Part 13
“There is much truth in what Mr. Hawkesbury says,” says Gildea, “Just at present we think too much of the ultimate Culture of the Middle-class and too little of that of the People. But the fact is, that the question of the Middle-class is pressing: they are, as you say, Hawkesbury, the possessors; they are the Present! And this, I think, is why men like Arnold, who believe that, in the organization of the Present, lies the only hope of the success of the Future, are so anxious about it. It is a case, as he believes, of ‘Culture or Anarchy’—Culture now or Anarchy then. And Carlyle, a disciple of whom Mr. Hawkesbury has, in the admirable Preface to his second book of Poems, declared himself to be; Carlyle too, who laid much stress on what he calls ‘the radical element’ in himself, yet mocks at ‘Mill and Co.’ as he says, in whom he declares the opposite element was ‘so miserably lacking.’ Carlyle had no respect for ‘Rousseau fanaticisms,’ even in a man like Mazzini: he saw that, if the Middle-class were purblind and slow, the Socialists were only purblind and quick. Supposing that we grant that the Dynamiters of Russia are justified in meeting an absolutely dense despotism with violence, what excuse but impatience can we find for the Dynamiters of Ireland? The first have no means of free agitation, the second have every means. Ireland has been wronged: no one denies it; and never, in the whole course of her history, has England shown such alacrity as she is doing now to right the wrong; never, not even for herself. But the Irish Socialists are impatient: their cry is for everything to-day, this very hour! To grant it them would be the greatest unkindness possible. Well, they too have taken to dynamite as a hypochondriac takes to opium. The Russian Nihilists are noble people, none nobler, but they taught fools and knaves an appalling lesson when they inaugurated the reign of terror in Petersburg. At the present moment, as Heine clearly foresaw, the Civilization, not of Europe, but of the whole world is in danger.”
“You speak well, Sir Horace,” said Maddock, “and express my opinions better than I could myself, but—_Timeo_.”
He, Gildea, and Fitzgerald smiled. Hawkesbury was grave. There was a pause. Then:
“I think,” he said, “that you do the People wrong. These extreme Socialists, the Nihilists as they are called, are not from the People, but from the Middle-class. They are, as a rule, men who have received the best education of the time, and who yet find themselves unrecognized and unrewarded. Most of them are journalists. It would astonish you, I think, to see the amount of really first-rate talent that is being flogged to death in the shafts of the modern Press. These men cannot work in shops and banks: the narrow material life has been made impossible to them. The only opening for the life they would—nay, that they _must_ live, or perish, is that of Literature. Literature caters for the Middle-class, the ruling class. These men, then, are the slaves of the great caterers, the newspaper editors. One of the most thorough Socialists I ever knew, Holden, in fact, was on the regular staff of the English _Spectator_, the organ of the enlightened portion of the Middle-class; and there, as he said to me, he went as near Socialism as he could for threepence! (Threepence is the price of the paper.) This same man wrote, too, political articles for a distinguished radical politician, and I have seen the proof-sheets of these hacked and mauled by the patron to suit the palates of the Radicals. It was this man who once seriously contemplated dropping a bomb in the House of Lords, to show that herd of hereditary liars, as he put it, that there was such a thing as justice in the world! He loved the People: he hated the Middle-class, but the People cared nothing for him. It is, then, I think, a mistake to lay the paternity of Nihilism to the charge of any but the over-fed tyrannous Middle-class.”
“What you say,” Maddock said slowly and courteously, “is very interesting and instructive, Mr. Hawkesbury, and I perceive that the ground which you, and I think I may say Mr. Fitzgerald,” (Fitzgerald smiled and bowed), “and myself have in common is large enough to admit of our working—at any rate not in opposition to one another. Is not our mutual object the enlightenment of the unintelligent mass of the People and of the Middle-class? I am, I am sure, grateful to you, sir, for the manner in which you have brought this home to me. I always felt that underneath all our differences—I mean, the differences of our beliefs, religious or social—we had a common ground, the advancement of a really good and true Civilization, and now, I think, I know this. He renders us a great service who makes our feelings self-conscious, who turns them into the articulate thought of words.”
There was a slight pause.
“And now,” said Gildea, in his half-amused way, “we will, if you please, go down to lunch. Mr. Alcock particularly asked me not to wait for him, and we have waited, it seems unconsciously, for over half-an-hour.”
They went down together into the dining-room, chatting lightly and pleasantly.
IV.
The dining-room was the corresponding room on the ground story to the sitting-room up above. It was quite as well furnished, but in a different style. A fine rather than an exquisite form of beauty had been sought after. It was a saying of Gildea’s that a dining-room ought to give you an impression somewhat similar to that of a beach-brake in spring: the architecture and furniture should have clear outlines, the colours should be clear, the lights should be clear. All massiveness and duskiness was to be avoided. A meal ought to be a repast, not a feast: we should rise pleasantly satisfied, not dully satiated. In a sitting-room, on the other hand, the sworn abode of the sweet and delicate talk and music of women, just as the dining-room was that of the serene discussions of men, there should be something of the lush luxuriance in shape and colour of the midsummer woods, knights and ladies and all the figures of romance and fairy-tale passing together. But such an arrangement of rooms as this, he would say with his bright half-mocking smile, was at present like a damsel of the Middle Ages suddenly awakened in the dull derisive streets of London or Manchester. This will only come to pass in that wonderful Future, when we have all learned that Beauty and Truth are synonyms, and Keats has statues and altars like Sophokles of old.
Considerable time, wealth and trouble had been spent on this house. Sydney and Melbourne had been ransacked for beautiful things worthy of Gildea’s ideas of “the nest,” as he called it to himself, that he desired; for this was indeed one, and not the least remarkable, of his freaks. It had been aroused in this fashion. One afternoon, sauntering across a road in the Domain, he had almost been run over by someone riding a splendid bay horse. Looking up, with a fine touch of anger, he had perceived that it was a lady, who was looking down at him with a look, he suddenly felt, so precisely his own that, the ludicrous aspect of the thing coming upon him, he smiled. She too, at once following his change of feeling, smiled, and then in a moment, with a slight courteous movement of hand and body, had passed. It had all taken place in a few seconds. Her face and form made up between them, he thought, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and he had not seen few so-called whether in Europe or elsewhere. Beauty in women was, according to Gildea, a thing which was not _in reality_ to be seen in the present world, implying, as it did, perfection of form and perfection of spirit, καλον κἀγαθον. The Athens of Perikles had produced female beauty; in the face and form of the Venus of Milo the highest physical and spiritual perfection of the time is apparent. Florence too, in such a woman as Vittoria Colonna, had produced female beauty, and the Renascence had incarnated it in a Marie Stuart; but, so far, our Modernity was not ripe for it. Lovely female faces it, as all times, had in abundance, but these faces knew nothing of spiritual perfection: they knew nothing of life, they were not beautiful. And the female faces that _did_ know of life, the faces of women like George Sand, Charlotte Bronte, George Eliot, were quite wanting in physical perfection. They imply mental passion, the struggle of pain: they have not reached to the serene pleasure of spiritual sovereignty. No, Beauty, καλον κἀγαθον, is to be a produce of the Future when Modernity has passed through the pangs of its travail and, in the bright light of health and youthfulness, “grows in wisdom and stature” to the perfect self.—But this face that he had seen for a moment, was, he thought, really beautiful.
A few yards from him a man was standing looking back at the rider passing along under the trees. Gildea came to him, and asked him courteously if he happened to know who the lady was?
“No,” said the man, “I don’t know who she is, but I often see her.”
And on this incident Gildea had founded a freak which had for some time amused him. He intended to see this woman again, and, if he was correct in his supposition (which he used amusedly to doubt to himself) that she was some phenomenal anticipation of the Future, to possess her. He set about choosing and furnishing a house, therefore, which should, as far as possible, be worthy of such an individual, and much amusement it occasionally afforded him. A private enquiry-office was meantime seeking her out; and, about a month ago, Gildea to his surprise had been informed that she was, beyond doubt, a Miss Medwin, niece of the well-known squatter, english, eccentric even to the extent of riding about and shooting in man’s clothes on one of Mr. Medwin’s stations in New South Wales, and, moreover, strongly suspected of having had, and of still having, an intrigue with a Mr. Frank Hawkesbury, a writer and man of uncertain means, in Melbourne. Gildea laughed much on receiving this unasked-for report, (He had just by accident made the acquaintance of Hawkesbury), and his interest in his freak somewhat revived; but his all but conviction that he was incorrect in his view of Miss Medwin (if it were indeed she), prevented him from having any great interest in the matter or any great anticipations of success. As usual, however, he was satisfied to find that he had any interest or anticipations at all. He learned from Mrs. Medwin that she was in a short time coming to Sydney for a week or so on her road up to one of Mr. Medwin’s New South Wales stations to which she had not been for years, and would be pleased to see him. A few days ago, then, she and Miss Medwin had arrived, and were waiting for Mr. Medwin who was detained by business in Melbourne. Hence Gildea’s invitation to Mrs. Medwin and her niece, to come and make tea for him and go for a sail in the “Petrel.”
The party arranged itself round the table, Maddock at one end, Gildea at the other, an empty place on Gildea’s right hand for Alcock, Hawkesbury on his left with Fitzgerald next to him. Maddock, as before, could not help observing with admiration the beautiful room in which they were sitting. Hawkesbury, however, following out a train of thought suggested by his own last words, sat serious, looking at the table-cloth.
The lunch began. Gildea and Fitzgerald could both, when they pleased, excel in that graceful sweetness of manner which is supposed to be the peculiar gift of women. They pleased now. The talk flowed lightly and pleasantly, and soon returned to, what seemed to be to them all, the most interesting topic—the People. Fitzgerald spoke of the far greater ease and leisure of the People here than in England, and that led on to a consideration of the question of Labour here.
“Carlyle declared long ago,” said Hawkesbury suddenly, “that the great question of the time was no other than the organization of Labour. Well, Labour is at last organizing. The consequence is that, as Mr. Fitzgerald remarked, there is greater ease and leisure among the People, not only here in Australia where Labour is comparatively scarce, but even in England where it is plentiful.—The question here, however,” he added, “shows signs of complication. The employers are to form—nay, have already formed—a union: ‘The Victorian Employers’ Union.’ The only wonder is that it is in Victoria and not in England that this idea has first been adopted. In Trades-Unionism in England, let me say it at once, there have been many abuses; but, let me hasten to add, not nearly so many abuses as there were under the old despotism of Capital. Trades-Unionism, which so few people seem to understand, originally meant the combination of many oppressed small units against a great oppressing unit. _Now_ it means more: it means the determined effort of the People after happiness.”
“That is very true, I think,” said Gildea, “The People, ever since the deception practised upon them by the compromise Reform Bill of ’32, have been slowly learning to organize themselves and to rely on themselves alone. Such a fact soon makes itself apparent. There is not a single considerable political measure since ’32 which has not a socialistic tendency.”
Hawkesbury acknowledged Gildea’s remark, and proceeded:
“The People, and by the People I mean of course the masses, is everywhere realizing that there is something better worth living for than frantic competition and the scramble for wealth. Trades-Unionism, then, is the sworn foe of all this. I am not speaking either for or against Trades-Unionism: I am simply stating what it _wants_, what it _is_! The Trades-hall delegates, in the late conference anent the Bootmakers’ strike in Melbourne, refused to let a bootmaker work for more than eight hours a day, although, by so doing, he might better himself, and by not so doing might keep himself for ever a mere journeyman. ‘Further argument with men of such a way of thinking,’ says Mr. Bruce Smith, the chief mover of the ‘Victorian Employers’ Union,’ ‘further argument seemed useless.’ And it was indeed as it seemed; for these men were of opinion that if, in the frantic competition and scramble for wealth, one or two journeymen _did_ rise and become rich, hundreds and thousands would have to lead lives which would not stand too favourable a comparison with those of dogs. ‘Therefore,’ the delegates would say, ‘we will check this frantic competition and scramble for wealth, and we will even be so wicked as to sacrifice the one or two possible journeymen who might rise and become rich, for the sake of the actual hundreds and thousands whose lives otherwise would not stand too favourable a comparison with those of dogs.’ Well, and what will be the end of this new phase of the great battle of Capital _versus_ Labour on which we seem to be now entering here? Let me not be thought a terrorist, if I remark, what is indeed patent to all, that, in a country with a franchise like ours, Labour, if driven into a corner and confronted by Capital triumphantly brandishing its sword of ‘Frantic-competition-and-the-scramble-for-wealth—Labour, I say, might make things excessively uncomfortable for the community in general and Capital in particular. I am not hinting at mobs and sticks and stones. I am merely stating a fact that is patent to all. Our good friends the Landed-proprietors, videlicet the squatters, have experienced in Victoria and elsewhere—are indeed now experiencing even in Queensland[13]—the undoubted benefits of a little judicious legislation. Might not someone suggest to the ‘Victorian Employers’ Union’ and Mr. Bruce Smith, who seem to have such quaint notions of what Trades-Unionism really wants and is, that the same fate may possibly be in store for our other good friends, the Capitalists?”
“It is a pity,” said Gildea smiling, “that we have not a Capitalist here to answer you. But, I think, I know what one of them, Mr. Alcock, would say. He would say that the great law of Nature is this very frantic struggle which you deprecate, and that, if you attempt to put a check on it, you will only end by first arresting and then destroying all progress. He would oppose the interference of organized Labour quite as much as of organized public opinion, that is to say the State. He would of course recognize all the evils of the frantic struggle, but he would say that it yet contained the great ascending and progressive power of Nature, it was yet capable of Evolution; whereas the artificial state of popular leisure and ease contains the great de-scending and retrogressive power of Nature, Dissolution.—But here,” he said, “at the very nick of time, he comes himself.”
Edgar, who had just left them, returned ushering in Alcock, who came forward with somewhat off-hand apologies to shake hands with Gildea. He was then introduced to Maddock and shook hands with him, compromising the matter, as he thought, with the others by a bow and an expression of his pleasure at making their acquaintance. He sat down in his place and, having told Edgar what he chose to eat, was ready for a few moments’ talk before setting somewhat vigorously to work on the victuals. Gildea explained to him the conversational context, and what he himself had ventured to say in the person of the typical scientific capitalist.
“Well,” Alcock said, with a half-pleased half-amused look on his face, when Gildea had finished, “I will observe that, on the whole, you didn’t put my sentiments so badly, Sir Horace.—I am opposed to all state interference,” he declared, turning to Maddock, “It doesn’t pay in the long run; it enervates people! Look at this New South Wales here. They can’t put a bridge across a creek now, without petitioning government for assistance! In England a half-dozen men or so would have got together and settled the matter themselves. And they want more state interference in Victoria! Why, it’ll drain out all their independence, and energy; and, in twenty years, they’ll be as lazy and lackadaisical as they are here in New South Wales! Competition’s the law of Nature.” By this time Alcock’s mouth was full, and he was beginning to enjoy the delicate food and wines, for he was hungry and thirsty. There was a pause.
“True,” said Fitzgerald, gently breaking it, “but does not Mr. Alcock too think, that it is just where the law of Nature ends that the law of Humanity begins? Surely this is the essential position of Christianity, that it says to the brutality of Nature: ‘Thus far shalt thou go, and no further.’”
“You can’t,” answered Alcock with his mouth full, too intent on the victuals to be more explicit, “You can’t interfere—impunity—great law—nature—struggle—existence—survival—fittest.”
“Here, then,” said Fitzgerald who ate little and drank less, turning to Hawkesbury, “_we_ are at one, I think, as opposed to the pure Scientists?”
“I do not believe,” Hawkesbury said, “and I do not think any Socialist believes, in carrying the initiative of the individual to the extent that Herbert Spencer would like. But we are not in favour of state interference. We want to nationalize things, the land, the unearned increment, the great public enterprises, but we include in this term the State also. The State at present means the tool of the Middle-class, worked by Capital and the Land Interest. This arrangement partakes too much of the nature of a political joint-stock company to please Socialists.”
“And you think,” asked Gildea, his hand on his wine glass, looking at Hawkesbury, “you think that when the People wins, as it of course ultimately will win, the control of things, that it will not work the State in its own interest, just as the Aristocracy did and as the Middle-class does?”
“You know,” Hawkesbury said, “I _believe_ in the People! The People is the only unselfish part of society. Their one desire is for justice and mercy; and, when they could not get it themselves, they have always died readily for those who, they believed, wished to give it them. Herein lies the secret of all great popular devotions—from that of Christ to that of Napoleon.”
“I,” said Alcock, “do _not_ believe in the People, as you call them, and their unselfishness has not yet come under my notice. The People, like everyone else, are led by what they believe to be their interests, their immediate interests, and our great effort should be, by giving them a good sound practical education, to get them to see that their true interest lies in e-volution and not in re-volution. Let us have a fair chance for everybody, and let the best men win.”
“Yes,” said Hawkesbury, with suppressed eagerness, “but the trouble is that, in this so-called free competition of yours, the best _don’t_ win! In Nature the best win, I agree; but Civilization has complicating clauses that modify and all but change, what you rightly call, her great law—the struggle for existence and survival of the fittest.”
“I do not see that,” said Alcock, returning to his victuals which he had left for a few moments.
“I will give you an instance,” said Hawkesbury, “A, B, and C are three men who start as beggars in the market of free competition. A has the best wits, and A accordingly wins, and makes a fortune. Good: we applaud! Then A, B, and C all die, leaving sons D, E, and F, the best-witted of whom does not happen to be D, A’s son, but E, the son of B. Does E therefore win and make a fortune, and D sink down to his proper level with F? Not a bit of it! D has not only his own second-rate powers to help him: he has also the wealth which he inherits from his father. E, then, has no chance against him: the second-rate man with wealth overwhelms the first-rate man with beggary. What are the consequences, generally speaking? Why, that, instead of the best surviving, the second or third or fourth or fifth-best survive, and the market is drugged with successful mediocrity. Here, I think, is the delusion under which Herbert Spencer’s social philosophy labours: he does not see that Civilization, as we know it at present, is not a natural but an artificial state, and that therefore the laws which hold good in Nature by no means necessarily hold good in Civilization. Look at the bees or ants, whose Civilization is a natural and not, as ours is, an artificial one: do _they_ encourage free competition with its inevitable concomitants of wealth and power accumulated in the hands of a few to the prejudice of the community? Not so. To each is assigned an equal, if varying, share in the economy of the community. With them work has its duty, and, as for idleness, it is not possible. But what duty has the successful business man, except to his own success? what duty has the wealthy aristocrat, except to his own pleasure?” There was a slight pause.
“It won’t _work_,” said Alcock, his eyes a little opened, sitting considering this young man with sudden interest. (Alcock had so far thought that, in the present company, nothing would be acceptable save, what he called, a popular exposition of his own views)—“Believe me,” he added with gravity to Hawkesbury, “I have gone through all this at length, repeatedly, and with care, and I am convinced that, with many drawbacks, free competition within and without is the only thing which will give us a civilization of progress. The real tendency of everything else, I say, is towards stagnation or retrogression. Free competition universal, the great problem of which is to be the dominant race will proceed to settle itself quickly and thoroughly. Until that problem is settled, we cannot hope for a Civilization worthy of the name. All the inferior races must be stamped out, all the stagnatory or retrogressive ideas eliminated, and the best men with the best knowledge left masters of the situation. It is impossible to foresee what such men may achieve. We may yet, perhaps, open communications with the planets and even modify the courses of the stars.”