The first slow notes of the seventh Symphony of
Beethoven had begun to steal forth across the bank of flowers; and, save
for the steady rising of that bluefish vapour, as it were incense burnt
to the god of melody, the crowd had become deathly still, as though one
mind, one spirit, possessed each pale face inclined towards that music
rising and falling like the sighing of the winds, that welcome from
death the freed spirits of the beautiful.
When the last notes had died away, he turned and walked out.
"Well," said the voice behind him, "hasn't that shown you how things
swell and grow; how splendid the world is?"
Miltoun smiled.
"It has shown me how beautiful the world can be made by a great man."
And suddenly, as if the music had loosened some band within him, he
began to pour forth words:
"Look at the crowd in this street, Courtier, which of all crowds in
the whole world can best afford to be left to itself; secure from
pestilence, earthquake, cyclone, drought, from extremes of heat and
cold, in the heart of the greatest and safest city in the world; and
yet-see the figure of that policeman! Running through all the good
behaviour of this crowd, however safe and free it looks, there is, there
always must be, a central force holding it together. Where does that
central force come from? From the crowd itself, you say.
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