"You should hear him speak at a meeting.... If he's in form, that is."
He rapped and went into a large, untidy room.
"This is Kipps," he said. "You know. The chap I told you of. With twelve 'undred a year."
Masterman sat gnawing at an empty pipe and as close to the fire as though it was alight and the season midwinter. Kipps concentrated upon him for a space, and only later took in something of the frowsy furniture, the little bed half behind, and evidently supposed to be wholly behind, a careless screen, the spittoon by the fender, the remains of a dinner on the chest of drawers and the scattered books and papers. Masterman's face showed him a man of forty or more, with curious hollows at the side of his forehead and about his eyes. His eyes were very bright; there was a spot of red in his cheeks, and the wiry black moustache under his short, red nose had been trimmed with scissors into a sort of brush along his upper lip. His teeth were darkened ruins. His jacket collar was turned up about a knitted white neck wrap, and his sleeves betrayed no cuffs. He did not rise to greet Kipps, but held out a thin wristed hand and pointed with the other to a bedroom arm chair.
"Glad to see you," he said. "Sit down and make yourself at home. Will you smoke?"
Kipps said he would, and produced his store. He was about to take one, and then, with a civil afterthought, handed the packet first to Masterman and Sid. Masterman pretended surprise to find his pipe out before he took one. There was an interlude of matches. Sid pushed the end of the screen out of his way, sat down on the bed thus frankly admitted, and prepared, with a certain quiet satisfaction of manner, to witness Masterman's treatment of Kipps.
"And how does it feel to have twelve hundred a year?" asked Masterman, holding his cigarette to his nose tip in a curious manner.
"It's rum," confided Kipps, after a reflective interval. "It feels juiced rum."
"I never felt it," said Masterman.
"It takes a bit of getting into," said Kipps. "I can tell you that."
Masterman smoked and regarded Kipps with curious eyes.
"I expect it does," he said presently.
"And has it made you perfectly happy?" he asked, abruptly.
"I couldn't 'ardly say _that_," said Kipps.
Masterman smiled. "No," he said. "Has it made you much happier?"
"It did at first."
"Yes. But you got used to it. How long, for example, did the real delirious excitement last?"
"Oo, _that_! Perhaps a week," said Kipps.
Masterman nodded his head. "That's what discourages _me_ from amassing wealth," he said to Sid. "You adjust yourself. It doesn't last. I've always had an inkling of that, and it's interesting to get it confirmed.
I shall go on sponging for a bit longer on _you_, I think."
"You don't," said Sid. "No fear."
"Twenty-four thousand pounds," said Masterman, and blew a cloud of smoke. "Lord! Doesn't it worry you?"
"It is a bit worrying at times.... Things 'appen."
"Going to marry?"
"Yes."
"H'm. Lady, I guess, of a superior social position?"
"Rather," said Kipps. "Cousin to the Earl of Beaupres."
Masterman readjusted his long body with an air of having accumulated all the facts he needed. He snuggled his shoulder-blades down into the chair and raised his angular knees. "I doubt," he said, flicking cigarette ash into the atmosphere, "if any great gain or loss of money does--as things are at present--make more than the slightest difference in one's happiness. It ought to--if money was what it ought to be, the token for given service; one ought to get an increase in power and happiness for every pound one got. But the plain fact is the times are out of joint, and money--money, like everything else, is a deception and a disappointment."
He turned his face to Kipps and enforced his next words with the index finger of his lean, lank hand. "If I thought otherwise," he said, "I should exert _myself_ to get some. But, if one sees things clearly, one is so discouraged. So confoundedly discouraged.... When you first got your money, you thought that it meant you might buy just anything you fancied?"
"I was a bit that way," said Kipps.
"And you found that you couldn't. You found that for all sorts of things it was a question of where to buy and how to buy, and what you didn't know how to buy with your money, straight away this world planted something else upon you----"
"I got rather done over a banjo first day," said Kipps. "Leastways, my Uncle says."
"Exactly," said Masterman.
Sid began to speak from the bed. "That's all very well, Masterman," he said, "but, after all, money is Power, you know. You can do all sorts of things----"
"I'm talking of happiness," said Masterman. "You can do all sorts of things with a loaded gun in the Hammersmith Broadway, but nothing--practically--that will make you or any one else very happy.
Nothing. Power's a different matter altogether. As for happiness, you want a world in order before money or property, or any of those things that have any real value, and this world, I tell you, is hopelessly out of joint. Man is a social animal with a mind nowadays that goes around the globe, and a community cannot be happy in one part and unhappy in another. It's all or nothing, no patching any more for ever. It is the standing mistake of the world not to understand that. Consequently people think there is a class or order somewhere, just above them or just below them, or a country or place somewhere, that is really safe and happy. The fact is, Society is one body, and it is either well or ill. That's the law. This society we live in is ill. It's a fractious, feverish invalid, gouty, greedy and ill-nourished. You can't have a happy left leg with neuralgia, or a happy throat with a broken leg.
That's my position, and that's the knowledge you'll come to. I'm so satisfied of it that I sit here and wait for my end quite calmly, sure that I can't better things by bothering--in my time, and so far as I am concerned, that is. I'm not even greedy any more--my egotism's at the bottom of a pond, with a philosophical brick around its neck. The world is ill, my time is short and my strength is small. I'm as happy here as anywhere."
He coughed and was silent for a moment, then brought the index finger around to Kipps again. "You've had the opportunity of sampling two grades of society, and you don't find the new people you're among much better or any happier than the old?"
"No," said Kipps, reflectively. "No. I 'aven't seen it quite like that before, but----. No. They're not."
"And you might go all up the scale and down the scale and find the same thing. Man's a gregarious beast, a gregarious beast, and no money will buy you out of your own time--any more than out of your own skill. All the way up and all the way down the scale there's the same discontent.
No one is quite sure where they stand, and everyone's fretting. The herd's uneasy and feverish. All the old tradition goes or has gone, and there's no one to make a new tradition. Where are your nobles now? Where are your gentlemen? They vanished directly the peasant found out he wasn't happy and ceased to be a peasant. There's big men and little men mixed up together, that's all. None of us know where we are. Your cads in a bank holiday train and your cads on a two thousand pound motor; except for a difference in scale, there's not a pin to choose between them. Your smart society is as low and vulgar and uncomfortable for a balanced soul as a gin palace, no more and no less; there's no place or level of honour or fine living left in the world; so what's the good of climbing?"
"'Ear, 'ear," said Sid.
"It's true," said Kipps.
"_I_ don't climb," said Masterman, and accepted Kipps' silent offer of another cigarette.
"No," he said. "This world is out of joint. It's broken up, and I doubt if it will heal. I doubt very much if it'll heal. We're in the beginning of the Sickness of the World."
He rolled his cigarette in his lean fingers and repeated with satisfaction: "The Sickness of the World."
"It's we've got to make it better," said Sid, and looked at Kipps.
"Ah, Sid's an optimist," said Masterman.
"So are you, most times," said Sid.
Kipps lit another cigarette with an air of intelligent participation.
"Frankly," said Masterman, recrossing his legs and expelling a jet of smoke luxuriously, "frankly, I think this civilisation of ours is on the topple."
"There's Socialism," said Sid.