{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_61661/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_61661","id":"gutenberg_61661","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/61661","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Humour","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Short Stories","Fables, English"],"text":"CIRCULAR SAWS\n\n\n\n\n_Other books by the same Author_\n\n\n_Verse_\n\n  LONDON SONNETS\n  SHYLOCK REASONS WITH MR. CHESTERTON\n\n\n\n\n  CIRCULAR SAWS\n\n  By\n\n  Humbert Wolfe\n\n\n  LONDON\n  CHAPMAN & HALL LTD.\n  1923\n\n\n\n\n  Printed in England\n  at The Westminster Press\n  411a Harrow Road, London, W.9\n\n\nThree or four of these tales have appeared in _The Weekly Westminster\nGazette_ and _The Chapbook_. The author\u2019s thanks are due for permission\nto reprint them here. Thanks are also due to the Editor of _The\nSaturday Review_ for permission to republish the verses in the story\ncalled \u201cDis Aliter Visum.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nTABLE OF CONTENTS\n\n\n                                                      PAGE\n\n        I. Waste not, want not                           1\n\n       II. Looking for a needle in a haystack            2\n\n      III. All\u2019s well that ends well                     3\n\n       IV. Faint heart never won fair lady               5\n\n        V. Truth is stranger than fiction                7\n\n       VI. A rose by any other name                     10\n\n      VII. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing      12\n\n     VIII. Two wrongs do not make a right               14\n\n       IX. Business is business                         16\n\n        X. Let sleeping dogs lie                        19\n\n       XI. It\u2019s never too late to mend                  20\n\n      XII. Ars longa, vita brevis                       24\n\n     XIII. Sunt certi denique fines                     30\n\n      XIV. Heaven helps those that help themselves      35\n\n       XV. \u201cYou never can tell\u201d                         37\n\n      XVI. United we stand                              41\n\n     XVII. Ici-G\u00eet                                      44\n\n    XVIII. Silence is golden                            45\n\n      XIX. Look before you leap                         48\n\n       XX. Liberty, Equality, Fraternity                52\n\n      XXI. Quis separabit?                              53\n\n     XXII. Men, not measures                            55\n\n    XXIII. You cannot have your cake and eat it         62\n\n     XXIV. In vino veritas                              66\n\n      XXV. Tantae religio                               71\n\n     XXVI. On entertaining angels unawares              73\n\n    XXVII. Tempus fugit                                 77\n\n   XXVIII. You can take a horse to the water            78\n\n     XXIX. Half a loaf is better than no bread          80\n\n      XXX. In for a penny, in for a pound               84\n\n     XXXI. Quantity is better than quality              89\n\n    XXXII. Charity begins at home                       95\n\n   XXXIII. Dis aliter visum                             99\n\n    XXXIV. Parallel lines do not meet                  109\n\n     XXXV. Cherchez le juif                            111\n\n    XXXVI. [Greek: gn\u00f4thi seauton]                     119\n\n   XXXVII. E pur si muove                              120\n\n  XXXVIII. The game and the candle                     124\n\n    XXXIX. Once bitten twice shy                       126\n\n       XL. It takes two to make a peace                127\n\n      XLI. Vicisti Galil\u00e6e                             130\n\n\n\n\nI\n\nWASTE NOT, WANT NOT\n\n\nWhen Haroun-al-Raschid (of whom I have told you before, and if I\nhaven\u2019t it is only because I have forgotten) was having a bath they\nwouldn\u2019t let him splash. \u201cBy the beard of Allah,\u201d he observed mildly\nto the Vizier, who was standing by with his favourite celluloid duck\n(guaranteed to float), \u201cthis is preposterous. Cannot the Commander\nof the Faithful splash a little water? What\u2019s the good of being a\nKing, that\u2019s what I say?\u201d \u201cSire,\u201d replied the Vizier, handing him the\ncelluloid duck, \u201cthe higher, the fewer the pleasures of life. And\nremember in season the saying, \u2018Waste not, want not.\u2019\u201d\n\nThe following day torrential rains of unprecedented severity visited\nBagdad, sweeping away houses and gardens and drowning, among others, in\ncircumstances of peculiar discomfort, the Grand Vizier. \u201cWell,\u201d said\nHaroun, splashing in his bath (and hitting the opposite wall, mind\nyou), \u201cthat only shows.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nII\n\nLOOKING FOR A NEEDLE IN A HAYSTACK\n\n\nMr. Arthur Benacres--the celebrated philanthropist--suffered in private\nlife the inconvenience of being an ostrich. This was due to the act of\na rather deaf fairy friend of the family, who mistook an observation\non the weather (addressed to him by a conversational curate at the\nchristening) for a request for feathers.\n\nThis, as you suppose, caused Mr. Benacres some difficulty, and led him\nto consider methods of escape. For though it was agreeable to be able\nto subsist on odd scraps of broken rubbish, and to dig with his head\n(instead of a spade) in the nice clean sand, people did make a fuss on\nthe Underground and at parties.\n\nTill at last another fairy friend of the family, who was neither deaf\nor blind, said: \u201cWhy don\u2019t you go into Parliament? Then nobody will\nnotice.\u201d And they didn\u2019t.\n\n\n\n\nIII\n\nALL\u2019S WELL THAT ENDS WELL\n\n\nOnce upon a time there was a princess whose mother would not buy her an\numbrella. This was due to the wicked incompetence of the Prime Minister\nof that country, who, having no children of his own, spent all his\nmoney on swords instead of umbrellas. (Yes, I know swords are nicer\ngenerally, but these weren\u2019t; besides they were two-edged.) Moreover,\nher mother went and bought her a most unbecoming mackintosh--the sort\nthat cuts your chin. And so, as it was raining all the time (for this\nprincess lived at Kilcreggan in Dumbartonshire), she asked to be turned\ninto a frog or a toad, because they didn\u2019t need umbrellas, and their\nmackintoshes fit at the neck.\n\nWell, she was, and then she found that being a frog she couldn\u2019t use\nher scooter, or read \u201cAntony and Cleopatra\u201d to her mother, or go into\nKensington Gardens with her father. (No! Kensington Gardens isn\u2019t at\nKilcreggan, but this is a fairy princess, and so it doesn\u2019t matter.) So\nshe unwished herself, and she was a princess, and she had no umbrella\nand a mackintosh that didn\u2019t fit at the neck. But it was a drought.[A]\nSo all\u2019s well that ends well.\n\n[A] A drought is when it doesn\u2019t rain at all. The scene of the story\nhas been shifted from Scotland.\n\n\n\n\nIV\n\nFAINT HEART NEVER WON FAIR LADY\n\n\nMiss June Mortifex was most beautiful--yes, and more beautiful than\nthat. So that when she looked out of the window the Meteorological\nDepartment in Exhibition Road, Kensington, over the Post Office, said:\n\u201cThe westerly depression over London is now moving rapidly northward\nwith a southern twist,\u201d which means nothing, and only shows how excited\nthey all were.\n\nBut on account of her very exceptional beauty everybody was afraid of\nmarrying her because they said \u201cShe would cost a King\u2019s Hansom,\u201d and\nowing to the increase in the number of motor taxicabs nobody had one\nabout them.\n\nSo one day she blacked her face and assuming a Mid-Victorian Cockney\naccent went down Piccadilly singing the well-known ditty:\n\n  \u201cO Mr. Jansen,\n  You kissed me in the hansom,\n  \u2019Ansom is as \u2019ansom does,\n  Now you push me off the bus.\u201d\n\nAs may be supposed, this remarkable revival aroused the interest of a\ndistinguished literary critic, who, recognising merit, even under an\nunpromising exterior, offered his hand, shortly after followed by his\nheart. \u201cBut, Edward,\u201d whispered June, \u201cI am not what I seem.\u201d \u201cYou\ncouldn\u2019t be,\u201d he answered triumphantly, \u201cthe Victorians never were.\u201d\n\nAnd with that he walked into St. George\u2019s, Hanover Square, and ordered\nthree of the best banns they had. And he gave her as a bridal gift the\ncollected works of Mr. Edmund Gosse, for he was not faint-hearted.\n\n\n\n\nV\n\nTRUTH IS STRANGER THAN FICTION\n\n\nIt\u2019s no good pretending that Petronella Gibbs was a good princess. For\none thing, she was always asking questions. And if the nurses didn\u2019t\nknow the answer they were instantly beheaded. With the result that\nthere was an unprecedented shortage in the supply of domestic labour.\nThe Queen, her mother, indeed remarked to a friend of hers, another\nQueen living in the palace opposite, that \u201cshe never.\u201d You may suppose\ntherefore that things had reached a crisis.\n\nBut did Petronella care? She did not care. She could do without nurses,\nthank you. On the contrary, she decided to start answering questions.\nFor instance. For a long time all the best people had wanted to know\n\u201cWho\u2019s Who.\u201d And a very large and important book had been written about\nit. Petronella wrote as follows:\n\n  \u201cDeer Editter.\n  Nobody is.\n  Yours evva,\n  Petronella P.\u201d\n\nThis, which was the obvious solution, created considerable\nconsternation. The Queen--her mother--had a long consultation with the\nKing--her father--on his return from the Royal Exchange, where he kept\nhis bulls, bears and hyenas, and remarked, \u201cI never.\u201d But the King only\nlaughed. That is why so many women are Republicans.\n\nAt last Petronella became so celebrated that the King of America,\ncolloquially known as the President of the United States, asked for her\nhand in marriage. He and his subjects had been guessing so long that\nthey thought that the time had come to find someone who knew.\n\nThe flattering offer was accepted by her royal parents, and Petronella,\nwith great pomp and ceremony, embarked. Upon her arrival she was met by\nthe leading citizens, who asked her, \u201cWhat do you think of America?\u201d \u201cI\ndon\u2019t,\u201d she replied, which was the right answer. At which they, being\naccustomed to the latter, and never previously having met the former,\nexclaimed, \u201cTruth is stranger than fiction,\u201d and adding, \u201cnot half so\ntrue either,\u201d asked her with tears in their eyes to return where they\nasserted she belonged. Which she did. And both she and the King of\nAmerica lived happily ever after.\n\n\n\n\nVI\n\nA ROSE BY ANY OTHER NAME WOULD SMELL AS SWEET\n\n\nWhen Arthur Nobbs was a little boy he believed in fairies. If, for\nexample, he ate part of his sister\u2019s jam (as he constantly did), he\nassured her that the fairies would put it back. And if they didn\u2019t,\nwell that was because she didn\u2019t believe in them.\n\nWhen he grew older and became a business man he naturally continued to\nentertain that belief. When he was successful (as he generally was)\nin his business transactions, he ascribed his success to the fairies,\nthough the persons he so continuously and cleverly ruined thought that\nhe had got the name wrong.\n\nOne day he met a starving sculptor whose father he had been able to put\nout of business. \u201cWhat are these horrible objects that you have in your\ntray?\u201d he asked severely. \u201cThese,\u201d said the sculptor, \u201care the seven\nfairies in which you believe.\u201d \u201cBut,\u201d objected Mr. Nobbs, \u201cthey are\nlabelled \u2018The Seven Deadly Sins,\u2019 and they look it.\u201d \u201cOh,\u201d said the\nsculptor, \u201cthe title is only a matter of taste.\u201d \u201cYou are an impostor,\nsir,\u201d exclaimed Mr. Nobbs; \u201cbut fortunately we are in a law-abiding\ncountry.\u201d And he gave the young man in charge for seeking to obtain\nmoney by false pretences.\n\nBut you will be glad to learn that Arthur Nobbs was subsequently raised\nto the peerage and died universally beloved and respected, and on his\ntombstone they carved the simple phrase:\n\n  \u201cHe believed in fairies.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nVII\n\nA LITTLE KNOWLEDGE IS A DANGEROUS THING\n\n\nThe father of Miss Liddell was favourably known to the general public\nas the man who had written to the public prints during a strike a\nbold letter beginning: \u201cSir,--Let all strikers be shot. Then let ...\u201d\nand again during a lock-out an equally bold letter with the following\nintroduction: \u201cSir,--Let all employers be shot. Then let ...\u201d (It is\nbelieved that it is from this use of \u201clet\u201d in public correspondence\nthat the word \u201cletter\u201d is derived.)\n\nMiss Liddell, therefore, naturally objected to the fact that the\nPrince, over whose education she presided, disliked the manly game\nof football. \u201cDon\u2019t you know,\u201d she would say from time to time,\n\u201cwhat Wellington said about the playing fields of Eton?\u201d \u201cNo,\u201d the\nPrince used to reply, \u201cwho was Wellington? One of those professional\nfootballers one reads about in their newspapers?\u201d \u201cCertainly not,\u201d\nMiss Liddell was wont to reply. \u201cHe was a great general who beat the\nFrench.\u201d \u201cWhat did he do that for?\u201d the Prince would ask. \u201cBecause\nthey were his country\u2019s enemies.\u201d \u201cAh!\u201d the Prince would say, \u201cbut I\nthought the French were England\u2019s friends.\u201d \u201cSo they are now,\u201d Miss\nLiddell would say. \u201cAnd did Wellington beat them because of football?\u201d\nthe Prince would inquire. \u201cWellington said so,\u201d Miss Liddell (slightly\nflushed) would reply.\n\n\u201cWill you give me my paint-box?\u201d the Prince would murmur politely.\n\n\n\n\nVIII\n\nTWO WRONGS DO NOT MAKE A RIGHT\n\n\nListen. This is quite a new story. It is about a swan that wished he\nwas an ugly duckling again. He was one of those two swans who stand\nat the edge of the Round Pond, have black feet and holes to put tape\nthrough in their beaks. Only they won\u2019t let you put tape through.\n\nWhat he said was (quite simply), \u201cLiberty, Equality and Fraternity.\u201d To\nwhich his mate said, \u201cThen why do you always eat more than your share?\u201d\nBut the other swan was an idealist and took no notice.\n\nHe summoned a public meeting of the ducks after closing-time, and\nhaving elected himself to the chair after rather a protracted argument\nwith a pertinacious old drake, told his audience that he was a duck at\nheart. \u201cWhat is beauty,\u201d he went on to say, \u201cthat it should put one\non a lonely eminence. The exquisite shape of the swan, his girl-like\nneck, what right to rule do these confer?\u201d \u201cNone,\u201d said the old drake,\nheartily. \u201cDid you say beauty?\u201d said a young female duck, bridling her\nfeathers. \u201cWhy you poor old antic, if you knew how we ducks sympathised\nwith you on your deformity!\u201d\n\nBut this was a little too much for the swan. \u201cI did not come here to be\ninsulted,\u201d he said hotly, \u201cby a brood of blasphemous pond-puddlers. Are\nyou aware that the Great Swan made swans in his image?\u201d \u201cAnd are you\naware,\u201d said the old drake, \u201cthat the swans retorted by making him in\ntheirs?\u201d\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d said his mate to the rather draggled swan who returned about\nmidnight, \u201chow did you get on?\u201d \u201cGet on,\u201d he screamed, \u201cthose ducks\nthink that equality means that I\u2019m equal with them.\u201d \u201cAnd doesn\u2019t it?\u201d\n\u201cCertainly not,\u201d said the swan, tucking his head under his wings, \u201cit\nmeans that they\u2019re equal with me.\u201d \u201cAnd what\u2019s more,\u201d he said with\nsudden truculence as he emerged for a moment, \u201ca swan\u2019s a swan for a\u2019\nthat.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nIX\n\nBUSINESS IS BUSINESS\n\n\nThe electric bell had rung for the fourth time, when the door was\nopened by an agreeable young man dressed in the height of fashion.\n\n\u201cWho are you?\u201d he inquired in the amiable tone of one who begins an\ninteresting conversation.\n\n\u201cI\u2019m the Milk,\u201d retorted the young man with the cans a little shortly,\nfor he was not pleased at being so long delayed.\n\n\u201cWill you not come in one moment?\u201d the young householder retorted. \u201cI\nhave within the butcher, the grocer and the baker, and I have long\ndesired to add you to the list of my visitors.\u201d\n\nThe young milkman (still carrying his heavy can) followed the polite\nyoung gentleman into a fine, lofty room. The whole was arranged with\nexquisite taste, and many deep rugs indicated a luxurious vein in the\nyoung man\u2019s character. At the further end of the room, arranged neatly\nin an isosceles triangle (for the baker was much shorter than the\nother two), were the corpses of the butcher, the baker, and the grocer.\n\n\u201cMay I inquire,\u201d said the Milk, after surveying the scene in silence\nfor a minute, \u201cwhy you have killed these three gentlemen?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou have the best of rights in the world to ask, and I shall be\ndelighted to explain,\u201d answered the young gentleman courteously. \u201cYou\nmust know, then, that I have a speculative interest in the manner\nin which the smaller British tradesman meets death. I have been\nmuch charmed by the experience I have gleaned with the help of my\nthree friends there. The butcher,\u201d he added, pointing smilingly to a\ndiscolouration on his forehead, \u201cwas the least graceful. And now as I\nhave answered you, perhaps you will allow me to ask you a question?\u201d\n\n\u201cBut pray do,\u201d answered the Milk, not to be outdone in courtesy.\n\n\u201cI thank you. I was going to inquire whether you knew any reason why I\nshould not add you to my list.\u201d\n\n\u201cI apprehended,\u201d returned the Milk, \u201cthat your question might be\nsomething of that sort. I had gone so far as to prepare an answering\nquestion.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd what might that be?\u201d inquired the young gentleman?\n\n\u201cWhy should I not kill you?\u201d retorted the Milk affably.\n\n\u201cThere is something in what you say,\u201d exclaimed the young gentleman. \u201cI\nhad not considered the question. Will you give me a minute or two to\nmeditate?\u201d\n\n\u201cI must be about my business, I am afraid,\u201d returned the Milk, quietly\nbludgeoning the young man as he spoke with his milk can. \u201cYet how\nsad it is,\u201d he said reflectively surveying the four corpses, \u201cthat\nspeculation must inevitably make way for practical affairs.\u201d\n\nAnd with that he proceeded to replace the milk he had spilled with\nwater from a neighbouring table.\n\n\n\n\nX\n\nLET SLEEPING DOGS LIE\n\n\nOnce upon a time there was a wizard who could find the truth in a\nnewspaper.\n\nFortunately he was discovered and hanged in time, and since then nobody\nhas dared to tamper with the liberty of the Press.\n\n\n\n\nXI\n\nIT\u2019S NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND\n\n\nNorth of Skelleffte\u00e5, in the kingdom of Sweden, there lived a more than\nusually repulsive troll, who was, however, the supreme Scandinavian\nauthority on psycho-analysis. The pine-trees in that part of the world\nwalk down to the water of the sea as though the weight of their own\nbeauty had become too heavy for them. And the sea with blandishing\nwhispers holds out to them the immense temptation of his cold peace.\n\nOn a rock at the rendezvous of sea and pines, under a\nmidnight-sun-haunted sky of June, the troll sat with huge horn glasses\non his twisted nose relentlessly reading the work which Mr. Freud was\nto write some centuries later....\n\nOut of the shadows of the pine, as straight, as serious, and weighed\ndown like them with the burden of her own loveliness, slipped the\nPrincess Gurli on her way to the cold temptation of the sea. Like other\nprincesses before and after, she was enchanted. When she looked at her\nalmost flawless loveliness in the lily-pond of her father\u2019s castle, she\nsaw always a faint silver mist that trembled at her mirrored lips. The\nmist would draw together into a frangible bubble, a diaphanous ball of\nsilver, and finally dissolve, leaving an infinite argent stain on the\nred of her mouth.\n\nOne day a fish had swum up from the marble floor, and rising to the\nsurface, had said to her, \u201cWhat will you give me if I drink the mist?\u201d\nAnd she had answered, \u201cWhat do you wish?\u201d \u201cYour soul,\u201d he replied.\nThis she was glad in any case to be rid of, for her soul had often\ninterfered with the natural pleasures to which she was entitled by her\nloveliness.\n\nThe fish and the mist disappeared together, and for the first time she\nsaw herself in flawless loveliness. But she was strangely cold.\n\nPrinces came to her from the North and the South, but when they looked\ninto the green stain of her eyes they shivered and turned away. The\nPrincess was not sorry, for she thought that men were a poor substitute\nfor her own beauty. But with her twenty-first summer she was conscious\nthat her beauty was threatened. For a neighbouring queen had been\nheard to say of her, \u201cYes, she is lovely. But for me her beauty has no\nsoul.\u201d\n\nTherefore she decided to marry a prince of her own choice, who would\nask all of her and nothing, whose castle has no lamps and whose palace\ngardens are visited neither by sun nor snow.\n\nIt was on her way to this alliance that she slipped out of the pines,\nand beheld on the rock under the midnight-sun-haunted sky the unusually\nrepulsive troll reading the prenatal works of Mr. Freud.\n\n\u201cHa,\u201d neighed the troll, looking up, \u201cyou have come to consult me,\nPrincess Gurli.\u201d \u201cI have not,\u201d said the Princess. \u201cI do not like\ntrolls.\u201d \u201cBut I,\u201d said the troll, \u201cam not like other trolls.\u201d \u201cThat\nis what all trolls say,\u201d replied the Princess scornfully. \u201cPerhaps,\u201d\nsaid the troll, \u201cbut I am the greatest Scandinavian authority on\npsycho-analysis!\u201d \u201cWhat in Valhalla,\u201d said the Princess, \u201cis that?\u201d\n\u201cThe study of souls,\u201d cried the troll with a significant chuckle.\n\u201cOh,\u201d said the Princess, \u201cyou can\u2019t study mine. I haven\u2019t got one.\u201d\n\u201cThis is interesting,\u201d said the troll; \u201cyou are undoubtedly suffering\nfrom an advanced condition of mermaid-complex.\u201d \u201cWhat does that mean?\u201d\nsaid the Princess. \u201cIt means that you have a suppressed passion for a\nMer-King,\u201d replied the troll, \u201cand if you give way to it you will be\ncured immediately.\u201d \u201cI have never heard anything so disgusting,\u201d said\nthe Princess. \u201cWhy, a Mer-King is half a fish.\u201d \u201cHalf a fish,\u201d said\nthe troll sententiously, \u201cis better than no fish.\u201d \u201cI had meant,\u201d said\nthe Princess, \u201cto drown myself in the sea because the loss of my soul\ntroubled me. But now that I know that souls are things that can be\nstudied by creatures like you, I am very glad I have not got one.\u201d\n\nThe troll was so shocked at this outburst that he fell backwards into\nthe sea, where he was instantly seized by mermaids and drowned. But the\nPrincess went back, slim and gold, through the shadow of the pines, and\nmarried the youngest son of the nearest fishmonger.\n\n\n\n\nXII\n\nARS LONGA, VITA BREVIS\n\n\nAt about half-past eleven on a summer evening there might have been\nobserved, wending her way slowly along the Rue du Soleil Levant into\nthe Cour de St. Pierre at Geneva, a small black kitten with her\ntail straight up. There was nobody in the cobbled square except the\nbeech-tree in the middle with a wooden seat round him. The kitten,\nwho was being brought up on a severely anti-religious basis, doubted\nwhether the tree might not have been influenced by the cathedral\nwindow, in whose shadow he had dreamed summer and winter for more than\na hundred years. She was therefore on the point of slipping into a most\nengaging gutter of stone, like a deep mouse-track, that leads past the\nchapel of Calvin to the railings that overlook the Passage des Degr\u00e9s\ndes Poules.\n\nBut the beech wasn\u2019t going to stand that. On the contrary! He dropped\none little fidgety brown leaf--puff!--between the kitten\u2019s paws,\nwho, throwing religious prejudice to the winds, played with it as\nenchantingly as though it had been a convert to Epistemological\nRadicalism.\n\nThen the moon looked over the crooked gables into the square, and\nproceeded to light her cold lamp in all the dark cathedral windows.\nBut the beech rustled her leaves warningly at her. \u201cWhat is it?\u201d said\nthe moon, and then she saw the little black kitten dancing with the\nleaf on the cobbles. \u201cWho is your little black faun of a friend?\u201d she\ninquired of the beech. \u201cI don\u2019t know her name,\u201d said the beech, \u201cbut\nshe certainly dances extremely well.\u201d\n\nAt this point the kitten stopped abruptly and said a little harshly,\n\u201cWhat are you two old ones whispering about?\u201d \u201cWe were remembering,\u201d\nsaid the beech, who was a kindly old fellow, \u201cthe time when we also\ndanced with our shadows in the joy of our youth.\u201d \u201cHow can that be?\u201d\nsaid the kitten impatiently. \u201cThe moon never was young, and you never\nhad but one leg, and that stuck in the ground. You are telling me fairy\ntales, and I have no patience with them. Let me tell you my dancing is\nmerely automatic muscular reaction.\u201d \u201cDear me,\u201d said the moon mildly,\n\u201cwhat long words that child uses! But tell me, little one, if you don\u2019t\nlike fairy tales, you won\u2019t want to hear the story of the cat and the\nfiddle.\u201d \u201cDoes it observe the dramatic unities?\u201d inquired the kitten.\n\u201cI don\u2019t know what they are,\u201d said the moon, \u201cbut it has a moral.\u201d\n\u201cWhich is more than you have, you little wretch,\u201d said the beech\nseverely. \u201cOh well,\u201d said the kitten ungraciously, \u201cI suppose I must\nhear it, though I expect that it will be representational.\u201d\n\n\u201cOnce upon a time,\u201d said the moon, \u201cthere was a cat that had the soul\nof a musician. But when she tried to render her thoughts into sound\nshe excited no sympathetic response. On the contrary, people threw\nboots and bottles at her. \u2018I do not care,\u2019 said the cat, \u2018my songs are\nfor posterity.\u2019 But nevertheless the constant succession of missiles\ndisturbed her.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is my considered opinion,\u201d interrupted the kitten, \u201cthat she was no\nartist. The best art rejects appreciation.\u201d\n\n\u201cSo the dog said,\u201d observed the moon, \u201cwhen he was chasing the cat up\nthe tree with yells of derision. But the cat was not comforted.\n\n\u201cFinally one day as she wandered disconsolate through a field she met a\nvery tragic cow lowing, as it seemed to the cat, with a mild haunting\nbeauty. When she came up with the cow the cat observed that her eyes\nwere streaming with tears. \u2018How is it,\u2019 said the cat, \u2018that you who\nare notoriously as unmusical as a milk-can can low with a beauty that\nbrings tears to your own eyes.\u2019 \u2018It is not my music that brings tears\nto my eyes, but my lost calf. And let me tell you, cat, that till you\nalso play on the strings of your own heart you will never make music.\u2019\u201d\n\n\u201cThis is very affecting,\u201d said the beech-tree; \u201cand very untrue,\u201d added\nthe kitten.\n\n\u201cThe cat resolved this dark saying till one day she heard in the\ndining-room the delicate symphony of a spoon upon a china plate.\nPresently the sound ceased and the cat jumped upon the table to\ninvestigate. \u2018How is it,\u2019 said she to the empty dish, \u2018that you make\nsuch exquisite music though you are nothing but baked clay?\u2019 \u2018It is the\nloss of the beautiful jelly that adorned me that sings,\u2019 said the dish,\n\u2018and let me tell you, cat, that till you also play upon the strings of\nyour own heart you will never make music.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018This is very strange,\u2019 thought the cat, but she continued\nnevertheless to sing as before without sympathetic response. Till at\nlast an angry old gentleman obtained a gun and shot the cat dead.\u201d\n\n\u201cThis story is in very bad taste,\u201d said the kitten.\n\n\u201cI think she richly deserved it,\u201d said the beech.\n\n\u201cWait a minute,\u201d said the moon, \u201cthe story is not finished. An old\npoor maker of fiddle-strings found the cat on his way home. And about\na month later a young fiddler of the country called upon him to buy\nsome strings. \u2018These are the best I have ever made,\u2019 said the old man.\nThat night,\u201d went on the moon, \u201cthe fiddler played under a window of\na high house in the Place de la Taconnerie an old German tune, \u2018Einst\no wunder.\u2019 And now no one threw boots and missiles, but out of a high\nlattice fell a white rose.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is a very beautiful story,\u201d said the beech, \u201cand now I am almost\nsorry for the cat.\u201d \u201cYou need not be,\u201d said the moon; \u201ceven if her life\nwas short her art\u201d--\u201cwas in the right place,\u201d rudely interjected the\nimpertinent kitten. \u201cBut what I want to know is, who shot the fiddler?\u201d\n\u201cI am afraid,\u201d replied the moon, \u201cthat I must be going about my\nbusiness.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nXIII\n\nSUNT CERTI DENIQUE FINES\n\n\n\u201cWhat will the next story be about?\u201d said the publisher. \u201cI\u2019m not sure\nthat I shall publish the book at all if it\u2019s about Swedish trolls and\nGenevese cats. Couldn\u2019t you write about something British--a gnome who\nmade 94 not out for Surrey and then went home and drank a bottle of\nstout?\u201d \u201cI not only can,\u201d said the author, \u201cbut I immediately will.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere was once,\u201d said the author, \u201ca sprite who thought goloshes and\nhot water bottles unmanly. He preferred east winds and colds in the\nhead, and being strong and silent (though he sneezed a good deal from\ntime to time), and though he was a pagan himself, he could respect\nChristianity in others. His name was Puck; he lived at Bexhill.\u201d\n\n\u201cI have been expecting this for some time,\u201d broke in the publisher;\n\u201call you do is to take other people\u2019s noble conceptions and distort\nthem. Disguising plagiarism as travesty, you seek to impose on the\npublic. But let me tell you, sir, in the words of the Latin poet, \u2018Sunt\ncerti denique fines.\u2019\u201d\n\n\u201cI am sorry to have given offence,\u201d said the author, \u201cparticularly as\nI would have wished to sketch a new version of Puck\u2019s life, when as a\nresult of continued exposure to draughts in what the Americans taught\nhim to call God\u2019s Great Out-at-Elbows he contracted a vivid form of\nrheumatism. So crippled, he devoted his declining years to Worthing and\nthe pleasures of a bath chair. Not unnaturally in these circumstances\nhe developed a horror of Sussex and of children, and found his only\nremaining happiness in reading the poems of Mr. Edward Shanks to the\nlocal clergy. When he died, as he did shortly after this----\u201d\n\n\u201cI am only surprised,\u201d interrupted the publisher bitterly, \u201cthat the\nclergy survived.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh,\u201d said the author, \u201cthey did not survive long. It is true that\ntheir counsel at the trial urged that it was justifiable homicide\nin self-defence, but the judge quite properly pointed out in his\nsumming-up that they needn\u2019t have listened. But I can see,\u201d went on\nthe author, \u201cthat this is not the sort of story of which you were in\nneed. Let me therefore recount to you the true story of Jack and the\nBeanstalk.\u201d\n\n\u201cI hope that it is not very long,\u201d said the publisher.\n\n\u201cThat depends on the method of payment,\u201d replied the author. \u201cIf I am\npaid by the word, of course----\u201d\n\n\u201cGet on with the story,\u201d said the publisher.\n\n\u201cBy the side of a slow river in the western parts of a great metropolis\nthere lived a boy named Jack. Though he was so young he was already\njustly celebrated for his climbing feats. Indeed, the old woman who\nlooked after him was never tired of saying, with a roguish smile at\nherself in the mirror, \u2018C\u2019est un vrai gosse!\u2019 which means in English,\n\u2018He takes after his spiritual grandmother.\u2019\n\n\u201cJack had climbed all the trees in his own garden and all those in\neverybody else\u2019s. And then one day he announced that he was going to\nclimb an entirely new tree whose roots are in the heart but whose\nleaves are in eternity.... There was much discussion among his friends,\nsome saying that he should climb and others that he shouldn\u2019t, and\nstill others (but these were jealous) that it was little better than\nan Indian rope trick. But Jack was not to be deterred. For he said that\nhe was tired of living among pygmies; he would now climb the Immortal\nTree and slay one of the giants and return with his head.\n\n\u201cThat night accordingly the tree was planted, and by morning its leaves\nhid the sky. After a farewell breakfast, at which a good deal of stout\nwas drunk, and at which the Press was well represented, Jack started\nthe ascent. He climbed up and up till he was out of sight. His friends\nwaited about till nightfall, but as he did not return they concluded\nthat he was making a night of it with the giants, and went home to\ntheir evening porter and bed.\n\n\u201cNext morning the tree was withered. Some said one thing and some said\nanother. These, that the giants had insisted on Jack\u2019s remaining among\nthem, and these (but these were traducers), that he had fallen to the\nfirst giant. The general view, however, was that Jack had burst with\nchagrin on discovering that, except for himself, there were no giants.\nBut since his departure nobody has ever climbed the beanstalk, for, as\nthey all said, \u2018Sunt certi denique fines.\u2019\u201d\n\n\u201cThat story,\u201d said the publisher, \u201cis worse than the first. That was\nvulgar, but this has no meaning whatever.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou just publish it and see,\u201d said the author.\n\n\n\n\nXIV\n\nHEAVEN HELPS THOSE THAT HELP THEMSELVES\n\n\nIn the great days of Haroun-al-Raschid, when the minarets of Bagdad\nwere sewn together against the sky like a gold embroidery on blue\ncanvas, a certain merchant, whose name has unhappily not been\npreserved, was entering at nightfall with his camels and his asses\nthrough the Gold East Gate. The beggars, as was their custom, crowded\nround with shrill cries, extolling the merchant\u2019s virtues and their own\nmiseries, and suggesting that the former might reasonably be expected\nto mitigate the latter. \u201cIn the name of the All-Compassionate, the\nAll-Merciful,\u201d they murmured musically. But the merchant only wrapped\nhis cloak round him closer, saying in a harsh voice, \u201cHeaven helps\nthose that help themselves.\u201d\n\nAt this moment one of the merchant\u2019s asses stumbled and beautiful\nred coins ran in the gutters under the pale yellow moon. With\ncries even more musical the beggars--not excluding those lame by\nprofession--threw themselves upon the gold. \u201cSons of Shaitan,\u201d roared\nthe merchant, \u201cI will have you all strung up to the city gates by your\ntoes and ears. I will have you flayed with red pepper. I will----\u201d\n\n\u201cYou surprise me, oh merchant,\u201d said a poet who had been a witness of\nthe whole scene. \u201cIs it no longer your view then that heaven helps\nthose that help themselves?\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you not see,\u201d screamed the merchant, \u201cthat it is an ass that helps\nthem?\u201d \u201cDoes that surprise you,\u201d inquired the poet, going on his way,\n\u201cI gather from your appearance of wealth that heaven has already helped\nyou.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nXV\n\n\u201cYOU NEVER CAN TELL\u201d\n\n\n\u201cThis is a story for patriots,\u201d said the pin of the unexploded\nhand-grenade to the poppies among which he was rusting.\n\n\u201cWhat is a patriot?\u201d asked the youngest of the poppies, who, I am\nafraid, was rather an affected puss and thought that the pin was in\nlove with her.\n\n\u201cA patriot,\u201d said the pin, \u201cis a man who loves his country so well that\nhe dies for it.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe would show his affection better to my mind,\u201d said a rather withered\nfemale poppy, \u201cif he lived for it.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh no,\u201d simpered the young poppy, \u201cI think that death is so romantic.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow adorable,\u201d sighed the hand-grenade, \u201care the enthusiasms of\nyouth. I remember exactly the same innocent thrill when some five years\nago I reposed among a pile of grenades like myself all going into\naction. We were doomed, we knew, to burst. But what did that matter?\nOur country called us.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat country was that?\u201d inquired one of the poppies.\n\n\u201cEngland,\u201d said the grenade proudly. \u201cBow, poppies, you are in the\npresence of a British bomb! It is true, of course, that my iron was\ndug in Spain, that my copper came from the New World, and that my\nexplosives were in part foreign. But I was as pure British as anybody\nelse.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m sure you were,\u201d said the young poppy consolingly.\n\n\u201cWhen we came to the trench,\u201d continued the pin, \u201cwe were assigned\neach to a bomb-thrower. I myself fell to the lot of a young man\nbeautiful as an angel and reckless as a devil. Grenade after grenade\nhe tossed into the air with exquisite dexterity, and the frightful\nexplosions and horrible cries that followed showed only too well how\nrichly his skill had been rewarded. And now my great moment was at\nhand. An attack was ordered. Over the parapet he leapt clasping me in\nhis hand, and together we flew through the flying and screaming death\nabout us. We reached the enemy trench. The loathsome horrors were\nactually attempting to shoot down our brave fellows. I am happy to say\nthat the bayonet taught them better. But alas! I now come to the most\nawful moment in my life. We jumped into the trench. My hero raised his\nhand to throw me at one of the incarnate devils. And then--his hand\ndropped. \u2018Carl,\u2019 he whispered, \u2018is it you, Carl?\u2019 This, mind you, to\nan incarnate devil. \u2018George,\u2019 he replied, and though he was a devil, I\nconfess his voice made me uneasy, \u2018has it come to this, dear brother?\nThrow the grenade. It will be better so. There can be no hell as foul\nas this.\u2019 \u2018What, murder you?\u2019 cried my ex-hero. \u2018Why not?\u2019 said the\nother wearily. \u2018After all, one more or one less, why should it matter\nto either of us?\u2019 \u2018I won\u2019t,\u2019 said George, \u2018not if they shoot me for\nit.\u2019 \u2018What?\u2019 said Carl, \u2018have you still a soul? Then by God I can die\nin peace.\u2019 And with that he shot himself through the heart. \u2018Kiss me,\nGeorge,\u2019 he whispered, and George, dropping me as though I were of no\naccount, kissed the crime-stained lips. And here in consequence I have\nbeen ever since.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd what happened to George?\u201d asked the oldest poppy. \u201cOh,\u201d said the\ngrenade easily, \u201cI am not sure. I heard--(and I hoped it was true)\nthat he had been shot for cowardice in the face of the enemy.\u201d\n\n\u201cWould patriots like that story?\u201d inquired the withered female poppy.\n\n\u201cCertainly,\u201d said the pin.\n\n\u201cThen,\u201d said the poppy, \u201cyou do not seem to me to make out a good case\nfor patriots.\u201d\n\n\u201cMadam,\u201d said the grenade hotly, \u201cyou would not speak so if you were\nbeing threatened by the hobnailed boots of a gross invader, who was\non the point of squashing you flat. Then you would be glad enough to\nhave the protection of a patriot like myself.\u201d And the pin was so moved\n(and the sun so hot) that he suddenly and violently exploded, with the\nresult that the poppies were scattered in fragments to the four winds\nof heaven.\n\n\n\n\nXVI\n\nUNITED WE STAND\n\n\nNow listen! and if you can possibly avoid it don\u2019t interrupt. In the\nfar and non-existent province of Arabia the population consisted\nalmost exclusively of kings, except for the lower classes, who were,\nas everybody knows, emperors. The kings had it all their own way for\nyears and years, when suddenly the emperors formed a trade society,\npopularly known as the Amalgamated Emperors\u2019 Union. In pursuance of\nthe principle upon which all such societies rest (in non-existent\nprovinces), the emperors, as a preliminary step, ceased the function\nwhich distinguished their calling. The kings were thereupon compelled\nto act both as kings and emperors, which caused them inconvenience.\nAccordingly they summoned a special meeting of Sanhedrim--the Arabian\nlegislative assembly--and passed a law withdrawing the right of\nassociation among emperors (though naturally preserving it for kings),\nand severely forbidding, under penalty, what was described in the Act\nas \u201cstriking.\u201d\n\nIn Arabia--that fabulous country--a law on being duly passed by the\nkings becomes automatically a law of nature. So that it is very\nnecessary to pay the greatest attention to the drafting. On this\noccasion the framers of the Bill had forgotten by an unaccountable\noversight to omit \u201cclocks\u201d from the exclusion clause. In consequence\nall clocks in the province automatically ceased striking, and\nthereafter it was no use consulting an Arabian constable because nobody\nin that legendary land knew what o\u2019clock it was.\n\n\u201cI suppose,\u201d said the publisher scornfully, \u201cyou think that\u2019s clever\nand Socialistic, and all that sort of thing. Have you any idea what\nwages we have to pay to the book-binders?\u201d\n\n\u201cI asked you not to interrupt,\u201d said the author. \u201cNow you\u2019ve prevented\nme from explaining how the clock in the principal mosque----\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t believe they have clocks in mosques,\u201d said the publisher.\n\n\u201c--how the clock in the principal mosque welcomed the change, observing\nthat it for one had always been in favour of methods of conciliation.\n\u2018And anyhow,\u2019 the church clock continued as it finally ran down, \u2018why\nbother about time when you have eternity?\u2019\u201d\n\n\u201cHave you any aspirin?\u201d inquired the publisher.\n\n\n\n\nXVII\n\nICI-G\u00ceT\n\n\n  When at creation God was faced\n  With earth\u2019s illimitable waste,\n  We understand that what he said is:\n  \u201cLet there be light,\u201d--and there was Geddes.\n\n\n\n\nXVIII\n\nSILENCE IS GOLDEN\n\n\n\u201cYou will observe,\u201d remarked the placid convict, negligently dropping\nhis pick on the warder\u2019s foot, \u201cthat a very few words express a great\ndeal.\u201d\n\nThe warder, who had already expressed more than a little in his first\ntwo words, stopped abruptly, and with a graceful wave of his hand bade\nthe convict be seated. \u201cFor this,\u201d he added, \u201cis a subject to which I\nhave devoted much thought, and you with your varied experience of men\nand manners should speak with authority.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is true,\u201d admitted the convict agreeably, \u201cthat in the course of\nthe commission of a certain number of tolerably execrable crimes I have\nbeen brought into contact with many people, but I have made it a rule\nnever to allow my conversation to be affected by the practical affairs\nof life. To be personal is to be dull without redemption.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut in your case,\u201d interrupted the warder, \u201cyour experiences are so\nunusual that you might well be forgiven for dwelling on them.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat,\u201d retorted the felon, with a certain graceful melancholy, \u201cis the\nconviction of every conversationalist. But I have never supposed that a\nmurder was necessarily interesting just because I had perpetrated it.\u201d\n\n\u201cThis sort of trait,\u201d murmured the custodian of the condemned, \u201celicits\na man\u2019s respect. But,\u201d he continued aloud, \u201cwhat, then, is left us to\ndiscuss?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe universe,\u201d smilingly returned the convict, \u201cand any other fictions\nyou may care to invent. The whole world loves a liar. I admit,\u201d he\nadded, with a gentle shrug, \u201cthat \u2018Not guilty\u2019 was an error, but that\nyou will understand was more by way of repartee than of continuous\nconversation. The judge, after all, drew the retort on himself.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut truth, I have always understood, is stranger----\u201d\n\n\u201cPardon me if I interrupt,\u201d said the criminal a little sternly, \u201cbut I\ncannot stand by and hear a friend (for I include you in that number),\u201d\nhe added courteously enough, \u201cquote proverbs. I can forgive your being\na warder of condemned men, but I cannot stand your being a guardian of\n(forgive me!) damned phrases.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou hold, then,\u201d returned the warder, a little confused, \u201cthat\nquotation is not admissible in polite conversation.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou cannot quote a proverb,\u201d earnestly responded the prisoner, \u201cany\nmore than you can butter a hypothesis. But I perceive,\u201d he went on\nmore gently, \u201cthat I have fallen into the fault of heat. Forgive a\nhotheadedness which has more than once ruined my conversation.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut I have nothing to forgive,\u201d cried the custodian, much affected.\n\u201cIt is I who am the more to blame.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat, indeed, is true,\u201d interjected the Governor of the gaol, who had\ncome up unobserved during the latter part of the conversation, \u201cand,\nmuch as I shall regret your loss, I must reconcile myself to it. While\nyou,\u201d he went on, turning to the convict, \u201cwill have leisure, when\nconsuming bread and water, to reflect whether, after all, there is not\nsomething to be said for silence.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nXIX\n\nLOOK BEFORE YOU LEAP: OR, REFLECTIONS BEFORE YOU JUMP\n\n\n\u201cI am tired of reflection,\u201d said the looking-glass, \u201cI will now live my\nown life.\u201d As a first step to that end he succeeded in rolling himself\nright out of his seventeenth-century uprights and falling off the\nspindle-legged dressing-table, oval face downwards, on to a deep grey\ncarpet.\n\n\u201cDear me,\u201d said the carpet, who was rather a simple old-fashioned\nthing, though of an excellent texture, \u201chere is somebody come down in\nthe world. Ahem! I hope, sir, that you are none the worse for your\nfall.\u201d\n\n\u201cCertainly not,\u201d replied the mirror, who was rather bewildered by the\nfall and the complete darkness in which his new situation had placed\nhim, \u201cI precipitated myself to the ground on purpose.\u201d \u201cWhat!\u201d cried\nthe carpet, who feared that she had to do with a self-murderer, \u201cafter\nfull reflection?\u201d\n\n\u201cWithout any reflection whatever,\u201d cried the mirror testily. \u201cI am,\u201d he\nadded more suavely, \u201centirely incapable of such an act.\u201d\n\n\u201cPoor thing,\u201d said the carpet soothingly, for she now perceived that\nher affair was merely with a madman. \u201cIf you will only compose yourself\nI am sure you will be your own man again immediately.\u201d\n\n\u201cI see, madam,\u201d said the mirror, \u201cthat we do not understand each\nother. Let me therefore explain my point of view. You must know then\nthat I am by nature a person of a profoundly original turn of thought.\nJudge then of my despair when a malignant fate ordained for more than\na century that I should be tortured by serving merely to reflect the\nfollies and lack of grace of others. I have borne things insupportable,\nand finally I took the magnificent decision which has, among, other\nagreeable circumstances of release, conferred upon me the pleasure of\nyour conversation. You will conceive for yourself my mental tumult when\nyou used the word \u2018reflection.\u2019\u201d\n\n\u201cBut, sir,\u201d said the carpet, now much distressed, \u201creflect. Are you\nnot flying in the face of Providence? If reflection was the gift\nbestowed upon you by your designer would you wantonly dissipate it?\nSuch conduct, believe me, must have the most dire results!\u201d\n\n\u201cMadam,\u201d neighed the mirror with an accent that suggested his century,\n\u201cI am, I hope, a mirror of Feeling, and I know what respect must ever\nbe paid to the Fair. None the less, I cannot leave you a prey to common\nerror, even though its removal should offend your Female Delicacy.\nM\u2019am, there is no such thing as a designer, but each of us is his own\narchitect.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo designer!\u201d screamed the carpet. \u201cNow the weaver be good to me!\nImpious creature, do you not know that we are each of us made with\nnicely adjusted virtues and qualities by an all-understanding maker?\nAnd that to doubt this is to be damned beyond hope of re-weaving?\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd what, m\u2019am,\u201d sneered the mirror, \u201cis your particular virtue?\u201d\n\n\u201cTo be a comfort and a support to the foot, an office of which I am\nproud,\u201d replied the carpet.\n\n\u201cI dare swear,\u201d said the mirror courteously, \u201cthat you are perfect in\nit. But I do not doubt that, were I called upon, I could adjust myself\nto the same task in spite of all the pretensions of your friend the\ndesigner.\u201d\n\nThe carpet was spared the necessity of continuing so sacrilegious\na conversation by the entry into the darkened room of its owner. He\nstepped heavily in the direction of the dressing-table, and stamped\nhis riding-boot hard on the back of the mirror, smashing the glass to\nfragments.\n\n\u201cDamn!\u201d he cried loudly, and after switching on the lights rang for\na servant. \u201cWho has been so d--d clumsy as to leave the old mirror\nstanding between the window and the door?\u201d\n\nThe servant picked up the mirror. \u201cI\u2019m sorry, sir,\u201d he said, \u201cbut it\u2019s\nonly the glass as is smashed. We could easy get a new one put in, and\nyou were always complaining that the old one didn\u2019t reflect.\u201d\n\n\u201cVery well,\u201d said the owner, \u201cbut the glass must be put right. Tell\nthem to let me see the designer before the work is begun--and sweep up\nthe litter of glass. By the way, the carpet\u2019s not injured, is it?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, sir,\u201d said the servant, busily sweeping, \u201cthe carpet\u2019s perfectly\nall right.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nXX\n\nLIBERTY, EQUALITY, FRATERNITY\n\n\n\u201cThere is a good deal of talk in certain circles,\u201d said the deuce of\nspades casually to the ace of hearts, \u201cas to the need for equality\namong cards.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd how,\u201d inquired the ace amicably, \u201cis this equality to be\nestablished?\u201d\n\n\u201cThere are three schools of thought,\u201d replied the deuce readily; \u201cthe\nfirst holds that all cards should rank as deuce, while the second that\nall should be aces. I myself have ventured to favour a golden mean of\nall counting, say, as nine.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere is a great deal in all these theories,\u201d replied the ace, \u201cand I\nthink one or other should be immediately adopted. There is, however,\none point on which I should like to sound a note of caution. I do not\nquite see how in the altered circumstances any game is to be played.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, we have thought of that,\u201d said the deuce carelessly, \u201cand frankly\nwe do not see the necessity of the game.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen,\u201d said the ace, \u201cI have nothing more to say.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nXXI\n\nQUIS SEPARABIT?\n\n\nTwo statesmen of well-merited celebrity in their own countries and\ntimes, having for a moment escaped the vigilance of their warders, met\nin a comparatively cool corner of hell to discuss the possibility of\nforming a new government.\n\n\u201cI do not feel,\u201d said the first, \u201cthat H.H. any longer really\nrepresents the feeling in the circles.\u201d\n\n\u201cI entirely agree,\u201d said the second; \u201che is still, I fear, a hopeless\nreactionary and continues to believe that there is a distinction\nbetween evil and good--a doctrine which all advanced thought has long\nsince abandoned.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd not only that,\u201d said the first, \u201che is still a prey to the war\nspirit. He is for ever thinking in terms of the great conflict in\nwhich he thinks he was defeated. As a matter of fact, if he could only\nrealise the truth, heaven was by far the greater sufferer, and is\ngreatly embarrassed by the reparation exacted from him.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere is only one way,\u201d said the second, \u201cto repair the ravages of\nthat unfortunate misunderstanding, and that is to recognise frankly\nthat heaven and hell are necessary to one another and to arrange for a\npolicy of goodwill and intercelestial understanding.\u201d\n\n\u201cNor should we stop at that,\u201d replied the first, taking fire, as\nwell he might, at the enunciation of sentiments so lofty; \u201cmere\nunderstanding is not enough. We must have a pact, co-operation, even\ncoalition.\u201d\n\n\u201cWith a common policy,\u201d broke in the second, \u201cresting on the best of\nevil and the worst of good.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe only difficulty,\u201d said the first, \u201cthat I can see is one of the\nleadership.\u201d\n\n\u201cWe must not,\u201d replied the second, \u201cpermit these wretched personalities\nto interfere with policies of universal benefit. Moreover, I am sure\nthat the two forces are both too large-minded to let their personal\ninclinations stand in the way. And in any case, is it not possible that\nas a result of this great movement they may come to realise----\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d cried the first breathlessly.\n\n\u201c--that they themselves are one and the same personality?\u201d\n\n\n\n\nXXII\n\nMEN, NOT MEASURES\n\n\n\u201cWhat is that little man with the soul like a wet umbrella, that\nsomebody has left in a corner, doing?\u201d inquired the lovely, though\nscarcely visible, presence that had unexpectedly materialised the night\nbefore in the house of the Prime Minister of Samaria.\n\n\u201cHush,\u201d whispered his conductor, the utterly outraged Private\nSecretary, \u201chush, they will hear you.\u201d\n\n\u201cHave no fear,\u201d said the radiant creature, looking carefully at the\nfaces of the assembled Council, \u201cmy voice is of the kind that does not\nreach their ears. Therefore tell me what he is doing?\u201d\n\n\u201cHe is keeping minutes,\u201d said the Secretary, a little sullenly.\n\n\u201cWhy does he do that?\u201d inquired the angel. \u201cWere I in his place I would\nshoo them on their way like a hen-yard full of hens.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou do not understand,\u201d said the Secretary; \u201che is keeping a record\nof what is happening.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut how does he know?\u201d inquired the angel.\n\n\u201cBy listening to what these gentlemen say,\u201d replied the Secretary.\n\n\u201cDear me,\u201d said the angel, \u201cif that is his only source of information\nI see that I must help him,\u201d and he walked across the Council chamber\nto the side of the luckless clerk, gently disregarding the frenzied\ngestures of the Private Secretary.\n\nThe Clerk had made the following entry in a neat flowing hand on a\nhandsome sheet of thick white paper.\n\n\u201cThe Prime Minister drew the Council\u2019s attention to the difficulties\npresented by the Poets\u2019 Birth (Prevention) Bill. The object, as his\ncolleagues knew, was to secure that in future poets should be made (if\npossible by publicity) and not born. Everybody agreed that democracy\nshould have self-made poets, that the pretensions of birth must cease.\nAt the same time it could not be denied that poets insisted on being\nborn. It would be within his colleagues\u2019 recollection that a number of\npoets had been made in the recent list of honours. They were, he was\nhappy to say, perfect in every respect except that they did not write\npoetry. For his part he preferred that kind of poet, but it could not\nbe denied that the opponents of the measure were making great play with\nthis. He asked for the views of his colleagues.\n\n\u201cThe Minister of Higher Education asked what poetry was?\n\n\u201cThe Minister of Commerce entirely agreed.\n\n\u201cThe Master of the Weasels thought that there was much in what had been\nsaid.\n\n\u201cThe Senior Almoner had had a letter from a very respectable\nwasherwoman in his constituency. She complained that there was a poet\nwho wore soft collars. He did not wish to press the point, but popular\nfeeling could not be neglected.\n\n\u201cThe Keeper of the Conscience took the view that the time was ripe for\naction. Several members of the Council concurred.\n\n\u201cThe Prime Minister, summing up, said that he was glad to find his\ncolleagues unanimous in supporting the course he had proposed. The\ndivision was likely to be a close one. He especially appealed to Lord\nAlbatross.\u201d\n\nAt this point the angel took possession of the Clerk\u2019s mind, and\nwith a queer click the faces of the men round the table were rolled\nup like green railway carriage blinds, and their minds became\nvisible, working rather like electric light studs being pressed\noff and on. The Clerk continued to write the minutes: \u201cNot that\nLord Albatross cared, but his stud would fidget his neck, and he\ncouldn\u2019t be expected to listen to the Prime Minister\u2019s neat periods\nwith a rasping stud. The other eighteen fellers probably had got\ntheir studs right. Anyhow, judgin\u2019 by their serious looks, they had\nbetter things than studs to think about. Queer thing how complete\nthey all looked--if you know what I mean. Couldn\u2019t imagine them\never having not worn morning coats or neat grey tweeds and a sort\nof sewn-up-and-sent-home-hoping-it\u2019s-to-your-complete-satisfaction\nlook. Except \u2018Conky,\u2019 the Lord High Wig. \u2018Conky\u2019 was dressed up like\nhimself--a sort of suit consistin\u2019 of a heavy jowled face, glass eyes,\nlooming stomach and the rest. Joke if they found him and \u2018Conky\u2019 out\nand gave them the push for having sneaked into the room during a\nCouncil.\u201d Albatross suppressed a chuckle.\n\nThe P.M. looked at him coldly. \u201cDamn the fellow with his aristocratic\nsharpness. There he sat looking like a stuck pig, and all the time he\nhad followed every word and seen through the whole caboodle. That\u2019s\nthe worst of mixing classes. They\u2019ve got their own cold, fishy way\nof nosing through the water, and snap--they\u2019re on the fly, when you\nthought them fast asleep. They\u2019d never understand each other--never.\nHere was he not caring a row of beans (or has-beens, he added,\nviciously looking round) as to what the result of the division would\nbe. What he wanted was friendship. He wanted them all to see that\nhe wasn\u2019t just the best thing in talking machines that had been\ninvented. Groping to them he was--to their hearts. Well, why not? They\nhad hearts, hadn\u2019t they? And just when he was stretching out a hand\nto gather in the strings this cold fellow fetches out his knife of\nlaughter. Not human, that\u2019s what was wrong. Born like a little Eastern\nidol. He should have stuck to his own lot. There was Crayfish, the\nSenior Almoner. He sympathised. He stood shoulder to shoulder. Damn!\ngetting the rhetoric into his thoughts! Still Crayfish would pull it\nthrough, if only to irritate Albatross and Lord Conkers. If he didn\u2019t,\nwell he\u2019d get back to humans at last. He had a right, hadn\u2019t he, to be\na man.\n\n\u201cThe Minister of Commerce was drawing one O after another on his pad.\nWho did the perfect circle? Forget my own name next. Just ask old\nCrayfish--only chap in the room who\u2019s ever read anything except _The\nMorning News_--begging Albatross\u2019 pardon--and _The Blue \u2019Un_. Silly to\nhave got cluttered up with this gang, and yet what a wonder the P.M.\nwas. Never felt a thing in his life. Could make a bed--mattress and\nall--out of two adjectives and a noun. Yes, and the right adjectives\ntoo--right in a popular sense that is. But as a literary proposition, O\nLord! How odd, though, to live by words that weren\u2019t words so much as\ngestures and nothing behind them. Like Hume--association of well, not\nideas, but penny plain dressed up as tuppeny coloured. Like a series\nof ballads hawked by a man in the street hung all round him and no man\nin the middle. Funny how not being a man he gets real men like old\nCrayfish for instance. That\u2019s the one--no rhetoric for him. Look at his\ntense simple eyes. He thinks only of what\u2019s best and loyalty, and if\nsincerity can get the damned thing through he\u2019ll do it. Now I wonder if\nhe does know who did the perfect circle?...\u201d\n\nThe blinds clicked down again. The Master of the Weasels was standing\nover the Clerk pouring some brandy down his throat. The Clerk blinked\nhis eyes and recovered suddenly. \u201cI\u2019m sorry, sir, I must have fainted.\nI\u2019m afraid that I\u2019ve missed part of the discussion.\u201d \u201cIt doesn\u2019t\nmatter,\u201d said the Prime Minister, looking at the notes, from which the\nangelic interpolations had disappeared. \u201cNobody said a thing while you\nwere off.\u201d \u201cOh,\u201d said the Clerk happily, \u201cthen nothing happened. Will\nyou sign the minutes?\u201d\n\n\n\n\nXXIII\n\nYOU CANNOT HAVE YOUR CAKE AND EAT IT\n\n\nA certain business-man in Damascus, whose efficiency was only surpassed\nby his personal ugliness, was informed that in a distant vilayet dwelt\na peasant of whom it was currently rumoured that he possessed a goose\nthat laid eggs of pure gold.\n\nHe accordingly chartered a caravan, and with much jingling of silver\nbells set out across the desert to make a proposition to the peasant.\nIn his company was a young man who was reputed (though it had not been\nfinally brought home to him) to be a poet. Whether this were true or\nno, it cannot be denied that he paid much heed to the ascensions of the\nmoon.\n\nOn the third day of the pilgrimage that pale planet was bewitching in\nher pensive hair the reluctant black beauty of the desert. All was\nstill except when a grave camel kneeling shook a bell. But presently,\nwith the clear monotony of a bird, the young man\u2019s voice was heard\nsinging:\n\n  \u201cIn this cold glory\n  of midnight, day\n  and her fever\n  have passed away.\n\n  \u201cHere in the quiet,\n  here in the cool,\n  even pain, even sorrow\n  are beautiful.\n\n  \u201cAnd the voice of the poet\n  lifts and lingers\n  at one in the dark\n  with the older singers.\u201d\n\n\u201cAs I feared,\u201d said the merchant, raising his head from his silken\nand tasselled pillow, \u201cthe fellow is a poet. I must cope with this.\u201d\nThereupon he lifted the flap of his embroidered tent, and in a sleeping\nsuit, of which the radiant texture did not conceal the irregular\ncontours of his frame, with one arm behind his back, strode across the\nsand to where, in a patch of shadow, the poet was crooning.\n\n\u201cYoung man,\u201d said the merchant, breaking somewhat harshly on the\nsinger\u2019s reverie, \u201cwas that your own poem?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt was, merchant,\u201d replied the poet, \u201cbut now, since you have heard\nit, it is yours also.\u201d\n\n\u201cTell me,\u201d said the merchant craftily, \u201chow much would you be paid for\nsuch a poem in Damascus?\u201d\n\n\u201cIf I were lucky,\u201d said the poet, \u201cI might earn a kiss, or if unlucky a\ndinah.\u201d\n\n\u201cA dinah,\u201d said the merchant. \u201cBy the beard of the Prophet, no bad\npay for a mouthful of sweet words. And is it difficult to acquire the\ntrick?\u201d\n\n\u201cAll that is needed,\u201d answered the poet, \u201cis a rose behind the ear and\nthe moon behind the heart.\u201d\n\n\u201cIn Damascus,\u201d cried the merchant, \u201cI have a hanging garden stained\nwith roses, and at night the moon rises in the garden. My ears are\nlonger than yours, and my heart, if one may judge by a comparison of\nour persons, is incomparably larger. I will accordingly give up the\nquest of the goose, and will return to Damascus and in my rose garden\nlay my own golden eggs. But in the meantime,\u201d he added reflectively,\nstabbing the poet to the heart with the pearl-handled scimitar which he\nhad hitherto concealed, \u201cI may as well dispose of a dangerous rival.\u201d\n\n\u201cO fool,\u201d whispered the dying poet, \u201cit was only the goose who thought\nthe eggs gold, because of the golden goslings hidden in their cool blue\nshell, as the peasant discovered when he killed her.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy did she think so?\u201d said the merchant, daintily wiping the curved\nblade.\n\n\u201cBecause she was a poet,\u201d whispered the dying man. \u201cAnd why did she\ntell the peasant?\u201d asked the merchant, preparing to return to his\ninterrupted rest. \u201cBecause,\u201d said the poet, turning over on his side\nwith a little sigh, \u201cbecause she was a goose.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nXXIV\n\nIN VINO VERITAS\n\n\n\u201cThe next story,\u201d said the author, \u201cwill be an example of grim realism.\nIt will have no characters and no incidents and no meaning. It will\ncontinue for some three or four hundred pages, and will begin in the\nmiddle and not end at all. There will also be a tendency for verbs\nand punctuation to disappear simultaneously, and a slightly stagnant\natmosphere of muddled gloom will reproduce the sensation of a London\nfog.\u201d\n\n\u201cI did not know,\u201d said the publisher, \u201cthat you had read Tchekov. For\nmy part I have not, and let me add I do not intend that my public\nshould.\u201d\n\n\u201cI do not even know,\u201d replied the author, \u201cwhat Tchekov is, though by\nthe sound it might be a Slavonic parlour game. But if, as always, you\nare going to thwart me just when I am about to strike a modern note, I\nwill tell you quite simply and (I hope) beautifully an old-fashioned\nChristmas story. About the year 1840,\u201d said the author, \u201cin the City\nof London, and to be particular in the immediate neighbourhood of a\ncosy, rosy, prosy old coaching inn in the Borough, lived, or rather\nexisted (for he was a wicked old screw was Jonathan), a merchant in the\ntea trade (at least he let it be understood that it was the tea trade,\nbut the gossips, who stood about at the street corners with very blue\nnoses waiting for the muffin-boy, had their suspicions that----)\u201d\n\n\u201cI do not,\u201d interjected the publisher, \u201cwish to be unduly curious. But\nmay I ask whether there are any other sentences in this story?\u201d\n\n\u201cOf course,\u201d retorted the author, with justifiable heat, \u201cbut if I am\nto tell this story at all perhaps you will permit me to tell it in an\nold-fashioned way. Let me tell you that in 1840 people had time to\nfinish sentences like that, yes and to understand them. A man who could\nstand the factory system of the time could stand anything.\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d continued the author, \u201cthere existed in that neighbourhood\nJonathan Gogglesnape, and as is general with persons who had\nacquired names of that sort, he was the hardest, grindingest miser\nthat you would find in a smart day\u2019s walk, east, west, south or\nnorth of the pump on the left hand corner of the square of St.\nRunnymede-in-the-East. Jonathan was at all times of the year a cold,\npinched figure of a man in a tight, rusty surtout, and not an inch\nof linen showing either at the mean, scraggy throat or the large red\nwrists, but at five o\u2019clock on Christmas Eve he was a circumstance,\nlike the whistling wind, to make comfortable folks draw closer to the\nfire and to thank their Maker and the Spirit of Christmas that they\nwere not as other men.\n\n\u201cA sharp fall of snow, as yet untrodden into filth and mud, had\nsmoothed out the vices of the pavement and given that touch of happy\ncontrast between the radiant revellers within and the homeless\nwanderers without so typical of Christmas feeling.\u201d\n\n\u201cI do not think that I can stand much more of this,\u201d said the publisher\nfaintly.\n\n\u201cIn that case,\u201d said the author, \u201cI shall, without delay, recite a\npoem which I have called \u2018In vino veritas.\u2019\u201d\n\n  IN VINO VERITAS.\n\n  \u201cSinging \u2019e was. I tell yer, singing\n    as sweet as kiss me \u2019and--\n  a drunken sort o\u2019chune, but swinging\n    the feet like if yer understand.\n\n  \u201cI stood and watched \u2019is dancin\u2019 shadder,\n    Lord wot a dancer! \u2019eel an\u2019 toe.\n  \u2018Oo\u2019s for the ladder--Jacob\u2019s ladder--\n    one good \u2019eave and up yer go!\u2019\n\n  \u201cDrunk as God \u2019e was--the liquor,\n    like a flare of naphthaline,\n  burning as it run, but quicker--\n    brightest thing I ever seen!\n\n  \u201c\u2019Appy? well I arsk yer! Drinking,\n    laughing, singing, dance \u2019e went,\n  Tell yer straight I kep\u2019 on thinking--\n    \u2019appy! that\u2019s wot \u2019appy meant.\n\n  \u201c\u2018I\u2019ve a ladder--Jacob\u2019s ladder--\n    one good \u2019eave and up yer go.\n  Men are mad, but God is madder--\u2019\n    Meaning? \u2018Ow am I ter know?\u2019\n\n  \u201cLaughing, singing, dancing, mumming--\n    looking soft and sly behind \u2019im,\n  \u2018Are yer coming? Aren\u2019t yer coming?\u2019\n    Damn \u2019is eyes--I\u2019m off to find \u2019im.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere is a good deal,\u201d remarked the publisher, \u201cto be said for\nProhibition.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nXXV\n\nTANTAE RELIGIO\n\n\nAnd another thing. In the gardens of Haroun-al-Raschid, just past the\ncorner where one pale rose watches her tranquil shadow in the ice-blue\nwater of a marbled pond, grew a black tree that could not wait for the\nArabian spring. But on the contrary, instead of leaves she threw over\nher graceful shoulders a cloak sprigged with red blossom. And that in a\nsingle night.\n\n\u201cOh miracle,\u201d said the first gardener next morning when he observed\nthis bright irregularity, \u201cred snow has fallen in the night.\u201d \u201cOh\nmarvel,\u201d said the second, \u201ca swarm of red butterflies.\u201d \u201cOh wonder,\u201d\ncried the third, \u201ca little lanthorn in each lighted twig.\u201d \u201cYou must be\nblind,\u201d said the first; \u201cor a numbskull,\u201d said the second; \u201cor mad,\u201d\ncried the third. And thereupon, as was only to be expected, the three\nfell to fighting furiously one with another.\n\n\u201cWhat are those men doing?\u201d whispered the terrified blossoms to the\nmother tree; \u201cwe are afraid.\u201d\n\n\u201cHush! blossoms,\u201d murmured the tree, \u201cthey think that we are a divine\nmanifestation.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat is that?\u201d asked the blossoms.\n\n\u201cThe appearance of the God they worship upon earth,\u201d replied the tree.\n\n\u201cAnd how do you know,\u201d cried the blossoms, \u201cthat they think so?\u201d\n\n\u201cBecause,\u201d said the tree as the last gardener fell heavily to the\nground, \u201cthey are killing one another.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nXXVI\n\nON ENTERTAINING ANGELS UNAWARES\n\n\nThe pale-faced man with the slightly Jewish cast of countenance was\nobserved for the first time on the night of the 27th June passing\nthrough the churchyard by the Vicar, who, taking him, not unnaturally,\nfor a loafer, ordered him out pretty sharply. He obeyed with remarkable\nmeekness and disappeared rapidly in the direction of the house of Mrs.\nBolpus. He was next seen on the following evening--a cold, clear night\nof moon--by the village ninny, or so it was supposed. For he came back\nshouting some nonsense about a lighted man, and laughed happily and\nquietly all night.\n\nIt was, however, her ladyship who met him in broad daylight two days\nlater, and engaged him in conversation. For she had heard of his\nappearance and feared that he might be a new scandal. She had intended\nto begin by speaking to him roundly, but something soft and flickering\nin his eyes stopped her. Instead of reproving him, therefore, she\nsaid, speaking almost as to an equal:\n\n\u201cWe are thinking of forming a branch of the Society of Poor Lost Things\nin the village, and we wondered whether you would care to join?\u201d\n\u201cStrange,\u201d he replied in a low but beautifully clear voice, \u201cI was\nalso thinking of forming a society. But perhaps our objects are the\nsame! What is yours?\u201d \u201cOh,\u201d said the lady, \u201cwe aim at sweetening bitter\nlives.\u201d\n\n\u201cIn that case,\u201d said the stranger earnestly, \u201cI would like to give all\nI have. It is, I fear,\u201d he added with a smile, \u201conly a guinea.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are joking, I see,\u201d murmured the lady, signing a receipt with a\ngold pencil. \u201cAnd now, sir, will you forgive me if I make a personal\nobservation?\u201d\n\n\u201cBut of course,\u201d he replied.\n\n\u201cYou are lodging with Mrs. Bolpus. As a stranger you cannot know her\nreputation. If I might without impertinence suggest it, perhaps it\nwould be wise to find a less questionable landlady.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd yet,\u201d mused the stranger, \u201cshe seemed poor and unhappy.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd so she should,\u201d cut in the lady.\n\n\u201cIndeed I should have described her as a Poor Lost Thing.\u201d\n\n\u201cI can see,\u201d said the benefactress icily, taking the guinea out of\nher purse, \u201cthat you have misunderstood the objects of the Society.\nWe assist only the deserving.\u201d \u201cIn my Society,\u201d said the man, sadly\npocketing his coins, \u201cwe assist first the undeserving.\u201d\n\n\u201cSo I should imagine,\u201d sneered her ladyship, \u201cand what do you call it?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh,\u201d said the stranger gently, turning away, \u201cwe call it the Society\nof the Rich Lost Things, for whom the way to the kingdom of heaven is\nthrough the eye of a needle.\u201d\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\u201cI hope,\u201d said her ladyship to the Earl, her husband, at dinner, \u201cthat\nyou will arrange for Mrs. Bolpus to be evicted at once.\u201d\n\n\u201cEvicted!\u201d said the Earl; \u201cbut haven\u2019t you heard the news? She died\nthis morning.\u201d\n\n\u201cDied!\u201d gasped the lady; \u201cthen what was the Jew with the beard doing in\nher house?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe Jew with the beard?\u201d asked her husband. \u201cI was there to-day and\ndidn\u2019t hear of anyone.\u201d\n\n\u201cAre you sure?\u201d cried the Countess.\n\n\u201cQuite!\u201d said the Earl, \u201cbut wait! Is it perhaps the tramp that the\nVicar saw in the churchyard and poor Geordie Brown\u2019s \u2018lighted man\u2019? I\nthink myself that in both cases it was just imagination.\u201d\n\n\u201cPerhaps,\u201d replied the lady after a long pause, \u201cbut all the same I\nshall resign my chairmanship of the branch of the Poor Lost Things.\u201d\n\n\u201cNow what in the name of God----,\u201d began the Earl.\n\n\u201cHush,\u201d almost screamed his wife.\n\n\n\n\nXXVII\n\nTEMPUS FUGIT\n\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d said the old grandfather clock to the green parrot, \u201cI will not\ntell you another story. I have told so many that I am quite hoarse.\u201d \u201cI\ncannot think what you mean,\u201d replied the parrot. \u201cYou have said nothing\nbut tick-tock like a hen, and then you cluck loudly as though you had\nlaid an egg, though you have in fact only mislaid an hour. That is not\nmy idea of a story.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhen you are my age,\u201d said the clock, \u201cyou will realise that there is\nno other story.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nXXVIII\n\nYOU CAN TAKE A HORSE TO THE WATER\n\n\nOnce upon a time (and you will see later that it was fortunately not\ntwice upon this time) in the garden of the Ch\u00e2teau of Nyon, in the\nsweet heart of a lime tree and very near to the little padded box where\nthey keep the silkworms, there lived a chrysalis, whose ancestors had\ncome over with John Knox, but who nevertheless agreed with Hume.\n\n\u201cThe Almighty,\u201d he said, speaking with what he conceived to be a\nScottish accent, \u201cis merely a prrojection of the chrysalis mind--a\nvarra puir exemple of the association of incomparable ideas. Now Kant,\nas every Scotsman knows, dragged in the soul--a silly bit fluttering\nthing with white wings--the great gowk. Mon, it\u2019s a peety....\u201d\n\n\u201cQu\u2019est que tu me chantes l\u00e0,\u201d exclaimed an elderly silk-worm, who was\nbusily occupied in his exquisite occupation. \u201cExecrable worm, thinkest\nthou that because thou art no better than a dried twig that all suffer\nfrom such misfortune? It is indeed certain that upon such as thee the\ngood God has not wasted a soul, but as to me I know that the delicate\nmachine which can spin so marvellous a net was not meant to fade into\ndust. But what can one expect of one whose forefathers were generated\nin a fog, lived in an east wind, and died without ever having seen the\nsun?\u201d and with this the silk-worm resumed his tapestry.\n\n\u201cWhat,\u201d exclaimed the chrysalis, \u201cis it Scotland you\u2019re naming in the\nsame breath wi\u2019 your God-forgotten, pope-ridden, frog-warren? A\u2019m\nblack ashamed, ah am, and metaphysic or no a\u2019ll no ha it said that any\ntrapesing piece of a Frenchy had a soul and me from the Clachans of\nthe Tolbooth no. But mind,\u201d he added as he burst, and from his husk\ndaintily, like a lace handkerchief out of lavender, rose the butterfly,\n\u201cmy opeenions remain unchanged.\u201d\n\n\u201cI also,\u201d said the silk-worm, \u201cwho have all the years had faith, will\ntake wings.\u201d And he breathed very hard and deep, but the only result\nwas that he spoiled his skein.\n\n\n\n\nXXIX\n\nHALF A LOAF IS BETTER THAN NO BREAD\n\n\nOnce upon a time there lived in a cathedral city, almost in the shadow\nof the minster, a middle-aged freethinker, who was exceedingly angry\nwith God for not existing. Nor was he conciliated by those who pointed\nout (reasonably enough) that it was not His fault. This, in the view of\nthe freethinker, merely increased the offence. \u201cHe should have thought\nof all that before,\u201d he would say grimly.\n\nIn the same town, but actually in the minster itself, yes and in a\nhole in the pulpit, lived a mouse, who, for her part, did not agree\nwith the freethinker. She was, I fear, not as independent a mind as\nshe should have been, and permitted herself to be influenced by the\nsingularly sweet voice of the principal officiating priest. Him she\n(foolishly) identified with the creator of the ample mansion of her\nchoice, and indeed let it be understood among her acquaintance that she\nwas peculiarly acceptable in his sight. \u201cFor,\u201d she said, \u201cevery day he\ncomes dressed all in white when the sun strikes through the windows,\nthrowing a coloured shadow on his robe, and scatters precious bread\nfor me on a stainless cloth. And in further proof,\u201d she would say to\nscoffers, \u201cthere is a second and lesser angel, who salutes him, calling\nhim by his name of \u2018Our Father in Heaven.\u2019\u201d Several mice who doubted\nher story came at her invitation to scoff and remained to eat the\nsacred crumbs.\n\nNow it was exactly this matter of the bread which above all other\nChristian uses most inflamed the freethinker. When he was not railing\nat the superstition of those who believed that a celestial body could\nbe concealed in milled and baked ears of corn, he was complaining\nagainst the waste of good bread. He would calculate a statistic of the\nannual diversion of bread to this purpose. \u201cThink of the poor!\u201d he\nwould snort, but it is not certain that he thought of them himself.\n\nThe freethinker\u2019s habit in the spring months of the year was to take an\nearly turn along the quiet and flowery streets. The clean and morning\nbeauty was for him an anodyne, and when he was certain of escaping\nobservation he would on occasion slip through a small postern gate\nin the cathedral and brood happily upon the base uses to which a\nstructure so noble had been addressed. During one of these intrusions\nhe observed that the cloth was laid on the high altar and that the\npriest was preparing the communion service. As no worshippers appeared,\nthe freethinker drew near to the altar in order to satisfy himself by\npersonal witness of the futility of the celebration.\n\nThe priest did not observe (or did not appear to observe) his visitor,\nbut completed the ritual as though in the company of a great host.\n\u201cBuffoonery!\u201d muttered the freethinker, struggling angrily against the\nradiant charm of the sun falling through old glass. \u201cBad enough,\u201d he\ncontinued in an audible whisper, \u201cto serve bread to those who do not\nneed it, but to serve it to nobody at all----!!\u201d\n\n\u201cAre you sure,\u201d said the priest, who had finished the service, \u201cthat it\nis for nobody?\u201d and he pointed smiling to the tiny grey communicants\nnibbling the crumbs. \u201cDo I understand,\u201d inquired the freethinker\nicily, \u201cthat you perform this service for the sake of the mice?\u201d \u201cWhy\nnot,\u201d said the priest; \u201cas you do to the least of these----\u201d \u201cThis,\u201d\nsaid the freethinker, quite properly indignant, \u201cis what I should\ncall blasphemy.\u201d \u201cAnd of that,\u201d said the priest, turning to go to the\nvestry, \u201cyou should be no mean judge.\u201d\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\u201cSir,\u201d said the verger to the priest later in the day, \u201cthem mice have\nbeen about again. I see two of them at the sacred bread. I wish you\nwould let me set traps.\u201d \u201cWhy,\u201d said the priest, \u201cI have already set\none.\u201d \u201cAnd did you catch anything?\u201d asked the verger. \u201cI think so,\u201d\nsaid the priest.\n\n\n\n\nXXX\n\nIN FOR A PENNY IN FOR A POUND\n\n\nThere was once a beautiful line of poetry who had by an unfortunate\naccident lodged herself in the brain of an extremely inferior poet. To\nher great discomfort the line found herself driven to associate with a\ndisorderly mob of worn-out and shabby phrases. Nor was this all. While\nher companions were for ever being taken out and aired, and on occasion\nfinding their way into the public prints, she remained neglected and\ndisused.\n\nThe other lines, who had from the first disliked her, now, not\nunnaturally, added contempt to their dislike. \u201cThe truth is,\u201d they said\nto her, \u201cthat you are not one of us. The rest of us can all point to a\nlong and distinguished ancestry. Everybody knew our parents and knows\nus. We are welcome wherever we go, and are readily admitted into the\nbest society. But as for you, your birth is wrapt in mystery. Whether\nit is the fact that the poet is your father is open to question, but at\nany rate there is no question whatever of the character of the Greek\nwoman your mother. You had better,\u201d they would conclude, \u201creturn whence\nyou came, where, among persons of your own kind, you will no doubt be\nat ease.\u201d\n\nThe poet, meanwhile, only dimly aware of his golden visitor, continued\nto fumble among his ready-for-service shelves. This was the easier for\nhim as all his ideas were of stock size, and were in consequence easily\nfitted by the poetic slops. But as time went on the poet became more\nand more acutely aware of something that waited expression--some queer\nnew-shaped Jack o\u2019 lanthorn of a thought that none of his ready-made\nsuits would fit. One after another he took them down, and they seemed\nincorrigibly stale and shop-soiled. Even the most daring patterns in\nthe earlier Brooke design seemed inadequate, out at the seams and\nunfresh.\n\nHe blamed his liver. Then he blamed his wife, and last--most horrible\nthought of all--he blamed his inspiration. \u201cI have written myself out,\u201d\nhe cried to the pool of light that the lamp cast on his solitary desk.\n\u201cThis is the end.\u201d He rehearsed in a high tragic voice some of his\nmost notable triumphs, as for example:\n\n  \u201cNow that the roses are over\n    And the last white rose is dead,\n  Quiet returns to the lover\n            Instead....\n\n  \u201cInstead of love freely given\n    To love that asked for no price,\n  Instead of a boy in Heaven\n    And a girl in Paradise,\n\n  \u201cNow that the roses are over\n    And the last white rose is dead,\n  Quiet returns to the lover\n            Instead.\n\n\u201cMy God!\u201d he cried to the unreceptive almond blossoms on the\nwall-paper. \u201cWhat genius I had when I wrote that.\u201d\n\nHe sat down at the desk and looked severely at the virgin page. No neat\nrhymes again, no passion tied up in brown paper and looped with string\nfor a finger, no beauty sent home with the first delivery. \u201cThis,\u201d he\nrepeated with melancholy grandeur, \u201cis the end.\u201d\n\nAnd at that directly minute he saw a line form itself in letters of\nflame along the page, as though a candle wrote it--a lovely line with\nthe sovereign note of Cleopatra\u2019s cry:\n\n  \u201cO infinite virtue, comest thou smiling from\n      the world\u2019s great snare uncaught?\u201d\n\nFor one wild moment his spirit, overlaid with swathe upon swathe of\nrubbish, moved upwards to the light. For whatever he was now, he had\nonce been a poet, if only in his hopes. In that luminous instant he\nalmost guessed his failure. \u201cThe end,\u201d he muttered; \u201csuppose it were\nthe beginning?\u201d With that the old lines that had suffered defeat\nresumed their empire. \u201cYes, the beginning,\u201d he cried, \u201cthe beginning,\u201d\nand radiant he began to write, sure of his inspiration:\n\n  \u201cIt\u2019s the call of love: \u2018Oh follow\n  where my golden footsteps tread!\u2019\n  But the call of love is hollow\n  by the calling of the dead.\u201d\n\nSo, with head bent, he continued writing through the night. And while\nhe wrote the other lines turned upon the bastard and drove her into\nthe dark.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\u201cWhat a beautiful poem,\u201d said the editor of his favourite journal when\nit was sent to him. \u201cNot so bad,\u201d said the poet modestly. \u201cThe fact\nis, it all started with a line--a direct inspiration.\u201d \u201cWhat was it?\u201d\ninquired the editor languidly. \u201cWell, to be perfectly honest,\u201d replied\nthe poet, \u201cI\u2019ve forgotten it.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nXXXI\n\nQUANTITY IS BETTER THAN QUALITY\n\n\n\u201cThis is the thirty-first story,\u201d said the publisher; \u201chow many more\ndo you propose to write?\u201d \u201cThe question you should have asked,\u201d\nreplied the author, \u201cis how many less?\u201d \u201cLess than what?\u201d inquired the\npublisher irritably. \u201cLess than what I could if I\u2019m not stopped. I am\nlike the princess who when she opened her mouth breathed jewels, which\nher detractors alleged were toads--jewels, I would observe, four words\nlong which on the stretched forefinger----\u201d \u201cI have my own opinion,\u201d\nsaid the publisher firmly, \u201con the question of jewels and toads! I\nthink forty would constitute a full drove or clutch, or whatever a\ngroup of that species is called.\u201d \u201cVery well,\u201d said the author, deeply\naffronted, \u201cI will now tell you the sad incident which I am bound, in\nview of your attack upon me, to call \u2018Quantity is better than Quality.\u2019\n\n\u201cThere was once,\u201d said the author, \u201cin the eastern marches of a\nhighly-constitutionalised monarchy, a society whose members were\npledged to breathe only once a week. They aspired by the force of\nthis remarkable example to discourage the distressing continuity\nof breathing among the lower classes. Now it must be obvious at\nonce that even well-born persons could only impose this limitation\nupon themselves if assisted by nature. And nature had assisted\nthem. For to reveal the truth (which they had concealed from the\nwarm-blooded proletariat), they were not only blue-blooded but actually\ncold-blooded. It will be seen therefore that their action, though\nin itself meritorious, involved a less sacrifice than was commonly\nrepresented by their champions.\n\n\u201cFrom the outset their efforts were openly derided by the lowest\nclasses, who, so far from ceasing to breathe, if anything breathed\nmore and louder than ever. But fortunately in that country there was\na middling class--known for purposes of reference as the backbone of\nthe country--who knew how to value their social superiors. These,\ntherefore, with much agony and spiritual exercise, began to practise\nthe new mode, letting it be gradually understood that breathing was\nvulgar. Their contortions, as may well be imagined, afforded much\namusement to the society and received, as was right, a considerable\nmeasure of public approbation at their hands. Unluckily, however, the\nmiddling class tended to carry the matter too far. For in their excess\nof zeal they not only reduced the amount of their breathing, but even\nceased breathing altogether. In such cases the formula \u2018He (or she) is\nnot dead but sleeps\u2019 was generally applied. For no one would admit the\nsocial disgrace of being dead.\n\n\u201cNobody knows how long this engaging state of affairs would have\ncontinued if it had not been for a cessation of work by the Banded\nGuild of Sextons and Gravediggers. These simple fellows naturally\nwelcomed the increase of business that came their way as the result\nof the new fashion. But unhappily they became involved in a serious\ndemarcation dispute with another association--\u201cThe Society of Critics,\nEssayists and Writers of Belles Lettres.\u201d This latter body, it had\nalways been recognised, were alone entitled to bury the living (with\na subsidiary function of resurrecting the dead). They protested\naccordingly with the greatest vigour against the invasion of their\nsphere by a guild whose affair was solely (as their own rules showed)\nwith the dead.\n\n\u201cThe Government of the country, quite properly and according to the\naccepted practice, attempted to hush the matter up. But the Society of\nCritics were able by virtue of their association with the newspaper\npress to defeat this laudable endeavour. To the disgust of the\nremainder of the middling class, and in spite of the advice freely\ntendered by some of the older soldiers among the upper class, to the\neffect that the matter should be decided by the general execution\nof all members of both rival bodies, the question was remitted for\ndecision to an impartial arbitrator. After a long hearing and the most\nanxious consideration this gentleman issued his award. It was a long\nand cogently written document, and aroused general dissatisfaction.\nFor among other illuminating observations, he pointed out that if a\nman is only as old as he feels, then, _a fortiori_, he is only as dead\nas he admits. This was generally regarded by the critics as a decision\nin their favour. On the other hand, the sextons drew attention to\nanother portion of the report, in which the arbitrator eloquently\nreminded those who had appointed him that his countrymen, whose proud\nboast was that they did not know when they were beaten, would still\nless be likely to know when they were dead. His final recommendation\nwas, however, equally distasteful to both parties. For he concluded\nby observing that to those who were of like mind with him there was\nno death. He would refer to M. Maeterlinck, the well-known Belgian\nexpert on bees: \u2018Death,\u2019 he began in a passage long after quoted in the\nschools, \u2018is the door of life.\u2019\n\n\u201cThe issue being thus left in doubt, the sextons--warm-blooded as\nthey were and breathing noisily--cut the knot by a general cessation\nof work. The critics, though invited by an enthusiastic press to show\ntheir quality, restricted themselves to stating publicly that the pen\nwas mightier than the spade, and leaving it there.\n\n\u201cThe deadlock was only resolved by announcement on the part of the\nhead of the Government (the coldness of whose blood was sufficiently\nestablished to condone any eccentricity) that in future he for one\nwould breathe continuously. To which an even colder (and bluer)\nblooded colleague of ducal rank added that he would not merely breathe\nbut actually snore.\n\n\u201cIt was, however, made clear that this announcement was entirely\nspontaneous and had no connection with the deplorable stoppage of work.\nIn the result the middling class resumed their breathing. The sextons\nreturned to their diminished labours, and the critics, discovering a\nnew and living novelist of genius, set about his interment with renewed\nvigour. And thus,\u201d concluded the author, \u201cwe see that Quantity is\nbetter than Quality.\u201d\n\n\u201cTalking of toads,\u201d said the publisher. \u201cYes,\u201d replied the author, \u201clet\nus talk of them. I remember that they have jewels in their foreheads.\u201d\n\u201cThen yours,\u201d snarled the publisher, \u201cmust have turned their backs.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nXXXII\n\nCHARITY BEGINS AT HOME\n\n\nFrom time to time, or rather from eternity to eternity, Ormuzd finds\nhimself inconvenienced by the perpetual praise offered up to him by\nthe bless\u00e9d. Though he is very anxious not to hurt their feelings, he\ncannot but wonder whether such complete absence of the critical faculty\nconstitutes the best of company.\n\nIt is in this mood that Ahriman, always sensitive to the All-Highest\nemotions, ventures to appear and exchange insults with the Senior\nPower. And he has a double reason. He has a perfectly devilish capacity\nfor feeling sorry for himself in exile. It is, however, more than that.\nLike Ormuzd, he is concerned not to wound the susceptibilities of his\nconstituents, but some eternities he permits himself to ask whether\nuninterrupted blasphemies may not jar an ear specially designed for\ntheir reception.\n\n\u201cThis constant preoccupation with another place,\u201d he would think, \u201cis\nnot very flattering to me.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd so, my poor Ahriman,\u201d Ormuzd would say on these occasions, \u201cyou\nare still dissatisfied? But I do not see what more I can do for you. I\nhave given you rule over half the universe. I cannot give you the power\nto enjoy it.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, sire,\u201d replies the impudent fiend, \u201csince charity begins at\nhome--if I may describe heaven by so inappropriate a title.\u201d\n\n\u201cShall I tell you,\u201d says Ormuzd, \u201cwhat really ails you, Ahriman? It\nis not that evil is a mocker, not that it tears down idols, and least\nof all that it is outrageously clever. The painful truth, on the\ncontrary,\u201d says Ormuzd gently, \u201cis that evil is so stupid.\u201d This, as\nmay be supposed, wounds Ahriman in a very tender spot.\n\n\u201cSire,\u201d says he, \u201cif it were possible for you to be unjust I should so\ndescribe that observation. For consider! All round with the docility\nof inspired sheep the blameless lift their monotonous outcries. They\nworship what is worshipful, I allow, but how without perception of\nits subtleties, of its trembling poise upon the edge of disaster. The\nblessed croon like old women before the fire, but they do not guess (or\ncare) that the roots of the flame are in hell.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut you are still stupid,\u201d answers Ormuzd, \u201cfor these adore what they\ndo not understand, while you hate what you insist on misunderstanding.\nHere am I, Ormuzd--a symbol, a golden knob on a door that none can\npress--a veil of silver--and here are you, Ahriman, also an ebon\nmetaphor of what is too dark to be apprehended. And yet, poor Ahriman,\nyou being so dark a ghost rail upon me being a ghost so bright. But\nwhat of that which is behind us both?\u201d\n\n\u201cOrmuzd,\u201d says Ahriman, \u201cyou cannot cheat me thus. You are a thing in\nmy mind, as I am a thing in yours, and if our thoughts cease, both of\nus cease with them. After us the Deluge.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is true,\u201d says Ormuzd, \u201cthat the thing you see is made up of your\nsight, but it is not true of me. For that is the difference between\ngood and evil. I know that I am nothing, but you believe (falsely) that\nyou are everything.\u201d\n\n\u201cHumility,\u201d sneers the fiend, \u201csits ill on the thundering lips of\nOrmuzd.\u201d\n\n\u201cTruth,\u201d replies Ormuzd, \u201cis neither proud nor humble; it is.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat is truth?\u201d mocks the fiend, preparing to go. \u201cI suppose that you\nwill tell me that you are the truth.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d says Ormuzd, \u201cit is because you deny that I am truth and secretly\nbelieve it that you are Ahriman, but it is because I know that I am not\nthe truth that I am Ormuzd.\u201d\n\n\u201cI have enjoyed our little chat,\u201d says Ahriman, \u201cbut you lack ambition.\u201d\n\n\u201cBy that sin----\u201d begins Ormuzd.\n\n\u201cOh, nonsense,\u201d cries Ahriman hotly, and then repents of his rudeness.\n\u201cForgive me, sire, but I could believe in you if you believed in\nyourself.\u201d\n\n\u201cAhriman, Ahriman,\u201d says Ormuzd, laughing lightly, \u201cstill tempting me!\u201d\n\n\u201cI bear you no grudge,\u201d says Ahriman. \u201cThe truth is----\u201d\n\n\u201cYes?\u201d asks Ormuzd.\n\n\u201cThat you are too clever for me.\u201d\n\n\u201cI thought we should come to it in the end,\u201d says Ormuzd.\n\n\n\n\nXXXIII\n\nDIS ALITER VISUM\n\n\nAt the beginning of the nineteenth century, somewhere in Germany there\nwas a neat little town with gabled houses and a platform for the stork\nin the market-place. There was nothing remarkable about this town or\nits people. By day the houses slumbered cosily and the men went about\ntheir cobbling, saddling, and carpentry with the best will in the\nworld. At evening lights were shown at the windows, and within doors\nthe husbands smoked their long pipes with their pot of beer close at\nhand, and the wives sewed innumerable patches on innumerable small\npants. In spring and summer tables were set in the trim garden, and\nat evening a stranger passing down the cobbled street would have seen\namiable family groups each under their linden-tree absorbing their\nevening meal. And sometimes one more given to sentiment than another\nmight divide the calm evening air with some monotonous ditty locally\nassumed to be music. But the great day was Sunday. Then the whole\ntownship, with bent heads, moved to the church, where the pastor\npreached the virtues of the ideal, of charity, and of peace. And his\nflock, as harmless as any other sheep, from time to time bleated\nsympathetically and with the air of impending sleep. And later in the\nday the same pastor, who was something of a poet, would often collect a\ngroup round him in the schoolroom and tell them one of the \u201cM\u00e4rchen,\u201d\nto which even the grown-ups were never tired of listening.\n\nAs you may suppose, among other stories he would often tell them the\ntale of \u201cSchneevitchen,\u201d or, as we call it, \u201cSnow-white.\u201d The jealous\nstepmother, the mirror of beauty, the poisoned apple, the dwarfs and\nthe sleeping lovely were murmured into the inner conscience of his\naudience. And so all might have continued till the end of time. The\nlittle town might have dusked and shone night and day, the quiet\ninhabitants have gone about their business, lived and died, and new\nstorks replaced the old ones on the platform. All this, I say, might\nhave happened if two strangers had not come to the little town and\nsettled in a vacant house almost next door to that of the pastor. They\nwere, so it was understood, husband and wife, though many wondered how\ntwo persons so repulsive could ever have endured that relationship. The\nman was not otherwise ill-looking, but so thin that in certain lights\nyou would have sworn that you could see his very bones, and there were\nthose who declared that the wind would have whistled through him if it\nhad not been for his absurdly ill-fitting clothes. The woman, on the\nother hand, was fat, not with a comfortable tissue, but with a gross\nhardness that forbade all friendliness. She was not a monstrosity,\nsave at meals, when she ate like a beast out of the woods, hugely,\nviolently, and with the worst manners in the world.\n\nAt the outset they were regarded with suspicion. For though they were\ngood customers of the shops and paid cash, no one could deny that they\nwere ugly customers. There was, further, something queer about their\nname. It was not a decent German one with a flavour of wurst about it,\nbut was a queer foreign one. For it was plain that the baker, who had\nwritten it down as Tod, must have misheard the gentleman, while the\ngrocer must have equally misunderstood the lady when he entered her\nupon his books as Krieg. Moreover, though the man let it be understood\nthat he was widely known as a preacher, they did not at first attend\nservice with the rest of the community.\n\nIt is probable that their influence would never have attained any\nhold if the old pastor had lived. For first and last, though he was\nthe gentlest of men, he would none of them. But as is the way with\nthe gentlest as with those most rude, he fell upon a heavy sickness.\nThe physician of the town was in despair, and finally, hearing that\nthe stranger had a great reputation as a healer, invited him into\nconsultation. In this way, for the first time, Herr Todt (if that were\nhis name) crossed the old pastor\u2019s threshold.\n\n\u201cWe meet at last,\u201d said the stranger. \u201cAye,\u201d said the dying man,\nlooking him fearlessly in the sunken eyes, \u201cbut you have no sting for\nme.\u201d \u201cI fear,\u201d said the stranger, turning to the local physician, \u201cthat\nhe is delirious; I can do nothing.\u201d \u201cYou have done all you can,\u201d cried\nthe good old man, \u201cand you have failed. But oh, my flock, my flock!\u201d\n\u201cThey are in safe hands,\u201d said the stranger mildly. \u201cSee, rest yours in\nthem and feel how easy they are.\u201d With a wild gesture the pastor swept\nthem away. \u201cRetro me, Sathanas,\u201d he cried madly; \u201cnot into your hands,\u201d\nbut, with a deep peace stealing over him, \u201cin tuas manus, Domine.\u201d\n\nThe whole town attended the burial, and in the absence of any other\npriest the stranger, who, it was understood, had taken holy orders,\ncommitted the body to the earth. There was a profound grief for the\nloss of one so simple, so friendly, so full of harmless kindness and\ndreams. But more than that, many of the older men felt that a period\nhad ended with their pastor\u2019s death. \u201cThere,\u201d said one returning\nhomewards, \u201clies old Germany.\u201d\n\nAfter this Herr Dr. Todt and his wife moved into the presbytery, and\nin some way never fully explained he became the officiating priest. It\nbecame noticeable almost at once that while the older men found him\nincreasingly distasteful, all the younger men and most of the older\nwomen fell entirely under his sway. Nor was this surprising, for he\npreached a new and striking doctrine. In his first sermon he took\nfor his text, \u201cI come to bring, not peace, but a sword,\u201d and for the\nfirst time in the quiet cobbled streets there was a faint far-off\necho of trampling steel. He went from strength to strength, till for\nthose who followed him he seemed almost more than human--almost a new\nSaint John, but one who, in preparing the way for his Lord, made it\nrough for all feet save His. But yet among the older men there were\nthose that murmured unquietly of blasphemy and those who said openly\nthat he declared himself the way of salvation, and even called him the\nAntichrist. But Dr. Todt cared for none of these things.\n\nNor was this all, for his wife began to exercise an influence equal to,\nif not greater than, her husband\u2019s. (She had, by the way, cleared away\nthe muddle as to names by explaining that she was a geborene Krieg, and\nhad assumed her husband\u2019s name on marriage.) Frau Dr. Todt continued\nthe Sunday evening meetings in the schoolroom, but they were no longer\na place where old men turned from the fireside to listen to the\nmemories of childhood. Far from it. The talk she held was of glory, of\nthe old wars, and of a helmetted god called Wotan. And it was observed\nthat in a strange indefinable way for those who attended her meetings\nshe lost her ugliness. They swore that she was not old, nor fat, nor\na guzzler, but young and slender and endowed with the swift feet of\nthe Valkyries. So fair did the young men find her that they began even\nto forget their loves. But when their sweethearts complained the young\nmen put them aside, saying that she was not a rival but their mother.\n\u201cYour mother!\u201d cried the young women, \u201care you mad?\u201d \u201cIt is only a way\nof speaking,\u201d said the young men. \u201cShe is the voice of Germany. Have\nyou not heard the new gospel?\u201d and one among them repeated the strange,\nharsh lines:\n\n  \u201cYou have conquered, Arminius! The Roman\n  world has grown red with your breath,\n  and its beauty is perished and no man\n  wonders or weeps at its death!\n\n  \u201cAgain as the meshes drew near us\n  you heard the buccina crack\n  on the last high whisper, \u2018O Varrus,\n  give me my legions back!\u2019\n\n  \u201cYou had twisted your web together\n  in triumph, but Wotan was dumb,\n  for he watched a gold eagle\u2019s feather,\n  and he saw the lost legions come.\n\n  \u201cSince scarce had the Northern Valkyries\n  been whistled by Wotan home\n  ere the eagles flew back to their eyries,\n  on the hills of a greater Rome.\n\n  \u201cAnd Wotan to Arminius leaning,\n  whispered, \u2018Though conquest is sweet\n  you have lost your own soul in the winning,\n  now capture the world\u2019s in defeat.\u2019\n\n  \u201cYou have conquered but only the bodies,\n  and the spirit is more than the flesh;\n  now weave for the soul and where God is\n  deep in the heart the mesh.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are all mad together,\u201d cried the girls. \u201cThis means nothing. What\nis Wotan to us or we to him?\u201d \u201cThis is the new world which we are\nmaking,\u201d said the young men, and returned to the feet of their teacher.\n\nBut there was one girl in the town who would not give up the fight so\neasily. She was the daughter of the old pastor, and for her fairness\nand gentleness and soft beauty had been called \u201cSchneevitchen.\u201d Like\nher father before her, she had steady grey eyes, and like him she knew\nthe old songs of Germany that (some said) were echoes of the song of\nthe Niebelung--gold girls in the river Rhine. She alone could hold her\nhead against the now predominant pair, and she became in consequence\nthe object of their deadly hate. For often, when the young men crowded\nround her, Frau Todt geborene Krieg would look into the young men\u2019s\neyes as into a mirror and say:\n\n  \u201cMirror, mirror on the wall,\n  am I fairest of them all?\u201d\n\nAnd she would see in their eyes the shadow of \u201cSchneevitchen.\u201d She and\nher husband consulted together, and finally they compounded an apple\nof sweet essences, which she pretended had grown on a tree in the\nHesperides, but to her husband she confessed that it was no such thing\nand that its real name was Discord. This she gave not to Snow-white to\neat, but to the young men, and straightway they were poisoned. For they\nbegan to have ugly dreams and see swart visions, and always in the dark\nheart of them was Snow-white, no longer pure, gentle and loving, but\nthe Lorelei drawing into her whirlpool drowning men.\n\nThere are many tales of how she came to perish in the broad river.\nSome say she drowned herself, some say the young men, bewildered, cast\nher into the waters, and others that the strangers flung her into the\ngreat body of the stream. None knows. But what is known is that with\nher death in that little town and in many other towns great and small\nthe old pastor and his daughter were forgotten, and in their place\nruled over hearts and minds Herr Doktor Todt and his wife, the geborene\nKrieg.\n\n\n\n\nXXXIV\n\nPARALLEL LINES DO NOT MEET\n\n\nThis is quite a different sort of story. It is about a princess who\ndisbelieved in arithmetic.\n\n\u201cWas she a French princess?\u201d inquired the publisher.\n\n\u201cCertainly not,\u201d said the author, \u201cand I cannot think why you should\nsuppose that she was. On the contrary, she lived in Hammersmith\nBroadway, and took the view that there was no reason why parallel lines\nshould not meet. \u2018Why,\u2019 she would ask, \u2018should they be snobs just\nbecause they happen to be parallel? Besides,\u2019 she would add, \u2018when I\ndraw them they do meet.\u2019\u201d\n\n\u201cBut,\u201d said a celebrated professor from the London School of Economics\nwho had been summoned by her anxious parents to cope with the\nsituation, \u201cthose lines which you have drawn aren\u2019t parallel.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy?\u201d inquired the princess.\n\n\u201cWhy?\u201d said the professor, \u201cbut it is obvious to anybody. Can\u2019t you\nsee that they meet?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d said the princess, \u201cI see that, but that is what I call being\nparallel.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut can\u2019t you see that you are defying the axioms upon which all\ncognition is based. If parallel lines meet, then when I meet you you do\nnot meet me.\u201d\n\n\u201cI see no harm in that,\u201d said the princess, who, to be perfectly\nhonest, had formed a (quite unjustly) low opinion of the professor\u2019s\nsocial gifts; \u201cbut speaking of axioms, would you agree that God is\nomnipotent?\u201d\n\n\u201cCertainly,\u201d said the professor, \u201cbut I do not see how----\u201d\n\n\u201cForgive me,\u201d said the princess icily. \u201cIf God is omnipotent should he\nnot be able to draw parallel lines that meet?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou will forgive my observing,\u201d said the professor, \u201cthat if God\ninterfered with mathematics he would cease to be God.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd if mathematics interfered with God?\u201d inquired the princess.\n\n\u201cI cannot,\u201d said the professor, slapping his tall hat on his head with\na resounding bang, \u201cwaste my time in talking nonsense.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou could, however,\u201d cried the princess after him, \u201cgive up teaching\nmathematics, could you not?\u201d\n\n\n\n\nXXXV\n\nCHERCHEZ LE JUIF\n\n\n\u201cI will now,\u201d said the author, \u201cwithout more ado tell the true story\nof Rumpelstiltskin. It was, I think, Professor Boxer, of a celebrated\nuniversity, who traced in it a complete articulation of the Hittite\nsun-mythology. He was not deceived by the superficial appearance of\nelegant nonsense. He observed that Rumpel (as he called him for short),\nlike Jahwe, laid great stress on concealing his true name. Nor did he\nbelieve that it was likely that even Rumpel was anything other than\na disguise. \u2018Who?\u2019 he effectively inquired, \u2018would answer to such a\nname?\u2019 Clearly, he concluded the name was one of which the utterance\nmight be supposed to unloose the struts of the world. Now, for my part,\nI cannot go the whole way with Professor Boxer. That the story has a\ndeep symbolism nobody, least of all one who makes his livelihood by the\npretence, would deny. But that it is Hittite in origin, no one who has\nstudied the customs of that astounding people the Hivites would for a\nmoment assert. Taking first the evidence of the Rosetta stone, what do\nwe find?\u201d\n\n\u201cThat you have lately been on a personally conducted tour round the\nBritish Museum,\u201d harshly interrupted the publisher.\n\n\u201cAnd if I have,\u201d cried the author, \u201cam I to be forbidden the simple\npleasure of showing off to my readers who have not had a similar\nexperience? Am I to have no humanity, no expansion, no freedom? In\nshort, am I writing this book, or are you?\u201d\n\n\u201cIf you are going to take that line,\u201d said the publisher, \u201cyou\nwill force me to inquire on whom the financial risk falls? With\nincome-tax----\u201d\n\n\u201cVery well,\u201d said the author. \u201cAs I detest bickering, I will handle the\nstory differently, though I am not prepared to abandon my Hivites.\u201d\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\u201cThat damned old Jew,\u201d began the representative of the well-known\nHittite newspaper....\n\n\u201cHush,\u201d said his Hivite colleague in the press gallery of the\nConvention of the Association of Peoples, \u201chere he is.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is my belief,\u201d muttered the Hittite, \u201cthat he is the authentic\nWandering Jew. He appears with his white beard and his parcel at all\ninternational meetings. I believe he is a plague-carrier! Good-day,\u201d he\nadded aloud, \u201cMonsieur Moses that goes always well!\u201d\n\nThe white-bearded old man deposited his heavy parcel with a sigh. \u201cAs\nusual,\u201d he said, \u201cI find nobody to relieve me of this.\u201d \u201cIt would\nseem very heavy,\u201d said the Hivite. \u201cIt is very heavy,\u201d said the old\nJew; \u201ctry to lift it.\u201d The Hivite bent down and strained with all his\nstrength. The parcel shifted not an inch.\n\n\u201cHeavens!\u201d he said, looking respectfully at the old man. \u201cYou must be\nstrong. But what is it--lead or gold?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe name you call the metal,\u201d said the old man wearily, \u201cis a matter\nof taste. It is at any rate difficult to support, in which, as your\nHittite colleague is thinking, it is not unlike me.\u201d \u201cMy God! what a\nsuggestion,\u201d said the Hittite, whose true thought had been accurately\nexpressed. \u201cBut, putting on one side your play of spirit, tell us as\namong colleagues what is your object?\u201d \u201cTo hand over my charge to\none worthy to carry it,\u201d said the old man. \u201cAnd do you expect to find\nhim among this collection of international lawmongers?\u201d inquired the\nHittite. \u201cWhere else?\u201d said the Jew. \u201cDo you, then,\u201d inquired the\nHivite, \u201cbelieve in international law?\u201d \u201cI sometimes pretend,\u201d said the\nold man, smilingly, \u201cthat I invented it. But pardon me! The ceremony is\nabout to begin.\u201d\n\nThe hall below was filled to overflowing. All the delegations were in\ntheir places, all showing in their dress that the occasion was one of a\nvery especial character. From the press gallery, which was behind the\nplatform on which the president and the officers of the Convention sat,\ncould be observed the veiled statue of International Concord, which the\npresident was that day to dedicate. Almost immediately that gentleman,\nfollowed by a train, beribboned like himself, walked solemnly on to the\nplatform and took his seat.\n\nThe delegations settled down to listen to his speech, anticipating,\nas they were entitled to upon his reputation, a superb effort. But\nbefore the president could rise to speak a delegate from East Oceania\nrose to a point of order. He was anxious to do nothing to mar the\nharmony of so auspicious an occasion, but he wished to know whether any\narrangements had been made as to the order of speeches. He represented\na small country, but one no less passionately devoted to the cause of\ninternational concord than some of those larger ones, owing to whose\nambition his country found itself so reduced.\n\nThe president rose to observe that any delegate who desired would, if\nhe caught his eye, be heard. On such an occasion it would be suitable\nthat representatives of all classes of nations should be heard. The\nrepresentative of West Oceania rose to inquire what was meant by\nclasses of nations. Was this an indirect gibe at the smaller nations?\nIf so, he would observe that they had suffered enough already at the\nhands of their great neighbours. The president, who had risen to\nexpress the hope that delegates would not indulge in controversy, was\ninterrupted by the delegate from Central Oceania, who observed that\non behalf of his Government he indignantly repudiated the calumnies\nthat had fallen from the lips of the last two speakers. It was owing\nto the strong hand of nations such as his that this glorious scene of\ninternational amity was achieved. And to drive home that assertion,\nlet him remind the Convention that the symbol of concord chosen, namely\na griffin, was the emblem of his State.\n\nThe president again endeavoured to closure the discussion, but was\nforced to give way to the delegate of the Eurasian Empire, who said\nthat while he entirely agreed with the general position taken up by his\nCentral Oceanic colleague, he was bound to correct him on a point of\ndetail. The design which had been approved by the Commission, of which\nhe had had the honour of acting as chairman, was not a griffin, but the\nbull of Melem-to-Pek, his country\u2019s ensign. The Trans-Oceanic delegate\ndemanded the word. Upon its being granted, he remarked that not for the\nfirst time had the Eurasian Empire endeavoured to confuse the issue. As\nthe result of what he was bound to call an unfortunate alliance with\nthe Hivites--contrary to the spirit of the international tables--that\nempire believed that with its ally it could dictate to the whole world.\nFortunately, however, those who, like his country and their friends,\nthe Hittites, believed in internationalism were not prepared to stand\nby and see this robber combination---- The Hivite and Eurasian\ndelegates leapt to their feet amid a growing volume of cries. When\norder was restored it was observed that the delegate of Prester John\nhad the floor. He desired simply to observe that the symbol, for what\nit was worth, was merely a dragon, the sign of the oldest culture in\nthe world. When the barbarians of the West----\n\nThe tumult was renewed, and this time the president found himself quite\nunable to cope with the situation. At last a member of the secretariat\nin the gallery had the brilliant idea of tugging at the cord which\nsuspended the veil. As it fell a sudden hush fell on the crowd, and\nthen as the gold image was revealed the cries were renewed: \u201cThe\nGriffin of Central Oceania,\u201d \u201cThe Bull of Melem-to-Pek,\u201d \u201cThe Gold\nDragon,\u201d \u201cThe Hesperidan Sheep.\u201d\n\n\u201cSilence!\u201d roared a voice of thunder.\n\nAll the delegates paused in utter astonishment and looked at the press\ngallery, whence this outrageous interjection had proceeded. There they\nobserved the old Jew standing transfigured and terrible.\n\n\u201cFools,\u201d he said, \u201cdo you not see that it is a golden calf?\u201d and with\nthat, before anyone could speak or interfere, he drew a shining object\nfrom his parcel and aimed it at the image, shattering it to fragments.\n\nIn a moment the whole Convention were on their feet, shouting and\ncursing. A rush was made for the gallery, but the old Jew was not\nto be found. When those on the platform examined the missile it was\ndiscovered to be a great stone tablet inscribed with Hebrew characters.\nUnfortunately there was nobody present who knew that language. Some,\nhowever, said that it was a rival code of honour known among the\nJews as \u201cThe Ten Points\u201d or \u201cThe Ten Commandments,\u201d but others (and\nthese were the large majority) saw in it only a further proof of the\nwell-known Jewish determination to destroy civilisation.\n\nOn the motion of the Philistine delegation, it was unanimously decided\nto exclude the Jews from the Association of Peoples. International\nharmony having thus been restored, the president was enabled to\ndeliver his speech, which, it was generally agreed, was a magnificent\ncontribution to the cause of international peace and goodwill.\n\n\n\n\nXXXVI\n\n[Greek: GN\u00d4THI SEAUTON]\n\n\nThey had shown the newcomer all the sights of the place--Peter\u2019s great\nkeys, the alabaster walls, the sword of Michael, and Gabriel\u2019s last\ntrumpet. At last they brought him to the greatest wonder of all--the\nglass, in which all his life he had seen darkly. \u201cLook,\u201d they said,\n\u201cfor now you shall see God face to face.\u201d He looked at first with\nunspeakable awe, then with surprise, last with bitter disappointment.\n\u201cI am not judged worthy,\u201d he said, turning sorrowfully away, \u201cI saw\nnothing but myself.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nXXXVII\n\nE PUR SI MUOVE\n\n\nIt is not easy to exaggerate the emotion excited in the better elements\nin the simian world when Bandar, the umbrella-faced ape, announced\nhis theory that apes were evolved from men. It was not merely the\nblasphemous suggestion that the great Baboon had not, as inspired\nwriting showed, made apes in his own image. That was bad enough, though\nit tended to upset the more serious-minded rather than the general. But\nwhat outraged the public taste and wounded it in its tenderest point\nwas the impudent and indeed grossly indelicate contention that there\nhad been a time when monkeys had no tails. What made it worse, however,\nwas the damnable plausibility of it all. Even the most prejudiced\ncould hardly fail to recognise with a shudder of disgust faint far-off\nsimian traits, loathsomely humanised, but still distinguishable in men.\nTo take physique first. It was perhaps true that the mean, chinless\nface was entirely wanting in the higher bestiality. Yet it could not\nbe denied that men had been observed (notably during the recent\ndisturbances, when they had so continually killed one another) with a\npromise of the true prognathous chin. Then as to the withered little\narms and the long deformed lower limbs, with their flattened pads, it\ncould not be disputed that in their cities the men grew more ape-like\nin both respects, with arms increasingly long and grasping and legs\nproportionally short and unmanlike. It was true that no instance had\never been known of a man with a tail. But on the other hand, Bandar\npointed out that among certain degenerate types of the larger ape, as\nfor example the Mandril, tails were far less developed than among the\nbetter sort. Then as to habits and manners. Here the likeness was even\nmore disconcerting. First, in the matter of food, it was true that for\nthe most part they had the horrible human habit of flesh-eating, but\nit was known that some had so far approached the ape as to subsist on\nfruit and vegetables. In the mode of life they had the ape-like custom\nof crowding together. It was true that when they did so collect they\nwere sufficiently unapelike to destroy all trees and living things and\nto surround themselves with unnatural noise and light. It must not be\nforgotten, however, that those in the highest regard (and therefore\nnearest to the ape) tended not to live in such communities, but to have\nlarge separate dwellings in whose neighbourhood the trees and fields\nwere left unmolested. In the matter of marriage customs there were, it\nwas true, wide variations. Some races had the human habit of several\nwives, or of changing them frequently. On the other hand, many had\nachieved the monkey state of monogamy. It was unhappily true that they\nwere incapable of intelligent communication. But it was perhaps not too\nmuch to suppose that the queer discordant cries that proceeded from\ntheir lips when several were in company had some meaning. Finally, he\ncame to their settled habit of exterminating one another for every sort\nof cause and lack of cause. Here in truth they were least bestial. But\ncould it be urged that the apes never fell to manlike levels in this\nparticular?...\n\nSo the formidable argument continued. A hurried Convention of Elders\nwas summoned, at which it was decided, first, to let it be known that\nthis doctrine was damnable heresy, and secondly, to end the danger to\nthe simian world by the execution of the heretic. Both decisions were\nduly carried out, and both were widely applauded. But it was like the\nobstinate blasphemy of Bandar to exclaim as they slew him:\n\n\u201cE pur si muove,\u201d by which he was understood to mean that in so acting\nthe apes had behaved exactly like men.\n\n\n\n\nXXXVIII\n\nTHE GAME AND THE CANDLE\n\n\n\u201cI have invented a new game,\u201d said the Spirit of Evil. \u201cChild,\u201d said\nthe Spirit of Good, smiling benevolently, \u201cwill you never grow up? Ah\nwell, go away and play with it.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut,\u201d said the Spirit of Evil, deeply disappointed, \u201cit won\u2019t be any\nfun unless I tell you about it.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow long will it take?\u201d inquired the Spirit of Good cautiously.\n\n\u201cOnly a million or two years at most,\u201d said the Spirit of Evil.\n\n\u201cIn that case I will listen. What do you call it, child?\u201d\n\n\u201cI call it man,\u201d said the Spirit of Evil, and he described humanity to\nthe Spirit of Good.\n\n\u201cYou horrid, disgusting little wretch,\u201d said the Spirit of Good after\nshe had listened patiently for a few thousand centuries. \u201cStop that\ngame at once. I won\u2019t have it.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut, Good darling!\u201d said Evil, \u201cyou did enjoy it when they believed\nthat you had invented them, now didn\u2019t you?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt certainly was funny,\u201d said Good with a gentle sigh, \u201cbut all the\nsame, I rather blame myself for having listened.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut it was only a game,\u201d said Evil.\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s true,\u201d said Good, \u201cbut be more careful with the next one.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nXXXIX\n\nONCE BITTEN, TWICE SHY\n\n\nWhen the Last Trumpet had cleared men off the earth like crumbs off a\ncloth, an unbelievable sweetness and freedom settled over the world.\nPresently all that man had spoiled was healed, and earth was a garden\nand God took his pleasure walking in it.\n\nThere\u2019s a gold apple tree grows in the garden, and if God is so minded\nof all other trees he plucks the fruit, but at this he holds his hand\nand muses. The green serpent fawns about his feet. \u201cIf thou art God\nindeed,\u201d he whispers, \u201ceat.\u201d But God bends and strokes the glittering\ncoils.\n\n\u201cDo thou eat, belov\u00e9d,\u201d says he, \u201cand be even as I am, having knowledge\nof good and evil--and of thyself.\u201d \u201cGet thou behind me, God,\u201d cries the\nserpent, and is fled through the dust of the garden like a green flame.\nAnd when the sweet laughter of God is over, all is quiet in the garden.\n\n\n\n\nXL\n\nIT TAKES TWO TO MAKE A PEACE\n\n\nAfter the war, which he believed himself to have won, the everlasting\nNo met, as he was travelling grandly in his great car, his defeated\nenemy, the everlasting Yes. This second, as became one so heavily\ndefeated, went on foot, in rags, and seemed something of a cripple.\n\n\u201cHa,\u201d said No, \u201cI am sorry to see you in such case, but you will not\ndeny that even so I let you off lightly. I tremble to think what\nvengeance you would have exacted had you triumphed. Confess that you\nwould have exterminated me and not limited yourself to ruining and\ncrippling me.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy,\u201d said Yes reflectively, \u201cI stand for acceptance. I have other\nnames, too--Love, Hope and Charity. But as acceptance trails your\nshadow of refusal, so do my other names trail theirs--Hate, Despair and\nUnimaginativeness--and the worst of these shadows is unimaginativeness.\nI had dreamed, I confess, that it would be well to wipe out the\nshadows.\u201d\n\n\u201cAs I thought,\u201d said No, \u201cfor all your specious claims you are harder\nof heart than I.\u201d\n\n\u201cAs acceptance,\u201d said Yes, \u201cmust always be harder than refusal and life\nthan death.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut,\u201d cried No triumphantly, \u201cyou were wrong. Here go you in rags for\nall your lights, and here ride I in purple for all my shadows.\u201d\n\n\u201cI was wrong,\u201d said Yes, \u201cbecause I was young. I did not see that I\nmust accept you and your shadows with the rest. I was fighting not\nagainst you but against myself when I would not accept as part of\nmyself the great refusal.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat!\u201d cried No, deeply mortified and inwardly afraid, \u201cbeggar that\nyou are, do you dare to claim that you have won?\u201d\n\n\u201cI only know,\u201d said Yes gently, \u201cthat there is no victory.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou canting hypocrite,\u201d cried No, \u201cyou do not know how to take a\nlicking.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is because I do,\u201d said Yes, \u201cthat there cannot be victory or\ndefeat. For if the fight were ended where would you be, where I?\u201d\n\n\u201cThere is something in that,\u201d said No disconsolately; \u201cbut if it be\ntrue, why should you fight? Let us make an eternal peace!\u201d\n\n\u201cThat would be to refuse,\u201d said Yes.\n\n\u201cDamn you,\u201d cried No, \u201cI will have peace.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt takes two,\u201d said Yes gently, \u201cto make a peace,\u201d and turned to limp\naway.\n\n\u201cBut Yes,\u201d cried No after him, now thoroughly dismayed, \u201chow is all\nthis to end?\u201d\n\n\u201cDear No,\u201d said Yes, \u201cit does not end.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nXLI\n\nVICISTI GALIL\u00c6E\n\n\nDown a path in the wood she came singing. The path on which she walked\nwas itself like a song under leaves like music. The path was the echo\nof the song, or the song of the path. It does not matter. This was\nbefore music and the world made of music had fallen apart.\n\nHis shadow fell on the path. The song stopped; the path grew still.\n\n\u201cIt is quiet, quiet,\u201d she said.\n\n\u201cIt is love,\u201d said he.\n\n\u201cSomething has died,\u201d she whispered.\n\n\u201cAnd has risen from the dead,\u201d he cried, drawing very close. \u201cLove has\nconquered death.\u201d\n\n\u201cAlas,\u201d she said, taking his hand and kissing it, \u201cbefore love came\nthere was no death to conquer.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nTRANSCRIBER\u2019S NOTES:\n\n\n  Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.\n\n  Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.\n\n  Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.","title":"Circular Saws","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":20671}