“But how would you answer him?” I said, troubled.
“By his own argument. If there is no future life, and therefore no faith, why should we not do anything we please—steal, murder; why should we abide by any law?”
“But he would supplant that by devotion to the Common State,” I said, rather awkwardly.
“Isn’t that just what the Prussians are doing, with all their pretensions of calling on God? Isn’t that why we hate the Prussian idea and resent it, because it has no faith, either in the sacredness of one’s word or in the feelings of humanity? Isn’t it founded on the idea of force, and isn’t that what would result from any State formed on agnosticism? Force, and only force, would prevail.”
“But would it?”
“Hasn’t it? Take our own Revolution: what happened? Didn’t it produce worse tyrants, men of force,—Marat, Robespierre? And what killed the Revolution? The attempt to destroy faith, in the abolishing of religion. You see, you are questioning yourself as though faith were only a spiritual speculation. It is much more than that, Mr. Littledale: it is the beginning and end of all political organization. Don’t you see?”
“When you speak, it is easy to be convinced,” I said, yielding to the honesty in her eyes and the impassioned ring of her voice.
The discussion had carried her out of herself. The stiff preciseness had gone. Her words, warm and glowing, thrilled me. It was not that she convinced me of what she said but that she convinced me of herself. I felt the woman in her, swept by generous impulses, glowing with a beautiful ideal,—a great nature, with so much need to give. She checked herself.
“Pardon. I am perhaps speaking too frankly.”