Part 14 (1/2)

Shelton hazarded, ”Perhaps you 're weaker than your brother.”

”Come, come! Take the case of women: now, I consider our marriage laws are barbarous.”

For the first time Shelton conceived respect for them; he made a comprehensive gesture, and edged himself into the conversation of another group, for fear of having all his prejudices overturned. Here an Irish sculptor, standing in a curve, was saying furiously, ”Bees are not bhumpkins, d---n their sowls!” A Scotch painter, who listened with a curly smile, seemed trying to compromise this proposition, which appeared to have relation to the middle cla.s.ses; and though agreeing with the Irishman, Shelton felt nervous over his discharge of electricity. Next to them two American ladies, a.s.sembled under the tent of hair belonging to a writer of songs, were discussing the emotions aroused in them by Wagner's operas.

”They produce a strange condition of affairs in me,” said the thinner one.

”They 're just divine,” said the fatter.

”I don't know if you can call the fleshly l.u.s.ts divine,” replied the thinner, looking into the eyes of the writer of the songs.

Amidst all the hum of voices and the fumes of smoke, a sense of formality was haunting Shelton. Sandwiched between a Dutchman and a Prussian poet, he could understand neither of his neighbours; so, a.s.suming an intelligent expression, he fell to thinking that an a.s.semblage of free spirits is as much bound by the convention of exchanging their ideas as commonplace people are by the convention of having no ideas to traffic in. He could not help wondering whether, in the bulk, they were not just as dependent on each other as the inhabitants of Kensington; whether, like locomotives, they could run at all without these opportunities for blowing off the steam, and what would be left when the steam had all escaped. Somebody ceased playing the violin, and close to him a group began discussing ethics.

Aspirations were in the air all round, like a lot of hungry ghosts. He realised that, if tongue be given to them, the flavour vanishes from ideas which haunt the soul.

Again the violinist played.

”c.o.c.k gracious!” said the Prussian poet, falling into English as the fiddle ceased: ”Colossal! 'Aber, wie er ist grossartig'!”

”Have you read that thing of Besom's?” asked shrill voice behind.

”Oh, my dear fellow! too horrid for words; he ought to be hanged!”

”The man's dreadful,” pursued the voice, shriller than ever; ”nothing but a volcanic eruption would cure him.”

Shelton turned in alarm to look at the authors of these statements. They were two men of letters talking of a third.

”'C'est un grand naif, vous savez,'” said the second speaker.

”These fellows don't exist,” resumed the first; his small eyes gleamed with a green light, his whole face had a look as if he gnawed himself.

Though not a man of letters, Shelton could not help recognising from those eyes what joy it was to say those words: ”These fellows don't exist!”

”Poor Besom! You know what Moulter said . . .”

Shelton turned away, as if he had been too close to one whose hair smelt of cantharides; and, looking round the room, he frowned. With the exception of his cousin, he seemed the only person there of English blood. Americans, Mesopotamians, Irish, Italians, Germans, Scotch, and Russians. He was not contemptuous of them for being foreigners; it was simply that G.o.d and the climate had made him different by a skin or so.

But at this point his conclusions were denied (as will sometimes happen) by his introduction to an Englishman--a Major Somebody, who, with smooth hair and blond moustache, neat eyes and neater clothes, seemed a little anxious at his own presence there. Shelton took a liking to him, partly from a fellow-feeling, and partly because of the gentle smile with which he was looking at his wife. Almost before he had said ”How do you do?”

he was plunged into a discussion on imperialism.

”Admitting all that,” said Shelton, ”what I hate is the humbug with which we pride ourselves on benefiting the whole world by our so-called civilising methods.”

The soldier turned his reasonable eyes.

”But is it humbug?”

Shelton saw his argument in peril. If we really thought it, was it humbug? He replied, however:

”Why should we, a small portion of the world's population, a.s.sume that our standards are the proper ones for every kind of race? If it 's not humbug, it 's sheer stupidity.”

The soldier, without taking his hands out of his pockets, but by a forward movement of his face showing that he was both sincere and just, re-replied: