“To rouse the People,” he replied, “would be worse than to rouse a herd of starving lions from their forest dens, and give them freedom to slay and devour! Nay!—the time is not yet! All gentle means must be tried; and if these fail—why then—!”
He broke off, but his clenched hand and expressive glance said the rest.
“Why do you not use the most powerful of all the weapons ever invented for the destruction of one’s enemies—the Pen?” asked Max Graub. “Start a newspaper, for example, and gibbet your particular favourite Carl Pérousse therein!”
“Bah! He would get up a libel case, and advertise himself a little more by that method!” said Zegota contemptuously; “And besides, a newspaper needs unlimited capital behind it. We have no rich friends.”
“Rich friends!” exclaimed Lotys suddenly; “Who speaks of them—who needs them? Rich friends expect you to toady to them; to lick the ground under their feet; to fawn and flatter and lie, and be anything but honest men! The rich are the vulgar of this world;—no one who has heart, or soul, or sense, would condescend to seek friendships among those whose only claim to precedence is the possession of a little more yellow metal than their neighbours.”
“Nevertheless, they and their yellow metal are the raw material, which Genius may as well use to pave its way through life,” said Zegota. “Lotys, you are too much of an idealist!”
“Idealist! And you call yourself a realist, poor child!” said Lotys with a laugh; “I tell you I would sooner starve than accept favour or assistance from the merely rich!”
“Of course you would!” said Zouche, “And is not that precisely the reason why you are set in dominion over us all? We men are not sure of ourselves—but—Heaven knows why!—we are sure of You! I suppose it is because you are sure of yourself! For example, we men are such wretched creatures that we cannot go long without our food,—but you, woman, can fast all day, and scorn the very idea of hunger. We men cannot bear much pain,—but you,—woman,—can endure suffering of your own without complaint, while attending to our various lesser hurts and scratches. Wherefore, just because we feel you are above us in this and many other things, we have set you amongst us as a warning Figurehead, which cries shame upon us if we falter, and reminds us that you, a woman, can do, and probably will do, what we men cannot. Imagine it! You would bear all things for love’s sake!—and, frankly speaking, we would bear nothing at all, except for our own immediate and particular pleasure. For that, of course, we would endure everything till we got it, and then—pouf!—we would let it go again in sheer weariness and desire for something else! Is it not so, Sergius?”
“I am glad you know yourself so well!” said Thord gloomily. “Personally, I am not prepared to accept your theory.”
“Men are children!” said Lotys, still smiling; “And should be treated as children always, by women! Come, little ones! To bed, all of you! It is growing late, and the rain has ceased.”