“Now I ask you,” Julie concluded, “what more do they want?”
“Why,” Stacey observed lightly, “they probably want to drive up in Packards. You see, if you’ve had power—that is to say, if you’ve had money—for a long time, you don’t much care whether you ride around in a Packard or a Ford—”
“Oh, I care!” Julie broke in. “A Ford is awfully jolty.”
“Yes, you care because one is more comfortable. What I mean to say is that a Packard isn’t to you a belligerent symbol that you’re as good as anybody else. I dare say it is to the laborer.”
But Mr. Carroll had emerged from his thoughts and was looking at Stacey keenly. “Son,” he said soberly, “you’ve done your duty heroically. You’ve gone through a tremendous ordeal and you’ve gone through it without flinching. Don’t go back on what’s right now, will you? Keep on going straight. Don’t let yourself get infected with Bolshevism. You’re not, are you?”
Stacey considered his father thoughtfully and with a faint but genuine sadness—almost the only touch of a soft emotion he had felt since his arrival. For, though his remarks to Julie had been careless and superficial, they had just grazed the outside of something in which he really believed, as much as he believed in anything. And it was precisely these remarks which had alarmed Mr. Carroll. Stacey could not make his father out, and still less did he make himself out, but, whatever his father was, and whatever he himself was, it was clear that an impassable gulf lay between them. They had nothing in common save affection and memories.
Therefore, when he answered his father, he did so as gently and circumspectly as the truth (his one remaining god) would permit; which was rare, since in general he was careless enough of others’ feelings.
“Why, no, dad,” he said slowly, smiling at his father, “I don’t believe I’m tainted with Bolshevism. I know almost nothing about it and don’t trust what I do know. Propaganda for, propaganda against,—that’s all we’re getting; not facts. In so far as I can make out the theory I don’t like it—too crushing for the individual. What we want is more individualism than before the war, not less. But I think it’s a mistake to hate a word, because hate reveals fear. One ought not to be afraid of anything. Now you’ve probably got all kinds of unrest over here, just as everywhere else. Some of it, I dare say, is right, some wrong—mere abuse of power. Well, nobody ever yet had power without abusing it. The teachers in your schools, the professors in your colleges, the salaried clerks in your offices, are restless, poor things! as well as the laborers in your factories and the men who deliver your coal. What I’m trying to say is that these are all different kinds of restlessness. Don’t go and lump them together and give them a name and then shudder or get angry at it. You’re drilling your enemies that way, handing them out a uniform, and urging a lot of your friends to join them.”
“There’s a lot in what you say, Stacey,” said Jimmy Prout. “We’ve enough enemies without adding to them unnecessarily. I’m all for the school teachers myself.”
As for Mr. Carroll, he had sat silently gnawing at his gray moustache during Stacey’s discourse, and he remained, now that it was over, still appearing to reflect upon it. But at the sound of a sharp pop behind him he started, shook his head as though to rid himself of troubles, and watched the champagne being poured into his glass.