of those four terms, A. R., A. D., U. R., and U. D.; you will find
that the Infinite Possible Conundrum (so to speak) can always be
reduced under one of those four heads. Using symbols, as they do in
discussing syllogism--indeed, by the way, a conundrum is only a
jocular variation in the syllogism, an intentional fallacy for fun
(read Whately's _Logic_, Book III., and see if it isn't so)--using
symbols, I say, you have these four "figures:"--
I. (A. R.) Why is A like B? (answerable): as, Why is a gentleman who
gives a young lady a young dog, like a person who rides rapidly up
hill? A. Because he gives a gallop up (gal-a-pup).
_Sub-variety_; depending upon a violation of something like the
"principle of excluded middle," a very fallacy of a fallacy; such as
the ancient "nigger-minstrel!" case, Why is an elephant like a brick?
A. Because neither of them can climb a tree.
II. (A. D.) Why is A _unlike_ B? (answerable) usually put thus: What
is the difference between A and B? (Figure I., if worded in the same
style, would become: What is the similarity between A and B?): as,
What is the difference between the old United-States Bank and the
Fulton Ferry-boat signals in thick weather? A. One is a fog whistle,
and the other is a Whig fossil.
III. (U. R.) Why is A like B? (unanswerable): as Charles Lamb's
well-known question, Is that your own hare, or a wig?
IV. (U. D.) Why is A _unlike_ B? (unanswerable): i. e., What is the
difference, &c, as, What is the difference between a fac simile and a
sick family; or between hydraulics and raw-hide licks?
But let me not diverge too far into frivolity. All the hopefully
difficult questions Dr. Hicok set down and classified. He compiled a
set of rules on the subject, and indeed developed a whole philosophy
of it, by which he struck off, as soluble, questions or classes of
them. Some he thought out himself; others were now and then answered
in some learned book, that led the way through the very heart of one
or another of his biggest mill-stones.
So it was really none too much time that he had; and, in truth, he did
not actually decide upon his three questions, until just a week before
the fearful day when he was to put them.
It came at last, as every day of reckoning surely comes; and Dr.
Hicok, memorandum in hand, sat in his comfortable library about three
o'clock on one beautiful warm summer afternoon, as pale as a sheet,
his heart thumping away like Mr. Krupp's biggest steam-hammer at
Essen, his mouth and tongue parched and feverish, a pitcher of cold
water at hand from which he sipped and sipped, though it seemed as if
his throat repelled it into "the globular state," or dispersed it into
steam, as red-hot iron does. Around him were the records of the vast
army of doubters and quibblers in whose works he had been hunting, as
a traveller labours through a jungle, for the deepest doubts, the most
remote inquiries.
Sometimes, with that sort of hardihood, rather than reason, which
makes a desperate man try to believe by his will what he longs to know
to be true, Dr. Hicok would say to himself, "I know I've got him!" And
then his heart would seem to fall out of him, it sank so suddenly, and
with so deadly a faintness, as the other side of his awful case loomed
before him, and he thought, "But if--?" He would not finish _that_
question; he could not. The furthest point to which he could bring
himself was that of a sort of icy outer stiffening of acquiescence in
the inevitable.
There was a ring at the street-door. The servant brought in a card, on
a silver salver.
+-----------------+
| MR. APOLLO LYON |
+-----------------+
"Show the gentleman in," said the doctor. He spoke with difficulty;
for the effort to control his own nervous excitement was so immense an
exertion, that he hardly had the self-command and muscular energy even
to articulate.
The servant returned, and ushered into the library a handsome,
youngish, middle-aged and middle-sized gentleman, pale, with large
melancholy black eyes, and dressed in the most perfect and quiet
style.
The doctor arose, and greeted his visitor with a degree of steadiness
and politeness that did him the greatest credit.
"How do you do, sir?" he said: "I am happy"--but it struck him that he
wasn't, and he stopped short.
"Very right, my dear sir," replied the guest, in a voice that was
musical but perceptibly sad, or rather patient in tone. "Very right;
how hollow those formulas are! I hate all forms and ceremonies! But I
am glad to see _you_, doctor. Now, that is really the fact."
No doubt! "Divil doubt him!" as an Irishman would say. So is a cat
glad to see a mouse in its paw. Something like these thoughts arose in
the doctor's mind; he smiled as affably as he could, and requested the
visitor to be seated.
"Thanks!" replied he, and took the chair which the doctor moved up to
the table for him. He placed his hat and gloves on the table. There
was a brief pause, as might happen if any two friends sat down at
their ease for a chat on matters and things in general. The visitor
turned over a volume or two that lay on the table.
"The Devil," he read from one of them; "His Origin, Greatness, and
Decadence. By the Rev. A. Réville, D.D."
"Ah!" he commented quietly. "A Frenchman, I observe. If it had been an
Englishman, I should fancy he wrote the book for the sake of the rhyme
in the title. Do you know, doctor, I fancy that incredulity of his
will substitute one dash for the two periods in the reverend
gentleman's degree! I know no one greater condition of success in some
lines of operation, than to have one's existence thoroughly
disbelieved in."
The doctor forced himself to reply: "I hardly know how I came to have
the book here. Yet he does make out a pretty strong case. I confess I
would like to be certified that he is right. Suppose you allow
yourself to be convinced?" And the poor fellow grinned: it couldn't be
called a smile.
"Why, really, I'll look into it. I've considered the point though, not
that I'm sure I could choose. And you know, as the late J. Milton very
neatly observed, one would hardly like to lose one's intellectual
being, 'though full of pain;'" and he smiled, not unkindly but sadly,
and then resumed: "A Bible too. Very good edition. I remember seeing
it stated that a professional person made it his business to find
errors of the press in one of the Bible Society's editions--this very
one, I think; and the only one he could discover was a single 'wrong
font.' Very accurate work--very!"
He had been turning over the leaves indifferently as he spoke, and
laid the volume easily back. "Curious old superstition that," he
remarked, "that certain personages were made uncomfortable by this
work!" And he gave the doctor a glance, as much as to ask, in the most
delicate manner in the world, "Did you put that there to scare me
with?"
I think the doctor blushed a little. He had not really expected, you
know,--still, in case there should be any prophylactic influence--? No
harm done, in any event; and that was precisely the observation made
by the guest.
"No harm done, my dear fellow!" he said, in his calm, quiet, musical
voice. No good, either, I imagine they both of them added to
themselves.
There is an often repeated observation, that people under the pressure
of an immeasurable misery or agony seem to take on a preternaturally
sharp vision for minute details, such as spots in the carpet, and
sprigs in the wall-paper, threads on a sleeve, and the like. Probably
the doctor felt this influence. He had dallied a little, too, with the
crisis; and so did his visitor--from different motives, no doubt; and,
as he sat there, his eye fell on the card that had just been brought
to him.
"I beg your pardon," he said; "but might I ask a question about your
card?"
"Most certainly, doctor: what is it?"
"Why--it's always a liberty to ask questions about a gentleman's name,
and we Scotchmen are particularly sensitive on the point; but I have
always been interested in the general subject of patronomatology."
The other, by a friendly smile and a deprecating wave of the hand,
renewed his welcome to the doctor's question.
"Well, it's this: How did you come to decide upon that form of
name--Mr. Apollo Lyon?"
"Oh! just a little fancy of mine. It's a newly-invented variable card,
I believe they call it. There's a temporary ink arrangement. It struck
me it was liable to abuse in case of an assumption of _aliases_; but
perhaps that's none of my business. You can easily take off the upper
name, and another one comes out underneath. I'm always interested in
inventions. See."
And as the text, "But they have sought out many inventions," passed
through Dr. Hicok's mind, the other drew forth a white handkerchief,
and, rubbing the card in a careless sort of way, laid it down before
the doctor. Perhaps the strain on the poor doctor's nerves was
unsteadying him by this time: he may not have seen right; but he
seemed to see only one name, as if compounded from the former two.
+------------+
| APOLLYON |
+------------+
And it seemed to be in red ink instead of black; and the lines seemed
to creep and throb and glow, as if the red were the red of fire,
instead of vermilion. But red is an extremely trying colour to the
eyes. However, the doctor, startled as he was, thought best not to
raise any further queries, and only said, perhaps with some
difficulty, "Very curious, I'm sure!"
"Well, doctor," said Mr. Lyon, or whatever his name was, "I don't want
to hurry you, but I suppose we might as well have our little business
over?"
"Why, yes. I suppose you wouldn't care to consider any question of
compromises or substitutes?"
"I fear it's out of the question, really," was the reply, most kindly
in tone, but with perfect distinctness.
There was a moment's silence. It seemed to Dr. Hicok as if the beating
of his heart must fill the room, it struck so heavily, and the blood
seemed to surge with so loud a rush through the carotids up past his
ears. "Shall I be found to have gone off with a rush of blood to the
head?" he thought to himself. But--it can very often be done by a
resolute effort--he gathered himself together as it were, and with one
powerful exertion mastered his disordered nerves. Then he lifted his
memorandum, gave one glance at the sad, calm face opposite him, and
spoke.
"You know they're every once in a while explaining a vote, as they
call it, in Congress. It don't make any difference, I know; but it
seems to me as if I should put you more fully in possession of my
meaning, if I should just say a word or two, about the reasons for my
selection."
The visitor bowed with his usual air of pleasant acquiescence.
"I am aware," said Dr. Hicok, "that my selection would seem thoroughly
commonplace to most people. Yet nobody knows better than you do, my
dear sir, that the oldest questions are the newest. The same vitality
which is so strong in them, as to raise them as soon as thought
begins, is infinite, and maintains them as long as thought endures.
Indeed, I may say to you frankly, that it is by no means on novelty,
but rather on antiquity, that I rely."
The doctor's hearer bowed with an air of approving interest. "Very
justly reasoned," he observed. The doctor went on--
"I have, I may say--and under the circumstances I shall not be
suspected of conceit--made pretty much the complete circuit of
unsolved problems. They class exactly as those questions do which we
habitually reckon as solved: under the three subjects to which they
relate--God, the intelligent creation, the unintelligent creation.
Now, I have selected my questions accordingly--one for each of those
divisions. Whether I have succeeded in satisfying the conditions
necessary will appear quickly. But you see that I have not stooped to
any quibbling, or begging either. I have sought to protect myself by
the honourable use of a masculine reason."
"Your observations interest me greatly," remarked the audience. "Not
the less so, that they are so accurately coincident with my own
habitual lines of thought--at least, so far as I can judge from what
you have said. Indeed, suppose you had called upon me to help you
prepare insoluble problems. I was bound, I suppose, to comply to the
best of my ability; and, if I had done so, those statements of yours
are thus far the very preface I supplied--I beg your pardon--should
have supplied--you with. I fancy I could almost state the questions.
Well?"--
All this was most kind and complimentary; but somehow it did not
encourage the doctor in the least. He even fancied that he detected a
sneer, as if his interlocutor had been saying, "Flutter away, old
bird! That was _my bait_ that you have been feeding on: you're safe
enough; it is my net that holds you."
"_First Question_," said Dr. Hicok, with steadiness: "Reconcile the
foreknowledge and the fore-ordination of God with the free will of
man?"
"I thought so, of course," remarked the other. Then he looked straight
into the doctor's keen little grey eyes with his deep melancholy black
ones, and raised his slender fore-finger. "Most readily. The
reconciliation is _your own conscience_, doctor! Do what you know to
be right, and you will find that there is nothing to reconcile--that
you and your Maker have no debates to settle!"
The words were spoken with a weighty solemnity and conviction that
were even awful. The doctor had a conscience, though he had found
himself practically forced, for the sake of success, to use a good
deal of constraint with it--in fact, to lock it up, as it were, in a
private mad-house, on an unfounded charge of lunacy. But the obstinate
thing would not die, and would not lose its wits; and now all of a
sudden, and from the very last quarter where it was to be expected,
came a summons before whose intensity of just requirement no bolts
could stand. The doctor's conscience walked out of her prison, and
came straight up to the field of battle, and said--
"Give up the first question."
And he obeyed.
"I confess it," he said. "But how could I have expected a great basic
truth both religiously and psychologically so, from--from _you_?"
"Ah! my dear sir," was the reply, "you have erred in _that_ line of
thought, exactly as many others have. The truth is one and the same,
to God, man, and devil."
"_Second Question_," said Dr. Hicok. "Reconcile the development
theory, connection of natural selection and sexual relation, with the
responsible immortality of the soul."
"Unquestionably," assented the other, as if to say, "Just as I
expected."
"No theory of creation has any logical connection with any doctrine of
immortality. What was the motive of creation?--_that_ would be a
question! If you had asked me _that_! But the question, 'Where did men
come from?' has no bearing on the question, 'Have they any duties now
that they are here?' The two are reconciled, because they do not
differ. You can't state any inconsistency between a yard measure and a
fifty-six pound weight."
The doctor nodded; he sat down; he took a glass of water, and pressed
his hand to his heart. "Now, then," he said to himself, "once more! If
I have to stand this fifteen minutes I shall be in _some_ other
world!"
The door from the inner room opened; and Mrs. Hicok came singing in,
carrying balanced upon her pretty pink fore-finger something or other
of an airy bouquet-like fabric. Upon this she was looking with much
delight.
"See, dear!" she said: "how perfectly lovely!"
Both gentlemen started, and the lady started too. She had not known of
the visit; and she had not, until this instant, seen that her husband
was not alone.
Dr. Hicok, of course, had never given her the key to his
skeleton-closet; for he was a shrewd man. He loved her too; and he
thought he had provided for her absence during the ordeal. She had
executed her shopping with unprecedented speed.
Why the visitor started, would be difficult to say. Perhaps her voice
startled him. The happy music in it was enough like a beautified
duplicate of his own thrilling sweet tones, to have made him
acknowledge her for a sister--from heaven. He started, at any rate.
"Mr. Lyon, my wife," said the doctor, somewhat at a loss. Mr. Lyon
bowed, and so did the lady.
"I beg your pardon, gentlemen, I am sure," she said. "I did not know
you were busy, dear. There is a thunder-shower coming up. I drove home
just in season."
"Oh!--only a little wager, about some conundrums," said the doctor.
Perhaps he may be excused for his fib. He did not want to annoy her
unnecessarily.
"Oh, do let me know!" she said, with much eagerness. "You know how I
enjoy them!"
"Well," said the doctor, "not exactly the ordinary kind. I was to
puzzle my friend here with one out of three questions; and he has
beaten me in two of them already. I've but one more chance."
"Only one?" she asked, with a smile. "What a bright man your friend
must be! I thought nobody could puzzle you, dear. Stay; let _me_ ask
the other question."
Both the gentlemen started again: it was quite a surprise.
"But are you a married man, Mr. Lyon?" she asked, with a blush.
"No, madam," was the reply, with a very graceful bow--"I have a
mother, but no wife. Permit me to say, that, if I could believe there
was a duplicate of yourself in existence, I would be as soon as
possible."
"Oh, what a gallant speech!" said the lady. "Thank you, sir, very
much;" and she made him a pretty little curtsy. "Then I am quite sure
of my question, sir. Shall I, dear?"
The doctor quickly decided. "I am done for, anyhow," he reflected. "I
begin to see that the old villain put those questions into my head
himself. He hinted as much. I don't know but I'd rather she would ask
it. It's better to have her kill me, I guess, than to hold out the
carving-knife to him myself."
"With all my heart, my dear," said the doctor, "if Mr. Lyon consents."
Mr. Lyon looked a little disturbed; but his manner was perfect, as he
replied that he regretted to seem to disoblige, but that he feared the
conditions of their little bet would not allow it.
"Beg your pardon, I'm sure, for being so uncivil," said the lively
little beauty, as she whispered a few words in her husband's ear.
This is what she said--
"What's mine's yours, dear. Take it. Ask him--buz, buzz, buzz."
The doctor nodded. Mrs. Hicok stood by him and smiled, still holding
in her pretty pink fore-finger the frail shimmering thing just
mentioned; and she gave it a twirl, so that it swung quite round.
"Isn't it a love of a bonnet?" she said.
"Yes," the doctor said aloud. "I adopt the question."
"_Third Question. Which is the front side of this?_"
And he pointed to the bonnet. It must have been a bonnet, because Mrs.
Hicok called it so. I shouldn't have known it from the collection of
things in a kaleidoscope, bunched up together.
The lady stood before him, and twirled the wondrous fabric round and
round, with the prettiest possible unconscious roguish look of
defiance. The doctor's very heart stood still.
"Put it on, please," said Mr. Lyon, in the most innocent way in the
world.
"Oh, no!" laughed she. "I know I'm only a woman, but I'm not _quite_
so silly! But I'll tell you what: you men put it on, if you think that
will help you!" And she held out the mystery to him.
Confident in his powers of discrimination, Mr. Lyon took hold of the
fairy-like combination of sparkles and threads and feathers and
flowers, touching it with that sort of timid apprehension that
bachelors use with a baby. He stood before the glass over the
mantelpiece. First he put it across his head with one side in front,
and then with the other. Then he put it lengthways of his head, and
tried the effect of tying one of the two couples of strings under each
of his ears. Then he put it on, the other side up; so that it swam on
his head like a boat, with a high mounted bow and stern. More than
once he did all this, with obvious care and thoughtfulness.
Then he came slowly back, and resumed his seat. It was growing very
dark, though they had not noticed it; for the thunder-shower had been
hurrying on, and already its advanced guard of wind, heavy laden with
the smell of the rain, could be heard, and a few large drops splashed
on the window.
The beautiful wife of the doctor laughed merrily to watch the growing
discomposure of the visitor, who returned the bonnet, with
undiminished courtesy, but with obvious constraint of manner.
He looked down; he drummed on the table; he looked up; and both the
doctor and the doctor's wife were startled at the intense sudden anger
in the dark, handsome face. Then he sprang up, and went to the window.
He looked out a moment, and then said--
"Upon my word, that is going to be a very sharp squall! The clouds are
_very_ heavy. If I'm any judge, something will be struck. I can feel
the electricity in the air."
While he still spoke, the first thunder-bolt crashed overhead. It was
one of those close, sudden, overpoweringly awful explosions from
clouds very heavy and very near, where the lightning and the thunder
leap together out of the very air close about you, even as if you were
in them. It was an unendurable burst of sound, and of the intense
white sheety light of very near lightning. Dreadfully frightened, the
poor little lady clung close to her husband. He, poor man, if possible
yet more frightened, exhausted as he was by what he had been enduring,
fainted dead away. Don't blame him: a cast-iron bull-dog might have
fainted.
Mrs. Hicok, thinking that her husband was struck dead by the
lightning, screamed terribly. Then she touched him; and, seeing what
was really the matter, administered cold water from the pitcher on the
table. Shortly he revived.
"Where is he?" he said.
"I don't know, love. I thought you were dead. He must have gone away.
Did it strike the house?"
"Gone away? Thank God! Thank _you_, dear!" cried out the doctor.
Not knowing any adequate cause for so much emotion, she answered him--
"Now, love, don't you ever say women are not practical again. That was
a practical question, you see. But didn't it strike the house? What a
queer smell. Ozone: isn't that what you were telling me about? How
funny, that lightning should have a smell!"
"I believe there's no doubt of it," observed Dr. Hicok.
Mr. Apollo Lyon had really gone, though just how or when, nobody could
say.
"My dear," said Dr. Hicok, "I do so like that bonnet of yours! I don't
wonder it puzzled him. It would puzzle the Devil himself. I firmly
believe I shall call it your Devil-puzzler."
But he never told her what the puzzle had been.
THE DEVIL'S ROUND[20]
A TALE OF FLEMISH GOLF
BY CHARLES DEULIN
[20] From _Longman's Magazine_, vol. xiv. [Copyright 1889 by
Longmans, Green & Co., London & New York. By permission of
the Publishers.]