Thursday's Serial: "Memórias de um Sargento de Milícias" by Manuel Antônio de Almeida (in Portuguese) - VIII

XI - Malsinação        

As três velhas conversaram por largo tempo, não porque muitas coisas se tivessem a dizer a respeito do que se acabava de passar, porém porque a comadre, remontando ao mais remoto passado, entendera que para dizer que muito se interessava pela volta do afilhado para casa era mister contar desde sua origem a vida inteira deste, de sua mãe, de seu pai, e a sua própria, que fora mais comprida de todas, e porque as duas velhas entenderam que para dizerem que o Leonardo estava ali muito bem, e que não consentiriam que ele saísse, entenderam ser preciso fazer o que havia feito a comadre-contar a sua vida e de toda a família desde as eras primitivas.-Ora, como todas essas histórias contadas de parte a parte eram cheias de episódios, já sentimentais, já tocantes, já alegres, aconteceu que entre muita gargalhada correram também algumas lágrimas durante a conversação. Não há nada que mais sirva para fazer nascer e firmar a amizade, e mesmo a intimidade, do que seja o riso e as lágrimas: aqueles que se riram, e principalmente aqueles que uma vez choraram juntos, têm muita facilidade em fazerem-se amigos. Com efeito, no fim da conversa, as três velhas estimavam-se mutuamente de uma maneira incrível.

Se esta facilidade de expansão não fosse acompanhada da grande dificuldade de rompimentos e de intrigas, seria uma das grandes virtudes daquele tempo. Porém as simpatias que se criavam em uma hora de conversa transformavam-se em ódio num minuto de desavença.

Enquanto as velhas conversavam, os contendores acalmaram-se, passou a tormenta, e se tudo não ficou logo acabado, ficou pelo menos esquecido por algum tempo. Leonardo achava-se já disposto a atender às súplicas de Vidinha e das outras moças que o não queriam por modo algum fora de casa: os dois rivais derrotados pareciam resignar-se.

Quando terminou a conferência das três, a comadre entendeu que era chegado o momento de começar a pregação ao Leonardo, e começou nestes termos:

— Rapaz dos trezentos demos, valham-te os serafins... tu tens nessa cabeça pedras em vez de miolos; o sol não cobre criatura mais renegada do que tu. És um viramundo; andas feito um valdevinos sem eira nem beira nem ramo de figueira, sem ofício nem benefício, sendo pesado a todos nesta vida...

— Se é cá conosco que fala, acudiu uma das velhas, deixe-o estar aonde está que está muito bem.

— Qual! senhora, pois se vem levantar poeira na casa alheia! é um galo de brigas.

— Ora, isso é lá coisa entre rapazes e raparigas; deixá-los que eles se arranjarão, redargüiu a velha.

Ingenuidade infantil das velhas daquele tempo!

A comadre ia prosseguir; porém sendo a cada passo interrompida, tomou por seu barato dar a coisa por finda. Retirou-se, ficando convencionado que Leonardo permaneceria onde estava.

Vidinha ficou contentíssima com semelhante resultado; os primos porém fizeram má cara, porque tal não esperavam. Desde que viram que tudo ia continuar no mesmo pé, renasceu-lhes o despeito. Atiraram algumas indiretas, com as quais ia tudo pegando fogo novamente; porém contiveram-se ainda; um deles chamou o outro em particular, e começaram por seu turno a conferenciar, porém em segredo. Não havia nada mais natural: o inimigo era comum, juntavam-se para atacá-lo; depois que ele fosse derrotado, a questão se decidiria então entre os dois.

Depois desta última conferência serenou tudo definitivamente; cada qual recolheu-se a seu posto, e passaram-se muitos dias em santa paz. Durante esses dias mais se estreitaram os laços entre o Leonardo e Vidinha. É sempre assim que sucede: quereis que nos liguemos estreitamente a uma coisa? Fazei-nos sofrer por ela. Os dois tinham sofrido um pelo outro, e era isto uma forte razão para se amarem cada vez mais.

A comadre vinha regularmente ver o afilhado e visitar suas novas amigas.

Tudo parecia enfim nos seus eixos naturais; porém os dois primos tramavam, e tramavam largamente. Ninguém entretanto atinava com o que seria.

Leonardo passava vida completa de vadio, metido em casa todo o santo dia, sem lhe dar o menor abalo o que se passava lá fora pelo mundo. O seu mundo consistia unicamente nos olhos, nos sorrisos e nos requebros de Vidinha.

Um dia forjaram uma patuscada semelhante à que dera origem ao conhecimento do Leonardo com a família. Deviam sair de madrugada da cidade e passarem fora o dia. Preparou-se tudo: cestos de comida, esteiras e mais arranjos. Vidinha mandou encordoar de novo sua viola; avisaram-se os convivas do costume.

À hora aprazada partiram.

Quem estivesse menos distraído pelo prazer da patuscada do que estava qualquer dos suciantes, notaria que os dois primos deixavam-se de vez em quando ficar atrás, e cochichavam como se tramassem uma conspiração. Ninguém porém dera atenção a semelhante coisa.

Chegaram ao lugar determinado ao romper do dia. Apenas começavam a preparar-se para o almoço, viram surdir, ninguém soube bem de onde, a figura alta, magra, severa e sarcástica do nosso célebre major Vidigal. Correu por todos um sinal de pouco contentamento, exceto pelos primos, que trocaram entre si um olhar de inteligência e triunfo.

Os olhos de Vidinha dirigiram-se instintivamente para Leonardo.

O major Vidigal deixou passar o primeiro momento de surpresa, e depois, sorrindo-se, disse, como costumava, com sua voz descansada:

— Não tenham medo de mim, que não sou nenhum papa-crianças, nem eu venho desmanchar prazeres de ninguém. Quero só saber quem é aqui o amigo Leonardo.

Vidinha fez logo cara de choro. Leonardo levantou-se sem saber como, e disse todo trêmulo:

— Sou eu...

— Ora vejam, respondeu o Vidigal em tom de mofa, eu não sabia!... Pois, meus amigos, não se assustem que o caso não foi para tanto: um súcio de menos numa patuscada não faz falta nenhuma. Este amigo vai conosco. Se ele puder, voltará em breve... mas creio que já não chegará a tempo para acabar a patuscada.

— Qual, meu Deus! mas por que é então isto? que mal é que ele fez?

— Ele não fez nem faz nada; mas é mesmo por não fazer nada que isto lhe sucede. Leva, granadeiro.

E um dos granadeiros com que viera o major acompanhado foi tratando de conduzir o Leonardo.

O Vidigal seguiu-os tranqüilamente, sem alterar o passo, e dizendo polidamente:

— Adeus, minha gente.

Vidinha desatou a chorar, exclamando:

— Foi malsinação!

— Foi malsinação! repetiram todos, menos os dois primos.

A súcia levantou-se.

XII - Triunfo completo de José Manuel           

Era um sábado de tarde; em casa de D. Maria havia um lufa-lufa imenso; andavam as crias e mais escravos de dentro para fora; espanava-se a sala; arrumavam-se as cadeiras; corria-se, falava-se, gritava-se.

A dona da casa trajava, fora do ordinário, um rico vestido de cassa bordado de prata, de corpinho muito curto e mangas de um volume enorme. Seja dito de passagem que a prata do bordado estava já mareada, e o mais do vestido um pouco encardido. Trazia ainda D. Maria um penteado de desmedida altura, um formidável par de rodelas de crisólitas nas orelhas, e dez ou doze anéis de diversos tamanhos e feitios nos dedos.

Luisinha trajava também um vestido que qualquer menos entendido na matéria desconfiaria que era filho legítimo do de sua tia; trazia um toucado de plumas brancas na cabeça e um rosário de ouro de contas mui grossas na cintura.

Acabavam de sair as duas assim preparadas do quarto de vestir, quando sentiu-se rodar uma carruagem e parar na porta da casa. Luisinha estremeceu; D. Maria levou o lenço aos olhos, e tirou-o em pouco tempo molhado de lágrimas.

— Está ai a carruagem, gritou uma das crias que estava de sentinela à janela.

A carruagem era um formidável, um monstruoso maquinismo de couro, balançando-se pesadamente sobre quatro desmesuradas rodas. Não parecia coisa muito nova; e com mais dez anos de vida poderia muito bem entrar no número dos restos infelizes do terremoto, de que fala o poeta.

Mal tinha este trem parado à porta, sentiu-se o rodar de outro que veio parar junto dele. O que dissemos a respeito dos vestidos de D. Maria e sua sobrinha pode perfeitamente aplicar-se aos dois trens; o segundo parecia filho legitimo do primeiro.

Do último que chegara apeou-se José Manuel, e entrou em casa de D. Maria, que o veio receber à porta.

É inútil observar que a vizinhança estava toda à janela, e via todo aquele movimento com olhos regalados pela mais desabrida curiosidade.

José Manuel trajava casaca de seda preta, calções da mesma fazenda e cor; trazia meias também pretas e sapatos de entrada baixa, ornados com enormes fivelas de prata, espadim e chapéu de pasta.

Acompanhavam-no dois amigos vestidos pelo mesmo teor.

José Manuel estava com um ar entre compungido e triunfante, e desfazia-se em mesuras à D. Maria.

Depois de tudo isto quer ainda o leitor que lhe declaremos que a sobrinha de D. Maria casava-se naquela tarde com José Manuel?

Chegou o momento da partida. Luisinha, conduzida por D. Maria, que lhe ia servir de madrinha, embarcou num dos destroços da arca de Noé, a que chamamos carruagem; José Manuel, acompanhado por quem lhe ia servir de padrinho, fez outro tanto, e partiram depressa para a igreja. Fizeram bem em partir depressa, porque se se demorassem alguns minutos, corriam o risco de serem devorados pelos olhos dos vizinhos.

Apenas cessou a bulha das carruagens, começaram estes últimos em conversa renhida, de que damos aqui uma pequena amostra.

— Senhora, dizia uma sujeita que morava junto de D. Maria para outra que morava defronte, o tal noivo poderá ser coisa boa, mas não dou nada pela cara dele.

— E a noiva?... respondia a outra; arrenego também da lambisgóia...

— E o filho do Leonardo ficou vendo estrelas?...

— Por força: venceu este porque é um finório de conta.

— Se a velha deixar tudo à sobrinha, não é mau arranjo...

— Decerto. Pois não sabe que o seu defunto marido era um homem que viajava para a Índia?

Neste tom continuaram até a volta das carruagens.

Agora demos ao leitor algumas explicações a respeito do triunfo de José Manuel.

Depois das boas obras do mestre-de-reza, de que os leitores já foram informados, José Manuel reabilitara-se completamente junto a D. Maria; tornara a freqüentar a casa, e foi pouco a pouco pondo barro à sua parede. Um sucesso inesperado veio ajudá-lo com a maior eficácia. O testamenteiro do finado irmão de D. Maria, do pai de Luisinha, que já tinha tido com D. Maria, como talvez não estejam esquecidos os leitores, uma demanda por causa desta última, surdiu de repente com uma nova prebenda relativa a uma pontinha de testamento, e D. Maria teve de entrar de novo com ele em uma luta judiciária. Isto coincidiu com a morte inesperada do procurador de D. Maria. José Manuel ofereceu-se para cuidar da causa; e com tanto jeito arranjou tudo, que em muito pouco tempo, coisa que procurador nenhum teria feito, venceu a demanda em favor de D. Maria.

Ora, os leitores hão de estar lembrados da mania que tinha D. Maria por uma demandazinha; atirava-se a ela com vontade, e tal era o empenho que empregava na mais insignificante questão judiciária, que em tais casos parecia ter em jogo sua vida. Daqui se poderá concluir a satisfação que teria ela no dia em que se achava vencedora, e como se não julgaria obrigada a quem lhe proporcionasse a vitória.

José Manuel aproveitou-se disto; e no dia em que veio ler a D. Maria a sentença final que resolvia a pendência em seu favor, pediu-lhe a mão da sobrinha, a qual lhe foi prometida sem grandes escrúpulos.

Luisinha estava nesta ocasião em um daqueles períodos de abatimento que se costumam produzir nos moços, e principalmente nas moças que ainda marcham por aquela estrada florida que leva dos 13 aos 25 anos, quando as oprime o isolamento.

Ora, como sabem todos os que me lêem, o Leonardo tinha abandonado Luisinha; ela aceitou portanto indiferentemente a proposta de sua tia.

XIII - Escápula             

Deixemos aos noivos o gozo tranqüilo da sua lua-de-mel; deixemos D. Maria desfazer-se em carinhos e conselhos à sua sobrinha, que os recebia indiferentemente, e em atenções para com José Manuel, cuja cabeça se tinha tornado repentinamente uma aritmética completa, toda algarismos, toda cálculos, toda multiplicações; e voltemos a saber o que foi feito do Leonardo, a quem deixamos na ocasião em que fora arrancado pelo Vidigal dos braços do amor e da folia.

O Vidigal tinha-o posto diante de si, ao lado de um granadeiro, e marchava poucos passos atrás. Enquanto caminhavam o granadeiro pretendeu dar-lhe conversa; mas ele a nada respondia, parecendo absorto em grave cogitação.

Quem estivesse muito atento havia de notar que algumas vezes o Leonardo parecia, ainda que muito ligeiramente, apressar o passo, que outras vezes o retardava, que seu olhar e sua cabeça voltavam-se de vez em quando, quase imperceptivelmente, para a esquerda ou para a direita. O Vidigal, a quem nada disto escapava, achava em todas estas ocasiões pretextos para dar sinais de si; tossia, pisava mais forte, arrastava no chão o chapéu-de-sol que sempre trazia na mão, como quem queria dizer ao Leonardo, respondendo aos seus pensamentos íntimos:

— Cuidado! eu aqui estou.-E o Leonardo entendia tudo aquilo às mil maravilhas; contraía os lábios de raiva e de impaciência. Entretanto nem por isso abandonava a sua idéia: queria fugir. Desconfiava que ia para a casa da guarda, e pedia interiormente aos seus deuses que alongassem de muitas léguas as ruas que tinha de percorrer. Quando via de longe uma esquina dizia consigo:-E agora; quebro por ali fora, e bato pernas.-Porém ao chegar perto da esquina, o Vidigal achava alguma coisa que dizer ao granadeiro, e passava-se a esquina. Se lhe aparecia à direita ou à esquerda um corredor aberto, pensava consigo:-Embarafusto por ali adentro, e sumo-me.-Mas no momento em que ia tomar a última decisão, parecia-lhe sentir a mão do Vidigal que o agarrava pela gola da jaqueta, e esfriava. Não eram os granadeiros que lhe metiam medo; nunca em todos os planos de fugir que lhe passavam naquela ocasião pela cabeça contou uma só vez com eles; mas o Vidigal, o cruel major, era a quantidade constante de seus cálculos.

O pobre rapaz, durante aqueles combates íntimos, suava mais do que no dia em que fez a primeira declaração de amor a Luisinha. Só havia na sua vida um transe a que assemelhava, aquele em que então se achava, era o que se havia passado, quando criança, naquele meio segundo que levara a percorrer o espaço nas asas do tremendo pontapé que lhe dera seu pai.

Repentinamente uma circunstância veio favorecê-lo. Não sabemos por que causa ouviu-se um grande alarido na rua: gritos, assovios e carreiras. O Leonardo teve uma espécie de vertigem: zuniram-lhe os ouvidos, escureceram-se-lhe os olhos, e... dando um encontrão no granadeiro que estava perto dele, desatou a correr. O Vidigal deu um salto, e estendeu o braço para o agarrar; mas apenas roçou-lhe com a ponta dos dedos pelas costas. O rapaz tinha calculado bem: o Vidigal distraiu-se com o ruído que se fizera na rua, e aproveitou a ocasião. O Vidigal e os granadeiros soltaram-se imediatamente em seu alcance: o Leonardo embarafustou pelo primeiro corredor que achou aberto; os seus perseguidores entraram incontinenti atrás dele, e subiram em tropel o primeiro lance da escada. Apenas o haviam dobrado, e subiam o segundo, abriram-se as cortinas de uma cadeirinha que se achava na entrada, e pela qual tinham eles passado, sai dela Leonardo, e de um pulo ganha a rua. Ao entrar, tendo dado com aquele refúgio, metera-se dentro; os granadeiros e o Vidigal não haviam reparado em tal com a precipitação com que entraram, e isso lhe valeu.

É impossível descrever o que sentiu o Leonardo quando por entre as cortinas da cadeirinha viu-os passar e subir a escada. Foi uma rápida alternativa de frio e de calor, de tremor e de imobilidade, de medo e de coragem; veio-lhe outra vez à lembrança o pontapé paterno: era o termo constante de comparação para todos os seus sofrimentos.

Enquanto o Vidigal e os granadeiros varejavam a casa em que haviam entrado, Leonardo punha-se longe, e em quatro pulos achava-se em casa de Vidinha, que o recebeu com um abraço, exclamando:

— Qual! aí está ele!

Um raio de alegria iluminou todos os semblantes, menos o dos dois irmãos rivais, que ficaram horrivelmente desapontados. As duas velhas tiraram da cabeça as mantilhas que já haviam tomado para dar providências sobre o caso. A presença do Leonardo foi uma aura benfazeja que espalhou as nuvens de uma grossa tormenta, que tendo começado a roncar quando Leonardo foi preso com aquelas palavras-foi malsinação-viera desabar de todo em casa, e prometia durar muito tempo.

Vidinha, tendo a princípio trocado com os primos algumas indiretas a respeito da prisão de Leonardo, julgara conveniente deixar-se de panos quentes, e fora direito a eles, como se diz, com quatro pedras na mão, atribuindo-lhes o que acabava de suceder.

Eles denegaram, e travaram-se com ela de razões. A princípio as duas velhas estavam ambas da parte de Vidinha, porém tendo esta atirado três ou quatro ditos fortes demais aos primos, a tia ofendeu-se, e tomou o partido dos dois filhos: a outra velha, mãe de Vidinha, protesta contra a parcialidade de sua irmã, e reforça ainda mais, acompanhada dos que restavam, o partido de Vidinha. Divididos e extremados assim os dois campos, com terríveis campeões de lado a lado, fácil é prever-se o que teria sucedido se o Leonardo não viesse tão a tempo para acalmar tudo.

Tomado pelo prazer de ver-se livre, nem teve ele tempo de fazer recriminações aos seus inimigos: já sabia com certeza quem fora a causa do que acabava de sofrer, pois que o tinha percebido pela conversa que com ele tentara travar o granadeiro.

O major Vidigal fora às nuvens com o caso: nunca um só garoto, a quem uma vez tivesse posto a mão, lhe havia podido escapar; e entretanto aquele lhe viera pôr sal na moleira; ofendê-lo em sua vaidade de bom comandante de polícia, e degradá-lo diante dos granadeiros. Quem pregava ao major Vidigal um logro, fosse qual fosse a sua natureza, ficava-lhe sob a proteção, e tinha-o consigo em todas as ocasiões. Se o Leonardo não tivesse fugido, e arranjasse depois a soltura por qualquer meio, o Vidigal era até capaz, por fim de contas, de ser seu amigo; mas tendo-o deixado mal, tinha-o por seu inimigo irreconciliável enquanto não lhe desse desforra completa.

Já se vê pois que as fortunas do Leonardo redundavam-lhe sempre em mal: era realmente um mal naquele tempo ter por inimigo o major Vidigal, principalmente quando se tinha, como o Leonardo, uma vida tão regular e tão lícita.

Veremos agora o que se passou na casa em que entrara o Vidigal com os granadeiros em procura do Leonardo.

XIV - O Vidigal Desapontado               

O major Vidigal, vendo-se logrado, deu urros; e, como já fizemos sentir aos leitores, prometeu a si mesmo tomar séria vingança do Leonardo.

— Ora, dizia ele consigo, gastar meu tempo nesta vida, gastar os meus miolos a pensar nos meios de dar caça a quanto vagabundo gira por esta cidade, conseguir, à custa de muitos dias de fadiga, de muitas noites passadas sem pregar olho, de muita carreira, de muito trabalho, fazer-me temido, respeitado por aqueles que a ninguém temem e respeitam, os vadios e peraltas; e agora no fim de contas vir um melquetrefezinho pôr-me sal na moleira, envergonhar-me diante destes soldados e de toda esta gente! Agora, não há garoto por aí que, sabendo disto, não se esteja a rir de mim, e não conte já com a possibilidade de me pregar um segundo mono como este!...

O major tinha razão: riam-se com efeito dele; e os primeiros que o faziam eram os granadeiros. Apesar de que, escravos da disciplina, empregavam os mais sinceros esforços para coadjuvá-lo; e apesar também de que revertia para eles alguma glória das façanhas do major, não puderam entretanto deixar de achar graça no que acabava de suceder, pois conheciam a presunção do Vidigal, e repararam na cara desapontada com que ele havia ficado. Depois, apenas o major pôs pé fora da soleira da casa onde lhe tinha escapado Leonardo, uma multidão imensa que tudo havia presenciado desatou a rir estrondosamente.

— Então, Sr. major, dizia-lhe um dos da turba, desta vez.

    Passarinho foi-se embora,

    Deixou-me as penas na mão.

— Sr. major, dizia outro, procure nos bolsos.

— Dentro da barretina, emendava outro.

— Atrás da porta, replicava aquele.

E um coro de risadas acompanhava cada um destes conselhos.

— Lá está o bicho dentro da cadeirinha! gritou um repentinamente. O Vidigal, como que instintivamente, correu à cadeirinha e abriu-lhe as cortinas.

Nessa ocasião as risadas foram homéricas: o major compreendeu então qual fora o meio por que lhe escapara o Leonardo, e soltou um-ah!-prolongadíssimo. Enfim retirou-se acabrunhado, e ruminando projetos para sua reabilitação.

— Se aqueles rapazes da Conceição, dizia consigo o Vidigal, que me foram levar a nota do tal malandro, me tivessem avisado que ele era desta laia, eu não teria passado por esta imensa vergonha.

Por estas palavras vêem os leitores que as imputações da Vidinha contra os primos tinham mais que muito fundamento. Com efeito, o que se acabava de passar não era senão o resultado do ajuste que no dia da grande briga, por aquele motivo que o leitor bem sabe, haviam feito os dois rivais: tinham eles malsinado ao Leonardo. Foram ter com o Vidigal, e sem precisar mentir armaram ao Leonardo uma cama muito bem feita: era um homem sem ofício nem benefício, vivendo à custa alheia, enchendo de pernas a casa de duas mulheres velhas, a quem não tinha aproveitado a experiência, e, o que é mais, roubando aos primos o amor de sua prima.

O Vidigal regalara os olhos ouvindo a narração, e ficara muito agradecido aos dois rapazes pela nova que lhe levaram: era mais um pendão que ia juntar aos louros de suas façanhas policiais. A primeira tentativa custou-lhe porém bem caro.

Eis aqui pouco mais ou menos as reflexões em que o major ia engolfado:-Nada lhe seria mais agradável do que dia mais dia menos, quando ninguém pensasse em tal, acompanhado de uma escolta de granadeiros, dirigir-se à casa das duas velhas, cercá-la, e pilhar o Leonardo sem que lhe pudesse escapar. isto porém repugnava ao seu orgulho ofendido. Muitas vezes se tinha, é verdade, servido desse meio, porém fora isso para poder pilhar a capadócios de longa data, tidos e havidos como tais, e velhos no ofício. Não queria pois servir-se do mesmo meio para agarrar um recruta no ofício, que ainda agora começava. Nada, tal não fazia; não havia fazer cerco, e o que é mais, não queria de modo algum o adjutório dos granadeiros; jurava a si mesmo que ele sozinho, sem o apoio de ninguém, havia de pôr a mão no Leonardo.

Ia o Vidigal entrando na casa da guarda, para onde se dirigia, depois da derrota, quando sentiu-se repentinamente agarrado pelas pernas, e viu a seus pés uma mulher de mantilha, que chorava, soluçando muito, com o lenço no rosto.

— Que é isto, senhora? Deixe-me. Ora isto hoje é dia de má sina.

Continuaram os soluços por única resposta.

— Senhora, deixa-me ou não as pernas? Eu não gosto de carpideiras... entende?

Soluços ainda.

— Ora não está má esta... Se lhe morreu alguém, vá chorar na cama, que é lugar quente.

Redobrou o pranto.

— Valham-me trezentos diabos!... Quando é que isto terá fim?... Esta mulher acaba por atirar-me no chão...

Estava já muita gente junta na porta.

Passado finalmente um pouco de tempo em silêncio, quando já o major estava disposto a empregar alguma medida de rigor para ver-se livre da carpideira, esta ergueu a cabeça, e tirando o lenço da cara exclamou entre lágrimas:

— Sr. major, solte, solte por quem é meu afilhado, solte, solte o pobre rapaz; ele é um doido, é verdade, mas...

E os soluços lhe embargaram muito a propósito a voz.

Era a comadre que, tendo sabido da prisão do afilhado, viera fazer em seu favor aquela choradeira, ignorando que ele se tivesse evadido. A cena produziu o efeito esperado. Os granadeiros, de cada vez que a comadre dizia-solte, solte-desatavam a rir; tendo por boca pequena explicado tudo aos demais circunstantes; estes os acompanhavam.

O major tomou tudo aquilo como um escárnio que o gênio da vadiação e do garotismo lhe fazia: era mister que ele, para ver-se livre da comadre, que não lhe largava os joelhos, declarasse por sua própria boca, diante de toda aquela gente, que o Leonardo havia fugido! Declarou-o, e fugiu de todos aqueles olhares, em cada um dos quais via um insulto.

A comadre, apenas ouviu a declaração, tratou de retirar-se, e não pôde também deixar de achar graça no caso.

XV - Caldo entornado          

A comadre, tendo deixado o major entregue à sua vergonha, dirigira-se imediatamente para a casa onde se achava Leonardo para felicitá-lo e contar-lhe o desespero em que a sua fuga tinha posto o Vidigal. O Leonardo contava com isso, e não se admirou; Vidinha porém e as duas velhas, por entre muita praga e esconjuro, deram grandes risadas à custa do major. A comadre, segundo seu costume, aproveitou o ensejo, e depois que se aborreceu de falar no major desenrolou um sermão ao Leonardo, no qual, algumas exagerações de parte, havia grande fundo de justiça; e tanto que até a própria Vidinha chegou a dar-lhe inteira razão quanto a alguns trechos. O tema do sermão foi a necessidade de buscar o Leonardo uma ocupação, de abandonar a vida que levava, gostosa sim, porém sujeita a emergências tais como a que acabava de dar-se. A sanção de todas as leis que a predadora impunha ao seu ouvinte eram as garras do Vidigal.

— Haveis de afinal cair-lhe nas unhas, dizia ela no fim de cada período; e então o côvado e meio te cairá também nas costas.

Esta idéia do côvado e meio fez brecha no espírito do Leonardo: ser soldado era naquele tempo, e ainda hoje talvez, a pior coisa que podia suceder a um homem. Prometeu pois sinceramente emendar-se e tratar de ver um arranjo em que estivesse ao abrigo de qualquer capricho policial do terrível major. Achar porém ocupação para quem nunca cuidou nela até certa idade, e assim de pé para mão, não era das coisas mais fáceis.

Entretanto o zelo da comadre pôs-se em atividade, e poucos dias depois entrou ela muito contente, e veio participar ao Leonardo que lhe tinha achado um excelente arranjo que o habilitava, segundo pensava, a um grande futuro, e o punha perfeitamente a coberto das iras do Vidigal; era o arranjo de servidor na ucharia real. Deixando de parte o substantivo ucharia, e atendendo só ao adjetivo real, todos os interessados e o próprio Leonardo regalaram os olhos com o achado da comadre. Empregado da casa real?! oh! isso não era coisa que se recusasse; e então empregado na ucharia! essa mina inesgotável, tão farta e tão rica!... A proposta da comadre foi aceita sem uma só reflexão contra, da parte de quem quer que fosse.

Como a comadre pudera arranjar semelhante coisa para o afilhado é isso que pouco nos deve importar.

Dentro de poucos dias achou-se o Leonardo instalado no seu posto, muito cheio e contente de si.

O major, que o não perdia de vista, soube-lhe dos passos, e mordeu os beiços de raiva quando o viu tão bem aquartelado; só deixando a vida que levava podia o Leonardo cortar ao major pretextos para pôr-lhe a unha mais dia menos dia.

— Se ele se emenda?! dizia pesaroso o major; se ele se emenda perco eu a minha vingança... Mas... (e esta esperança o alentava) ele não tem cara de quem nasceu para emendas.

O major tinha razão: o Leonardo não parecia ter nascido para emendas. Durante os primeiros tempos de serviço tudo correu às mil maravilhas; só algum mal-intencionado poderia notar em casa de Vidinha uma certa fartura desusada na despensa; mas isso não era coisa em que alguém fizesse conta.

O Leonardo porém parece que recebera de seu pai a fatalidade de lhe previrem sempre os infortúnios dos devaneios do coração.

Dentro do pátio da ucharia morava um toma-largura em companhia de uma moça que lhe cuidava na casa; a moça era bonita, e o toma-largura um machacaz talhado pelo molde mais grotesco; a moça fazia pena a quem a via nas mãos de tal possuidor.

O Leonardo, cujo coração era compadecido, teve, como todos, pena da moça; e apressemo-nos a dizer, era tão sincero esse sentimento que não pôde deixar de despertar também a mais sincera gratidão ao objeto dele. Quem pagou o resultado da pena de um e da gratidão da outra foi o toma-largura.

Vidinha lá por casa começou a estranhar a assiduidade do novo empregado na sua repartição, e a notar o quer que fosse de esmorecimento de sua parte para com ela.

Um dia o toma-largura tinha saído em serviço; ninguém esperava por ele tão cedo: eram 11 horas da manhã. O Leonardo, por um daqueles milhares de escaninhos que existem na ucharia, tinha ido ter à casa do toma-largura. Ninguém porém pense que era para maus fins. Pelo contrário era para o fim muito louvável de levar à pobre moça uma tigela de caldo do que há pouco fora mandado a el-rei... Obséquio de empregado da ucharia. Não há aqui nada de censurável. Seria entretanto muito digno de censura que quem recebia tal obséquio não o procurasse pagar com um extremo de civilidade: a moça convidou pois ao Leonardo para ajudá-la a tomar o caldo. E que grosseiro seria ele se não aceitasse tão belo oferecimento? Aceitou.

De repente sente-se abrir uma porta: a moça, que tinha na mão a tigela, estremece, e o caldo entorna-se.

O toma-largura, que acabava de chegar inesperadamente, fora a causa de tudo isto. O Leonardo correu precipitadamente pelo caminho mais curto que encontrou; sem dúvida em busca de outro caldo, uma vez que o primeiro se tinha entornado. O toma-largura corre-lhe também ao alcance, sem dúvida para pedir-lhe que trouxesse desta vez quantidade que chegasse para um terceiro.

O caso foi que daí a pouco ouviu-se lá por dentro barulho de pratos quebrados, de móveis atirados ao chão, gritos, alarido; viu-se depois o Leonardo atravessar o pátio da ucharia à carreira e o toma-largura voltar com os galões da farda arrancados, e esta com uma aba de menos.

.............................................................................................................................................................

No dia seguinte o Leonardo foi despedido da ucharia.

XVI - Ciúmes                

No dia seguinte já o Vidigal sabia de cor e salteado tudo quanto havia sucedido ao Leonardo, e pôs-se alerta, pois que a ocasião era oportuna.

O Leonardo entrara para a ucharia com o pé esquerdo: a tormenta por que havia passado nada foi em comparação da que lhe caiu nas costas, quando em casa se soube da causa verdadeira de sua saída.

É uma grande desgraça não corresponder a mulher a quem amamos aos nossos afetos; porém não é também pequena desventura o cairmos nas mãos de uma mulher a quem deu na cabeça querer-nos bem deveras. O Leonardo podia dar a prova desta última verdade. Vidinha era ciumenta até não poder mais: ora, as mulheres têm uma infinidade de maneiras de manifestar este sentimento. A umas dá-lhe para chorar em um canto, e choram aí em ar de graça dilúvios de lágrimas: isto é muito cômodo para quem as tem de sofrer. Outras recorrem às represálias, e nesse caso desbancam incontinenti a quem quer que seja: esta maneira é seguramente muito agradável para elas próprias. Outras não usam da mais leve represália, não espremem uma lágrima, mas assim por um espaço de oito ou quinze dias, desde que desponta a aurora, até que cai a noite, resmungam um calendário de lamentações, em que entram seu pai, sua mãe, seus parentes e amigos, seu compadre, sua comadre, seu dote, seus filhos e filhas, e tudo por aí além; isso sem cessar um só instante, sem um segundo de descanso: de maneira a deixar na cabeça do mísero que a escuta uma assuada eterna, capaz de fazer amolecer um cérebro de pedra. Outras entendem que devem afetar desprezo e pouco-caso: essas tornam-se divertidas, e faz gosto vê-las. Outras enfim deixam-se tomar de um furor desabrido e irreprimível; praguejam, blasfemam, quebram os trastes, rompem a roupa, espancam os escravos e filhos, descompõem os vizinhos: esta é a pior de todas as manifestações, a mais desesperadora, a menos econômica, e também a mais infrutífera. Vidinha era do número destas últimas.

Apenas pois, como há pouco dizíamos, se verificou a verdadeira causa da saída do Leonardo, desabou um temporal que só terá semelhante no que há de preceder ao aniquilamento do globo. Depois de gritar, chorar, maldizer, blasfemar, ameaçar, rasgar, quebrar, destruir, Vidinha parou um instante, concentrou-se, meditou, e depois, como tomando uma grande resolução:

— Minha mãe, disse dirigindo-se a uma das velhas, quero a sua mantilha...

— Filha de Deus, acudiu a velha, que desatino é esse? onde é que ides agora de mantilha?...

— Eu cá sei onde vou... quero a sua mantilha... tenho dito... quero a sua mantilha...

Foram todos reunindo-se em roda de Vidinha, surpreendidos por aquela resolução.

O Leonardo estava sentado, ou antes encolhido a seu canto, quedo e silencioso.

— Quero a sua mantilha, minha mãe; quero, e quero...

— Mas para onde ides, rapariga?... Ora, meu Deus!... isso foi coisa que vos fizeram...

— Quero ir à ucharia...

— Jesus!...

— Quero ir... que me importa que seja a casa do rei?... Hei de ir... hei de procurar o tal toma-largura... quero fazer-lhe cá duas perguntas... e, ou o Menino Jesus não é filho da Virgem, ou na tal ucharia não fica hoje coisa sobre coisa.

— Que loucura, rapariga... que desatino!...

Os dois primos riam-se interiormente do que se estava passando.

Não há coisa mais eminentemente prosaica do que uma mulher quando se enfurece. Tudo quanto em Vidinha havia de requebro, de languidez, de voluptuosidade tinha desaparecido; estava feia, e até repugnante.

Ninguém houve que a pudesse desviar do seu propósito: ela foi tomando a mantilha e dispondo-se a sair; rogos, choros, nada a pôde conter.

O Leonardo viu que o caso estava malparado, e tendo estado até então calado, decidiu-se também a pedir a Vidinha que não saísse. Foi, como se costuma dizer, pior a emenda que o soneto.

— Qual!... responde Vidinha... essa agora é que havia de ser bonita... Qual! pois eu não hei de sair?... Tinha que ver... então por pedido do senhor? Ora qual...

E foi saindo.

Começava a anoitecer.

A gente de casa ficou toda na maior aflição; ninguém sabia o que se havia de fazer. O Leonardo tomou a resolução de acompanhar Vidinha a ver se a detinha em caminho.

Vidinha caminhava tão depressa que a principio o Leonardo quase que a perdia de vista; finalmente conseguiu alcançá-la, e começou a pedir-lhe que voltasse, fazendo as maiores promessas de comedir-se dali em diante, e de lhe não dar mais motivos de desgosto. Vidinha porém a nada atendia, e caminhava sempre. O Leonardo recorreu a ameaças; Vidinha redobrou a passos: voltou de novo a rogativas; Vidinha caminhava sempre.

Já estavam no largo do Paço: Vidinha, quase a correr, deixou o Leonardo umas poucas de braças atrás de si, entrou muito adiante dele pelo portão da ucharia adentro, e desapareceu. O Leonardo parou um instante a resolver-se se entraria também ou não. Finalmente decidiu-se a entrar. No momento em que ia transpondo a soleira do portão, voltou repentinamente, e ia disparando uma carreira: uma mão magra, mas vigorosa, o deteve agarrando-o pela gola da jaqueta: era a mão do major Vidigal, com quem ele havia esbarrado ao querer entrar, e de quem pretendia fugir. Vendo que lhe seria inútil qualquer tentativa, porque ali perto havia guarda, o Leonardo resignou-se. O major olhou para ele soltando uma risadinha maligna; e disse-lhe apenas muito pausada e descansadamente:

— Ora vamos...

O Leonardo entendeu bem a significação daquelas duas palavras, e caminhou, ao lado do major, na direção que este lhe indicava.

Speech of Cardinal Robert Sarah at the Youth Synod, 2018 (in English)

Young people put forward various requests in the field of moral doctrine. On the one hand, they demand clarity from the Church regarding some questions of particular concern to them: freedom in all areas and not only in sexual relations, non-discrimination on the grounds of sexual orientation, equality between men and women, even within the Church, etc., (cf. IL 53). On the other hand, they are calling for an open and unprejudiced discussion on moral questions, but even expect a radical change, a real reversal of the Church's teaching in these areas. In practice, they are asking “that the Church change her teachings” (Final Document, Pre-Synodal Meeting, Part II, no. 5).

Yet the doctrine of the Church on the above questions is not lacking in clarity: it’s enough to quote the Catechism of the Catholic Church (cf. Section Two, Chapter II, Art. 6). In particular, on the widely discussed issue today of homosexuality, the doctrine of the Church is clear (cf. CCC nos. 2357-2359; the two Documents of the CDF: Letter to the Bishops of the Catholic Church on the Pastoral Care of Homosexual Persons, 1986; Some Considerations Concerning the Response to Legislative Proposalson the Non-Discrimination of Homosexual Persons, 1992). That the content of these documents is not shared by the people to whom they refer is another issue, but the Church cannot be accused of a lack of clarity. If anything, there will be a lack of clarity on the part of some pastors in the exposition of the doctrine. In this case, one who exercises the munus docendi should make a profound examination of conscience before God.

It is, therefore, a question of proposing with courage and honesty the Christian ideal in keeping with Catholic moral doctrine, and not of watering it down by hiding the truth in order to attract young people into the bosom of the Church. Young people themselves say this, in the final document of the Pre-Synodal Meeting: “The young have many questions about the faith, but desire answers which are not watered-down, or which utilize pre-fabricated formulations.” (Final Document, Pre-Synodal Meeting, Part III, no. 11).

Perhaps we should keep more in mind that passage from the Gospel in which Jesus does not lower the demands of his call to the rich young man who wanted to follow him (cf. Mk 10:17-22). Besides, an unmistakable trait of the condition of young people is the desire to continually seek high and demanding ideals in all areas, not only in the personal realm of the area of feelings and emotions or the professional sphere, but also in justice, in transparency in the fight against corruption, in respect for human dignity. Underestimating the healthy idealism of young people can be a grave disservice to them, since it closes the doors to a true process of growth, maturity and holiness. Thus, by respecting and promoting the idealism of young people, they can become the most precious resource for a society that wants to grow and improve.

+Robert Cardinal Sarah

Prefect, Congregation for Divine Worship and the Discipline of the Sacraments

Tuesday's Serial: "Orthodoxy" by G. K. Chesterton (in English) - VI

VII - THE ETERNAL REVOLUTION

The following propositions have been urged: First, that some faith in our life is required even to improve it; second, that some dissatisfaction with things as they are is necessary even in order to be satisfied; third, that to have this necessary content and necessary discontent it is not sufficient to have the obvious equilibrium of the Stoic. For mere resignation has neither the gigantic levity of pleasure nor the superb intolerance of pain. There is a vital objection to the advice merely to grin and bear it. The objection is that if you merely bear it, you do not grin. Greek heroes do not grin: but gargoyles do—because they are Christian. And when a Christian is pleased, he is (in the most exact sense) frightfully pleased; his pleasure is frightful. Christ prophesied the whole of Gothic architecture in that hour when nervous and respectable people (such people as now object to barrel organs) objected to the shouting of the gutter-snipes of Jerusalem. He said, "If these were silent, the very stones would cry out." Under the impulse of His spirit arose like a clamorous chorus the facades of the mediaeval cathedrals, thronged with shouting faces and open mouths. The prophecy has fulfilled itself: the very stones cry out.

If these things be conceded, though only for argument, we may take up where we left it the thread of the thought of the natural man, called by the Scotch (with regrettable familiarity), "The Old Man." We can ask the next question so obviously in front of us. Some satisfaction is needed even to make things better. But what do we mean by making things better? Most modern talk on this matter is a mere argument in a circle—that circle which we have already made the symbol of madness and of mere rationalism. Evolution is only good if it produces good; good is only good if it helps evolution. The elephant stands on the tortoise, and the tortoise on the elephant.

Obviously, it will not do to take our ideal from the principle in nature; for the simple reason that (except for some human or divine theory), there is no principle in nature. For instance, the cheap anti-democrat of to-day will tell you solemnly that there is no equality in nature. He is right, but he does not see the logical addendum. There is no equality in nature; also there is no inequality in nature. Inequality, as much as equality, implies a standard of value. To read aristocracy into the anarchy of animals is just as sentimental as to read democracy into it. Both aristocracy and democracy are human ideals: the one saying that all men are valuable, the other that some men are more valuable. But nature does not say that cats are more valuable than mice; nature makes no remark on the subject. She does not even say that the cat is enviable or the mouse pitiable. We think the cat superior because we have (or most of us have) a particular philosophy to the effect that life is better than death. But if the mouse were a German pessimist mouse, he might not think that the cat had beaten him at all. He might think he had beaten the cat by getting to the grave first. Or he might feel that he had actually inflicted frightful punishment on the cat by keeping him alive. Just as a microbe might feel proud of spreading a pestilence, so the pessimistic mouse might exult to think that he was renewing in the cat the torture of conscious existence. It all depends on the philosophy of the mouse. You cannot even say that there is victory or superiority in nature unless you have some doctrine about what things are superior. You cannot even say that the cat scores unless there is a system of scoring. You cannot even say that the cat gets the best of it unless there is some best to be got.

We cannot, then, get the ideal itself from nature, and as we follow here the first and natural speculation, we will leave out (for the present) the idea of getting it from God. We must have our own vision. But the attempts of most moderns to express it are highly vague.

Some fall back simply on the clock: they talk as if mere passage through time brought some superiority; so that even a man of the first mental calibre carelessly uses the phrase that human morality is never up to date. How can anything be up to date?— a date has no character. How can one say that Christmas celebrations are not suitable to the twenty-fifth of a month? What the writer meant, of course, was that the majority is behind his favourite minority—or in front of it. Other vague modern people take refuge in material metaphors; in fact, this is the chief mark of vague modern people. Not daring to define their doctrine of what is good, they use physical figures of speech without stint or shame, and, what is worst of all, seem to think these cheap analogies are exquisitely spiritual and superior to the old morality. Thus they think it intellectual to talk about things being "high." It is at least the reverse of intellectual; it is a mere phrase from a steeple or a weathercock. "Tommy was a good boy" is a pure philosophical statement, worthy of Plato or Aquinas. "Tommy lived the higher life" is a gross metaphor from a ten-foot rule.

This, incidentally, is almost the whole weakness of Nietzsche, whom some are representing as a bold and strong thinker. No one will deny that he was a poetical and suggestive thinker; but he was quite the reverse of strong. He was not at all bold. He never put his own meaning before himself in bald abstract words: as did Aristotle and Calvin, and even Karl Marx, the hard, fearless men of thought. Nietzsche always escaped a question by a physical metaphor, like a cheery minor poet. He said, "beyond good and evil," because he had not the courage to say, "more good than good and evil," or, "more evil than good and evil." Had he faced his thought without metaphors, he would have seen that it was nonsense. So, when he describes his hero, he does not dare to say, "the purer man," or "the happier man," or "the sadder man," for all these are ideas; and ideas are alarming. He says "the upper man," or "over man," a physical metaphor from acrobats or alpine climbers. Nietzsche is truly a very timid thinker. He does not really know in the least what sort of man he wants evolution to produce. And if he does not know, certainly the ordinary evolutionists, who talk about things being "higher," do not know either.

Then again, some people fall back on sheer submission and sitting still. Nature is going to do something some day; nobody knows what, and nobody knows when. We have no reason for acting, and no reason for not acting. If anything happens it is right: if anything is prevented it was wrong. Again, some people try to anticipate nature by doing something, by doing anything. Because we may possibly grow wings they cut off their legs. Yet nature may be trying to make them centipedes for all they know.

Lastly, there is a fourth class of people who take whatever it is that they happen to want, and say that that is the ultimate aim of evolution. And these are the only sensible people. This is the only really healthy way with the word evolution, to work for what you want, and to call THAT evolution. The only intelligible sense that progress or advance can have among men, is that we have a definite vision, and that we wish to make the whole world like that vision. If you like to put it so, the essence of the doctrine is that what we have around us is the mere method and preparation for something that we have to create. This is not a world, but rather the material for a world. God has given us not so much the colours of a picture as the colours of a palette. But he has also given us a subject, a model, a fixed vision. We must be clear about what we want to paint. This adds a further principle to our previous list of principles. We have said we must be fond of this world, even in order to change it. We now add that we must be fond of another world (real or imaginary) in order to have something to change it to.

We need not debate about the mere words evolution or progress: personally I prefer to call it reform. For reform implies form. It implies that we are trying to shape the world in a particular image; to make it something that we see already in our minds. Evolution is a metaphor from mere automatic unrolling. Progress is a metaphor from merely walking along a road—very likely the wrong road. But reform is a metaphor for reasonable and determined men: it means that we see a certain thing out of shape and we mean to put it into shape. And we know what shape.

Now here comes in the whole collapse and huge blunder of our age. We have mixed up two different things, two opposite things. Progress should mean that we are always changing the world to suit the vision. Progress does mean (just now) that we are always changing the vision. It should mean that we are slow but sure in bringing justice and mercy among men: it does mean that we are very swift in doubting the desirability of justice and mercy: a wild page from any Prussian sophist makes men doubt it. Progress should mean that we are always walking towards the New Jerusalem. It does mean that the New Jerusalem is always walking away from us. We are not altering the real to suit the ideal. We are altering the ideal: it is easier.

Silly examples are always simpler; let us suppose a man wanted a particular kind of world; say, a blue world. He would have no cause to complain of the slightness or swiftness of his task; he might toil for a long time at the transformation; he could work away (in every sense) until all was blue. He could have heroic adventures; the putting of the last touches to a blue tiger. He could have fairy dreams; the dawn of a blue moon. But if he worked hard, that high-minded reformer would certainly (from his own point of view) leave the world better and bluer than he found it. If he altered a blade of grass to his favourite colour every day, he would get on slowly. But if he altered his favourite colour every day, he would not get on at all. If, after reading a fresh philosopher, he started to paint everything red or yellow, his work would be thrown away: there would be nothing to show except a few blue tigers walking about, specimens of his early bad manner. This is exactly the position of the average modern thinker. It will be said that this is avowedly a preposterous example. But it is literally the fact of recent history. The great and grave changes in our political civilization all belonged to the early nineteenth century, not to the later. They belonged to the black and white epoch when men believed fixedly in Toryism, in Protestantism, in Calvinism, in Reform, and not unfrequently in Revolution. And whatever each man believed in he hammered at steadily, without scepticism: and there was a time when the Established Church might have fallen, and the House of Lords nearly fell. It was because Radicals were wise enough to be constant and consistent; it was because Radicals were wise enough to be Conservative. But in the existing atmosphere there is not enough time and tradition in Radicalism to pull anything down. There is a great deal of truth in Lord Hugh Cecil's suggestion (made in a fine speech) that the era of change is over, and that ours is an era of conservation and repose. But probably it would pain Lord Hugh Cecil if he realized (what is certainly the case) that ours is only an age of conservation because it is an age of complete unbelief. Let beliefs fade fast and frequently, if you wish institutions to remain the same. The more the life of the mind is unhinged, the more the machinery of matter will be left to itself. The net result of all our political suggestions, Collectivism, Tolstoyanism, Neo-Feudalism, Communism, Anarchy, Scientific Bureaucracy—the plain fruit of all of them is that the Monarchy and the House of Lords will remain. The net result of all the new religions will be that the Church of England will not (for heaven knows how long) be disestablished. It was Karl Marx, Nietzsche, Tolstoy, Cunninghame Grahame, Bernard Shaw and Auberon Herbert, who between them, with bowed gigantic backs, bore up the throne of the Archbishop of Canterbury.

We may say broadly that free thought is the best of all the safeguards against freedom. Managed in a modern style the emancipation of the slave's mind is the best way of preventing the emancipation of the slave. Teach him to worry about whether he wants to be free, and he will not free himself. Again, it may be said that this instance is remote or extreme. But, again, it is exactly true of the men in the streets around us. It is true that the negro slave, being a debased barbarian, will probably have either a human affection of loyalty, or a human affection for liberty. But the man we see every day—the worker in Mr. Gradgrind's factory, the little clerk in Mr. Gradgrind's office—he is too mentally worried to believe in freedom. He is kept quiet with revolutionary literature. He is calmed and kept in his place by a constant succession of wild philosophies. He is a Marxian one day, a Nietzscheite the next day, a Superman (probably) the next day; and a slave every day. The only thing that remains after all the philosophies is the factory. The only man who gains by all the philosophies is Gradgrind. It would be worth his while to keep his commercial helotry supplied with sceptical literature. And now I come to think of it, of course, Gradgrind is famous for giving libraries. He shows his sense. All modern books are on his side. As long as the vision of heaven is always changing, the vision of earth will be exactly the same. No ideal will remain long enough to be realized, or even partly realized. The modern young man will never change his environment; for he will always change his mind.

This, therefore, is our first requirement about the ideal towards which progress is directed; it must be fixed. Whistler used to make many rapid studies of a sitter; it did not matter if he tore up twenty portraits. But it would matter if he looked up twenty times, and each time saw a new person sitting placidly for his portrait. So it does not matter (comparatively speaking) how often humanity fails to imitate its ideal; for then all its old failures are fruitful. But it does frightfully matter how often humanity changes its ideal; for then all its old failures are fruitless. The question therefore becomes this: How can we keep the artist discontented with his pictures while preventing him from being vitally discontented with his art? How can we make a man always dissatisfied with his work, yet always satisfied with working? How can we make sure that the portrait painter will throw the portrait out of window instead of taking the natural and more human course of throwing the sitter out of window?

A strict rule is not only necessary for ruling; it is also necessary for rebelling. This fixed and familiar ideal is necessary to any sort of revolution. Man will sometimes act slowly upon new ideas; but he will only act swiftly upon old ideas. If I am merely to float or fade or evolve, it may be towards something anarchic; but if I am to riot, it must be for something respectable. This is the whole weakness of certain schools of progress and moral evolution. They suggest that there has been a slow movement towards morality, with an imperceptible ethical change in every year or at every instant. There is only one great disadvantage in this theory. It talks of a slow movement towards justice; but it does not permit a swift movement. A man is not allowed to leap up and declare a certain state of things to be intrinsically intolerable. To make the matter clear, it is better to take a specific example. Certain of the idealistic vegetarians, such as Mr. Salt, say that the time has now come for eating no meat; by implication they assume that at one time it was right to eat meat, and they suggest (in words that could be quoted) that some day it may be wrong to eat milk and eggs. I do not discuss here the question of what is justice to animals. I only say that whatever is justice ought, under given conditions, to be prompt justice. If an animal is wronged, we ought to be able to rush to his rescue. But how can we rush if we are, perhaps, in advance of our time? How can we rush to catch a train which may not arrive for a few centuries? How can I denounce a man for skinning cats, if he is only now what I may possibly become in drinking a glass of milk? A splendid and insane Russian sect ran about taking all the cattle out of all the carts. How can I pluck up courage to take the horse out of my hansom-cab, when I do not know whether my evolutionary watch is only a little fast or the cabman's a little slow? Suppose I say to a sweater, "Slavery suited one stage of evolution." And suppose he answers, "And sweating suits this stage of evolution." How can I answer if there is no eternal test? If sweaters can be behind the current morality, why should not philanthropists be in front of it? What on earth is the current morality, except in its literal sense—the morality that is always running away?

Thus we may say that a permanent ideal is as necessary to the innovator as to the conservative; it is necessary whether we wish the king's orders to be promptly executed or whether we only wish the king to be promptly executed. The guillotine has many sins, but to do it justice there is nothing evolutionary about it. The favourite evolutionary argument finds its best answer in the axe. The Evolutionist says, "Where do you draw the line?" the Revolutionist answers, "I draw it HERE: exactly between your head and body." There must at any given moment be an abstract right and wrong if any blow is to be struck; there must be something eternal if there is to be anything sudden. Therefore for all intelligible human purposes, for altering things or for keeping things as they are, for founding a system for ever, as in China, or for altering it every month as in the early French Revolution, it is equally necessary that the vision should be a fixed vision. This is our first requirement.

When I had written this down, I felt once again the presence of something else in the discussion: as a man hears a church bell above the sound of the street. Something seemed to be saying, "My ideal at least is fixed; for it was fixed before the foundations of the world. My vision of perfection assuredly cannot be altered; for it is called Eden. You may alter the place to which you are going; but you cannot alter the place from which you have come. To the orthodox there must always be a case for revolution; for in the hearts of men God has been put under the feet of Satan. In the upper world hell once rebelled against heaven. But in this world heaven is rebelling against hell. For the orthodox there can always be a revolution; for a revolution is a restoration. At any instant you may strike a blow for the perfection which no man has seen since Adam. No unchanging custom, no changing evolution can make the original good any thing but good. Man may have had concubines as long as cows have had horns: still they are not a part of him if they are sinful. Men may have been under oppression ever since fish were under water; still they ought not to be, if oppression is sinful. The chain may seem as natural to the slave, or the paint to the harlot, as does the plume to the bird or the burrow to the fox; still they are not, if they are sinful. I lift my prehistoric legend to defy all your history. Your vision is not merely a fixture: it is a fact." I paused to note the new coincidence of Christianity: but I passed on.

I passed on to the next necessity of any ideal of progress. Some people (as we have said) seem to believe in an automatic and impersonal progress in the nature of things. But it is clear that no political activity can be encouraged by saying that progress is natural and inevitable; that is not a reason for being active, but rather a reason for being lazy. If we are bound to improve, we need not trouble to improve. The pure doctrine of progress is the best of all reasons for not being a progressive. But it is to none of these obvious comments that I wish primarily to call attention.

The only arresting point is this: that if we suppose improvement to be natural, it must be fairly simple. The world might conceivably be working towards one consummation, but hardly towards any particular arrangement of many qualities. To take our original simile: Nature by herself may be growing more blue; that is, a process so simple that it might be impersonal. But Nature cannot be making a careful picture made of many picked colours, unless Nature is personal. If the end of the world were mere darkness or mere light it might come as slowly and inevitably as dusk or dawn. But if the end of the world is to be a piece of elaborate and artistic chiaroscuro, then there must be design in it, either human or divine. The world, through mere time, might grow black like an old picture, or white like an old coat; but if it is turned into a particular piece of black and white art— then there is an artist.

If the distinction be not evident, I give an ordinary instance. We constantly hear a particularly cosmic creed from the modern humanitarians;

I use the word humanitarian in the ordinary sense, as meaning one who upholds the claims of all creatures against those of humanity. They suggest that through the ages we have been growing more and more humane, that is to say, that one after another, groups or sections of beings, slaves, children, women, cows, or what not, have been gradually admitted to mercy or to justice. They say that we once thought it right to eat men (we didn't); but I am not here concerned with their history, which is highly unhistorical. As a fact, anthropophagy is certainly a decadent thing, not a primitive one. It is much more likely that modern men will eat human flesh out of affectation than that primitive man ever ate it out of ignorance. I am here only following the outlines of their argument, which consists in maintaining that man has been progressively more lenient, first to citizens, then to slaves, then to animals, and then (presumably) to plants. I think it wrong to sit on a man. Soon, I shall think it wrong to sit on a horse. Eventually (I suppose) I shall think it wrong to sit on a chair. That is the drive of the argument. And for this argument it can be said that it is possible to talk of it in terms of evolution or inevitable progress. A perpetual tendency to touch fewer and fewer things might—one feels, be a mere brute unconscious tendency, like that of a species to produce fewer and fewer children. This drift may be really evolutionary, because it is stupid.

Darwinism can be used to back up two mad moralities, but it cannot be used to back up a single sane one. The kinship and competition of all living creatures can be used as a reason for being insanely cruel or insanely sentimental; but not for a healthy love of animals. On the evolutionary basis you may be inhumane, or you may be absurdly humane; but you cannot be human. That you and a tiger are one may be a reason for being tender to a tiger. Or it may be a reason for being as cruel as the tiger. It is one way to train the tiger to imitate you, it is a shorter way to imitate the tiger. But in neither case does evolution tell you how to treat a tiger reasonably, that is, to admire his stripes while avoiding his claws.

If you want to treat a tiger reasonably, you must go back to the garden of Eden. For the obstinate reminder continued to recur: only the supernatural has taken a sane view of Nature. The essence of all pantheism, evolutionism, and modern cosmic religion is really in this proposition: that Nature is our mother. Unfortunately, if you regard Nature as a mother, you discover that she is a step-mother. The main point of Christianity was this: that Nature is not our mother: Nature is our sister. We can be proud of her beauty, since we have the same father; but she has no authority over us; we have to admire, but not to imitate. This gives to the typically Christian pleasure in this earth a strange touch of lightness that is almost frivolity. Nature was a solemn mother to the worshippers of Isis and Cybele. Nature was a solemn mother to Wordsworth or to Emerson. But Nature is not solemn to Francis of Assisi or to George Herbert. To St. Francis, Nature is a sister, and even a younger sister: a little, dancing sister, to be laughed at as well as loved.

This, however, is hardly our main point at present; I have admitted it only in order to show how constantly, and as it were accidentally, the key would fit the smallest doors. Our main point is here, that if there be a mere trend of impersonal improvement in Nature, it must presumably be a simple trend towards some simple triumph. One can imagine that some automatic tendency in biology might work for giving us longer and longer noses. But the question is, do we want to have longer and longer noses? I fancy not; I believe that we most of us want to say to our noses, "thus far, and no farther; and here shall thy proud point be stayed:" we require a nose of such length as may ensure an interesting face. But we cannot imagine a mere biological trend towards producing interesting faces; because an interesting face is one particular arrangement of eyes, nose, and mouth, in a most complex relation to each other. Proportion cannot be a drift: it is either an accident or a design. So with the ideal of human morality and its relation to the humanitarians and the anti-humanitarians. It is conceivable that we are going more and more to keep our hands off things: not to drive horses; not to pick flowers. We may eventually be bound not to disturb a man's mind even by argument; not to disturb the sleep of birds even by coughing. The ultimate apotheosis would appear to be that of a man sitting quite still, nor daring to stir for fear of disturbing a fly, nor to eat for fear of incommoding a microbe. To so crude a consummation as that we might perhaps unconsciously drift. But do we want so crude a consummation? Similarly, we might unconsciously evolve along the opposite or Nietzschian line of development—superman crushing superman in one tower of tyrants until the universe is smashed up for fun. But do we want the universe smashed up for fun? Is it not quite clear that what we really hope for is one particular management and proposition of these two things; a certain amount of restraint and respect, a certain amount of energy and mastery? If our life is ever really as beautiful as a fairy-tale, we shall have to remember that all the beauty of a fairy-tale lies in this: that the prince has a wonder which just stops short of being fear. If he is afraid of the giant, there is an end of him; but also if he is not astonished at the giant, there is an end of the fairy-tale. The whole point depends upon his being at once humble enough to wonder, and haughty enough to defy. So our attitude to the giant of the world must not merely be increasing delicacy or increasing contempt: it must be one particular proportion of the two—which is exactly right. We must have in us enough reverence for all things outside us to make us tread fearfully on the grass. We must also have enough disdain for all things outside us, to make us, on due occasion, spit at the stars. Yet these two things (if we are to be good or happy) must be combined, not in any combination, but in one particular combination. The perfect happiness of men on the earth (if it ever comes) will not be a flat and solid thing, like the satisfaction of animals. It will be an exact and perilous balance; like that of a desperate romance. Man must have just enough faith in himself to have adventures, and just enough doubt of himself to enjoy them.

This, then, is our second requirement for the ideal of progress. First, it must be fixed; second, it must be composite. It must not (if it is to satisfy our souls) be the mere victory of some one thing swallowing up everything else, love or pride or peace or adventure; it must be a definite picture composed of these elements in their best proportion and relation. I am not concerned at this moment to deny that some such good culmination may be, by the constitution of things, reserved for the human race. I only point out that if this composite happiness is fixed for us it must be fixed by some mind; for only a mind can place the exact proportions of a composite happiness. If the beatification of the world is a mere work of nature, then it must be as simple as the freezing of the world, or the burning up of the world. But if the beatification of the world is not a work of nature but a work of art, then it involves an artist. And here again my contemplation was cloven by the ancient voice which said, "I could have told you all this a long time ago. If there is any certain progress it can only be my kind of progress, the progress towards a complete city of virtues and dominations where righteousness and peace contrive to kiss each other. An impersonal force might be leading you to a wilderness of perfect flatness or a peak of perfect height. But only a personal God can possibly be leading you (if, indeed, you are being led) to a city with just streets and architectural proportions, a city in which each of you can contribute exactly the right amount of your own colour to the many coloured coat of Joseph."

Twice again, therefore, Christianity had come in with the exact answer that I required. I had said, "The ideal must be fixed," and the Church had answered, "Mine is literally fixed, for it existed before anything else." I said secondly, "It must be artistically combined, like a picture"; and the Church answered, "Mine is quite literally a picture, for I know who painted it." Then I went on to the third thing, which, as it seemed to me, was needed for an Utopia or goal of progress. And of all the three it is infinitely the hardest to express. Perhaps it might be put thus: that we need watchfulness even in Utopia, lest we fall from Utopia as we fell from Eden.

We have remarked that one reason offered for being a progressive is that things naturally tend to grow better. But the only real reason for being a progressive is that things naturally tend to grow worse. The corruption in things is not only the best argument for being progressive; it is also the only argument against being conservative. The conservative theory would really be quite sweeping and unanswerable if it were not for this one fact. But all conservatism is based upon the idea that if you leave things alone you leave them as they are. But you do not. If you leave a thing alone you leave it to a torrent of change. If you leave a white post alone it will soon be a black post. If you particularly want it to be white you must be always painting it again; that is, you must be always having a revolution. Briefly, if you want the old white post you must have a new white post. But this which is true even of inanimate things is in a quite special and terrible sense true of all human things. An almost unnatural vigilance is really required of the citizen because of the horrible rapidity with which human institutions grow old. It is the custom in passing romance and journalism to talk of men suffering under old tyrannies. But, as a fact, men have almost always suffered under new tyrannies; under tyrannies that had been public liberties hardly twenty years before. Thus England went mad with joy over the patriotic monarchy of Elizabeth; and then (almost immediately afterwards) went mad with rage in the trap of the tyranny of Charles the First. So, again, in France the monarchy became intolerable, not just after it had been tolerated, but just after it had been adored. The son of Louis the well-beloved was Louis the guillotined. So in the same way in England in the nineteenth century the Radical manufacturer was entirely trusted as a mere tribune of the people, until suddenly we heard the cry of the Socialist that he was a tyrant eating the people like bread. So again, we have almost up to the last instant trusted the newspapers as organs of public opinion. Just recently some of us have seen (not slowly, but with a start) that they are obviously nothing of the kind. They are, by the nature of the case, the hobbies of a few rich men. We have not any need to rebel against antiquity; we have to rebel against novelty. It is the new rulers, the capitalist or the editor, who really hold up the modern world. There is no fear that a modern king will attempt to override the constitution; it is more likely that he will ignore the constitution and work behind its back; he will take no advantage of his kingly power; it is more likely that he will take advantage of his kingly powerlessness, of the fact that he is free from criticism and publicity. For the king is the most private person of our time. It will not be necessary for any one to fight again against the proposal of a censorship of the press. We do not need a censorship of the press. We have a censorship by the press.

This startling swiftness with which popular systems turn oppressive is the third fact for which we shall ask our perfect theory of progress to allow. It must always be on the look out for every privilege being abused, for every working right becoming a wrong. In this matter I am entirely on the side of the revolutionists. They are really right to be always suspecting human institutions; they are right not to put their trust in princes nor in any child of man. The chieftain chosen to be the friend of the people becomes the enemy of the people; the newspaper started to tell the truth now exists to prevent the truth being told. Here, I say, I felt that I was really at last on the side of the revolutionary. And then I caught my breath again: for I remembered that I was once again on the side of the orthodox.

Christianity spoke again and said: "I have always maintained that men were naturally backsliders; that human virtue tended of its own nature to rust or to rot; I have always said that human beings as such go wrong, especially happy human beings, especially proud and prosperous human beings. This eternal revolution, this suspicion sustained through centuries, you (being a vague modern) call the doctrine of progress. If you were a philosopher you would call it, as I do, the doctrine of original sin. You may call it the cosmic advance as much as you like; I call it what it is—the Fall."

I have spoken of orthodoxy coming in like a sword; here I confess it came in like a battle-axe. For really (when I came to think of it) Christianity is the only thing left that has any real right to question the power of the well-nurtured or the well-bred. I have listened often enough to Socialists, or even to democrats, saying that the physical conditions of the poor must of necessity make them mentally and morally degraded. I have listened to scientific men (and there are still scientific men not opposed to democracy) saying that if we give the poor healthier conditions vice and wrong will disappear. I have listened to them with a horrible attention, with a hideous fascination. For it was like watching a man energetically sawing from the tree the branch he is sitting on. If these happy democrats could prove their case, they would strike democracy dead. If the poor are thus utterly demoralized, it may or may not be practical to raise them. But it is certainly quite practical to disfranchise them. If the man with a bad bedroom cannot give a good vote, then the first and swiftest deduction is that he shall give no vote. The governing class may not unreasonably say: "It may take us some time to reform his bedroom. But if he is the brute you say, it will take him very little time to ruin our country. Therefore we will take your hint and not give him the chance." It fills me with horrible amusement to observe the way in which the earnest Socialist industriously lays the foundation of all aristocracy, expatiating blandly upon the evident unfitness of the poor to rule. It is like listening to somebody at an evening party apologising for entering without evening dress, and explaining that he had recently been intoxicated, had a personal habit of taking off his clothes in the street, and had, moreover, only just changed from prison uniform. At any moment, one feels, the host might say that really, if it was as bad as that, he need not come in at all. So it is when the ordinary Socialist, with a beaming face, proves that the poor, after their smashing experiences, cannot be really trustworthy. At any moment the rich may say, "Very well, then, we won't trust them," and bang the door in his face. On the basis of Mr. Blatchford's view of heredity and environment, the case for the aristocracy is quite overwhelming. If clean homes and clean air make clean souls, why not give the power (for the present at any rate) to those who undoubtedly have the clean air? If better conditions will make the poor more fit to govern themselves, why should not better conditions already make the rich more fit to govern them? On the ordinary environment argument the matter is fairly manifest. The comfortable class must be merely our vanguard in Utopia.

Is there any answer to the proposition that those who have had the best opportunities will probably be our best guides? Is there any answer to the argument that those who have breathed clean air had better decide for those who have breathed foul? As far as I know, there is only one answer, and that answer is Christianity. Only the Christian Church can offer any rational objection to a complete confidence in the rich. For she has maintained from the beginning that the danger was not in man's environment, but in man. Further, she has maintained that if we come to talk of a dangerous environment, the most dangerous environment of all is the commodious environment. I know that the most modern manufacture has been really occupied in trying to produce an abnormally large needle. I know that the most recent biologists have been chiefly anxious to discover a very small camel. But if we diminish the camel to his smallest, or open the eye of the needle to its largest—if, in short, we assume the words of Christ to have meant the very least that they could mean, His words must at the very least mean this— that rich men are not very likely to be morally trustworthy. Christianity even when watered down is hot enough to boil all modern society to rags. The mere minimum of the Church would be a deadly ultimatum to the world. For the whole modern world is absolutely based on the assumption, not that the rich are necessary (which is tenable), but that the rich are trustworthy, which (for a Christian) is not tenable. You will hear everlastingly, in all discussions about newspapers, companies, aristocracies, or party politics, this argument that the rich man cannot be bribed. The fact is, of course, that the rich man is bribed; he has been bribed already. That is why he is a rich man. The whole case for Christianity is that a man who is dependent upon the luxuries of this life is a corrupt man, spiritually corrupt, politically corrupt, financially corrupt. There is one thing that Christ and all the Christian saints have said with a sort of savage monotony. They have said simply that to be rich is to be in peculiar danger of moral wreck. It is not demonstrably un-Christian to kill the rich as violators of definable justice. It is not demonstrably un-Christian to crown the rich as convenient rulers of society. It is not certainly un-Christian to rebel against the rich or to submit to the rich. But it is quite certainly un-Christian to trust the rich, to regard the rich as more morally safe than the poor. A Christian may consistently say, "I respect that man's rank, although he takes bribes." But a Christian cannot say, as all modern men are saying at lunch and breakfast, "a man of that rank would not take bribes." For it is a part of Christian dogma that any man in any rank may take bribes. It is a part of Christian dogma; it also happens by a curious coincidence that it is a part of obvious human history. When people say that a man "in that position" would be incorruptible, there is no need to bring Christianity into the discussion. Was Lord Bacon a bootblack? Was the Duke of Marlborough a crossing sweeper? In the best Utopia, I must be prepared for the moral fall of any man in any position at any moment; especially for my fall from my position at this moment.

Much vague and sentimental journalism has been poured out to the effect that Christianity is akin to democracy, and most of it is scarcely strong or clear enough to refute the fact that the two things have often quarrelled. The real ground upon which Christianity and democracy are one is very much deeper. The one specially and peculiarly un-Christian idea is the idea of Carlyle— the idea that the man should rule who feels that he can rule. Whatever else is Christian, this is heathen. If our faith comments on government at all, its comment must be this—that the man should rule who does NOT think that he can rule. Carlyle's hero may say, "I will be king"; but the Christian saint must say "Nolo episcopari." If the great paradox of Christianity means anything, it means this— that we must take the crown in our hands, and go hunting in dry places and dark corners of the earth until we find the one man who feels himself unfit to wear it. Carlyle was quite wrong; we have not got to crown the exceptional man who knows he can rule. Rather we must crown the much more exceptional man who knows he can't.

Now, this is one of the two or three vital defences of working democracy. The mere machinery of voting is not democracy, though at present it is not easy to effect any simpler democratic method. But even the machinery of voting is profoundly Christian in this practical sense—that it is an attempt to get at the opinion of those who would be too modest to offer it. It is a mystical adventure; it is specially trusting those who do not trust themselves. That enigma is strictly peculiar to Christendom. There is nothing really humble about the abnegation of the Buddhist; the mild Hindoo is mild, but he is not meek. But there is something psychologically Christian about the idea of seeking for the opinion of the obscure rather than taking the obvious course of accepting the opinion of the prominent. To say that voting is particularly Christian may seem somewhat curious. To say that canvassing is Christian may seem quite crazy. But canvassing is very Christian in its primary idea. It is encouraging the humble; it is saying to the modest man, "Friend, go up higher." Or if there is some slight defect in canvassing, that is in its perfect and rounded piety, it is only because it may possibly neglect to encourage the modesty of the canvasser.

Aristocracy is not an institution: aristocracy is a sin; generally a very venial one. It is merely the drift or slide of men into a sort of natural pomposity and praise of the powerful, which is the most easy and obvious affair in the world.

It is one of the hundred answers to the fugitive perversion of modern "force" that the promptest and boldest agencies are also the most fragile or full of sensibility. The swiftest things are the softest things. A bird is active, because a bird is soft. A stone is helpless, because a stone is hard. The stone must by its own nature go downwards, because hardness is weakness. The bird can of its nature go upwards, because fragility is force. In perfect force there is a kind of frivolity, an airiness that can maintain itself in the air. Modern investigators of miraculous history have solemnly admitted that a characteristic of the great saints is their power of "levitation." They might go further; a characteristic of the great saints is their power of levity. Angels can fly because they can take themselves lightly. This has been always the instinct of Christendom, and especially the instinct of Christian art. Remember how Fra Angelico represented all his angels, not only as birds, but almost as butterflies. Remember how the most earnest mediaeval art was full of light and fluttering draperies, of quick and capering feet. It was the one thing that the modern Pre-raphaelites could not imitate in the real Pre-raphaelites. Burne-Jones could never recover the deep levity of the Middle Ages. In the old Christian pictures the sky over every figure is like a blue or gold parachute. Every figure seems ready to fly up and float about in the heavens. The tattered cloak of the beggar will bear him up like the rayed plumes of the angels. But the kings in their heavy gold and the proud in their robes of purple will all of their nature sink downwards, for pride cannot rise to levity or levitation. Pride is the downward drag of all things into an easy solemnity. One "settles down" into a sort of selfish seriousness; but one has to rise to a gay self-forgetfulness. A man "falls" into a brown study; he reaches up at a blue sky. Seriousness is not a virtue. It would be a heresy, but a much more sensible heresy, to say that seriousness is a vice. It is really a natural trend or lapse into taking one's self gravely, because it is the easiest thing to do. It is much easier to write a good TIMES leading article than a good joke in PUNCH. For solemnity flows out of men naturally; but laughter is a leap. It is easy to be heavy: hard to be light. Satan fell by the force of gravity.

Now, it is the peculiar honour of Europe since it has been Christian that while it has had aristocracy it has always at the back of its heart treated aristocracy as a weakness—generally as a weakness that must be allowed for. If any one wishes to appreciate this point, let him go outside Christianity into some other philosophical atmosphere. Let him, for instance, compare the classes of Europe with the castes of India. There aristocracy is far more awful, because it is far more intellectual. It is seriously felt that the scale of classes is a scale of spiritual values; that the baker is better than the butcher in an invisible and sacred sense. But no Christianity, not even the most ignorant or perverse, ever suggested that a baronet was better than a butcher in that sacred sense. No Christianity, however ignorant or extravagant, ever suggested that a duke would not be damned. In pagan society there may have been (I do not know) some such serious division between the free man and the slave. But in Christian society we have always thought the gentleman a sort of joke, though I admit that in some great crusades and councils he earned the right to be called a practical joke. But we in Europe never really and at the root of our souls took aristocracy seriously. It is only an occasional non-European alien (such as Dr. Oscar Levy, the only intelligent Nietzscheite) who can even manage for a moment to take aristocracy seriously. It may be a mere patriotic bias, though I do not think so, but it seems to me that the English aristocracy is not only the type, but is the crown and flower of all actual aristocracies; it has all the oligarchical virtues as well as all the defects. It is casual, it is kind, it is courageous in obvious matters; but it has one great merit that overlaps even these. The great and very obvious merit of the English aristocracy is that nobody could possibly take it seriously.

In short, I had spelled out slowly, as usual, the need for an equal law in Utopia; and, as usual, I found that Christianity had been there before me. The whole history of my Utopia has the same amusing sadness. I was always rushing out of my architectural study with plans for a new turret only to find it sitting up there in the sunlight, shining, and a thousand years old. For me, in the ancient and partly in the modern sense, God answered the prayer, "Prevent us, O Lord, in all our doings." Without vanity, I really think there was a moment when I could have invented the marriage vow (as an institution) out of my own head; but I discovered, with a sigh, that it had been invented already. But, since it would be too long a business to show how, fact by fact and inch by inch, my own conception of Utopia was only answered in the New Jerusalem, I will take this one case of the matter of marriage as indicating the converging drift, I may say the converging crash of all the rest.

When the ordinary opponents of Socialism talk about impossibilities and alterations in human nature they always miss an important distinction. In modern ideal conceptions of society there are some desires that are possibly not attainable: but there are some desires that are not desirable. That all men should live in equally beautiful houses is a dream that may or may not be attained. But that all men should live in the same beautiful house is not a dream at all; it is a nightmare. That a man should love all old women is an ideal that may not be attainable. But that a man should regard all old women exactly as he regards his mother is not only an unattainable ideal, but an ideal which ought not to be attained. I do not know if the reader agrees with me in these examples; but I will add the example which has always affected me most. I could never conceive or tolerate any Utopia which did not leave to me the liberty for which I chiefly care, the liberty to bind myself. Complete anarchy would not merely make it impossible to have any discipline or fidelity; it would also make it impossible to have any fun. To take an obvious instance, it would not be worth while to bet if a bet were not binding. The dissolution of all contracts would not only ruin morality but spoil sport. Now betting and such sports are only the stunted and twisted shapes of the original instinct of man for adventure and romance, of which much has been said in these pages. And the perils, rewards, punishments, and fulfilments of an adventure must be real, or the adventure is only a shifting and heartless nightmare. If I bet I must be made to pay, or there is no poetry in betting. If I challenge I must be made to fight, or there is no poetry in challenging. If I vow to be faithful I must be cursed when I am unfaithful, or there is no fun in vowing. You could not even make a fairy tale from the experiences of a man who, when he was swallowed by a whale, might find himself at the top of the Eiffel Tower, or when he was turned into a frog might begin to behave like a flamingo. For the purpose even of the wildest romance results must be real; results must be irrevocable. Christian marriage is the great example of a real and irrevocable result; and that is why it is the chief subject and centre of all our romantic writing. And this is my last instance of the things that I should ask, and ask imperatively, of any social paradise; I should ask to be kept to my bargain, to have my oaths and engagements taken seriously; I should ask Utopia to avenge my honour on myself.

All my modern Utopian friends look at each other rather doubtfully, for their ultimate hope is the dissolution of all special ties. But again I seem to hear, like a kind of echo, an answer from beyond the world. "You will have real obligations, and therefore real adventures when you get to my Utopia. But the hardest obligation and the steepest adventure is to get there."