Fraternity. Galsworthy John
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of society, dignified in those days with the name of civilisation, the only source of hope was the persistence of the quality called courage. Amongst a thousand nerve-destroying habits, amongst the dramshops, patent medicines, the undigested chaos of inventions and discoveries, while hundreds were prating in their pulpits of things believed in by a negligible fraction of the population, and thousands writing down today what nobody would want to read in two days’ time; while men shut animals in cages, and made bears jig to please their children, and all were striving one against the other; while, in a word, like gnats above a stagnant pool on a summer’s evening, man danced up and down without the faintest notion why – in this condition of affairs the quality of courage was alive. It was the only fire within that gloomy valley.'” He stopped, though evidently anxious to go on, because he had read the last word on that sheet of paper. He moved towards the writing-desk. Cecilia said hastily:
“Do you mind if I shut the window, father?”
Mr. Stone made a movement of his head, and Cecilia saw that he held a second sheet of paper in his hand. She rose, and, going towards him, said:
“I want to talk to you, Dad!” Taking up the cord of his dressing-gown, she pulled it by its tassel.
“Don’t!” said Mr. Stone; “it secures my trousers.”
Cecilia dropped the cord. ‘Father is really terrible!’ she thought.
Mr. Stone, lifting the second sheet of paper, began again:
“‘The reason, however, was not far to seek – ”
Cecilia said desperately:
“It’s about that girl who comes to copy for you.”
Mr. Stone lowered the sheet of paper, and stood, slightly curved from head to foot; his ears moved as though he were about to lay them back; his blue eyes, with little white spots of light alongside the tiny black pupils, stared at his daughter.
Cecilia thought: ‘He’s listening now.’
She made haste. “Must you have her here? Can’t you do without her?”
“Without whom?” said Mr. Stone.
“Without the girl who comes to copy for you.”
“Why?”
“For this very good reason – ”
Mr. Stone dropped his eyes, and Cecilia saw that he had moved the sheet of paper up as far as his waist.
“Does she copy better than any other girl could?” she asked hastily.
“No,” said Mr. Stone.
“Then, Father, I do wish, to please me, you’d get someone else. I know what I’m talking about, and I – ” Cecilia stopped; her father’s lips and eyes were moving; he was obviously reading to himself.
‘I’ve no patience with him,’ she thought; ‘he thinks of nothing but his wretched book.’
Aware of his daughter’s silence, Mr. Stone let the sheet of paper sink, and waited patiently again.
“What do you want, my dear?” he said.
“Oh, Father, do listen just a minute!”
“Yes, Yes.”
“It’s about that girl who comes to copy for you. Is there any reason why she should come instead of any other girl?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Stone.
“What reason?”
“Because she has no friends.”
So awkward a reply was not expected by Cecilia; she looked at the floor, forced to search within her soul. Silence lasted several seconds; then Mr. Stone’s voice rose above a whisper:
“‘The reason was not far to seek. Man, differentiated from the other apes by his desire to know, was from the first obliged to steel himself against the penalties of knowledge. Like animals subjected to the rigours of an Arctic climate, and putting forth more fur with each reduction in the temperature, man’s hide of courage thickened automatically to resist the spear-thrusts dealt him by his own insatiate curiosity. In those days of which we speak, when undigested knowledge, in a great invading horde, had swarmed all his defences, man, suffering from a foul dyspepsia, with a nervous system in the latest stages of exhaustion, and a reeling brain, survived by reason of his power to go on making courage. Little heroic as (in the then general state of petty competition) his deeds appeared to be, there never had yet been a time when man in bulk was more courageous, for there never had yet been a time when he had more need to be. Signs were not wanting that this desperate state of things had caught the eyes of the community. A little sect – '” Mr. Stone stopped; his eyes had again tumbled over the bottom edge; he moved hurriedly towards the desk. Just as his hand removed a stone and took up a third sheet, Cecilia cried out:
“Father!”
Mr. Stone stopped, and turned towards her. His daughter saw that he had gone quite pink; her annoyance vanished.
“Father! About that girl – ”
Mr. Stone seemed to reflect. “Yes, yes,” he said.
“I don’t think Bianca likes her coming here.”
Mr. Stone passed his hand across his brow.
“Forgive me for reading to you, my dear,” he said; “it’s a great relief to me at times.”
Cecilia went close to him, and refrained with difficulty from taking up the tasselled cord.
“Of course, dear,” she said: “I quite understand that.”
Mr. Stone looked full in her face, and before a gaze which seemed to go through her and see things the other side, Cecilia dropped her eyes.
“It is strange,” he said, “how you came to be my daughter!”
To Cecilia, too, this had often seemed a problem.
“There is a great deal in atavism,” said Mr. Stone, “that we know nothing of at present.”
Cecilia cried with heat, “I do wish you would attend a minute, Father; it’s really an important matter,” and she turned towards the window, tears being very near her eyes.
The voice of Mr. Stone said humbly: “I will try, my dear.”
But Cecilia thought: ‘I must give him a good lesson. He really is too self-absorbed’; and she did not move, conveying by the posture of her shoulders how gravely she was vexed.
She could see nursemaids wheeling babies towards the Gardens, and noted their faces gazing, not at the babies, but, uppishly, at other nursemaids, or, with a sort of cautious longing, at men who passed. How selfish they looked! She felt a little glow of satisfaction that she was making this thin and bent old man behind her conscious of his egoism.
‘He will know better another time,’ she thought. Suddenly she heard a whistling, squeaking sound – it was Mr. Stone whispering the third page of his manuscript:
“‘ – animated by some admirable sentiments, but whose doctrines – riddled by the fact that life is but the change of form to form – were too constricted for the evils they designed to remedy; this little sect, who had as yet to learn the meaning of universal love, were making the most strenuous efforts, in advance of the community at large, to understand themselves. The necessary, movement which they voiced – reaction against the high-tide of the fratricidal system then prevailing – was young, and had the freshness and honesty of youth…'”
Without a word Cecilia turned round and hurried to the door. She saw her father drop the sheet of paper; she saw his face, all pink and silver, stooping after it; and remorse visited her anger.
In the corridor outside she was arrested by a noise. The uncertain light of London halls fell there; on close inspection the sufferer was seen to be Miranda, who, unable to decide whether she wanted to be in the garden or the house, was seated beneath the hatrack snuffling to herself. On seeing Cecilia she came out.
“What do you want, you little beast?”
Peering