But when I saw Cynthia, as I presently did, she too was in a different
mood. She had positively missed me, and told me so with many
endearments. I was not to remain away so long. I was useful to her.
Charmides had become tiresome and lost in thought, but Lucius was as
sweet as ever. Some new-comers had arrived, all pleasant enough. She
asked me where I had been, and I told her all the story. "Yes, that is
beautiful enough," she said, "but I hate all this breaking up and going
on. I am sure I do not wish for any change." She made a grimace of
disgust at the idea of the ugly town I had seen, and then she said that
she would go with me some time to look at it, because it would make her
happier to return to her peace; and then she went off to tell Lucius.
I soon found Charmides, and I told him my adventures. "That is a
curious story," he said. "I like to think of people caring for each
other so; that is picturesque! These simple emotions are interesting.
And one likes to think that people who have none of the finer tastes
should have something to fall back upon--something hot and strong, as we
used to say."
"But," I said, "tell me this, Charmides, was there never any one in the
old days whom you cared for like that?"
"I thought so often enough," said he, a little peevishly, "but you do
not know how much a man like myself is at the mercy of little things! An
ugly hand, a broken tooth, a fallen cheek ... it seems little enough,
but one has a sort of standard. I had a microscopic eye, you know, and a
little blemish was a serious thing to me. I was always in search of
something that I could not find; then there were awkward strains in the
characters of people--they were mean or greedy or selfish, and all my
pleasure was suddenly dashed. I am speaking," he went on, "with a
strange candour! I don't defend it or excuse it, but there it was. I did
once, as a child, I believe, care for one person--an old nurse of
mine--in the right way. Dear, how good she was to me! I remember once
how she came all the way, after she had left us, to see me on my way
through town. She just met me at a railway station, and she had bought a
little book which she thought might amuse me, and a bag of oranges--she
remembered that I used to like oranges. I recollect at the time thinking
it was all very touching and devoted; but I was with a friend of mine,
and had not time to say much. I can see her old face, smiling, with
tears in her eyes, as we went off. I gave the book and the oranges away,
I remember, to a child at the next station. It is curious how it all
comes back to me now; I never saw her again, and I wish I had behaved
better. I should like to see her again, and to tell her that I really
cared! I wonder if that is possible? But there is really so much to do
here and to enjoy; and there is no one to tell me where to go, so that I
am puzzled. What is one to do?"
"I think that if one desires a thing enough here, Charmides," I said,
"one is in a fair way to obtain it. Never mind! a door will be opened.
But one has got to care, I suppose; it is not enough to look upon it as
a pretty effect, which one would just like to put in its place with
other effects--'Open, sesame'--do you remember? There is a charm at
which all doors fly open, even here!"
"I will talk to you more about this," said Charmides, "when I have had
time to arrange my thoughts a little. Who would have supposed that an
old recollection like that would have disturbed me so much? It would
make a good subject for a picture or a song."