“Factisch!  Der Herr hat Recht!” cried some one, and several other voices strove to make themselves heard; but the orator raised his note and overbore interruption.

“You must excuse me, gentlemen, if I say that—­however it may be from other points of view—­from the standpoint of art, democracy is simply the triumph of ignorance and brutality.” ("Gewisz!”—­ “Nimmermehr!”—­“Vortrefflich!”) “I don’t care to draw distinctions between forms of the thing.  Socialism, communism, collectivism, parliamentarism,—­all these have one and the same end:  to put men on an equality; and in proportion as that end is approached, so will art in every shape languish.  Art, gentlemen, is nourished upon inequalities and injustices!” ("Ach!”—­“Wie kann man so etwas sagen!”—­“Hoch! verissime!”) “I am not representing this as either good or bad.  It may be well that justice should be established, even though art perish.  I simply state a fact!” ("Doch!”—­“Erlauben Sie!”) “Supremacy of the vulgar interest means supremacy of ignoble judgment in all matters of mind.  See what plutocracy already makes of art!”

Here one of the Germans insisted on a hearing; a fine fellow, with Samsonic locks and a ringing voice.

“Sir! sir! who talks of a genuine democracy with mankind in its present state?  Before it comes about, the multitude will be instructed, exalted, emancipated, humanized!”

“Sir!” shouted Marsh, “who talks of the Millennium?  I speak of things possible within a few hundred years.  The multitude will never be humanized.  Civilization is attainable only by the few; nature so ordains it.”

“Pardon me for saying that is a lie!  I use the word controversially.”

“It is a manifest truth!” cried the other.  “Who ever doubted it but a Dummkopf?  I use the word with reference to this argument only.”

So it went on for a long time.  Mallard and Elgar knew no German, so could derive neither pleasure nor profit from the high debate.

“Are you as glum here as in London?” Reuben asked of his companion, in a bantering voice.  “I should have pictured you grandly jovial, wreathed perhaps with ruddy vine-leaves, the light of inspiration in your eye, and in your hand a mantling goblet!  Drink, man, drink! you need a stimulant, an exhilarant, an anti-phlegmatic, a counter-irritant against English spleen.  You are still on the other side of the Alps, of the Channel; the fogs yet cling about you.  Clear your brow, O painter of Ossianic wildernesses!  Taste the foam of life!  We are in the land of Horace, and nunc est bibendum!—­ Seriously, do you never relax?”

“Oh yes.  You should see me over the fifth tumbler of whiskey at Stornoway.”

“Bah! you might as well say the fifth draught of fish-oil North Cape.  How innocent this wine is!  A gallon of it would give one no more than a pleasant glow, the faculty of genial speech.  Take a glass with me to the health of your enchanting ward.”