‘In some ways,’ he said, ‘I suppose it is as well not to care what people think or say. But the position is always an ungraceful one, and is certain ruin to one’s hopes of popularity. However, if you don’t care, of course, popularity does not matter to you, either one way or the other.’
‘No,’ said Isabel; ‘one demands it, and expects it. And if one doesn’t get it as one’s right, one refuses to accept it as anyone’s favour. And obviously the lack of it can make no real difference. How can unpopularity affect one’s opinion of one’s self? And that is the only thing in the world that really does matter. By that alone one rises or falls, is glorified or condemned.’ She spoke quietly and carelessly, as much to herself as to him or the world at large. Just so, in such cool, insolently indifferent tones might Queen Isabel have discussed her own attitude from a dispassionate external point of view.
‘Incidentally,’ replied Kingston, ‘one runs the risk of giving any amount of pain to any number of inoffensive people.’
‘Now you are trying to make me feel a brute,’ answered Isabel. ‘But it is no good. If they are hurt, it is their own fault. Pain always implies some weakness in the person who suffers it. And you can’t make one person responsible for the inherent weaknesses of another, just because his action has stirred certain hidden symptoms to life. You might just as well scold me if I gave a tea-party, and somebody with advanced consumption got a cold at it, and died off. The disease was in him, not in me or my tea-party. And moral suffering is the symptom of a sort of moral phthisis. Only the diseased can suffer. So, as long as my actions are sane and healthy in themselves, you must not call them names if they happen to stumble on weak spots and corns in other people’s natures. I never knew the corns were there. I simply went my way. Everyone has a right to. Everyone must. And one is only responsible to one’s self, and only responsible for one’s self. So much for your accusation of hurting other people.’
‘I never heard anything so callous in my life. If you were as bad as your words you would be a perfect fiend. But, mercifully, everyone in the world is better than their words, and worse than their thoughts.’