the sagacious founders of the lauranian republic had recognised the importance of preserving and promoting the practice of social civilities between the public men of the state, irrespective of party. it had therefore long been the custom for the president to give several official entertainments during the autumn season, to which all the distinguished characters of either side were invited, and which it was considered etiquette to attend. this year feeling ran so high and relations were so strained that savrola had decided not to accept, and had already formally declined the invitation; he was therefore not a little surprised when he received a second card, and still more when he read lucile's note which accompanied it.
he saw she had exposed herself to a rebuff with her eyes open, and wondered why she had done so. of course she counted on her charms. it is hard, if not impossible, to snub a beautiful woman; they remain beautiful and the rebuke recoils. he might indeed have made political capital out of so pressing an invitation sent at such a critical time; but he felt she had judged him well, and knew she was safe at least from that. this pleased him. he was sorry he could not go; but he had made up his mind, and sat down to write and decline. half way through the letter, he paused; the thought occurred to him, that perhaps she might stand in need of his help. he read the letter again and fancied, though the words did not warrant it, that he detected a note of appeal. and then he began to look for reasons for changing his mind: the old established custom; the necessity of showing his followers that for the present he was in favour of constitutional agitation only; the opportunity of displaying his confidence in the success of his plans; in fact, every argument, but the true one, was arrayed against his determination.
yes, he would go: the party might object, but he did not care; it was none of their business, and he was strong enough to face their displeasure. these reflections were interrupted by the entrance of moret, his face glowing with enthusiasm.
"the central division committee have nominated you unanimously as their candidate at the elections. the dictator's puppet, tranta, was howled down. i have arranged for a public meeting on thursday night for you to address. we are on the crest of the wave!"
"capital!" said savrola. "i had expected to be nominated; our influence in the capital is supreme. i am glad of an opportunity of speaking; i have not had a meeting for some time, and there is a good deal to talk about just now. what day did you say you had arranged it for?"
"thursday in the city-hall at eight in the evening," said moret, who, though sanguine, was not unbusiness-like.
"thursday?"
"yes, you are not engaged anywhere."
"well," said savrola speaking slowly and appearing to weigh his words, "thursday is the night of the state ball."
"i know," said moret, "that was why i arranged it so. they will feel they are dancing on a volcano; only a mile from the palace will be the people, massed, agreed, determined. molara will not enjoy his evening; louvet will not go; sorrento will be making arrangements to massacre, if necessary. it will spoil the festivities; they will all see the writing on the wall."
"thursday will not do, moret."
"not do! why not?"
"because i am going to the ball that night," said savrola deliberately.
moret gasped. "what," he cried, "you!"
"most certainly i shall go. the ancient customs of the state cannot be set aside like this. it is my duty to go; we are fighting for the constitution, and we are bound to show our respect for its principles."
"you will accept molara's hospitality,—enter his house,—eat his food?"
"no," said savrola; "i shall eat the food provided by the state. as you well know, the expenses of these official functions are chargeable to the public."
"you will talk to him?"
"certainly, but he will not enjoy it."
"you will insult him, then?"
"my dear moret, what should make you think that? i shall be very civil. that will frighten him most of all; he will not know what is impending."
"you cannot go," said moret decidedly.
"indeed i am going."
"think what the trade-unions will say."
"i have thought about all these things and have made up my mind," said savrola. "they may say what they like. it will show them that i do not intend to discard constitutional methods for a long time yet. these people want their enthusiasm cooling from time to time; they take life too seriously."
"they will accuse you of betraying the cause."
"i have no doubt stupid people will make characteristic remarks, but i trust none of my friends will bore me by repeating them to me."
"what will strelitz say? it will very likely make him cross the frontier with his followers. he thinks we are lukewarm, and has been growing more impatient every week."
"if he comes before we are ready to help, the troops will make short work of him and his rabble. but he has definite orders from me and will, i hope, obey them."
"you are doing wrong, and you know it," said moret harshly and savagely; "to say nothing of the contemptible humiliation of cringing to your enemy."
savrola smiled at his follower's anger. "oh," he said, "i shall not cringe. come, you have not yet seen me do that," and he put his hand on his companion's arm. "it is strange, louis," he continued, "that we differ in so many things, and yet, if i were in difficulty and doubt, there is no one to whom i would go sooner than to you. we squabble about trifles, but if it were a great matter, your judgment should rule me, and you know it well."
moret yielded. he always yielded to savrola when he talked like that. "well," he said, "when will you speak?"
"whenever you like."
"friday, then, the sooner the better."
"very well; do you make the arrangements; i will find something to say."
"i wish you were not going," said moret, reverting to his former objection; "nothing on earth would induce me to go."
"moret," said savrola with strange earnestness, "we have settled that; there are other things to talk about. i am troubled in my mind. there is an undercurrent of agitation, the force of which i cannot gauge. i am the acknowledged leader of the party, but sometimes i realise that there are agencies at work, which i do not control. that secret society they call the league is an unknown factor. i hate that fellow, that german fellow, kreutze, number one as he styles himself. he is the source of all the opposition i encounter in the party itself; the labour delegates all seem to be under his influence. indeed there are moments when i think that you and i and godoy and all who are striving for the old constitution, are but the political waves of a social tide that is flowing we know not whither. perhaps i am wrong, but i keep my eyes open and their evidence makes me thoughtful. the future is inscrutable but appalling; you must stand by me. when i can no longer restrain and control, i will no longer lead."
"the league is nothing," said moret, "but a small anarchist group, who have thrown in their lot, for the present, with us. you are the indispensable leader of the party; you have created the agitation, and it is in your hands to stimulate or allay it. there are no unknown forces; you are the motive power."
savrola walked to the window. "look out over the city," he said. "it is a great mass of buildings; three hundred thousand people live there. consider its size; think of the latent potentialities it contains, and then look at this small room. do you think i am what i am, because i have changed all those minds, or because i best express their views? am i their master or their slave? believe me, i have no illusions, nor need you."
his manner impressed his follower. it almost seemed to him, as he watched the city and listened to savrola's earnest words, that he heard the roar of a multitude, distant, subdued, but intense as the thunder of the surf upon a rocky coast when the wind is off the sea. he did not reply. his highly wrought temperament exaggerated every mood and passion; he always lived in the superlative. he had no counterpoise of healthy cynicism. now he was very solemn, and bidding savrola good-morning, walked slowly down the stairs, swayed by the vibrations of a powerful imagination which had been stimulated to an extreme.
savrola lay back in his chair. his first inclination was to laugh, but he realised that his mirth would not be entirely at moret's expense. he had tried to trick himself as well, but the parts of that subtle brain were too intimately connected to have secrets from one another. still he would not allow them to formulate the true reason of his change of mind. it was not so, he said to himself several times, and even if it were it was of no importance and signified nothing. he took a cigarette from his case, and lighting it, watched the coiling rings of smoke.
how much of what he had said had he believed? he thought of moret's serious face; that was not entirely produced by his influence. the young revolutionist had noticed something too, but had feared, or failed, to reduce his impressions to words. there was an undercurrent then; there were many dangers ahead. well, he did not care; he was confident in his own powers. as the difficulties arose, he would meet them; when dangers threatened he would overcome them. horse, foot, and artillery, he was a man, a complete entity. under any circumstances, in any situation he knew himself a factor to be reckoned with; whatever the game, he would play it to his amusement, if not to his advantage.
the smoke of his cigarette curled round his head. life,—how unreal, how barren, and yet, how fascinating! fools, calling themselves philosophers, had tried to bring home the bitter fact to men. his philosophy lent itself to a pious fraud—taught him to minimise the importance of his pains, and to magnify that of his pleasures; made life delightful and death incidental. zeno had shown him how to face adversity, and epicurus how to enjoy pleasure. he basked in the smiles of fortune, and shrugged his shoulders at the frowns of fate. his existence, or series of existences, had been agreeable. all that he remembered had been worth living. if there was a future state, if the game was to begin again elsewhere, he would take a hand. he hoped for immortality, but he contemplated annihilation with composure. meanwhile the business of living was an interesting problem. his speech,—he had made many and knew that nothing good can be obtained without effort. these impromptu feats of oratory existed only in the minds of the listeners; the flowers of rhetoric were hothouse plants.
what was there to say? successive cigarettes had been mechanically consumed. amid the smoke he saw a peroration, which would cut deep into the hearts of a crowd; a high thought, a fine simile, expressed in that correct diction which is comprehensible even to the most illiterate, and appeals to the most simple; something to lift their minds from the material cares of life and to awake sentiment. his ideas began to take the form of words, to group themselves into sentences; he murmured to himself; the rhythm of his own language swayed him; instinctively he alliterated. ideas succeeded one another, as a stream flows swiftly by and the light changes on its waters. he seized a piece of paper and began hurriedly to pencil notes. that was a point; could not tautology accentuate it? he scribbled down a rough sentence, scratched it out, polished it, and wrote it in again. the sound would please their ears, the sense improve and stimulate their minds. what a game it was! his brain contained the cards he had to play, the world the stakes he played for.
as he worked, the hours passed away. the housekeeper entering with his luncheon found him silent and busy; she had seen him thus before and did not venture to interrupt him. the untasted food grew cold upon the table, as the hands of the clock moved slowly round marking the measured tread of time. presently he rose, and, completely under the influence of his own thoughts and language, began to pace the room with short rapid strides, speaking to himself in a low voice and with great emphasis. suddenly he stopped, and with a strange violence his hand descended on the table. it was the end of the speech.
the noise recalled him to the commonplaces of life. he was hungry and tired, and with a laugh at his own enthusiasm sat down at the table and began his neglected luncheon.
a dozen sheets of note paper, covered with phrases, facts, and figures, were the result of the morning's work. they lay pinned together on the table, harmless insignificant pieces of paper; and yet antonio molara, president of the republic of laurania, would have feared a bombshell less. nor would he have been either a fool or a coward.
