what it means if death is really the end of all things. They’ve given up all for nothing. They’ve been cheated. They’re dupes.”
Waddington reflected for a little while.
“I wonder. I wonder if it matters that what they have aimed at is illusion. Their lives are in themselves beautiful. I have an idea that the only thing which makes it possible to regard this world we live in without disgust is the beauty which now and then men create out of the chaos. The pictures they paint, the music they compose, the books they write, and the lives they lead. Of all these the richest in beauty is the beautiful life. That is the perfect work of art.”
Kitty sighed. What he said seemed hard. She wanted more.
“Have you ever been to a symphony concert?” he continued.
“Yes,” she smiled. “I know nothing of music, but I’m rather fond of it.”
“Each member of the orchestra plays his own little instrument, and what do you think he knows of the complicated harmonies which unroll themselves on the indifferent air? He is concerned only with his own small share. But he knows that the symphony is lovely, and: though there’s none to hear it, it is lovely still, and he is content to play his part.”
“You spoke of Tao the other day,” said Kitty, after a pause. “Tell me what it is.”
Waddington gave her a little look, hesitated an instant, and then with a faint smile on his comic face answered:
