The Stranger points out to him that he is illogical; such memories would have included long vistas of meagre dinners in dingy restaurants, of attic studios, of a life the chief part of which had been passed amid ugly surroundings. It was to escape from all such that he had clamoured. The Poet is silent.
"I asked but for recognition," cries the Musician, "that men might listen to me; not for my music to be taken from me in exchange for the recompense of a successful tradesman. My inspiration is burnt out; I feel it. The music that once filled my soul is mute."
"It was born of the strife and anguish," the Stranger tells him, "of the loves that died, of the hopes that faded, of the beating of youth's wings against the bars of sorrow, of the glory and madness and torment called Life, of the struggle you shrank from facing."
The Poet takes up the tale.
"You have robbed us of Life," he cries. "You tell us of dead lips whose kisses we have never felt, of songs of victory sung to our deaf ears. You have taken our fires, you have left us but the ashes."
"The fires that scorch and sear," the Stranger adds, "the lips that cried in their pain, the victory bought of wounds."
"It is not yet too late," the Stranger tells them. "All this can be but a troubled dream, growing fainter with each waking moment. Will you buy back your Youth at the cost of ease? Will you buy back Life at the price of tears?"
They cry with one voice, "Give us back our Youth with its burdens, and a heart to bear them! Give us back Life with its mingled bitter and sweet!"
Then suddenly the Stranger stands revealed before them. They see that he is Life--Life born of battle, Life made strong by endeavour, Life learning song from suffering.
There follows more talk; which struck me, when I read the story, as a mistake; for all that he tells them they have now learnt: that life to be enjoyed must be lived; that victory to be sweet must be won.
They awake in the dingy cafe in the Rue St. Louis. The ancient waiter is piling up the chairs preparatory to closing the shutters.
The Poet draws forth his small handful of coins; asks what is to pay.
"Nothing," the waiter answers. A stranger who sat with them and talked awhile before they fell asleep has paid the bill. They look at one another, but no one speaks.
The streets are empty. A thin rain is falling. They turn up the collars of their coats; strike out into the night. And as their footsteps echo on the glistening pavement it comes to each of them that they are walking with a new, brave step.
I feel so sorry for Dick--for the tens of thousands of happy, healthy, cared-for lads of whom Dick is the type. There must be millions of youngsters in the world who have never known hunger, except as an appetiser to their dinner; who have never felt what it was to be tired, without the knowledge that a comfortable bed was awaiting them.
To the well-to-do man or woman life is one perpetual nursery. They are wakened in the morning--not too early, not till the nursery has been swept out and made ready, and the fire lighted--awakened gently with a cup of tea to give them strength and courage for this great business of getting up--awakened with whispered words, lest any sudden start should make their little heads ache--the blinds carefully arranged to exclude the naughty sun, which otherwise might shine into their little eyes and make them fretful. The water, with the nasty chill off, is put ready for them; they wash their little hands and faces, all by themselves! Then they are shaved and have their hair done; their little hands are manicured, their little corns cut for them. When they are neat and clean, they toddle into breakfast; they are shown into their little chairs, their little napkins handed to them; the nice food that is so good for them is put upon their little plates; the drink is poured out for them into their cups. If they want to play, there is the day nursery. They have only to tell kind nurse what game it is they fancy. The toys are at once brought out. The little gun is put into their hand; the little horse is dragged forth from its corner, their little feet carefully placed in the stirrups. The little ball and bat is taken from its box.
Or they will take the air, as the wise doctor has ordered. The little carriage will be ready in five minutes; the nice warm cloak is buttoned round them, the footstool placed beneath their feet, the cushion at their back.
The day is done. The games have been played; the toys have been taken from their tired hands, put back into the cupboard. The food that is so good for them, that makes them strong little men and women, has all been eaten. They have been dressed for going out into the pretty Park, undressed and dressed again for going out to tea with the little boys and girls next door; undressed and dressed again for the party. They have read their little book? have seen a little play, have looked at pretty pictures. The kind gentleman with the long hair has played the piano to them. They have danced. Their little feet are really quite tired. The footman brings them home.
They are put into their little nighties. The candle is blown out, the nursery door is softly closed.
