“We two,” said Mr. Cardan one late afternoon some fortnight after
Chelifer’s arrival, “we two seem to be rather left out of it.”
“Left out of what?” asked Mr. Falx.
“Out of love,” said Mr. Cardan. He looked down over the balustrade. On
the next terrace below, Chelifer and Mrs. Aldwinkle were walking slowly
up and down. On the terrace below that strolled the diminished and
foreshortened figures of Calamy and Miss Thriplow. “And the other two,”
said Mr. Cardan, as if continuing aloud the enumeration which he and his
companion had made in silence, with the eye alone, “your young pupil and
the little niece, have gone for a walk in the hills. Can you ask what
we’re left out of?”
Mr. Falx nodded. “To tell you the truth,” he said, “I don’t much like
the atmosphere of this house. Mrs. Aldwinkle’s an excellent woman, of
course, in many respects. But ...” he hesitated.
“Yes; but ...” Mr. Cardan nodded. “I see your point.”
“I shall be rather glad when I have got young Hovenden away from here,”
said Mr. Falx.
“If you get him alone I shall be surprised.”
Mr. Falx went on, shaking his head: “There’s a certain moral laxity, a
certain self-indulgence.... I confess I don’t like this way of life. I
may be prejudiced; but I don’t like it.”
“Every one has his favourite vice,” said Mr. Cardan. “You forget, Mr.
Falx, that we probably don’t like _your_ way of life.”
“I protest,” said Mr. Falx hotly. “Is it possible to compare my way of
life with the way of life in this house? Here am I, working incessantly
for a noble cause, devoting myself to the public good....”
“Still,” said Mr. Cardan, “they do say that there’s nothing more
intoxicating than talking to a crowd of people and moving them the way
you want them to go; they do say, too, that it’s piercingly delicious to
listen to applause. And people who have tried both have told me that the
joys of power are far preferable, if only because they are a good deal
more enduring, to those one can derive from wine or love. No, no, Mr.
Falx; if we chose to climb on to our high horses we should be as amply
justified in disapproving of your laxity and self-indulgence as you are
in disapproving of ours. I always notice that the most grave and awful
denunciations of obscenity in literature are to be found precisely in
those periodicals whose directors are most notoriously alcoholic. And
the preachers and politicians with the greatest vanity, the most
inordinate itch for power and notoriety, are always those who denounce
most fiercely the corruptions of the age. One of the greatest triumphs
of the nineteenth century was to limit the connotation of the word
‘immoral’ in such a way that, for practical purposes, only those were
immoral who drank too much or made too copious love. Those who indulged
in any or all of the other deadly sins could look down in righteous
indignation on the lascivious and the gluttonous. And not only could but
can—even now. This exaltation of two out of the seven deadly sins is
most unfair. In the name of all lechers and boozers I most solemnly
protest against the invidious distinction made to our prejudice. Believe
me, Mr. Falx, we are no more reprehensible than the rest of you. Indeed,
compared with some of your political friends, I feel I have a right to
consider myself almost a saint.”
“Still,” said Mr. Falx, whose face, where it was not covered by his
prophetical white beard, had become very red with ill-suppressed
indignation, “you won’t persuade me out of my conviction that these are
not the most healthy surroundings for a young fellow like Hovenden at
the most impressionable period of his life. Be as paradoxical and
ingenious as you like: you will not persuade me, I repeat.”
“No need to repeat, I assure you,” said Mr. Cardan, shaking his head.
“Did you think I ever supposed I could persuade you? You don’t imagine
I’d waste my time trying to persuade a full-grown man with fixed
opinions of the truth of something he doesn’t already believe? If you
were twelve years old, even if you were twenty, I might try. But at your
age—no, no.”
“Then why do you argue, if you don’t want to persuade?” asked Mr. Falx.
“For the sake of argument,” Mr. Cardan replied, “and because one must
murder the time somehow.
Come ingannar questi noiosi e lenti
Giorni di vita cui si lungo tedio
E fastidio insoffribile accompagna
Or io t’insegnero.
I could write a better handbook of the art than old Parini.”
“I’m sorry,” said Mr. Falx, “but I don’t know Italian.”
“Nor should I,” said Mr. Cardan, “if I had your unbounded resources for
killing time. Unhappily, I was born without much zeal for the welfare of
the working classes.”
“Working classes....” Mr. Falx swooped down on the words. Passionately
he began to talk. What was that text, thought Mr. Cardan, about the
measure with which ye mete? How fearfully applicable it was! For the
last ten minutes he’d been boring poor old Mr. Falx. And now Mr. Falx
had turned round and was paying him back with his own measure—but, oh,
Lord, pressed down and, heaven help us! running over. He looked down
over the balustrade. On the lower terraces the couples were still
parading up and down. He wondered what they were saying; he wished he
were down there to listen. Boomingly, Mr. Falx played his prophetic
part.
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