wonderful clean brooms they swept! Perched<span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[73]</span> +above all that miasma known as human nature, they beat +the air, sweeping it and sweeping it, till suddenly there +was no air left. And that theory, that real vision of art +and existence, which they were going to put in place of +all this muck, how near—how unimaginably near—they +brought it to reality! Just another month, another +year, another good sweeping, would have done it! +And on that final ride of the broomstick, he—he would +have arrived! At last some one would have been there +with a real philosophy, a truly creative mind; some one +whose poems and paintings, music, novels, plays, and +measures of reform would at last have borne inspection! +And he would go out from the office of that great paper +so untimely wrecked, and, conspiring with himself, +would found another.</p> + +<p>This one should follow principles that could not fail. +For, first, it should tolerate nothing—nothing at all. +That was the mistake they had made last time. They +had tolerated some reputations. No more of that; +no—more! The imbeciles, the shallow frauds, let them +be carted once for all. And with them let there be cremated +the whole structure of society, all its worn-out +formulas of art, religion, sociology. In place of them he +would not this time be content to put nothing. No; +it was the moment to elucidate and develop that secret +rhyme and pulsation in the heart of the future hitherto +undisclosed to any but himself. And all the time there +should be flames going up out of that paper—the pale-red, +the lovely flames of genius. Yes, the emanation +should be wonderful. And, collecting his tattered mantle +round his middle so small, he would start his race again.</p> + +<p>For three numbers he would lay about him and outline +religiously what was going to come. In the fourth<span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[74]</span> +number he would be compelled to concentrate himself +on a final destruction of all those defences and spiteful +counter-attacks which wounded vanity had wrung from +the pundits, those apostles of the past; this final destruction +absorbed his energies during the fifth, sixth, seventh, +and eighth numbers. In the ninth he would say positively +that he was now ready to justify the constructive +prophecies of his first issues. In the tenth he would +explain that, unless a blighted public supported an heroic +effort better, genius would be withheld from them. In +the eleventh number he would lay about him as he had +never done, and in the twelfth give up the ghost.</p> + +<p>In connection with him one had always to remember +that he was not one of those complacent folk whose complacency +stops short somewhere; his was a nobler kind, +ever trying to climb into that heaven which he alone was +going to reach some day. He had a touch of the divine +discontent even with himself; and it was only in comparison +with the rest of the world that he felt he was +superlative.</p> + +<p>It was a consolation to him that Nietzsche was dead, +so that out of a full heart and empty conscience he could +bang upon the abandoned drum of a man whom he +scarcely hesitated to term great. And yet, what—as he +often said—could be more dismally asinine than to see +some of these live stucco moderns pretending to be supermen? +Save this Nietzsche he admitted perhaps no +philosopher into his own class, and was most down on +Aristotle, and that one who had founded the religion +of his country.</p> + +<p>Of statesmen he held a low opinion—what were they, +after all, but politicians? There was not one in the whole +range of history who could take a view like an angel of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[75]</span> +the dawn surveying creation; not one who could soar +above a contemptible adaptation of human means to +human ends.</p> + +<p>His poet was Blake. His playwright Strindberg, a +man of distinct promise—fortunately dead. Of novelists +he accepted Dostoievsky. Who else was there? Who +else that had gone outside the range of normal, stupid, +rational humanity, and shown the marvellous qualities +of the human creature drunk or dreaming? Who else +who had so arranged his scenery that from beginning to +end one need never witness the dull shapes and colours +of human life quite unracked by nightmare? It was in +nightmare only that the human spirit revealed its possibilities.</p> + +<p>In truth, he had a great respect for nightmare, even +in its milder forms, the respect of one who felt that it +was the only thing which an ordinary sane man could not +achieve in his waking moments. He so hated the ordinary +sane man, with his extraordinary lack of appreciative +faculty.</p> + +<p>In his artistic tastes he was paulo-post-futurist, and +the painter he had elected to admire was one that no +one had yet heard of. He meant, however, that they +should hear of him when the moment came. With the +arrival of that one would begin a new era of art, for which +in the past there would be no parallel, save possibly +one Chinese period long before that of which the pundits—poor +devils—so blatantly bleated.</p> + +<p>He was a connoisseur of music, and nothing gave him +greater pain than a tune. Of all the ancients he recognised +Bach alone, and only in his fugues. Wagner was +considerable in places. Strauss and Debussy, well—yes, +but now <i>vieux jeu</i>. There was an Esquimaux. His<span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[76]</span> +name? No, let them wait! That fellow was something. +Let them mark his words, and wait!</p> + +<p>It was for this kind of enlightenment of the world +that he most ardently desired his own arrival, without +which he sometimes thought he could no longer bear +things as they were, no longer go on watching his chariot +unhitched to a star, trailing the mud of this musty, +muddled world, whose ethics even, those paltry wrappings +of the human soul, were uncongenial to him.</p> + +<p>Talking of ethics, there was one thing especially that +he absolutely could not bear—that second-hand creature, +a gentleman; the notion that his own superlative self +should be compelled by some mouldy and incomprehensible +tradition to respect the feelings or see the point of +view of others—this was indeed the limit. No, no! +To bound upon the heads and limbs the prejudices and +convictions of those he came in contact with, especially +in print, that was a holy duty. And, though conscientious +to a degree, there was certainly no one of all his +duties that he performed so conscientiously as this. No +amenities defiled his tongue or pen, nor did he ever shrink +from personalities—his spiritual honesty was terrific. +But he never thrust or cut where it was not deserved; +practically the whole world was open to his scorn, as +he well knew, and he never needed to go out of his way +to find victims for it. Indeed, he made no cult at all of +eccentricity—that was for smaller creatures. His dress, +for instance, was of the soberest, save that now and then +he would wear a purple shirt, grey boots, or a yellow-ochre +tie. His life and habits, lost in the future, were, on the +whole, abstemious. He had no children, but set great +store by them, and fully meant when he had time to +have quite a number, for this was, he knew, his duty to a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[77]</span> +world breeding from mortal men. Whether they would +arrive before he did was a question, since, until then, his +creative attention could hardly be sufficiently disengaged.</p> + +<p>At times he scarcely knew himself, so absorbed was he; +but you knew him because he breathed rather hard, +as became a man lost in creation. In the higher flights +of his genius he paused for nothing, not even for pen and +paper; he touched the clouds, indeed—and, like the +clouds, height piled on vaporous height, his images and +conceptions hung wreathed, immortal, evanescent as the +very air. It was an annoyance to him afterward to find +that he had neglected to pin them to earth. Still, with +his intolerance of all except divinity, and his complete +faith that he must in time achieve it, he was perhaps the +most interesting person to be found in the purlieus of—wherever +it might be.</p> + +<h3>V.—<span class="smcap">The Preceptor</span></h3> + +<p>He had a philosophy as yet untouched. His stars were +the old stars, his faith the old faith; nor would he recognise +that there was any other, for not to recognise +any point of view except his own was no doubt the +very essence of his faith. Wisdom! There was surely +none save the flinging of the door to, standing with your +back against the door, and telling people what was +behind it. For, though he also could not know what was +behind, he thought it low to say so. An “atheist,” as +he termed certain persons, was to him beneath contempt, +an “agnostic,” as he termed certain others, a poor and +foolish creature. As for a rationalist, positivist, pragmatist +or any other “ist”—well, that was just what +they were. He made no secret of the fact that he simply<span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[78]</span> +could not understand people like that. It was true. +“What can they do—save deny?” he would say. “What +do they contribute to the morals and the elevation of the +world? What do they put in the place of what they take +away? What have they got, to make up for what is +behind that door? Where are their symbols? How +shall they move and lead the people? No,” he said, +“a little child shall lead the people, and I am the little +child! For I can spin them a tale such as children love, +of what is behind the door.” Such was the temper of +his mind that he never flinched from believing true what +he thought would benefit himself and others. For +example, he held a crown of ultimate advantage to be +necessary to induce pure and stable living. If one could +not say: “Listen, children! there it is, behind the door! +Look at it, shining, golden—yours! Not now, but when +you die, if you are good. Be good, therefore! For if +you are not good—no crown!” If one could not say +that—what could one say? What inducement hold +out? And warmly he would describe the crown! There +was nothing he detested more than commercialism. +And to any one who ventured to suggest that there was +something rather commercial about the idea of that +crown, he would retort with asperity. A mere creed +that good must be done, so to speak, just out of a present +love of dignity and beauty—as a man, seeing something +he admired, might work to reproduce it, knowing that +he would never achieve it perfectly, but going on until +he dropped, out of sheer love of going on—he thought +vague, futile, devoid of glamour and contrary to human +nature, for he always judged people by himself, and felt +that no one could like to go on unless they knew that they +would get something if they did. To promise victory,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[79]</span> +therefore, was most important. Forlorn hopes, setting +your teeth, back to the wall, and such like, was bleak and +wintry doctrine, without inspiration in it, because it +led to nothing—so far as he could see. Those others, +who, not presuming to believe in anything, went on, +because—as they said—to give up would be to lose their +honour, seemed to him poor lost creatures who had denied +faith; and faith was, as has been said, the mainspring +of his philosophy.</p> + +<p>Once, indeed, in the unguarded moment of a heated +argument, he had confessed that some day men might +not require to use the symbols of religion which they used +now. It was at once pointed out to him that, if he +thought that, he could not believe these symbols to be +true for all time; and if they were not true for all time, +why did he say they were? He was dreadfully upset. +Deferring answer, however, for the moment, he was +soon able to retort that the symbols were true—er—mystically. +If a man—and this was the point—did not +stand by <i>these</i> symbols, by which could he stand? Tell +him that! Symbols were necessary. But what symbols +were there in a mere good will; a mere vague following +of one’s own dignity and honour, out of a formless +love of life? How put up a religion of such amorphous +and unrewarded chivalry and devotion, how put up a +blind love of mystery, in place of a religion of definite +crowns and punishments, how substitute a worship +of mere abstract goodness, or beauty, for worship of what +could be called by Christian names? Human nature +being what it was—it would not do, it absolutely would +not do. Though he was fond of the words “mystery,” +“mystical,” he had emphatically no use for them when +they were vaguely used by people to express their<span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[80]</span> +perpetual (and quite unmoral) reverence for the feeling +that they would never find out the secret of their own +existence, never even understand the nature of the universe +or God. Fancy! Mystery of that kind seemed to +him pagan, almost nature-worship, having no finality. +And if confronted by some one who said that a Mystery, +<i>if</i> it could be understood, would naturally not be a mystery, +he would raise his eyebrows. It was that kind of loose, +specious, sentimental talk that did so much harm, and +drew people away from right understanding of that +Great Mystery which, if it was <i>not</i> understood and +properly explained, was, for all practical purposes, not a +great mystery at all. No, it had all been gone into long +ago, and he stood by the explanations and intended that +every one else should, for in that way alone men were +saved; and, though he well knew (for he was no Jesuit) +that the end did not justify the means, yet in a matter +of such all-importance one stopped to consider neither +means nor ends—one just saved people. And as for +truth—the question of that did not arise, if one believed. +What one believed, what one was told to believe, <i>was</i> +the truth; and it was no good telling him that the whole +range of a man’s feeling and reasoning powers must be +exercised to ascertain truth, and that, when ascertained, +it would only be relative truth, and the best available +to that particular man. Nothing short of the absolute +truth would <i>he</i> put up with, and that guaranteed fixed +and immovable, or it was no good for his purpose. To +any one who threw out doubts here and doubts there, +and even worse than doubts, he had long formed the +habit of saying simply, with a smile that he tried +hard to make indulgent: “Of course, if you believe +<i>that</i>!”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[81]</span>But he very seldom had to argue on these matters, +because people, looking at his face with its upright bone-formation, +rather bushy eyebrows, and eyes with a good +deal of light in them, felt that it would be simpler not. +He seemed to them to know his own mind almost too well. +Joined to this potent faculty of implanting in men a +childlike trustfulness in what he told them was behind +the door, he had a still more potent faculty of knowing +exactly what was good for them in everyday life. The +secret of this power was simple. He did not recognise +the existence of what moderns and so-called “artists” +dubbed “temperament.” All talk of that sort was bosh, +and generally immoral bosh; for all moral purposes people +really had but one temperament, and that was, of course, +just like his own. And no one knew better than he what +was good for it. He was perfectly willing to recognise +the principle of individual treatment for individual +cases; but it did not do, in practice, he was convinced, +to vary. This instinctive wisdom made him invaluable +in all those departments of life where discipline and the +dispensation of an even justice were important. To +adapt men to the moral law was—he thought—perhaps +the first duty of a preceptor, especially in days when +there was perceptible a distinct but regrettable tendency +to try and adapt the moral law to the needs—as they +were glibly called—of men. There was, perhaps, in him +something of the pedagogue, and when he met a person +who disagreed with him his eyes would shift a bit to the +right and a bit to the left, then become firmly fixed upon +that person from under brows rather drawn down; +and his hand, large and strong, would move fingers, as +if more and more tightly grasping a cane, birch, or other +wholesome instrument. He loved his fellow-creatures<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[82]</span> +so that he could not bear to see them going to destruction +for want of a timely flogging to salvation.</p> + +<p>He was one of those who seldom felt the need for +personal experience of a phase of life, or line of conduct, +before giving judgment on it; indeed, he gravely distrusted +personal experience. He had opposed, for instance +all relief for the unhappily married long before he left +the single state; and, when he did leave it, would not +admit for a moment that his own happiness was at all +responsible for the petrifaction of his view that no relief +was necessary. Hard cases made bad law! But he did +not require to base his opinion upon that. He said +simply that he had been told there was to be no relief—it +was enough.</p> + +<p>The saying “To understand all is to forgive all!” +left him cold. It was, as he well knew, quite impossible +to identify himself with such conditions as produced +poverty, disease and crime, even if he wished to do so +(which he sometimes doubted). He knew better, therefore, +than to waste his time attempting the impossible; +and he pinned his faith to an instinctive knowledge of +how to deal with all such social ills: A contented spirit +for poverty; for disease isolation; and for crime such +punishment as would at once deter others, reform the +criminal, and convince every one that law must be avenged +and the social conscience appeased. On this point of +revenge he was emphatic. No vulgar personal feeling +of vindictiveness, of course, but a strong state feeling +of “an eye for an eye.” It was the only taint of socialism +that he permitted himself. Loose thinkers, he knew, +dared to say that a desire for retribution or revenge was +a purely human or individual feeling like hate, love, +and jealousy; and that to talk of satisfying such a feeling<span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[83]</span> +in the collected bosom of the state was either to talk +nonsense—how could a state have a bosom?—or to cause +the bosoms of the human individuals who administered +the justice of the state to feel that each of them was itself +that stately bosom, and entitled to be revengeful. “Oh, +no!” he would answer to such loose-thinking persons; +“judges, of course, give expression not to what they +feel themselves but to what they imagine the state feels.” +He himself, for example, was perfectly able to imagine +which crimes were those that inspired in the bosom +of the state a particular abhorrence, a particular desire +to be avenged; now it was blackmail, now assaults upon +children, or living on the earnings of immoral women; +he was certain that the state regarded all these with +peculiar detestation, for he had, and quite rightly, a +particular detestation of them himself; and if he were +a judge, he would never for a moment hesitate to visit +on the perpetrators of such vile crimes the utmost vengeance +of the law. He was no loose thinker. In these +times, bedridden with loose thinking and sickly sentiment, +he often felt terribly the value of his own philosophy, +and was afraid that it was in danger. But not many other +people held that view, discerning his finger still very +large in every pie—so much so that there often seemed +less pie than finger.</p> + +<p>It would have shocked him much to realise that he +could be considered a fit subject for a study of extravagance; +fortunately, he had not the power of seeing +himself as others saw him, nor was there any danger +that he ever would.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[84]</span></p> + +<h3>VI.—<span class="smcap">The Artist</span></h3> + +<p>He had long known, of course, that to say the word +“bourgeois” with contempt was a little bit old-fashioned, +and he did his utmost not to; yet was there a still small +voice within him that would whisper: “Those people—I +want to and I do treat them as my equals. I have +even gone so far of late years as to dress like them, to +play their games, to eat regularly, to drink little, to love +decorously, with many other bourgeois virtues, but in +spite of all I remain where I was, an inhabitant of +another—” and, just as he thought the whispering voice +was going to die away, it would add hurriedly—“and +a better world.”</p> + +<p>It worried him; and he would diligently examine +the premises of that small secret conclusion, hoping to +find a flaw in the justness of his conviction that he was +superior. But he never did; and for a long time he +could not discover why.</p> + +<p>Often the conduct of the “bourgeois” would strike +him as almost superfluously good. They were brave, +much braver than he was conscious of being; clean-thinking, +oh, far more clean-thinking than a man like +himself, necessarily given to visions of all kinds; they were +straightforward, almost ridiculously so, as it seemed to +one who saw the inside-out of everything almost before +he saw the outside-out; they were simple, as touchingly +simple as those little children, to whom Scriptures and +post-impressionism had combined to award the crown +of wisdom; they were kind and self-denying in a way that +often made him feel quite desperately his own selfishness—and +yet—they were inferior. It was simply maddening +that he could never rid himself of that impression.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[85]</span>It was one November afternoon, while talking with +another artist, that the simple reason struck him with +extraordinary force and clarity: <i>He could make them, +and they could not make him!</i></p> + +<p>It was clearly this which caused him to feel so much +like God when they were about. Glad enough, as any +man might be, of that discovery, it did not set his mind +at rest. He felt that he ought rather to be humbled +than elated. And he went to work at once to be so, +saying to himself: “I am just, perhaps, a little nearer +to the Creative Purpose than the rest of the world—a +mere accident, nothing to be proud of; I can’t help it, +nothing to make a fuss about, though people will!” +For it did seem to him sometimes that the whole world +was in conspiracy to make him feel superior—as if there +were any need! He would have felt much more comfortable +if that world had despised him, as it used to +in the old days, for then the fire of his conviction could +with so much better grace have flared to heaven; there +would have been something fine about a superiority +leading its own forlorn hope. But this trailing behind +the drums and trumpets of a press and public so easily +taken in he felt to be both flat and a little degrading. +True, he had his moments, as when his eyes would light +on sentences like this (penned generally by clergymen): +“All this talk of art is idle; what really matters is morals.” +Then, indeed, his spirit would flame, and after gazing +at “is morals” with flashing eye and curling lip, and wondering +whether it ought to have been “are morals,” he +would say to whomsoever might happen to be there: +“These bourgeois! What do they know? What can +they see?” and, without waiting for an answer, would +reply: “Nothing! Nothing! Less than nothing!”<span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[86]</span> +and mean it. It was at moments such as these that he +realised how he not only despised, but almost hated, +those dense and cocky Philistines who could not see his +obvious superiority. He felt that he did not lightly +call them by such names, because they really <i>were</i> dense +and cocky, and no more able to see things from his point +of view than they were to jump over the moon. These +fellows could see nothing except from their own confounded +view-point! They were so stodgy too; and +he gravely distrusted anything static. Flux, flux, and +once more flux! He knew by intuition that an artist +alone had the capacity for concreting the tides of life +in forms that were not deleterious to anybody. For rules +and canons he recognised the necessity with his head +(including his tongue), but never with his heart; except, +of course, the rules and canons of art. He worshipped +these; and when anybody like Tolstoi came along and +said, “Blow art!” or words to that effect, he hummed +like bees caught on a gust of wind. What did it matter +whether you had anything to express, so long as you +expressed it? That only was “pure æsthetics,” as he often +said. To place before the public eye something so +exquisitely purged of thick and muddy actuality that it +might be as perfectly without direct appeal to-day as it +would be two thousand years hence—this was an ambition +to which in truth he nearly always attained; this only +was great art. He would assert with his last breath—which +was rather short, for he suffered from indigestion—that +one must never concrete anything in terms of +ordinary nature. No! one must devise pictures of life +that would be equally unfamiliar to men in <span class="allsmcap">A.D.</span> 2520 as +they had been in <span class="allsmcap">A.D.</span> 1920; and when an inconsiderate +person drew his attention to the fact that to the spectator<span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[87]</span> +in 2520 the most naturalistic pictures of the life of 1920 +would seem quite convincingly fantastic, so that there was +no need for him to go out of his way to devise fantasy—he +would stare. For he was emphatically not one of +those who did not care a button what the form was so +long as the spirit of the artist shone clear and potent +through the pictures he drew. No, no; he either +demanded the poetical, the thing that got off the ground, +with the wind in its hair (and he himself would make the +wind, rather perfumed); or—if not the poetical—something +observed with extreme fidelity and without the +smallest touch of that true danger to art, the temperamental +point of view. “No!” he would say; “it’s +our business to put it down just as it is, to see it, not to +feel it. In feeling damnation lies.” And nothing gave +him greater uneasiness than to find the emotions of anger, +scorn, love, reverence, or pity surging within him as +he worked, for he knew that they would, if he did not at +once master them, spoil a certain splendid vacuity that +he demanded of all art. In painting, Raphael, Tintoretto, +and Holbein pleased him greatly; in fiction, “Salammbô” +was his model, for, as he very justly said, you could supply +to it what soul you liked—there being no inconvenient +soul already in possession.</p> + +<p>As can be well imagined, his conviction of being, in +a small way, God, permeated an outlook that was passionless, +and impartial to a degree—except perhaps toward +the bourgeoisie, with their tiring morals and peculiar +habits. If he had a weakness, it was his paramount +desire to suppress in himself any symptoms of temperament, +except just that temperament of having no temperament, +which seemed to him the only one permissible +to an artist, who, as he said, was nothing if not simply<span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[88]</span> +either a recorder or a weaver of beautiful lines in the +air.</p> + +<p>Record and design, statement and decoration—these, +in combination, constituted creation! It was to him +a certain source of pleasure that he had discovered this. +Not that he was, of course, neglectful of sensations, +but he was perfectly careful not to <i>feel</i> them—in order +that he might be able to record them, or use them for +his weaving in a purely æsthetic manner. The moment +they impinged on his spirit, and sent the blood to his +head, he reined in, and began tracing lines in the air, +a practice that never failed him.</p> + +<p>It was his deliberate opinion that a work of art quite +as great as the “Bacchus and Ariadne” could be made +out of a kettle singing on a hob. You had merely to +record it with beautiful lines and colour; and what—in +parenthesis—could lend itself more readily to beautiful +treatment of lines woven in the air than steam rising +from a spout? It was a subject, too, which in its very +essence almost precluded temperamental treatment, so +that this abiding temptation was removed from the creator. +It could be transferred to canvas with a sort of immortal +blandness—black, singing, beautiful. All that cant, such +as, “The greater the artist’s spirit, the greater the subject +he will treat, and the greater achievement attain, technique +being equal,” was to him beneath contempt. +The spirit did not matter, because one must not intrude +it; and, since one must not intrude it, the more unpretentious +the subject, the less temptation one had to +diverge from impersonality, that first principle of art. +Oranges on a dish afforded probably the finest subject +one could meet with; unless one chanced to dislike +oranges. As for what people called “criticism of life,”<span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[89]</span> +he maintained that such was only permissible when the +criticism was so sunk into the very fibre of a work as to be +imperceptible to the most searching eye. When this +was achieved he thought it extremely valuable. Anything +else was simply the work of the moralist, of the man +who took sides and used his powers of expression to embody +a temperamental and therefore an obviously one-sided +view of his subject; and, however high those powers +of expression might be, he could not admit that this was +in any sense real art. He could never forgive Leonardo +da Vinci, because, he said, “the fellow was always trying +to put the scientific side of himself into his confounded +paintings, and not just content to render faithfully in +terms of decoration”; nor could he ever condone +Euripides for letting his philosophy tincture his plays. +And, if it were advanced that the former was the greatest +painter and the latter the greatest dramatist the world +had ever seen, he would say: “That may be, but they +weren’t artists, of course.”</p> + +<p>He was fond of the words “of course”; they gave the +impression that he could not be startled, as was right and +proper for a man occupying his post, a little nearer to the +Creative Purpose than those others. As mark of that +position, he always permitted himself just one eccentricity, +changing it every year, his mind being subtle—not +like those of certain politicians or millionaires, content +to wear orchids or drive zebras all their lives. Anon +it would be a little pointed beard and no hair to speak of; +next year, no beard, and wings; the year after, a pair of +pince-nez with alabaster rims, very cunning; once more +anon, a little pointed beard. In these ways he singled +himself out just enough, no more; for he was no <i>poseur</i>, +believing in his own place in the scheme of things too deeply.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[90]</span>His views on matters of the day varied, of course, with +the views of those he talked to, since it was his privilege +always to see either the other side or something so much +more subtle on the same side as made that side the other.</p> + +<p>But all topical thought and emotion was beside the +point for one who lived in his work; who lived to receive +impressions and render them again so faithfully that you +could not tell he had ever received them. His was—as +he sometimes felt—a rare and precious personality.</p> + +<h3>VII.—<span class="smcap">The Housewife</span></h3> + +<p>Though frugal by temperament, and instinctively +aware that her sterling nature was the bank in which +the national wealth was surely deposited, she was of +benevolent disposition; and when, as occasionally happened, +a man in the street sold her one of those jumping +toys for her children, she would look at him and say:</p> + +<p>“How much? You don’t look well!” and he would +answer: “Tuppence, lidy. Truth is, lidy, I’ve gone +’ungry this lawst week.” Searching his face shrewdly, +she would reply: “That’s bad—a sin against the body. +Here’s threepence. Give me a ha’penny. You don’t +look well.” And, taking the ha’penny, she would leave +the man inarticulate.</p> + +<p>Food appealed to her, not only in relation to herself, +but to others. Often to some friend she would speak +a little bitterly, a little mournfully, about her husband. +“Yes, I quite like my ‘hubby’ to go out sometimes where +he can talk about art, and war, and things that women +can’t. He takes no interest in his food.” And she would +add, brooding: “What he’d do if I didn’t study him, +I really don’t know.” She often felt with pain that he<span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[91]</span> +was very thin. She studied him incessantly—that is, +in due proportion to their children, their position in +society, their Christianity, and herself. If he was her +“hubby,” she was his “hub”—the housewife, that +central pivot of society, that national pivot, which never +could or would be out of gear. Devoid of conceit, it +seldom occurred to her to examine her own supremacy, +quietly content to be “integer vitæ, scelerisque pura”—just +the one person against whom nobody could say +anything. Subconsciously, no doubt, she <i>must</i> have +valued her worth and reputation, or she would never +have felt such salutary gusts of irritation and contempt +toward persons who had none. Like cows when a dog +comes into a field, she would herd together whenever she +saw a woman with what she suspected was a past, then +advance upon her, horns down. If the offending creature +did not speedily vacate the field, she would, if possible, +trample her to death. When, by any chance, the female +dog proved too swift and lively, she would remain +sullenly turning and turning her horns in the direction +of its vagaries. Well she knew that, if she once raised +those horns and let the beast pass, her whole herd would +suffer. There was something almost magnificent about +her virtue, based, as it was, entirely on self-preservation, +and her remarkable power of rejecting all premises +except those familiar to herself. This gave it a fibre and +substance hard as concrete. Here, indeed, was something +one could build on; here, indeed, was the strait thing. +Her husband would sometimes say to her: “My dear, +we don’t know what the poor woman’s circumstances +were, we really don’t, you know. I think we should +try to put ourselves in her place.” And she would fix +his eye, and say: “James, it’s no good. I can’t imagine<span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[92]</span> +myself in that woman’s place, and I won’t. Do you +think that <i>I</i> would ever leave <i>you</i>?” And, watching +till he shook his head, she would go on: “Of course not. +No. Nor let you leave me.” And, pausing a second, +to see if he blinked, because men were rather like that +(even those who had the best of wives), she would go on: +“She deserves all she gets. I have no personal feeling, +but, if once decent women begin to get soft about this +sort of thing, then good-bye to family life and Christianity, +and everything. I’m not hard, but there are things I +feel strongly about, and this is one of them.” And secretly +she would think: “That’s why he keeps so thin—always +letting himself doubt, and sympathise, where one has no +right to. Men!” Next time she passed the woman, +she would cut her deader than the last time, and, seeing her +smile, would feel a sort of divine fury. More than once +this had led her into courts of law on charges of libel +and slander. But, knowing how impregnable was her +position, she almost welcomed that opportunity. For +it was ever transparent to judge and jury from the first +that she was that crown of pearls, a virtuous woman, +and so she was never cast in damages.</p> + +<p>On one such occasion her husband had been so ill-advised +as to remark: “My dear, I have my doubts +whether our duty does not stop at seeing to ourselves, +without throwing stones at others.”</p> + +<p>“Robert,” she had answered, “if you think that, +just because there’s a chance that you may have to pay +damages, I’m going to hold my tongue when vice flaunts +itself, you make a mistake. I always put your judgment +above mine, but this is not a matter of judgment—it is a +matter of Christian and womanly conduct. I can’t +admit even your right to dictate.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[93]</span>She hated that expression, “The grey mare is the +better horse”; it was vulgar, and she would never +recognise its truth in her own case—for a wife’s duty +was to submit herself to her husband, as she had already +said. After this little incident she took the trouble to +go and open her New Testament and look up the story +of a certain woman. There was not a word in it about +women not throwing stones; the discouragement referred +entirely to men. Exactly! No one knew better than +she the difference between men and women in the matter +of moral conduct. Probably there <i>were</i> no men without +that kind of sin, but there were plenty of women, and, +without either false or true pride, she felt that she was +one of them. And there the matter rested.</p> + +<p>Her views on political and social questions—on the +whole, very simple—were to be summed up in the words, +“That <i>man</i>—!” and, so far as it lay in her power, +she saw to it that her daughters should not have any +views at all. She found this, however, an increasingly +hard task, and on one occasion was almost terrified to +find her first and second girls abusing “that man—,” +not for going too fast, but for not going fast enough. +She spoke to William about it, but found him hopeless, +as usual, where his daughters were concerned. It was +her principle to rule them with good, motherly sense, +as became a woman in whose hands the family life of +her country centred; and it was satisfactory on the +whole to find that they obeyed her whenever they wished +to. On this occasion, however, she spoke to them +severely: “The place of woman,” she said, “is in the +home.” “The whole home—and nothing but the +home.” “Ella! The place of women is by the side +of man; counselling, supporting, ruling, but never<span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[94]</span> +competing with him. The place of woman is in the +shop, the kitchen, and—” “The—bed!” “<i>Ella!</i>” +“In the soup!” “Beatrice! I wish—I do wish you +girls would be more respectful. The place of woman +is in the home. Yes, I’ve said that before, but I shall +say it again, and don’t you forget it! The place of +woman is—the most important thing in national life. +If you want to realise that, just think of your own mother; +and—” “Our own father.” “Ella! The place of +woman is in the—!” She left the room, feeling that, +for the moment, she had said enough.</p> + +<p>In disposition sociable, and no niggard of her company, +there was one thing she liked to work at alone—her +shopping, an art which she had long reduced to a science. +The principles she laid down are worth remembering: +Never grudge your time to save a ha’penny. Never buy +anything until you have turned it well over, recollecting +that the rest of you will have turned it over too. Never +let your feelings of pity interfere with your sense of justice, +but bear in mind that the girls who sell to you are paid +for doing it; if you can afford the time to keep +them on their legs, they can afford the time to let you. +Never read pamphlets, for you don’t know what may +be in them about furs, feathers, and forms of food. +Never buy more than your husband can afford to pay +for; but, on the whole, buy as much. Never let any +seller see that you think you have bought a bargain, but +buy one if you can; you will find it pleasant afterward +to talk of your prowess. Shove, shove, and shove again!</p> + +<p>In the perfect application of these principles, she +had found, after long experience, that there was absolutely +no one to touch her.</p> + +<p>In regard to meat, she had sometimes thought she<span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">[95]</span> +would like to give it up, because she had read in her paper +that being killed hurt the poor animals; but she had never +gone beyond thought, because it was very difficult to do +that. Henry was thin, and distinctly pale; the girls +were growing girls; Sunday would hardly seem Sunday +without; besides, it did not do to believe what one read +in the paper, and it would hurt her butcher’s feelings—she +was sure of that. Christmas, too, stood in the way. +It was one’s duty to be cheerful at that season, and +Christmas would seem so strange without the cheery +butchers’ shops and their appropriate holocaust. She +had once read some pages of a disgraceful book that seemed +going out of its way all the time to prove that <i>she</i> was just +an animal—a dreadful book, not at all nice! And if she +would eat those creatures if they were really her brother +animals, and not just sent by God to feed her. No; +at Christmas she felt especially grateful to the good God +for his abundance, for all the good things he gave her +to eat. For all these reasons she swallowed her scruples +religiously. But it was very different in regard to dairy +produce; for here there was, she knew, a real danger—not, +indeed, to the animals, but to her family and herself. +She was for once really proud of the thoroughness with +which she dealt with that important nourishment—milk. +None came into her house except in sealed bottles, +with the name of the cow, spiritually speaking, on the +outside. Some wag had suggested, in her hearing, that +hens should be compelled to initial their eggs when they +were delivered, as well as to put the dates on them. +This she had thought ribald; one could go too far.</p> + +<p>She was, before all things, an altruist; and in nothing +more so than in her relations with her servants. If they +did not do their duty, they went. It was the only way,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">[96]</span> +she had found, to really benefit them. Country girls +and town girls, they passed from her in a stream, having +learned, once for all, the standard that was expected +from them. She christened and educated more servants, +perhaps, than any one in the kingdom. The Marthas +went first, being invariably dirty; the Marys and Susans +lasted, on an average, perhaps four months, and then +left for many reasons. Cook seldom hurried off before +her year was over, because it was so difficult to get her +before she came, and to replace her after she was gone; +but when she did go it was in a gale of wind. The “day +out” was, perhaps, the most fruitful source of disillusionment—girls +of that class, no matter how much they +protested their innocence, seemed utterly unable to keep +away from man’s society. It was only once a fortnight +that she required them to exercise their self-control +and self-respect in that regard, for on the other thirteen +days she took care that they had no chance, suffering +no male footstep in her basement. And yet—would you +believe it?—on those fourteenth days, she was never +able to be easy in her mind. But, however kindly and +considerate she might be in her dealings with those +of lowly station, she found ever the same ingratitude, +the same incapacity, or, as she had reluctantly been forced +to believe, the same deliberate unwillingness to grasp +her point of view. It was as if they were always rudely +saying to themselves: “What do you know of us? We +wish you’d leave us alone!” The idea! As if she could, +or would! As if it were not an almost sacred charge +on her in her station, with the responsibilities that +attached to it, to look after her poorer neighbours and see +that they acted properly in their own interests. The +drink, the immorality, the waste amongst the poor was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[97]</span> +notorious, and anything she could do to lessen it she +always did, dismissing servants for the least slip, and never +failing to point a moral. All that new-fangled talk +about the rich getting off the backs of the poor, about the +law not being the same for both, about how easy it was +to be moral and clean on two thousand a year, she put +aside as silly. It was just the sort of thing that discontented +people would say. In this view she was supported +daily by her newspaper and herself, wherever she might +be. No, no! If the well-to-do did not look after and +control the poor, no one would, which was just what they +would like. They were, in her estimation, incurable; +but, so far as lay in her power, she would cure them, +however painful it might be.</p> + +<p>A religious woman, she rarely missed the morning, +and seldom went to evening, service, feeling that in +daylight she could best set an example to her neighbours.</p> + +<p>God knew her views on art, for she was not prodigal +of them—her most remarkable pronouncement being +delivered on hearing of the disappearance of the “Monna +Lisa”: “Oh, that dreadful woman! I remember her +picture perfectly. Well, I’m glad she’s gone. I thought +she would some day.” When asked why, she would only +answer: “She gave me the creeps.”</p> + +<p>She read such novels as the library sent, to save her +daughters from reading a second time those which did +not seem to her suitable, and promptly sent them back. +In this way she preserved purity in her home. As to +purity outside the home, she made a point of never +drawing Frederick’s attention to female beauty; not +that she felt she had any real reason to be alarmed, for +she was a fine woman; but because men were so funny.</p> + +<p>There were no things in life of which she would have<span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[98]</span> +so entirely disapproved, if she had known about them, +as Greek ideals, for she profoundly distrusted any display +of the bare limb, and fully realised that, whatever beauty +may have meant to the Greeks, to her and George it +meant something very different. To her, indeed, +Nature was a “hussy,” to be tied to the wheels of that +chariot which she was going to keep as soon as motor-cars +were just a little cheaper and really reliable.</p> + +<p>It was often said that she was a vanishing type, but +she knew better. Pedantic fools murmured that Ibsen +had destroyed her, but she had not yet heard of him. +Literary folk and artists, socialists and society people, +might talk of types, and liberty, of brotherhood, and new +ideas, and sneer at Mrs. Grundy. With what unmoved +solidity she dwelt among them! They were but as +gadflies, buzzing and darting on the fringes of her central +bulk. To those flights, to that stinging she paid less +attention than if she had been cased in leather. In the +words of her favourite Tennyson: “They may come, +and they may go, but—whatever you may think—I go +on forever!”</p> + +<h3>VIII.—<span class="smcap">The Latest Thing</span></h3> + +<p>There was in her blood that which bade her hasten, +lest there should be something still new to her when she +died. Death! She was continually haunted by the fear +lest that itself might be new. And she would say: +“Do you know what it feels like to be dead? I do.” +If she had not known this, she felt that she would not +have lived her life to the full. And one must live one’s +life to the full. Indeed, yes! One must experience +everything. In her relations with men, for instance,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">[99]</span> +there was nothing, so far as she could see, to prevent +her from being a good wife, good mother, good mistress, +and good friend—to different men all at the same time, +and even to more than one man of each kind, if necessary. +One had merely to be oneself, a full nature, giving and +taking generously. Greed was a low and contemptible +attribute, especially in woman; a woman wanted nothing +more than—everything, and the best of that. And it +was intolerable if one could not have that little. Woman +had always been kept down. Not to be kept down was +still, on the whole, new. Yet sometimes, after she had +not been kept down rather violently, she would feel: +Oh, the weariness! I shall throw it all up, and live on a +shilling a day, like a sweated worker—that, at all events, +will be new! She even sometimes dreamed of retirement +to convent life—the freshness of its old-world novelty +appealed to her.</p> + +<p>To such an idealist, the very colours of the rainbow +did not suffice, nor all the breeds of birds there were; +her life was piled high with cages. Here she had had +them one by one, borrowed their songs, relieved them +of their plumes; then, finding that they no longer +had any, let them go; for to look at things without +possessing them was intolerable, but to keep them when +she had got them even more so.</p> + +<p>She often wondered how people could get along at +all whose natures were not so full as hers. Life, she thought, +must be so dull for the poor creatures, only doing one +thing at a time, and that time so long. What with her +painting, and her music, her dancing, her flying, her +motoring, her writing of novels and poems, her love-making, +maternal cares, entertaining, friendships, housekeeping, +wifely duties, political and social interests,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">[100]</span> +her gardening, talking, acting, her interest in Russian +linen and the woman’s movement; what with travelling +in new countries, listening to new preachers, lunching +new novelists, discovering new dancers, taking lessons +in Spanish; what with new dishes for dinner, new +religions, new dogs, new dresses, new duties to new neighbours, +and newer charities—life was so full that the +moment it stood still and was simply old “life,” it seemed +to be no life at all.</p> + +<p>She could not bear the amateur; feeling within herself +some sacred fire that made her “an artist” whatever +she took up—or dropped. She had a particular dislike, +too, of machine-made articles; for her, personality must +be deep-woven into everything—look at flowers, how +wonderful they were in that way, growing quietly to +perfection, each in its corner, and inviting butterflies +to sip their dew! She knew, for she had been told it +so often, that she was the crown of creation—the latest +thing in women, who were, of course, the latest thing in +creatures. There had never, till quite recently, been a +woman like her, so awfully interested in so many things, +so likely to be interested in so many more. She had flung +open all the doors of life, and was so continually going +out and coming in, that life had some considerable difficulty +in catching a glimpse of her at all. Just as the +cinematograph was the future of the theatre, so was she +the future of women, and in the words of the poet “prou’ +title.” To sip at every flower before her wings closed; +if necessary, to make new flowers to sip at. To smoke the +whole box of cigarettes straight off, and in the last puff +of smoke expire! And withal, no feverishness, only a +certain reposeful and womanly febrility; a mere perpetual +glancing from quick-sliding eyes, to see the next move,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">[101]</span> +to catch the new movement—God bless it! And, mind +you, a high sense of duty—perhaps a higher sense of +duty than that of any woman who had gone before; a +deep and intimate conviction that women had an immensity +of leeway to make up, that their old, starved, +stunted lives must be avenged, and that right soon. To +enlarge the horizon—this was the sacred duty! No mere +Boccaccian or Louis Quinze cult of pleasurable sensations; +no crude, lolling, plutocratic dollery of a spoiled dame. +No! the full, deep river of sensations nibbling each +other’s tails. Life was real, life was earnest, and time +the essence of its contract.</p> + +<p>To say that she had favourite books, plays, men, dogs, +colours, was to do her but momentary justice. A deeper +equity assigned her only one favourite—the next; and, +for the sake of that one favourite, no Catharine, no +Semiramis or Messalina, could more swiftly dispose of +all the others. With what avidity she sprang into its arms, +drained its lips of kisses, looking hurriedly the while +for its successor; for Heaven alone—she felt—knew what +would happen to her if she finished drinking before she +caught sight of that next necessary one.</p> + +<p>And yet, now and again, time played her false, and she +got through too soon. It was then that she realised +the sensation of death. After the first terrible inanition, +those moments lived without “living” would begin +to assume a sort of preciousness, to acquire holy sensations +of their own. “I am dead,” she would say to herself: +“I really am dead; I lie motionless, hearing, feeling, +smelling, seeing, thinking nothing. I lie impalpable—yes, +that is the word—completely impalpable; above +me I can see the vast blue blue, and all around me the +vast brown brown—it is something like what I remember<span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">[102]</span> +of Egypt. And there is a kind of singing in my ears, +that are really not ears now, a grey, thin sound, like—ah!—Maeterlinck, +and a very faint honey smell, like—er—Omar +Khayyám. And I just move as a blade of grass +moves in the wind. Yes, I am dead. It feels exactly +like it.” And a new exhilaration would seize her, for +she felt that, in that sensation of death, she was living! +At lunch, or it might be dinner, she would tell her newest +man, already past the prime of her interest, exactly what +it felt like to be dead. “It’s not really disagreeable,” +she would say; “it has its own flavour. You know, +like Turkish coffee, just a touch of india-rubber in it—I +mean the coffee.” And the poor man would sneeze, +and answer: “Yes, I know a little what you mean; +asphodels, too; you get it in Greece. My only difficulty +is that, if you <i>are</i> dead, you know—you—er—are.” She +would not admit that; it sounded true, but the man was +getting stupid—to be dead like that would be the end +of novelty, which was, to her, unthinkable.</p> + +<p>Once, in a new book, she came across a little tale of +a man who “lived” in Persia, of all heavenly places, +frantically pursuing sensation. Entering one day the +courtyard of his house, he heard a sigh behind him, and, +looking round, saw his own spirit, apparently in the act +of breathing its last. The little thing, dry and pearly-white +as a seed-pod of “honesty,” was opening and +shutting its mouth, for all the world like an oyster trying +to breathe. “What is it?” he said; “you don’t seem +well.” And his spirit answered: “All right, all right! +Don’t distress yourself—it’s nothing! I’ve just been +crowded out. That’s all. Good-bye!” And, with +a wheeze, the little thing went flat, fell onto the special +blue tiles he had caused to be put down there, and lay<span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">[103]</span> +still. He bent to pick it up, but it came off on his thumb +in a smudge of grey-white powder.</p> + +<p>This fancy was so new that it pleased her greatly, +and she recommended the book to all her friends. The +moral, of course, was purely Eastern, and had no applicability +whatever to Western life, where, the more one did +and expressed, the bigger and more healthy one’s spirit +grew—as witness what she always felt to be going on +within herself. But next spring she changed the blue +tiles of her Persian smoking-room, put in a birch-wood +floor, and made it all Russian. This she did, however, +merely because one new room a year was absolutely essential +to her spirit.</p> + +<p>In her perpetual journey toward an ever-widening +horizon of woman’s life, she was not so foolish as to prize +danger for its own sake—that was by no means her idea +of adventure. That she ran some risks it would be idle +to deny, but only when she had discerned the substantial +advantage of a new sensation to be had out of adventures, +not at all because they were necessary to keep her soul +alive. She was, she felt, a Greek in spirit, only more +so perhaps, having in her also something of America +and the West End.</p> + +<p>How she came to be at all was only known to that +age—whose daughter she undoubtedly was—an age +which ran all the time, without any foolish notion where +it was running to. There was no novelty in a destination, +and no sensation to be had from sitting cross-legged +in a tub of sunlight—not, at least, after you had done +it once. <i>She</i> had been born to dance the moon down, +to ragtime. The moon, the moon! Ah, yes! It +was the one thing that had as yet eluded her avidity. +That, and her own soul.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">[104]</span></p> + +<h3>IX.—<span class="smcap">The Perfect One</span></h3> + +<p>When you had seen him you knew that there was +really nothing to be said. Idealism, humanity, culture, +philosophy, the religious and æsthetic senses—after all, +where did all that lead? Not to him! What led to +him was beef, and whisky, exercise, wine, strong cigars, +and open air. What led to him was anything that +ministered to the coatings of the stomach and the thickness +of the skin. In seeing him, you also saw how progress, +civilisation, and refinement simply meant attrition +of those cuticles which made him what he was. And what +was he? Well—perfect! Perfect for that high, that +supreme purpose—the enjoyment of life as it was. And, +aware of his perfection—oh, well aware!—with a certain +blind astuteness that refused reflection on the subject—not +caring what anybody said or thought, just enjoying +himself, taking all that came his way, and making no +bones about it; unconscious, indeed, that there were any +to be made. He must have known by instinct that +thought, feeling, sympathy only made a man chickeny, +for he avoided them in an almost sacred way. To be +“hard” was his ambition, and he moved through life +hitting things, especially balls—whether they reposed +on little inverted tubs of sand, or moved swiftly toward +him, he almost always hit them, and told people how he +did it afterward. He hit things, too, at a distance, +through a tube, with a certain noise, and a pleasant swelling +sensation under his fifth rib every time he saw them +tumble, feeling that they had swollen still more under +their fifth ribs and would not require to be hit again. +He tried to hit things in the middle distance with little +hooks which he flung out in front of him, and when they<span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[105]</span> +caught on, and he pulled out the result, he felt better. +He was a sportsman, and not only in the field. He hit +any one who disagreed with him, and was very angry if +they hit him back. He hit the money-market with his +judgment when he could, and when he couldn’t, he hit +it with his tongue. And all the time he hit the Government. +It was a perpetual comfort to him in those shaky +times to have that Government to hit. Whatever +turned out wrong, whatever turned out right—there it +was! To give it one—two—three, and watch it crawl +away, was wonderfully soothing. Of a summer evening, +sitting in the window of his club, having hit balls or +bookies hard all day, how pleasant still to have that fellow +Dash, and that fellow Blank, and all the ——y crew to hit +still harder. He hit women, not, of course, with his +fists, but with his philosophy. Women were made for +the perfection of men; they had produced, nourished, +and nursed him, and he now felt the necessity for them +to comfort and satisfy him. When they had done that +he felt no further responsibility in regard to them; to +feel further responsibility was to be effeminate. The +idea, for instance, that a spiritual feeling must underlie +the physical was extravagant; and when a woman took +another view, he took—if not actually, then metaphorically—a +stick. He was almost Teutonic in that way. +But the Government, the Government! Right and +left, he hit it all the time. He had a rooted conviction +that some day it would hit him back, and this naturally +exasperated him. In the midst of danger to the game +laws, of socialism, and the woman’s movement, the only +hope, almost the only comfort, lay in hitting the Government. +For socialists were getting so near that he could +only hit them now in clubs, music-halls, and other quite<span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[106]</span> +safe places; and the woman’s movement might be trusted +implicitly to hit itself. Thus, in the world arena there +was nothing left but that godsend. Always a fair man, +and of thoroughly good heart, he, of course, gave it +credit for the same amount of generosity and good will +that he felt present in his own composition. There was +no extravagance in that; and any man who gave it more +he deemed an ass.</p> + +<p>He had heard of “the people,” and, indeed, at times +had seen and smelt them; it had sufficed. Some +persons, he knew, were concerned about their condition +and all that; but what good it would do him to share +that concern he could not see. Fellows spoke of them as +“poor devils,” and so forth; to his mind they were +“pretty good rotters,” most of them—especially the +working-man, who wanted something for nothing all the +time, and grumbled when he got it. The more you +gave him the more he wanted, and, if he were this —— +Government, instead of coddling the blighters up he +would hit them one, and have done with it. Insurance, +indeed; pensions; land reform; minimum wage—it +was a bit too thick! They would soon be putting +the beggars into glass cases, and labelling them “This +side up.”</p> + +<p>Sometimes he dreamed of the time when he would +have to ride for God and the king. But he strongly +repelled, of course, any suggestion that he had been +brought up to a belief in “caste.” At his school he had +once kicked a small scion of the royal family; this heroic +action had dispersed in his mind once for all any notion +that he was a snob. “Caste,” indeed! There was no +such thing in England nowadays. Had he not sung +“The Leather Bottel” to an audience of dirty people<span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[107]</span> +in his school mission-hall, and—rather enjoyed it. It +was not his fault that Labor was not satisfied. It was +all those professional agitators, confound them! He +himself was opposed to setting class against class. It was, +however, ridiculous to imagine that he was going to +hobnob with or take interest in people who weren’t clean, +who wore clothes with a disagreeable smell—people, +moreover, who, in the most blatant way, showed him +continually that they wanted what he had got. No, no! +there were limits. Clean, at all events, any one could +be—it was the <i>sine quâ non</i>. What with clothes, a man +to look after them, baths, and so on, he himself spent at +least two hundred a year on being clean, and even took +risks with the thickness of his skin, from the way he rubbed +and scrubbed it. A man could not be hard and healthy +if he wasn’t clean, and if the blighters were only hard +and healthy they would not be bleating about their +wants.</p> + +<p>One could see him perhaps to the best advantage +in lands like India, or Egypt, striding in the early morn +over the purlieus of the desert, with his loping, strenuous +step, scurried after by what looked like little dark and +anxious women, carrying his golf-clubs; his eyes, with +their look of out-facing Death, fixed on the ball that he +had just hit so hard, intent on overtaking it and hitting +it even harder next time. Did he at these times of worship +ever pause to contemplate that vast and ancient plain +where, in the distance, pyramids, those creatures of eternity, +seemed to tremble in the sun haze? Did he ever +feel an ecstatic wonder at the strange cry of immemorial +peoples far-travelling the desert air; or look and marvel +at those dark and anxious little children of old civilisations +who pattered after him? Did he ever feel the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[108]</span> +majesty of those vast lonely sands and that vast lonely +sky? Not he! He d——d well hit the ball, until his +skin began to act; then, going in, took a bath, and rubbed +himself. At such moments he felt perhaps more truly +religious than at any other, for one naturally could not +feel so fit and good on Sundays, with the necessity it +imposed for extra eating, smoking, kneeling, and other +sedentary occupations. Indeed, he had become perhaps +a little distracted in religious matters. There seemed to +be things in the Bible about turning the other cheek, +and lilies of the field, about rich men and camels, and +the poor in spirit, which did not go altogether with his +religion. Still, of course, one remained in the English +church, hit things, and hoped for the best.</p> + +<p>Once his convictions nearly took a toss. It was on a +ship, not as classy as it might have been, so that he was +compelled to talk to people that he would not otherwise +perhaps have noticed. Amongst such was a fellow with +a short beard, coming from Morocco. This person was +lean and brown, his eyes were extremely clear; he held +himself very straight, and looked fit to jump over the +moon. It seemed obvious that he hit a lot of things. +One questioned him, therefore, with some interest as to +what he had been hitting. The fellow had been hitting +nothing, absolutely nothing. How on earth, then, did +he keep himself so fit? Walking, riding, fasting, swimming, +climbing mountains, writing books; hitting neither the +Government nor golf balls! Never to hit anything; +write books, tolerate the Government, and look like that! +It was ‘not done.’ And the odd thing was, the fellow +didn’t seem to know or care whether he was fit or not. +All the four days that the voyage lasted, with this infernal +fellow under his very nose, he suffered. There was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[109]</span> +nothing to hit on board, and he himself did not feel very +fit. However, on reaching Southampton and losing sight +of his travelling acquaintance he soon regained his +equanimity.</p> + +<p>He often wondered what he would do when he passed +the age of fifty; and felt more and more that he would +either have to go into Parliament or take up the duties +of a county magistrate. After that age there were certain +kinds of balls and beasts that could no longer be hit with +impunity, and if one was at all of an active turn of mind +one must have substitutes. Marriage, no doubt, would +do something for him, but not enough; his was a strenuous +nature, and he intended to remain “hard” unto +the end. To combine that with service to his country, +especially if, incidentally, he could hit socialism and +poachers, radicals, loafers, and the income tax—this +seemed to him an ideal well worthy of his philosophy +and life, so far. And with this in mind he lived on, his +skin thickening, growing ever more and more perfect, +more and more impervious to thought and feeling, to +æstheticism, sympathy, and all the elements destructive +of perfection. And thus—when his time has come there +is every hope that he may die.</p> + +<h3>X.—<span class="smcap">The Competitor</span></h3> + +<p>He was given that way almost from his nursery days, +for he could not even dress without racing his little +brother in the doing up of little buttons, and being upset +if he got one little button behind. At the age of eight +he climbed all the trees of his father’s garden and, arriving +at their tops, felt a pang because the creatures left off so +abruptly that he could not get any higher. He wrestled<span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[110]</span> +with anybody who did not mind rolling on the floor; +and stayed awake once all night because he heard that one +of his cousins was coming next day and was a year older +than himself. It was not that he desired to see this +cousin, to welcome, or give him a good time; he simply +designed to race him in the kitchen-garden, and to wrestle +with him afterward. It would be grand, he thought, +to bump the head of some one a year older than himself. +The cousin, however, was “scratched” at the last +moment. It was a blow. At the age of ten he cut his +head open against a swing, and so far forgot himself as +to cry when he saw the blood flowing. To have missed +such an opportunity of being superior to other small +boys made an indelible mark on his soul, for, though he +had not cried from pain, he had from fright, and felt he +might have beaten both emotions, if only he had had +proper warning.</p> + +<p>His first term at school he came out top, after a terrific +struggle; there was one other boy in the class. And term +after term he went on coming out top, or very near it. +He never knew what he was learning, but he knew that +he beat other boys. He ran all the races he could, and +played all the games; not because he enjoyed them, +but because unless you did you could not win. He was +considered almost a prize specimen.</p> + +<p>He went to college in an exhausted condition, and for +two years devoted himself to dandyism, designing to +be the coolest, slackest, best-dressed man up. He almost +was. But as that day approached when one must either +beat or be beaten in learning by one’s contemporaries, +a fearful feeling beset him, and he rushed off to a crammer. +For a whole year he poured the crammer’s notes into his +memory. What they were all about he had no notion,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[111]</span> +but his memory retained them just over that hot week +when he sat writing for his life, twice a day. He would +have received a First, had not an examiner who did not +understand that examinations are simply held to determine +who can beat whom, asked him in the living voice +a question, to answer which required a knowledge of why +there was an answer. He came down exhausted, and ate +his dinners for the Bar. It was an occupation at which +he could achieve no distinction save that of eating them +faster than any other student; and for two whole years +he merely devoted himself to trying to be the best +amateur actor and the best shot in the land. His method +of acting was based on nothing so flat as identification +with the character he personified, but on the amount of +laughter and applause that he could get in excess of that +bestowed on any other member of the company. Nor +did he shoot birds because he loved them, like a true +sportsman, but because it was a pleasure to him to feel +each day that he had shot or was going to shoot more +than any one else who was shooting with him.</p> + +<p>The time had now come for him to embrace his profession, +and he did so like a true Briton, with his eye ever +on the future. He perceived from the first that this +particular race was longer than any race he had ever +started for, and he began slowly, with a pebble in his +mouth, husbanding his wind. The whole thing was +extremely dry and extremely boring, but of course one +had to get there before all those other fellows. And +round and round he ran, increasing his speed almost +imperceptibly, soon beginning to have his eye on the half-dozen +who seemed dangerously likely to get there before +him if he did not mind that eye. It cannot be said that +he enjoyed his work, or cared for the money it brought<span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">[112]</span> +him, for, what with getting through his day, and thinking +of those other fellows who might be forging ahead of +him, he had no time to spend money, or even to give it +away. And so it began rolling up. One day, however, +perceiving that he had quite a lot, the thought came +to him that he ought to do something with it. And +happening soon after to go into a picture-gallery, he +bought a picture. He had not had it long before it +seemed to him better than the picture of a friend who +rather went in for them; and he thought, “I could +easily beat him if I gave myself to it a little.” And he did. +It was fascinating to perceive, each time he bought, that +his taste had improved, and was getting steadily ahead +of his friend’s taste; and, indeed, not only of his friend’s, +but of that of other people. He felt that soon he would +have better taste than anybody, and he bought and bought. +It was not that he cared for the pictures, for he really +had not time or mind to give to them—set as he was on +reaching eminence; but he dreamed of leaving them +to the National Gallery as a monument to his taste, +and final proof of superiority to his friend, after they were +both gone.</p> + +<p>About this time he took silk, sacrificing nearly half of +his income. He would have preferred to wait longer, +had he not perceived that if he did wait, his friends —— +and —— and —— —— would be taking silk before him. +And, since he meant to be a judge first, this must naturally +be guarded against. The prospective loss of so much +income made him for a moment restful and expansive, +as if he felt that he had been pushed almost too far by +his competitive genius; and so he found time to marry—it +being the commencement of the long vacation. For +six weeks he hardly thought of his friends —— and ——<span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[113]</span> +and —— ——, but near the end of September he was +shocked back into a more normal frame of mind by the +news that they also had been offered and had taken silk. +It behoved him, he felt, to put his wife behind him and +go back into harness. It would be just like those fellows +to get ahead of him, if they could; and he curtailed his +honeymoon by quite three weeks. Not two years, however, +elapsed before it became clear to him that to keep +his place he must enter Parliament. And against his +own natural feelings, against even the inclinations of his +country, he secured a seat at the general election and began +sitting. What, then, was his chagrin to find that his +friend ——, and his friend ——, and even his friend +—— ——, had also secured seats, and were sitting when +he got there! What with the courts, and what with +‘the House,’ he became lean and very yellow; and his +wife complained. He determined to give her a child +every year to keep her quiet; for he felt that he must +have perfect peace in his home surroundings if he were +to maintain his position in the great life race for which +he had started, knowing that his friends —— and —— +and —— —— would never hesitate to avail themselves +of his ill health, to beat him. None of those wretched +fellows were having so many children. He did not find +his work in Parliament congenial; it seemed to him +unreal. For he could not get his mind—firmly fixed +on himself and the horizon—to believe that all those +little measures which he was continually passing would +benefit people with whose lives he really had not time or +inclination to be familiar. When one had got up, prepared +two cases, had breakfasted, walk down to the courts, +sat there from half-past ten to four, walked to ‘the House,’ +sat there a little longer than his friend —— —— (the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[114]</span> +worst of them), spoken if his friend —— had spoken, or +if he thought his friend —— were going to speak, had +dinner, prepared two cases, kissed his wife, mentally +compared his last picture with that last one of his friend’s, +had a glass of barley-water, and gone to bed—when one +had done all this, there really was not time for living his +own life, much less any one else’s. He sometimes thought +he would have to give up doing so much; but that, +of course, was out of the question, seeing that his friends +would at once shoot ahead. He took “Vitogen” instead. +They used his photograph, with the words, “It does +wonders with me,” coming out of his mouth, and on the +opposite page they used a photograph of his friend —— +——, with the words, “I take a glass a day, and revel in +it,” coming out of his. On discovering this he increased +the amount at some risk to two glasses, determined not +to be outdone by that fellow.</p> + +<p>He sometimes wondered whether, in the army, the +church, the stock exchange, or in literature, he would +not have had a more restful life; for he would by no +means have admitted that he carried within himself +the microbe of his own fate.</p> + +<p>His natural love of beauty, for instance, inspired +him when he saw a sunset, or a mountain, or even a sea, +with the thought: How jolly it would be to look at it! +But he had gradually become so reconciled to knowing he +had not time for this that he never did. But if he had +heard by any chance that his friend —— —— did find +time to contemplate such natural beauties, he would certainly +have contrived somehow to contemplate them too.</p> + +<p>As the time approached for being made a judge he +compared himself more and more carefully with his +friends —— and —— ——. If they were appointed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[115]</span> +before him, it would be very serious for his prospects +of ultimate pre-eminence. And it was with a certain +relief, tempered with sorrow, that he heard one summer +morning that his friend —— had fallen seriously ill, +and was not expected to recover. He was assiduous in +the expression of an anxiety that was quite genuine. +His friend —— died as the courts rose. And all through +that long vacation he thought continually of poor ——, +and of his career cut so prematurely short. It was then +that the idea came to him of capping his efforts by writing +a book. He chose for subject, “The Evils of Competition +in the Modern State,” and devoted to it every +minute he could spare during autumn months, fortunately +bereft of Parliamentary duties. It would just, he felt +make the difference between himself and his friends —— +and —— ——, to a government essentially favourable +to literary men. He finished it at Christmas, and arranged +for a prompt publication. It was with a certain natural +impatience that he read, two days later, of the approaching +issue of a book by his friend —— ——, entitled, “Joy +of Life, or the Cult of the Moment.” What on earth +the fellow was about to rush into print and on such a +subject he was at a loss to understand! The book +came out a week before his own. He read the reviews +rather feverishly, for they were favourable. What to +do now to recover his lead he hardly knew. If he had +not been married it might have been possible to arrange +something in that line with the daughter of an important +personage; as it was, there was nothing for it but to +part with his pictures to the National Gallery by way of a +loan. And this he did, to the chagrin of his wife, about +the middle of May. On the 1st of June he read in his +Sunday paper that his friend —— —— had given his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[116]</span> +library outright to the British Museum. Some relief to +the strain of his anxiety, however, was afforded in July +by the unexpected accession of his friend —— to a peerage, +through the death of a cousin. The estate attached was +considerable. He felt that this friend at all events +would not continue to struggle; he would surely recognise +that he was removed from active life. His premonition +was correct; and his friend —— —— and himself were +left to fight it out alone.</p> + +<p>That judge who had so long been expected to quit +his judgeship did so for another world in the fourth week +of the long vacation.</p> + +<p>He hastened back to town at once. This was one +of the most crucial moments of a crucial career. If +appointed, he would be the youngest judge. But his +friend —— —— was of the same age, the same politics, +the same calibre in every way, and more robust. During +those weeks of waiting, therefore, he grew perceptibly +greyer. His joy knew only the bonds of a careful concealment, +when, at the beginning of October, he was +appointed a judge of the High Court; for it was not till +the following morning that he learned that his friend +—— —— had also been appointed, the Government +having decided to add one to the number of His Majesty’s +judges. Which of them had been made the extra judge +he neither dared nor cared to inquire; but, setting his +teeth, entered forthwith on his duties.</p> + +<p>It cannot be pretended that he liked them; to like +them one would have to take a profound, and, as it were, +amateurish interest in equity and the lives of one’s fellow-men. +For this, of course, he had not time, having to +devote all his energies to not having his judgments +reversed, and watching the judgments of his friend<span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[117]</span> +—— ——. In the first year that fellow was upset in +the Court of Appeal three times oftener than himself, +and it came as a blow when the House of Lords so restored +him that they came out equal. In other respects, of +course, the life was something of a rest after that which +he had led hitherto, and he watched himself carefully lest +he might deteriorate, and be tempted to enjoy himself, +steadily resisting every effort on the part of his friends and +family to draw him into recreations other than those of +dining out, playing golf, and improving his acquaintanceship +with that Law of which he would require a perfect +knowledge when he became Lord Chancellor. He never +could quite make up his mind whether to be glad or sorry +that his friend —— —— did not confine himself entirely +to this curriculum.</p> + +<p>At about this epoch he became so extremely moderate +in his politics that neither party knew to which of them +he belonged. It was a period of uncertainty when no +man could say in whose hands power would be in, say, +five or ten years’ time, and instinctively he felt that he +must look ahead. A moderate man stood perhaps the +greater chance of steady and perpetual preferment, +and he felt moderate, now that the spur of a necessary +political activity was removed. It was a constant source +of uneasiness to him that his friend —— —— had +become so dark a horse that one could find out nothing +about his political convictions; people, indeed, went so +far as to say that the beggar had none.</p> + +<p>He had not been a judge four years when an epidemic +of influenza swept off three of His Majesty’s judges, +and sent one mad; and almost imperceptibly he found +himself sitting with his friend —— —— in the Court +of Appeal. Having the fellow there under his eye day<span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">[118]</span> +by day, he was able to study him, and noted with satisfaction +that, though more robust, he was certainly of +full and choleric temperament, and not too careful of +himself. At once he began taking extra care of his own +health, giving up wine, tobacco, and any other pleasure +that he had left. For three years they sat there side by +side, almost mechanically differing in their judgments; +and then one morning the Prime Minister went and made +his friend —— —— Lord Chief Justice, and himself +only Master of the Rolls. The shock was very great. +After a week’s indisposition, he reset his teeth and decided +to struggle on; his friend —— —— was not Lord +Chancellor yet! Two more years passed, during which +he unwillingly undermined his health by dining constantly +in the highest social and political circles, and delivering +longer and weightier judgments every day. His wife and +children, who still had access to him at times, +watched him with anxiety.</p> + +<p>One morning they found him pacing up and down +the dining-room with <i>The Times</i> newspaper in his hand, +and every mark of cerebral excitement. His friend —— +—— had made a speech at a certain banquet, in which +he had hit the Government a nasty knock. It was now, +of course, only a question of whether they would retain +office till the Lord Chancellor, who was very shaky, +dropped off. He dropped off in June, and they buried +him in Westminster Abbey; his friend —— —— and +himself being chief mourners. In the same week the +Government was defeated. The state of his mind can +now not well be imagined. In one week he lost +five pounds that could not be spared. He stopped losing weight +when the Government decided to hang on till the end +of the session. On the 15th of July the Prime Minister<span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">[119]</span> +sent for him, and offered him the Chancellorship. He +accepted it, after first drawing attention to the superior +claims of his friend —— ——. That evening, in the +bosom of his family, he sat silent. A little smile played +three times on his worn lips, and now and again his thin +hand smoothed the parallel folds in his cheeks. His +youngest daughter, moving to the bell behind his revered +and beloved presence, heard him suddenly mutter, and +bending hastily caught the precious words: “Pipped him +on the post, by gum!”</p> + +<p>He took up his final honours with the utmost ceremony. +From that moment it was almost too noticeable how his +powers declined. It was as if he had felt that, having +won the race, he had nothing left to live for. Indeed, +he only waited till his friend —— —— had received a +slight stroke before, under doctor’s orders, he laid down +office. He dragged on for several years, writing his +memoirs, but without interest in life; till one day, being +drawn in his Bath-chair down the esplanade at Margate, +he was brought to a standstill by another chair being +drawn in the opposite direction. Letting his eye rest +wearily on the occupant, he recognised his friend —— +——. How the fellow had changed; but not in nature, +for he quavered out at once: “Hallo! It’s you! By +George! You look jolly bad!” Hearing those words, +seeing that paralytic smile, a fire seemed suddenly relit +within him. Compressing his lips, he answered nothing, +and dug his Bath-chair man in the back. From that +moment he regained his interest in life. If he could not +outlive his friend —— —— it would be odd! And he +set himself to do it, thinking of nothing else by day or +night, and sending daily to inquire how his friend —— +—— was. The fellow lived till New Year’s Day, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">[120]</span> +died at two in the morning. They brought him the news +at nine. A smile lighted up his parched and withered +face; his old hands, clenched on the feeding-cup, relaxed; +he fell back—dead. The shock of his old friend’s death, +they said, had been too much for him.</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">[121]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">FOR LOVE OF BEASTS</h2> +</div> + +<h3>§ 1.</h3> + +<p><span class="smcap">We</span> had left my rooms, and were walking briskly down the +street towards the river, when my friend stopped before +the window of a small shop and said:</p> + +<p>“Gold-fish!”</p> + +<p>I<a id="FNanchor_1" href="#Footnote_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> looked at him very doubtfully; one had known +him so long that one never looked at him in any other way.</p> + +<p>“Can you imagine,” he went on, “how any sane +person can find pleasure in the sight of those swift things +swimming for ever and ever in a bowl about twice the +length of their own tails?”</p> + +<p>“No,” I said, “I cannot—though, of course, they’re +very pretty.”</p> + +<p>“That is, no doubt, the reason why they are kept +in misery.”</p> + +<p>Again I looked at him; there is nothing in the world +I distrust so much as irony.</p> + +<p>“People don’t think about these things,” I said.</p> + +<p>“You are right,” he answered, “they do not. Let +me give you some evidence of that.... I was travelling +last spring in a far country, and made an expedition to a +certain woodland spot. Outside the little forest inn I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">[122]</span> +noticed a ring of people and dogs gathered round a grey +animal rather larger than a cat. It had a sharp-nosed +head too small for its body, and bright black eyes, and +was moving restlessly round and round a pole to which +it was tethered by a chain. If a dog came near, it hunched +its bushy back and made a rush at him. Except for that +it seemed a shy-souled, timid little thing. In fact, by +its eyes, and the way it shrank into itself, you could tell it +was scared of everything around. Now, there was a small, +thin-faced man in a white jacket holding up a tub on end +and explaining to the people that this was the little +creature’s habitat, and that it wanted to get back underneath; +and, sure enough, when he held the tub within +its reach, the little animal stood up at once on its hind +legs and pawed, evidently trying to get the tub to fall +down and cover it. The people all laughed at this; +the man laughed too, and the little creature went on +pawing. At last the man said: ‘Mind your back-legs, +Patsy!’ and let the tub fall. The show was over. But +presently another lot came up; the white-coated man +lifted the tub, and it began all over again.</p> + +<p>“‘What is that animal?’ I asked him.</p> + +<p>“‘A ’coon.’</p> + +<p>“‘How old?’</p> + +<p>“‘Three years—too old to tame.’</p> + +<p>“‘Where did you catch it?’</p> + +<p>“‘In the forest—lots of ’coons in the forest.’</p> + +<p>“‘Do they live in the open, or in holes?’</p> + +<p>“‘Up in the trees, sure; they only gits in the hollows +when it rains.’</p> + +<p>“‘Oh! they live in the open? Then isn’t it queer +she should be so fond of her tub?’</p> + +<p>“‘Oh,’ he said, ‘she do that to git away from people!’<span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">[123]</span> +and he laughed—a genial little man. ‘She not like +people and dogs. She too old to tame. She know <i>me</i>, +though.’</p> + +<p>“‘I see,’ I said. ‘You take the tub off her, and +show her to the people, and put it back again. Yes, +she <i>would</i> know you!’</p> + +<p>“‘Yes,’ he repeated, rather proudly, ‘she know me—Patsy, +Patsy! Presently, you bet, we catch lot more, +and make a cage, and put them in.’</p> + +<p>“He was gazing very kindly at the little creature, +who on her grey hind legs was anxiously begging for +the tub to come down and hide her, and I said: ‘But +isn’t it rather a miserable life for this poor little devil?’</p> + +<p>“He gave me a very queer look. ‘There’s lots of +people,’ he said—and his voice sounded as if I’d hurt +him—‘never gits a chance to see a ’coon’—and he +dropped the tub over the racoon....</p> + +<p>“Well! Can you conceive anything more pitiful +than that poor little wild creature of the open, begging +and begging for a tub to fall over it and shut out all +the <i>light and air</i>? Doesn’t it show what misery caged +things have to go through?”</p> + +<p>“But, surely,” I said, “those other people would +feel the same as you. The little white-coated man was +only a servant.”</p> + +<p>He seemed to run them over in his memory. “Not +one!” he answered slowly. “Not a single one! I +am sure it never even occurred to them—why should +it? They were there to enjoy themselves.”</p> + +<p>We walked in silence till I said:</p> + +<p>“I can’t help feeling that your little white-coated +man was acting good-heartedly according to his lights.”</p> + +<p>“Quite! And after all what are the sufferings of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">[124]</span> +a racoon compared with the enlargement of the human +mind?”</p> + +<p>“Don’t be extravagant! You know he didn’t mean +to be cruel.”</p> + +<p>“Does a man ever mean to be cruel? He merely +makes or keeps his living; but to make or keep his living +he will do anything that does not absolutely prick to his +heart through the skin of his indolence or his obtuseness.”</p> + +<p>“I think,” I said, “that you might have expressed +that less cynically, even if it’s true.”</p> + +<p>“Nothing that’s true is cynical, and nothing that is +cynical is true. Indifference to the suffering of beasts +always comes from over-absorption in our own comfort.”</p> + +<p>“Absorption, not over-absorption, perhaps.”</p> + +<p>“Ha! Let us see that! Very soon after seeing the +racoon I was staying at the most celebrated health resort +of that country, and, walking in its grounds, I came on an +aviary. In the upper cages were canaries, and in the +lower cage a splendid hawk. It was as large as our +buzzard hawk, brown-backed and winged, light underneath, +and with the finest dark-brown eyes of any bird +I ever saw. The cage was quite ten feet each way—a +noble allowance for the very soul of freedom! The bird +had every luxury. There was water, and a large piece +of raw meat that hadn’t been touched. Yet it was +never still for a moment, flying from perch to perch, +and dropping to the ground again and again so lightly, +to run, literally run, up to the bars to see if perhaps—they +were not there. Its face was as intelligent as any +dog’s——”</p> + +<p>My friend muttered something I couldn’t catch, +and then went on:</p> + +<p>“That afternoon I took the drive for which one visits<span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">[125]</span> +that hotel, and it occurred to me to ask my chauffeur +what kind of hawk it was. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I ain’t +just too sure what it is they’ve got caged up now; they +changes ’em so often.’</p> + +<p>“‘Do you mean,’ I said, ‘that they die in captivity?’</p> + +<p>“‘Yes,’ he answered, ‘them big birds soon gits +moulty and go off.’ Well, when I paid my bill I went +up to the semblance of proprietor—it was one of these +establishments where the only creature responsible +is ‘Co.’—and I said:</p> + +<p>“‘I see you keep a hawk out there?’</p> + +<p>“‘Yes. Fine bird. Quite an attraction!’</p> + +<p>“‘People like to look at it?’</p> + +<p>“‘Just so. They’re uncommon—that sort.’</p> + +<p>“‘Well,’ I said ‘I call it cruel to keep a hawk shut up +like that.’</p> + +<p>“‘Cruel? Why? What’s a hawk, anyway—cruel +devils enough!’</p> + +<p>“‘My dear sir,’ I said, ‘they earn their living just +like men, without caring for other creatures’ sufferings. +You are not shut up, apparently, for doing that. Good-bye.’”</p> + +<p>As he said this, my friend looked at me, and added:</p> + +<p>“You think that was a lapse of taste. What would +<i>you</i> have said to a man who cloaked the cruelty of his +commercial instincts by blaming a hawk for being what +Nature had made him?”</p> + +<p>There was such feeling in his voice that I hesitated +long before answering.</p> + +<p>“Well,” I said, at last, “in England, anyway, we +only keep such creatures in captivity for scientific purposes. +I doubt if you could find a single instance nowadays +of its being done just as a commercial attraction.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">[126]</span>He stared at me.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” he said, “we do it publicly and scientifically, +to enlarge the mind. But let me put to you this question. +Which do you consider has the larger mind—the man +who has satisfied his idle curiosity by staring at all the +caged animals of the earth, or the man who has been +brought up to feel that to keep such indomitable creatures +as hawks and eagles, wolves and panthers, shut up, to +gratify mere curiosity, is a dreadful thing?”</p> + +<p>To that singular question I knew not what to answer. +At last I said:</p> + +<p>“I think you underrate the pleasure they give. We +English are so awfully fond of animals!”</p> + +<h3>§ 2.</h3> + +<p>We had entered Battersea Park by now, and since +my remark about our love of beasts we had not spoken. +A wood-pigeon which had been strutting before us just +then flew up into a tree and began puffing out its breast. +Seeking to break the silence, I said:</p> + +<p>“Pigeons are so complacent.”</p> + +<p>My friend smiled in his dubious way, and answered:</p> + +<p>“Do you know the ‘blue rock?’”</p> + +<p>“No.”</p> + +<p>“Ah! there you have a pigeon who has less complacency +than any living thing. You see, it depends +on circumstances. Suppose, for instance, that we +happened to keep Our Selves—perhaps the most complacent +class of human beings—in a large space enclosed +by iron railings, feeding them up carefully, until their +natural instincts caused them to run up and down at a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">[127]</span> +considerable speed from side to side of the enclosure. +And suppose when we noticed that they had attained +the full speed and strength of their legs we took them out, +holding them gingerly in order that they might not +become exhausted by struggling, and placed them in +little tin compartments so dark and stuffy that they +would not care of their own accord to stay there, and then +stood back about thirty paces with a shot gun and pressed +a spring which let the tin compartment collapse. And +then, as each one of Our Selves ran out, we let fly with +the right barrel and peppered him in the tail, whereon, +if he fell, we sent a dog out to fetch him in by the slack +of his breeches, and after holding him idly for a minute +by the neck we gave it a wring round; or, if he did not +fall, we prayed Heaven at once and let fly with the left +barrel. Do you think in these circumstances Our Selves +would be complacent?”</p> + +<p>“Don’t be absurd!” I said.</p> + +<p>“Very well,” he replied, “I will come to ‘blue +rocks’—do you still maintain that they are so complacent +as to deserve their fate?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know—I know nothing about their fate.”</p> + +<p>“What the eyes do not swallow, the heart does not +throw up! There are other places, but—have you +been to Monte Carlo?”</p> + +<p>“No, and I should never think of going there.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, well,” he answered, “it’s a great place; but +there’s just one little thing about it, and that’s in the +matter of those ‘blue rocks.’ You’ll agree, I suppose, +that one can’t complain of people amusing themselves +in any way they like so long as they hurt no one but +themselves——”</p> + +<p>I caught him up: “I don’t agree at all.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">[128]</span>He smiled: “Yours is perhaps the English point of +view. Still——”</p> + +<p>“It’s more important that they shouldn’t hurt themselves +than that they shouldn’t hurt pigeons, if that’s +what you’re driving at,” I said.</p> + +<p>“There wouldn’t appear to you, I suppose, to be any +connection in the matter?”</p> + +<p>“I tell you,” I repeated, “I know nothing about +pigeon-shooting!”</p> + +<p>He stared very straight before him.</p> + +<p>“Imagine,” he said, “a blue sea, and a half-circle of +grass, with a low wall. Imagine on that grass five traps, +from which lead paths—like the rays of a star—to the +central point on the base of that half-circle. And +imagine on that central point a gentleman with a double-barrelled +gun, another man, and a retriever dog. And +imagine one of those traps opening, and a little dazed +grey bird (not a bit like that fellow you saw just now) +emerge and fly perhaps six yards. And imagine the +sound of the gun and the little bird dipping in its flight, +but struggling on. And imagine the sound of the gun +again and the little bird falling to the ground and wriggling +on along it. And imagine the retriever dog run +forward and pick it up and walk slowly back with it, +still quivering, in his mouth. Or imagine, once in a way, +the little bird drop dead as a stone at the first sound. +Or imagine again that it winces at the shots, yet carries +on over the boundary, to fall into the sea. Or—but +this very seldom—imagine it wing up and out, unhurt, +to the first freedom it has ever known. My friend, the +joke is this: To the man who lets no little bird away +to freedom comes much honour, and a nice round sum +of money! Do you still think there is no connection?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">[129]</span>“Well,” I said, “it doesn’t sound too sportsmanlike. +And yet, I suppose, looking at it quite broadly, it does +minister in a sort of way to the law of the survival of the +fittest.”</p> + +<p>“In which species—man or pigeon?”</p> + +<p>“The sportsman is necessary to the expansion of +Empire. Besides, you must remember that one does +not expect high standards at Monte Carlo.”</p> + +<p>He looked at me. “Do you never read any sporting +paper?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“No.”</p> + +<p>“Did you ever hunt the carted stag?”</p> + +<p>“No, I never did.”</p> + +<p>“Well, you’ve been coursing, anyway.”</p> + +<p>“Certainly; but there’s no comparing that with +pigeon-shooting.”</p> + +<p>“In coursing I admit,” he said, “there’s pleasure to +the dogs, and some chance for the hare, who, besides, +is not in captivity. Also that where there is no coursing +there are few hares, in these days. And yet——”; he +seemed to fall into a reverie.</p> + +<p>Then, looking at me in a queer, mournful sort of way, +he said suddenly:</p> + +<p>“I don’t wish to attack that sport, when there are +so many much worse, but by way of showing you how +liable all these things are to contribute to the improvement +of our species I will tell you a little experience +of my own. When I was at college I was in a rather +sporting set; we hunted, and played at racing, and +loved to be ‘<i>au courant</i>’ with all that sort of thing. +One year it so happened that the uncle of one of us +won the Waterloo Cup with a greyhound whose name +was—never mind. We became at once ardent lovers<span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">[130]</span> +of the sport of coursing, consumed by the desire to +hold a Waterloo Cup Meeting in miniature, with rabbits +for hares and our own terriers for greyhounds. Well, +we held it; sixteen of us nominating our dogs. Now +kindly note that of those sixteen eight at least were +members of the aristocracy, and all had been at public +schools of standing and repute. For the purposes of +our meeting, of course, we required fifteen rabbits caught +and kept in bags. These we ordered of a local blackguard, +with a due margin over to provide against such +of the rabbits as might die of fright before they were +let out, or be too terrified to run after being loosed. +We made the fellow whose uncle had won the Waterloo +Cup judge, apportioned among ourselves the other +officers, and assembled—the judge on horseback, in case +a rabbit might happen to run, say, fifty yards. Assembled +with us were many local cads, two fourth-rate bookies, +our excited, yapping terriers, and twenty-four bagged +rabbits. The course was cleared. Two of us advanced, +holding our terriers by the loins; the judge signed that +he was ready; the first rabbit was turned down. It crept +out of the bag, and squatted, close to the ground, with +its ears laid back. The local blackguard stirred it with +his foot. It crept two yards, and squatted closer. All +the terriers began shrieking their little souls out, all the +cads began to yell, but the rabbit did not move—its +heart, you see, was broken. At last the local blackguard +took it up and wrung its neck. After that some rabbits +ran, and some did not, till all were killed! The terrier +of one of us was judged victor by him whose uncle had +won the Waterloo Cup; and we went back to our colleges +to drink everybody’s health. Now, my friend, mark! +We were sixteen decent youths, converted by infection<span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">[131]</span> +into sixteen rabbit-catching cads. Two of us are dead; +but the rest of us—what do we think of it now? I tell +you this little incident, to confirm you in your feeling +that pigeon-shooting, coursing, and the like, tend to +improve our species, even here in England.”</p> + +<h3>§ 3.</h3> + +<p>Before I could comment on my friend’s narrative we +were spattered with mud by passing riders, and stopped +to repair the damage to our coats.</p> + +<p>“Jolly for my new coat!” I said. “Do you notice, +by the way, that they are cutting men’s tails longer +this spring? More becoming to a fellow, I think.”</p> + +<p>He raised those quizzical eyebrows of his and murmured:</p> + +<p>“And horses’ tails shorter. Did you see those that +passed just now?”</p> + +<p>“No.”</p> + +<p>“There were none!”</p> + +<p>“Nonsense!” I said. “My dear fellow, you really +are obsessed about beasts! They were just ordinary.”</p> + +<p>“Quite—a few scrubby hairs, and a wriggle.”</p> + +<p>“Now, please,” I said, “don’t begin to talk of the +cruelty of docking horses’ tails, and tell me a story of +an old horse in a pond.”</p> + +<p>“No,” he answered, “for I should have to invent +that. What I was going to say was this: Which do +you think the greater fools in the matter of fashion—men +or women?”</p> + +<p>“Oh! Women.”</p> + +<p>“Why?”</p> + +<p>“There’s always some sense at the bottom of men’s +fashions.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">[132]</span>“Even of docking tails?”</p> + +<p>“You can’t compare it, anyway,” I said, “with such a +fashion as the wearing of ‘aigrettes.’ That’s a cruel +fashion if you like.”</p> + +<p>“Ah! But you see,” he said, “the women who +wear them are ignorant of its cruelty. If they were +not, they would never wear them. No gentlewoman +wears them, now that the facts have come out.”</p> + +<p>“What is that you say?” I remarked.</p> + +<p>He looked at me gravely.</p> + +<p>“Do you mean to tell me,” he asked, “that any woman +of gentle instincts, who <i>knows</i> that the ‘aigrette,’ as they +call it, is a nuptial plume sported by the white egret only +during the nesting season—and that, in order to obtain +it, the mother-birds are shot, and that, after their death, +practically all their young die from hunger and exposure—do +you mean to tell me that any gentlewoman, knowing +that, wears them? Why! most women are mothers +themselves! What would they think of gods who shot +women with babies in arms for the sake of obtaining their +white skins or their crop of hair to wear on their heads, +eh?”</p> + +<p>“But, my dear fellow,” I said, “you see these plumes +about all over the place!”</p> + +<p>“Only on people who don’t mind wearing imitation +stuff.”</p> + +<p>I gaped at him.</p> + +<p>“You need not look at me like that,” he said. “A +woman goes into a shop. She knows that real ‘aigrettes’ +mean, killing mother-birds and starving all their nestlings. +Therefore, if she’s a real gentlewoman she doesn’t ask +for a real ‘aigrette.’ But still less does she ask to be +supplied with an imitation article so good that people<span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">[133]</span> +will take her for the wearer of the real thing. I put it +to you, would she want to be known as an encourager of +such a practice? You can never have seen a <i>lady</i> wearing +an ‘aigrette.’”</p> + +<p>“What!” I said. “What?”</p> + +<p>“So much for the woman who knows about +‘aigrettes,’” he went on. “Now for the woman who +doesn’t. Either, when she is told these facts about +‘aigrettes’ she sets them down as ‘hysterical stuff,’ +or she is simply too ‘out of it’ to know anything. Well, +she goes in and asks for an ‘aigrette.’ Do you think they +sell her the real thing—I mean, of course, in England—knowing +that it involves the shooting of mother-birds +at breeding time? I put it to you: Would +they?”</p> + +<p>His inability to grasp the real issues astonished me, +and I said:</p> + +<p>“You and I happen to have read the evidence about +‘aigrettes’ and the opinion of the House of Lords +Committee that the feathers of egrets imported into +Great Britain are obtained by killing the birds during +the breeding season; but you don’t suppose, do you, +that people whose commercial interests are bound up +with the selling of ‘aigrettes’ are going to read it, or +believe it if they do read it?”</p> + +<p>“That,” he answered, “is cynical, if you like. I +feel sure that, in England, people do not sell suspected +articles about which there has been so much talk and +inquiry as there has been about ‘aigrettes’ without +examining in good faith into the facts of their origin. +No, believe me, none of the ‘aigrettes’ sold in England +can have grown on birds.”</p> + +<p>“This is fantastic,” I said. “Why! if what you’re<span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">[134]</span> +saying is true, then—then real ‘aigrettes’ are all artificial; +but that—that would be cheating!”</p> + +<p>“Oh, no!” he said. “You see, ‘aigrettes’ are in +fashion. The word ‘real’ has therefore become parliamentary. +People don’t want to be cruel, but they must +have ‘real’ aigrettes. So, all these ‘aigrettes’ are +‘real,’ unless the customer has a qualm, and then they +are ‘real imitation aigrettes.’ We are a highly civilised +people!”</p> + +<p>“That is very clever,” I said, “but how about the +statistics of real egret plumes imported into this country?”</p> + +<p>He answered like a flash: “Oh, those, of course, +are only brought here to be exported again at once to +countries where they do not mind confessing to cruelty; +yes, all exported, except—well, <i>those that aren’t</i>!”</p> + +<p>“Oh!” I said: “I see! You have been speaking +ironically all this time.”</p> + +<p>“Have you grasped that?” he answered. “Capital!” +After that we walked in silence.</p> + +<p>“The fact is,” I said, presently, “ordinary people, +shopmen and customers alike, never bother their heads +about such things at all.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” he replied sadly, “they take the line of least +resistance. It is just that which gives Fashion its chance +to make such fools of them.”</p> + +<p>“You have yet to prove that it does make fools of +them.”</p> + +<p>“I thought I had; but no matter. Take horses’ tails—what’s +left of them—do you defend that fashion?”</p> + +<p>“Well,” I said, “I——”</p> + +<p>“Would you if you were a horse?”</p> + +<p>“If you mean that I am a donkey——?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, no! Not at all!”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">[135]</span>“It’s going too far,” I said, “to call docking +cruel.”</p> + +<p>“Personally,” he answered, “I don’t think it is +going too far. It’s painful in itself, and Heaven alone +knows what irritation horses have to suffer from flies +through being tailless. I admit that it saves a little +brushing, and that some people are under the delusion +that it averts carriage accidents. But put cruelty and +utility aside, and look at it from the point of view of +fashion. Can anybody say it doesn’t spoil a horse’s +looks?”</p> + +<p>“You know perfectly well,” I said, “that many +people think it smartens him up tremendously. They +regard a certain kind of horse as nothing with a tail; +just as some men are nothing with beards.”</p> + +<p>“The parallel with man does not hold, my friend. +We are not shaved—with or against our wills—by +demi-gods!”</p> + +<p>“Exactly! And isn’t that in itself an admission +that we are superior to beasts, and have a right to some +say in their appearance?”</p> + +<p>“I will not,” he answered, “for one moment allow +that men are superior to horses in point of looks. Take +yourself, or any other personable man, and stand him +up against a thoroughbred and ask your friends to come +and look. How much of their admiration do you think +you will get?”</p> + +<p>It was not the sort of question I could answer.</p> + +<p>“I am not speaking at random,” he went on; “I +have seen the average lord walking beside the average +winner of the Derby.” He cackled disagreeably.</p> + +<p>“But it’s just on this point of looks that people defend +docking,” I said. “They breed the horses, and have a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">[136]</span> +right to their own taste. Many people dislike long +swishy appendages.”</p> + +<p>“And bull-terriers, or Yorkshires, or Great Danes, +with natural ears; and fox-terriers and spaniels with +uncut tails; and women with merely the middles so +small as Nature gave them?”</p> + +<p>“If you’re simply going to joke——”</p> + +<p>“I never was more serious. The whole thing is of +a piece, and summed up in the word ‘smart,’ which +you used just now. That word, sir, is the guardian +angel of all fashions, and if you don’t mind my saying +so, fashions are the guardian angels of vulgarity. Now, +a horse is not a vulgar animal, and I can never get away +from the thought that to dock his tail must hurt his +feelings of refinement.”</p> + +<p>“Well, if that’s all, I dare say he’ll get over it.”</p> + +<p>“But will the man who does it?”</p> + +<p>“You must come with me to the Horse Show,” I +said, “and look at the men who have to do with horses; +then you’ll know if such a thing as docking the tails of +these creatures can do them harm or not. And, by the +way, you talk of refinement and vulgarity. What is +your test? Where is the standard? It’s all a matter +of taste.”</p> + +<p>“You want me to define these things?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“Very well! Do you believe in what we call the +instincts of a gentleman?”</p> + +<p>“Of course.”</p> + +<p>“Such as—the instinct to be self-controlled; not +to be rude or intolerant; not to ‘slop-over’; not to +fuss, nor to cry out; to hold your head up, so that +people refrain from taking liberties; to be ready to do<span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">[137]</span> +things for others, to be chary of asking others to do things +for you, and grateful when they do them?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” I said, “all these I believe in.”</p> + +<p>“What central truth do you imagine that these +instincts come from?”</p> + +<p>“Well, they’re all such a matter of course—I don’t +think I ever considered.”</p> + +<p>“If by any chance,” he replied, “you ever do, you will +find they come from an innate worship of balance, of +the just mean; an inborn reverence for due proportion, +a natural sense of harmony and rhythm, and a consequent +mistrust of extravagance. What is a bounder? Just +a man without sufficient sense of proportion to know that +he is not so important in the scheme of things as he thinks +he is!”</p> + +<p>“You are right there!”</p> + +<p>“Very well. Refinement is a quality of the individual +who has—and conforms to—a true (not a conventional) +sense of proportion; and vulgarity is either the natural +conduct of people without that sense of proportion, +or of people who imitate and reproduce the tricks of +refinement wholesale, without any real feeling for proportion; +or again, it is mere conscious departure from +the sense of proportion for the sake of cutting a dash.”</p> + +<p>“Ah!” I said; “and to which of these kinds of +vulgarity is the fashion of docking horses’ tails a guardian +angel?”</p> + +<p>“Imagine,” he answered gravely, “that you dock +your horse’s tail. You are either horribly deficient in +feeling for a perfectly proportioned horse, or you imitate +what you believe—goodness knows why—to be the refined +custom of docking horses’ tails, without considering +the question of proportion at all.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">[138]</span>“Yes,” I said; “but what makes so many people +do it, if there isn’t something in it, either useful or +ornamental?”</p> + +<p>“Because people as a rule do not love proportion; +they love the grotesque. You have only to look at +their faces, which are very good indications of their +souls.”</p> + +<p>“You have begged the question,” I said. “Who are +you to say that the perfect horse is not the horse——?”</p> + +<p>“With the imperfect tail?”</p> + +<p>“Imperfect? Again, you’re begging.”</p> + +<p>“As Nature made it, then. Oh!” he went on with +vehemence, “think of the luxury of having your own +tail. Think of the cool swish of it. Think of the real +beauty of it! Think of the sheer hideousness of all +that great front balanced behind by a few scrub hairs +and a wriggle! It became ‘smart’ to dock horses’ +tails; and smart to wear ‘aigrettes.’ ‘Smart’—‘neat’—‘efficient’—for +all except the horse and the +poor egrets.”</p> + +<p>“Your argument,” I said, “is practically nothing +but æsthetics.”</p> + +<p>He fixed his eyes upon my hat.</p> + +<p>“Well,” he said slowly. “I admit that neither on +horse nor on man would long tails go at all well with +that bowler hat of yours. Odd how all of a piece taste +is! From a man’s hat, or a horse’s tail, we can reconstruct +the age we live in, like that scientist, you remember, +who reconstructed a mastodon from its funny-bone.”</p> + +<p>The thought went sharply through my head: Is +his next tirade to be on mastodons? Till I remembered +with relief that the animal was extinct, at all events in +England.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">[139]</span></p> + +<h3>§ 4.</h3> + +<p>With but little further talk we had nearly reached +my rooms, when he said abruptly:</p> + +<p>“A lark! Can’t you hear it? Over there, in that +wretched little goldfish shop again.”</p> + +<p>But I could only hear the sounds of traffic.</p> + +<p>“It’s your imagination,” I said. “It really is too +lively on the subject of birds and beasts.”</p> + +<p>“I tell you,” he persisted, “there’s a caged lark there. +Very likely half-a-dozen.”</p> + +<p>“My dear fellow,” I said, “suppose there are! We +could go and buy them and set them free, but it would +only encourage the demand. Or we could assault the +shopmen. Do you recommend that?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t joke on this subject,” he answered shortly.</p> + +<p>“But surely,” I said, “if we can’t do anything to +help the poor things we had better keep our ears from +hearing.”</p> + +<p>“And our eyes shut? Suppose we all did that, what +sort of world should we be living in?”</p> + +<p>“Very much the same as now, I expect.”</p> + +<p>“Blasphemy! Rank, hopeless blasphemy!”</p> + +<p>“Please don’t exaggerate!”</p> + +<p>“I am not. There is only one possible defence of +that attitude, and it’s this: The world is—and was +deliberately meant to be—divided into two halves: +the half that suffers and the half that benefits by that +suffering.”</p> + +<p>“Well?”</p> + +<p>“Is it so?”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps.”</p> + +<p>“You acquiesce in that definition of the world’s<span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">[140]</span> +nature? Very well, if you belong to the first half you +are a poor-spirited creature, consciously acquiescing +in your own misery. If to the second, you are a brute, +consciously acquiescing in your own happiness, at the +expense of others. Well, which are you?”</p> + +<p>“I have not said that I belong to either.”</p> + +<p>“There are only two halves to a whole. No, my +friend, disabuse yourself once for all of that cheap and +comfortable philosophy of shutting your eyes to what +you think you can’t remedy, unless you are willing to +be labelled ‘brute.’ ‘He who is not with me is against +me,’ you know.”</p> + +<p>“Well,” I said, “after that, perhaps you’ll be good +enough to tell me what I can do by making myself +miserable over things I can’t help?”</p> + +<p>“I will,” he answered. “In the first place, kindly +consider that you are not living in a private world of +your own. Everything you say and do and think has +its effect on everybody around you. For example, if you +feel, and say loudly enough, that it is an infernal shame +to keep larks and other wild song-birds in cages, you +will infallibly infect a number of other people with that +sentiment, and in course of time those people who feel +as you do will become so numerous that larks, thrushes, +blackbirds, and linnets will no longer be caught and kept +in cages. Whereas, if you merely think: ‘Oh! this is +dreadful, quite too dreadful, but, you see, I can do +nothing; therefore consideration for myself and others +demands that I shall stop my ears and hold my tongue,’ +then, indeed, nothing will ever be done, and larks, +blackbirds, etc., will continue to be caught and prisoned. +How do you imagine it ever came about that bears and +bulls and badgers are no longer baited; cocks no longer<span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">[141]</span> +openly encouraged to tear each other in pieces; donkeys +no longer beaten to a pulp? Only by people going +about and shouting out that these things made them +uncomfortable. How did it come about that more than +half the population of this country are not still classed +as ‘serfs’ under the law? Simply because a few of our +ancestors were made unhappy by seeing their fellow-creatures +owned and treated like dogs, and roundly +said so—in fact, were not ashamed to be sentimental +humanitarians like me.”</p> + +<p>“That is all obvious. But my point is that there is +moderation in all things, and a time for everything.”</p> + +<p>“By your leave,” he said, “there is little moderation +desirable when we are face to face with real suffering, +and, as a general rule, no time like the present.”</p> + +<p>“But there is, as you were saying just now, such +a thing as a sense of proportion. I cannot see that it’s +my business to excite myself about the caging of larks +when there are so many much greater evils.”</p> + +<p>“Forgive my saying so,” he answered, “but if, when +a caged lark comes under your nose, excitement does +not take hold of you, with or against your will, there is +mighty little chance of your getting excited about +anything. For, consider what it means to be a caged +lark—what pining and misery for that little creature, +which only lives for its life up in the blue. Consider +what blasphemy against Nature, and what an insult +to all that is high and poetic in man, it is to cage such an +exquisite thing of freedom!”</p> + +<p>“You forget that it is done out of love for the song—to +bring it into towns where people can’t otherwise +hear it.”</p> + +<p>“It is done for a living—and that people without<span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">[142]</span> +imagination may squeeze out of unhappy creatures a +little gratification!”</p> + +<p>“It is not a crime to have no imagination.”</p> + +<p>“No, sir; but neither is the lack of it a thing to +pride oneself on, or pass by in silence, when it inflicts +suffering.”</p> + +<p>“I am not defending the custom of caging larks.”</p> + +<p>“No; but you are responsible for its continuance.”</p> + +<p>“I?”</p> + +<p>“You and all those other people who believe in minding +their own business.”</p> + +<p>“Really,” I said; “you must not attack people on +that ground. We cannot all be busybodies!”</p> + +<p>“The saints forbid!” he answered. “But when a +thing exists which you really abhor—as you do this—I +do wish you would consider a little whether, in letting +it strictly alone, you are minding your own business on +principle, or because it is so jolly comfortable to do so.”</p> + +<p>“Speaking for myself——”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” he broke in; “quite! But let me ask you +one thing: Have you, as a member of the human race, +any feeling that you share in the advancement of its +gentleness, of its sense of beauty and justice—that, in +proportion as the human race becomes more lovable +and lovely, you too become more lovable and lovely?”</p> + +<p>“Naturally.”</p> + +<p>“Then is it not your business to support all that you +feel makes for that advancing perfection?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t say that it isn’t.”</p> + +<p>“In that case it is <i>not</i> your business to stop your +ears, and shut your eyes, and hold your tongue, when +you come across wild song-birds caged.”</p> + +<p>But we had reached my rooms.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">[143]</span>“Before I go in,” I said, “there is just one little thing +I’ve got to say to you: Don’t you think that, for a man +with your ‘sense of proportion,’ you exaggerate the +importance of beasts and their happiness?”</p> + +<p>He looked at me for a long time without speaking, +and when he did speak it was in a queer, abstracted voice:</p> + +<p>“I have often thought over that,” he said, “and +honestly I don’t believe I do. For I have observed +that before men can be gentle and broad-minded with +each other, they are always gentle and broad-minded +about beasts. These dumb things, so beautiful—even +the plain ones—in their different ways, and so touching +in their dumbness, do draw us to magnanimity, and +help the wings of our hearts to grow. No; I don’t +think I exaggerate, my friend. Most surely I don’t +want to; for there is no disservice one can do to all +these helpless things so great as to ride past the hounds, +to fly so far in front of public feeling as to cause nausea +and reaction. But I feel that most of us, deep down, +really love these furred and feathered creatures that +cannot save themselves from us—that are like our own +children, because they are helpless; that are in a way +sacred, because in them we watch, and through them we +understand, those greatest blessings of the earth—Beauty +and Freedom. They give us so much, they ask nothing +from us. What can we do in return but spare them all +the suffering we can? No, my friend; I do not think—whether +for their sakes or our own—that I exaggerate.”</p> + +<p>When we had said those words he turned away and +left me standing there.</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">[144]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">REVERIE OF A SPORTSMAN</h2> +</div> + +<p><span class="smcap">I set</span> out one morning in late August, with some potted +grouse sandwiches in one pocket and a magazine in the +other, for a tramp toward Causdon. I had not been in +that particular part of the moor since I used to go snipe-shooting +there as a boy—my first introduction, by the +way, to sport. It was a very lovely day, almost too hot; +and I never saw the carpet of the moor more exquisite—heather, +fern, the silvery white cotton grass, dark peat +turves, and green bog-moss, all more than customarily +clear in hue under a very blue sky. I walked till two +o’clock, then sat down in a little scoop of valley by a +thread of stream, which took its rise from an awkward +looking bog at the top. It was wonderfully quiet. A +heron rose below me and flapped away; and while I was +eating my potted grouse I heard the harsh cheep of a +snipe, and caught sight of the twisting bird vanishing +against the line of sky above the bog. “That must have +been one of the bogs we used to shoot,” I thought; and +having finished my snack of lunch, I rolled myself a +cigarette, opened the magazine, and idly turned its +pages. I had no serious intention of reading—the calm +and silence were too seductive, but my attention became +riveted by an exciting story of some man-eating lions, +and I read on till I had followed the adventure to the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">[145]</span> +death of the two ferocious brutes, and found my cigarette +actually burning my fingers. Crushing it out against +the dampish roots of the heather, I lay back with my eyes +fixed on the sky, thinking of nothing.</p> + +<p>Suddenly I became conscious that between me and +that sky a leash of snipe high up were flighting and +twisting and gradually coming lower; I appeared, +indeed, to have a sort of attraction for them. They +would dash toward each other, seem to exchange ideas, +and rush away again, like flies that waltz together for +hours in the centre of a room. As they came lower and +lower over me I could almost swear I heard them whisper +to each other with their long bills, and presently I absolutely +caught what they were saying: “Look at him! The ferocious brute! +Oh, look at him!”</p> + +<p>Amazed at such an extraordinary violation of all the +laws of Nature, I began to rub my ears, when I distinctly +heard the “Go-back, go-back” of an old cock grouse, +and, turning my head cautiously, saw him perched on a +heathery knob within twenty yards of where I lay. Now, +I knew very well that all efforts to introduce grouse on +Dartmoor have been quite unsuccessful, since for some +reason connected with the quality of the heather, the +nature of the soil, or the over-mild dampness of the air, +this king of game birds most unfortunately refuses to +become domiciled there; so that I could hardly credit +my senses. But suddenly I heard him also: “Look at +him! Go back! The ferocious brute! Go back!” +He seemed to be speaking to something just below; +and there, sure enough, was the first hare I had ever +seen out on the full of the moor. I have always thought +a hare a jolly beast, and not infrequently felt sorry when +I rolled one over; it has a way of crying like a child if not<span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">[146]</span> +killed outright. I confess, then, that in hearing it, too, +whisper: “Look at him! The ferocious brute! Oh, +look at him!” I experienced the sensation that comes +over one when one has not been quite fairly treated. +Just at that moment, with a warm stirring of the air, +there pitched within six yards of me a magnificent old +black-cock—the very spit of that splendid fellow I shot +last season at Balnagie, whose tail my wife now wears +in her hat. He was accompanied by four grey hens, who, +settling in a semi-circle, began at once: “Look at him! +Look at him! The ferocious brute! Oh, look at him!” +At that moment I say with candour that I regretted +the many times I have spared grey hens with the sportsmanlike +desire to encourage their breed.</p> + +<p>For several bewildered minutes after that I could +not turn my eyes without seeing some bird or other +alight close by me: more and more grouse, and black +game, pheasants, partridges—not only the excellent +English bird, but the very sporting Hungarian variety—and +that unsatisfactory red-legged Frenchman which +runs any distance rather than get up and give you a +decent shot at him. There were woodcock too, those +twisting delights of the sportsman’s heart, whose tiny +wing-feather trophies have always given me a distinct +sensation of achievement when pinned in the side of my +shooting-cap; wood-pigeons too, very shy and difficult, +owing to the thickness of their breast-feathers—and, +after all, only coming under the heading “sundry”; +wild duck, with their snaky dark heads, that I have shot +chiefly in Canada, lurking among rushes in twilight at +flighting time—a delightful sport, exciting, as the darkness +grows; excellent eating too, with red pepper and sliced +oranges in oil! Certain other sundries kept coming<span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">[147]</span> +also; landrails, a plump, delicious little bird; green and +golden plover; even one of those queer little creatures, +moorhens, that always amuse one by their quick, quiet +movements, plaintive note, and quaint curiosity, though +not really, of course, fit to shoot, with their niggling flight +and fishy flavour! Ptarmigan, too, a bird I admire very +much, but have only once or twice succeeded in bringing +down, shy and scarce as it is in Scotland. And, side by +side, the alpha and omega of the birds to be shot in these +islands, a capercailzie and a quail. I well remember +shooting the latter in a turnip-field in Lincolnshire—a +scrap of a bird, the only one I ever saw in England. +Apart from the pleasurable sensation at its rarity, I +recollect feeling that it was almost a mercy to put the +little thing out of its loneliness. It ate very well. There, +too, was that loon or northern diver that I shot with a +rifle off Denman Island as it swam about fifty yards from +the shore. Handsome plumage; I still have the mat it +made. One bird only seemed to refuse to alight, remaining +up there in the sky, and uttering continually that +trilling cry which makes it perhaps the most spiritual of all +birds that can be eaten—I mean, of course, the curlew. +I certainly never shot one. They fly, as a rule, very high +and seem to have a more than natural distrust of the +human being. This curlew—ah! and a blue rock (I +have always despised pigeon-shooting)—were the only +two winged creatures that one can shoot for sport in this +country that did not come and sit round me.</p> + +<p>There must have been, I should say, as many hundred +altogether as I have killed in my time—a tremendous +number. They sat in a sort of ring, moving their beaks +from side to side, just as I have seen penguins doing on the +films that explorers bring back from the Antarctic; and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">[148]</span> +all the time repeating to each other those amazing words: +“Look at him! The ferocious brute! Oh, look at him!”</p> + +<p>Then, to my increased astonishment, I saw behind +the circles of the birds a number of other animals besides +the hare. At least five kinds of deer—the red, the fallow, +the roe, the common deer, whose name I’ve forgotten, +which one finds in Vancouver Island, and the South +African springbok, that swarm in from the Karoo at +certain seasons, among which I had that happy week +once in Namaqualand, shooting them from horseback +after a gallop to cut them off—very good eating as camp +fare goes, and making nice rugs if you sew their skins +together. There, too, was the hyena I missed, probably +not altogether; but he got off, to my chagrin—queer-looking +brute! Rabbits of course had come—hundreds +and hundreds of them. If—like everybody else—I’ve +done such a lot of it, I can’t honestly say I’ve ever cared +much for shooting rabbits, though the effect is neat +enough when you get them just right and they turn head +over heels—and anyway, the prolific little brutes have +to be kept down. There, too, actually was my wild +ostrich—the one I galloped so hard after, letting off my +Winchester at half a mile, only to see him vanish over the +horizon. Next him was the bear whose lair I came across +at the Nanaimo Lakes. How I did lurk about to get that +fellow! And, by Jove! close to him, two cougars. +I never got a shot at them, never even saw one of the +brutes all the time I was camping in Vancouver Island, +where they lie flat along the branches over your head, +waiting to get a chance at deer, sheep, dog, pig, or anything +handy. But they had come now sure enough, +glaring at me with their greenish cats’-eyes—powerful-looking +creatures! And next them sat a little meerkat—not<span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">[149]</span> +much larger than a weasel—without its head! Ah +yes!—that trial shot, as we trekked out from Rous’s farm, +and I wanted to try the little new rifle I had borrowed. +It was sitting over its hole fully seventy yards from the +wagon, quite unconscious of danger. I just took aim +and pulled; and there it was, without its head, fallen +across its hole. I remember well how pleased our +“boys” were. And I too! Not a bad little rifle, +that!</p> + +<p>Outside the ring of beasts I could see foxes moving, +not mixing with the stationary creatures, as if afraid +of suggesting that I had shot them, instead of being +present at their deaths in the proper fashion. One, +quite a cub, kept limping round on three legs—the one, +no doubt, whose pad was given me, out cubbing, as a +boy. I put that wretched pad in my hat-box, and forgot +it, so that I was compelled to throw the whole stinking +show away. There were quite a lot of grown foxes; +it certainly showed delicacy on their part, not sitting +down with the others. There was really a tremendous +crowd of creatures altogether by this time! I should +think every beast and bird I ever shot, or even had a chance +of killing, must have been there, and all whispering: +“Look at him! The ferocious brute! Oh, look at +him!”</p> + +<p>Animal lover, as every true sportsman is, those words +hurt me. If there is one thing on which we sportsmen +pride ourselves, and legitimately, it is a humane feeling +toward all furred and feathered creatures—and, as every one +knows, we are foremost in all efforts to diminish their +unnecessary sufferings.</p> + +<p>The corroboree about me which they were obviously +holding became, as I grew used to their manner of talking,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">[150]</span> +increasingly audible. But it was the quail’s words that +I first distinguished.</p> + +<p>“He certainly ate me,” he said; “said I was good, +too!”</p> + +<p>“I do not believe”—this was the first hare speaking—“that +he shot me for that reason; he did shoot me, and +I was jugged, but he wouldn’t touch me. And the same +day he shot eleven brace of partridges, didn’t he?” +Twenty-two partridges assented. “And he only ate +two of you all told—that proves he didn’t want us for +food.”</p> + +<p>The hare’s words had given me relief, for I somehow +disliked intensely the gluttonous notion conveyed by the +quail that I shot merely in order to devour the result. +Any one with the faintest instincts of a sportsman will +bear me out in this.</p> + +<p>When the hare had spoken there was a murmur all +round. I could not at first make out its significance, +till I heard one of the cougars say: “We kill only when +we want to eat”; and the bear, who, I noticed, was a +lady, added: “No bear kills anything she cannot +devour”; and, quite clear, I caught the quacking words +of a wild duck. “We eat every worm we catch, and we’d +eat more if we could get them.”</p> + +<p>Then again from the whole throng came that shivering +whisper: “Look at him! The ferocious brute! Oh, +look at him!”</p> + +<p>In spite of their numbers, they seemed afraid of me, +seemed actually to hold me in a kind of horror—me, an +animal lover, and without a gun! I felt it bitterly. +“How is it,” I thought, “that not one of them seems +to have an inkling of what it means to be a sportsman, not +one, of them seems to comprehend the instinct which<span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">[151]</span> +makes one love sport just for the—er—danger of it?” +The hare spoke again.</p> + +<p>“Foxes,” it murmured, “kill for the love of killing. +Man is a kind of fox.” A violent dissent at once rose +from the foxes, till of one them, who seemed the eldest, +said: “We certainly kill as much as we can, but we should +always carry it all off and eat it if man gave us time—the +ferocious brutes!” You cannot expect much of +foxes, but it struck me as especially foxy that he should +put the wanton character of his destructiveness off on +man, especially when he must have known how carefully +we preserve the fox, in the best interests of sport. A +pheasant ejaculated shrilly: “He killed sixty of us one +day to his own gun, and went off that same evening without +eating even a wing!” And again came that shivering +whisper: “Look at him! The ferocious brute! Oh, +look at him!” It was too absurd! As if they could +not realise that a sportsman shoots almost entirely for +the mouths of others! But I checked myself, remembering +that altruism is a purely human attribute. “They +get a big price for us!” said a woodcock, “especially if +they shoot us early. <i>I</i> fetched several shillings.” Really, +the ignorance of these birds! As if modern sportsmen +knew anything of what happens after a day’s shooting! +All that is left to the butler and the keeper. Beaters, +of course, and cartridges must be paid for, to say nothing +of the sin of waste. “I would not think them so much +worse than foxes,” said a rabbit, “if they didn’t often +hurt you, so that you take hours dying. I was seven +hours dying in great agony, and one of my brothers was +twelve. Weren’t you, brother?” A second rabbit +nodded. “But perhaps that’s better than trapping,” +he said. “Remember mother!” “Ah!” a partridge<span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">[152]</span> +muttered, “foxes at all events do bite your head off +clean. But men often break your wing, or your leg, +and leave you!” And again that shivering whisper +rose: “Look at him! The ferocious brute! Oh, look +at him!”</p> + +<p>By this time the whole thing was so getting on my +nerves that if I could have risen I should have rushed +at them, but a weight as of lead seemed to bind me +to the ground, and all I could do was to thank God +that they did not seem to know of my condition, for, +though there were no man-eaters among them, I could +not tell what they might do if they realised that I was +helpless—the sentiments of chivalry and generosity being +confined to man, as we all know.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said the capercailzie slowly, “I am a shy bird, +and was often shot at before this one got me; and though +I’m strong, my size is so against me that I always took a +pellet or two away with me; and what can you do then? +Those ferocious brutes take the shot out of their faces +and hands when they shoot each other by mistake—I’ve +seen them; but we have no chance to do that.” +A snipe said shrilly: “What I object to is that he doesn’t +eat us till he’s had too much already. I come in on toast +at the fifth course; it hurts one’s feelings.”</p> + +<p>“Ferocious brute, killing everything he sees.”</p> + +<p>I felt my blood fairly boil, and longed to cry out: +“You beasts! You know that we don’t kill everything +we see! We leave that to cockneys, and foreigners.” +But just as I had no power of movement, so I seemed to +have no power of speech. And suddenly a little voice, +high up over me, piped down: “They never shoot us +larks.” I have always loved the lark; how grateful I +felt to that little creature—till it added: “They do<span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">[153]</span> +worse; they take and shut us up in little traps of wire till +we pine away! Ferocious brutes!” In all my life I +think I never was more disappointed! The second +cougar spoke: “He once passed within spring of me. +What do you say, friends; shall we go for him?” +The shivering answer came from all: “Go for him! +Ferocious brute! Oh, go for him!” And I heard the +sound of hundreds of soft wings and pads ruffling and +shuffling. And, knowing that I had no power to move +an inch, I shut my eyes. Lying there motionless, as a +beetle that shams dead, I felt them creeping, creeping, +till all round me and over me was the sound of nostrils +sniffing; and every second I expected to feel the nip of +teeth and beaks in the fleshy parts of me. But nothing +came, and with an effort I reopened my eyes. There +they were, hideously close, with an expression on their +faces that I could not read; a sort of wry look, every +nose and beak turned a little to one side. And suddenly +I heard the old fox saying: “It’s impossible, with a +smell like that; we could never eat him!” From +every one of them came a sort of sniff or sneeze as of +disgust, and as they began to back away I distinctly +heard the hyena mutter: “He’s not wholesome—not +wholesome—the ferocious brute!”</p> + +<p>The relief of that moment was swamped by my natural +indignation that these impudent birds and beasts should +presume to think that I, a British sportsman, would +not be good to eat. Then that beastly hyena added: +“If we killed him, you know, and buried him for a few +days, he might be tolerable.”</p> + +<p>An old cock grouse called out at once: “Go back! +Let us hang him! <i>We</i> are always well hung. They +like us a little decayed—ferocious brutes! Go back!”<span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">[154]</span> +And once more I felt, from the stir and shuffle, that +my fate hung in the balance; and I shut my eyes again, +lest they might be tempted to begin on them. Then, +to my infinite relief, I heard the cougar—have we not +always been told that they were the friends of man?—mutter: +“Pah! It’s clear we could never eat him +fresh, and what we do not eat at once we do not touch!”</p> + +<p>All the birds cried out in chorus: “No! That would +be crow’s work.” And again I felt that I was saved. +Then, to my horror, that infernal loon shrieked: “Kill +him and have him stuffed—specimen of Ferocious +Brute! Or fix his skin on a tree, and look at it—as he +did with me!”</p> + +<p>For a full minute I could feel the currents of opinion +swaying over me, at this infamous proposal; then the +old black-cock, the one whose tail is in my wife’s hat, +said sharply: “Specimen! He’s not good enough!” +And once more, for all my indignation at that gratuitous +insult, I breathed freely.</p> + +<p>“Come!” said the lady bear quietly: “Let us +dribble on him a little, and go. The ferocious brute +is not worth more!” And, during what seemed to me +an eternity, one by one they came up, deposited on me +a little saliva, looking into my eyes the while with a +sort of horror and contempt, then vanished on the +moor. The last to come up was the little meerkat +without its head. It stood there; it could neither +look at me nor drop saliva, but somehow it contrived +to say: “I forgive you, ferocious brute; but I was very +happy!” Then it, too, withdrew. And from all +around, out of invisible presences in the air and the +heather, came once more the shivering whisper: “Look +at him! The ferocious brute! Oh, look at him!”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">[155]</span>I sat up. There was a trilling sound in my ears. +Above me in the blue a curlew was passing, uttering +its cry. Ah! Thank Heaven!—I had been asleep! +My day-dream had been caused by the potted grouse, +and the pressure of the <i>Review</i>, which had lain, face +downwards, on my chest, open at the page where I had +been reading about the man-eating lions, and the death +of those ferocious brutes. It shows what tricks of +disproportion little things will play with the mind when +it is not under reasonable control.</p> + +<p>And, to get the unwholesome taste of it all out of +my mouth, I at once jumped up and started for home +at a round pace.</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">[156]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">GROTESQUES<br> + +Κυνηδόν</h2> +</div> + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p><span class="smcap">The</span> Angel Æthereal, on his official visit to the Earth +in 1947, paused between the Bank and the Stock Exchange +to smoke a cigarette and scrutinise the passers-by.</p> + +<p>“How they swarm,” he said, “and with what seeming +energy—in such an atmosphere! Of what can they +be made?”</p> + +<p>“Of money, sir,” replied his dragoman; “in the +past, the present, or the future. Stocks are booming. +The barometer of joy stands very high. Nothing like +it has been known for thirty years; not, indeed, since +the days of the Great Skirmish.”</p> + +<p>“There is, then, a connection between joy and +money?” remarked the Angel, letting smoke dribble +through his chiselled nostrils.</p> + +<p>“Such is the common belief; though to prove it +might take time. I will, however, endeavour to do +this if you desire it, sir.”</p> + +<p>“I certainly do,” said the Angel; “for a less joyous-looking +crowd I have seldom seen. Between every pair +of brows there is a furrow, and no one whistles.”</p> + +<p>“You do not understand,” returned his dragoman; +“nor indeed is it surprising, for it is not so much the +money as the thought that some day you need no longer +make it which causes joy.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">[157]</span>“If that day is coming to all,” asked the Angel, “why +do they not look joyful?”</p> + +<p>“It is not so simple as that, sir. To the majority +of these persons that day will never come, and many +of them know it—these are called clerks; to some +amongst the others, even, it will not come—these will +be called bankrupts; to the rest it will come, and they +will live at Wimblehurst and other islands of the blessed, +when they have become so accustomed to making money +that to cease making it will be equivalent to boredom, +if not torture, or when they are so old that they can +but spend it in trying to modify the disabilities of age.”</p> + +<p>“What price joy, then?” said the Angel, raising +his eyebrows. “For that, I fancy, is the expression +you use?”</p> + +<p>“I perceive, sir,” answered his dragoman, “that +you have not yet regained your understanding of the +human being, and especially of the breed which inhabits +this country. Illusion is what we are after. Without +our illusions we might just as well be angels or Frenchmen, +who pursue at all events to some extent the sordid reality +known as ‘<i>le plaisir</i>,’ or enjoyment of life. In pursuit +of illusion we go on making money and furrows in our +brows, for the process is wearing. I speak, of course, +of the bourgeoisie or Patriotic classes; for the practice +of the Laborious is different, though their illusions are +the same.”</p> + +<p>“How?” asked the Angel briefly.</p> + +<p>“Why, sir, both hold the illusion that they will one +day be joyful through the possession of money; but +whereas the Patriotic expect to make it through the +labour of the Laborious, the Laborious expect to make +it through the labour of the Patriotic.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">[158]</span>“Ha, ha!” said the Angel.</p> + +<p>“Angels may laugh,” replied his dragoman, “but +it is a matter to make men weep.”</p> + +<p>“You know your own business best,” said the Angel, +“I suppose.”</p> + +<p>“Ah! sir, if we did, how pleasant it would be. It +is frequently my fate to study the countenances and +figures of the population, and I find the joy which the +pursuit of illusion brings them is insufficient to counteract +the confined, monotonous, and worried character of +their lives.”</p> + +<p>“They are certainly very plain,” said the Angel.</p> + +<p>“They are,” sighed his dragoman, “and getting +plainer every day. Take for instance that one,” and +he pointed to a gentleman going up the steps. “Mark +how he is built. The top of his grizzled head is narrow, +the bottom of it broad. His body is short and thick +and square; his legs even thicker, and his feet turn +out too much; the general effect is almost pyramidal. +Again, take this one,” and he indicated a gentleman +coming down the steps, “you could thread his legs +and body through a needle’s eye, but his head would +defy you. Mark his boiled eyes, his flashing spectacles, +and the absence of all hair. Disproportion, sir, has +become endemic.”</p> + +<p>“Can this not be corrected?” asked the Angel.</p> + +<p>“To correct a thing,” answered his dragoman, “you +must first be aware of it, and these are not; no more +than they are aware that it is disproportionate to spend +six days out of every seven in a counting-house or factory. +Man, sir, is the creature of habit, and when his habits +are bad, man is worse.”</p> + +<p>“I have a headache,” said the Angel; “the noise<span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">[159]</span> +is more deafening than it was when I was here in +1910.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, sir; since then we have had the Great Skirmish, +an event which furiously intensified money-making. +We, like every other people, have ever since been obliged +to cultivate the art of getting five out of two-and-two. +The progress of civilisation has been considerably +speeded-up thereby, and everything but man has benefited; +even horses, for they are no longer overloaded +and overdriven up Tower Hill or any other.”</p> + +<p>“How is that,” asked the Angel, “if the pressure +of work is greater?”</p> + +<p>“Because they are extinct,” said his dragoman; +“entirely superseded by electric and air traction, as +you see.”</p> + +<p>“You appear to be inimical to money,” the Angel +interjected, with a penetrating look. “Tell me, would +you really rather own one shilling than five and sixpence?”</p> + +<p>“Sir,” replied his dragoman, “you are putting the +candidate before the caucus, as the saying is. For +money is nothing but the power to purchase what one +wants. You should rather be inquiring what I want.”</p> + +<p>“Well, what do you?” said the Angel.</p> + +<p>“To my thinking,” answered his dragoman, “instead +of endeavouring to increase money when we found +ourselves so very bankrupt, we should have endeavoured +to decrease our wants. The path of real progress, sir, +is the simplification of life and desire till we have dispensed +even with trousers and wear a single clean garment +reaching to the knees; till we are content with exercising +our own limbs on the solid earth; the eating of simple +food we have grown ourselves; the hearing of our own +voices, and tunes on oaten straws; the feel on our faces<span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">[160]</span> +of the sun and rain and wind; the scent of the fields +and woods; the homely roof, and the comely wife +unspoiled by heels, pearls, and powder; the domestic +animals at play, wild birds singing, and children brought +up to colder water than their fathers. It should have +been our business to pursue health till we no longer +needed the interior of the chemist’s shop, the optician’s +store, the hairdresser’s, the corset-maker’s, the thousand-and-one +emporiums which patch and prink us, promoting +our fancies and disguising the ravages which modern +life makes in our figures. Our ambition should have +been to need so little that, with our present scientific +knowledge, we should have been able to produce it very +easily and quickly, and have had abundant leisure and +sound nerves and bodies wherewith to enjoy nature, +art, and the domestic affections. The tragedy of man, +sir, is his senseless and insatiate curiosity and greed, +together with his incurable habit of neglecting the present +for the sake of a future which will never come.”</p> + +<p>“You speak like a book,” said the Angel.</p> + +<p>“I wish I did,” retorted his dragoman, “for no book +I am able to procure enjoins us to stop this riot, and betake +ourselves to the pleasurable simplicity which alone can +save us.”</p> + +<p>“You would be bored stiff in a week,” said the +Angel.</p> + +<p>“We should, sir,” replied his dragoman, “because +from our schooldays we are brought up to be acquisitive, +competitive, and restless. Consider the baby in the +perambulator, absorbed in contemplating the heavens +and sucking its own thumb. Existence, sir, should be +like that.”</p> + +<p>“A beautiful metaphor,” said the Angel.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">[161]</span>“As it is, we do but skip upon the hearse of life.”</p> + +<p>“You would appear to be of those whose motto is: +‘Try never to leave things as you find them,’” observed +the Angel.</p> + +<p>“Ah, sir!” responded his dragoman, with a sad +smile, “the part of a dragoman is rather ever to try +and find things where he leaves them.”</p> + +<p>“Talking of that,” said the Angel dreamily, “when +I was here in 1910, I bought some Marconis for the +rise. What are they at now?”</p> + +<p>“I cannot tell you,” replied his dragoman in a deprecating +voice, “but this I will say: Inventors are not only +the benefactors but the curses of mankind, and will be +so long as we do not find a way of adapting their discoveries +to our very limited digestive powers. The +chronic dyspepsia of our civilisation, due to the attempt +to swallow every pabulum which ingenuity puts before +it, is so violent that I sometimes wonder whether we shall +survive until your visit in 1984.”</p> + +<p>“Ah!” said the Angel, pricking his ears; “you +really think there is a chance?”</p> + +<p>“I do indeed,” his dragoman answered gloomily. +“Life is now one long telephone call—and what’s it +all about? A tour in darkness! A rattling of wheels +under a sky of smoke! A never-ending game of poker!”</p> + +<p>“Confess,” said the Angel, “that you have eaten +something which has not agreed with you?”</p> + +<p>“It is so,” answered his dragoman; “I have eaten +of modernity, the damnedest dish that was ever set to +lips. Look at those fellows,” he went on, “busy as +ants from nine o’clock in the morning to seven in the +evening. And look at their wives!”</p> + +<p>“Ah! yes,” said the Angel cheerily; “let us look<span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">[162]</span> +at their wives,” and with three strokes of his wings he +passed to Oxford Street.</p> + +<p>“Look at them!” repeated his dragoman, “busy +as ants from ten o’clock in the morning to five in the +evening.”</p> + +<p>“Plain is not the word for <i>them</i>,” said the Angel +sadly. “What are they after, running in and out of +these shop-holes?”</p> + +<p>“Illusion, sir. The romance of business there, the +romance of commerce here. They have got into these +habits and, as you know, it is so much easier to get in +than to get out. Would you like to see one of their +homes?”</p> + +<p>“No, no,” said the Angel, starting back and coming +into contact with a lady’s hat. “Why do they have +them so large?” he asked, with a certain irritation.</p> + +<p>“In order that they may have them small next season,” +replied his dragoman. “The future, sir; the future! +The cycle of beauty and eternal hope, and, incidentally, +<i>the good of trade</i>. Grasp that phrase and you will have +no need for further inquiry, and probably no inclination.”</p> + +<p>“One could get American sweets in here, I guess,” +said the Angel, entering.</p> + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p>“And where would you wish to go to-day, sir?” +asked his dragoman of the Angel, who was moving his +head from side to side like a dromedary, in the Haymarket.</p> + +<p>“I should like,” the Angel answered, “to go into +the country.”</p> + +<p>“The country!” returned his dragoman, doubtfully. +“You will find very little to see there.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">[163]</span>“Natheless,” said the Angel, spreading his wings.</p> + +<p>“These,” gasped his dragoman, after a few breathless +minutes, “are the Chilterns—they will serve; any part +of the country is now the same. Shall we descend?”</p> + +<p>Alighting on what seemed to be a common, he removed +the cloud moisture from his brow, and shading his eyes +with his hand, stood peering into the distance on every +side. “As I thought,” he said; “there has been no +movement since I brought the Prime here in 1944; we +shall have some difficulty in getting lunch.”</p> + +<p>“A wonderfully peaceful spot,” said the Angel.</p> + +<p>“True,” said his dragoman. “We might fly sixty +miles in any direction and not see a house in repair.”</p> + +<p>“Let us!” said the Angel. They flew a hundred +and alighted again.</p> + +<p>“Same here!” said his dragoman. “This is Leicestershire. +Note the rolling landscape of wild pastures.”</p> + +<p>“I am getting hungry,” said the Angel. “Let us +fly again.”</p> + +<p>“I have told you, sir,” remarked his dragoman, +while they were flying, “that we shall have the greatest +difficulty in finding any inhabited dwelling in the country. +Had we not better alight at Blackton or Bradleeds?”</p> + +<p>“No,” said the Angel. “I have come for a day in +the fresh air.”</p> + +<p>“Would bilberries serve?” asked his dragoman; +“for I see a man gathering them.”</p> + +<p>The Angel closed his wings, and they dropped on to +a moor close to an aged man.</p> + +<p>“My worthy wight,” said the Angel, “we are hungry. +Would you give us some of your bilberries?”</p> + +<p>“Wot oh!” ejaculated the ancient party; “never +’eard yer comin’. Been flyin’ by wireless, ’ave yer?<span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">[164]</span> +Got an observer, I see,” he added, jerking his grizzled +chin at the dragoman. “Strike me, it’s the good old +dyes o’ the Gryte Skirmish over agyne.”</p> + +<p>“Is this,” asked the Angel, whose mouth was already +black with bilberries, “the dialect of rural England?”</p> + +<p>“I will interrogate him, sir,” said his dragoman, +“for in truth I am at a loss to account for the presence +of a man in the country.” He took the old person by +his last button and led him a little apart. Returning +to the Angel, who had finished the bilberries, he +whispered:</p> + +<p>“It is as I thought. This is the sole survivor of the +soldiers settled on the land at the conclusion of the +Great Skirmish. He lives on berries and birds who +have died a natural death.”</p> + +<p>“I fail to understand,” answered the Angel. “Where +is all the rural population, where the mansions of the +great, the thriving farmer, the contented peasant, the +labourer about to have his minimum wage, the Old, +the Merrie England of 1910?”</p> + +<p>“That,” responded his dragoman somewhat dramatically, +extending his hand towards the old man, “<i>that</i> +is the rural population, and he a cockney hardened in +the Great Skirmish, or he could never have stayed the +course.”</p> + +<p>“What!” said the Angel; “is no food grown in +all this land?”</p> + +<p>“Not a cabbage,” replied his dragoman; “not a +mustard and cress—outside the towns, that is.”</p> + +<p>“I perceive,” said the Angel, “that I have lost touch +with much that is of interest. Give me, I pray, a brief +sketch of the agricultural movement.”</p> + +<p>“Why, sir,” replied his dragoman, “the agricultural<span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">[165]</span> +movement in this country since the days of the Great +Skirmish, when all were talking of resettling the land, +may be summed up in two words: ‘Town expansion.’ +In order to make this clear to you, however, I must +remind you of the political currents of the past thirty +years. You will not recollect that during the Great +Skirmish, beneath the seeming absence of politics, there +were germinating the Parties of the future. A secret +but resolute intention was forming in all minds to immolate +those who had played any part in politics before and +during the important world-tragedy which was then +being enacted, especially such as continued to hold +portfolios, or persisted in asking questions in the House +of Commons, as it was then called. It was not that +people held them to be responsible, but nerves required +soothing, and there is no anodyne, as you know, sir, +equal to human sacrifice. The politician was, as one +may say—‘off.’ No sooner, of course, was peace declared +than the first real General Election was held, and it was +with a certain chagrin that the old Parties found themselves +in the soup. The Parties which had been forming +beneath the surface swept the country: one called itself +the Patriotic, and was called by its opponents the +Prussian Party; the other called itself the Laborious, +and was called by its opponents the Loafing Party. Their +representatives were nearly all new men. In the first +flush of peace, with which the human mind ever associates +plenty, they came out on such an even keel that no +Government could pass anything at all. Since, however, +it was imperative to find the interest on a National +Debt of £8,000,000,000, a further election was needed. +This time, though the word Peace remained, the word +Plenty had already vanished; and the Laborious Party,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">[166]</span> +which, having much less to tax, felt that it could tax +more freely, found itself in an overwhelming majority. +You will be curious to hear, sir, of what elements this +Party was composed. Its solid bulk were the returned +soldiers, and the other manual workers of the country; +but to this main body there was added a rump, of pundits, +men of excellent intentions, brains, and principles, +such as in old days had been known as Radicals and +advanced Liberals. These had joined out of despair, +feeling that otherwise their very existence was jeopardised. +To this collocation—and to one or two other circumstances, +as you will presently see, sir—the doom of the +land must be traced. Now, the Laborious Party, apart +from its rump, on which it would or could not sit—we +shall never know now—had views about the resettlement +of the land not far divergent from those held by the +Patriotic Party, and they proceeded to put a scheme into +operation, which, for perhaps a year, seemed to have +a prospect of success. Many returned soldiers were +established in favourable localities, and there was even a +disposition to place the country on a self-sufficing basis +in regard to food. But they had not been in power +eighteen months when their rump—which, as I have +told you, contained nearly all their principles—had a +severe attack of these. ‘Free Trade,’—which, say what +you will, follows the line of least resistance and is based +on the ‘good of trade’—was, they perceived, endangered, +and they began to agitate against bonuses on corn and +preferential treatment of a pampered industry. The +bonus on corn was in consequence rescinded in 1924, +and in lieu thereof the system of small holdings was +extended—on paper. At the same time the somewhat +stunning taxation which had been placed upon the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">[167]</span> +wealthy began to cause the break-up of landed estates. +As the general bankruptcy and exhaustion of Europe +became more and more apparent the notion of danger +from future war began to seem increasingly remote, +and the ‘good of trade’ became again the one object +before every British eye. Food from overseas was +cheapening once more. The inevitable occurred. +Country mansions became a drug in the market, farmers +farmed at a loss; small holders went bust daily, and +emigrated; agricultural labourers sought the towns. +In 1926 the Laborious Party, who had carried the taxation +of their opponents to a pitch beyond the power of +human endurance, got what the racy call ‘the knock,’ +and the four years which followed witnessed the bitterest +internecine struggle within the memory of every journalist. +In the course of this strife emigration increased +and the land emptied rapidly. The final victory of the +Laborious Party, in 1930, saw them, still propelled by +their rump, committed, among other things, to a pure +town policy. They have never been out of power since; +the result you see. Food is now entirely brought from +overseas, largely by submarine and air service, in tabloid +form, and expanded to its original proportions on arrival +by an ingenious process discovered by a German. The +country is now used only as a subject for sentimental +poets, and to fly over, or by lovers on bicycles at +week-ends.”</p> + +<p>“<i>Mon Dieu!</i>” said the Angel thoughtfully: “To +me, indeed, it seems that this must have been a case +of: ‘Oh! What a surprise!’”</p> + +<p>“You are not mistaken, sir,” replied his dragoman; +“people still open their mouths over this consummation. +It is pre-eminently an instance of what will happen<span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">[168]</span> +sometimes when you are not looking, even to the English, +who have been most fortunate in this respect. For you +must remember that all Parties, even the Pundits, have +always declared that rural life and all that, don’t you know? +is most necessary, and have ever asserted that they were +fostering it to the utmost. But they forgot to remember +that our circumstances, traditions, education, and vested +interests so favoured town life and the ‘good of trade’ +that it required a real and unparliamentary effort not +to take that line of least resistance. In fact, we have +here a very good example of what I told you the other +day was our most striking characteristic—never knowing +where we are till after the event. But what with fog +and principles, how can you expect we should? Better +be a little town blighter with no constitution and high +political principles, than your mere healthy country +product of a pampered industry. But you have not yet +seen the other side of the moon.”</p> + +<p>“To what do you refer?” asked the Angel.</p> + +<p>“Why, sir, to the glorious expansion of the towns. +To this I shall introduce you to-morrow, if such be your +pleasure.”</p> + +<p>“Is London, then, not a town?” asked the Angel +playfully.</p> + +<p>“London?” cried his dragoman; “a mere pleasure +village. To which real town shall I take you? Liverchester?”</p> + +<p>“Anywhere,” said the Angel, “where I can get a +good dinner.” So saying, he paid the rural population +with a smile and spread his wings.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">[169]</span></p> + +<h3>III</h3> + +<p>“The night is yet young,” said the Angel Æthereal +on leaving the White Heart Hostel at Liverchester, +“and I have had perhaps too much to eat. Let us walk +and see the town.”</p> + +<p>“As you will, sir,” replied his dragoman; “there +is no difference between night and day, now that they +are using the tides for the provision of electric power.”</p> + +<p>The Angel took a note of the fact. “What do they +manufacture here?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“The entire town,” returned his dragoman, “which +now extends from the old Liverpool to the old Manchester +(as indeed its name implies), is occupied with expanding +the tabloids of food which are landed in its port from the +new worlds. This and the town of Brister, reaching +from the old Bristol to the old Gloucester, have had the +monopoly of food expansion for the United Kingdom +since 1940.”</p> + +<p>“By what means precisely?” asked the Angel.</p> + +<p>“Congenial environment and bacteriology,” responded +his dragoman. They walked for some time in silence, +flying a little now and then in the dirtier streets, before +the Angel spoke again:</p> + +<p>“It is curious,” he said, “but I perceive no difference +between this town and those I remember on my visit +in 1910, save that the streets are better lighted, which +is not an unmixed joy, for they are dirty and full of +people whose faces do not please me.”</p> + +<p>“Ah! sir,” replied his dragoman, “it is too much +to expect that the wonderful darkness which prevailed +at the time of the Great Skirmish could endure; then, +indeed, one could indulge the hope that the houses were<span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">[170]</span> +all built by Wren, and the people all clean and beautiful. +There is no poetry now.”</p> + +<p>“No!” said the Angel, sniffing, “but there is atmosphere, +and it is not agreeable.”</p> + +<p>“Mankind, when herded together, <i>will</i> smell,” answered +his dragoman. “You cannot avoid it. What with old +clothes, patchouli, petrol, fried fish and the fag, those +five essentials of human life, the atmosphere of Turner +and Corot are as nothing.”</p> + +<p>“But do you not run your towns to please yourselves?” +said the Angel.</p> + +<p>“Oh, no, sir! The resistance would be dreadful. +They run us. You see, they are so very big, and have +such prestige. Besides,” he added, “even if we dared, +we should not know how. For, though some great +and good man once brought us plane-trees, we English +are above getting the best out of life and its conditions, +and despise light Frenchified taste. Notice the principle +which governs this twenty-mile residential stretch. +It was intended to be light, but how earnest it has all +turned out! You can tell at a glance that these dwellings +belong to the species ‘house’ and yet are individual +houses, just as a man belongs to the species ‘man,’ and yet, +as they say, has a soul of his own. This principle was +introduced off the Avenue Road a few years before +the Great Skirmish, and is now universal. Any person +who lives in a house identical with another house is not +known. Has anything heavier and more conscientious +ever been seen?”</p> + +<p>“Does this principle also apply to the houses of the +working-man?” inquired the Angel.</p> + +<p>“Hush, sir!” returned his dragoman looking round +him nervously; “a dangerous word. The <span class="smcap">Laborious<span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">[171]</span></span> +dwell in palaces built after the design of an architect +called Jerry, with communal kitchens and baths.”</p> + +<p>“Do they use them?” asked the Angel with some +interest.</p> + +<p>“Not as yet, indeed,” replied his dragoman; “but +I believe they are thinking of it. As you know, sir, it +takes time to introduce a custom. Thirty years is but +as yesterday.”</p> + +<p>“The Japanese wash daily,” mused the Angel.</p> + +<p>“Not a Christian nation,” replied his dragoman; +“nor have they the dirt to contend with which is conspicuous +here. Let us do justice to the discouragement +which dogs the ablutions of such as know they will +soon be dirty again. It was confidently supposed, +at the time of the Great Skirmish, which introduced +military discipline and so entirely abolished caste, that +the habit of washing would at last become endemic +throughout the whole population. Judge how surprised +were we of that day when the facts turned out otherwise. +Instead of the Laborious washing more, the Patriotic +washed less. It may have been the higher price of soap, +or merely that human life was not very highly regarded +at the time. We cannot tell. But not until military +discipline disappeared, and caste was restored, which +happened the moment peace returned, did the survivors +of the Patriotic begin to wash immoderately again, +leaving the Laborious to preserve a level more suited to +democracy.”</p> + +<p>“Talking of levels,” said the Angel; “is the populace +increasing in stature?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, no, indeed!” responded his dragoman; “the +latest statistics give a diminution of one inch and a half +during the past generation.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">[172]</span>“And in longevity?” asked the Angel.</p> + +<p>“As to that, babies and old people are now communally +treated, and all those diseases which are +curable by lymph are well in hand.”</p> + +<p>“Do people, then, not die?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes, sir! About as often as before. There are +new complaints which redress the balance.”</p> + +<p>“And what are those?”</p> + +<p>“A group of diseases called for convenience Scienticitis. +Some think they come from the present food system; +others from the accumulation of lymphs in the body; +others, again, regard them as the result of dwelling on +the subject—a kind of hypnotisation by death; a fourth +school hold them traceable to town air; while a fifth +consider them a mere manifestation of jealousy on the +part of Nature. They date, one may say with confidence, +from the time of the Great Skirmish, when men’s minds +were turned with some anxiety to the question of statistics, +and babies were at a premium.”</p> + +<p>“Is the population, then, much larger?”</p> + +<p>“You mean smaller, sir, do you not? Not perhaps +so much smaller as you might expect; but it is still +nicely down. You see, the Patriotic Party, including +even those Pontificals whose private practice most discouraged +all that sort of thing, began at once to urge +propagation. But their propaganda was, as one may say, +brain-spun; and at once bumped-up—pardon the +colloquialism—against the economic situation. The +existing babies, it is true, were saved; the trouble was +rather that the babies began not to exist. The same, of +course, obtained in every European country, with the +exception of what was still, in a manner of speaking, +Russia; and if that country had but retained its homogeneity,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">[173]</span> +it would soon by sheer numbers have swamped +the rest of Europe. Fortunately, perhaps, it did not +remain homogeneous. An incurable reluctance to make +food for cannon and impose further burdens on selves +already weighted to the ground by taxes, developed +in the peoples of each Central and Western land; and +in the years from 1920 to 1930 the downward curve +was so alarming in Great Britain that if the Patriotic +Party could only have kept office long enough at a +time they would, no doubt, have enforced conception +at the point of the bayonet. Luckily or unluckily, +according to taste, they did not; and it was left for +more natural causes to produce the inevitable reaction +which began to set in after 1930, when the population +of the United Kingdom had been reduced to some +twenty-five millions. About that time commerce revived. +The question of the land had been settled by its unconscious +abandonment, and people began to see before them +again the possibility of supporting families. The ingrained +disposition of men and women to own pets, together with +‘the good of trade,’ began once more to have its way; +and the population rose rapidly. A renewed joy in life, +and the assurance of not having to pay the piper, caused +the slums, as they used to be called, to swarm once more, +and filled the communal crèches. And had it not been +for the fact that any one with physical strength, or love +of fresh air, promptly emigrated to the Sister Nations +on attaining the age of eighteen we might now, sir, be +witnessing an overcrowding equal to that of the times +before the Great Skirmish. The movement is receiving +an added impetus with the approach of the Greater +Skirmish between the Teutons and Mongolians, for it +is expected that trade will boom and much wealth accrue<span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">[174]</span> +to those countries which are privileged to look on with +equanimity at this great new drama, as the editors are +already calling it.”</p> + +<p>“In all this,” said the Angel Æthereal, “I perceive +something rather sordid.”</p> + +<p>“Sir,” replied his dragoman earnestly, “your remark +is characteristic of the sky, where people are not made of +flesh and blood; pay, I believe, no taxes; and have no +experience of the devastating consequences of war. I +recollect so well when I was a young man, before the +Great Skirmish began, and even when it had been going +on several years, how glibly the leaders of opinion talked +of human progress, and how blind they were to the fact +that it has a certain connection with environment. You +must remember that ever since that large and, as some +still think rather tragic, occurrence environment has +been very dicky and Utopia not unrelated to thin air. +It has been perceived time and again that the leaders of +public opinion are not always confirmed by events. +The new world, which was so sapiently prophesied by +rhetoricians, is now nigh thirty years old, and, for my +part, I confess to surprise that it is not worse than it +actually is. I am moralising, I fear, however, for these +suburban buildings grievously encourage the philosophic +habit. Rather let us barge along and see the Laborious +at their labours, which are never interrupted now by the +mere accident of night.”</p> + +<p>The Angel increased his speed till they alighted amid +a forest of tall chimneys, whose sirens were singing like +a watch of nightingales.</p> + +<p>“There is a shift on,” said the dragoman. “Stand +here, sir; we shall see them passing in and out.”</p> + +<p>The Laborious were not hurrying, and went by uttering<span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">[175]</span> +the words: “Cheer oh!” “So long!” and “Wot +abaht it!”</p> + +<p>The Angel contemplated them for a time before he +said: “It comes back to me now how they used to +talk when they were doing up my flat on my visit in 1910.”</p> + +<p>“Give me, I pray, an imitation,” said his dragoman.</p> + +<p>The Angel struck the attitude of one painting a door. +“William,” he said, rendering those voices of the past, +“what money are you obtaining?”</p> + +<p>“Not half, Alfred.”</p> + +<p>“If that is so, indeed, William, should you not rather +leave your tools and obtain better money? I myself +am doing this.”</p> + +<p>“Not half, Alfred.”</p> + +<p>“Round the corner I can obtain more money by +working for fewer hours. In my opinion there is no +use in working for less money when you can obtain more. +How much does Henry obtain?”</p> + +<p>“Not half, Alfred.”</p> + +<p>“What I am now obtaining is, in my opinion, no use +at all.”</p> + +<p>“Not half, Alfred.”</p> + +<p>Here the Angel paused, and let his hand move for +one second in a masterly exhibition of activity.</p> + +<p>“It is doubtful, sir,” said his dragoman, “whether +you would be permitted to dilute your conversation +with so much labour in these days; the rules are very +strict.”</p> + +<p>“Are there, then, still Trades Unions?” asked the +Angel.</p> + +<p>“No, indeed,” replied his dragoman; “but there +are Committees. That habit which grew up at the +time of the Great Skirmish has flourished ever since.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">[176]</span> +Statistics reveal the fact that there are practically no +adults in the country between the ages of nineteen and +fifty who are not sitting on Committees. At the time +of the Great Skirmish all Committees were nominally +active; they are now both active and passive. In every +industry, enterprise, or walk of life a small active Committee +directs; and a large passive Committee, formed of everybody +else, resists that direction. And it is safe to say +that the Passive Committees are active and the Active +Committees passive; in this way no inordinate amount of +work is done. Indeed, if the tongue and the electric +button had not usurped practically all the functions of the +human hand, the State would have some difficulty in +getting its boots blacked. But a ha’poth of visualisation +is worth three lectures at ten shillings the stall, so enter, +sir, and see for yourself.”</p> + +<p>Saying this, he pushed open the door.</p> + +<p>In a shed, which extended beyond the illimitable +range of the Angel’s eye, machinery and tongues were +engaged in a contest which filled the ozone with an +incomparable hum. Men and women in profusion +were leaning against walls or the pillars on which the +great roof was supported, assiduously pressing buttons. +The scent of expanding food revived the Angel’s appetite.</p> + +<p>“I shall require supper,” he said dreamily.</p> + +<p>“By all means, sir,” replied his dragoman; “after +work—play. It will afford you an opportunity to witness +modern pleasures in our great industrial centres. But +what a blessing is electric power!” he added. “Consider +these lilies of the town, they toil not, neither do +they spin——”</p> + +<p>“Yet Solomon in all his glory,” chipped in the Angel +eagerly, “had not their appearance, you bet.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">[177]</span>“Indeed they are an insouciant crowd,” mused his +dragoman; “How tinkling is their laughter! The +habit dates from the days of the Great Skirmish, when +nothing but laughter would meet the case.”</p> + +<p>“Tell me,” said the Angel, “are the English satisfied +at last with their industrial conditions, and generally with +their mode of life in these expanded towns?”</p> + +<p>“Satisfied? Oh dear, no, sir! But you know what +it is: They are obliged to wait for each fresh development +before they can see what they have to counteract; and, +since that great creative force, ‘the good of trade,’ is +always a little stronger than the forces of criticism and +reform, each development carries them a little further +on the road to——”</p> + +<p>“Hell! How hungry I am again!” exclaimed the +Angel. “Let us sup!”</p> + +<h3>IV</h3> + +<p>“Laughter,” said the Angel Æthereal, applying his +wineglass to his nose, “has ever distinguished mankind +from all other animals with the exception of the dog. +And the power of laughing at nothing distinguishes man +even from that quadruped.”</p> + +<p>“I would go further, sir,” returned his dragoman, +“and say that the power of laughing at that which +should make him sick distinguishes the Englishman from +all other varieties of man except the negro. Kindly +observe!” He rose, and taking the Angel by the waist, +fox-trotted him among the little tables.</p> + +<p>“See!” he said, indicating the other supper-takers +with a circular movement of his beard, “they are consumed +with laughter. The habit of fox-trotting in the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">[178]</span> +intervals of eating has been known ever since it was +introduced by Americans a generation ago, at the beginning +of the Great Skirmish, when that important people had +as yet nothing else to do; but it still causes laughter +in this country. A distressing custom,” he wheezed, as +they resumed their seats, “for not only does it disturb +the oyster, but it compels one to think lightly of the +human species. Not that one requires much compulsion,” +he added, “now that music-hall, cinema, and restaurant +are conjoined. What a happy idea it was of Berlin’s, and +how excellent for business! Kindly glance for a moment—but +not more—at the left-hand stage.”</p> + +<p>The Angel turned his eyes towards a cinematograph +film which was being displayed. He contemplated it +for the moment without speaking.</p> + +<p>“I do not comprehend,” he said at last, “why the +person with the arrested moustaches is hitting so many +people with that sack of flour.”</p> + +<p>“To cause amusement, sir,” replied his dragoman. +“Look at the laughing faces around you.”</p> + +<p>“But it is not funny,” said the Angel.</p> + +<p>“No, indeed,” returned his dragoman. “Be so good +as to carry your eyes now to the stage on the right, but +not for long. What do you see?”</p> + +<p>“I see a very red-nosed man beating a very white-nosed +man about the body.”</p> + +<p>“It is a real scream, is it not?”</p> + +<p>“No,” said the Angel drily. “Does nothing else +ever happen on these stages?”</p> + +<p>“Nothing. Stay! <i>Revues</i> happen!”</p> + +<p>“What are <i>revues</i>?” asked the Angel.</p> + +<p>“Criticisms of life, sir, as it would be seen by persons +inebriated on various intoxicants.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">[179]</span>“They should be joyous.”</p> + +<p>“They are accounted so,” his dragoman replied; “but +for my part, I prefer to criticise life for myself, especially +when I am drunk.”</p> + +<p>“Are there no plays, no operas?” asked the Angel +from behind his glass.</p> + +<p>“Not in the old and proper sense of these words. +They disappeared towards the end of the Great +Skirmish.”</p> + +<p>“What food for the mind is there, then?” asked the +Angel, adding an oyster to his collection.</p> + +<p>“None in public, sir, for it is well recognised, and +has been ever since those days, that laughter alone promotes +business and removes the thought of death. You +cannot recall, as I can, sir, the continual stream which +used to issue from theatres, music-halls, and picture-palaces +in the days of the Great Skirmish, nor the joviality +of the Strand and the more expensive restaurants. I +have often thought,” he added with a touch of philosophy, +“what a height of civilisation we must have reached to +go jesting, as we did, to the Great Unknown.”</p> + +<p>“Is that really what the English did at the time of the +Great Skirmish?” asked the Angel.</p> + +<p>“It is,” replied his dragoman solemnly.</p> + +<p>“Then they are a very fine people, and I can put up +with much about them which seems to me distressing.”</p> + +<p>“Ah! sir, though, being an Englishman, I am sometimes +inclined to disparage the English, I am yet convinced +that you could not fly a week’s journey and come across +another race with such a peculiar nobility, or such an +unconquerable soul, if you will forgive my using a word +whose meaning is much disputed. May I tempt you +with a clam?” he added more lightly. “We now have<span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">[180]</span> +them from America—in fair preservation, and very nasty +they are, in my opinion.”</p> + +<p>The Angel took a clam.</p> + +<p>“My Lord!” he said, after a moment of deglutition.</p> + +<p>“Quite so!” replied his dragoman. “But kindly +glance at the right-hand stage again. There is a <i>revue</i> +on now. What do you see?”</p> + +<p>The Angel made two holes with his forefingers and +thumbs and, putting them to his eyes, bent a little +forward.</p> + +<p>“Tut, tut!” he said; “I see some attractive young +females with very few clothes on, walking up and down +in front of what seem to me, indeed, to be two grown-up +men in collars and jackets as of little boys. What precise +criticism of life is this conveying?”</p> + +<p>His dragoman answered in reproachful accents:</p> + +<p>“Do you not feel, sir, from your own sensations, +how marvellously this informs one of the secret passions +of mankind? Is there not in it a striking revelation +of the natural tendencies of the male population? Remark +how the whole audience, including your august +self, is leaning forward and looking through their thumb-holes?”</p> + +<p>The Angel sat back hurriedly.</p> + +<p>“True,” he said, “I was carried away. But that is +not the criticism of life which art demands. If it had +been, the audience, myself included, would have been +sitting back with their lips curled dry, instead of watering.”</p> + +<p>“For all that,” replied his dragoman, “it is the best +we can give you; anything which induces the detached +mood of which you spoke, has been banned from the +stage since the days of the Great Skirmish; it is so very +bad for business.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">[181]</span>“Pity!” said the Angel, imperceptibly edging forward; +“the mission of art is to elevate.”</p> + +<p>“It is plain, sir,” said his dragoman, “that you have +lost touch with the world as it is. The mission of art—now +truly democratic—is to level—in principle up, in +practice down. Do not forget, sir, that the English +have ever regarded æstheticism as unmanly, and grace as +immoral; when to that basic principle you add the principle +of serving the taste of the majority, you have perfect +conditions for a sure and gradual decrescendo.”</p> + +<p>“Does taste, then, no longer exist?” asked the Angel.</p> + +<p>“It is not wholly, as yet, extinct, but lingers in the +communal kitchens and canteens, as introduced by the +Young Men’s Christian Association in the days of the +Great Skirmish. While there is appetite there is hope, +nor is it wholly discouraging that taste should now centre +in the stomach; for is not that the real centre of man’s +activity? Who dare affirm that from so universal a +foundation the fair structure of æstheticism shall not be +rebuilt? The eye, accustomed to the look of dainty +dishes and pleasant cookery, may once more demand the +architecture of Wren, the sculpture of Rodin, the paintings +of—dear me—whom? Why, sir, even before the +days of the Great Skirmish, when you were last on earth, +we had already begun to put the future of æstheticism +on a more real basis, and were converting the concert-halls +of London into hotels. Few at the time saw the +far-reaching significance of that movement, or realised +that æstheticism was to be levelled down to the stomach, +in order that it might be levelled up again to the head, +on true democratic principles.”</p> + +<p>“But what,” said the Angel, with one of his preternatural +flashes of acumen, “what if, on the other hand,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">[182]</span> +taste should continue to sink and lose even its present +hold on the stomach? If all else has gone, why should +not the beauty of the kitchen go?”</p> + +<p>“That indeed,” sighed his dragoman, placing his hand +on his heart, “is a thought which often gives me a sinking +sensation. Two liqueur brandies,” he murmured to +the waiter. “But the stout heart refuses to despair. +Besides, advertisements show decided traces of æsthetic +advance. All the great painters, poets, and fiction writers +are working on them; the movement had its origin in +the propaganda demanded by the Great Skirmish. You +will not recollect the war poetry of that period, the +patriotic films, the death cartoons, and other remarkable +achievements. We have just as great talents now, though +their object has not perhaps the religious singleness of +those stirring times. Not a food, corset, or collar which +has not its artist working for it! Toothbrushes, nut-crackers, +babies’ baths—the whole caboodle of manufacture—are +now set to music. Such themes are considered +subliminal if not sublime. No, sir, I will not +despair; it is only at moments when I have dined poorly +that the horizon seems dark. Listen—they have turned +on the ‘Kalophone,’ for you must know that all music +now is beautifully made by machine—so much easier for +every one.”</p> + +<p>The Angel raised his head, and into his eyes came the +glow associated with celestial strains.</p> + +<p>“The tune,” he said, “is familiar to me.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, sir,” answered his dragoman, “for it is <i>The +Messiah</i> in ragtime. No time is wasted, you notice; +all, even pleasure, is intensively cultivated, on the lines +of least resistance, thanks to the feverishness engendered +in us by the Great Skirmish, when no one knew if he<span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">[183]</span> +would have another chance, and to the subsequent need +for fostering industry. But whether we really enjoy +ourselves is perhaps a question to answer which you must +examine the English character.”</p> + +<p>“That I refuse to do,” said the Angel.</p> + +<p>“And you are wise, sir, for it is a puzzler, and many +have cracked their heads over it. But have we not +been here long enough? We can pursue our researches +into the higher realms of art to-morrow.”</p> + +<p>A beam from the Angel’s lustrous eyes fell on a lady at +the next table. “Yes, perhaps we had better go,” he +sighed.</p> + +<h3>V</h3> + +<p>“And so it is through the fields of true art that we +shall walk this morning?” said the Angel Æthereal.</p> + +<p>“Such as they are in this year of Peace 1947,” responded +his dragoman, arresting him before a statue; “for the +development of this hobby has been peculiar since you +were here in 1910, when the childlike and contortionist +movement was just beginning to take hold of the +British.”</p> + +<p>“Whom does this represent?” asked the Angel.</p> + +<p>“A celebrated publicist, recently deceased at a great +age. You see him unfolded by this work of multiform +genius, in every aspect known to art, religion, nature, +and the population. From his knees downwards he is +clearly devoted to nature, and is portrayed as about to +enter his bath. From his waist to his knees he is devoted +to religion—mark the complete disappearance of the +human aspect. From his neck to his waist he is devoted +to public affairs; observe the tweed coat, the watch-chain,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">[184]</span> +and other signs of practical sobriety. But the +head is, after all, the crown of the human being, and is +devoted to art. This is why you cannot make out that it +is a head. Note its pyramidal severity, its cunning little +ears, its box-built, water-tightal structure. The hair +you note to be in flames. Here we have the touch of +beauty—the burning shrub. In the whole you will +observe that aversion from natural form and the single +point of view, characteristic of all twentieth-century +æsthetics. The whole thing is a very great masterpiece +of childlike contortionism. To do things as irresponsibly +as children and contortionists—what a happy discovery +of the line of least resistance in art that was! Mark, by +the way, this exquisite touch about the left hand.”</p> + +<p>“It appears to be deformed,” said the Angel, going +a step nearer.</p> + +<p>“Look closer still,” returned his dragoman, “and +you will see that it is holding a novel of the great Russian, +upside down. Ever since that simple master who so +happily blended the childlike with the contortionist +became known in this country they have been trying +to go him one better, in letters, in painting, in sculpture, +and in music, refusing to admit that he was the last +cry; and until they have beaten him this movement +simply cannot cease; it may therefore go on for ever, +for he was the limit. That hand symbolises the whole +movement.”</p> + +<p>“How?” said the Angel.</p> + +<p>“Why, sir, somersault is its mainspring. Did you +never observe the great Russian’s method? Prepare +your characters to do one thing, and make them very +swiftly do the opposite. Thus did that terrific novelist +demonstrate his overmastering range of vision and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">[185]</span> +knowledge of the depths of human nature. Since his +characters never varied this routine in the course of some +eight thousand pages, people have lightly said that he +repeated himself. But what of that? Consider what +perfect dissociation he thereby attained between character +and action; what nebulosity of fact; what a truly childlike +and mystic mix-up of all human values hitherto +known! And here, sir, at the risk of tickling you, I +must whisper.” The dragoman made a trumpet of his +hand: “Fiction can only be written by those who have +exceptionally little knowledge of ordinary human nature, +and great fiction only by such as have none at all.”</p> + +<p>“How is that?” said the Angel, somewhat disconcerted.</p> + +<p>“Surprise, sir, is the very kernel of all effects in art, +and in real life people <i>will</i> act as their characters and +temperaments determine that they shall. This dreadful +and unmalleable trait would have upset all the great +mystic masters from generation to generation if they had +only noticed it. But did they? Fortunately not. +These greater men naturally put into their books the +greater confusion and flux in which their extraordinary +selves exist! The nature they portray is not human, but +super- or subter-human, which you will. Who would +have it otherwise?”</p> + +<p>“Not I,” said the Angel. “For I confess to a liking +for what is called the ‘tuppence coloured.’ But Russians +are not as other men, are they?”</p> + +<p>“They are not,” said his dragoman, “but the trouble +is, sir, that since the British discovered him, every +character in our greater fiction has a Russian soul, though +living in Cornwall or the Midlands, in a British body +under a Scottish or English name.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">[186]</span>“Very piquant,” said the Angel, turning from the +masterpiece before him. “Are there no undraped +statues to be seen?”</p> + +<p>“In no recognisable form. For, not being educated +to the detached contemplation which still prevailed to +a limited extent even as late as the days of the Great +Skirmish, the populace can no longer be trusted with +such works of art; they are liable to rush at them, for +embrace, or demolition, as their temperaments may +dictate.”</p> + +<p>“The Greeks are dead, then,” said the Angel.</p> + +<p>“As door-nails, sir. They regarded life as a thing +to be enjoyed—a vice you will not have noticed in the +British. The Greeks were an outdoor people, who lived +in the sun and the fresh air, and had none of the niceness +bred by the life of our towns. We have long been renowned +for our delicacy about the body; nor has the +tendency been decreased by constituting Watch Committees +of young persons in every borough. These are +now the arbiters of art, and nothing unsuitable to the +child of seven passes their censorship.”</p> + +<p>“How careful!” said the Angel.</p> + +<p>“The result has been wonderful,” remarked his dragoman. +“Wonderful!” he repeated, dreamily. “I suppose +there is more smouldering sexual desire and disease +in this country than in any other.”</p> + +<p>“Was that the intention?” asked the Angel.</p> + +<p>“Oh! no, sir! That is but the natural effect of so +remarkably pure a surface. All is within instead of without. +Nature has now wholly disappeared. The process +was sped-up by the Great Skirmish. For, since then, +we have had little leisure and income to spare on the +gratification of anything but laughter; this and the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">[187]</span> +‘unco guid’ have made our art-surface glare in the +eyes of the nations, thin and spotless as if made of +tin.”</p> + +<p>The Angel raised his eyebrows. “I had hoped for +better things,” he said.</p> + +<p>“You must not suppose, sir,” pursued his dragoman, +“that there is not plenty of the undraped, so long as +it is vulgar, as you saw just now upon the stage, for +that is good business; the line is only drawn at the +danger-point of art, which is always very bad business +in this country. Yet even in real life the undraped +has to be grotesque to be admitted; the one fatal quality +is natural beauty. The laugh, sir, the laugh—even the +most hideous and vulgar laugh—is such a disinfectant. +I should, however, say in justice to our literary men, +that they have not altogether succumbed to the demand +for cachinnations. A school, which first drew breath +before the Great Skirmish began, has perfected itself, +till now we have whole tomes where hardly a sentence +would be intelligible to any save the initiate; this enables +them to defy the Watch Committees, with other Philistines. +We have writers who mysteriously preach the +realisation of self by never considering anybody else; of +purity through experience of exotic vice; of courage +through habitual cowardice; and of kindness through +Prussian behaviour. They are generally young. We +have others whose fiction consists of autobiography +interspersed with philosophic and political fluencies. +These may be of any age from eighty odd to the bitter +thirties. We have also the copious and chatty novelist; +and transcribers of the life of the Laborious, whom +the Laborious never read. Above all, we have the great +Patriotic school, who put the national motto first, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">[188]</span> +write purely what is good for trade. In fact, we have +every sort, as in the old days.”</p> + +<p>“It would appear,” said the Angel, “that the arts have +stood somewhat still.”</p> + +<p>“Except for a more external purity, and a higher +internal corruption,” replied his dragoman.</p> + +<p>“Are artists still noted for their jealousies?” asked +the Angel.</p> + +<p>“They are, sir; for that is inherent in the artistic +temperament, which is extremely touchy about +fame.”</p> + +<p>“And do they still get angry when those gentlemen—the——”</p> + +<p>“Critics,” his dragoman suggested. “They get +angry, sir; but critics are usually anonymous, and from +excellent reasons; for not only are the passions of an +angry artist very high, but the knowledge of an angry +critic is not infrequently very low, especially of art. It +is kinder to save life, where possible.”</p> + +<p>“For my part,” said the Angel, “I have little regard +for human life, and consider that many persons would be +better buried.”</p> + +<p>“That may be,” his dragoman retorted with some +irritation; “‘<i>errare est humanum</i>.’ But I, for one, +would rather be a dead human being any day than a live +angel, for I think they are more charitable.”</p> + +<p>“Well,” said the Angel genially, “you have the +prejudice of your kind. Have you an artist about the +place, to show me? I do not recollect any at Madame +Tussaud’s.”</p> + +<p>“They have taken to declining that honour. We +could see one in real life if we went to Cornwall.”</p> + +<p>“Why Cornwall?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">[189]</span>“I cannot tell you, sir. There is something in the +air which affects their passions.”</p> + +<p>“I am hungry, and would rather go to the Savoy,” +said the Angel, walking on.</p> + +<p>“You are in luck,” whispered his dragoman, when +they had seated themselves at a table covered with +prawns; “for at the next on your left is our most famous +exponent of the mosaic school of novelism.”</p> + +<p>“Then here goes!” replied the Angel. And, turning +to his neighbour, he asked pleasantly: “How do you do, +sir? What is your income?”</p> + +<p>The gentleman addressed looked up from his prawn, +and replied wearily: “Ask my agent. He may conceivably +possess the knowledge you require.”</p> + +<p>“Answer me this, at all events,” said the Angel, with +more dignity, if possible: “How do you write your +books? For it must be wonderful to summon around +you every day the creatures of your imagination. Do +you wait for afflatus?”</p> + +<p>“No,” said the author; “er—no! I—er——” he +added weightily, “sit down every morning.”</p> + +<p>The Angel rolled his eyes and, turning to his dragoman, +said in a well-bred whisper: “He sits down every +morning! My Lord, how good for trade!”</p> + +<h3>VI</h3> + +<p>“A glass of sherry, dry, and ham sandwich, stale, can +be obtained here, sir,” said the dragoman; “and for +dessert, the scent of parchment and bananas. We will +then attend Court 45, where I shall show you how +fundamentally our legal procedure has changed in the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">[190]</span> +generation that has elapsed since the days of the Great +Skirmish.”</p> + +<p>“Can it really be that the Law has changed? I had +thought it immutable,” said the Angel, causing his +teeth to meet with difficulty: “What will be the nature +of the suit to which we shall listen?”</p> + +<p>“I have thought it best, sir, to select a divorce case, +lest you should sleep, overcome by the ozone and eloquence +in these places.”</p> + +<p>“Ah!” said the Angel: “I am ready.”</p> + +<p>The Court was crowded, and they took their seats +with difficulty, and a lady sitting on the Angel’s left +wing.</p> + +<p>“The public <i>will</i> frequent this class of case,” whispered +his dragoman. “How different when you were +here in 1910!”</p> + +<p>The Angel collected himself: “Tell me,” he murmured, +“which of the grey-haired ones is the judge?”</p> + +<p>“He in the bag-wig, sir,” returned his dragoman; +“and that little lot is the jury,” he added, indicating +twelve gentlemen seated in two rows.</p> + +<p>“What is their private life?” asked the Angel.</p> + +<p>“No better than it should be, perhaps,” responded +his dragoman facetiously; “but no one can tell that from +their words and manner, as you will presently see. These +are special ones,” he added, “and pay income tax, so +that their judgment in matters of morality is of considerable +value.”</p> + +<p>“They have wise faces,” said the Angel. “Which is +the prosecutor?”</p> + +<p>“No, no!” his dragoman answered, vividly: “This +is a civil case. That is the plaintiff with a little mourning +about her eyes and a touch of red about her lips, in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">[191]</span> +the black hat with the aigrette, the pearls, and the fashionably +sober clothes.”</p> + +<p>“I see her,” said the Angel: “an attractive woman. +Will she win?”</p> + +<p>“We do not call it winning, sir; for this, as you must +know, is a sad matter, and implies the breaking-up of a +home. She will most unwillingly receive a decree, at +least, I think so,” he added; “though whether it will +stand the scrutiny of the King’s Proctor we may wonder +a little, from her appearance.”</p> + +<p>“King’s Proctor?” said the Angel. “What is that?”</p> + +<p>“A celestial Die-hard, sir, paid to join together again +those whom man have put asunder.”</p> + +<p>“I do not follow,” said the Angel fretfully.</p> + +<p>“I perceive,” whispered his dragoman, “that I +must make clear to you the spirit which animates our +justice in these matters. You know, of course, that +the intention of our law is ever to penalise the wrongdoer. +It therefore requires the innocent party, like +that lady there, to be exceptionally innocent, not only +before she secures her divorce, but for six months +afterwards.”</p> + +<p>“Oh!” said the Angel. “And where is the guilty +party?”</p> + +<p>“Probably in the south of France,” returned his +dragoman, “with the new partner of his affections. +They have a place in the sun; this one a place in the +Law Courts.”</p> + +<p>“Dear me!” said the Angel. “Does she prefer +that?”</p> + +<p>“There are ladies,” his dragoman replied, “who +find it a pleasure to appear, no matter where, so long +as people can see them in a pretty hat. But the great<span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">[192]</span> +majority would rather sink into the earth than do this +thing.”</p> + +<p>“The face of this one is most agreeable to me; I should +not wish her to sink,” said the Angel warmly.</p> + +<p>“Agreeable or not,” resumed his dragoman, “they +have to bring their hearts for inspection by the public +if they wish to become free from the party who has done +them wrong. This is necessary, for the penalisation of +the wrongdoer.”</p> + +<p>“And how will he be penalised?” asked the Angel +naïvely.</p> + +<p>“By receiving his freedom,” returned his dragoman, +“together with the power to enjoy himself with his +new partner, in the sun, until in due course, he is able +to marry her.”</p> + +<p>“This is mysterious to me,” murmured the Angel. +“Is not the boot on the wrong leg?”</p> + +<p>“Oh! sir, the law would not make a mistake like +that. You are bringing a single mind to the consideration +of this matter, but that will never do. This lady is +a true and much-wronged wife; that is—let us hope so!—to +whom our law has given its protection and remedy; +but she is also, in its eyes, somewhat reprehensible for +desiring to avail herself of that protection and remedy. +For, though the law is now purely the affair of the State +and has nothing to do with the Appointed, it still secretly +believes in the religious maxim: ‘Once married, always +married,’ and feels that however much a married person +is neglected or ill-treated, she should not desire to be +free.”</p> + +<p>“She?” said the Angel. “Does a man never desire +to be free?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes! sir, and not infrequently.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">[193]</span>“Does the law, then, not consider him reprehensible +in that desire?”</p> + +<p>“In theory, perhaps; but there is a subtle distinction. +For, sir, as you observe from the countenances before +you, the law is administered entirely by males, and males +cannot but believe in the divine right of males to have a +better time than females; and, though they do not say +so, they naturally feel that a husband wronged by a wife +is more injured than a wife wronged by a husband.”</p> + +<p>“There is much in that,” said the Angel. “But +tell me how the oracle is worked—for it may come in +handy!”</p> + +<p>“You allude, sir, to the necessary procedure? I +will make this clear. There are two kinds of cases: what +I may call the ‘O.K.’ and what I may call the ‘rig.’ +Now in the ‘O.K.’ it is only necessary for the plaintiff, +if it be a woman, to receive a black eye from her husband +and to pay detectives to find out that he has been too +closely in the company of another; if it be a man, he +need not receive a black eye from his wife, and has +merely to pay the detectives to obtain the same necessary +information.”</p> + +<p>“Why this difference between the sexes?” asked the +Angel.</p> + +<p>“Because,” answered his dragoman, “woman is the +weaker sex, things are therefore harder for her.”</p> + +<p>“But,” said the Angel, “the English have a reputation +for chivalry.”</p> + +<p>“They have, sir.”</p> + +<p>“Well——” began the Angel.</p> + +<p>“When these conditions are complied with,” interrupted +his dragoman, “a suit for divorce may be brought, +which may or may not be defended. Now, the ‘rig,’<span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">[194]</span> +which is always brought by the wife, is not so simple, +for it must be subdivided into two sections: ‘Ye straight +rig’ and ‘Ye crooked rig.’ ‘Ye straight rig’ is where +the wife cannot induce her husband to remain with her, +and discovering from him that he has been in the close +company of another, wishes to be free of him. She +therefore tells the Court that she wishes him to come +back to her, and the Court will tell him to go back. +Whereupon, if he obey, the fat is sometimes in the fire. +If, however, he obeys not, which is the more probable, +she may, after a short delay, bring a suit, adducing the +evidence she has obtained, and receive a decree. This +may be the case before you, or, on the other hand, it may +not, and will then be what is called ‘Ye crooked rig.’ +If that is so, these two persons, having found that they +cannot live in conjugal friendliness, have laid their heads +together for the last time, and arranged to part; the +procedure will now be the same as in ‘Ye straight rig.’ +But the wife must take the greatest care to lead the +Court to suppose that she really wishes her husband to +come back; for, if she does not, it is collusion. The +more ardent her desire to part from him, the more care +she must take to pretend the opposite! But this sort of +case is, after all, the simplest, for both parties are in +complete accord in desiring to be free of each other, so +neither does anything to retard that end, which is soon +obtained.”</p> + +<p>“About that evidence?” said the Angel. “What +must the man do?”</p> + +<p>“He will require to go to an hotel with a lady friend,” +replied his dragoman; “once will be enough. And, +provided they are called in the morning, there is no real +necessity for anything else.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">[195]</span>“H’m!” said the Angel. “This, indeed, seems +to me to be all around about the bush. Could there +not be some simple method which would not necessitate +the perversion of the truth?”</p> + +<p>“Ah, no!” responded his dragoman. “You forget +what I told you, sir. However unhappy people may be +together, our law grudges their separation; it requires +them therefore to be immoral, or to lie, or both, before +they can part.”</p> + +<p>“Curious!” said the Angel.</p> + +<p>“You must understand, sir, that when a man says +he will take a woman, and a woman says she will take +a man, for the rest of their natural existence, they are +assumed to know all about each other, though not permitted, +of course, by the laws of morality to know anything +of real importance. Since it is almost impossible +from a modest acquaintanceship to make sure whether +they will continue to desire each other’s company after +a completed knowledge, they are naturally disposed to +go it ‘blind,’ if I may be pardoned the expression, and +will take each other for ever on the smallest provocations. +For the human being, sir, makes nothing of the words +‘for ever,’ when it sees immediate happiness before +it. You can well understand, therefore, how necessary +it is to make it very hard for them to get untied +again.”</p> + +<p>“I should dislike living with a wife if I were tired of +her,” said the Angel.</p> + +<p>“Sir,” returned his dragoman confidentially, “in +that sentiment you would have with you the whole +male population. And, I believe, the whole of the +female population would feel the same if they were tired +of you, as the husband.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">[196]</span>“That!” said the Angel, with a quiet smile.</p> + +<p>“Ah! yes, sir; but does not this convince you of the +necessity to force people who are tired of each other to +go on living together?”</p> + +<p>“No,” said the Angel, with appalling frankness.</p> + +<p>“Well,” his dragoman replied soberly, “I must admit +that some have thought our marriage laws should be in +a museum, for they are unique; and, though a source of +amusement to the public, and emolument to the profession, +they pass the comprehension of men and angels +who have not the key of the mystery.”</p> + +<p>“What key?” asked the Angel.</p> + +<p>“I will give it you, sir,” said his dragoman: “The +English have a genius for taking the shadow of a thing +for its substance. ‘So long,’ they say, ‘as our marriages, +our virtue, our honesty, and happiness <i>seem</i> to be, they +<i>are</i>.’ So long, therefore, as we do not dissolve a marriage +it remains virtuous, honest and happy, though the parties +to it may be unfaithful, untruthful, and in misery. It +would be regarded as awful, sir, for marriage to depend +on mutual liking. We English cannot bear the thought +of defeat. To dissolve an unhappy marriage is to recognise +defeat by life, and we would rather that other people +lived in wretchedness all their days than admit that +members of our race had come up against something too +hard to overcome. The English do not care about +making the best out of this life in reality so long as they +can do it in appearance.”</p> + +<p>“Then they believe in a future life?”</p> + +<p>“They did to some considerable extent up to the +’eighties of the last century, and their laws and customs +were no doubt settled in accordance therewith, and have +not yet had time to adapt themselves. We are a somewhat<span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">[197]</span> +slow-moving people, always a generation or two +behind our real beliefs.”</p> + +<p>“They have lost their belief, then?”</p> + +<p>“It is difficult to arrive at figures, sir, on such a question. +But it has been estimated that perhaps one in ten adults +now has some semblance of what may be called active +belief in a future existence.”</p> + +<p>“And the rest are prepared to let their lives be arranged +in accordance with the belief of that tenth?” asked the +Angel, surprised. “Tell me, do they think their matrimonial +differences will be adjusted over there, or what?”</p> + +<p>“As to that, all is cloudy; and certain matters would +be difficult to adjust without bigamy; for general opinion +and the law permit the remarriage of persons whose first +has gone before.”</p> + +<p>“How about children?” said the Angel; “for that +is no inconsiderable item, I imagine.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, sir, they are a difficulty. But here, again, my +key will fit. So long as the marriage <i>seems</i> real, it does +not matter that the children know it isn’t and suffer +from the disharmony of their parents.”</p> + +<p>“I think,” said the Angel acutely, “there must be +some more earthly reason for the condition of your +marriage laws than those you give me. It’s all a matter +of property at bottom, I suspect.”</p> + +<p>“Sir,” said his dragoman, seemingly much struck, +“I should not be surprised if you were right. There +is little interest in divorce where no money is involved, +and our poor are considered able to do without it. But +I will never admit that this is the reason for the state of +our divorce laws. No, no; I am an Englishman.”</p> + +<p>“Well,” said the Angel, “we are wandering. Does +this judge believe what they are now saying to him?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">[198]</span>“It is impossible to inform you, for judges are very +deep and know all that is to be known on these matters. +But of this you may be certain: if anything is fishy to +the average apprehension, he will not suffer it to pass +his nose.”</p> + +<p>“Where is the average apprehension?” asked the +Angel.</p> + +<p>“There, sir,” said his dragoman, pointing to the +jury with his chin, “noted for their common sense.”</p> + +<p>“And these others with grey heads who are calling +each other friend, though they appear to be inimical?”</p> + +<p>“Little can be hid from them,” returned his dragoman; +“but this case, though defended as to certain +matters of money, is not disputed in regard to the divorce +itself. Moreover, they are bound by professional etiquette +to serve their clients through thin and thick.”</p> + +<p>“Cease!” said the Angel; “I wish to hear this +evidence, and so does the lady on my left wing.”</p> + +<p>His dragoman smiled in his beard, and made no +answer.</p> + +<p>“Tell me,” remarked the Angel, when he had listened, +“does this woman get anything for saying she called them +in the morning?”</p> + +<p>“Fie, sir!” responded his dragoman; “only her +expenses to the Court and back. Though indeed, it +is possible that after she had called them, she got half +a sovereign from the defendant to impress the matter +on her mind, seeing that she calls many people every +day.”</p> + +<p>“The whole matter,” said the Angel, with a frown, +“appears to be in the nature of a game; nor are the details +as savoury as I expected.”</p> + +<p>“It would be otherwise if the case were defended,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">[199]</span> +sir,” returned his dragoman; “then, too, you would +have had an opportunity of understanding the capacity +of the human mind for seeing the same incident to be +both black and white; but it would take much of your +valuable time, and the Court would be so crowded that +you would have a lady sitting on your right wing also, +and possibly on your knee. For, as you observe, ladies +are particularly attached to these dramas of real life.”</p> + +<p>“If my wife were a wrong one,” said the Angel, “I +suppose that, according to your law, I could not sew her +up in a sack and place it in the water?”</p> + +<p>“We are not now in the days of the Great Skirmish,” +replied his dragoman somewhat coldly. “At that +time any soldier who found his wife unfaithful, as we +call it, could shoot her with impunity and receive the +plaudits and possibly a presentation from the populace, +though he himself may not have been impeccable while +away—a masterly method of securing a divorce. But, +as I told you, our procedure has changed since then; +and even soldiers now have to go to work in this roundabout +fashion.”</p> + +<p>“Can he not shoot the paramour?” asked the Angel.</p> + +<p>“Not even that,” answered his dragoman. “So +soft and degenerate are the days. Though, if he can +invent for the paramour a German name, he will still +receive but a nominal sentence. Our law is renowned +for never being swayed by sentimental reasons. I well +recollect a case in the days of the Great Skirmish, when a +jury found contrary to the plainest facts sooner than allow +that reputation for impartiality to be tarnished.”</p> + +<p>“Ah!” said the Angel absently; “what is happening +now?”</p> + +<p>“The jury are considering their verdict. The conclusion<span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">[200]</span> +is, however, foregone, for they are not retiring. +The plaintiff is now using her smelling salts.”</p> + +<p>“She is a fine woman,” said the Angel emphatically.</p> + +<p>“Hush, sir! The judge might hear you.”</p> + +<p>“What if he does?” asked the Angel in surprise.</p> + +<p>“He would then eject you for contempt of Court.”</p> + +<p>“Does he not think her a fine woman, too?”</p> + +<p>“For the love of justice, sir, be silent,” entreated his +dragoman. “This concerns the happiness of three, if +not of five, lives. Look! She is lifting her veil; she is +going to use her handkerchief.”</p> + +<p>“I cannot bear to see a woman cry,” said the Angel, +trying to rise; “please take this lady off my left wing.”</p> + +<p>“Kindly sit tight!” murmured his dragoman to the +lady, leaning across behind the Angel’s back. “Listen, +sir!” he added to the Angel: “The jury are satisfied +that what is necessary has taken place. All is well; she +will get her decree.”</p> + +<p>“Hurrah!” said the Angel in a loud voice.</p> + +<p>“If that noise is repeated, I will have the Court +cleared.”</p> + +<p>“I am going to repeat it,” said the Angel firmly; “she +is beautiful!”</p> + +<p>His dragoman placed a hand respectfully over the +Angel’s mouth. “Oh, sir!” he said soothingly, “do +not spoil this charming moment. Hark! He is giving +her a decree <i>nisi</i>, with costs. To-morrow it will be in +all the papers, for it helps to sell them. See! She is +withdrawing; we can now go.” And he disengaged the +Angel’s wing.</p> + +<p>The Angel rose quickly and made his way towards the +door. “I am going to walk out with her,” he announced +joyously.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">[201]</span>“I beseech you,” said his dragoman, hurrying beside +him, “remember the King’s Proctor! Where is your +chivalry? For <i>he</i> has none, sir—not a little bit!”</p> + +<p>“Bring him to me; I will give it him!” said the Angel, +kissing the tips of his fingers to the plaintiff, who was +vanishing in the gloom of the fresh air.</p> + +<h3>VII</h3> + +<p>In the Strangers’ room of the Strangers’ Club the +usual solitude was reigning when the Angel Æthereal +entered.</p> + +<p>“You will be quiet here,” said his dragoman, drawing +up two leather chairs to the hearth, “and comfortable,” +he added, as the Angel crossed his legs. “After our +recent experience, I thought it better to bring you where +your mind would be composed, since we have to consider +so important a subject as morality. There is no place, +indeed, where we could be so completely sheltered from +life, or so free to evolve from our inner consciousness the +momentous conclusions of the armchair moralist. When +you have had your sneeze,” he added, glancing at the +Angel, who was taking snuff, “I shall make known to +you the conclusions I have formed in the course of a +chequered career.”</p> + +<p>“Before you do that,” said the Angel, “it would +perhaps be as well to limit the sphere of our inquiry.”</p> + +<p>“As to that,” remarked his dragoman, “I shall confine +my information to the morals of the English since the +opening of the Great Skirmish, in 1914, just a short +generation of three and thirty years ago; and you will +find my theme readily falls, sir, into the two main<span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">[202]</span> +compartments of public and private morality. When I +have finished you can ask me any questions.”</p> + +<p>“Proceed!” said the Angel, letting his eyelids droop.</p> + +<p>“Public morality,” his dragoman began, “is either +superlative, comparative, positive, or negative. And +superlative morality is found, of course, only in the +newspapers. It is the special prerogative of leader +writers. Its note, remote and unchallengeable, was +well struck by almost every organ at the commencement +of the Great Skirmish, and may be summed up +in a single solemn phrase: ‘We will sacrifice on the +altar of duty the last life and the last dollar—except +the last life and dollar of the last leader-writer.’ For, +as all must see, that one had to be preserved, to ensure +and comment on the consummation of the sacrifice. +What loftier morality can be conceived? And it has +ever been a grief to the multitude that the lives of those +patriots and benefactors of their species should, through +modesty, have been unrevealed to such as pant to copy +them. Here and there the lineaments of a tip-topper were +discernible beneath the disguise of custom; but what +fair existences were screened! I may tell you at once, +sir, that the State was so much struck at the time of the +Great Skirmish by this doctrine of the utter sacrifice of +others that it almost immediately adopted the idea, and +has struggled to retain it ever since. Indeed, only the +unaccountable reluctance of ‘others’ to be utterly +sacrificed has ensured their perpetuity.”</p> + +<p>“In 1910,” said the Angel, “I happened to notice +that the Prussians had already perfected that system. +Yet it was against the Prussians that this country +fought?”</p> + +<p>“That is so,” returned his dragoman; “there were<span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">[203]</span> +many who drew attention to the fact. And at the conclusion +of the Great Skirmish the reaction was such that +for a long moment even the leader-writers wavered in +their selfless doctrines; nor could continuity be secured +till the Laborious Party came solidly to the saddle in +1930. Since then the principle has been firm but the +practice has been firmer, and public morality has never +been altogether superlative. Let us pass to comparative +public morality. In the days of the Great Skirmish this +was practised by those with names, who told others what +to do. This large and capable body included all the +preachers, publicists, and politicians of the day, and in +many cases there is even evidence that they would have +been willing to practise what they preached if their age +had not been so venerable or their directive power so +invaluable.”</p> + +<p>“<i>In</i>-valuable,” murmured the Angel; “has that +word a negative signification?”</p> + +<p>“Not in all cases,” said his dragoman with a smile; +“there were men whom it would have been difficult to +replace, though not many, and those perhaps the least +comparatively moral. In this category, too, were undoubtedly +the persons known as conchies.”</p> + +<p>“From conch, a shell?” asked the Angel.</p> + +<p>“Not precisely,” returned his dragoman; “and yet +you have hit it, sir, for into their shells they certainly +withdrew, refusing to have anything to do with this +wicked world. Sufficient unto them was the voice +within. They were not well treated by an unfeeling +populace.”</p> + +<p>“This is interesting to me,” said the Angel. “To what +did they object?”</p> + +<p>“To war,” replied his dragoman. “‘What is it<span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">[204]</span> +to us,’ they said, ‘that there should be barbarians like +these Prussians, who override the laws of justice and +humanity?’—words, sir, very much in vogue in those +days. ‘How can it effect our principles if these rude +foreigners have not our views, and are prepared, by +cutting off the food supplies of this island, to starve us +into submission to their rule? Rather than turn a deaf +ear to the voice within we are prepared for general starvation; +whether we are prepared for the starvation of our +individual selves we cannot, of course, say until we experience +it. But we hope for the best, and believe that we +shall go through with it to death, in the undesired company +of all who do not agree with us.’ And it is certain, +sir, that some of them were capable of this; for there +is, as you know, a type of man who will die rather than +admit that his views are too extreme to keep himself and +his fellow-men alive.”</p> + +<p>“How entertaining!” said the Angel. “Do such +persons still exist?”</p> + +<p>“Oh! yes,” replied the dragoman; “and always +will. Nor is it, in my opinion, altogether to the disadvantage +of mankind, for they afford a salutary warning +to the human species not to isolate itself in fancy from the +realities of existence and extinguish human life before its +time has come. We shall now consider the positively +moral. At the time of the Great Skirmish these were +such as took no sugar in their tea and invested all they had +in War Stock at five per cent. without waiting for what +were called Premium Bonds to be issued. They were a +large and healthy group, more immediately concerned with +commerce than the war. But the largest body of all +were the negatively moral. These were they who did +what they crudely called ‘their bit,’ which I may tell<span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">[205]</span> +you, sir, was often very bitter. I myself was a ship’s +steward at the time, and frequently swallowed much +salt water, owing to the submarines. But I was not to be +deterred, and would sign on again when it had been +pumped out of me. Our morality was purely negative, +if not actually low. We acted, as it were, from instinct, +and often wondered at the sublime sacrifices which were +being made by our betters. Most of us were killed or +injured in one way or another; but a blind and obstinate +mania for not giving in possessed us. We were a simple +lot.” The dragoman paused and fixed his eyes on the +empty hearth. “I will not disguise from you,” he added +“that we were fed-up nearly all the time; and yet—we +couldn’t stop. Odd, was it not?”</p> + +<p>“I wish I had been with you,” said the Angel, “for—to +use that word without which you English seem unable +to express anything—you were heroes.”</p> + +<p>“Sir,” said his dragoman, “you flatter us by such +encomium. We were, I fear, dismally lacking in commercial +spirit, just men and women in the street having +neither time nor inclination to examine our conduct and +motives, nor to question or direct the conduct of others. +Purely negative beings, with perhaps a touch of human +courage and human kindliness in us. All this, however, is +a tale of long ago. You can now ask me any questions, +sir, before I pass to private morality.”</p> + +<p>“You allude to courage and kindliness,” said the +Angel: “How do these qualities now stand?”</p> + +<p>“The quality of courage,” responded his dragoman, +“received a set-back in men’s estimation at the time of +the Great Skirmish, from which it has never properly +recovered. For physical courage was then, for the first +time, perceived to be most excessively common; it is,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">[206]</span> +indeed, probably a mere attribute of the bony chin, +especially prevalent in the English-speaking races. As to +moral courage, it was so hunted down that it is still somewhat +in hiding. Of kindliness there are, as you know, two +sorts: that which people manifest towards their own +belongings; and that which they do not as a rule manifest +towards every one else.”</p> + +<p>“Since we attended the Divorce Court,” remarked +the Angel with deliberation, “I have been thinking. +And I fancy no one can be really kind unless they have +had matrimonial trouble, preferably in conflict with the +law.”</p> + +<p>“A new thought to me,” observed his dragoman +attentively; “and yet you may be right, for there is +nothing like being morally outcast to make you feel the +intolerance of others. But that brings us to private +morality.”</p> + +<p>“Quite!” said the Angel, with relief. “I forgot to +ask you this morning how the ancient custom of marriage +was now regarded in the large?”</p> + +<p>“Not indeed as a sacrament,” replied his dragoman; +“such a view was becoming rare already at the time of +the Great Skirmish. Yet the notion might have been +preserved but for the opposition of the Pontifical of those +days to the reform of the Divorce Laws. When principle +opposes common sense too long, a landslide follows.”</p> + +<p>“Of what nature, then, is marriage now?”</p> + +<p>“Purely a civil, or uncivil, contract, as the case may +be. The holy state of judicial separation, too, has long +been unknown.”</p> + +<p>“Ah!” said the Angel, “that was the custom by +which the man became a monk and the lady a nun, was +it not?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">[207]</span>“In theory, sir,” replied his dragoman, “but in practice +not a little bit, as you may well suppose. The Pontifical, +however, and the women, old and otherwise, who supported +them, had but small experience of life to go on, and +honestly believed that they were punishing those still-married +but erring persons who were thus separated. +These, on the contrary, almost invariably assumed that +they were justified in free companionships, nor were they +particular to avoid promiscuity! So it ever is, sir, when +the great laws of Nature are violated in deference to the +Higher Doctrine.”</p> + +<p>“Are children still-born out of wedlock?” asked the +Angel.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said his dragoman, “but no longer considered +responsible for the past conduct of their parents.”</p> + +<p>“Society, then, is more humane?”</p> + +<p>“Well, sir, we shall not see the Millennium in that +respect for some years to come. Zoos are still permitted, +and I read only yesterday a letter from a Scottish gentleman +pouring scorn on the humane proposal that prisoners +should be allowed to see their wives once a month without +bars or the presence of a third party; precisely as if we +still lived in the days of the Great Skirmish. Can you +tell me why it is that such letters are always written by +Scotsmen?”</p> + +<p>“Is it a riddle?” asked the Angel.</p> + +<p>“It is indeed, sir.”</p> + +<p>“Then it bores me. Speaking generally, are you +satisfied with current virtue now that it is a State matter, +as you informed me yesterday?”</p> + +<p>“To tell you the truth, sir, I do not judge my neighbours; +sufficient unto myself is the vice thereof. But +one thing I observe, the less virtuous people assume<span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">[208]</span> +themselves to be, the more virtuous they commonly are. +Where the lime-light is not, the flower blooms. Have you +not frequently noticed that they who day by day cheerfully +endure most unpleasant things, while helping their +neighbours at the expense of their own time and goods, +are often rendered lyrical by receiving a sovereign from +some one who would never miss it, and are ready to +enthrone him in their hearts as a king of men? The +truest virtue, sir, must be sought among the lowly. +Sugar and snow may be seen on the top, but for the salt +of the earth one must look to the bottom.”</p> + +<p>“I believe you,” said the Angel. “It is probably +harder for a man in the lime-light to enter virtue than +for the virtuous to enter the lime-light. Ha, ha! Is the +good old custom of buying honour still preserved?”</p> + +<p>“No, sir; honour is now only given to such as make +themselves too noisy to be endured, and saddles the +recipient with an obligation to preserve public silence for +a period not exceeding three years. That maximum +sentence is given for a dukedom. It is reckoned that few +can survive so fearful a term.”</p> + +<p>“Concerning the morality of this new custom,” said +the Angel, “I feel doubtful. It savours of surrender to +the bully and the braggart, does it not?”</p> + +<p>“Rather to the bore, sir; not necessarily the same thing. +But whether men be decorated for making themselves +useful, or troublesome, the result in either case is to secure +a comparative inertia, which has ever been the desideratum; +for you must surely be aware, sir, how a man’s +dignity weighs him down.”</p> + +<p>“Are women also rewarded in this way?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, and very often; for although their dignity +is already ample, their tongues are long, and they have<span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">[209]</span> +little shame and no nerves in the matter of public +speaking.”</p> + +<p>“And what price their virtue?” asked the Angel.</p> + +<p>“There is some change since the days of the Great +Skirmish,” responded his dragoman. “They do not +now so readily sell it, except for a wedding-ring; and +many marry for love. Women, indeed, are often deplorably +lacking in commercial spirit; and though they now +mix in commerce, have not yet been able to adapt themselves. +Some men even go so far as to think that their +participation in active life is not good for trade and keeps +the country back.”</p> + +<p>“They are a curious sex,” said the Angel; “I like +them, but they make too much fuss about babies.”</p> + +<p>“Ah! sir; there is the great flaw. The mother +instinct—so heedless and uncommercial! They seem +to love the things just for their own sakes.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said the Angel, “there’s no future in it. +Give me a cigar.”</p> + +<h3>VIII</h3> + +<p>“What, then, is the present position of ‘the good’?” +asked the Angel Æthereal, taking wing from Watchester +Cathedrome towards the City Tabernacle.</p> + +<p>“There are a number of discordant views, sir,” his +dragoman whiffled through his nose in the rushing air; +“which is no more novel in this year of Peace 1947 than +it was when you were here in 1910. On the far right are +certain extremists, who believe it to be what it was—omnipotent, +but suffering the presence of ‘the bad’ +for no reason which has yet been ascertained; omnipresent, +though presumably absent where ‘the bad’ is<span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">[210]</span> +present; mysterious, though perfectly revealed; terrible, +though loving; eternal, though limited by a beginning +and an end. They are not numerous, but all stall-holders, +and chiefly characterised by an almost perfect +intolerance of those whose views do not coincide with +their own; nor will they suffer for a moment any examination +into the nature of ‘the good,’ which they hold to be +established for all time, in the form I have stated, by +persons who have long been dead. They are, as you may +imagine, somewhat out of touch with science, such as it +is, and are regarded by the community at large rather +with curiosity than anything else.”</p> + +<p>“The type is well known in the sky,” said the Angel. +“Tell me: Do they torture those who do not agree +with them?”</p> + +<p>“Not materially,” responded his dragoman. “Such +a custom was extinct even before the days of the Great +Skirmish, though what would have happened if the +Patriotic or Prussian Party had been able to keep power +for any length of time we cannot tell. As it is, the torture +they apply is purely spiritual, and consists in looking down +their noses at all who have not their belief and calling +them erratics. But it would be a mistake to underrate +their power, for human nature loves the Pontifical, and +there are those who will follow to the death any one who +looks down his nose, and says: ‘I know!’ Moreover, +sir, consider how unsettling a question ‘the good’ is, +when you come to think about it and how unfatiguing the +faith which precludes all such speculation.”</p> + +<p>“That is so,” said the Angel thoughtfully.</p> + +<p>“The right centre,” continued his dragoman, “is +occupied by the small yet noisy Fifth Party. These +are they who play the cornet and tambourine, big drum<span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">[211]</span> +and concertina, descendants of the Old Prophet, and +survivors of those who, following a younger prophet, +joined them at the time of the Great Skirmish. In a +form ever modifying with scientific discovery they hold +that ‘the good’ is a superman, bodiless yet bodily, with +a beginning but without an end. It is an attractive faith, +enabling them to say to Nature: ‘<i>Je m’en fiche de tout +cela</i>. My big brother will look after me. Pom!’ One +may call it anthropomorphia, for it seems especially +soothing to strong personalities. Every man to his creed, +as they say; and I would never wish to throw cold water +on such as seek to find ‘the good’ by closing one eye +instead of two, as is done by the extremists on the right.”</p> + +<p>“You are tolerant,” said the Angel.</p> + +<p>“Sir,” said his dragoman, “as one gets older, one +perceives more and more how impossible it is for man +not to regard himself as the cause of the universe, and for +certain individual men not to believe themselves the +centre of the cause. For such to start a new belief is a +biological necessity, and should by no means be discouraged. +It is a safety-valve—the form of passion which +the fires of youth take in men after the age of fifty, as one +may judge by the case of the prophet Tolstoy and other +great ones. But to resume: In the centre, of course, +are situated the enormous majority of the community, +whose view is that they have no view of what ‘the good’ +is.”</p> + +<p>“None?” repeated the Angel Æthereal, somewhat +struck.</p> + +<p>“Not the faintest,” answered his dragoman. “These +are the only true mystics; for what is a mystic if not +one with an impenetrable belief in the mystery of his +own existence? This group embraces the great bulk<span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">[212]</span> +of the Laborious. It is true that many of them will +repeat what is told them of ‘the good’ as if it were +their own view, without compunction, but this is no more +than the majority of persons have done from the beginning +of time.”</p> + +<p>“Quite,” admitted the Angel; “I have observed +that phenomenon in the course of my travels. We will +not waste words on them.”</p> + +<p>“Ah, sir!” retorted his dragoman, “there is more +wisdom in these persons than you imagine. For, consider +what would be the fate of their brains if they attempted +to think for themselves. Moreover, as you know, all +definite views about ‘the good’ are very wearing, and it +is better, so this great majority thinks, to let sleeping +dogs lie than to have them barking in its head. But I +will tell you something,” the dragoman added: “These +innumerable persons have a secret belief of their own, old +as the Greeks, that good fellowship is all that matters. +And, in my opinion, taking ‘the good’ in its limited +sense, it is an admirable creed.”</p> + +<p>“Oh! cut on!” said the Angel.</p> + +<p>“My mistake, sir!” said his dragoman. “On the left +centre are grouped that increasing section whose view +is that since everything is very bad, ‘the good’ is ultimate +extinction—‘Peace, perfect peace,’ as the poet says. You +will recollect the old tag: ‘To be or not to be.’ These +are they who have answered that question in the negative; +pessimists masquerading to an unsuspecting public +as optimists. They are no doubt descendants of such as +used to be called ‘Theosophians,’ a sect which presupposed +everything and then desired to be annihilated; or, +again, of the Christian Scientites, who simply could not +bear things as they were, so set themselves to think they<span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">[213]</span> +were not, with some limited amount of success, if I +remember rightly. I recall to mind the case of a lady +who lost her virtue, and recovered it by dint of remembering +that she had no body.”</p> + +<p>“Curious!” said the Angel. “I should like to question +her; let me have her address after the lecture. Does +the theory of reincarnation still obtain?”</p> + +<p>“I do not wonder, sir, that you are interested in the +point, for believers in that doctrine are compelled, by the +old and awkward rule that ‘Two and two make four,’ to +draw on other spheres for the reincarnation of their +spirits.”</p> + +<p>“I do not follow,” said the Angel.</p> + +<p>“It is simple, however,” answered his dragoman, +“for at one time on earth, as is admitted, there was no +life. The first incarnation, therefore—an amœba, we +used to be told—enclosed a spirit, possibly from above. +It may, indeed, have been yours, sir. Again, at some time +on this earth, as is admitted, there will again be no life; +the last spirit will therefore flit to an incarnation, possibly +below; and again, sir, who knows, it may be yours.”</p> + +<p>“I cannot jest on such a subject,” said the Angel, with +a sneeze.</p> + +<p>“No offence,” murmured his dragoman. “The last +group, on the far left, to which indeed I myself am not +altogether unaffiliated, is composed of a small number +of extremists, who hold that ‘the good’ is things as +they are—pardon the inevitable flaw in grammar. They +consider that what is now has always been, and will always +be; that things do but swell and contract and swell +again, and so on for ever and ever; and that, since they +could not swell if they did not contract, since without +the black there could not be the white, nor pleasure<span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">[214]</span> +without pain, nor virtue without vice, nor criminals +without judges; even contraction, or the black, or pain, +or vice, or judges, are not ‘the bad,’ but only negatives; +and that all is for the best in the best of all possible worlds. +They are Voltairean optimists masquerading to an unsuspecting +population as pessimists. ‘Eternal Variation’ is +their motto.”</p> + +<p>“I gather,” said the Angel, “that these think there is +no purpose in existence?”</p> + +<p>“Rather, sir, that existence <i>is</i> the purpose. For, if +you consider, any other conception of purpose implies +fulfilment, or an <i>end</i>, which they do not admit, just as +they do not admit a beginning.”</p> + +<p>“How logical!” said the Angel. “It makes me +dizzy! You have renounced the idea of climbing, +then?”</p> + +<p>“Not so,” responded his dragoman. “We climb +to the top of the pole, slide imperceptibly down, and begin +over again; but since we never really know whether we +are climbing or sliding, this does not depress us.”</p> + +<p>“To believe that this goes on for ever is futile,” said +the Angel.</p> + +<p>“So we are told,” replied his dragoman, without +emotion. “<i>We</i> think, however, that the truth is with +us, in spite of jesting Pilate.”</p> + +<p>“It is not for me,” said the Angel with dignity, “to +argue with my dragoman.”</p> + +<p>“No, sir, for it is always necessary to beware of the +open mind. I myself find it very difficult to believe the +same thing every day. And the fact that is whatever you +believe will probably not alter the truth, which may be +said to have a certain mysterious immutability, considering +the number of efforts men have made to change it<span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">[215]</span> +from time to time. We are now, however, just above the +City Tabernacle, and if you will close your wings we shall +penetrate it through the claptrap-door which enables +its preachers now and then to ascend to higher spheres.”</p> + +<p>“Stay!” said the Angel; “let me float a minute +while I suck a peppermint, for the audiences in these +places often have colds.” And with that delicious +aroma clinging to them they made their entry through +a strait gate in the roof and took their seats in the front +row, below a tall prophet in eyeglasses, who was discoursing +on the stars. The Angel slept heavily.</p> + +<p>“You have lost a good thing, sir,” said his dragoman +reproachfully, when they left the Tabernacle.</p> + +<p>“In my opinion,” the Angel playfully responded, +“I won a better, for I went nap. What can a mortal +know about the stars?”</p> + +<p>“Believe me,” answered his dragoman, “the subject +is not more abstruse than is generally chosen.”</p> + +<p>“If he had taken religion I should have listened with +pleasure,” said the Angel.</p> + +<p>“Oh! sir, but in these days such a subject is unknown +in a place of worship. Religion is now exclusively a +State affair. The change began with discipline and the +Education Bill in 1918, and has gradually crystallised ever +since. It is true that individual extremists on the right +make continual endeavours to encroach on the functions +of the State, but they preach to empty houses.”</p> + +<p>“And the Deity?” said the Angel: “You have not +once mentioned Him. It has struck me as curious.”</p> + +<p>“Belief in the Deity,” responded his dragoman, +“perished shortly after the Great Skirmish, during +which there was too active and varied an effort to revive +it. Action, as you know, sir, always brings reaction,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">[216]</span> +and it must be said that the spiritual propaganda of those +days was so grossly tinged with the commercial spirit +that it came under the head of profiteering and earned +for itself a certain abhorrence. For no sooner had the +fears and griefs brought by the Great Skirmish faded from +men’s spirits than they perceived that their new impetus +towards the Deity had been directed purely by the longing +for protection, solace, comfort, and reward, and not by +any real desire for ‘the good’ in itself. It was this +truth, together with the appropriation of the word by +Emperors, and the expansion of our towns, a process +ever destructive of traditions, which brought about +extinction of belief in His existence.”</p> + +<p>“It was a large order,” said the Angel.</p> + +<p>“It was more a change of nomenclature,” replied his +dragoman. “The ruling motive for belief in ‘the +good’ is still the hope of getting something out of it—the +commercial spirit is innate.”</p> + +<p>“Ah!” said the Angel, absently. “Can we have +another lunch now? I could do with a slice of beef.”</p> + +<p>“An admirable idea, sir,” replied his dragoman, “we +will have it in the White City.”</p> + +<h3>IX</h3> + +<p>“What in your opinion is the nature of happiness?” +asked the Angel Æthereal, as he finished his second bottle +of Bass, in the grounds of the White City. The dragoman +regarded his angel with one eye.</p> + +<p>“The question is not simple, sir, though often made +the subject of symposiums in the more intellectual +journals. Even now, in the middle of the twentieth +century, some still hold that it is a by-product of fresh +air and liquor. The Old and Merrie England indubitably<span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">[217]</span> +procured it from those elements. Some, again, imagine +it to follow from high thinking and low living, while no +mean number believe that it depends on women.”</p> + +<p>“Their absence or their presence?” asked the Angel, +with interest.</p> + +<p>“Some this and others that. But for my part, it is +not altogether the outcome of these causes.”</p> + +<p>“Is this now a happy land?”</p> + +<p>“Sir,” returned his dragoman, “all things earthly are +comparative.”</p> + +<p>“Get on with it,” said the Angel.</p> + +<p>“I will comply,” responded his dragoman reproachfully, +“if you will permit me first to draw your third +cork. And let me say in passing that even your present +happiness is comparative, or possibly superlative, as you +will know when you have finished this last bottle. It may +or may not be greater; we shall see.”</p> + +<p>“We shall,” said the Angel, resolutely.</p> + +<p>“You ask me whether this land is happy; but must +we not first decide what happiness is? And how difficult +this will be you shall soon discover. For example, in the +early days of the Great Skirmish, happiness was reputed +non-existent; every family was plunged into anxiety +or mourning; and, though this to my own knowledge was +not the case, such as were not pretended to be. Yet, +strange as it may appear, the shrewd observer of those +days was unable to remark any indication of added gloom. +Certain creature comforts, no doubt, were scarce, but +there was no lack of spiritual comfort, which high minds +have ever associated with happiness; nor do I here allude +to liquor. What, then, was the nature of this spiritual +comfort, you will certainly be asking. I will tell you, and +in seven words: People forgot themselves and remembered<span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">[218]</span> +other people. Until those days it had never been +realised what a lot of medical men could be spared from +the civil population; what a number of clergymen, +lawyers, stockbrokers, artists, writers, politicians, and other +persons, whose work in life is to cause people to think +about themselves, never would be missed. Invalids +knitted socks and forgot to be unwell; old gentlemen read +the papers and forgot to talk about their food; people +travelled in trains and forgot not to fall into conversation +with each other; merchants became special constables +and forgot to differ about property; the House of Lords +remembered its dignity and forgot its impudence; the +House of Commons almost forgot to chatter. The +case of the working-man was the most striking of all—he +forgot he was the working man. The very dogs +forgot themselves, though that, to be sure, was no novelty, +as the Irish writer demonstrated in his terrific outburst: +‘On my doorstep.’ But time went on, and hens in their +turn forgot to lay, ships to return to port, cows to give +enough milk, and Governments to look ahead, till the first +flush of self-forgetfulness which had dyed peoples’ +cheeks——”</p> + +<p>“Died on them,” put in the Angel, with a quiet smile.</p> + +<p>“You take my meaning, sir,” said his dragoman, +“though I should not have worded it so happily. But +certainly the return to self began, and people used to +think: ‘The war is not so bloody as I thought, for I +am getting better money than I ever did; and the longer +it lasts the more I shall get, and for the sake of this I am +prepared to endure much.’ The saying ‘Beef and beer, +for soon you must put up the shutters,’ became the motto +of all classes. ‘If I am to be shot, drowned, bombed, +ruined, or starved to-morrow,’ they said, ‘I had better<span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">[219]</span> +eat, drink, marry, and buy jewellery to-day.’ And so they +did, in spite of the dreadful efforts of one bishop and two +gentlemen who presided over the important question of +food. They did not, it is true, relax their manual efforts +to accomplish the defeat of their enemies or ‘win the +war,’ as it was somewhat loosely called; but they no longer +worked with their spirits, which, with a few exceptions, +went to sleep. For, sir, the spirit, like the body, demands +regular repose, and in my opinion is usually the first of +the two to snore. Before the Great Skirmish came at +last to its appointed end the snoring from spirits in this +country might have been heard in the moon. People +thought of little but money, revenge, and what they +could get to eat, though the word ‘sacrifice’ was so +accustomed to their lips that they could no more get it +off them than the other forms of lip-salve, increasingly +in vogue. They became very merry. And the question +I would raise is this: By which of these two standards +shall we assess the word ‘happiness’? Were these people +happy when they mourned and thought not of self; or +when they married and thought of self all the time?”</p> + +<p>“By the first standard,” replied the Angel, with kindling +eyes. “Happiness is undoubtedly nobility.”</p> + +<p>“Not so fast, sir,” replied his dragoman; “for I have +frequently met with nobility in distress; and, indeed, +the more exalted and refined the mind, the unhappier +is frequently the owner thereof, for to him are visible +a thousand cruelties and mean injustices which lower +natures do not perceive.”</p> + +<p>“Hold!” exclaimed the Angel: “This is blasphemy +against Olympus, ‘The Spectator,’ and other High-Brows.”</p> + +<p>“Sir,” replied his dragoman gravely, “I am not one<span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">[220]</span> +of those who accept gilded doctrines without examination; +I read in the Book of Life rather than in the million +tomes written by men to get away from their own +unhappiness.”</p> + +<p>“I perceive,” said the Angel, with a shrewd glance, +“that you have something up your sleeve. Shake it out!”</p> + +<p>“My conclusion is this, sir,” returned his dragoman, +well pleased: “Man is only happy when he is living +at a certain pressure of life to the square inch; in other +words, when he is so absorbed in what he is doing, making, +saying, thinking, or dreaming, that he has lost self-consciousness. +If there be upon him any ill—such as toothache +or moody meditation—so poignant as to prevent him +losing himself in the interest of the moment, then he is +not happy. Nor must he merely think himself absorbed, +but actually be so, as are two lovers sitting under one +umbrella, or he who is just making a couplet rhyme.”</p> + +<p>“Would you say then,” insinuated the Angel, “that +a man is happy when he meets a mad bull in a narrow +lane? For there will surely be much pressure of life to +the square inch.”</p> + +<p>“It does not follow,” responded his dragoman; “for +at such moments one is prone to stand apart, pitying +himself and reflecting on the unevenness of fortune. +But if he collects himself and meets the occasion with +spirit he will enjoy it until, while sailing over the hedge, +he has leisure to reflect once more. It is clear to me,” +he proceeded, “that the fruit of the tree of knowledge +in the old fable was not, as has hitherto been supposed +by a puritanical people, the mere knowledge of sex, but +symbolised rather general self-consciousness; for I have +little doubt that Adam and Eve sat together under one +umbrella long before they discovered they had no clothes<span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">[221]</span> +on. Not until they became self-conscious about things +at large did they become unhappy.”</p> + +<p>“Love is commonly reputed by some, and power by +others, to be the keys of happiness,” said the Angel, +regardless of his grammar.</p> + +<p>“Duds,” broke in his dragoman. “For love and +power are only two of the various paths to absorption, +or unconsciousness of self; mere methods by which men +of differing natures succeed in losing their self-consciousness, +for he who, like Saint Francis, loves all creation, has +no time to be conscious of loving himself, and he who +rattles the sword and rules like Bill Kaser, has no time to +be conscious that he is not ruling himself. I do not deny +that such men may be happy, but not because of the +love or the power. No, it is because they are loving +or ruling with such intensity that they forget themselves +in doing it.”</p> + +<p>“There is much in what you say,” said the Angel +thoughtfully. “How do you apply it to the times and +land in which you live?”</p> + +<p>“Sir,” his dragoman responded, “the Englishman +never has been, and is not now, by any means so unhappy +as he looks, for, where you see a furrow in the brow, or +a mouth a little open, it portends absorption rather than +thoughtfulness—unless, indeed, it means adenoids—and +is the mark of a naturally self-forgetful nature; nor should +you suppose that poverty and dirt which abound, as you +see, even under the sway of the Laborious, is necessarily +deterrent to the power of living in the moment; it may +even be a symptom of that habit. The unhappy are more +frequently the clean and leisured, especially in times +of peace, when they have little to do save sit under mulberry +trees, invest money, pay their taxes, wash, fly, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">[222]</span> +think about themselves. Nevertheless, many of the +Laborious also live at half-cock, and cannot be said to have +lost consciousness of self.”</p> + +<p>“Then democracy is not synonymous with happiness?” +asked the Angel.</p> + +<p>“Dear sir,” replied his dragoman, “I know they said +so at the time of the Great Skirmish. But they said so +much that one little one like that hardly counted. I will +let you into a secret. We have not yet achieved democracy, +either here or anywhere else. The old American +saying about it is all very well, but since not one man in +ten has any real opinion of his own on any subject on +which he votes, he cannot, with the best will in the world, +put it on record. Not until he learns to have and record +his own real opinion will he truly govern himself for himself, +which is, as you know, the test of true democracy?”</p> + +<p>“I am getting fuddled,” said the Angel. “What is +it you want to make you happy?”</p> + +<p>His dragoman sat up: “If I am right,” he purred, +“in my view that happiness is absorption, our problem +is to direct men’s minds to absorption in right and pleasant +things. An American making a corner in wheat is absorbed +and no doubt happy, yet he is an enemy of mankind, for +his activity is destructive. We should seek to give our +minds to creation, to activities good for others as well as +for ourselves, to simplicity, pride in work, and forgetfulness +of self in every walk of life. We should do things +for the sheer pleasure of doing them, and not for what +they may or may not be going to bring us in, and be +taught always to give our whole minds to it; in this way +only will the edge of our appetite for existence remain as +keen as a razor which is stropped every morning by one +who knows how. On the negative side we should be<span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">[223]</span> +brought up to be kind, to be clean, to be moderate, and +to love good music, exercise, and fresh air.”</p> + +<p>“That sounds a bit of all right,” said the Angel. “What +measures are being taken in these directions?”</p> + +<p>“It has been my habit, sir, to study the Education +Acts of my country ever since that which was passed +at the time of the Great Skirmish; but, with the exception +of exercise, I have not as yet been able to find any direct +allusion to these matters. Nor is this surprising when you +consider that education is popularly supposed to be, not +for the acquisition of happiness, but for the good of trade +or the promotion of acute self-consciousness through +what we know as culture. If by any chance there should +arise a President of Education so enlightened as to share +my views, it would be impossible for him to mention the +fact for fear of being sent to Colney Hatch.”</p> + +<p>“In that case,” asked the Angel, “you do not believe +in the progress of your country?”</p> + +<p>“Sir,” his dragoman replied earnestly, “you have +seen this land for yourself and have heard from me some +account of its growth from the days when you were last +on earth, shortly before the Great Skirmish; it will not +have escaped your eagle eye that this considerable event +has had some influence in accelerating the course of its +progression; and you will have noticed how, notwithstanding +the most strenuous intentions at the close of that +tragedy, we have yielded to circumstance and in every +direction followed the line of least resistance.”</p> + +<p>“I have a certain sympathy with that,” said the Angel, +with a yawn; “it is so much easier.”</p> + +<p>“So we have found; and our country has got along, +perhaps, as well as one could have expected, considering +what it has had to contend with: pressure of debt;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">[224]</span> +primrose paths; pelf; party; patrio-Prussianism; the +people; pundits; Puritans; proctors; property; philosophers; +the Pontifical; and progress. I will not disguise +from you, however, that we are far from perfection; +and it may be that on your next visit, thirty-seven years +hence, we shall be further. For, however it may be with +angels, sir, with men things do not stand still; and, as +I have tried to make clear to you, in order to advance in +body and spirit, it is necessary to be masters of your +environment and discoveries instead of letting them be +masters of you. Wealthy again we may be, healthy and +happy we are not, as yet.”</p> + +<p>“I have finished my beer,” said the Angel Æthereal +with finality, “and am ready to rise. You have nothing +to drink! Let me give you a testimonial instead!” +Pulling a quill from his wing, he dipped it in the mustard +and wrote: “A Dry Dog—No Good For Trade” on his +dragoman’s white hat. “I shall now leave the earth,” +he added.</p> + +<p>“I am pleased to hear it,” said his dragoman, “for +I fancy that the longer you stay the more vulgar you will +become. I have noticed it growing on you, sir, just as +it does on us.”</p> + +<p>The Angel smiled. “Meet me by sunlight alone,” +he said, “under the left-hand lion in Trafalgar Square at +this hour of this day, in 1984. Remember me to the +waiter, will you? So long!” And, without pausing for +a reply, he spread his wings, and soared away.</p> + +<p>“<i>L’homme moyen sensuel! Sic itur ad astra!</i>” murmured +his dragoman enigmatically, and, lifting his eyes, +he followed the Angel’s flight into the empyrean.</p> + + +<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Made and Printed in Great Britain. Richard Clay</span> & <span class="smcap">Sons, Ltd.,<br> +Printers, Bungay, Suffolk.</span></p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p class="ph1">FOOTNOTE:</p> +</div> + +<div class="footnote"> + +<p><a id="Footnote_1" href="#FNanchor_1" class="label">[1]</a> For “I” read “almost any one.”——J. G.</p> + +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<div class="transnote"> +<p class="ph1">TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:</p> + +<p>Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.</p> + +<p>Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.</p> + +<p>Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.</p> + +<p>New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.</p> +</div></div> + +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75431 ***</div> +</body> +</html> + diff --git a/75431-h/images/cover.jpg b/75431-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..bd833e2 --- /dev/null +++ b/75431-h/images/cover.jpg diff --git a/75431-h/images/coversmall.jpg b/75431-h/images/coversmall.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..43a09ef --- /dev/null +++ b/75431-h/images/coversmall.jpg diff --git a/75431-h/images/title_page.jpg b/75431-h/images/title_page.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..31a1e2d --- /dev/null +++ b/75431-h/images/title_page.jpg diff --git a/75431-h/images/title_page_logo.jpg b/75431-h/images/title_page_logo.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..9037f55 --- /dev/null +++ b/75431-h/images/title_page_logo.jpg |
