Here's ourselves!" and Peer
emptied his glass.
This was a sad hearing for poor Langberg. For he had been used to
comfort himself in his daily round with the thought that even he, in his
modest sphere, was doing his share in the great work of civilising the
world.
At last he leaned back, watching the smoke from his cigar, and smiling a
little.
"I remember a young fellow at the College," he said, "who used to talk
a good deal about Prometheus, and the grand work of liberating humanity,
by stealing new and ever new fire from Olympus."
"That was me--yes," said Peer with a laugh. "As a matter of fact, I was
only quoting Ferdinand Holm."
"You don't believe in all that now?"
"It strikes me that fire and steel are rapidly turning men into beasts.
Machinery is killing more and more of what we call the godlike in us."
"But, good heavens, man! Surely a man can be a Christian even if . . ."
"Christian as much as you like. But don't you think it might soon be
time we found something better to worship than an ascetic on a cross?
Are we to keep on for ever singing Hallelujah because we've saved our
own skins and yet can haggle ourselves into heaven? Is that religion?"
"No, no, perhaps not. But I don't know . . ."
"Neither do I. But it's all the same; for anyhow no such thing as
religious feeling exists any longer. Machinery is killing our longings
for eternity, too. Ask the good people in the great cities. They spend
Christmas Eve playing tunes from The Dollar Princess on the gramophone.
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