Part 12 (1/2)

”The way to grow rich,” I said, ”is to make other people rich. Is that it? It sounds rather like one of the--what do you call them?--counsels of perfection in the Gospel.”

”Perhaps it is a religious truth too,” said Ascher. ”I don't know. I have never studied religion. Some day I think I shall. There must be a great deal that is very interesting in the New Testament.”

”Confound you, Ascher! Is there anything in heaven or earth that you don't look at from the outside, as if you were some kind of superior epicurean G.o.d?”

”I beg your pardon. I ought not to have spoken in that way. You are, no doubt, a Christian.”

”Of course I am--in--in a general way.”

”I have often thought,” said Ascher slowly, ”that I should like to be.

But from the little I know of that religion----”

”I expect you know as much as I do,” I said.

”It must be,” said Ascher, ”very hard to be a Christian.”

I was not going to discuss that point with Ascher. It was bad enough to have an artistic soul awakened in me by Mrs. Ascher. I could not possibly allow her husband to lead me to the discovery that I had the other kind of soul. Nor was it any business of mine to work out harmonies between Christian ethics and the principles of modern banking.

I detest puzzles of all kinds. It is far better, at all events far more comfortable, to take life as one finds it, a straightforward, commonplace affair. I have the greatest respect for Christianity of a moderate, sensible kind and I subscribe to the funds of the Church of Ireland. But when it comes to practical matters I find myself in agreement with Wordsworth's ”Rob Roy,”

The good old rule Sufficeth me, the simple plan, That they should take who have the power And they should keep who can.

So long, of course, as one does not do anything shady. I do not like lying or theft.

Ascher sat looking at me as if he expected me to tell him exactly how hard it is to be a Christian. I made a determined effort to get back again to cash registers.

”Tim Gorman's invention will get its chance then?”

”Yes. If we can manage it the thing will get its chance. It will be made and, I think, people will use it.”

”Mrs. Ascher will be very pleased to hear that.”

”Ah,” said Ascher. ”Is she interested? But I remember now. Young Gorman has been sitting to her. She would naturally be interested in him.”

”Her idea,” I said, ”is that Tim Gorman is producing a baby, with all the usual accompaniments of that difficult business, labour, you know, and pain. She regards you as the doctor in attendance, and she thinks it would be exceedingly wrong of you to choke the little thing.”

Ascher looked at me quite gravely. For a moment I was afraid that he was going to say something about the paradoxical brilliance of the Irish mind. I made haste to stop him.

”That's Mrs. Ascher's metaphor,” I said, ”not mine. I should never have thought of it. I don't know enough about the artistic soul to appreciate the feelings of people who give birth to cash registers. But the idea is plain enough. Tim Gorman will be bitterly disappointed if he does not see girls in cheap restaurants putting actual s.h.i.+llings into those machines of his.”

”From my wife's point of view,” said Ascher, ”and from mine, too, that ought to be an important consideration. It's the artist's feeling; but business and art--unfortunately business and art----”

”I don't see why they shouldn't kiss and be friends,” I said. ”They're not nearly such irreconcilable enemies as business and religion. Now that those two have lain down together like a lion and a lamb--I don't quite see how they do it, but in that new philosophy of yours it seemed quite a simple matter--there's no real reason why art shouldn't come in too.”

But Ascher shook his head. He did not seem hopeful of a marriage between art and business. He knows a good deal about both of them, far more, by his own confession, than he knows about religion.

CHAPTER VIII.

Ascher was very generous to me in the matter of letters of introduction.