"And supposing the children you rear should turn out to be ’nobodies’?" I mildly put in, as an obliging straw man.
"What does that matter?" he growled. "Most people are nobodies. It’s the nobodies of the world that bring about its catastrophic changes. Mark Antony cunningly put a tongue in every wound of Cæsar’s body in the Forum. Mark Antonys are rare, I grant you. But it’s the First Citizen and Second Citizen who pulled down Republican Rome about the ears of Brutus. Shakespeare as well as Mark Antony knew that in the nobodies resides the real power for doing. The thinkers are the few; the doers are the many. We need ’em all, all—and that’s what kids are for."
Perhaps I should own at this point that in my secret heart I agree with Dibdin, just as in reality I am certain that life has a contour and rhythm of its own. The world may appear harsh, may be truly ill-adapted for justice, culture, beauty. But whatever its shortcomings, the business of the human race in it seems to me clear: To extend and carry on the race of man—the measure of all things—to create a better life on earth. All the world is a man living in a shoe. But somehow, very slowly, it is acquiring knowledge, learning what to do. We may indeed be such stuff as dreams are made on, and our life rounded with a sleep is, in truth, pitifully little. But that little seems mysteriously, tremendously important.
And by that token it appears to me that there is no such creature as a living pessimist. The only certain sign of genuine conviction on the part of a pessimist is his suicide. To go on living is to hope for better things—and to hope for them is to bring them about. That is how life appears to me. But are the views of a shrewd bookseller who plays golf of Saturdays of any account?
But enough of my prating. Alicia will doubtless have her way. She is now engaged in the august rites of the younger Randolph’s bath. I expect to be summoned to the ceremony at any time. To such small dimensions has my family dwindled that all attention is inevitably centered on the Baby. Laura is thousands of miles away, in California, with, the young surgeon she met and married in France; and Jimmie, within two years of college, is summering in a camp on a Canadian island. Randolph Junior reigns supreme. Well, I am content—and long live the King! But they are all as near and dear, to me as ever. For as old Burton his "Anatomy" hath it: "No cord nor cable can so forcibly draw or hold so fast, as love can do with a twined thread."