wrapped up in these preoccupations as i am, it will certainly be the botanist who will notice the comparative absence of animals about us.

he will put it in the form of a temperate objection to the utopian planet.

he is a professed lover of dogs and there are none. we have seen no horses and only one or two mules on the day of our arrival, and there seems not a cat in the world. i bring my mind round to his suggestion. “this follows,” i say.

it is only reluctantly that i allow myself to be drawn from my secret musings into a discussion of utopian pets.

i try to explain that a phase in the world’s development is inevitable when a systematic world-wide attempt will be made to destroy for ever a great number of contagious and infectious diseases, and that this will involve, for a time at any rate, a stringent suppression of the free movement of familiar animals. utopian houses, streets and drains will be planned and built to make rats, mice, and such-like house parasites impossible; the race of cats and dogs — providing, as it does, living fastnesses to which such diseases as plague, influenza, catarrhs and the like, can retreat to sally forth again — must pass for a time out of freedom, and the filth made by horses and the other brutes of the highway vanish from the face of the earth. these things make an old story to me, and perhaps explicitness suffers through my brevity.

my botanist fails altogether to grasp what the disappearance of diseases means. his mind has no imaginative organ of that compass. as i talk his mind rests on one fixed image. this presents what the botanist would probably call a “dear old doggie”— which the botanist would make believe did not possess any sensible odour — and it has faithful brown eyes and understands everything you say. the botanist would make believe it understood him mystically, and i figure his long white hand — which seems to me, in my more jaundiced moments, to exist entirely for picking things and holding a lens — patting its head, while the brute looked things unspeakable. . . .

the botanist shakes his head after my explanation and says quietly, “i do not like your utopia, if there are to be no dogs.”

perhaps that makes me a little malicious. indeed i do not hate dogs, but i care ten thousand times more for a man than for all the brutes on the earth, and i can see, what the botanist i think cannot, that a life spent in the delightful atmosphere of many pet animals may have too dear a price. . . .

i find myself back again at the comparison of the botanist and myself. there is a profound difference in our imaginations, and i wonder whether it is the consequence of innate character or of training and whether he is really the human type or i. i am not altogether without imagination, but what imagination i have has the most insistent disposition to square itself with every fact in the universe. it hypothesises very boldly, but on the other hand it will not gravely make believe. now the botanist’s imagination is always busy with the most impossible make-believe. that is the way with all children i know. but it seems to me one ought to pass out of it. it isn’t as though the world was an untidy nursery; it is a place of splendours indescribable for all who will lift its veils. it may be he is essentially different from me, but i am much more inclined to think he is simply more childish. always it is make-believe. he believes that horses are beautiful creatures for example, dogs are beautiful creatures, that some women are inexpressibly lovely, and he makes believe that this is always so. never a word of criticism of horse or dog or woman! never a word of criticism of his impeccable friends! then there is his botany. he makes believe that all the vegetable kingdom is mystically perfect and exemplary, that all flowers smell deliciously and are exquisitely beautiful, that drosera does not hurt flies very much, and that onions do not smell. most of the universe does not interest this nature lover at all. but i know, and i am querulously incapable of understanding why everyone else does not know, that a horse is beautiful in one way and quite ugly in another, that everything has this shot-silk quality, and is all the finer for that. when people talk of a horse as an ugly animal i think of its beautiful moments, but when i hear a flow of indiscriminate praise of its beauty i think of such an aspect as one gets for example from a dog-cart, the fiddle-shaped back, and that distressing blade of the neck, the narrow clumsy place between the ears, and the ugly glimpse of cheek. there is, indeed, no beauty whatever save that transitory thing that comes and comes again; all beauty is really the beauty of expression, is really kinetic and momentary. that is true even of those triumphs of static endeavour achieved by greece. the greek temple, for example, is a barn with a face that at a certain angle of vision and in a certain light has a great calm beauty.

but where are we drifting? all such things, i hold, are cases of more and less, and of the right moment and the right aspect, even the things i most esteem. there is no perfection, there is no enduring treasure. this pet dog’s beautiful affection, i say, or this other sensuous or imaginative delight, is no doubt good, but it can be put aside if it is incompatible with some other and wider good. you cannot focus all good things together.

all right action and all wise action is surely sound judgment and courageous abandonment in the matter of such incompatibilities. if i cannot imagine thoughts and feelings in a dog’s brain that cannot possibly be there, at least i can imagine things in the future of men that might be there had we the will to demand them. . . .

“i don’t like this utopia,” the botanist repeats. “you don’t understand about dogs. to me they’re human beings — and more! there used to be such a jolly old dog at my aunt’s at frognal when i was a boy ——”

but i do not heed his anecdote. something — something of the nature of conscience — has suddenly jerked back the memory of that beer i drank at hospenthal, and puts an accusing finger on the memory.

i never have had a pet animal, i confess, though i have been fairly popular with kittens. but with regard to a certain petting of myself ——?

perhaps i was premature about that beer. i have had no pet animals, but i perceive if the modern utopia is going to demand the sacrifice of the love of animals, which is, in its way, a very fine thing indeed, so much the more readily may it demand the sacrifice of many other indulgences, some of which are not even fine in the lowest degree.

it is curious this haunting insistence upon sacrifice and discipline!

it is slowly becoming my dominant thought that the sort of people whose will this utopia embodies must be people a little heedless of small pleasures. you cannot focus all good things at the same time. that is my chief discovery in these meditations at lucerne. much of the rest of this utopia i had in a sort of way anticipated, but not this. i wonder if i shall see my utopian self for long and be able to talk to him freely. . . .

we lie in the petal-strewn grass under some judas trees beside the lake shore, as i meander among these thoughts, and each of us, disregardful of his companion, follows his own associations.

“very remarkable,” i say, discovering that the botanist has come to an end with his story of that frognal dog.

“you’d wonder how he knew,” he says.

“you would.”

i nibble a green blade.

“do you realise quite,” i ask, “that within a week we shall face our utopian selves and measure something of what we might have been?”

the botanist’s face clouds. he rolls over, sits up abruptly and puts his lean hands about his knees.

“i don’t like to think about it,” he says. “what is the good of reckoning . . . might have beens?”