“The VIOLENT ANARCHISTS or TERRORISTS dislike those who want power as much as those who have it. Since every other class depends on those who work the land, the mines, the factories and transport, they say such workers should keep what they make to themselves — should ignore money and exchange things by barter — should use explosives to frighten off folk who will not join them yet try to boss them.”
“So they should!” I shouted.
“I agree. I also agree with those who say the police and army are better terrorists than anyone else. Besides, the middle classes hold the keys to the warehouses of food and fuel, no matter who produces it.
“So your only hope is among the PACIFISTS or PEACEFUL ANARCHISTS. They say we can only improve the world by improving ourselves and hoping others copy us. This means not fighting anyone, giving away money and either living on the free gifts of others or on the work of our own hands. Buddha, Jesus, and Saint Francis took this path and in this century Prince Kropotkin, Count Leo Tolstoï and an American bachelor farmer-author called Thoreau. The movement attracts a lot of harmless aristocrats and writers. They annoy governments by refusing to pay taxes they think evil — which is most of them, since armies and weapons are what taxes mainly pay for. However, the police only imprison and flog ordinary Pacifists. The admirers of the famous ones keep them out of serious trouble. When you go into politics, Bell, be sure to become a Pacifist Anarchist. People will love you.”
I wept and cried, “O what can I do?”
He said, “Let us go to the stem, Bell, and I will tell you.”
ASTLEY’S SOLUTION— So we leaned over a rail watching the wake of the ship slide foaming backward and out over the slow glossy moonlit waves and he said, “The tearful motherlinesss you feel toward the wretched of this earth is an animal instinct which lacks its proper object. Marry and have children. Marry me. My country estate has a farm on it and a while village — think of the power you will have. Besides caring for my children (who we will not send to public schools) you can bully me into improving the drains and lowering the rents of a whole community. I am offering you the chance to be as happy and good as an intelligent woman can be on this filthy planet.”
I said, “Your offer does not tempt me, Harry Astley, because I do not love you;19 but it is the most cunning inducement to lead a totally selfish life you could offer a woman. Thank you, but no.”
“Then please hold my hand for a moment.”
So I did and I felt for the first time who he really is — a tortured little boy who hates cruelty as much as I do but thinks himself a strong man because he can pretend to like it. He is as poor and desperate as my lost daughter, but only inside. Outside he is perfectly comfortable. Everyone should have a cosy shell round them, a good coat with money in the pockets. I must be a Socialist.
Misery stopped me thinking about good things, God, so I did not remember you until this morning. I was awakened by a noise like heavy rain and lay imagining how it would freshen the lettuces for Mopsy and Flopsy — how I would soon breakfast on poached eggs and kidneys and kippers while you ate your mash and bubbles — how we would then visit and mend the sick animals in our hospital. Having basked for many minutes in gladness and peace I opened my eyes and saw Wedderburn’s feet beside me and sunlight between the slats of the shuttered window. I remembered that the rainy noise came from a eucalyptus tree outside the hotel, a tree whose hard glossy leaves rattle and hiss against each other in the wind. But the peaceful gladness did not go away. The memory of you kept horror and weeping out because you are wiser and better than Dr. Hooker and Harry Astley put together. You never said that cruelty to the helpless is good or inevitable or unimportant. One day you will tell me how to change what I cannot yet describe without my words swelling HUGE, vowels vanishing, tears washing ink away.
Someone rapped on the bedroom door to say they had put a steaming canister of hot water on the floor outside. I had not shaved Wedder since the day we docked in Alexandria, and decided to do it now. Leaping up I swiftly washed and dressed, slipped a towel between his head and pillow and lathered his face all over. This was much easier to do with his head at the bottom of the bed. He neither spoke nor opened his eyes but I knew he was pleased, because he hates shaving himself. As I removed the bristles I reminded him that a ship bound for Glasgow by way of Lisbon and Liverpool was leaving today — that Mr. Astley was travelling on it, and had offered to book a passage for us. Still without opening his eyes Wedder said, “We are going to Paris by way of Marseilles.”
“But why, Duncan?”
“Since even a thieving trollop like you refuses to marry me only Paris remains. Take me there. Hand me over to the midinettes20 and the little green fairy then marry who you like — English, American or filthy Russian ha ha ha ha ha.”
Wedder is a lot cheerier since he decided he is not a fiend and that I probably am. I said, “But Duncan, we cannot afford to stay in Paris. I have only enough money to take us home.”
This was not true. Your money is still in the lining of my travelling-coat, God, but I felt the kindest way to get rid of Wedder (who hardly ever wants to wed me now) was by returning him to his mother. He said, “Then I must stay in Gibraltar till I have managed to cash the last Consolidated Annuities in my inheritance; and know, woman, you will never again rob or cheat me of a single penny — I shall hold on to the whole amount. Since you care about money you had better abandon me today and return to Britain with your precious Astley.”
I liked that idea but could not abandon Wedder so far from home. I know nothing about the midinettes and little green fairy, but if they are kind to him he may stop with them in Paris and I will return to Glasgow alone.
As usual he wanted tea and toast in bed. I went to the dining-room, asked for these to be sent up and breakfasted for the last time with Harry Astley. Did I tell you he is a widower who guessed long ago that I am not married? Over the ham and eggs (this is a British hotel though the staff are Spanish) I saw he was going to propose again, and prevented it by saying I would only marry a world-improver. He sighed, drummed his fingers on the tablecloth then said I should beware of men who talked about improving the world — many used such talk to entrap women of my sort.
“What sort is that?” I asked, interested. He looked away from me and said coldly, “The brave and kind sort who feel generous to the miserable of every class and country — generous also to the cold, rich and selfish.”
I nearly melted. I said, “Stand up, Harry.”
He must have been taught young to obey people because although he looked startled and the dining-room was very busy he stood up at once, straight, like a soldier. I sprang to him, tied his arms to his sides with my own and kissed him until he trembled. Then I whispered, “Good-bye Harry,” and hurried upstairs to my weary old Wedder. He and Harry are much alike, though Harry has stronger nerves. In the passage from the dining-room I looked back at the last possible moment. The foreign guests were staring at me, the British were pretending nothing odd had happened. Harry Astley, obviously British, was concentrating on his breakfast.
Candle must not be jealous. That was the only kiss Harry got from me, and no talkers will trap Bell Baxter. When I come home, God, you will tell us how to improve the world, then you and me, Candle, will marry and do it.