“Nonsense, Cesca,” said Heggen suddenly. “Hans Hermann was discovered when he was thirteen, and has been helped along ever since.” “Yes, but to have to accept help always, to have to thank other people for everything and always be afraid of being ignored, neglected, reminded of being—as Hjerrild just said—of plebeian origin.” “I might say the same about myself—the last, I mean.” “No, you cannot, Gunnar. I’m sure you have always been superior to your surroundings. When you came among people of higher social standing than the one you were born to, you were superior even there. You were cleverer; you had greater knowledge and a finer mind. You could always feel strong in the consciousness of having done it all yourself. You were never obliged to thank people that you knew looked down upon you because of your low birth, who snobbishly supported a talent which they did not understand, and who were inferior, though believing they stood above you. You did not have to thank people you could not feel grateful to. No, Gunnar, you cannot speak of the feelings of a man of the people, because you have never had them—you don’t know what they are.” “A man who accepts the kind of help you speak of from people he cannot be grateful to is decidedly a plebeian, it seems to me.” “Oh, but can’t you understand that one does such a thing when one knows one has talent—perhaps genius—that craves to be developed? It seems to me that you, who call yourself a democrat, should not speak like that about lower-class individuals.” “A man who respects his talent does not want to see it prostituted. As to being a democrat—social democracy is the craving for justice, and justice claims that men of his type should be subjugated, pressed down to the very bottom of the community, chained and forgotten. The real, legitimate lower class _must_ be thoroughly subdued.” “A most peculiar socialism,” laughed Hjerrild. “There is no other for grown-up people. I don’t take into account those blue-eyed, childish souls who believe that everybody is good and that all evil is the fault of the community. If every one were good, the community would be a paradise, but the vulgar souls spoil it. You find them in every grade of life. If they are masters, they are cruel and brutal; if they are servants, they are servile and cringing—and stupid. I have found them among the socialists too, for that matter—well, Hermann calls himself a socialist. If they find hands stretched out to lift them up, they grasp them—and stamp on them afterwards. If they see a troop marching past, they join it to get part of the booty, but loyalty and fellowship they have none. They laugh secretly at the aim, the ideal, and they hate justice, for they know that if it were to prevail they would come off badly.