The passionate temperament is necessarily sanguine. To desire with all
one's being is the same thing as to hope. In Piers Otway's case, the
temper which defies discouragement existed together with the intellect
which ever tends to discourage, with the mind which probes appearances,
makes war upon illusions. Hence his oft varying moods, as the one or
the other part of him became ascendent. Hence his fervours of idealism,
and the habit of destructive criticism which seemed inconsistent with
them. Hence his ardent ambitions, and his appearance of plodding
mediocrity in practical life.
Intensely self-conscious, he suffered much from a habit of comparing,
contrasting himself with other men, with men who achieved things, who
made their way, who played a part in the world. He could not read a
newspaper without reflecting, sometimes bitterly, on the careers and
position of men whose names were prominent in its columns. So often, he
well knew, their success came only of accident--as one uses the word:
of favouring circumstance, which had no relation to the man's powers
and merits. Piers had no overweening self-esteem; he judged his
abilities more accurately, and more severely, than any observer would
have done; yet it was plain to him that he would be more than capable,
so far as endowment went, of filling the high place occupied by this or
the other far-shining personage. He frankly envied their
success--always for one and the same reason.
Nothing so goaded his imagination as a report of the marriage of some
leader in the world's game. He dwelt on these paragraphs, filled up the
details, grew faint with realisation of the man's triumphant happiness.
At another moment, his reason ridiculed this self-torment. He knew that
in all probability such a marriage implied no sense of triumph,
involved no high emotions, promised nothing but the commonest domestic
satisfaction. Portraits of brides in an illustrated paper sometimes
wrought him to intolerable agitation--the mood of his early manhood, as
when he stood before the print shop in the Haymarket; now that he had
lost Irene, the whole world of beautiful women called again to his
senses and his soul. With the cooler moment came a reminder that these
lovely faces were for the most part mere masks, tricking out a very
ordinary woman, more likely than not unintelligent, unhelpful, as the
ordinary human being of either sex is wont to be. What seemed to _him_
the crown of a man's career, was, in most cases, a mere incident,
deriving its chief importance from social and pecuniary considerations.
Even where a sweet countenance told truth about the life behind it, how
seldom did the bridegroom appreciate what he had won! For the most
part, men who have great good fortune, in marriage, or in anything
else, are incapable of tasting their success. It is the imaginative
being in the crowd below who marvels and is thrilled.
How was it with Arnold Jacks? Did he understand what had befallen him?
If so, on what gleaming heights did he now live and move! What rapture
of gratitude must possess the man! What humility! What arrogance!
Piers had not met him since the engagement was made known; he hoped not
to meet him for a long time. Happily, in this holiday season, there was
no fear of an invitation to Queen's Gate.
Yet the unexpected happened. Early in September, he received a note
from John Jacks, asking him to dine. The writer said that he had been
at the seaside, and was tired of it, and meant to spend a week or two
quietly in London; he was quite alone, so Otway need not dress.
Reassured by the last sentence of the letter, Piers gladly went; for he
liked to talk with John Jacks, and had a troubled pleasure in the
thought that he might hear something about the approaching marriage. On
his arrival, he was shown into the study, where his host lay on a sofa.
The greeting was cordial, the voice cheery as ever, but as Mr. Jacks
rose he had more of the appearance of old age than Piers had yet seen
in him; he seemed to stand with some difficulty, his face betokening a
body ill at ease.
"How pleasant London is in September!" he exclaimed, with a laugh.
"I've been driving about, as one does in a town abroad, just to see the
streets. Strange that one knows Paris and Rome a good deal better than
London. Yet it's really very interesting--don't you think?"
The twinkling eye, the humorous accent, which had won Piers' affection,
soon allayed his disquietude at being in this house. He spoke of his
own recent excursion, confessing that he better appreciated London from
a distance.
"Ay, ay! I know all about that," replied Mr. Jacks, his Yorkshire note
sounding, as it did occasionally. "But you're young, you're young; what
does it matter where you live? To be your age again, I'd live at St.
Helens, or Widnes. You have hope, man, always hope. And you may live to
see what the world is like half a century from now. It's strange to
look at you, and think that!"
John Jacks' presence in London, and alone, at this time of the year had
naturally another explanation than that he felt tired of the seaside.
In truth, he had come up to see a medical specialist. Carefully he kept
from his wife the knowledge of a disease which was taking hold upon
him, which--as he had just learnt--threatened rapidly fatal results.
From his son, also, he had concealed the serious state of his health,
lest it should interfere with Arnold's happy mood in prospect of
marriage. He was no coward, but a life hitherto untroubled by sickness
had led him to hope that he might pass easily from the world, and a
doom of extinction by torture perturbed his philosophy.
He liked to forget himself in contemplation of Piers Otway's youth and
soundness. He had pleasure, too, in Piers' talk, which reminded him of
Jerome Otway, some half-century ago.
Mrs. Jacks was staying with her own family, and from that house would
pass to others, equally decorous, where John had promised to join her.
Of course she was uneasy about him; that entered into her role of model
spouse: but the excellent lady never suspected the true cause of that
habit of sadness which had grown upon her husband during the last few
years, a melancholy which anticipated his decline in health. John Jacks
had made the mistake natural to such a man; wedding at nearly sixty a
girl of much less than half his age, he found, of course, that his wife
had nothing to give him but duty and respect, and before long he
bitterly reproached himself with the sacrifice of which he was guilty.
"Soar on thy manhood clear of those
Whose toothless Winter claws at May,
And take her as the vein of rose
Athwart an evening grey."
These lines met his eye one day in a new volume which bore the name of
George Meredith, and they touched him nearly; the poem they closed gave
utterance to the manful resignation of one who has passed the age of
love, yet is tempted by love's sweetness, and John Jacks took to heart
the reproach it seemed to level at himself. Putting aside the point of
years, he had not chosen with any discretion; he married a handsome
face, a graceful figure, just as any raw boy might have done. His wife,
he suspected, was not the woman to suffer greatly in her false
position; she had very temperate blood, and a thoroughly English
devotion to the proprieties; none the less he had done her wrong, for
she belonged to a gentle family in mediocre circumstances, and his
prospective "M.P.," his solid wealth, were sore temptations to put
before such a girl. He had known--yes, he assuredly knew--that it was
nothing but a socially sanctioned purchase. Beauty should have become
to him but the "vein of rose," to be regarded with gentle admiration
and with reverence, from afar. He yielded to an unworthy temptation,
and, being a man of unusual sensitiveness, very soon paid the penalty
in self-contempt.
He could not love his wife; he could scarce honour her--for she too
must consciously have sinned against the highest law. Her
irreproachable behaviour only saddened him. Now that he found himself
under sentence of death, his solace was the thought that his widow
would still be young enough to redeem her error--if she were capable of
redeeming it.
Alone with his guest in the large dining-room, and compelled to make
only pretence of eating and drinking, he talked of many things with the
old spontaneity, the accustomed liberal kindliness, and dropped at
length upon the subject Piers was waiting for.
"You know, I daresay, that Arnold is going to marry?"
"I have heard of it," Piers answered, with the best smile he could
command.
"You can imagine it pleases me. I don't see how he could have been
luckier. Dr. Derwent is one of the finest men I know, and his daughter
is worthy of him."
"She is, I am sure," said Piers, in a balanced voice, which sounded
mere civility.
And when silence had lasted rather too long, the host having fallen
into reverie, he added:
"Will it take place soon?"
"Ah--the wedding? About Christmas, I think. Arnold is looking for a
house. By the bye, you know young Derwent--Eustace?"
Piers answered that he had only the slightest acquaintance with the
young man.
"Not brilliant, I think," said Mr. Jacks musingly. "But amiable,
straight. I don't know that he'll do much at the Bar."
Again he lost himself for a little, his knitted brows seeming to
indicate an anxious thought.
"Now you shall tell me anything you care to, about business," said the
host, when they had seated themselves in the library. "And after that I
have something to show you--something you'll like to see, I think."
Otway's curiosity was at a loss when presently he saw his host take
from a drawer a little packet of papers.
"I had forgotten all about these," said Mr. Jacks. "They are
manuscripts of your father; writings of various kinds which he sent me
in the early fifties. Turning out my old papers, I came across them the
other day, and thought I would give them to you."
He rustled the faded sheets, glancing over them with a sad smile.
"There's an amusing thing--called 'Historical Fragment.' I remember, oh
I remember very well, how it pleased me when I first read it."
He read it aloud now, with many a chuckle, many a pause of sly emphasis.
"'The Story of the last war between the Asiatic kingdoms of Duroba and
Kalaya, though it has reached us in a narrative far too concise, is one
of the most interesting chapters in the history of ancient civilisation.
"'They were bordering states, peopled by races closely akin, whose
languages, it appears, were mutually intelligible; each had developed
its own polity, and had advanced to a high degree of refinement in
public and private life. Wars between them had been frequent, but at
the time with which we are concerned the spirit of hostility was all
but forgotten in a happy peace of long duration. Each country was ruled
by an aged monarch, beloved of the people, but, under the burden of
years, grown of late somewhat less vigilant than was consistent with
popular welfare. Thus it came to pass that power fell into the hands of
unscrupulous statesmen, who, aided by singular circumstances, succeeded
in reviving for a moment the old sanguinary jealousies.
"'We are told that a General in the army of Duroba, having a turn for
experimental chemistry, had discovered a substance of terrible
explosive power, which, by the exercise of further ingenuity, he had
adapted for use in warfare. About the same time, a public official in
Kalaya, whose duty it was to convey news to the community by means of a
primitive system of manuscript placarding, hit upon a mechanical method
whereby news-sheets could be multiplied very rapidly and be sold to
readers all over the kingdom. Now the Duroban General felt eager to
test his discovery in a campaign, and, happening to have a quarrel with
a politician in the neighbouring state, did his utmost to excite
hostile feeling against Kalaya. On the other hand, the Kalayan
official, his cupidity excited by the profits already arising from his
invention, desired nothing better than some stirring event which would
lead to still greater demand for the news-sheets he distributed, and so
he also was led to the idea of stirring up international strife. To be
brief, these intrigues succeeded only too well; war was actually
declared, the armies were mustered, and marched to the encounter.
"'They met at a point of the common frontier where only a little brook
flowed between the two kingdoms. It was nightfall; each host encamped,
to await the great engagement which on the morrow would decide between
them.
"'It must be understood that the Durobans and the Kalayans differed
markedly in national characteristics. The former people was
distinguished by joyous vitality and a keen sense of humour; the
latter, by a somewhat meditative disposition inclining to timidity; and
doubtless these qualities had become more pronounced during the long
peace which would naturally favour them. Now, when night had fallen on
the camps, the common soldiers on each side began to discuss, over
their evening meal, the position in which they found themselves. The
men of Duroba, having drunk well, as their habit was, fell into an odd
state of mind. "What!" they exclaimed to one another. "After all these
years of tranquillity, are we really going to fight with the Kalayans,
and to slaughter them and be ourselves slaughtered! Pray, what is it
all about? Who can tell us?" Not a man could answer, save with the
vaguest generalities. And so, the debate continuing, the wonder growing
from moment to moment, at length, and all of a sudden, the Duroban camp
echoed with huge peals of laughter. "Why, if we soldiers have no cause
of quarrel, what are we doing here? Shall we be mangled and killed to
please our General with the turn for chemistry? That were a joke,
indeed!" And, as soon as mirth permitted, the army rose as one man,
threw together their belongings, and with jovial songs trooped off to
sleep comfortably in a town a couple of miles away.
"'The Kalayans, meanwhile, had been occupied with the very same
question. They were anything but martial of mood, and the soldiery, ill
at ease in their camp, grumbled and protested. "After all, why are we
here?" cried one to the other. "Who wants to injure the Durobans? And
what man among us desires to be blown to pieces by their new
instruments of war? Pray, why should we fight? If the great officials
are angry, as the news-sheets tell us, e'en let them do the fighting
themselves." At this moment there sounded from the enemy's camp a
stupendous roar; it was much like laughter; no doubt the Durobans were
jubilant in anticipation of their victory. Fear seized the Kalayans;
they rose like one man, and incontinently fled far into the sheltering
night!
"'Thus ended the war--the last between these happy nations, who, not
very long after, united to form a noble state under one ruler. It is
interesting to note that the original instigators of hostility did not
go without their deserts. The Duroban General, having been duly tried
for a crime against his country, was imprisoned in a spacious building,
the rooms of which were hung with great pictures representing every
horror of battle with the ghastliest fidelity; here he was supplied
with materials for chemical experiment, to occupy his leisure, and very
shortly, by accident, blew himself to pieces. The Kalayan publicist was
also convicted of treason against the state; they banished him to a
desert island, where for many hours daily he had to multiply copies of
his news-sheet--that issue which contained the declaration of war--and
at evening to burn them all. He presently became imbecile, and so
passed away.'"
Piers laughed with delight.
"Whether it ever got into print," said Mr. Jacks, "I don't know. Your
father was often careless about his best things. I'm afraid he was
never quite convinced that ideals of that kind influence the world. Yet
they do, you know, though it's a slow business. It's thought that
leads."
"The multitude following in its own fashion," said Piers drily.
"Rousseau teaches liberty and fraternity; France learns the lesson and
plunges into '93."
"With Nap to put things straight again. For all that a step was taken.
We are better for Jean Jacques--a little better."
"And for Napoleon, too, I suppose. Napoleon--a wild beast with a genius
for arithmetic."
John Jacks let his eyes rest upon the speaker, interested and amused.
"That's how you see him? Not a bad definition. I suppose the truth is,
we know nothing about human history. The old view was good for working
by--Jehovah holding his balance, smiting on one side, and rewarding on
the other. It's our national view to this day. The English are an Old
Testament people; they never cared about the New. Do you know that
there's a sect who hold that the English are the Lost Tribes--the
People of the Promise? I see a great deal to be said for that idea. No
other nation has such profound sympathy with the history and the creeds
of Israel. Did you ever think of it? That Old Testament religion suits
us perfectly--our arrogance and our pugnaciousness; this accounts for
its hold on the mind of the people; it couldn't be stronger if the
bloodthirsty old Tribes were truly our ancestors. The English seized
upon their spiritual inheritance as soon as a translation of the Bible
put it before them. In Catholic days we fought because we enjoyed it,
and made no pretences; since the Reformation we have fought for
Jehovah."
"I suppose," said Piers, "the English are the least Christian of all
so-called Christian peoples."
"Undoubtedly. They simply don't know the meaning of the prime Christian
virtue--humility. But that's neither here nor there, in talking of
progress. You remember Goldsmith--
'Pride in their port, defiance in their eye,
I see the lords of human kind pass by.'
"Our pride has been a good thing, on the whole. Whether it will still
be, now that it's so largely the pride of riches, let him say who is
alive fifty years hence."
He paused and added gravely:
"I'm afraid the national character is degenerating. We were always too
fond of liquor, and Heaven knows our responsibility for drunkenness all
over the world; but worse than that is our gambling. You may drink and
be a fine fellow; but every gambler is a sneak, and possibly a
criminal. We're beginning, now, to gamble for slices of the world.
We're getting base, too, in our grovelling before the millionaire--who
as often as not has got his money vilely. This sort of thing won't do
for 'the lords of human kind.' Our pride, if we don't look out, will
turn to bluffing and bullying. I'm afraid we govern selfishly where
we've conquered. We hear dark things of India, and worse of Africa. And
hear the roaring of the Jingoes! Johnson defined Patriotism you know,
as the last refuge of a scoundrel; it looks as if it might presently be
the last refuge of a fool."
"Meanwhile," said Piers, "the real interests of England, real progress
in national life, seem to be as good as lost sight of."
"Yes, more and more. They think that material prosperity is progress.
So it is--up to a certain point, and who ever stops there? Look at
Germany."
"Once the peaceful home of pure intellect, the land of Goethe."
"Once, yes. And my fear is that our brute, blustering Bismarck may be
coming. But," he suddenly brightened, "croakers be hanged! The
civilisers are at work too, and they have their way in the end. Think
of a man like your father, who seemed to pass and be forgotten. Was it
really so? I'll warrant that at this hour Jerome Otway's spirit is
working in many of our best minds. There's no calculating the power of
the man who speaks from his very heart. His words don't perish, though
he himself may lose courage."
Listening, Piers felt a glow pass into all the currents of his life.
"If only," he exclaimed, in a voice that trembled, "I had as much
strength as desire to carry on his work!"
"Why, who knows?" replied John Jacks, looking with encouragement
wherein mingled something of affection.
"You have the power of sincerity, I see that. Speak always as you
believe, and who knows what opportunity you may find for making
yourself heard!"
John Jacks reflected deeply for a few moments.
"I'm going away in a day or two," he said at length, in a measured
voice, "and my movements are uncertain--uncertain. But we shall meet
again before the end of the year."
When he had left the house, Piers recalled the tone of this remark, and
dwelt upon it with disquietude.