Life, alas, is an intricate illusion. God is a pack of lies under which
man staggers to his grave. And man--ah, here we have Nature's only
mountebank; here we have Nature's humorous and ingenuous experiment in
tragedy. And thought--ah, the tissue-paper chimera that seeks forever to
devour life.
It is the cult of the pessimist, the gentle malice of disillusion. And,
like all other cults, it sustains its advocates. Thus, the city has no
more debonairly-mannered, smiling-souled citizen to offer than Clarence
Darrow. For years and years Mr. Darrow has been gently disproving the
intelligence of man, the importance of life, and the necessity of thought.
For years and years Mr. Darrow has been whimsically deflating the
illusions in which man hides from the purposelessness of the cosmos. God,
heaven, politics, philosophies, ambition, love--Mr. Darrow has deflated
them time and again--charging from $1 to $2 a seat for the spectacle.
This is nothing against Mr. Darrow--that he charges money sometimes. For
years and years Mr. Darrow has been enlivening the intellectual purlieus
of the city with his debates. And Mr. Darrow's debates have been always
worth $1, $2 and even $5--for various reasons. It is worth at least $5 to
observe at first hand what a cheering and invigorating effect Mr. Darrow's
pessimism has had upon Mr. Darrow after these innumerable years.
* * * * *
The story concerns itself with a funeral Mr. Darrow attended a few years
ago. It is at funerals that Mr. Darrow's gentle malice finds itself
crowned by circumstances. For to this son of Schopenhauer death is a weary
smile that is proof of all his arguments.
This time, however, Mr. Darrow was curiously stirred. For there lay dead
in the coffin a man for whom he had held a deep affection. It was Prof.
George B. Foster, the brilliant theologian of the University of Chicago.
During his life Prof. Foster had been a man worthy the steel of Mr.
Darrow. Not that Prof. Foster was an unscrupulous optimist. He was merely
an intellectual whose congenital tendencies were idealistic, just as Mr.
Darrow's psychic and subconscious tendencies were anti-idealistic. And
apart from this divergence of congenital tendencies Mr. Darrow and Prof.
Foster had a great deal in common. They both loved argument. They both
doted upon seizing an idea and energizing it with their egoism. They were,
in short, ideal debaters.
Whenever Mr. Darrow and Prof. Foster debated on one of the major issues of
reason a flutter made itself felt in the city--even among citizens
indifferent to debate. Indifferent or not, one felt that a debate between
Prof. Foster and Mr. Darrow was a matter of considerable importance.
Things might be disproved or proved on such an occasion.
* * * * *
They were to have debated on "Is There Immortality?" when Prof. Foster's
death canceled the engagement. This was one of the favorite differences of
opinion between the two friends. Mr. Darrow, of course, bent all his
efforts on disproving immortality. Prof. Foster bent all his on proving
it. Considerable excitement had been stirred by the coming debate. The
death of the brilliant theologian put an end to it.
Instead of the debate there was a funeral. Thousands of people who had
admired the intellect, kindness and humanitarianism of Prof. Foster came
to the memorial services held in one of the large theaters of the loop.
Mr. Darrow came, his head bowed and grief in his heart. Friends like
George Foster never replace themselves. Death becomes not a triumphant
argument--an aloof clincher for pessimism, but a robber.
There were speakers who talked of the dead man's virtues, his love for
people, scholarship and the arts, his keen brain and his genius. Mr.
Darrow sat listening to the eulogy of his dead friend and tears filled his
eyes. Poor George Foster--gone, in a coffin; to be buried out of sight in
a few hours. Then some one whispered to Mr. Darrow that a few words were
expected of him.
* * * * *
It was Mr. Darrow's good-bye to his dear friend. He stood up and his loose
figure and slyly malicious face wore an unaccustomed seriousness. The
audience waited, but the facile Mr. Darrow was having difficulty locating
his voice, his words. His eyes, blurred with tears, were still staring at
the coffin. Finally Mr. Darrow began. His dear friend. Dead. So charming a
man. So brilliant a mind. Dead now. He had been so amazingly alive it
seemed incredible that he should be dead. It was as if part of
himself--Mr. Darrow--lay in the coffin.
The eulogy continued, quiet, sincere, stirring tears in the audience and
filling their hearts with a realization of the grief that lay in Mr.
Darrow's heart. Then slowly the phrases grew clearer.
"We were old friends and we fought many battles of the mind," said Mr.
Darrow. "And we were to have debated once more next week--on 'Is There
Immortality?' It was his contention," whispered Mr. Darrow, "that there is
immortality. He is gone now, but he speaks more eloquently on the subject
than if he were still with us. There lies all that remains of my friend
George Burman Foster--in a coffin. And had he lived he would have argued
with me on the subject. But he is dead and he knows now, in the negation
and darkness of death, that he was wrong--that there is no immortality--"
Mr. Darrow paused. He had after many years won his argument with Prof.
Foster. But the victory brought no elation. Mr. Darrow's eyes filled again
and he turned to walk from the stage. But before he left the mourners
sitting around him heard him murmur:
"I wish poor George Foster had been right. There would be nobody happier
than I to realize that his soul had survived--that there was still a
George Foster. But--if he could come back now after the proof of death he
would admit--yes, admit that--that there is no immortality."
And Mr. Darrow with his head bowed yielded the platform to his
inarticulate and vanquished friend and debater.