"Is not this better than acting,
Mary?
"Yes, surely--if one can do it."
Said he: "Everyone could do it, if they knew."
"Is that really true?" she asked, with passionate earnestness.
"There is a god in every man, and in every woman."
"Why don't they know it, then?"
"There is a god, and also a beast. The beast is old, and familiar,
and powerful; the god is new, and strange, and afraid. Because of
his fear, the beast kills him."
"What is the beast?"
"His name is self; and he has many forms. In men he is greed; in
women he is vanity, and goes attired in much raiment--the chains,
and the bracelets, and the mufflers--"
"Oh, don't!" cried Mary, wildly.
"Very well, Mary; I won't." And he didn't. But, looking at Mary, it
seemed that she was just as unhappy as if he had.
He turned to an old man who had hobbled into the room on crutches.
"Poor old comrade! Poor old friend!" His voice seemed to break with
pity. "They have worked you like an old mule, until your skin is
cracked and your joints grown hard; but they have not been so kind
to you as to an old mule--they have left you to suffer!"
To a pale young woman who staggered towards him, coughing, he cried:
"What can I do for you? They are starving you to death! You need
food--and I have no food to give!" He raised his arms, in sudden
wrath.
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