The Man Who Rose Again Part 48

"The friendliness of the waiters, I think," he replied.

All three burst out laughing.

"Good," said Herr Trubner. "Ah, it is true, true. A man walks London streets and never meets a friend; but let him go into a restaurant, and the waiters take him into their confidence immediately."

"And did you visit our national inst.i.tutions while in London?"

"Yes, I worked very hard. I saw everything. East, west, north, south, I went everywhere--everywhere. I wanted to see, to understand."

"And your impressions?"

"Ah, Mr. Briarfield, you ask a big question. Where shall I begin?"

"Well, which interested you most, the east or the west?"

"The east."

"Why?"

"Because the people are so much happier."

"You are joking."

"I speak only as an observer, of course, but I speak as I saw. I went to the places of amus.e.m.e.nt, I watched the people's faces. In the west I paid half a guinea for a seat; I sat amidst gaudy surroundings. Around me were over-fed men and under-dressed women. During the entertainments they sat coldly critical, mildly amused. It was with difficulty they suppressed their yawns; the applause was faint. In the east I paid sixpence for my seat. The people were the toilers of the city; but ah!

they enjoyed. Signore, they enjoyed. They laughed, they shouted, they applauded. It did me good to hear them. I dined in your fashionable West-end hotels, where rare wines were provided, and where rich men pay thousands a year to a chef gifted in the art of t.i.tillating people's palates. The diners grumbled with their food, their wines. I also dined in Whitechapel. I spent eightpence for my dinner. Ah, you should have seen the people eat there! Even those who were poorest, and who had only their--what do you call them?--their bloaters, their tripe and onions, their black puddings--ah, but they enjoyed those things far more than your fashionable diners at the Savoy! Oh yes, I went everywhere. I went to the churches, the chapels. Again the same difference struck me. In the east, there was a sense of reality; but in the west--ah, Great Allah! forgive me!"

"Then you would rather live in the east?"

"Yes and no, Signor Briarfield. Yes, because, in spite of poverty and wretchedness, I saw more of what we call happiness in the East End; no, because, although the people seemed happy, to me it was h.e.l.l. The sights, the smells, the sounds! Still, if I were given to pity, I should pity your people who live in Mayfair, rather than those at Stepney."

"You went to the House of Commons?"

"I went everywhere."

"And you saw----?"

"The puppets--yes. It was very amusing--very."

"What amused you most?"

"The pretence at being in earnest, I think. But the machinery was too plain to enjoy it really. They do things better at the theatres. There the players pretend to be puppets, but convince you that they are real.

At Westminster, the players pretend they are real, but convince you that they are puppets. After all, your House of Commons did me good."

"How?"

"It gave me a sort of faith in human nature, in the simplicity of the people who send the actors there. It proves that the people of England are more fools than knaves. But it amused me vastly. No, Mr. Briarfield, your Dr. Johnson was right. If one must live in England, I should say London is the best place in the summer; while in the winter there is no place else."

"One wonders, what led you to this out-of-the-way place, then?"

"I wanted to be quiet. London is a maelstrom, from which I got out with difficulty, but I did get out. Then I said, 'Let me be quiet, let me think.' Then I met a man who had been here, and who said it was the most beautiful place in England. Moreover, he told me a romantic story about the lady who reigns here. And we Easterns love romance. So I came. I have not seen the beautiful lady yet. Do you know her?"

"Yes. I know her."

"Ah, I should like to hear about her. Will you tell me what she is like?"

"I am afraid I have not your gift of description, Signor Ricordo."

The man with the fez looked at Briarfield steadily out of his half-opened eyes, but not a muscle of his face moved. What he thought, it was impossible to tell, but that he drew his own conclusions was evident.

"I have been told that she is very gifted, very beautiful, very pious,"

he said.

"You speak our language well," said Briarfield; "but for a slight foreign intonation, I should take you for an Englishman."

"Allah forbid!" he cried, lifting his hands beseechingly.

"You would not like to be an Englishman?"

"If I must be of one country, yes. But I am of no country. If you have a country, you have responsibilities, duties, prejudices."

"And you are without these?"

"Would you have me a.s.sume them?"

"Without them no man lives his full life."

"With them he becomes narrow, insular, and what your poet calls 'cribbed, cabined, and confined.'"

"They are the necessary limitations of our humanity."

"Does not that depend on the purpose for which a man lives, signore?

Besides, there are things which happen to some men which say to them, 'Messieurs, you are without country, without father, mother, friends, and responsibilities, and therefore without prejudices; live your lives in your own way.'"

"That is impossible, Signor Ricordo."

"And why?"

"A man is always responsible to the humanity of which he forms a part, he is responsible to the G.o.d who made him."

"Always to the latter, not always to the former."

"You believe in G.o.d, then?"

The stranger was silent a moment. An expression shot across his face which suggested pain.

"A man might be what you call an atheist in London, Signor Briarfield,"

he said, "with the grey, leaden sky, its long lines of streets, and its myriads of men and women crawling over each other like ants on an ant-hill; but in the East, amidst the great silences--no, a man must believe in G.o.d there. The sun by day, and the moon and stars by night, with the great silence brooding over him--great G.o.d, yes!"

Briarfield was struck dumb by the quiet intensity of his words.