Читать книгу The Young Seigneur - W. D. Lighthall - Страница 30

And now of the influences which shaped that quest of "the highest things." There were the conversations in our Secret Society, the "Centre-Seekers." Picture a winter's eve, a cosy fire, a weird hall, and a group whose initiation oath was simply "I promise to be sincere."

"There is the solution of Epicurus," remarks Holyoake, our Agnostic; "Pleasure, at least, is real. Wrap yourself in it, for you can do no better. Contentment is but one pleasure, as Salvation is another, and even sensuality may be best to you."

"How about the man who lives for his children?" asked young Fred. Lyle, whose ruddy face was made brighter by the fire glow.

"He has his enjoyment reflected from theirs."

"What do you think of the friend in 'Vanity Fair,' who helps his rival?"

"One of the fools," replied Holyoake, with an air of settling the matter.

Lyle reflected.

"I can't believe it that way," he said thoughtfully.

One member was Lome Riddle; a big bluff chap with a promising moustache, encouraged by private, tuition. "Come along there, Haviland," he exclaimed, "a nob like you should be one of the 'boys!'" These fellows don't know what life is—but to think of a man of muscle going back on us!

"Kick not against the prigs, Riddle!" cried Little Steele in facetious delight.

"Riddle, Riddle, thou art but a poor Philistine."

"A man of Gath," contributed another.

"The Philistine has his uses. He is the successful of Evolution," pronounced Holyoake.

"The future will see methods better than Evolution," answered Brether, our great firm Scotchman.

"If so, they will be of it," retorted the Agnostic.

"Now just kindly let up on that a little." Riddle continued, "you fellows are too confounded theoretical for me. What's the good of going round congesting your cerebrums about problems you can't settle? I say let a fellow go it while he's young—moderately you know—and when he is old he will not regret the same. You fellows swot, and I sit in the orchestra chairs. You read your digestions to rack and ruin—or else you've got to be so mighty careful—while I put in a fine gourmand's dinner every day, attended with the comforts of civilization. I dance while you are working up unsuccessful essays. The world owes nothing to fellows who do that. If you're fools enough to want to benefit the world, turn your minds to steam engines and telegraphs, that cheapen dinners and save us running, and I'll give you my blessing in spare moments when I've nothing to do. I take a kind of melancholy interest in this institution, you know, but honestly upon my word, I hate your rational style, and I wouldn't for the world go round like a walking problem and have the fellows call me '_For_lorne Riddle.' The place where I enjoy myself most—our private theatrical club—is called the 'Inconsistents' on that principle. We don't care about being correct. We know we have the prettiest girls and chummiest fellows in town, and we're all right."

"Of course if a fellow's legs are so crooked that he can't dance or appear in a play, he has got to solace himself with billiards or eating, or some of the elegant accomplishments like playing the guitar. That's my system. There's philosophy in it too, by jove! I've done lots of philosophy by the smoke of a cigarette. It's philosophy properly tamed, in evening dress. It's philosophy made into a good Churchman, and Tory!"

"La morale de la cigarette!" suggested Quinet.

After all was not the highest thing simply to live the natural life of the time and place?

"I refuse that," I cried to myself, "I ask a Permanent, an Eternal!"

* * * * *

In speculative Philosophy I sought it, urged by the saying reported of

Confucius:

"The Master said: 'I seek an all-pervading Unity,'" and much useless labor did I spend upon the profound work of the monarch of modern thinkers—Immanuel Kant.

In a depression at the end of this labor I finally threw my books aside.

It was afternoon, dull and dusty: a thunderstorm was brewing. I walked to the Square. What is that carriage with golden-bay horses?—that fresh image of loveliness—so calm—serene in queenly peace—the spiritual eyes! "Alexandra, I am miserable; elevate and purify my hopes with a smile, when I need thy presence—ma belle Anglaise"—No, she looks coldly and drives on in her equipage without even a recognition.—Is anything wrong?—I am deeply dispirited.—Another street—she passes again without bowing—not even looking this time.

Wretched Haviland!—Where is mercy and what is left for me in the world?—I will rebel about this.—I will give up trying to seek the best, and turn away from Alexandra.

At dinner that night, my grandmother said "You must go to Picault's ball, my dear;" and my grave, oracular father added: "Yes, you shall go among our people now. I am about to send you to France."

The prospect of that journey, to which it had been my joy at other times to look forward, affected me little in my disturbed condition.