“That’s delightful. Then, now that you know something about it, I should like very much to take you to Westminster Abbey or St. Paul’s, or to see one of those really beautiful old cathedrals. … We must plan it out.”
“Oh, please do. I revel in old things,” she said, thinking the remark would please him.
He arranged his buttonhole of Parma violets, then looked up at her, smiling.
“Do you mean that at your age you really appreciate the past?”
“Indeed, I do.”
“But you mustn’t live for it, you know—not over-value it. You must never forget that, after all, the great charm of the past is that it is over. One must live for the hour, for the moment. … You’ll remember that, won’t you?”
“Oh yes, I do,” she said gratefully, taking a bite of cream cake.
“What they call Futurism (I hope you understand) is absolute rubbish and inconsistent nonsense. For this reason. It’s impossible to enjoy the present or the future if you eliminate the past entirely, as the so-called Futurists wish to do. Destruction of old associations and treasures would ruin one’s sense of proportion; it’s worse than living in the prehistoric. Besides, at least we know what has happened, and what is happening, but we can’t possibly know what is going to be, what the future holds for us; so what’s the point of thinking only of that? Why should we live only for posterity, when, as the old joke says, posterity has done nothing for us!”
“Well, the truth is I always feel nothing matters except now,” said Madeline candidly.
He laughed. “And, in a way, you’re right; it’s all we’re quite sure of.”