WHAT TOTTLES MEANT.
Mein Herr unrolled the manuscript, but, to my great surprise, instead of
_reading_ it, he began to _sing_ it, in a rich mellow voice that seemed
to ring through the room.
“One thousand pounds per annuum
Is not so bad a figure, come!”
Cried Tottles. “And I tell you, flat,
A man may marry well on that!
To say ‘the Husband needs the Wife’
Is not the way to represent it.
The crowning joy of Woman’s life
Is _Man_!” said Tottles (and he meant it).
The blissful Honey-moon is past:
The Pair have settled down at last:
Mamma-in-law their home will share,
And make their happiness her care.
“Your income is an ample one;
Go it, my children!” (And they went it).
“I rayther think this kind of fun
Won’t last!” said Tottles (and he meant it).
They took a little country-box—
A box at Covent Garden also:
They lived a life of double-knocks,
Acquaintances began to call so:
Their London house was much the same
(It took three hundred, clear, to rent it):
“Life is a very jolly game!”
Cried happy Tottles (and he meant it).
‘Contented with a frugal lot’
(He always used that phrase at Gunter’s),
He bought a handy little yacht—
A dozen serviceable hunters—
The fishing of a Highland Loch—
A sailing-boat to circumvent it—
“The sounding of that Gaelic ‘och’
Beats _me_!” said Tottles (and he meant it).
Here, with one of those convulsive starts that wake one up in the very
act of dropping off to sleep, I became conscious that the deep musical
tones that thrilled me did _not_ belong to Mein Herr, but to the French
Count. The old man was still conning the manuscript.
“I _beg_ your pardon for keeping you waiting!” he said. “I was just
making sure that I knew the English for all the words. I am quite ready
now.” And he read me the following Legend:—
“In a city that stands in the very centre of Africa, and is rarely
visited by the casual tourist, the people had always bought eggs—a daily
necessary in a climate where egg-flip was the usual diet—from a Merchant
who came to their gates once a week. And the people always bid wildly
against each other: so there was quite a lively auction every time the
Merchant came, and the last egg in his basket used to fetch the value of
two or three camels, or thereabouts. And eggs got dearer every week. And
still they drank their egg-flip, and wondered where all their money went
to.
[Illustration: THE EGG-MERCHANT]
“And there came a day when they put their heads together. And they
understood what donkeys they had been.
“And next day, when the Merchant came, only _one_ Man went forth. And he
said ‘Oh, thou of the hook-nose and the goggle-eyes, thou of the
measureless beard, how much for that lot of eggs?’
“And the Merchant answered him ‘I _could_ let thee have that lot at ten
thousand piastres the dozen.’
“And the Man chuckled inwardly, and said ‘_Ten_ piastres the dozen I
offer thee, and no more, oh descendant of a distinguished grandfather!’
“And the Merchant stroked his beard, and said ‘Hum! I will await the
coming of thy friends,’ So he waited. And the Man waited with him. And
they waited both together.”
“The manuscript breaks off here,” said Mein Herr, as he rolled it up
again; “but it was enough to open our eyes. We saw what simpletons we
had been—buying our Scholars much as those ignorant savages bought their
eggs—and the ruinous system was abandoned. If only we could have
abandoned, along with it, all the _other_ fashions we had borrowed from
you, instead of carrying them to their logical results! But it was not
to be. What ruined my country, and drove me from my home, was the
introduction—into the _Army_, of all places—of your theory of Political
Dichotomy!”
“Shall I trouble you too much,” I said, “if I ask you to explain what
you mean by ‘the Theory of Political Dichotomy’?”
“No trouble at all!” was Mein Herr’s most courteous reply. “I quite
enjoy talking, when I get so good a listener. What started the thing,
with us, was the report brought to us, by one of our most eminent
statesmen, who had stayed some time in England, of the way affairs were
managed there. It was a political necessity (so he assured us, and we
believed him, though we had never discovered it till that moment) that
there should be _two_ Parties, in every affair and on every subject. In
_Politics_, the two Parties, which you had found it necessary to
institute, were called, he told us, ‘Whigs’ and ‘Tories’.”
“That must have been some time ago?” I remarked.
“It _was_ some time ago,” he admitted. “And this was the way the affairs
of the British Nation were managed. (You will correct me if I
misrepresent it. I do but repeat what our traveler told us.) These two
Parties—which were in chronic hostility to each other—took turns in
conducting the Government; and the Party, that happened _not_ to be in
power, was called the ‘Opposition’, I believe?”
“That is the right name,” I said. “There have always been, so long as we
have had a Parliament at all, _two_ Parties, one ‘in’, and one ‘out’.”
“Well, the function of the ‘Ins’ (if I may so call them) was to do the
best they could for the national welfare—in such things as making war or
peace, commercial treaties, and so forth?”
“Undoubtedly,” I said.
“And the function of the ‘Outs’ was (so our traveller assured us, though
we were very incredulous at first) to _prevent_ the ‘Ins’ from
succeeding in any of these things?”
“To _criticize_ and to _amend_ their proceedings,” I corrected him. “It
would be _unpatriotic_ to _hinder_ the Government in doing what was for
the good of the Nation! We have always held a _Patriot_ to be the
greatest of heroes, and an _unpatriotic_ spirit to be one of the worst
of human ills!”
“Excuse me for a moment,” the old gentleman courteously replied, taking
out his pocket-book. “I have a few memoranda here, of a correspondence I
had with our tourist, and, if you will allow me, I’ll just refresh my
memory—although I quite agree with you—it is, as you say, one of the
worst of human ills—” And, here Mein Herr began singing again:—
But oh, the worst of human ills
(Poor Tottles found) are ‘little bills’!
And, with no balance in the Bank,
What wonder that his spirits sank?
Still, as the money flowed away,
He wondered how on earth she spent it.
“You cost me twenty pounds a day,
_At least_!” cried Tottles (and he meant it).
She sighed. “Those Drawing Rooms, you know!
I really never thought about it:
Mamma declared we ought to go—
We should be Nobodies without it.
That diamond-circlet for my brow—
I quite believed that _she_ had sent it,
Until the Bill came in just now——”
“_Viper_!” cried Tottles (and he meant it).
Poor Mrs. T. could bear no more,
But fainted flat upon the floor.
Mamma-in-law, with anguish wild,
Seeks, all in vain, to rouse her child.
“Quick! Take this box of smelling-salts!
Don’t scold her, James, or you’ll repent it,
She’s a _dear_ girl, with all her faults——”
“She _is_!” groaned Tottles (and he meant it).
“I was a donkey,” Tottles cried,
“To choose your daughter for my bride!
’Twas _you_ that bid us cut a dash!
’Tis _you_ have brought us to this smash!
You don’t suggest one single thing
That can in any way prevent it——
Then what’s the use of arguing?
_Shut up!_” cried Tottles (and he meant it).
Once more I started into wakefulness, and realised that Mein Herr was
not the singer. He was still consulting his memoranda.
“It is exactly what my friend told me,” he resumed, after conning over
various papers. “‘_Unpatriotic_’ is the very word I had used, in writing
to him, and ‘_hinder_’ is the very word he used in his reply! Allow me
to read you a portion of his letter:——
“‘_I can assure you_,’ he writes, ‘_that, unpatriotic as you may think
it, the recognised function of the ‘Opposition’ is to hinder, in every
manner not forbidden by the Law, the action of the Government. This
process is called ‘Legitimate Obstruction’: and the greatest triumph
the ‘Opposition’ can ever enjoy, is when they are able to point out
that, owing to their ‘Obstruction’, the Government have failed in
everything they have tried to do for the good of the Nation!_’”
“Your friend has not put it _quite_ correctly,” I said. “The Opposition
would no doubt be glad to point out that the Government had failed
_through their own fault_; but _not_ that they had failed on account of
_Obstruction_!”
“You think so?” he gently replied. “Allow me now to read to you this
newspaper-cutting, which my friend enclosed in his letter. It is part of
the report of a public speech, made by a Statesman who was at the time a
member of the ‘Opposition’:—
“‘_At the close of the Session, he thought they had no reason to be
discontented with the fortunes of the campaign. They had routed the
enemy at every point. But the pursuit must be continued. They had only
to follow up a disordered and dispirited foe._’”
“Now to what portion of your national history would you guess that the
speaker was referring?”
“Really, the number of _successful_ wars we have waged during the last
century,” I replied, with a glow of British pride, “is _far_ too great
for me to guess, with any chance of success, _which_ it was we were then
engaged in. However, I will name ‘_India_’ as the most probable. The
Mutiny was no doubt, all but crushed, at the time that speech was made.
What a fine, manly, _patriotic_ speech it must have been!” I exclaimed
in an outburst of enthusiasm.
“You think so?” he replied, in a tone of gentle pity. “Yet my friend
tells me that the ‘_disordered and dispirited foe_’ simply meant the
Statesmen who happened to be in power at the moment; that the
‘_pursuit_’ simply meant ‘Obstruction’; and that the words ‘_they had
routed the enemy_’ simply meant that the ‘Opposition’ had succeeded in
hindering the Government from doing any of the work which the Nation had
empowered them to do!”
I thought it best to say nothing.
“It seemed queer to _us_, just at first,” he resumed, after courteously
waiting a minute for me to speak: “but, when once we had mastered the
idea, our respect for your Nation was so great that we carried it into
every department of life! It was ‘_the beginning of the end_’ with us.
My country never held up its head again!” And the poor old gentleman
sighed deeply.
“Let us change the subject,” I said. “Do not distress yourself, I beg!”
“No, no!” he said, with an effort to recover himself. “I had rather
finish my story! The next step (after reducing our Government to
impotence, and putting a stop to all useful legislation, which did not
take us long to do) was to introduce what we called ‘the glorious
British Principle of Dichotomy’ into _Agriculture_. We persuaded many of
the well-to-do farmers to divide their staff of labourers into two
Parties, and to set them one against the other. They were called, like
our political Parties, the ‘Ins’ and the ‘Outs’: the business of the
‘Ins’ was to do as much of ploughing, sowing, or whatever might be
needed, as they could manage in a day, and at night they were paid
according to the amount they had _done_: the business of the ‘Outs’ was
to hinder them, and _they_ were paid for the amount they had _hindered_.
The farmers found they had to pay only _half_ as much wages as they did
before, and they didn’t observe that the amount of work done was only a
_quarter_ as much as was done before: so they took it up quite
enthusiastically, _at first_.”
“And _afterwards_——?” I enquired.
“Well, _afterwards_ they didn’t like it quite so well. In a very short
time, things settled down into a regular routine. No work _at all_ was
done. So the ‘Ins’ got no wages, and the ‘Outs’ got full pay. And the
farmers never discovered, till most of them were ruined, that the
rascals had agreed to manage it so, and had shared the pay between them!
While the thing lasted, there were funny sights to be seen! Why, I’ve
often watched a ploughman, with two horses harnessed to the plough,
doing his best to get it _forwards_; while the opposition-ploughman,
with three donkeys harnessed at the _other_ end, was doing _his_ best to
get it _backwards_! And the plough never moving an inch, _either_ way!”
“But _we_ never did anything like _that_!” I exclaimed.
“Simply because you were less _logical_ than we were,” replied Mein
Herr. “There is _sometimes_ an advantage in being a donk—Excuse me! No
_personal_ allusion intended. All this happened _long ago_, you know!”
“Did the Dichotomy-Principle succeed in _any_ direction?” I enquired.
“In _none_,” Mein Herr candidly confessed. “It had a _very_ short trial
in _Commerce_. The shop-keepers _wouldn’t_ take it up, after once trying
the plan of having half the attendants busy in folding up and carrying
away the goods which the other half were trying to spread out upon the
counters. They said the Public didn’t like it!”
“I don’t wonder at it,” I remarked.
“Well, we tried ‘the British Principle’ for some years. And the end of
it all was—” His voice suddenly dropped, almost to a whisper; and large
tears began to roll down his cheeks. “—the end was that we got involved
in a war; and there was a great battle, in which we far out-numbered the
enemy. But what could one expect, when only _half_ of our soldiers were
fighting, and the other half pulling them back? It ended in a crushing
defeat—an utter rout. This caused a Revolution; and most of the
Government were banished. I myself was accused of Treason, for having so
strongly advocated ‘the British Principle.’ My property was all
forfeited, and—and—I was driven into exile! ‘Now the mischief’s done,’
they said, ‘perhaps you’ll kindly leave the country?’ It nearly broke my
heart, but I had to go!”
The melancholy tone became a wail: the wail became a chant: the chant
became a song—though whether it was _Mein Herr_ that was singing, this
time, or somebody else, I could not feel certain.
“And, now the mischief’s done, perhaps
You’ll kindly go and pack your traps?
Since _two_ (your daughter and your son)
Are Company, but _three_ are none.
A course of saving we’ll begin:
When change is needed, _I’ll_ invent it:
Don’t think to put _your_ finger in
_This_ pie!” cried Tottles (and he meant it).
The music seemed to die away. Mein Herr was again speaking in his
ordinary voice. “Now tell me one thing more,” he said. “Am I right in
thinking that in _your_ Universities, though a man may reside some
thirty or forty years, you examine him, once for all, at the end of the
first three or four?”
“That is so, undoubtedly,” I admitted.
“Practically, then, you examine a man at the _beginning_ of his career!”
the old man said to himself rather than to me. “And what guarantee have
you that he _retains_ the knowledge for which you have rewarded
him—beforehand, as _we_ should say?”
“None,” I admitted, feeling a little puzzled at the drift of his
remarks. “How do _you_ secure that object?”
“By examining him at the _end_ of his thirty or forty years—not at the
beginning,” he gently replied. “On an average, the knowledge then found
is about one-fifth of what it was at first—the process of forgetting
going on at a very steady uniform rate—and he, who forgets _least_, gets
_most_ honour, and most rewards.”
“Then you give him the money when he needs it no longer? And you make
him live most of his life on _nothing_!”
“Hardly that. He gives his orders to the tradesmen: they supply him, for
forty, sometimes fifty, years, at their own risk: then he gets his
Fellowship—which pays him in _one_ year as much as _your_ Fellowships
pay in fifty—and then he can easily pay all his bills, with interest.”
“But suppose he fails to get his Fellowship? That must occasionally
happen.”
“That occasionally happens.” It was Mein Herr’s turn, now, to make
admissions.
“And what becomes of the tradesmen?”
“They calculate accordingly. When a man appears to be getting alarmingly
ignorant, or stupid, they will sometimes refuse to supply him any
longer. You have no idea with what enthusiasm a man will begin to rub up
his forgotten sciences or languages, when his butcher has cut off the
supply of beef and mutton!”
“And who are the Examiners?”
“The young men who have just come, brimming over with knowledge. You
would think it a curious sight,” he went on, “to see mere boys examining
such old men. I have known a man set to examine his own grandfather. It
was a little painful for both of them, no doubt. The old gentleman was
as bald as a coot——”
“How bald would that be?” I’ve no idea why I asked this question. I felt
I was getting foolish.