"And wearing a gold chain!" said Gertrude, "And drinking out of eggshell! I like that!"I came to Margaret's rescue."It doesn't follow that because one's a socialist one ought to dress in sackcloth and ashes."The initial coloured deeply, and having secured my attention by prodding me slightly with the wrist of the hand that held his teacup, cleared his throat and suggested that "one ought to be consistent."I perceived we were embarked upon a discussion of the elements.We began an interesting little wrangle one of those crude discussions of general ideas that are dear to the heart of youth.I and Margaret supported one another as socialists, Gertrude and Sybil and the initial maintained an anti-socialist position, the curate attempted a cross-bench position with an air of intending to come down upon us presently with a casting vote.He reminded us of a number of useful principles too often overlooked in argument, that in a big question like this there was much to be said on both sides, that if every one did his or her duty to every one about them there would be no difficulty with social problems at all, that over and above all enactments we needed moral changes in people themselves.
My cousin Gertrude was a difficult controversialist to manage, being unconscious of inconsistency in statement and absolutely impervious to reply.Her standpoint was essentially materialistic; she didn't see why she shouldn't have a good time because other people didn't;they would have a good time, she was sure, if she didn't.She said that if we did give up everything we had to other people, they wouldn't very likely know what to do with it.She asked if we were so fond of work-people, why we didn't go and live among them, and expressed the inflexible persuasion that if we HAD socialism, everything would be just the same again in ten years' time.She also threw upon us the imputation of ingratitude for a beautiful world by saying that so far as she was concerned she didn't want to upset everything.She was contented with things as they were, thank you.
The discussion led in some way that I don't in the least recall now, and possibly by abrupt transitions, to a croquet foursome in which Margaret involved the curate without involving herself, and then stood beside me on the edge of the lawn while the others played.We watched silently for a moment.
"I HATE that sort of view," she said suddenly in a confidential undertone, with her delicate pink flush returning.
"It's want of imagination," I said.
"To think we are just to enjoy ourselves," she went on; "just to go on dressing and playing and having meals and spending money!" She seemed to be referring not simply to my cousins, but to the whole world of industry and property about us."But what is one to do?"she asked."I do wish I had not had to come down.It's all so pointless here.There seems to be nothing going forward, no ideas, no dreams.No one here seems to feel quite what I feel, the sort of need there is for MEANING in things.I hate things without meaning.""Don't you do--local work?"
"I suppose I shall.I suppose I must find something.Do you think--if one were to attempt some sort of propaganda?""Could you--?" I began a little doubtfully.
"I suppose I couldn't," she answered, after a thoughtful moment."Isuppose it would come to nothing.And yet I feel there is so much to be done for the world, so much one ought to be doing....Iwant to do something for the world."
I can see her now as she stood there with her brows nearly frowning, her blue eyes looking before her, her mouth almost petulant."One feels that there are so many things going on--out of one's reach,"she said.
I went back in the motor-car with my mind full of her, the quality of delicate discontent, the suggestion of exile.Even a kind of weakness in her was sympathetic.She told tremendously against her background.She was, I say, like a protesting blue flower upon a cinder heap.It is curious, too, how she connects and mingles with the furious quarrel I had with my uncle that very evening.That came absurdly.Indirectly Margaret was responsible.My mind was running on ideas she had revived and questions she had set clamouring, and quite inadvertently in my attempt to find solutions I talked so as to outrage his profoundest feelings....
7
What a preposterous shindy that was!
I sat with him in the smoking-room, propounding what I considered to be the most indisputable and non-contentious propositions conceivable--until, to my infinite amazement, he exploded and called me a "damned young puppy."It was seismic.
