Among Professor Scattergood's numerous admirers there have always been
some to whom his arguments for the Friendliness of the Universe proved
unconvincing. They would begin by pulling his logic to pieces, and
conclude by saying, with the air of people who keep their strongest
argument to the last: "It looks, at all events, as though the friendly
Universe had done our good Professor a most unfriendly turn by depriving
him of Ethelberta and substituting the present Mrs Scattergood in her
place." And there was no denying the force of the argument.
For half a long lifetime John Scattergood had lived his earnest days
with little aid from those sources of spiritual vitality upon which
most of us depend. Love in all its finer essences had been denied
him--denied him, as he knew better than anybody, by that very Universe
whose friendliness he had set himself to prove. Among the many lonely
souls who live in crowded places it would be hard to find one lonelier
than he. Even the demonstrated friendliness of the Universe did not seem
to thaw his heart, or to break down the barriers of his reserve. The
surest means of discovering his inner mind was to put your ear to the
keyhole on one of the many occasions when he was talking to himself.
"_Wie brennt mein alte Wunde!_" is what you would often hear him say.
Mrs Scattergood was said to have once been a very beautiful woman; and I
can well believe it was even so. She was the daughter of a baronet, and
had been brought up to think that the mission of women in this world is
to have a good time. But her husband had thwarted this mission; at all
events, he had not provided its fulfilment. And the lady made it a
point of daily practice to remind him of the failure, driving the
reminder home with the help of expletives learnt in her father's stables
long ago. John Scattergood would retire from these interviews talking to
himself. "If I could keep her from the morphia," he would say, "I think
I could bear the rest." He would then shut himself up in his study,
would take out the miniature of Ethelberta from his secret drawer--a
foolish thing to do, but a thing which somehow he couldn't help; would
shake his head and say for the thousandth time, "Wie brennt mein alte
Wunde!" After which, having brushed aside a tear, he would take up his
pen and continue his proof of the Friendliness of the Universe according
to the Inflexible Method.
If Scattergood could have seen himself, as I see him in memory, seated
in his quiet study, with the household skeleton, the philosophical
thesis, and the gold-rimmed miniature of Ethelberta, in their respective
positions, forming as it were the three points of a mystic triangle, I
think he might have discerned in the Universe something of deeper
import than ever appeared within the four corners of his philosophy. But
alas! All Q.E.D.'s are fatal to emotion, and it was Q.E.D. that
Scattergood had placed at the end of his great thesis. In some respects
he resembled that other great philosopher who became so absorbed in his
proof of the existence of God that he forgot to say his prayers. The
fact of the matter is, that after proving the ultimate nature of the
Universe to be friendly his heart was no warmer than before. Indeed, his
interest in that august Object had stiffened into the chill rigidity of
a professional pose. His thesis, by becoming demonstrably true, had
ceased to be morally exciting. He actually looked forward to his
afternoon ride as a means of getting the taste of the Universe out of
his mouth.
By long and devious ways, John Scattergood had thus arrived at the point
from which he had set out; he had arrived, I mean, at that extremely
common state of mind when one actual smile seen on the face of the
world, or a moment of contact with any one of the innumerable friendly
presences which the world harbours, was worth more to him, both as
philosopher and man, than were all the achievements of the Inflexible
Method, past, present, and to come. And I have now to record that such a
smile was vouchsafed to him, and such a living contact provided, by the
mediation of a four-footed beast.
Let no one suppose, however, that our Professor was led astray by
fatuous fancies concerning his mare. He did not jump to the conclusion
that she was a reincarnation of the long-lost Ethelberta. The Inflexible
Method, thank God, saved him from that. But if you ask me how it all
came about, I am bound to confess I don't know. All we can be sure of is
that his mare did for Professor Scattergood something which a lifetime
of reflection had been unable to accomplish. No doubt the lifetime of
reflection had dried the fuel. But it was the influence of Ethelberta
that brought the flame.
"It's quite true," he said one day, "that I prepare my lectures on
horseback; and people tell me that I have fallen into a habit of
preparing them aloud. But the fact is, I am going to deliver a new
course; and I find that horse-exercise quickens the action of the
brain--a necessary thing at my time of life, when one's powers of
expression are on the wane, and new ideas increasingly difficult to put
into form."
"You ride a beautiful animal," said his interlocutor.
"Yes, and as good as she's beautiful." And then in his softest voice he
repeated the line:
"Tra bell'e buona, non so qual fosse piu."
This favourable view of Ethelberta's qualities was by no means
convincing to Professor Scattergood's friends. We knew she was "bella";
but we doubted the "buona." The spectacle of an elderly Doctor of
Divinity setting out for his daily ride on a magnificent racehorse in
the pink of condition was indeed a vision to fill the bold with
astonishment and the timid with alarm. "The man is mad," said some;
"will no one warn him of his danger?" Various attempts were made, but
they came to nothing. Knowing myself to be the least cogent of
advisers, I kept silence to the last; but when all the others had failed
I resolved to try my hand.
"Scattergood," I said, "that thoroughbred of yours is not a suitable
mount for a man of your years. She ought to be ridden by a jockey. I
wish to Heaven you would sell her."
"Nothing in this world would induce me to part with Ethelberta," he
answered.
"I'm sorry to hear it. There's no man living in England at this moment
whose life is more precious than yours. We can't afford to lose you.
Then think of your----" I was going to say "your wife," but I checked
myself in time: "Think of your work. It's a very serious matter. Sure as
fate that brute"--("She's not a _brute_," he interrupted)--"sure as fate
that beauty will run away with you one of these days and break your
neck."
"How do you know that?" he asked quietly.
"Because she's run away with you twice already, and you escaped only by
a miracle. She'll do it again, and next time you may not be quite so
fortunate."
"She'll never do it again," he said in the same quiet voice.
"How do you know that?" I said, thinking that I had turned the tables on
him.
"Never mind how. I know it well enough."
"By the Inflexible Method?"
"Of course not," he said with some annoyance. "There are different kinds
of certainty, and this is one of the most certain of all."
"More certain than the Inflexible----?"
"Oh, damn the Inflexible Method!" he cried. "I'm sick to death of it.
You'll do me a kindness by not mentioning it again."
"All right; I'm as sick of it as you are. After all, it's not your
philosophy I'm thinking of; what I am concerned about is your life. Now,
Scattergood," I added--for I was an old friend,--"frankly, between you
and me, don't you think you're a fool?"
"My dear fellow, I am and always have been a ----" and here he used that
objectionable word--"always have been a certain sort of fool. But not
about Ethelberta. We understand each other perfectly. She looks after
me and takes care of me like a--like a mother. My life is absolutely
safe in her hands--I mean, of course, on her back."
"Confound those mixed metaphors!" I cried. "That's the seventh I've
heard to-day, and they're horribly confusing, even when they are
corrected as you corrected yours. Now, what on earth do you mean?"
He looked at me curiously. "I mean," he said, "that Ethelberta may be
trusted to the uttermost."
"Scattergood," I said, "there's a sort of friendship in the Universe
which does not scruple on occasion to break every bone in a man's body,
and I greatly fear that Ethelberta may be one of its ministers. Now,
here's a plain question. Would you be prepared to stand before your
class to-morrow morning and bid them trust the Universe for no better
reasons than those on which you trust your life to the tender mercies of
that bru----of Ethelberta?"
"I only wish I could find them reasons half as good."
"Half as good as what?"
"As those for which I trust my life to Ethelberta."
"What are they?"
"I can't tell you. If I did tell, the reasons would lose their force.
But until they are uttered they are quite conclusive."
"What!" I cried; "are the reasons _taboo_? Have you found a magic
formula?"
"Don't jest," he said. "The matter's far too serious. There is more at
stake than the mere safety of my life."
"Then you admit your life _is_ at stake," said I; and I thought I had
scored a point.
"No, I don't. But other things are--things of far greater importance. My
life, however, runs no risk from Ethelberta."
"Then tell me this. Who runs the bigger risk--you who trust your life to
a beast for no reasons you can assign; or we, your disciples, who trust
ourselves to the Universe in the name of your philosophy?"
"By far the bigger risk," he answered, "is yours."
"Then you mean to say that you have better reasons for trusting your
beast than we have for trusting your system?"
"I do."
"You are quite serious?"
"I am."
"But follow this out," I said. "If we, your disciples, run the bigger
risk in trusting ourselves to your system, you, its author, run the same
risk yourself."
"You're strangely mistaken," he answered.
"Surely," said I, "we are all in the same boat. What reasons can you
have, other than those you have given us, for trusting your conclusion
as to the friendliness of the Universe?"
"You forget," he said. "In addition to the reasons I have given you, I
have all those which induce me to trust my life to Ethelberta."
"But how do they affect your philosophy?"
"They affect it vitally."
"In the way of confirmation or otherwise?"
"Confirmation."
"You mean that your philosophy is already conclusively proved, and yet
made more conclusive by Ethelberta?"
"Put it that way, if you like."
"Is there no hope," I asked, "that you will be able one day to
communicate the reasons to _us_?"
"None," he answered. "But what I can do, and will do, if I live long
enough, is to show that all of you are acting much as I am acting in
regard to Ethelberta."
"But we are not all risking our lives on thoroughbred horses."
"You are running far bigger risks than that," he said; "and you are
fools not to see it. Did I not tell you that I am revising my lectures?"
"Scattergood," I said, "it's plain to me that you will have to do one of
two things. Either you must radically change your system--or you must
sell Ethelberta. Personally, I hope you'll do the last."
"In any case," he replied, "I shall not sell Ethelberta."
"Then," said I, "may the friendly Universe preserve you from being
killed." And with that I took my departure.