BOOK I.
THE PROMPTINGS OF THE IDEAL.
It was noon. Sir Edward had stepped from his
brougham and was proceeding on foot down the
Strand. He was dressed with his usual faultless
taste, but in alighting from his vehicle his foot had
slipped, and a small round disk of conglomerated
soil, which instantly appeared on his high arched
instep, marred the harmonious glitter of his boots.
Sir Edward was fastidious. Casting his eyes around,
at a little distance he perceived the stand of a youthful
bootblack. Thither he sauntered, and carelessly
placing his foot on the low stool, he waited the application
of the polisher's Art. “'Tis true,” said Sir
Edward to himself, yet half aloud, “the contact of
the Foul and the Disgusting mars the general effect of
the Shiny and the Beautiful—and, yet, why am I
here? I repeat it, calmly and deliberately—why am
I here? Ha! Boy!”
The Boy looked up—his dark Italian eyes glanced
intelligently at the Philosopher, and, as with one
hand he tossed back his glossy curls from his marble
brow, and with the other he spread the equally
glossy Day & Martin over the Baronet's boot, he
answered in deep rich tones: “The Ideal is subjective
to the Real. The exercise of apperception gives
a distinctiveness to idiocracy, which is, however, subject
to the limits of Me. You are an admirer of
the Beautiful, sir. You wish your boots blacked.
The Beautiful is attainable by means of the Coin.”
“Ah,” said Sir Edward thoughtfully, gazing upon
the almost supernal beauty of the Child before him;
“you speak well. You have read Kant.”
The Boy blushed deeply. He drew a copy of
Kant from his blouse, but in his confusion several
other volumes dropped from his bosom on the
ground. The Baronet picked them up.
“Ah!” said the Philosopher, “what's this? Cicero's
De Senectute, at your age, too? Martial's Epigrams,
Cæsar's Commentaries. What! a classical scholar?”
“E pluribus Unum. Nux vomica. Nil desperandum.
Nihil fit!” said the Boy, enthusiastically.
The Philosopher gazed at the Child. A strange
presence seemed to transfuse and possess him. Over
the brow of the Boy glittered the pale nimbus of the
Student.
“Ah, and Schiller's Robbers, too?” queried the
Philosopher.
“Das ist ausgespielt,” said the Boy modestly.
“Then you have read my translation of Schiller's
Ballad's?” continued the Baronet, with some show
of interest.
“I have, and infinitely prefer them to the original,”
said the Boy, with intellectual warmth. “You
have shown how in Actual life we strive for a Goal
we cannot reach; how in the Ideal the Goal is attainable,
and there effort is victory. You have given us
the Antithesis which is a key to the Remainder, and
constantly balances before us the conditions of the
Actual and the privileges of the Ideal.”
“My very words,” said the Baronet; “wonderful,
wonderful!” and he gazed fondly at the Italian boy,
who again resumed his menial employment. Alas!
the wings of the Ideal were folded. The Student had
been absorbed in the Boy.
But Sir Edward's boots were blacked, and he
turned to depart. Placing his hand upon the clustering
tendrils that surrounded the classic nob of the
infant Italian, he said softly, like a strain of distant
music:
“Boy, you have done well. Love the Good.
Protect the Innocent. Provide for The Indigent.
Respect the Philosopher.”.... “Stay! Can you tell
me what is The True, The Beautiful, The Innocent,
The Virtuous?
“They are things that commence with a capital
letter,” said the Boy, promptly.
“Enough! Respect everything that commences
with a capital letter! Respect Me!” and dropping a
half-penny in the hand of the Boy, he departed.
The Boy gazed fixedly at the coin. A frightful
and instantaneous change overspread his features.
His noble brow was corrugated with baser lines of
calculation. His black eye, serpent-like, glittered with
suppressed passion. Dropping upon his hands and
feet, he crawled to the curbstone and hissed after the
retreating form of the Baronet, the single word:
“Bilk!”
