“Nowhere,” answered Richard.
“How can that be? If I were going, I should be going somewhere! I couldn't go nowhere if I tried ever so. I don't like you to say it is going nowhere! Poor little thing! I won't let you go nowhere!”
“Well!” returned Richard, a little bewildered, “what would you have me say? You know what I mean! It is going not to be, that is all.”
“That is all! How would you like to be told you were going nowhere—going not to be—that was all?”
Richard saw that to declare abruptly his belief that he was himself as much going nowhere as any pigeon that ever died, would probably be to close the door between them. At the same time, if he left her to imagine that he expected life for himself, but not for the animals, she must think him selfish! Unwilling therefore to answer, he took refuge in his genuine sympathy with suffering.
“Is it not strange,” he said, and would have taken from her hands the wounded bird, but she would not part with it, “that men should take pleasure in killing—especially a creature like that, so full of innocent content? It seems to me the greatest pity to stop such a life!”
As he spoke there came upon him the dim sense of a foaming reef of argument ahead—such as this: “Then there ought to be no death! And what ought not to be, cannot be! But there is death: what then is death? If it be a stopping of life, then that is which cannot be. But it may be only a change in the form of life that looks like a stopping, and is not! If Death be stronger than Life, so that he stops life, how then was Life able so to flout him, that he, the thing that was not, arose from the antenatal sepulchre on which Death sat throned in impotent negation of entity, unable to preclude existence, and yet able to annihilate it? Life alone is: nothingness is not; Death cannot destroy; he is not the antagonist, not the opposite of life.” Some such argument Richard, I say, saw vaguely through the gloom ahead, and began to beat to windward.
“Did you ever notice,” he said, “in The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, the point at which the dead bird falls from the neck of the man?”
It was a point, however, at which neither he nor Barbara was capable of seeing the depth of the poem. Richard thought it was the new-born love of beauty that freed the mariner; he did not see that it was the love of life, the new-born sympathy with life.
“I don't even know what you are talking of,” answered Barbara. “Do tell me. It sounds like something wonderful! Is it a story?”