"Yes, the old ideas," he repeated; and his voice became fuller and recovered the rather sing-song rhythm of earlier days, when he used to unbosom himself at great length of all sorts of ironical theories and mock philosophy, very often superficial, but always brilliant. "The old ideas. There's rank, for instance. I've been thinking about it lately. I like rank. But do you know how I like it? Just as Ernst loves an antique vase, even so I am sometimes attracted by an old title. I should like to be a count or a marquis, not from snobbery: don't imagine that I want to be a count or a marquis out of snobbery, for that's not the idea at all. But just as Ernst admires an antique vase, or an old book, or a piece of brocade, I admire a count's or marquis' title; and my title, besides, would be much cleaner than the piece of brocade, which is full of microbes. But, for goodness' sake, don't run away with the idea that I want to be a count or a marquis out of snobbery. You understand, don't you? I should only care for it from the decorative and traditional point of view.... But a modern title of jonkheer,[22] Gerrit, dating back to William I.,[23] I wouldn't have if you paid me! To begin with, I think jonkheer an ugly word; and then I think that a title of that sort looks like a modern-art signboard, like one of those art-nouveau posters with their everlasting stiff, upright, squirmy lines; and those conventional poppies are positively revolting to my mind because they symbolize to me the cant and hypocrisy of our modern world.... Yes, there's a great deal of poetry, Gerrit, in old ideas. We people are crammed full of old ideas: we inherited them; they're in our blood. And we live in a society in which the new ideas are already putting forth shoots, the real, new ideas, the true, the beautiful ideas, the three or four beautiful ideas that already exist. But I, for my part, have my blood so full of old ideas that I can't advance with the rest.... New ideas: look here, one new idea, a really beautiful new idea, in our time, is pity. Gerrit, what could be more beautiful and more delightful and newer than pity: genuine pity for all human wretchedness? I feel it myself, even though I never leave my sofa. I feel it myself. But, even as I feel it and never leave my sofa, so the whole world feels the new idea of pity ... and never leaves its sofa.... Lord, my dear chap, there's blood sticking to everything; the world is nothing but mean selfishness and hypocrisy; there's war, injustice and all sorts of rottenness; and we know it's there and we condemn it and we feel pity for everything that is trampled underfoot and sucked dry.... And what do we do? Nothing. I do just as little as the great powers do. The Tsar does nothing; there's not a government, not an individual that does a thing. You don't do anything either.... Meanwhile, there is war, there is injustice, not only in South Africa, but everywhere, Gerrit, everywhere: you've only to go outside and you'll come upon injustice in the Hoogstraat; you've only to go travelling and get black with grime and dirt ... and you'll find injustice everywhere.... And, meanwhile, that idea is stirring in this filthy world of ours: the idea of pity.... And, just as I am powerless, everything and everybody is powerless.... Then am I not right to withdraw from the whole business into my room ... and to stay on my sofa?..."
He went on talking; and at last Gerrit got up, glad that he had been to see Paul and that Paul had talked as usual, long-winded though he might have been. But he was hardly gone, before Paul rose from his sofa. He flung open the shutters, to air the room of Gerrit's smoke; he rang the bell, to have the ash cleared away; he put the chairs straight and removed every trace of Gerrit's visit:
"There, I let myself be persuaded into talking!" thought Paul, irritably. "But d'you think the chap grasped it and valued it for a moment? Of course he didn't: not what I said of the old and not what I said of the new ideas!... It's not worth while taking the trouble to be a brilliant talker.... The world is dirty and stupid ... and Gerrit is stupid also, with his nine children, and dirty, with those cigars of his ... and besides he's a melancholy beggar, who has his manias ... just as Ernst has ... and I ... and everybody...."
And he flung himself angrily on his cushions and read his modern novel, all day long, without so much as stirring....
[4] Shirt.
[5] Half-castes.
[6] Malay: rice, currie.
[7] Market-place, bazaar.
[8] Booths.
[9] Attractive, pretty.