Here was no clear, cool, logical appraisal of men and things; instead there were warm-hearted impulsive beliefs, mainly in people, which were doomed to disaster because they were based on kindliness always rather than on fact. Yes, the man was fallible, and being fallible, he was also lovable. Here, thought Llewellyn, is someone whom I should hate to hurt.
They were back again now in the library, stretched out in two big arm-chairs. A wood fire had been lit, more to convey the sense, of a hearth, than because it was needed. Outside the sea murmured, and the scent of some nightblooming flower stole into the room.
Wilding was saying disarmingly:
“I’m so interested, you see, in people. I always have been. In what makes them tick, if I might put it that way. Does that sound very cold-blooded and analytical?”
“Not from you. You wonder about your fellow human beings because you care for them and are therefore interested in them.”
“Yes, that’s true.” He paused. Then he said: “If one can help a fellow human being, that seems to me the most worthwhile thing in the world.”
“If,” said Llewellyn.
The other looked at him sharply.
“That seems oddly sceptical, coming from you.”
“No, it’s only a recognition of the enormous difficulty of what you propose.”
“Is it so difficult? Human beings want to be helped.”
“Yes, we all tend to believe that in some magical manner others can attain for us what we can’t-or don’t want to-attain for ourselves.”
“Sympathy-and belief,” said Wilding earnestly. “To believe the best of someone is to call the best into being. People respond to one’s belief in them. I’ve found that again and again.”
“For how long?”
Wilding winced, as though something had touched a sore place in him.
“You can guide a child’s hand on the paper, but when you take your hand away the child still has to learn to write himself. Your action may, indeed, have delayed the process.”
“Are you trying to destroy my belief in human nature?”
Llewellyn smiled as he said:
“I think I’m asking you to have pity on human nature.”
“To encourage people to give of their best-”
“Is forcing them to live at a very high altitude; to keep up being what someone expects you to be is to live under a great strain. Too great a strain leads eventually to collapse.”
“Must one then expect the worst of people?” asked Wilding satirically.
“One should recognise that probability.”
“And you a man of religion!”
Llewellyn smiled:
“Christ told Peter that before the cock crew, he would have denied Him thrice. He knew Peter’s weakness of character better than Peter himself knew it, and loved him none the less for it.”
“No,” said Wilding, with vigour, “I can’t agree with you. In my own first marriage”-he paused, then went on-“my wife was-could have been-a really fine character. She’d got into a bad set; all she needed was love, trust, belief. If it hadn’t been for the war-” He stopped. “Well, it was one of the lesser tragedies of war. I was away, she was alone, exposed to bad influences.”
He paused again before saying abruptly: “I don’t blame her. I make allowances-she was the victim of circumstances. It broke me up at the time. I thought I’d never feel the same man again. But time heals….”
He made a gesture.
“Why I should tell you the history of my life I don’t know. I’d much rather hear about your life. You see, you’re something absolutely new to me. I want to know the ‘why’ and ‘how’ of you. I was impressed when I came to that meeting, deeply impressed. Not because you swayed your audience that I can understand well enough. Hitler did it. Lloyd George did it. Politicians, religious leaders and actors, they can all do it in a greater or lesser degree. It’s a gift. No, I wasn’t interested in the effect you were having, I was interested in you. Why was this particular thing worthwhile to you?”
Llewellyn shook his head slowly.
“You are asking me something that I do not know myself.”
“Of course, a strong religious conviction.” Wilding spoke with slight embarrassment, which amused the other.