Of all the conversations of the learned, those in which History and
Philosophy maintain the dialogue are probably the most instructive. Such
a conversation I was fortunate enough to hear not long ago at the
dinner-table of a friend; and the occasion was the more interesting
inasmuch as the Philosopher of the party was led by a turn of the
argument to lay aside his mantle and assume the role of the
story-teller; thereby providing us with a valuable comment on the very
philosophy with which his own illustrious name has been long associated.
We had been talking during dinner about a certain Expedition to the
South Seas undertaken by the British Government in the eighteenth
century; and the Historian had just finished a most surprising
narration of the facts, based on his recent investigation of unpublished
documents, when our Hostess glanced at the clock, and rising from her
chair gave the signal to the ladies to depart.
When we had resumed our places the Professor of Philosophy said to the
Historian:
"I wish you would tell us what in your opinion it was that caused the
Expedition to turn out such an utter failure."
"The Expedition failed," said the Historian, "because the commander was
not allowed to select his own crews. The Government of the day was
corrupt, and insisted on manning the ships with men of its own choosing.
Some were diseased; others were criminals; many had never handled a rope
in their lives. Before the fleet had doubled Cape Horn one-third of the
crews had perished, and the rest were mutinous. The enterprise was
doomed to failure from the start."
"The whole planet is manned in the same manner," said the Pessimist, as
he helped himself to one of our Host's superlative cigars. "I'm sorry
for the Commander, whoever he is."
"What precisely do you mean?" said the Professor of Philosophy, holding
a lighted match to the end of the Pessimist's cigar.
"I mean," said the Pessimist, "that the prospects of the Human
Expedition can't be very bright so long as Society has to put up with
anybody and everybody who happens to be born. I suppose there _is_ a
Human Expedition," he went on. "At least, _you_ have written as though
there were. But who selects the crew? Nobody. They come aboard as they
happen to be born, and the unfortunate Commander has to put up with them
as they come--broken men, jail-deliveries, invalids, sea-sick
land-lubbers, and Heaven knows what. Who in his senses would put to sea
with such a crowd? Humanity is always in a state like that of your
Expedition when it doubled Cape Horn--incompetent, mutinous, or sick
unto death. And what else can you expect in view of the conditions under
which we all arrive on the planet?"
The Host now glanced uneasily at the Professor of Philosophy, whose
treatise on _The World Purpose_ was famous throughout three continents.
The Professor was visibly arming himself for the fray: he had just
filled his claret-glass with port.
"Remember," said the Host, "that we must join the ladies in twenty
minutes at the utmost."
"I'm not going to argue," replied the Philosopher, after a resolute sip
at his port; "I'm going to tell you a story."
"Tell it in the drawing-room," said the Son of the House, who had taken
his pretty cousin down to dinner, and was a little exhilarated by that
and by the excellence of his father's wine; "that is to say,"--and he
spoke eagerly, as if a bright idea had struck him,--"that is to say, of
course, if it will bear telling in the presence of ladies."
There was a roar of laughter, and the Son of the House blushed to the
roots of his hair.
"I am inclined to think," said the Professor, "that my story, so far
from being unsuitable for the ladies, will be intelligible to no one
else."
"We'll join the ladies at once," said the Host, "and hear the
Professor's story."
The Pessimist, who was fond of talking, now broke in. "That," he said,
"is most attractive, but not quite fair to me. I should like to finish
what I have begun. And I doubt if my views will be quite in place in the
drawing-room. Besides, the Professor must finish his port. I was only
going to say," he went on, "that the having to put up with all that
comes in human shape is a very serious affair. It seems to me that we
all arrive in the world like dumped goods. Nobody has 'ordered' us, and
perhaps nobody wants us. Our parents wanted us, did you say? Well, I
suppose our parents wanted children; but it doesn't follow that they
wanted _you_ or _me_. Somebody else might have filled the book as well,
or better. Our birth is a matter of absolute chance. For example, my
father has often told me how he met my mother. There was a picnic on a
Swiss lake. My father's watch was slow, and when he arrived at the quay
the boat that carried his party was out of sight. It so happened that
there was another party--people my father didn't know--going to another
island, and seeing him disconsolate on the quay they took pity on him
and made him go with them. It was in that boat that he first met my
mother. The moral is obvious. If my father's watch had kept better time
I should never have been in existence. ["A jolly good thing, too,"
whispered the Son of the House.] Neither would my six brothers, nor any
of our descendants to the _n_th generation. Well, that's how the whole
planet gets itself _manned_. That's how the crew is 'chosen.' And that's
why the Expedition gets into trouble on rounding Cape Horn."
"It's a capital introduction to my story," said the Professor, in whom,
after his second claret-glass of port, _The World Purpose_ had assumed a
new intensity. "I wish the ladies could have heard it."
"I venture to think," said our Host, "that the ladies will understand
the story all the better for not having heard the introduction. You see,
I am assuming that the story is a good one--which is as much as to say
that no introduction is needed."
"Thank you," said the Professor.
"I say," broke in the Son of the House, "I say, Professor, it's a pity
you didn't take that question up in _The World Purpose_. That's an
awfully good point of the Pessimist's, and a jolly difficult one to
answer, too. I should like to see you tackle it. Why, I once heard the
Pater here say to the Mater----"
"We'll go upstairs," said our Host.
* * * * *
"About ten years ago," the Professor began, "I was travelling one night
in a third-class carriage to a town on the North-east Coast. My two
companions in the compartment were evidently mother and daughter. The
mother had a singularly beautiful and intelligent face; and the
daughter, who was about twelve years old, resembled her. They were
dressed in good taste, without rings or finery, and, so far as I am
able to judge such things, without expense.
"Prior to the departure of the train from the London terminus, I had
noticed the two walking up and down the platform and looking into the
carriages, apparently endeavouring to find a compartment to themselves.
They did not succeed, and finally entered the compartment where I was.
Whether I ought to have been flattered by this, or the reverse, I knew
not.
"I could see they wanted to be alone, and I felt a brief impulse to
leave them to themselves and go elsewhere. It would have been a
chivalrous act; but whether from indolence, or curiosity, or some other
feeling, I let the impulse die, and remained where I was.
"The girl began immediately to arrange cushions for her mother in the
corner of the carriage; and from the solicitude she showed, I gathered
that the mother, though to all appearance in health, was either ill or
convalescent. By the time I had come to this conclusion the train was
already in motion, or I verily believe I should have obeyed my first
impulse and left the carriage. I am glad, however, that I did not.
"When all had been arranged I noticed that the two had settled
themselves in the attitude of lovers, their hands clasped, the girl
resting her head on the mother's shoulder and gazing into her face from
time to time with a look of infinite tenderness. And it was some relief
to me to observe that, lover-like, they seemed indifferent to my
presence.
"I was reading a book, though I confess that my eyes and mind would
constantly wander to the other side of the carriage. I am not a
sentimental person, and scenes of sentiment are particularly
objectionable to my temper of mind; but for once in my life I was
overawed by the consciousness that I was in the presence of deep and
genuine emotion. Finally, I gave up the effort to read; a strange mental
atmosphere seemed to surround me; I fell into a reverie, and I remember
waking suddenly from a kind of dream, or incoherent meditation on the
pathos and tragedy of human life.
"I looked at my companions and I saw that both were weeping. The girl
was in the same position as before. The mother had turned her face away,
and was looking out into the blackness of the night. Tear after tear
rolled down her cheek.
"They must have become conscious that I was observing them, though God
knows I had little will to do so. I took up my book and pretended to
read; and I knew that an effort was being made, that tears were being
checked, that some climbing sorrow was being held down. Presently the
lady said, speaking in a steady voice--
"'Do you know the name of the station we have just passed?'
"I told her the name of the station; asked if I should raise the window;
spoke to the girl; offered an illustrated paper, and so on through the
usual preliminaries of a traveller's talk. The answers I received were
such as one expects from people of charming manners. But nothing
followed, for a time, and I again took up my book.
"The book I was reading, or pretending to read, was a volume of the
Ingersoll Lectures, bearing on the back the title _Human Immortality_.
Once or twice I noticed the eyes of the woman resting on this, but I was
greatly surprised when, in one of the pauses when I laid down the book,
she said--
"'Would you mind my asking you a question?'
"'Certainly not.'
"'Do you believe in the Immortality of the Soul?'
"As a teacher of philosophy I am accustomed to leading questions at all
sorts of inopportune moments, but never in my life was I so completely
taken aback. However, I collected my thoughts as best I could, and,
though the subject is one on which I never like to speak without
prolonged preparation, I briefly told her my opinions on that great
problem, as you may find them expressed in my published works. Possibly
I spoke with some fervour; the more likely, because I spoke without
preparation. She listened with great attention; and as for the young
girl, her face was lit up with a look of intelligent eagerness which,
had I seen it for one moment in my own class-room, would have rewarded
me for the labour of a long course of lectures.
"I had still much to say when the train drew up at the platform of St
Beeds.
"'I'm sorry not to hear more,' said the lady, 'but this is our
destination.'
"'And there's Dad!' cried the girl.
"A man in working clothes stood at the carriage-door.
"'Good-bye,' said the woman, warmly shaking me by the hand; 'you have
been most kind to me.'
"'Good-bye,' said the daughter; 'you're a dear old dear!'
"And with that she threw her arms round my neck and kissed me fervently
three or four times. I was greatly surprised, but not altogether
displeased.
"They were evidently a most affectionate family. As the train moved off
the three stood arm in arm before the carriage-door.
"'Got two sweethearts to-night, sir,' said the man.
"'And without jealousy,' said I. 'I congratulate you on each of them.'
"'I hope you'll forgive my daughter,' he said; 'she's an impulsive
little baggage.'
"'She may repeat the offence the next time we meet,' I replied; and we
all laughed.
"It was a joyful ending to what had been, in some respects, a painful
experience."
* * * * *
"I don't see the point of your story, Professor; and I am at a loss to
imagine what it has to do with my introduction." This from the
Pessimist.
"The story has only begun," said the Professor, who was sipping his tea.
"Those kisses at the end were jolly hard lines on a man who dislikes
sentiment," said the Son of the House.
"I didn't find them so," answered the Professor. "But remember, they
were only the kisses of a child."
"The best sort," growled the Pessimist.
"True," said our Hostess. "The judgments of children are the judgments
of God. But let the Professor go on."
* * * * *
"It was seven or eight months later," the Professor resumed, "when on
opening the _Times_ one morning my attention was caught by an item of
news relating to the town at which my two companions had alighted from
the train. The news itself was of no importance, but the name of the
town printed at the head of the paragraph strangely arrested me, and
served to recall with singular vividness the incident of my former
journey. I found myself repeating, in order and minute detail,
everything that had happened in the carriage, some of the particulars of
which I had forgotten till that moment. The end of it was that I became
possessed with a strong desire to visit St Beeds, though I had no
connections whatever with the place, and had never stayed there in my
life. I knew, of course, that it was an interesting old town, with a
famous Cathedral, and I remember persuading myself at the time, and
indeed telling my wife, that I ought to visit that Cathedral without
further delay. As the day wore on the impulse grew stronger, and
eventually overpowered me. I travelled down to St Beeds that night, and
put up at one of the principal hotels.
"The next morning was spent in the usual manner of sight-seers in an
ancient town. Reserving the Cathedral for the afternoon, I visited the
old wall and the dismantled quays, and wandered among the narrow
streets, reading history, as my habit is, from the monuments with which
the place abounded. About noon I found my way to the spacious
market-place, and began inspecting the beautiful front of the old Town
Hall.
"I suddenly became aware of a man on the opposite pavement, who was
watching me with some interest. What drew my attention to him was a
large mass of white roses which he was carrying in a basket; for, as you
know, I have been for many years an enthusiastic rose-grower, and there
is nothing which attracts the mind so rapidly as any circumstance
connected with one's hobby. The man was dressed in good clothes; and it
was this that prevented me at first from recognising him as the person
who had met my two companions at the station seven months before.
"Seeing that I had observed him, he crossed the street.
"'You remember me?' he said. 'Well, I have been looking for you all over
the town. Had I known your name I should have asked at the hotels.'
"'But how did you know I had arrived?' I asked.
"'My wife told me you were here.'
"'She must have seen me, then,' I said.
"'Yes, she saw you. She saw you arrive last night at the station. And
she saw you later, standing under an electric lamp, in front of the
Cathedral.'
"This struck me as odd, for I had purposely waited till near midnight
before going to the Cathedral, that I might see the exterior in the
light of the moon; and I had been confident that not a soul was about.
"'How is she?' I asked, for I remembered my previous impression that she
was an invalid.
"'Oh, much better,' he answered; 'in fact, quite restored. It's a great
comfort.'
"'It was very kind of her to send you to look for me,' I said. 'Perhaps
I shall have the pleasure of seeing her later on in the day--and your
daughter as well. You remember I congratulated you on your two
sweethearts?'
"'Yes,' he answered, 'and you were not far wrong in that. But wouldn't
you like to take a turn round the old town first? It's a wonderful place
and full of interest. And I know it through and through.'
"I was greatly puzzled by his manner. His speech and address were
certainly remarkable for a working man; and I confess that for a moment
the thought crossed my mind that he was some sort of impostor, and that
I should be well advised to have nothing to do with him. I suppose it
was his basket of roses that reassured me.
"'Well,' I said, 'I've seen a good deal already. But I've no objection
to seeing it all again. I'll put myself in your hands.'
"'Splendid!' he cried. 'It's an ideal day, and I'm hungering for
sunlight and beauty, and thirsting for the peace of ancient memories.
And it will please my wife to know that I've taken you round. What do
you say to going up the river first? There's a glorious reach beyond the
bridge. And the sun's in the right position to give you the best view of
the Cathedral.'
"'Nothing would please me better,' said I; and we set off at once toward
the river.
"On passing a certain building he bade me carefully examine the roof,
the form of which was remarkable. While I was engaged in so doing,
unconscious for a moment of his presence, I suddenly seemed to hear him
groan behind me; and turning round I saw that he was holding tight to
the iron railings on the other side of the foot-walk, and swaying his
body backward and forward, as though he were in pain.
"'Are you ill?' I asked, in some alarm.
"'Not at all. This is just my way of resting when I'm tired. Come
along.'
"'That's a splendid lot of roses in your basket,' I said, as we took our
places in the boat, he sculling and I steering. 'Frau Carl Druschki,
unless I'm much mistaken.'
"'Yes. I grew them on my allotment. I'm taking them home to my wife.'
"For some time we talked roses. He had a theory of pruning, which
differed from mine, and led to a good deal of argument. Finally, he
dropped his sculls, and, taking a piece of paper from his pocket, drew
on it the diagram of a rose-bush pruned according to his method. We had
forgotten the Cathedral.
"I took his drawing and began to criticise. 'Oh!' he said, 'let's drop
it. We're missing one of the noblest sights in England. Look at that!'
And he pointed to the heights.
"As we dropped down the river half an hour later, my companion, who had
been silent for some time, again broke out on the subject of roses.
'Rose-growing is a thing that takes time and patience and thought,' he
said. 'More perhaps than it's worth. If it were not for my wife, I
should give it up. She's desperately fond of roses.'
"'That's the best of reasons for not giving it up,' I answered. 'I
happen to be a great admirer of your wife.'
"'That's another link between us,' said he. 'She's the best wife man
ever had. She's worthy of all the admiration you can give her.'
"She's worthy of all the roses you can grow for her,' I said.
"'By God, she is!' he answered with an emphasis that startled me.
"We grew confidential, and a story followed. He told me that he was the
illegitimate son of a baronet; that his father had made him an allowance
to study art in London; that he had married his model, in opposition to
the wishes of his father; that the baronet had thereupon thrown him
over for good and all; that he had failed to make a living by his
original art; that he had got an engagement with a great
furnishing-house as a skilled painter; that he was earning four pounds a
week in doing artistic work in rich men's houses and elsewhere; that he
was now engaged in restoring some fifteenth-century frescoes in a parish
church. His wife earned money too, though he did not tell me how, and
his daughter was being trained as a singer. 'We're all more or less in
art,' he said, 'and we are a very happy family.'
"By this time we were back at the landing-place, and as the man stepped
ashore he said: 'It's about time I took these roses to my wife. We'll
just walk along to where I live, and I'll show you the rest of the
sights afterwards. I'll take you to the Cathedral when the afternoon
service is over.'
"As we walked through the streets the man kept up an incessant stream of
talk, pointing to this and that, and discoursing with great eagerness on
the history and antiquities of the town. It struck me as strange that
he never waited for any answer but passed from one thing to another
without a pause. Presently we stopped in front of a small house, one of
a row of villas.
"'This is where I live,' he said, and stopped on the doorstep.
"'Good!' I cried; 'and now you will take me in and reintroduce me to
your charming wife.'
"'I'm sorry,' he answered, 'but the thing's quite impossible.'
"I was so startled by this unexpected answer that, without thinking, I
blurted out the question, 'Why?'
"'_Because_,' he said, '_she's in her coffin. She died at four o'clock
this morning._'
"At the words he sank down on his doorstep, put the basket of roses on
his knees and bowed himself over them in a passion of tears.
"The door opened, and the young girl, who had been with me in the train,
ran down the steps. Sitting down beside her father she put her arms
round his neck and said, 'Daddy, Daddy, don't cry!'"
* * * * *
The Professor ceased and there was a long pause.
"Did you discover," said the Pessimist at length, "why the two were
weeping in the train?"
"No need to ask that," said our Hostess. "The woman had received
sentence of death."
"Did you ever follow it up?" said the Historian. "What, for example,
became of the young girl?"
"_She was married to my eldest son last month_," said the Professor.
"I knew the Pessimist's introduction would not be needed," said our
Host.
"Nevertheless, it was the introduction that reminded me of the story,"
said the Professor. "And now," he continued, "can anyone here explain to
me the strange conduct of the man with the white roses? For I confess
that I can find no place for it in any system of Psychology known to
me."
At this question the Son of the House, who for some reason had become
the gravest member of the party, looked up and seemed about to speak.
But as he raised his eyes they met the bright glance of his pretty
cousin, on whose cheek there was a tear. And when the Son of the House
saw that, the impulse to speech died within him.
No one else ventured an explanation. But my impression was that there
were two persons in the room to whom the strange conduct of the man with
the white roses presented no enigma.
_By the Same Author_