STREAKS OF DAWN.
Next day proved warm and sunny, and we started early, to enjoy the
luxury of a good long chat before he would be obliged to leave me.
“This neighbourhood has more than its due proportion of the _very_
poor,” I remarked, as we passed a group of hovels, too dilapidated to
deserve the name of “cottages.”
“But the few rich,” Arthur replied, “give more than their due proportion
of help in charity. So the balance is kept.”
“I suppose the _Earl_ does a good deal?”
“He _gives_ liberally; but he has not the health or strength to do more.
Lady Muriel does more in the way of school-teaching and cottage-visiting
than she would like me to reveal.”
“Then _she_, at least, is not one of the ‘idle mouths’ one so often
meets with among the upper classes. I have sometimes thought they would
have a hard time of it, if suddenly called on to give their _raison
d’être_, and to show cause why they should be allowed to live any
longer!”
“The whole subject,” said Arthur, “of what we may call ‘idle mouths’ (I
mean persons who absorb some of the material _wealth_ of a community—in
the form of food, clothes, and so on—without contributing its equivalent
in the form of productive _labour_) is a complicated one, no doubt. I’ve
tried to think it out. And it seemed to me that the simplest form of the
problem, to start with, is a community without _money_, who buy and sell
by _barter_ only; and it makes it yet simpler to suppose the food and
other things to be capable of _keeping_ for many years without
spoiling.”
“Yours is an excellent plan,” I said. “What is your solution of the
problem?”
“The commonest type of ‘idle mouths,’” said Arthur, “is no doubt due to
money being left by parents to their own children. So I imagined a
man—either exceptionally clever, or exceptionally strong and
industrious—who had contributed so much valuable labour to the needs of
the community that its equivalent, in clothes, &c., was (say) five times
as much as he needed for himself. We cannot deny his _absolute_ right to
give the superfluous wealth as he chooses. So, if he leaves _four_
children behind him (say two sons and two daughters), with enough of all
the necessaries of life to last them a life-time, I cannot see that the
_community_ is in any way wronged if they choose to do nothing in life
but to ‘eat, drink, and be merry.’ Most certainly, the community could
not fairly say, in reference to _them_, ‘_if a man will not work,
neither let him eat_.’ Their reply would be crushing. ‘The labour has
already been _done_, which is a fair equivalent for the food we are
eating; and you have had the benefit of it. On what principle of justice
can you demand _two_ quotas of work for _one_ quota of food?’”
“Yet surely,” I said, “there is something wrong _somewhere_, if these
four people are well able to do useful work, and if that work is
actually _needed_ by the community, and they elect to sit idle?”
“I think there _is_,” said Arthur: “but it seems to me to arise from a
Law of God—that every one shall do as much as he can to help others—and
not from any _rights_, on the part of the community, to exact labour as
an equivalent for food that has already been fairly earned.”
“I suppose the _second_ form of the problem is where the ‘idle mouths’
possess _money_ instead of _material_ wealth?”
“Yes,” replied Arthur: “and I think the simplest case is that of
_paper_-money. _Gold_ is itself a form of material wealth; but a
bank-note is merely a _promise_ to hand over so much _material_ wealth
when called upon to do so. The father of these four ‘idle mouths,’ had
done (let us say) five thousand pounds’ worth of useful work for the
community. In return for this, the community had given him what amounted
to a written promise to hand over, whenever called upon to do so, five
thousand pounds’ worth of food, &c. Then, if he only uses _one_ thousand
pounds’ worth himself, and leaves the rest of the notes to his children,
surely they have a full right to _present_ these written promises, and
to say ‘hand over the food, for which the equivalent labour has been
already done.’ Now I think _this_ case well worth stating, publicly and
clearly. I should like to drive it into the heads of those Socialists
who are priming our ignorant paupers with such sentiments as ‘Look at
them bloated haristocrats! Doing not a stroke o’ work for theirselves,
and living on the sweat of _our_ brows!’ I should like to _force_ them
to see that the _money_, which those ‘haristocrats’ are spending,
represents so much labour _already done_ for the community, and whose
equivalent, in _material_ wealth, is _due from the community_.”
“Might not the Socialists reply ‘Much of this money does not represent
_honest_ labour _at all_. If you could trace it back, from owner to
owner, though you might begin with several legitimate steps, such as
gift, or bequeathing by will, or ‘value received,’ you would soon reach
an owner who had no moral right to it, but had got it by fraud or other
crimes; and of course his successors in the line would have no better
right to it than _he_ had.”
“No doubt, no doubt,” Arthur replied. “But surely that involves the
logical fallacy of _proving too much_? It is _quite_ as applicable to
_material_ wealth, as it is to _money_. If we once begin to go back
beyond the fact that the _present_ owner of certain property came by it
honestly, and to ask whether any previous owner, in past ages, got it by
fraud, would _any_ property be secure?”
After a minute’s thought, I felt obliged to admit the truth of this.
“My general conclusion,” Arthur continued, “from the mere standpoint of
human _rights_, man against man, was this—that if some wealthy ‘idle
mouth,’ who has come by his money in a lawful way, even though not one
atom of the labour it represents has been his own doing, chooses to
spend it on his own needs, without contributing any labour to the
community from whom he buys his food and clothes, that community has no
_right_ to interfere with him. But it’s quite another thing, when we
come to consider the _divine_ law. Measured by _that_ standard, such a
man is undoubtedly doing wrong, if he fails to use, for the good of
those in need, the strength or the skill, that God has given him. That
strength and skill do _not_ belong to the community, to be paid to
_them_ as a _debt_: they do _not_ belong to the man _himself_, to be
used for his _own_ enjoyment: they _do_ belong to God, to be used
according to _His_ will; and we are not left in doubt as to what that
will is. ‘_Do good, and lend, hoping for nothing again._’”
“Anyhow,” I said, “an ‘idle mouth’ very often gives away a great deal in
charity.”
“In _so-called_ ‘charity,’” he corrected me. “Excuse me if I seem to
speak _un_charitably. I would not dream of _applying_ the term to any
_individual_. But I would say, _generally_, that a man who gratifies
every fancy that occurs to him—denying himself in _nothing_—and merely
gives to the poor some part, or even _all_, of his _superfluous_ wealth,
is only deceiving himself if he calls it _charity_.”
“But, even in giving away _superfluous_ wealth, he _may_ be denying
himself the miser’s pleasure in hoarding?”
“I grant you that, gladly,” said Arthur. “Given that he _has_ that
morbid craving, he is doing a good deed in restraining it.”
“But, even in spending on _himself_,” I persisted, “our typical rich man
often does good, by employing people who would otherwise be out of work:
and that is often better than pauperising them by _giving_ the money.”
“I’m glad you’ve said that!” said Arthur. “I would not like to quit the
subject without exposing the _two_ fallacies of that statement—which
have gone so long uncontradicted that Society now accepts it as an
axiom!”
“What are they?” I said. “I don’t even see _one_, myself.”
“One is merely the fallacy of _ambiguity_—the assumption that ‘_doing
good_’ (that is, benefiting somebody) is necessarily _a good thing to
do_ (that is, a _right_ thing). The other is the assumption that, if one
of two specified acts is _better_ than another, it is necessarily a
_good_ act in itself. I should like to call this the fallacy of
_comparison_—meaning that it assumes that what is _comparatively_ good
is therefore _positively_ good.”
“Then what is _your_ test of a good act?”
“That it shall be _our best_,” Arthur confidently replied. “And even
_then_ ‘_we are unprofitable servants_.’ But let me illustrate the two
fallacies. Nothing illustrates a fallacy so well as an extreme case,
which fairly comes under it. Suppose I find two children drowning in a
pond. I rush in, and save one of the children, and then walk away,
leaving the other to drown. Clearly I have ‘_done good_,’ in saving a
child’s life? But——. Again, supposing I meet an inoffensive stranger,
and knock him down, and walk on. Clearly that is ‘_better_’ than if I
had proceeded to jump upon him and break his ribs? But——”
“Those ‘buts’ are quite unanswerable,” I said. “But I should like an
instance from _real_ life.”
“Well, let us take one of those abominations of modern Society, a
Charity-Bazaar. It’s an interesting question to think out—how much of
the money, that reaches the object in view, is _genuine_ charity; and
whether even _that_ is spent in the _best_ way. But the subject needs
regular classification, and analysis, to understand it properly.”
“I should be glad to _have_ it analysed,” I said: “it has often puzzled
me.”
“Well, if I am really not boring you. Let us suppose our Charity-Bazaar
to have been organised to aid the funds of some Hospital: and that A, B,
C _give_ their services in making articles to sell, and in acting as
salesmen, while X, Y, Z buy the articles, and the money so paid goes to
the Hospital.
“There are two distinct species of such Bazaars: one, where the payment
exacted is merely the _market-value_ of the goods supplied, that is,
exactly what you would have to pay at a shop: the other, where
_fancy-prices_ are asked. We must take these separately.
“First, the ‘market-value’ case. Here A, B, C are exactly in the same
position as ordinary shopkeepers; the only difference being that they
give the proceeds to the Hospital. Practically, they are _giving their
skilled labour_ for the benefit of the Hospital. This seems to me to be
genuine charity. And I don’t see how they could use it better. But X, Y,
Z, are exactly in the same position as any ordinary purchasers of goods.
To talk of ‘charity’ in connection with _their_ share of the business,
is sheer nonsense. Yet they are very likely to do so.
“Secondly, the case of ‘fancy-prices.’ Here I think the simplest plan is
to divide the payment into two parts, the ‘market-value’ and the excess
over that. The ‘market-value’ part is on the same footing as in the
first case: the _excess_ is all we have to consider. Well, A, B, C do
not _earn_ it; so we may put _them_ out of the question: it is a _gift_,
from X, Y, Z, to the Hospital. And my opinion is that it is not given in
the best way: far better buy what they choose to _buy_, and give what
they choose to _give_, as two _separate_ transactions: then there is
_some_ chance that their motive in giving may be real charity, instead
of a mixed motive—half charity, half self-pleasing. ‘The trail of the
serpent is over it all.’ And _therefore_ it is that I hold all such
spurious ‘Charities’ in _utter_ abomination!” He ended with unusual
energy, and savagely beheaded, with his stick, a tall thistle at the
road-side, behind which I was startled to see Sylvie and Bruno standing.
I caught at his arm, but too late to stop him. Whether the stick reached
them, or not, I could not feel sure: at any rate they took not the
smallest notice of it, but smiled gaily, and nodded to me; and I saw at
once that they were only visible to _me_: the ‘eerie’ influence had not
reached to _Arthur_.
“Why did you try to save it?” he said. “_That’s_ not the wheedling
Secretary of a Charity-Bazaar! I only wish it were!” he added grimly.
“Doos oo know, that stick went right froo my head!” said Bruno. (They
had run round to me by this time, and each had secured a hand.) “Just
under my chin! I _are_ glad I aren’t a thistle!”
“Well, we’ve threshed _that_ subject out, anyhow!” Arthur resumed. “I’m
afraid I’ve been talking too much, for _your_ patience and for my
strength. I must be turning soon. This is about the end of my tether.”
“Take, O boatman, thrice thy fee;
Take, I give it willingly;
For, invisible to thee,
Spirits twain have crossed with me!”
I quoted, involuntarily.
“For utterly inappropriate and irrelevant quotations,” laughed Arthur,
“you are ‘ekalled by few, and excelled by none’!” And we strolled on.
As we passed the head of the lane that led down to the beach, I noticed
a single figure, moving slowly along it, seawards. She was a good way
off, and had her back to us: but it was Lady Muriel, unmistakably.
Knowing that Arthur had not seen her, as he had been looking, in the
other direction, at a gathering rain-cloud, I made no remark, but tried
to think of some plausible pretext for sending him back by the sea.
The opportunity instantly presented itself. “I’m getting tired,” he
said. “I don’t think it would be prudent to go further. I had better
turn here.”
I turned with him, for a few steps, and as we again approached the head
of the lane, I said, as carelessly as I could, “Don’t go back by the
road. It’s too hot and dusty. Down this lane, and along the beach, is
nearly as short; and you’ll get a breeze off the sea.”
“Yes, I think I will,” Arthur began; but at that moment we came into
sight of Lady Muriel, and he checked himself. “No, it’s too far round.
Yet it certainly _would_ be cooler——” He stood, hesitating, looking
first one way and then the other—a melancholy picture of utter infirmity
of purpose!
How long this humiliating scene would have continued, if _I_ had been
the only external influence, it is impossible to say; for at this moment
Sylvie, with a swift decision worthy of Napoleon himself, took the
matter into her own hands. “You go and drive _her_, up this way,” she
said to Bruno. “I’ll get _him_ along!” And she took hold of the stick
that Arthur was carrying, and gently pulled him down the lane.
He was totally unconscious that any will but his own was acting on the
stick, and appeared to think it had taken a horizontal position simply
because he was pointing with it. “Are not those _orchises_ under the
hedge there?” he said. “I think that decides me. I’ll gather some as I
go along.”
[Illustration: ‘ARE NOT THOSE ORCHISES?’]
Meanwhile Bruno had run on beyond Lady Muriel, and, with much jumping
about and shouting (shouts audible to no one but Sylvie and myself),
much as if he were driving sheep, he managed to turn her round and make
her walk, with eyes demurely cast upon the ground, in our direction.
The victory was ours! And, since it was evident that the lovers, thus
urged together, _must_ meet in another minute, I turned and walked on,
hoping that Sylvie and Bruno would follow my example, as I felt sure
that the fewer the spectators the better it would be for Arthur and his
good angel.
“And what sort of meeting was it?” I wondered, as I paced dreamily on.