He was irritated, spoke sharply. "It might be well to remember that bit of wisdom, Mens sana in corpore sano.' Because one possesses intelligence is no valid reason why he should not possess a body also. Mental and physical vigor should go hand in hand. . . . And, for the rest, I am not a coward."
She did not speak for an instant, and then, more warmly than she had spoken to him at any time, "I think," she said, "that you are a great deal more human than you believe you are. . . . And you were as offended as a little boy that I should have questioned your courage. . . . Let's see, what is that other injunction—was it one of Socrates'? 'Know thyself.' "
"I fancy," he said in his most repellent tone, "that I am sufficiently introspective."
"No," she said, "not by several long introspecs. . . . And now, good night, and—thank you."
Chapter Six
"THE existence of a law," said Paul Dare to Mr. Ghafir in his most didactic manner, "presupposes a lawmaker. Laws are created by the will of an individual or by agreement of a mass of individuals."
"True," said Mr. Ghafir, gently. His strange, kind face beamed with a benevolent tolerance which amounted almost to pity.
"And yet I am made a pariah because I assert the self-evident—that there is no such thing as a fundamental moral law; when I affirm that it is impossible for an act to be good or evil in itself until expediency has made it so. You may select at random an action, and I assert that its rightness or wrongness depends, not upon anything inherent in the act itself, but upon environment and attendant circumstances. If a thing be morally wrong, then it must always be wrong. What human action is always wrong? It may be reprehensible according to the moral code of New England while it is the normal and accepted thing in Persia. . . . But the point upon which the argument turns is that, to have a moral law one must have a lawgiver, one with right and power to assert a law and to impose it upon the universe."
"I think," said Mr. Ghafir, "you are denying the existence of Omnipotence."
Dare lifted his shoulders as if this were elementary, and Mr. Ghafir permitted himself a shadow of a smile.
"If so," he said presently, "you are wrong."
"That," said the young man, "is assertion, not argument. For ages men have sought evidence of the existence of a God—such evidence as will convince the mind. Having found none, they invent the doctrine of blind faith. What protagonist could take himself to an unbiased court of law and prove to a jury the existence of a Deity?"
"It would be difficult," said Mr. Ghafir, "and yet—"
"And yet—" prompted Dare.
"There once walked upon the earth multitudes of men who saw God in the flesh."
"A God whose very existence—even as a man—depends solely upon the apocryphal writings of eleven who claimed to have seen and of one who claimed only to have seen in a vision. Of a little group who wished to set up a new God in order to establish a new religion! Why is there no independent testimony. One would suppose the presence of a veritable God upon earth would be so important an event as to have created a stir reaching the ears of contemporary historians. . . . Evidence of biased writings two thousand years old!"
"What do you ask?" Mr. Ghafir demanded, "The oral evidence of an eyewitness?"
"That is an absurdity."
"Miracles are absurdities—in the eyes of a materialist. What would be your attitude if a man were to stand before you asserting that he had seen the Christ with his own eyes?"
"That he was a religious maniac."
"And yet—" said Mr. Ghafir once more.
"Yes."
Mr. Ghafir shook his head. "It is a part of the penalty," he said in a low voice, indescribably sad.
"I do not understand."
"Nor can I explain."
Dare paused a moment and took up a grievance which from time to time oppressed him. "Waste, eternal and universal waste—that, it seems to me is a primary argument against the existence of an all-wise, all-powerful, infallible God. Waste of energy, waste of matter. Decay. A constant renewing to no purpose but to renew." Then he came to his protest: "We are born and live—seventy years. Our brains live seventy years, laboring, accumulating knowledge—and then go out like tallow candles. An efficient God would not cause this—at least he would preserve what was worth preserving—give a brain capable of great results enough years in which to reach its goal. What can a man learn in seventy years?"
"Is knowledge the chief end of man?"
"It is."
"Ah. . ." He shook his head and paused to ponder. Then: "The tireless pursuit of knowledge by man," he said, "is nothing but the uneasy curiosity of insignificant atoms; a toy given to pass the hours. . . . You resent death. Young man, I who know say to you that it is the kindest, sweetest gift within the power of Omnipotence."
"If," asked Dare, "knowledge is not the highest pursuit of man, what would you set in its place? The old answer of the catechism? To glorify God and enjoy Him forever?" His tone was ironic.
"No," said Mr. Ghafir, and quite against his will, in spite of logic, Dare was moved, impressed, almost awed. "It is to love the Lord thy God with all thy heart—and thy neighbor as thyself. And," musingly, "it may even be that the last part of the injunction covers all."
"On the other hand, it is a universe of—selfishness, shall we say? of dog eat dog. From the lowest form of life to the highest, selfishness is the one essential. Nothing can exist without it. Therefore it must be the ultimate virtue—to preserve yourself."
"But suppose," said Mr. Ghafir, "that, instead of every living thing laboring always for its own selfish ends, all were changed and each thought only of the good of those with whom it came in contact?"
Dare smiled wryly. "Life would be extinct on this planet in a generation."
"So," said Mr. Ghafir, musingly, "there is no moral law, and selfishness is the highest virtue. . . . No wonder you are unhappy; no wonder you go scurrying about the world uneasily searching blindly for your destiny."
"I am not unhappy."
"Are you happy, then?"
It was Dare's turn to pause. He considered, bringing to bear the resource of his splendid intellect. "No," he said, presently, "I am not happy."
"Do you want to be?"
"I have never considered it."
"Ah. . . . I hope you will not take this amiss, for I mean it sincerely: I have never met a man I pity more than I pity you. . . . Even I—I have been happy, and doubtless I shall be again for my little hour. . . . Only to lose again—only to lose again." His voice sank to a whisper, and it was as if his eyes turned inward to contemplate his soul. It seemed to Dare that never in his life had he seen an expression of such profound yet resigned melancholy upon a human face. The young man maintained silence, and presently the older man began once more to speak.
"So you can believe there is neither good nor evil, and that selfishness is the law of life. That is abstract, young sir. How of the concrete? How of its practical application to yourself? Why are you what the world calls a good citizen, law-abiding, respectable?"
"Chance."
"So? . . . Chance. Then, if I understand you, you could commit an act of so-called evil should the expediency of it be clear to you."
"Why not? To preserve myself, to advance myself, to make myself more comfortable. I am without means of livelihood today. It is my right to live."
"But what of conscience?"
"Conscience is an emotion," said Dare. "I am subject to emotions even when reason tells me they are illogical. I am subject to fear, anger, jealousy as other men are—"
"And love? That, too, is an emotion."
Dare ignored the interjection. "Conscience might irritate me. It is psychological. It represents the massed suggestion of public opinion acting upon the subconscious mind. Collected and inherited prejudices. Undoubtedly I am not superior to it, but I fancy I should be able to combat it with reason."
"Perhaps. Perhaps. . . . And now, Mr. Dare, if you were in need of comfort, of anything you think yoursel
f entitled to, of food or shelter, could you kill a child to obtain it?"
Dare considered that, recognized it as a fair question, and strove to answer in a spirit of fair argument, truthfully. "Possibly I could not do it. One cannot say. It might be impossible to overcome the repugnance created by ten thousand years of thinking that such an act is frightful."
"Theft, then? That is not so difficult to answer?"
"I must confess I have little prejudice against the professional criminal, so long as he leaves my property alone. I can imagine myself joining in a profitable crime to assure myself independence for life."
"How about honor—the honor of a gentleman?"
"An artificial code, admirable in the abstract, but compounded largely of vanity. It is based upon the idea that because one is so superior to others he cannot be guilty of certain behavior."
"And friendship? Have you known that?"
"Damon and Pythias, you mean? No. I have been attracted by individuals and repelled by others. That is all."
"Love?"
"The sexual urge? In my salad days I suppose I experienced attacks of puppy love. But since college—there has been no time. I have been occupied fully with other things."
"So that, in short, until this moment, your life has been in a state of suspension. You have existed without living—a fine young body occupied by a machine we are pleased to call a brain. And youth is so brief, so brief and so glorious."
"You are the second person aboard this ship to imply that I have not lived."
"And the other was?"
"That questionable Miss Fair."
Mr. Ghafir raised his fine brows. "Questionable? And why so? This from you!"
"It was an ill-chosen word; curious, I should have said."
"She has offended you?"
"Not at all." Dare spoke stiffly. "But she is interesting and rather blatantly mysterious. Rather trades on her maternity, I fancy. Still—a fascinating subject for observation and the collection of data upon the subject of heredity."
"Mr. Dare, again I must put you down as mistaken. . . . She is only less pitiful than yourself. . . . The pair of you! Children driven out. Jostled. Blindly questing. . . Her danger is greater than yours, yet I would fear most for you, for she—if she errs—it is on the side of too much humanity, and that makes for high happiness or abysmal woe. . . . But it seldom destroys the soul—as does the dry rust which is settling into your fibers. . . . Both of you so young, so harried!"
Somehow, though Dare's brain told him he should be resentful, he could not feel resentment. He was strangely moved, not, perhaps, by the sense of the words so much as by the manner of their delivery and the personality of the strange, unfathomable, remarkable man who delivered them. For an instant Dare felt something like awe, which, in another, had been awareness of a thing not natural. . . . He remembered standing once beneath the stone mill erected by voyaging Norsemen on the shores of an unknown continent. It was like that—a sort of hush of the spirit in the presence of some very ancient thing. . . . A thing which had outlawed generations.
Mr. Ghafir arose from his deck chair and stood, tall, splendid in his proportions, magnificent of presence, distinguished as no man Dare had known was distinguished. What was there about him? Dare frowned as he tried to penetrate the secret of Mr. Ghafir's overpowering, yet kindly, gentle, personality. It was beyond his powers of analysis.
"You have great gifts," Mr. Ghafir said in his voice of rare sweetness. "They can lead you in the way—if you will allow them. They were given you to make for happiness, not for sorrow. . . . For every calm lying down to rest before the awakening. . . ." He turned away, and as he did so Dare caught the sound of words spoken so low as to escape his understanding. They were strange words, dreadful words, and in them was the ache of a million heartbreaks. "For every one of these millions—but not for me. . . ."
Young Mr. Dare arose, too, and walked. He was shaken, moved. His emotions were in such turmoil as never before had he experienced—a strange confusion of ideas and impressions and questions. What if this strange man were right and he was wrong? . . . What if the foundation upon which he had erected the structure of his life was but treacherous quicksand and not indestructible granite, as he believed? But that could not be. Too many years of earnest seeking, of concentrated thought, of logic, supported him. . . . Yet he was quivering as from a shock.
He knew the same words, spoken by another tongue, would have left him cold, unmoved. What was Mr. Ghafir's power, and why his interest? Why did the man seek him out to speak words which in any other person would have been unwarranted liberty? . . . He was conscious of admiration, of something finer and softer than admiration for Mr. Ghafir. It was an unaccustomed sentiment. Could it be affection? Could this other with which it was entwined be pity? . . . And he believed himself incapable of affection—but stronger was his belief in his incapacity for pity.
For days he had not been himself, sure to cocksureness. Events and words and persons had vexed Mr. Dare, and as he walked he longed for solitude, for some place where he might wander and wander at will without encountering a human being. . . . And yet, as he walked now, his eyes unconsciously sought for a definite person, as for days they had been seeking her. He was urged to seek the presence of Rhoda Fair by something which was not will, which was stronger than will. As was his custom, he faced the fact and endeavored to find the truth which gave it life. Was it possible that he —Paul Dare—had become infatuated with this girl? It was unthinkable—yet his eyes sought her and when they fell upon her as she leaned against a boat on the topmost deck he walked to her straight as though drawn by a magnet. Nor did he see that her face was sad and that her eyes might, not long since, have been flooded with tears.
"Miss Fair," he said, "I think I have been looking for you —quite without knowing it."
"Indeed!" she said, not warmly, for she had climbed to her place to be alone.
He pursued his subject relentlessly, characteristically, not to be sent upon diverging path.
"I have always," he said, "contemplated marriage. In our state of civilization it is the logical thing and an essential experience."
"A part of one's polite education," she said, ironically.
"Exactly. And expedient, as well. As I say, I had foreseen its possibility without aversion, but never had I imagined it as coming as the result of infatuation. Indeed, it was clear to me the sort of woman I should marry—a woman of intellect, whose tastes and desires ran parallel to mine—"
Rhoda interrupted tartly. Like all women, her impulse was to make someone else suffer for her unhappiness. "What you wanted," she said, "was not a woman, but a librarian."
"Eh?" Her words took him between wind and water, jarred the ejaculation from him, left him nonplused face to face with something very like the truth.
"And now," she went on, relentlessly, "I suppose all this is by way of saying that your plans have been upset and that you are infatuated, and that I am the woman. . . . Mr. Dare," she turned her lovely eyes full upon him, and they were not especially lovely then, "you have not known many women, have you?"
"No," he said, and the monosyllable was all he was capable of uttering.
"Then, my advice to you is to go get acquainted with lots. It will do you good."
He flushed. Perhaps for the first time in his distinguished life he looked boyish and eager and guilty. "That—that wasn't what I meant at all," he said, clumsily enough.
"It was!"
He met her eye to eye and his lips set. That inescapable urge to find and state the exact truth was working in him, and it gave him an expression at once grim and determined—and, with it all, the boyish eagerness remained as a sort of afterglow.
"You are right," he said, "it was. . . . I beg your pardon. It was not my intention to be offensive."
"You were not," she said, and then with added cruelty, "You were not even amusing."
He stood a moment flushing scarlet; the color faded and he became white, curiou
sly white, with little accented points of white at the curves of his nostrils. Then, without opening his lips, he turned abruptly on his heel and strode away. . . . And when he was gone Rhoda rested her head against the planking of the boat and wept again, softly, drearily—not because of Paul Dare—but because she was miserable—weary and troubled and miserable—and so Mr. Ghafir came upon her.
"My child!" he said with grave kindness, and at his words, touched by the emanations of his personality, she felt, somehow, warmed and safe. "Is it, then, so bad?" he asked.
"Oh," she cried, "if something would only happen!"
"To force you one way or the other?" he asked. "That would not be good. It is out of yourself must come the thing you hope for." He touched her arm gently. "If I were troubled," he said, "and seeking for peace, there is one place in the world I should go. For it is quiet there, high above the world in that mountain valley—with cypresses pointing upward to the moving clouds like fingers, cedars, and the sound of the well from which His mother drew water, the bells and voices of the sheep and goats coming home at the touch of evening—and below you, spreading away to the Holy City, green and gracious the plains of Galilee. . . . A quiet, kindly, peaceful people! Go there, and you may find peace."
"Where?" she asked with hushed eagerness.
"To Nazareth," he said.
Chapter Seven
THE business of Rhoda Fair's life seemed to be escaping. She fled herself; she fled from her inheritances; more concretely, she fled from Jaunty Bailey and the life of which he was the exemplar. She took flight from whatever attracted her, fearing any influence upon her in a time which she felt to be critical; she fled even from Mr. Ghafir, and that was a strange thing. Of all created beings, this old gentleman of splendid appearance, of deep-running thoughts, of mysterious references, and of a sure, sweet philosophy, was the only one in whose presence she felt soothed, quieted, safe. Yet him also she wished to leave behind her. He impressed her profoundly and so she suspected him.
Hers was a struggle for freedom of the soul, a battle for a free, uninfluenced choice. In her girl's heart she longed to place confidence in someone, to rest upon some sure arm; but that sturdier, more stubborn, adventurous, questing portion of her which was her real self would have none of it. What came to her should come of her own winning or her own losing. No hand should mold her. She was moved by an instinct which told her that only through lonely struggle might she win to that vague, undefined thing which was her hope.
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