You naturally assume that before the letter could reach him Alpha had
been mortally struck down by apoplexy, double pneumonia, bullet,
automobile, or some such enemy of joy, and that all the dreadful
things which I had foreseen might happen did in fact happen, thus
proving once more what a very wise friend I was, and filling me with
justifiable pride in my grief. But it was not so. Alpha was not struck
down, nor did his agreeable house topple over the metaphorical
precipice. According to poetical justice he ought to have been struck
down, just to serve him right, and as a warning to others--only he was
not. Not merely the wicked, but the improvident and the negligent,
often flourish like the green bay tree, and they keep on flourishing,
and setting wisdom and righteousness at defiance in the most
successful manner. Which, indeed, makes the life of a philosopher and
sagacious adviser extremely difficult and ungrateful.
Alpha never received my letter because I never sent it. There are
letters which one writes, not to send, but to ease one's mind. This
letter was one of them. It would not have been proper to dispatch such
a letter. Moreover, in the duties of friendship, as distinguished from
the pleasures of friendship, speech is better, bolder, surer than
writing. When two friends within hailing distance of each other get to
exchanging epistles in order to settle a serious difference of
opinion, the peril to their friendship is indeed grave; and the peril
is intensified when one of them has adopted a superior moral
attitude--as I had. The letters grow longer and longer, ruder and
ruder, and the probability of the friendship surviving grows ever
rapidly less and less. It is--usually, though not always--a mean act
to write what you have not the pluck to say.
So I just kept the letter as a specimen of what I could do--if I
chose--in the high role of candid friend.
I said to myself that I would take the first favourable occasion to
hint to Mr. Alpha how profoundly, etc., etc.
The occasion arrived sooner than I had feared. Alpha had an illness.
It was not alarming, and yet it was sufficiently formidable. It began
with colitis, and ended with appendicitis and an operation. Soon after
Alpha had risen from his bed and was cheerfully but somewhat feebly
about again I met him at a club. He was sitting in an arm-chair in one
of the huge bay-windows of the club, and gazing with bright interest
upon the varied spectacle of the street. The occasion was almost
ideal. I took the other arm-chair in the semicircle of the window. I
saw at once by his careless demeanour that his illness had taught him
nothing, and I determined with all my notorious tact and
persuasiveness to point a moral for him.
And just as I was clearing my throat to begin he exclaimed, with a
jerk of the elbow and a benevolently satiric smile:
"See that girl?"
A plainly-dressed young woman carrying a violin-case crossed the
street in front of our window.
"I see her," said I. "What about her?"
"That's Omega's second daughter."
"Oh, Omega," I murmured. "Haven't seen him for ages. What's he doing
with himself? Do you ever meet him nowadays?"
Said Mr. Alpha:
"I happened to dine with him--it was chiefly on business--a couple of
days before I fell ill. Remarkably strange cove, Omega--remarkably
strange."
"Why? How? And what's the matter with the cove's second daughter,
anyway?"
"Well," said Alpha, "it's all of a piece--him and his second daughter
and the rest of the family. Funny case. It ought to interest you.
Omega's got a mania."
"What mania?"
"Not too easy to describe. Call it the precaution mania."
"The precaution mania? What's that?"
"I'll tell you."
And he told me.
V
"Odd thing," said Alpha, "that I should have been at Omega's just as I
was sickening for appendicitis. He's great on appendicitis, is Omega."
"Has he had it?"
"Not he! He's never had anything. But he informed me that before he
went to Mexico last year he took the precaution of having his appendix
removed, lest he might have acute appendicitis in some wild part of
the country where there might be no doctor just handy for an
operation. He's like that, you know. I believe if he had his way there
wouldn't be an appendix left in the entire family. He's inoculated
against everything. They're all inoculated against everything. And he
keeps an elaborate medicine-chest in his house, together with
elaborate typewritten instructions which he forced his doctor to give
him--in case anything awful should happen suddenly. Omega has only to
read those instructions, and he could stitch a horrible wound, tie up
a severed artery, or make an injection of morphia or salt water. He
has a thermometer in every room and one in each bath. Also
burglar-alarms at all doors and windows, and fire extinguishers on
every floor. But that's nothing. You should hear about his insurance.
Of course, he's insured his life and the lives of the whole family of
them. He's insured against railway accidents and all other accidents,
and against illness. The fidelity of all his clerks is insured. He's
insured against burglary, naturally. Against fire, too. And against
loss of rent through fire. His plate-glass is insured. His bunch of
keys is insured. He's insured against employers' liability. He's
insured against war. He's insured against loss of business profits.
The interest on his mortgage securities is insured. His wretched
little automobile is insured. I do believe he was once insured against
the eventuality of twins."
"He must feel safe," I said.
"Not the least bit in the world," replied Alpha. "Life is a perfect
burden to him. That wouldn't matter so much if he didn't make it a
perfect burden to all his family as well. They've all got to be
prepared against the worst happening. If he fell down dead his wife
would know just what to do. She knows all the details of his financial
position exactly. She has to; he sees to that. He keeps her up to date
in them every day. And she has to show him detailed accounts of the
house as though it was a business undertaking, because he's so afraid
of her being left helpless and incapable. She just has to understand
that 'life is real, life is earnest,' and death more so.
"Then the children. They're all insured, of course. Each of the girls
has to take charge of the house in turn. And they must all earn their
own living--in case papa fell down dead. Take that second daughter.
She hates music, but she has a certain mechanical facility with the
fiddle, and so she must turn it into coin, in order to be on the safe
side. Her instincts are for fine clothes, idleness, and
responsibility. She'd take the risks cheerfully enough if he'd let
her. But he won't. So she's miserable. I think they all are more or
less."
"But still," I put in, "to feel the burden of life is not a bad thing
for people's characters."
"Perhaps not," said Alpha. "But to be crushed under a cartload of
bricks isn't likely to do one much good, is it? Why, Omega's a wealthy
man, and d'you know, he must live on about a third of his income. The
argument is, as usual, that he's liable to fall down dead--and
insurance companies are only human--and anyhow, old age must be amply
provided for. And then all his securities might fall simultaneously.
And lastly, as he says, you never know what may happen. Ugh!"
"Has anything happened up to now?"
"Oh, yes. An appalling disaster. His drawing-room hearthrug caught
fire six years ago and was utterly ruined. He got eleven dollars out
of the insurance company for that, and was ecstatically delighted
about it for three weeks. Nothing worse ever will happen to Omega. His
business is one of the safest in the country. His constitution is that
of a crocodile or a parrot. And he's as cute as they make 'em."
"And I suppose you don't envy him?"
"I don't," said Alpha.
"Well," I ventured, "let me offer you a piece of advice. Never travel
in the same train with Mr. Omega."
"Never travel in the same train with him? Why not?"
"Because if there were a railway accident, and you were both killed on
the spot, the world might draw comparisons between the effect on your
family and the effect on his, and your family wouldn't like it."
We remained silent for a space, and the silence was dramatic.
Nervously, I looked out of the window.
At length Alpha said:
"I suppose there is such a thing as the happy medium."
"Good-bye, Alpha." I rose abruptly. "Sorry, but I've got to go at
once."
And I judiciously departed.