"You needn't be afraid," answered Courtier, "that I take you for an average specimen. You're at one end, and I at the other, and we probably both miss the golden mark. But the world is not ruled by power, and the fear which power produces, as you think, it's ruled by love. Society is held together by the natural decency in man, by fellow-feeling. The democratic principle, which you despise, at root means nothing at all but that. Man left to himself is on the upward lay. If it weren't so, do you imagine for a moment your 'boys in blue' could keep order? A man knows unconsciously what he can and what he can't do, without losing his self-respect. He sucks that knowledge in with every breath. Laws and authority are not the be-all and end-all, they are conveniences, machinery, conduit pipes, main roads. They're not of the structure of the building--they're only scaffolding."Miltoun lunged out with the retort "Without which no building could be built."Courtier parried.
"That's rather different, my friend, from identifying them with the building. They are things to be taken down as fast as ever they can be cleared away, to make room for an edifice that begins on earth, not in the sky. All the scaffolding of law is merely there to save time, to prevent the temple, as it mounts, from losing its way, and straying out of form.""No," said Miltoun, "no! The scaffolding, as you call it, is the material projection of the architect's conception, without which the temple does not and cannot rise; and the architect is God, working through the minds and spirits most akin to Himself.""We are now at the bed-rock," cried Courtier, "your God is outside this world. Mine within it.""And never the twain shall meet!"
In the silence that followed Miltoun saw that they were in Leicester Square, all quiet as yet before the theatres had disgorged; quiet yet waiting, with the lights, like yellow stars low-driven from the dark heavens, clinging to the white shapes of music-halls and cafes, and a sort of flying glamour blanching the still foliage of the plane trees.
"A 'whitely wanton'--this Square!" said Courtier: "Alive as a face;no end to its queer beauty! And, by Jove, if you went deep enough, you'd find goodness even here.""And you'd ignore the vice," Miltoun answered.
He felt weary all of a sudden, anxious to get to his rooms, unwilling to continue this battle of words, that brought him no nearer to relief. It was with strange lassitude that he heard the voice still speaking:
"We must make a night of it, since to-morrow we die.... You would curb licence from without--I from within. When I get up and when Igo to bed, when I draw a breath, see a face, or a flower, or a tree--if I didn't feel that I was looking on the Deity, I believe I should quit this palace of varieties, from sheer boredom. You, Iunderstand, can't look on your God, unless you withdraw into some high place. Isn't it a bit lonely there?""There are worse things than loneliness." And they walked on, in silence; till suddenly Miltoun broke out:
"You talk of tyranny! What tyranny could equal this tyranny of your *******? What tyranny in the world like that of this 'free' vulgar, narrow street, with its hundred journals teeming like ants' nests, to produce-what? In the entrails of that creature of your *******, Courtier, there is room neither for exaltation, discipline, nor sacrifice; there is room only for commerce, and licence."There was no answer for a moment; and from those tall houses, whose lighted windows he had apostrophized, Miltoun turned away towards the river. "No," said the voice beside him, "for all its faults, the wind blows in that street, and there's a chance for everything. By God, I would rather see a few stars struggle out in a black sky than any of your perfect artificial lighting."And suddenly it seemed to Miltoun that he could never free himself from the echoes of that voice--it was not worth while to try. "We are repeating ourselves," he said, dryly.
The river's black water was ****** stilly, slow recessional under a half-moon. Beneath the cloak of night the chaos on the far bank, the forms of cranes, high buildings, jetties, the bodies of the sleeping barges, a--million queer dark shapes, were invested with emotion.
All was religious out there, all beautiful, all strange. And over this great quiet friend of man, lamps--those humble flowers of night, were throwing down the faint continual glamour of fallen petals; and a sweet-scented wind stole along from the West, very slow as yet, bringing in advance the tremor and perfume of the innumerable trees and fields which the river had loved as she came by.
A murmur that was no true sound, but like the whisper of a heart to.
a heart, accompanied this voyage of the dark water.
Then a small blunt skiff--manned by two rowers came by under the wall, with the thudding and the creak of oars.
"So 'To-morrow we die'?" said Miltoun : "You mean, I suppose, that 'public life' is the breath of my nostrils, and I must die, because Igive it up?"
Courtier nodded.
"Am I right in thinking that it was my young sister who sent you on this crusade?"Courtier did not answer.
"And so," Miltoun went on, looking him through and through;"to-morrow is to be your last day, too? Well, you're right to go.
She is not an ugly duckling, who can live out of the social pond;she'll always want her native element. And now, we'll say goodbye!
Whatever happens to us both, I shall remember this evening."Smiling, he put out his hand 'Moriturus te saluto.'