It happened to be a quiet evening in the House, and Maraton and
Selingman dined together at a little before eight o'clock. Selingman's
personality was too unusual to escape attention, and as his identity
became known, a good many passers-by looked at them curiously. Some one
sent word to Mr. Foley of their presence, and very soon he came in and
joined them.
"Six years ago this month, Mr. Selingman," the Prime Minister reminded
him, "we met at Madame Hermene's in Paris. You were often there in
those days."
Selingman nodded vigorously.
"I remember it perfectly," he said--"perfectly. It was a wonderful
evening. An English Cabinet Minister, the President of France,
Coquelin, Rostand, and I myself were there. A clever woman! She knew
how to attract. In England there is nothing of the sort, eh?"
"Nothing," Mr. Foley admitted. "I am going to beg you both to come on
to me to-night. My niece is receiving a few friends. But I can promise
you nothing of the same class of attraction, Mr. Selingman."
"We cannot come," Selingman declared, without hesitation. "I take my
friend Maraton somewhere. As we sit here, Mr. Foley, we have spoken of
politics. You are a great man. If any one can lift your country from
the rut along which she is travelling, you will do it. A Unionist Prime
Minister and you hold out the hand to Maraton! But what foresight!
What acumen! You see beyond the thunder-clouds the things that we have
seen. Not only do you see them, but you have the courage to follow your
convictions. What a mess you are making of Parties!"
Mr. Foley smiled.
"Ah, well, you see," he said, "I am no politician. It is the one claim
I have upon posterity that I am the first non-politician who ever became
Prime Minister."
"Excellent! Excellent!" Selingman murmured.
"Maraton, alas!" Mr. Foley continued, "is only half a convert. As yet
he wears his yoke heavily."
"A queer place for him," Selingman declared. "I looked down and saw him
there this evening. I listened to the dozen words he spoke. He seemed
to me rather like a lawyer, who, having a dull case, says what he has to
say and sits down. Does he do any real good here, Mr. Foley?"
"It is from these walls," the Prime Minister reminded him, "that the
laws of the country are framed."
Selingman shook his head slowly.
"Academically correct," he admitted, "and yet, walls of brick and stone
may crumble and split. The laws which endure come into being through
the power of the people."
"Don't throw cold water upon my compromise," Mr. Foley begged. "We are
hoping for great things. We are fighting the class against which you
have written so splendidly; we are fighting the bourgeoisie, tooth and
nail. One thing is certainly written--that if Maraton here stands by my
side for the next seven years, Labour will have thrown off one, at
least, of the shackles that bind her. Isn't it better to release her
slowly and gradually, than to destroy her altogether by trying more
violent means?"
"Ah, who knows!" Selingman remarked enigmatically. "Who knows! . . .
And what of the rest of the evening? Are there more laws to be
made--more speeches?"
"Finished," Mr. Foley replied. "There is nothing more to be done.
That is why I am proposing that you two men go to your rooms, make
yourselves look as much like Philistines as you can, and come and pay
your respects to my niece. Lady Elisabeth is complaining a little about
you, Maraton," he went on. "You are a rare visitor."
"Lady Elisabeth is very kind," Maraton murmured.
"I wish that we could come," Selingman said. "If I lived here long, I
would bustle our friend Maraton about. To-day I have had him a little
way into the country, him and his pale-faced secretary, and I have
poured sunshine down upon them, and wine, and good things to eat. Oh,
they are very narrow, both of them, when they look out at life! Not so
am I. I love to feel the great thoughts swinging through my brain, but I
love also the good things of life. I love the interludes of careless
joys, I love all the pleasant things our bodies were meant to
appreciate. Those who do not, they wither early. I do not like pale
cheeks. Therefore, I wish that I could stay a little time with this
friend of ours. I would see that he paid his respects to all the
charming ladies who were ready to welcome him."
Mr. Foley laughed softly.
"What a marvellous mixture you would make, you two!" he observed. "Your
prose and Maraton's eloquence, your philosophy and his tenacity. So you
won't come? Well, I am disappointed."
"We go to see a friend of mine," Selingman announced. "We go to pay our
respects to a man famous indeed, a man who will make history in your
country."
Mr. Foley's expression suddenly changed. He leaned a little across the
table.
"Are you speaking of Maxendorf?"
Selingman nodded vigorously.
"Since you have guessed it--yes," he admitted. "We go to Maxendorf. I
take Maraton there. It will be a great meeting. We three--we represent
much. A great meeting, indeed."
Mr. Foley's face was troubled.
"Maxendorf only arrives to-night," he remarked presently.
"What matter?" Selingman replied. "He is like me--he is tireless, and
though his body be weary, his brain is ever working."
"What do they say on the Continent about his coming?" Mr. Foley
enquired. "We thought that he was settled for life in Rome."
Selingman shook his head portentously.
"Politics," he declared, "ah! in the abstract they are wonderful, but
in the concrete they do not interest me. Maxendorf has come here,
doubtless, with great schemes in his mind."
"Schemes of friendship or of enmity?" Mr. Foley asked swiftly.
Selingman's shoulders were hunched.
"Who can tell? Who can tell the thoughts which his brain has conceived?
Maxendorf is a silent man. He is the first people's champion who has
ever held high office in his country. You see, he has the gifts which
no one can deny. He moves forward to whatever place he would occupy,
and he takes it. He is in politics as I in literature."
The man's magnificent egotism passed unnoticed. Curiously enough, the
truth of it was so apparent that its expression seemed natural.
"I must confess," Mr. Foley said quietly, "to you two alone, that I had
rather he had come at some other time. Selingman, you are indeed one of
the happiest of the earth. You have no responsibilities save the
responsibilities you owe to your genius. The only call to which you
need listen is the call to give to the world the thoughts and music
which beat in your brain. And with us, things are different. There is
the future of a country, the future of an Empire, always at stake, when
one sleeps and when one wakes."
Selingman nodded his head vigorously.
"Frankly," he admitted, "I sympathise with you. Responsibility I hate.
And yours, Mr. Foley," he added, "is a great one. I am a friend of
England. I am a friend of the England who should be. As your country
is to-day, I fear that she has very few friends indeed, apart from her
own shores. You may gain allies from reasons of policy, but you have
not the national gifts which win friendship."
"How do you account for it?" Mr. Foley asked him.
"Your Press, for one thing," Selingman replied; "your Press, written for
and inspired with the whole spirit of the bourgeoisie. You prate about
your Empire, but you've never learnt yet to think imperially. But
there, it is not for this I crossed the Channel. It is to be with
Maraton."
"So long as you do not take him from me, I will not grudge you his
company," Mr. Foley remarked, rising. "On the other hand, I would very
much rather that you made your bow to my niece to-night than went to
Maxendorf."
Maraton felt suddenly a twinge of something I which was almost
compunction. Mr. Foley's face was white and tired. He had the air of
a man oppressed with anxieties which he was doing his best to conceal.
"If I can," he said, "I should like very much to see Lady Elisabeth.
Perhaps I shall be in time after our interview with Maxendorf, or
before. I will go home and change, on the chance."
The Prime Minister nodded, but his slightly relaxed expression seemed to
show that he appreciated Maraton's intention. Selingman looked after
him gloomily as he left the room.
"What devilish impulse," he muttered, "leads these men to pass into your
rotten English politics! It is like a poet trying to navigate a
dredger. Bah!"
"Need you go into that gloomy chamber again, my friend?"
Maraton shook his head.
"I have finished," he declared. "There will be no division."
"But do you never speak there?"
"Up to now I have not uttered more than a dozen words or so," Maraton
replied. "You try it yourself--try speaking to a crowd of well-dressed,
well-fed, smug units of respectability, each with his mind full of his
own affairs or the affairs of his constituency. You try it. You
wouldn't find the words stream, I can tell you."
Selingman grunted.
"And now--what now?"
"To my rooms--to my house," Maraton announced, "while I change."
"It is good. I shall talk to your secretary. I shall talk to Miss
Julia while you disappear. Shall I rob you, my friend?"
"You would rob me of a great deal if you took her away," Maraton
answered, "but--"
Selingman interrupted him with a fiercely contemptuous exclamation.
"You have it--the rotten, insular conceit of these Englishmen! You
think that she would not come? Do you think that if I were to say to
her,--'Come and listen while I make garlands of words, while I take you
through the golden doors!'--do you think that she would not put her hand
in mine? Fancy--to live in my fairy chamber, to listen while I give
shape and substance to all that I conceive--what woman would refuse!"
Maraton laughed softly as they passed out into the Palace yard.
"Try Julia," he suggested.