The Wild Weddings; or, the Polygamy Charge
“A modern man,” said Dr. Cyrus Pym, “must, if he be thoughtful,
approach the problem of marriage with some caution. Marriage is a
stage—doubtless a suitable stage—in the long advance of mankind towards
a goal which we cannot as yet conceive; which we are not, perhaps, as
yet fitted even to desire. What, gentlemen, is the ethical position of
marriage? Have we outlived it?”
“Outlived it?” broke out Moon; “why, nobody’s ever survived it! Look at
all the people married since Adam and Eve—and all as dead as mutton.”
“This is no doubt an inter-pellation joc’lar in its character,” said
Dr. Pym frigidly. “I cannot tell what may be Mr. Moon’s matured and
ethical view of marriage—”
“I can tell,” said Michael savagely, out of the gloom. “Marriage is a
duel to the death, which no man of honour should decline.”
“Michael,” said Arthur Inglewood in a low voice, “you MUST keep quiet.”
“Mr. Moon,” said Pym with exquisite good temper, “probably regards the
institution in a more antiquated manner. Probably he would make it
stringent and uniform. He would treat divorce in some great soul of
steel—the divorce of a Julius Caesar or of a Salt Ring Robinson—
exactly as he would treat some no-account tramp or labourer who scoots
from his wife. Science has views broader and more humane. Just as
murder for the scientist is a thirst for absolute destruction, just as
theft for the scientist is a hunger for monotonous acquisition, so
polygamy for the scientist is an extreme development of the instinct
for variety. A man thus afflicted is incapable of constancy. Doubtless
there is a physical cause for this flitting from flower to flower— as
there is, doubtless, for the intermittent groaning which appears to
afflict Mr. Moon at the present moment. Our own world-scorning
Winterbottom has even dared to say, ‘For a certain rare and fine
physical type polygamy is but the realization of the variety of
females, as comradeship is the realization of the variety of males.’ In
any case, the type that tends to variety is recognized by all
authoritative inquirers. Such a type, if the widower of a negress, does
in many ascertained cases espouse _en seconde noces_ an albino; such a
type, when freed from the gigantic embraces of a female Patagonian,
will often evolve from its own imaginative instinct the consoling
figure of an Eskimo. To such a type there can be no doubt that the
prisoner belongs. If blind doom and unbearable temptation constitute
any slight excuse for a man, there is no doubt that he has these
excuses.
“Earlier in the inquiry the defence showed real chivalric ideality in
admitting half of our story without further dispute. We should like to
acknowledge and imitate so eminently large-hearted a style by conceding
also that the story told by Curate Percy about the canoe, the weir, and
the young wife seems to be substantially true. Apparently Smith did
marry a young woman he had nearly run down in a boat; it only remains
to be considered whether it would not have been kinder of him to have
murdered her instead of marrying her. In confirmation of this fact I
can now con-cede to the defence an unquestionable record of such a
marriage.”
So saying, he handed across to Michael a cutting from the “Maidenhead
Gazette” which distinctly recorded the marriage of the daughter of a
“coach,” a tutor well known in the place, to Mr. Innocent Smith, late
of Brakespeare College, Cambridge.
When Dr. Pym resumed it was realized that his face had grown at once
both tragic and triumphant.
“I pause upon this pre-liminary fact,” he said seriously, “because this
fact alone would give us the victory, were we aspiring after victory
and not after truth. As far as the personal and domestic problem holds
us, that problem is solved. Dr. Warner and I entered this house at an
instant of highly emotional diff’culty. England’s Warner has entered
many houses to save human kind from sickness; this time he entered to
save an innocent lady from a walking pestilence. Smith was just about
to carry away a young girl from this house; his cab and bag were at the
very door. He had told her she was going to await the marriage license
at the house of his aunt. That aunt,” continued Cyrus Pym, his face
darkening grandly—“that visionary aunt had been the dancing
will-o’-the-wisp who had led many a high-souled maiden to her doom.
Into how many virginal ears has he whispered that holy word? When he
said ‘aunt’ there glowed about her all the merriment and high morality
of the Anglo-Saxon home. Kettles began to hum, pussy cats to purr, in
that very wild cab that was being driven to destruction.”
Inglewood looked up, to find, to his astonishment (as many another
denizen of the eastern hemisphere has found), that the American was not
only perfectly serious, but was really eloquent and affecting— when the
difference of the hemispheres was adjusted.
“It is therefore atrociously evident that the man Smith has at least
represented himself to one innocent female of this house as an eligible
bachelor, being, in fact, a married man. I agree with my colleague, Mr.
Gould, that no other crime could approximate to this. As to whether
what our ancestors called purity has any ultimate ethical value indeed,
science hesitates with a high, proud hesitation. But what hesitation
can there be about the baseness of a citizen who ventures, by brutal
experiments upon living females, to anticipate the verdict of science
on such a point?
“The woman mentioned by Curate Percy as living with Smith in Highbury
may or may not be the same as the lady he married in Maidenhead. If one
short sweet spell of constancy and heart repose interrupted the
plunging torrent of his profligate life, we will not deprive him of
that long past possibility. After that conjectural date, alas, he seems
to have plunged deeper and deeper into the shaking quagmires of
infidelity and shame.”
Dr. Pym closed his eyes, but the unfortunate fact that there was no
more light left this familiar signal without its full and proper moral
effect. After a pause, which almost partook of the character of prayer,
he continued.
“The first instance of the accused’s repeated and irregular nuptials,”
he exclaimed, “comes from Lady Bullingdon, who expresses herself with
the high haughtiness which must be excused in those who look out upon
all mankind from the turrets of a Norman and ancestral keep. The
communication she has sent to us runs as follows:—
“Lady Bullingdon recalls the painful incident to which reference is
made, and has no desire to deal with it in detail. The girl Polly Green
was a perfectly adequate dressmaker, and lived in the village for about
two years. Her unattached condition was bad for her as well as for the
general morality of the village. Lady Bullingdon, therefore, allowed it
to be understood that she favoured the marriage of the young woman. The
villagers, naturally wishing to oblige Lady Bullingdon, came forward in
several cases; and all would have been well had it not been for the
deplorable eccentricity or depravity of the girl Green herself. Lady
Bullingdon supposes that where there is a village there must be a
village idiot, and in her village, it seems, there was one of these
wretched creatures. Lady Bullingdon only saw him once, and she is quite
aware that it is really difficult to distinguish between actual idiots
and the ordinary heavy type of the rural lower classes. She noticed,
however, the startling smallness of his head in comparison to the rest
of his body; and, indeed, the fact of his having appeared upon election
day wearing the rosette of both the two opposing parties appears to
Lady Bullingdon to put the matter quite beyond doubt. Lady Bullingdon
was astounded to learn that this afflicted being had put himself
forward as one of the suitors of the girl in question. Lady
Bullingdon’s nephew interviewed the wretch upon the point, telling him
that he was a ‘donkey’ to dream of such a thing, and actually received,
along with an imbecile grin, the answer that donkeys generally go after
carrots. But Lady Bullingdon was yet further amazed to find the unhappy
girl inclined to accept this monstrous proposal, though she was
actually asked in marriage by Garth, the undertaker, a man in a far
superior position to her own. Lady Bullingdon could not, of course,
countenance such an arrangement for a moment, and the two unhappy
persons escaped for a clandestine marriage. Lady Bullingdon cannot
exactly recall the man’s name, but thinks it was Smith. He was always
called in the village the Innocent. Later, Lady Bullingdon believes he
murdered Green in a mental outbreak.”
“The next communication,” proceeded Pym, “is more conspicuous for
brevity, but I am of the opinion that it will adequately convey the
upshot. It is dated from the offices of Messrs. Hanbury and Bootle,
publishers, and is as follows:—
“Sir,—Yrs. rcd. and conts. noted. Rumour re typewriter possibly refers
to a Miss Blake or similar name, left here nine years ago to marry an
organ-grinder. Case was undoubtedly curious, and attracted police
attention. Girl worked excellently till about Oct. 1907, when
apparently went mad. Record was written at the time, part of which I
enclose.— Yrs., etc., W. Trip.
“The fuller statement runs as follows:—
“On October 12 a letter was sent from this office to Messrs. Bernard
and Juke, bookbinders. Opened by Mr. Juke, it was found to contain the
following: ‘Sir, our Mr. Trip will call at 3, as we wish to know
whether it is really decided 00000073bb!!!!!xy.’ To this Mr. Juke, a
person of a playful mind, returned the answer: ‘Sir, I am in a position
to give it as my most decided opinion that it is not really decided
that 00000073bb!!!!!xy. Yrs., etc., ‘J. Juke.’
“On receiving this extraordinary reply, our Mr. Trip asked for the
original letter sent from him, and found that the typewriter had indeed
substituted these demented hieroglyphics for the sentences really
dictated to her. Our Mr. Trip interviewed the girl, fearing that she
was in an unbalanced state, and was not much reassured when she merely
remarked that she always went like that when she heard the barrel
organ. Becoming yet more hysterical and extravagant, she made a series
of most improbable statements—as, that she was engaged to the
barrel-organ man, that he was in the habit of serenading her on that
instrument, that she was in the habit of playing back to him upon the
typewriter (in the style of King Richard and Blondel), and that the
organ man’s musical ear was so exquisite and his adoration of herself
so ardent that he could detect the note of the different letters on the
machine, and was enraptured by them as by a melody. To all these
statements of course our Mr. Trip and the rest of us only paid that
sort of assent that is paid to persons who must as quickly as possible
be put in the charge of their relations. But on our conducting the lady
downstairs, her story received the most startling and even exasperating
confirmation; for the organ-grinder, an enormous man with a small head
and manifestly a fellow-lunatic, had pushed his barrel organ in at the
office doors like a battering-ram, and was boisterously demanding his
alleged _fiancée_. When I myself came on the scene he was flinging his
great, ape-like arms about and reciting a poem to her. But we were used
to lunatics coming and reciting poems in our office, and we were not
quite prepared for what followed. The actual verse he uttered began, I
think,
‘O vivid, inviolate head,
Ringed—’
but he never got any further. Mr. Trip made a sharp movement towards
him, and the next moment the giant picked up the poor lady typewriter
like a doll, sat her on top of the organ, ran it with a crash out of
the office doors, and raced away down the street like a flying
wheelbarrow. I put the police upon the matter; but no trace of the
amazing pair could be found. I was sorry myself; for the lady was not
only pleasant but unusually cultivated for her position. As I am
leaving the service of Messrs. Hanbury and Bootle, I put these things
in a record and leave it with them. (Signed) Aubrey Clarke, Publishers’
Reader.
“And the last document,” said Dr. Pym complacently, “is from one of
those high-souled women who have in this age introduced your English
girlhood to hockey, the higher mathematics, and every form of ideality.
“Dear Sir (she writes),—I have no objection to telling you the facts
about the absurd incident you mention; though I would ask you to
communicate them with some caution, for such things, however
entertaining in the abstract, are not always auxiliary to the success
of a girls’ school. The truth is this: I wanted some one to deliver a
lecture on a philological or historical question—a lecture which, while
containing solid educational matter, should be a little more popular
and entertaining than usual, as it was the last lecture of the term. I
remembered that a Mr. Smith of Cambridge had written somewhere or other
an amusing essay about his own somewhat ubiquitous name— an essay which
showed considerable knowledge of genealogy and topography. I wrote to
him, asking if he would come and give us a bright address upon English
surnames; and he did. It was very bright, almost too bright. To put the
matter otherwise, by the time that he was halfway through it became
apparent to the other mistresses and myself that the man was totally
and entirely off his head. He began rationally enough by dealing with
the two departments of place names and trade names, and he said (quite
rightly, I dare say) that the loss of all significance in names was an
instance of the deadening of civilization. But then he went on calmly
to maintain that every man who had a place name ought to go to live in
that place, and that every man who had a trade name ought instantly to
adopt that trade; that people named after colours should always dress
in those colours, and that people named after trees or plants (such as
Beech or Rose) ought to surround and decorate themselves with these
vegetables. In a slight discussion that arose afterwards among the
elder girls the difficulties of the proposal were clearly, and even
eagerly, pointed out. It was urged, for instance, by Miss Younghusband
that it was substantially impossible for her to play the part assigned
to her; Miss Mann was in a similar dilemma, from which no modern views
on the sexes could apparently extricate her; and some young ladies,
whose surnames happened to be Low, Coward, and Craven, were quite
enthusiastic against the idea. But all this happened afterwards. What
happened at the crucial moment was that the lecturer produced several
horseshoes and a large iron hammer from his bag, announced his
immediate intention of setting up a smithy in the neighbourhood, and
called on every one to rise in the same cause as for a heroic
revolution. The other mistresses and I attempted to stop the wretched
man, but I must confess that by an accident this very intercession
produced the worst explosion of his insanity. He was waving the hammer,
and wildly demanding the names of everybody; and it so happened that
Miss Brown, one of the younger teachers, was wearing a brown dress—a
reddish-brown dress that went quietly enough with the warmer colour of
her hair, as well she knew. She was a nice girl, and nice girls do know
about those things. But when our maniac discovered that we really had a
Miss Brown who WAS brown, his _idée fixe_ blew up like a powder
magazine, and there, in the presence of all the mistresses and girls,
he publicly proposed to the lady in the red-brown dress. You can
imagine the effect of such a scene at a girls’ school. At least, if you
fail to imagine it, I certainly fail to describe it.
“Of course, the anarchy died down in a week or two, and I can think of
it now as a joke. There was only one curious detail, which I will tell
you, as you say your inquiry is vital; but I should desire you to
consider it a little more confidential than the rest. Miss Brown, who
was an excellent girl in every way, did quite suddenly and
surreptitiously leave us only a day or two afterwards. I should never
have thought that her head would be the one to be really turned by so
absurd an excitement.—Believe me, yours faithfully, Ada Gridley.
“I think,” said Pym, with a really convincing simplicity and
seriousness, “that these letters speak for themselves.”
Mr. Moon rose for the last time in a darkness that gave no hint of
whether his native gravity was mixed with his native irony.
“Throughout this inquiry,” he said, “but especially in this its closing
phase, the prosecution has perpetually relied upon one argument; I mean
the fact that no one knows what has become of all the unhappy women
apparently seduced by Smith. There is no sort of proof that they were
murdered, but that implication is perpetually made when the question is
asked as to how they died. Now I am not interested in how they died, or
when they died, or whether they died. But I am interested in another
analogous question—that of how they were born, and when they were born,
and whether they were born. Do not misunderstand me. I do not dispute
the existence of these women, or the veracity of those who have
witnessed to them. I merely remark on the notable fact that only one of
these victims, the Maidenhead girl, is described as having any home or
parents. All the rest are boarders or birds of passage—a guest, a
solitary dressmaker, a bachelor-girl doing typewriting. Lady
Bullingdon, looking from her turrets, which she bought from the
Whartons with the old soap-boiler’s money when she jumped at marrying
an unsuccessful gentleman from Ulster—Lady Bullingdon, looking out from
those turrets, did really see an object which she describes as Green.
Mr. Trip, of Hanbury and Bootle, really did have a typewriter betrothed
to Smith. Miss Gridley, though idealistic, is absolutely honest. She
did house, feed, and teach a young woman whom Smith succeeded in
decoying away. We admit that all these women really lived. But we still
ask whether they were ever born?”
“Oh, crikey!” said Moses Gould, stifled with amusement.
“There could hardly,” interposed Pym with a quiet smile, “be a better
instance of the neglect of true scientific process. The scientist, when
once convinced of the fact of vitality and consciousness, would infer
from these the previous process of generation.”
“If these gals,” said Gould impatiently—“if these gals were all alive
(all alive O!) I’d chance a fiver they were all born.”
“You’d lose your fiver,” said Michael, speaking gravely out of the
gloom. “All those admirable ladies were alive. They were more alive for
having come into contact with Smith. They were all quite definitely
alive, but only one of them was ever born.”
“Are you asking us to believe—” began Dr. Pym.
“I am asking you a second question,” said Moon sternly. “Can the court
now sitting throw any light on a truly singular circumstance? Dr. Pym,
in his interesting lecture on what are called, I believe, the relations
of the sexes, said that Smith was the slave of a lust for variety which
would lead a man first to a negress and then to an albino, first to a
Patagonian giantess and then to a tiny Eskimo. But is there any
evidence of such variety here? Is there any trace of a gigantic
Patagonian in the story? Was the typewriter an Eskimo? So picturesque a
circumstance would not surely have escaped remark. Was Lady
Bullingdon’s dressmaker a negress? A voice in my bosom answers, ‘No!’
Lady Bullingdon, I am sure, would think a negress so conspicuous as to
be almost Socialistic, and would feel something a little rakish even
about an albino.
“But was there in Smith’s taste any such variety as the learned doctor
describes? So far as our slight materials go, the very opposite seems
to be the case. We have only one actual description of any of the
prisoner’s wives— the short but highly poetic account by the aesthetic
curate. ‘Her dress was the colour of spring, and her hair of autumn
leaves.’ Autumn leaves, of course, are of various colours, some of
which would be rather startling in hair (green, for instance); but I
think such an expression would be most naturally used of the shades
from red-brown to red, especially as ladies with their coppery-coloured
hair do frequently wear light artistic greens. Now when we come to the
next wife, we find the eccentric lover, when told he is a donkey,
answering that donkeys always go after carrots; a remark which Lady
Bullingdon evidently regarded as pointless and part of the natural
table-talk of a village idiot, but which has an obvious meaning if we
suppose that Polly’s hair was red. Passing to the next wife, the one he
took from the girls’ school, we find Miss Gridley noticing that the
schoolgirl in question wore ‘a reddish-brown dress, that went quietly
enough with the warmer colour of her hair.’ In other words, the colour
of the girl’s hair was something redder than red-brown. Lastly, the
romantic organ-grinder declaimed in the office some poetry that only
got as far as the words,—
‘O vivid, inviolate head,
Ringed—’
But I think that a wide study of the worst modern poets will enable us
to guess that ‘ringed with a glory of red,’ or ‘ringed with its
passionate red,’ was the line that rhymed to ‘head.’ In this case once
more, therefore, there is good reason to suppose that Smith fell in
love with a girl with some sort of auburn or darkish-red hair—rather,”
he said, looking down at the table, “rather like Miss Gray’s hair.”
Cyrus Pym was leaning forward with lowered eyelids, ready with one of
his more pedantic interpellations; but Moses Gould suddenly struck his
forefinger on his nose, with an expression of extreme astonishment and
intelligence in his brilliant eyes.
“Mr. Moon’s contention at present,” interposed Pym, “is not, even if
veracious, inconsistent with the lunatico-criminal view of I. Smith,
which we have nailed to the mast. Science has long anticipated such a
complication. An incurable attraction to a particular type of physical
woman is one of the commonest of criminal per-versities, and when not
considered narrowly, but in the light of induction and evolution—”
“At this late stage,” said Michael Moon very quietly, “I may perhaps
relieve myself of a simple emotion that has been pressing me throughout
the proceedings, by saying that induction and evolution may go and boil
themselves. The Missing Link and all that is well enough for kids, but
I’m talking about things we know here. All we know of the Missing Link
is that he is missing—and he won’t be missed either. I know all about
his human head and his horrid tail; they belong to a very old game
called ‘Heads I win, tails you lose.’ If you do find a fellow’s bones,
it proves he lived a long while ago; if you don’t find his bones, it
proves how long ago he lived. That is the game you’ve been playing with
this Smith affair. Because Smith’s head is small for his shoulders you
call him microcephalous; if it had been large, you’d have called it
water-on-the-brain. As long as poor old Smith’s seraglio seemed pretty
various, variety was the sign of madness: now, because it’s turning out
to be a bit monochrome—now monotony is the sign of madness. I suffer
from all the disadvantages of being a grown-up person, and I’m jolly
well going to get some of the advantages too; and with all politeness I
propose not to be bullied with long words instead of short reasons, or
consider your business a triumphant progress merely because you’re
always finding out that you were wrong. Having relieved myself of these
feelings, I have merely to add that I regard Dr. Pym as an ornament to
the world far more beautiful than the Parthenon, or the monument on
Bunker’s Hill, and that I propose to resume and conclude my remarks on
the many marriages of Mr. Innocent Smith.
“Besides this red hair, there is another unifying thread that runs
through these scattered incidents. There is something very peculiar and
suggestive about the names of these women. Mr. Trip, you will remember,
said he thought the typewriter’s name was Blake, but could not remember
exactly. I suggest that it might have been Black, and in that case we
have a curious series: Miss Green in Lady Bullingdon’s village; Miss
Brown at the Hendon School; Miss Black at the publishers. A chord of
colours, as it were, which ends up with Miss Gray at Beacon House, West
Hampstead.”
Amid a dead silence Moon continued his exposition. “What is the meaning
of this queer coincidence about colours? Personally I cannot doubt for
a moment that these names are purely arbitrary names, assumed as part
of some general scheme or joke. I think it very probable that they were
taken from a series of costumes— that Polly Green only meant Polly (or
Mary) when in green, and that Mary Gray only means Mary (or Polly) when
in gray. This would explain—”
Cyrus Pym was standing up rigid and almost pallid. “Do you actually
mean to suggest—” he cried.
“Yes,” said Michael; “I do mean to suggest that. Innocent Smith has had
many wooings, and many weddings for all I know; but he has had only one
wife. She was sitting on that chair an hour ago, and is now talking to
Miss Duke in the garden.
“Yes, Innocent Smith has behaved here, as he has on hundreds of other
occasions, upon a plain and perfectly blameless principle. It is odd
and extravagant in the modern world, but not more than any other
principle plainly applied in the modern world would be. His principle
can be quite simply stated: he refuses to die while he is still alive.
He seeks to remind himself, by every electric shock to the intellect,
that he is still a man alive, walking on two legs about the world. For
this reason he fires bullets at his best friends; for this reason he
arranges ladders and collapsible chimneys to steal his own property;
for this reason he goes plodding around a whole planet to get back to
his own home; and for this reason he has been in the habit of taking
the woman whom he loved with a permanent loyalty, and leaving her about
(so to speak) at schools, boarding-houses, and places of business, so
that he might recover her again and again with a raid and a romantic
elopement. He seriously sought by a perpetual recapture of his bride to
keep alive the sense of her perpetual value, and the perils that should
be run for her sake.
“So far his motives are clear enough; but perhaps his convictions are
not quite so clear. I think Innocent Smith has an idea at the bottom of
all this. I am by no means sure that I believe it myself, but I am
quite sure that it is worth a man’s uttering and defending.
“The idea that Smith is attacking is this. Living in an entangled
civilization, we have come to think certain things wrong which are not
wrong at all. We have come to think outbreak and exuberance, banging
and barging, rotting and wrecking, wrong. In themselves they are not
merely pardonable; they are unimpeachable. There is nothing wicked
about firing a pistol off even at a friend, so long as you do not mean
to hit him and know you won’t. It is no more wrong than throwing a
pebble at the sea—less, for you do occasionally hit the sea. There is
nothing wrong in bashing down a chimney-pot and breaking through a
roof, so long as you are not injuring the life or property of other
men. It is no more wrong to choose to enter a house from the top than
to choose to open a packing-case from the bottom. There is nothing
wicked about walking round the world and coming back to your own house;
it is no more wicked than walking round the garden and coming back to
your own house. And there is nothing wicked about picking up your wife
here, there, and everywhere, if, forsaking all others, you keep only to
her so long as you both shall live. It is as innocent as playing a game
of hide-and-seek in the garden. You associate such acts with
blackguardism by a mere snobbish association, as you think there is
something vaguely vile about going (or being seen going) into a
pawnbroker’s or a public-house. You think there is something squalid
and commonplace about such a connection. You are mistaken.
“This man’s spiritual power has been precisely this, that he has
distinguished between custom and creed. He has broken the conventions,
but he has kept the commandments. It is as if a man were found gambling
wildly in a gambling hell, and you found that he only played for
trouser buttons. It is as if you found a man making a clandestine
appointment with a lady at a Covent Garden ball, and then you found it
was his grandmother. Everything is ugly and discreditable, except the
facts; everything is wrong about him, except that he has done no wrong.
“It will then be asked, ‘Why does Innocent Smith continue far into his
middle age a farcical existence, that exposes him to so many false
charges?’ To this I merely answer that he does it because he really is
happy, because he really is hilarious, because he really is a man and
alive. He is so young that climbing garden trees and playing silly
practical jokes are still to him what they once were to us all. And if
you ask me yet again why he alone among men should be fed with such
inexhaustible follies, I have a very simple answer to that, though it
is one that will not be approved.
“There is but one answer, and I am sorry if you don’t like it. If
Innocent is happy, it is because he IS innocent. If he can defy the
conventions, it is just because he can keep the commandments. It is
just because he does not want to kill but to excite to life that a
pistol is still as exciting to him as it is to a schoolboy. It is just
because he does not want to steal, because he does not covet his
neighbour’s goods, that he has captured the trick (oh, how we all long
for it!), the trick of coveting his own goods. It is just because he
does not want to commit adultery that he achieves the romance of sex;
it is just because he loves one wife that he has a hundred honeymoons.
If he had really murdered a man, if he had really deserted a woman, he
would not be able to feel that a pistol or a love-letter was like a
song— at least, not a comic song.”
“Do not imagine, please, that any such attitude is easy to me or
appeals in any particular way to my sympathies. I am an Irishman, and a
certain sorrow is in my bones, bred either of the persecutions of my
creed, or of my creed itself. Speaking singly, I feel as if man was
tied to tragedy, and there was no way out of the trap of old age and
doubt. But if there is a way out, then, by Christ and St. Patrick, this
is the way out. If one could keep as happy as a child or a dog, it
would be by being as innocent as a child, or as sinless as a dog.
Barely and brutally to be good—that may be the road, and he may have
found it. Well, well, well, I see a look of skepticism on the face of
my old friend Moses. Mr. Gould does not believe that being perfectly
good in all respects would make a man merry.”
“No,” said Gould, with an unusual and convincing gravity; “I do not
believe that being perfectly good in all respects would make a man
merry.”
“Well,” said Michael quietly, “will you tell me one thing? Which of us
has ever tried it?”
A silence ensued, rather like the silence of some long geological epoch
which awaits the emergence of some unexpected type; for there rose at
last in the stillness a massive figure that the other men had almost
completely forgotten.
“Well, gentlemen,” said Dr. Warner cheerfully, “I’ve been pretty well
entertained with all this pointless and incompetent tomfoolery for a
couple of days; but it seems to be wearing rather thin, and I’m engaged
for a city dinner. Among the hundred flowers of futility on both sides
I was unable to detect any sort of reason why a lunatic should be
allowed to shoot me in the back garden.”
He had settled his silk hat on his head and gone out sailing placidly
to the garden gate, while the almost wailing voice of Pym still
followed him: “But really the bullet missed you by several feet.” And
another voice added: “The bullet missed him by several years.”
There was a long and mainly unmeaning silence, and then Moon said
suddenly, “We have been sitting with a ghost. Dr. Herbert Warner died
years ago.”