Once upon a time there was a photographer. He was a splendid
photographer; he did profiles and full-faces, three-quarter and
full-length portraits; he could develop and fix, tone and print them. He
was the deuce of a fellow! But he was always discontented, for he was a
philosopher, a great philosopher and a discoverer. His theory was that
the world was upside down. It was plainly proved by the plate in the
developer. Everything that was on the right side of the original, now
appeared on the left; everything that was dark, became light; light
became shade; blue turned into white, and silver buttons looked as dark
as iron. The world was upside down.
He had a partner, quite an ordinary man, full of petty characteristics.
For instance, he smoked cigars all day long; he never shut a door; he
put his knife into his mouth, instead of using his fork; he wore his hat
in the room; he cleaned his nails in the studio, and in the evening he
drank three glasses of beer.
He was full of faults!
The philosopher, on the other hand, was perfect, and therefore he
nursed resentment against his imperfect brother; he would have liked to
dissolve the partnership, but he could not, because their business held
them together; and because they were bound to remain in partnership, the
resentment of the philosopher turned into an unreasonable hatred. It was
dreadful!
When the spring came they decided to take a lodging in a summer resort,
and the partner was despatched to find one. He did find one. And one
Saturday they departed together on a steamer.
The philosopher sat all day long on deck and drank punch. He was a very
stout man and suffered from several things; his liver was out of order,
and there was something wrong with his feet, perhaps rheumatism, or some
similar disease. When they arrived, they crossed the bridge and went
ashore.
“Is this the place?” asked the philosopher.
“A very little walk will take us there,” answered the partner.
They went along a footpath, full of roots, and the path ended abruptly
before a stile. They had to climb over it. Then the road became stony,
and the philosopher complained of his feet, but he forgot all about his
pains when they came to another stile. After that, all trace of the road
disappeared; they walked on the bare rock through shrubs and bilberry
bushes.
Behind the third fence stood a bull, who chased the philosopher to the
fourth stile, where he arrived in a bath of perspiration, which opened
all the pores of his skin. When they had crossed the sixth stile, they
could see the house. The philosopher went in and immediately stepped on
to the verandah.
“Why are there so many trees?” he asked. “They interrupt the view.”
“But they shelter the house from the strong sea-breezes,” answered the
partner.
“And the place looks like a churchyard; why, the house stands in the
centre of a pine-wood.”
“A very healthy spot,” replied the partner.
Then they wanted to go and bathe. But there was no proper bathing-place,
in the philosophical sense of the word. There was nothing but the stony
ground and mud.
After they had bathed the philosopher felt thirsty, and wanted to drink
a glass of water at the spring. It was of a reddish-brown colour, and
had a peculiar, strong taste. It was no good. Nothing was any good. And
meat was unobtainable, there was nothing to be had but fish.
The philosopher grew gloomy and sat down under a pumpkin to deplore
his fate. But there was no help for it. He had to stay, and his partner
returned to town to look after the business during his friend’s absence.
Six weeks passed and then the partner returned to his philosopher.
He was met on the bridge by a slender youth with red cheeks and a
sunburnt neck. It was the philosopher, rejuvenated and full of high
spirits.
He jumped over the six stiles and chased the bull.