H. Wells - THE NEW MACHIAVELLI

And so we talked of politics and our outlook. We were interested to

the pitch of self-forgetfulness. We weighed persons and forces,

discussed the probabilities of the next general election, the steady

drift of public opinion in the north and west away from Liberalism

towards us. It was very manifest that in spite of Wardenham and the

EXPURGATOR, we should come into the new Government strongly. The

party had no one else, all the young men were formally or informally

with us; Esmeer would have office, Lord Tarvrille, I… and very

probably there would be something for Shoesmith. "And for my own

part," I said, "I count on backing on the Liberal side. For the

last two years we've been forcing competition in constructive

legislation between the parties. The Liberals have not been long in

following up our Endowment of Motherhood lead. They'll have to give

votes and lip service anyhow. Half the readers of the BLUE WEEKLY,

they say, are Liberals…

"I remembertalking about things of this sort with old Willersley,"

I said, "ever so many years ago. It was some place near Locarno,

and we looked down the lake that shone weltering-just as now we

look over the sea. And then we dreamtin an indistinct featureless

way of all that you and I are doing now."

"I!" said Isabel, and laughed.

"Well, of some such thing," I said, and remained for awhile silent,

thinkingof Locarno.

I recalled once more the largeness, the release from small personal

things that I had feltin my youth; statecraft became realand

wonderful again with the memory, the gigantic handling of gigantic

problems. I began to talk out my thoughts, sitting up beside her,

as I could never talk of them to any one but Isabel; began to

recover again the purpose that lay under all my political ambitions

and adjustments and anticipations. I sawthe State, splendid and

wide as I had seenit in that first travel of mine, but now it was

no mere distant prospect of spires and pinnacles, but populous with

fine-trained, bold-thinking, bold-doing people. It was as if I had

forgotten for a long time and now rememberedwith amazement.

At first, I told her, I had been altogether at a loss how I could do

anything to battle against the aimless muddle of our world; I had

wanted a clue-until she had come into my life questioning,

suggesting, unconsciously illuminating. "But I have done nothing,"

she protested. I declared she had done everything in growingto

education under my eyes, in reflecting again upon all the processes

that had made myself, so that instead of abstractions and blue-books

and bills and devices, I had realised the world of mankind as a

crowd needing before all things fine women and men. We'd spoilt

ourselvesin learning that, but anyhow we had our lesson. Before

her I was in a nineteenth-century darkness, dealing with the nation

as if it were a crowd of selfishmen, forgetful of women and

children and that shy wild thing in the hearts of men, love, which

must be drawn upon as it has never been drawn upon before, if the

State is to live. I sawnow how it is possible to bring the loose

factors of a great realm together, to create a mindof literature

and thoughtin it, and the expression of a purpose to make it self-

consciousand fine. I had it all clear before me, so that at a

score of points I could presently begin. The BLUE WEEKLY was a

centre of force. Already we had given Imperialism a criticism, and

leavened half the press from our columns. Our movement consolidated

and spread. We should presently come into power. Everything moved

towards our hands. We should be able to get at the schools, the

services, the universities, the church; enormously increase the

endowment of research, and organise what was sorely wanted, a

criticism of research; contrive a closer contact between the press

and creative intellectual life; foster literature, clarify,

strengthen the public consciousness, develop social organisation and

a sense of the State. Men were coming to us every day, brilliant

young peers like Lord Dentonhill, writers like Carnot and Cresswell.

It filled me with pride to win such men. "We stand for so much more

than we seem to stand for," I said. I opened my heart to her, so

freely that I hesitate to open my heart even to the reader, telling

of projects and ambitions I cherished, of my consciousnessof great

powers and widening opportunities…

Isabel watched me as I talked.

She too, I think, had forgotten these things for a while. For it is

curious and I thinka very significant thing that since we had

become lovers, we had talked very little of the broader things that

had once so strongly gripped our imaginations.

"It's good," I said, "to talk like this to you, to get back to youth

and great ambitions with you. There have been times lately when

politics has seemed the pettiest game played with mean tools for

mean ends-and none the less so that the happinessof three hundred

million people might be touchedby our follies. I talk to no one

else like this… And now I thinkof parting, I thinkbut of

how much more I might have talked to you."…

Things drew to an end at last, but after we had spoken of a thousand

things.

"We've talked away our last half day," I said, staring over my

shoulder at the blazing sunset sky behind us. "Dear, it's been the

last day of our lives for us… It doesn't seem like the last

day of our lives. Or any day."

"I wonder how it will feel?" said Isabel.

"It will be very strange at first-not to be able to tell you

things."

"I've a superstition that after-after we've parted-if ever I go

into my room and talk, you'll hear. You'll be-somewhere."

"I shall be in the world-yes."

"I don't feelas though these days ahead were real. Here we are,

here we remain."

"Yes, I feelthat. As though you and I were two immortals, who

didn't live in time and space at all, who never met, who couldn't

part, and here we lie on Olympus. And those two poor creatures who

did meet, poor little Richard Remington and Isabel Rivers, who met

and loved too much and had to part, they part and go their ways, and

we lie here and watch them, you and I. She'll cry, poor dear."

"She'll cry. She's crying now!"

"Poor little beasts! I thinkhe'll cry too. He winces. He could-

for tuppence. I didn't knowhe had lachrymal glands at all until a

little while ago. I suppose all love is hysterical-and a little

foolish. Poor mites! Silly little pitiful creatures! How we have

blundered! Thinkhow we must look to God! Well, we'll pitythem,

and then we'll inspire him to stiffen up again-and do as we've

determined he shall do. We'll seeit through,-we who lie here on

the cliff. They'll be mean at times, and horrid at times; we know

them! Do you seeher, a poor little fine lady in a great house,-

she sometimes goes to her room and writes."

"She writes for his BLUE WEEKLY still."

"Yes. Sometimes-I hope. And he's there in the office with a bit

of her copy in his hand."

"Is it as goodas if she still talked it over with him before she

wrote it? Is it?"

"Better, I think. Let's play it's better-anyhow. It may be that

talking over was rather mixed with love-making. After all, love-

making is joyrather than magic. Don't let's pretend about that

even… Let's go on watching him. (I don't seewhy her writing

shouldn't be better. Indeed I don't.) See! There he goes down