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Updated: April 30, 2025
Something it was about the insignificance of science and the supreme importance of Life. Parload stood listening, half turned towards the sky with the tips of his fingers on his spectroscope. He seemed to come to a sudden decision. "No. I don't agree with you, Leadford," he said. "You don't understand about science." Parload rarely argued with that bluntness of opposition.
I wanted intensely to salve my self-respect by some revenge upon him, and I felt that if that could be done by slaying the hydra, I might drag its carcass to the feet of Nettie, and settle my other trouble as well. "What do you think of me NOW, Nettie?" That at any rate comes near enough to the quality of my thinking, then, for you to imagine how I gesticulated and spouted to Parload that night.
I was so used to entire possession of our talk that his brief contradiction struck me like a blow. "Don't agree with me!" I repeated. "No," said Parload "But how?" "I believe science is of more importance than socialism," he said. "Socialism's a theory. Science science is something more." And that was really all he seemed to be able to say.
The most extraordinary things used to run through my head in those days. I will confess that my mind ran persistently that evening upon revolutions after the best French pattern, and I sat on a Committee of Safety and tried backsliders. Parload was there, among the prisoners, backsliderissimus, aware too late of the error of his ways.
"I want to start meetings of an evening on Howden's Waste." "You think they'd listen?" "They'd listen fast enough now." "They didn't before," said Parload, looking at his pet instrument. "There was a demonstration of unemployed at Swathinglea on Sunday. They got to stone throwing." Parload said nothing for a little while and I said several things. He seemed to be considering something.
I am told by Parload though indeed I know nothing of the reasoning on which his confidence rests -that within an hour of the great moment of impact the first green modification of nitrogen had dissolved and passed away, leaving the air as translucent as ever. The rest of that wonderful interlude was clear, had any had eyes to see its clearness.
For example, I forget if it was then or before or afterwards that, as it were by accident, I let out what might be taken as an admission that I was addicted to drugs. "You shouldn't do that," said Parload, suddenly. "It won't do to poison your brains with that." My brains, my eloquence, were to be very important assets to our party in the coming revolution. . . .
Every age becomes mitigated and a little ennobled in our minds as it recedes into the past. It is the part of those who like myself have stories of that time to tell, to supply, by a scrupulous spiritual realism, some antidote to that glamour. Section 4 Always with Parload I was chief talker.
But at last I could stand it no longer, and I reproached Parload very bitterly for wasting his time in "astronomical dilettantism."
"Hireling Liar," I muttered, for was not he also part of the system, part of the scheme of robbery that made wages serfs of Parload and me? though his share in the proceedings was certainly small. "Hireling Liar," said I, standing in the darkness, outside even his faint glow of traveled culture. . . My mother let me in.
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