Highgate Rise - Anne Perry [68]
“I quite agree with you,” she said with feeling. “Thought should never be imprisoned nor anyone told they may not believe as they choose.”
“How right you are, Mrs. Pitt! Unfortunately, not everyone is able to see it as you do. Pascoe, and those like him, would set themselves up to decide what people may learn, and what they may not. He is not personally an unpleasant man—far from it, you would find him charming—yet the arrogance of the man is beyond belief.”
Apparently Pascoe had heard his name mentioned. He pushed his way between two men discussing finance and faced Dalgetty, his eyes hot with anger.
“It is not arrogance, Dalgetty.” His voice was low but only just in control. “It is a sense of responsibility. To publish every single thing that comes into your hand, regardless of what it is or whom it may hurt, is not freedom; it is an abuse of the art of printing. It is no better than a fool who stands on the corner of the street and shouts out whatever enters his thoughts—be it true or false—”
“And who is to judge whether it is true or false?” Dalgetty demanded. “You? Are you to be the final arbiter of what the world shall believe? Who are you to judge what we may hope for or aspire to? How dare you?” His eyes blazed with the sheer monstrosity of any mere human limiting the dreams of mankind.
Pascoe was equally enraged. His whole body quivered with frustrated fury at Dalgetty’s obtuseness and willful failure to grasp the real meaning.
“You are utterly wrong!” he shouted, his skin suffusing with color. “It has nothing whatsoever to do with limiting aspiration or dreams—as well you know. But it does have to do with not creating nightmares.” He swung his arms wildly, catching the top of a nearby woman’s feathered hat and knocking it over her eye, and quite oblivious of it. “What you do not have the right to do is topple the dreams of others by making mock of them—yes—it is you who are arrogant, not I.”
“You pygmy!” Dalgetty shouted back. “You nincompoop. You are talking complete balderdash—which perfectly reflects your muddled thinking. It is an impossibility to build a new idea except at the expense of part of the old—by the very fact that it is new.”
“And what if your new idea is ugly and dangerous?” Pascoe demanded furiously, his hand chopping the air. “And adds nothing to human knowledge or happiness? Ah? Nincompoop. You are an intellectual child—and a spiritual and moral vandal. You are—”
At this point the heated voices had drawn everyone’s attention, all other conversation had ceased and Hector Clitheridge was wading towards them in extreme agitation, his clothes flapping, his arms waving in the air and his face expressing extreme embarrassment and a kind of desperate confusion.
“Mr. Pascoe! Please!” he implored. “Gentlemen!” he turned to Dalgetty. “Please remember poor Dr. Shaw—”
That was the last thing he should have said. The very name was as a red rag to a bull for Pascoe.
“A perfect case in point,” he said triumphantly. “A very precise example! He rushes in—”
“Exactly!” Dalgetty chopped the air with his hands in excitement. “He is an honest man who abhors idolatry. Especially the worship of the unworthy, the dishonorable, the valueless—”
“Who says it is valueless?” Pascoe jumped up and down on the spot, his voice rising to falsetto in triumph. “Do you set yourself up to decide what may be kept, and what destroyed? Eh?”
Now Dalgetty lost his temper completely. “You incompetent!” he shouted, scarlet-cheeked. “You double—dyed ass! You—”
“Mr. Dalgetty!” Clitheridge pleaded futilely. “Mr.—” Eulalia came to the rescue, her face set in firm lines of disapproval. For an instant she reminded Charlotte of a particularly strict nanny. She ignored Dalgetty except for one glare. “Mr. Pascoe.” Her voice was determined and under perfect control. “You are behaving disgracefully.