'... these things are life:
And life, some say, is worthy of the muse.'
I
There is a famous query of the old schoolman at which we have all flung a
jest in our time: _How many angels can dance on the point of a needle?_ In
a world with so many real troubles it seems, perhaps, a little idle to
worry too long over the question. Yet in the mere question, putting any
answer outside possibility, there is a wonderful suggestiveness, if it has
happened to come to you illuminated by experience. It becomes a little
clearer, perhaps, if we substitute devils for angels. A friend of mine
used always to look at it thus inversely when he quarrelled with his wife.
Forgive so many enigmas to start with, but it was this way. They never
quarrelled more than three times a year, and it was always on the very
smallest trifle, one particular trifle too. On the great things of life
they were at one. It was but a tiny point, a needle's end of difference,
on which they disagreed, and it was on that needle's end that the devils
danced. All the devils of hell, you would have said. At any rate, you
would have no longer wondered why the old philosopher put so odd a
question, for you had only to see little Dora's face lit up with fury over
that ridiculous trifle to have exclaimed: 'Is it possible that so many
devils can dance on a point where there seems hardly footing for a frown?'
However, so it was, and when I tell you what the needle's end was, you
will probably not think me worth a serious person's attention. That I
shall, of course, regret, but it was simply this: Dora _would_ write with
a 'J' pen--for which it was William's idiosyncrasy to have an
unconquerable aversion. She might, you will think, have given way to her
husband on so absurd a point, a mere pen-point of disagreement. He was
the tenderest of husbands in every other point. There is nothing that love
can dream that he was not capable of doing for his wife's sake. But, on
the other hand, it was equally true that there can be no other wife in the
world more devoted than Dora; with her also there was nothing too hard for
love's sake. Could he not waive so ridiculous a blemish? It was little
enough for love to achieve, surely. Yes, strange as it seems, their love
was equal to impossible heroisms: to have died for each other had been
easy, but to surrender this pen-point was impossible. And, alas! as they
always do, the devils found out this needle's end--and danced. For their
purpose it was as good as a platform. It gave them joy indeed to think
what stupendous powers of devilry they could concentrate on so tiny a
stage.
It was a sad thing, too, that Dora and William were able to avoid the
subject three hundred and sixty-four days of the year, but on that odd day
it was sure to crop up. Perhaps they had been out late the night before,
and their nerves were against them. The merest accident would bring it
on. Dora would ask William to post a letter for her in town. Being out of
sorts, and susceptible to the silliest irritation, he would not be able to
resist criticising the addressing. If he didn't mention it, Dora would
notice his 'expression.' That would be 'quite enough,' you may be sure.
Half the tragedies of life depend on 'expression.'
'Well!' she would say.
'Well what?' he would answer, already beginning to tremble.
'You have one of your critical moods on again.'
'Not at all. What's the matter?'
'You have, I say.... Well, why do you look at the envelope in that way? I
know what it is, well enough.'
'If you know, dear, why do you ask?'
'Don't try to be sarcastic, dear. It is so vulgar.'
'I hadn't the least intention of being so.'
'Yes, you had.... Give me that letter.'
'All right.'
'Yes, you admire every woman's writing but your wife's.'
'Don't be silly, dear. See, I don't feel very well this morning. I don't
want to be angry.'
'Angry! Be angry; what does it matter to me? Be as angry as you like. I
wish I had never seen you.'
'Somewhat of a _non sequitur_, is it not, my love?'
'Don't "my love" me. With your nasty cool sarcasm!'
'Isn't it better to try and keep cool rather than to fly into a temper
about nothing? See, I know you are a little nervous this morning. Let us
be friends before I go.'
'I have no wish to be friends.'
'Dora!'
William would then lace his boots, and don his coat in silence, before
making a final effort at reconciliation.
'Well, dear, good-bye. Perhaps you will love me again by the time I get
home.'
'Perhaps I shan't be here when you come home.'
'For pity's sake, don't begin that silly nonsense, Dora.'
'It isn't silly nonsense. I say again--I mayn't be here when you come
home, and I mean it.'
'Oh, all right then. Suppose I were to say that I won't come home?'
'I should be quite indifferent.'
'O Dora!'
'I would. I am weary of our continual quarrels. I can bear this life no
longer.' (It was actually sunny as a summer sky.)
'Why, it was only last night you said how happy we were.'
'Yes, but I didn't mean it.'
'Didn't mean it! Don't talk like that, or I shall lose myself completely.'
'You will lose your train if you don't mind. Don't you think you had
better go?'
'Can you really talk to me like that?--me?--O Dora, it is not you that is
talking: it is some devil in you.'
Then suddenly irritated beyond all control by her silly little set face,
he would blurt out a sudden, 'Oh, very well, then!' and before she was
aware of it, the door would have banged. By the time William had reached
the gate he would be half-way through with a deed of assignment in favour
of his wife, who, now that he had really gone, would watch him covertly
from the window with slowly thawing heart.
So the devils would begin their dance: for it was by no means ended. Of
course, William would come home as usual; and yet, though the sound of his
footstep was the one sound she had listened for all day, Dora would
immediately begin to petrify again, and when he would approach her with
open arms, asking her to forgive and forget the morning, she would demur
just long enough to set him alight again. Heaven, how the devils would
dance then! And the night would usually end with them lying sleepless in
distant beds.