The Dust [41]
large glass bottles on one of the many shelves built against the rough walls of the room. "Here they are," said he. "It's the familiar illustration of how life may be controlled."
"I don't understand," said Norman, eying the bottled worms curiously.
"Oh, it's simply the demonstration that life is a mere chemical process----"
Norman had ceased to listen. The girl was moving toward the door by which they had entered--was in the doorway--was gone! He stood in an attitude of attention; Hallowell talked on and on, passing from one thing to another, forgetting his caller and himself, thinking only of the subject, the beloved science, that has brought into the modern world a type of men like those who haunted the deserts and mountain caves in the days when Rome was falling to pieces. With those saintly hermits of the Dark Ages religion was the all- absorbing subject. And seeking their own salvation was the goal upon which their ardent eyes were necessarily bent. With these modern devotees, science--the search for the truth about the world in which they live --is their religion; and their goal is the redemption of the world. They are resolved--step by step, each worker contributing his mite of discovery--to transform the world from a hell of discomfort and pain and death to a heaven where men and women, free and enlightened and perhaps immortal, shall live in happiness. They even dream that perhaps this race of gods shall learn to construct the means to take them to another and younger planet, when this Earth has become too old and too cold and too nakedly clad in atmosphere properly to sustain life.
From time to time Norman caught a few words of what Hallowell said--words that made him respect the intelligence that had uttered them. But he neither cared nor dared to listen. He refused to be deflected from his one purpose. When he was as old as Hallowell, it would be time to think of these matters. When he had snatched the things he needed, it would be time to take the generous, wide, philosopher view of life. But not yet. He was still young; he could--and he would!--drink of the sparkling heady life of the senses, typefied now for him in this girl. How her loveliness flamed in his blood--flamed as fiercely when he could not see the actual, tangible charms as when they were radiating their fire into his eyes and through his skin! First he must live that glorious life of youth, of nerves aquiver with ecstasy. Also, he must shut out the things of the intellect--must live in brain as well as in body the animal life--in brain the life of cunning and strategy. For the intellectual life would make it impossible to pursue such ignoble things. First, material success and material happiness. Then, in its own time, this intellectual life to which such men as Hallowell ever beckon, from their heights, such men as Norman, deep in the wallow that seems to them unworthy of them, even as they roll in it.
As soon as there came a convenient pause in Hallowell's talk, Norman said, "And you devote your whole life to these things?"
Hallowell's countenance lost its fine glow of enthusiasm. "I have to make a living. I do chemical analyses for doctors and druggists. That takes most of my time."
"But you can dispatch those things quickly."
Hallowell shook his head. "There's only one way to do things. My clients trust me. I can't shirk."
Norman smiled. He admired this simplicity. But it amused him, too; in a world of shirking and shuffling, not to speak of downright dishonesty, it struck the humorous note of the incongruous. He said:
"But if you could give all your time you would get on faster."
"Yes--if I had the time--AND the money. To make the search exhaustive would take money--five or six thousand a year, at the least. A great deal more than I shall ever have."
"Have you tried to interest capitalists?"
Hallowell smiled ironically. "There is much talk about capitalists and capital opening up things. But I have yet to learn of an instance of their touching anything until they were absolutely
"I don't understand," said Norman, eying the bottled worms curiously.
"Oh, it's simply the demonstration that life is a mere chemical process----"
Norman had ceased to listen. The girl was moving toward the door by which they had entered--was in the doorway--was gone! He stood in an attitude of attention; Hallowell talked on and on, passing from one thing to another, forgetting his caller and himself, thinking only of the subject, the beloved science, that has brought into the modern world a type of men like those who haunted the deserts and mountain caves in the days when Rome was falling to pieces. With those saintly hermits of the Dark Ages religion was the all- absorbing subject. And seeking their own salvation was the goal upon which their ardent eyes were necessarily bent. With these modern devotees, science--the search for the truth about the world in which they live --is their religion; and their goal is the redemption of the world. They are resolved--step by step, each worker contributing his mite of discovery--to transform the world from a hell of discomfort and pain and death to a heaven where men and women, free and enlightened and perhaps immortal, shall live in happiness. They even dream that perhaps this race of gods shall learn to construct the means to take them to another and younger planet, when this Earth has become too old and too cold and too nakedly clad in atmosphere properly to sustain life.
From time to time Norman caught a few words of what Hallowell said--words that made him respect the intelligence that had uttered them. But he neither cared nor dared to listen. He refused to be deflected from his one purpose. When he was as old as Hallowell, it would be time to think of these matters. When he had snatched the things he needed, it would be time to take the generous, wide, philosopher view of life. But not yet. He was still young; he could--and he would!--drink of the sparkling heady life of the senses, typefied now for him in this girl. How her loveliness flamed in his blood--flamed as fiercely when he could not see the actual, tangible charms as when they were radiating their fire into his eyes and through his skin! First he must live that glorious life of youth, of nerves aquiver with ecstasy. Also, he must shut out the things of the intellect--must live in brain as well as in body the animal life--in brain the life of cunning and strategy. For the intellectual life would make it impossible to pursue such ignoble things. First, material success and material happiness. Then, in its own time, this intellectual life to which such men as Hallowell ever beckon, from their heights, such men as Norman, deep in the wallow that seems to them unworthy of them, even as they roll in it.
As soon as there came a convenient pause in Hallowell's talk, Norman said, "And you devote your whole life to these things?"
Hallowell's countenance lost its fine glow of enthusiasm. "I have to make a living. I do chemical analyses for doctors and druggists. That takes most of my time."
"But you can dispatch those things quickly."
Hallowell shook his head. "There's only one way to do things. My clients trust me. I can't shirk."
Norman smiled. He admired this simplicity. But it amused him, too; in a world of shirking and shuffling, not to speak of downright dishonesty, it struck the humorous note of the incongruous. He said:
"But if you could give all your time you would get on faster."
"Yes--if I had the time--AND the money. To make the search exhaustive would take money--five or six thousand a year, at the least. A great deal more than I shall ever have."
"Have you tried to interest capitalists?"
Hallowell smiled ironically. "There is much talk about capitalists and capital opening up things. But I have yet to learn of an instance of their touching anything until they were absolutely