“I cannot understand it,” he wrote in reply. “I asked the man about
Schopenhauer’s Four-fold Root of Sufficient Reason to which I found a
reference in a volume of essays by Frederic Harrison. He said he never
had heard of any such root. Can he not read and talk as you do, and as
all mortals do? How does it happen that he is ignorant of these things?”
I explained to him that only a small part of the human race was
interested in affairs of the intellect, and that millions of men were
still in the condition of unhappy mental blindness from which he had so
recently emerged. He was aghast at this statement, but it did not tend
to re-establish Briggs in his respect.
It was now the season of the year when I was accustomed to make a tour
among the neighboring coffee plantations, to estimate and bid on the
crops. I was not able to take Ulysses with me conveniently, so I left
him in the care of Briggs and Akbar. To Briggs I gave the key to my
library, with orders to supply Ulysses with whatever he might demand,
and I prepared for my pupil’s use a catalogue of all the books in my
collection. The library was chiefly made up of works of history,
philosophy and criticism, admirably suited to the special tastes of
Ulysses.
[Illustration: “_To Briggs I gave the key to my library, with orders to
supply Ulysses with whatever he might demand._”]
My absence lasted during a period of nearly three months, and on my
return I found Ulysses almost in a condition of “must,” or insanity. He
had read all, or nearly all, the books that I had placed upon the list,
and had gained through that extraordinary memory of his an immense mass
of fact and opinion. He was now suffering from intellectual dyspepsia. I
consulted him about his troubles, and got in reply an avalanche of
questions on every variety of subject. His confidence in my knowledge
was, apparently, unlimited. It would have been a source of inexpressible
gratification to me if I could have shared it.
I was not unmindful of the fate which had befallen poor Briggs,
nevertheless I felt it my duty to help Ulysses out of his difficulties.
I did not imagine that his questions would occasion me much trouble, and
if they should, I thought myself the possessor of sufficient savoir
faire to get out of it in some way. I avoided some things merely by
assuring him that he would understand them better when he had read more.
When I essayed an answer to any of his interrogatories, he had an
unpleasant habit of pinning me down to exact statements and definite
opinions. I had never appreciated the extent and variety of my ignorance
until it was subjected to this test; and although Ulysses’ attitude
toward me was always that of pupil to teacher, yet I saw at times traces
of the Socratic method in the long series of questions that he put to
me, and I was compelled, not infrequently, to squirm out of some
inconsistency in most undignified fashion.
This inquisition continued for a number of days after my return, and I
could not close my eyes to the fact that I was failing to hold my own in
the estimation of Ulysses. From a cyclopedia of literature, which
happened to be in my library, Ulysses had stored his mind with an
enormous fund of information on subjects of which I was completely
ignorant. In this field I was continually falling into traps. There were
also translations of Comte and Hegel, to which he had devoted
considerable study, but I checkmated him there by talking wordy
nonsense, which I was sure he could not distinguish from metaphysics. It
was evident, however, that he was beginning to appreciate that something
was the matter. Although he had not come to the point of ranking me with
Briggs, still my position was getting to be a precarious one, and I saw
the necessity for great care.
For some time I avoided being drawn into conversation with Ulysses,
keeping him at bay with a number of new books, which I had brought with
me from Madras. He was not long in appreciating that there was some
purpose lying back of this policy, and demanded an explanation of me. I
was confused by his point blank questions, and only managed to make
things worse. After that I was clay in his hands. Every day he branched
out into some new field of discussion, tested me and found me wanting. I
tried in vain to conceal my failures under a dignified exterior. Ulysses
at first seemed pained and surprised, but there finally showed itself in
his bearing toward me an air of satisfaction and triumph, which was not
easy to endure. To have been arrogantly treated by a member of my own
species would have been a new experience to me, and one which I would
have vigorously resented; this exhibition of superciliousness from an
animal below me in the scale of creation was more than I proposed to put
up with.
One morning, as I sauntered out to the banyan tree, wondering what was
to be the outcome of this absurd situation, Ulysses motioned to me, and
pointed to the blackboard, which I saw was covered with finely written
characters.
“No, Ulysses,” I said, “I am tired this morning, and it is very hot. I
do not wish to get into a discussion with you.”
Ulysses waved his trunk emphatically, and pointed again to the
blackboard. Then he gave a fierce trumpet, and glared at me in a way
that gave me a start of terror.
I saw that some sort of a crisis was ahead, but determined to defer it,
if possible, until I could decide what was the best course to pursue. I
approached the board and read the following message, addressed to
myself:
“Master—You are deceived if you think I am ignorant of the change which
has gradually come to pass in our relationship. You have been my
superior thus far in life, not by reason of your greater physical power,
for I can strike you dead with one blow, whereas you, without the aid of
tools, could not give me even external pain. Your sole claim to command
over me lay in your intellectual superiority. This superiority I am now
compelled to question. Yesterday you admitted that you had never read
any of Henry Mackenzie’s novels; you showed complete ignorance
concerning Bishop Berkeley’s Alciphron; and when I asked why Henry
Vaughn, the poet, was called the ‘Silurist,’ you had no answer to give
me. In the conversations of the last few days you have made countless
blunders in matters of history, science and literature. Your ideas in
metaphysics are those of a dotard, and your judgment in belles-lettres
is execrable. I do not see on what ground you arrogate to yourself a
position above me. If you are not entitled to the place that I have
given you in my consideration, if the idea which I have entertained with
regard to our respective positions is erroneous, then it is clearly a
matter of justice that we should straightway change places. I will be
the master hereafter and you the servant. Can you show me any good
reason why this revolution should not come to pass?”
There was no mistaking the tone and purport of this communication. It
was at once a declaration of independence and a manifesto of
sovereignty. Not merely must I exercise no more authority over Ulysses,
but I must yield gracefully and submissively to his rule. I did not
know, either by experience or hearsay, what kind of a master an elephant
would make, but from the intensely logical quality that Ulysses had
always shown, I had a suspicion that he would prove at least severe and
intolerant.
The dilemma was a hard one. I took up the chalk, intending to write my
answer rather than speak it, that I might have time for reflection. As I
did so, an idea suddenly occurred to me—a plan by which I could beat
Ulysses at his own game. I immediately became so confident of its
success that I did not hesitate to stake my personal liberty on the
chance of his discomfiture.
“Ulysses,” I said, “I cannot deny that in many directions you have shown
a mental grasp that I never expected to see developed elsewhere than
among the best of my own species. But all this is not enough. There is
still one test, the last and severest to which culture and intelligence
may be submitted. If you can meet this satisfactorily, I shall no longer
question your superiority over myself.”
“That is all I ask,” wrote Ulysses, “a fair trial.”
I stepped into the house, and returned with a book which I had recently
brought from Madras, and which Ulysses had not seen. I laid it open upon
the rack before him. He brought up his monocle and glanced at the title
and the author.
“Aha!” he wrote; “I have heard of this man, and have long wished to see
some of his work.”
“You know what position he occupies in letters?” I asked.
“I do,” wrote Ulysses; “I have read what his admirers say of him.”
“Very well,” I answered; “you know, then, what is demanded of you—that
you should understand and enjoy this work. If you cannot meet both these
requirements, then you have failed.”
Ulysses shrugged his trunk with easy indifference, raised his eye glass,
and began to read. I lay some distance away, dozing in my hammock, and
awaited results. They were not long in coming.
At the end of about half an hour he trumpeted to me in an indignant tone
of voice, and inquired on the blackboard whether I had given him the
original English or some kind of a translation.
I answered this satisfactorily, and for more than an hour he toiled
away, breathing hard at times and swaying from side to side, whenever he
thought he was about to find a clew.
Presently he called to me again.
“I forgot to ask,” said he, “whether this was to be read backwards or
sideways.”
“Straight ahead,” I answered.
I saw that he was getting involved in the toils, and knew that they
would soon close on him. It must be remembered that I had never deceived
Ulysses, and the thought that I, or any one else, could feign an opinion
which was not genuine, had never occurred to him. The book had been
submitted to him about the middle of the morning. Ulysses took no
refreshment that day, neither water nor food. When I came out of the
house after “tiffin,” I advised him to lay the volume aside, and look at
it again the next day. He seemed to feel that this would be a confession
of failure, and refused.
“Tell me,” he wrote, “are there many of your species that understand and
really enjoy this book?”
“They are not many in number,” I answered; “but their position in the
society of culture and taste is an exalted one. Within the last few
years it has come to pass that the understanding and appreciation of
this work is a shibboleth by which the true disciples of sweetness and
light may distinguish themselves from the miscellaneous herd of
Philistines. Do not be discouraged because you have failed,” I added, in
a kindly, patronizing tone. “There are many estimable mortals in the
same situation. You understand, however, that you cannot be admitted to
the elect, much less claim superiority to myself.”
Ulysses wrote upon the blackboard several profane expressions, which I
suppose he had learned from Briggs, and resumed his study.
It was nearly evening when Akbar came to me, and said that Ulysses was
showing decided symptoms of becoming “must.” I went out with the
intention of taking the book away from him, but stopped several yards
away, struck by his changed appearance. His eyes were wild and
bloodshot, his ears erect, his legs spread apart. He was beating his
sides with his trunk, and at times trumpeting in low, bass tones. When
he saw us approach he seized the book from the rack and dashed it at me
with all his force.
“Ulysses,” I said, “keep calm.”
“Look out!” cried Akbar; “he is ‘must.’ Beware!”
With a terrific roar Ulysses turned, and sprang in great, ponderous
leaps out of the garden. Briggs, who was in his path, dropped his rake
and flung himself into some bushes.
[Illustration: “_Look out!” cried Akbar; “He is ‘must.’ Beware!_”]
“After him, Akbar!” I cried; “see where he goes.”
Ulysses ran toward a clump of woods, which grew over a knoll a short
distance away. Into this he plunged, and was soon out of sight. We could
hear the limbs crash as he tore away into the thick foliage. Akbar
followed cautiously. The direction which Ulysses had taken caused a
suspicion of possible calamity to dawn on my mind, and I waited uneasily
for the mahout’s return. It was not long before Akbar emerged from the
woods and ran toward me.
“Praise be to our fathers, he is dead!” he shouted. Akbar had come to
fear and hate Ulysses.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“May the hyenas eat my grandfather!” said he, solemnly. “You, who know
only the truth, remember the rocky bank beyond the hill, which slopes
off to destruction? Your servant, Ulysses, rushed thither and flung
himself down, bursting his head against the stones. I myself saw him
there, lying motionless and dead.”
This was the end of Ulysses. I have already remarked at the beginning of
this narrative that I felt less of sorrow than of relief over the
catastrophe. Long association had made him dear to me in many ways, yet
I was not prepared to endure him as master. There could be no other
outcome to the unhappy situation than a tragedy of some kind. I sadly
gave orders for the interment of his body, and returned to the house,
taking with me the torn and disfigured copy of Browning’s “Sordello.”
[Illustration: FINIS]
_Note by the Author._
The reason that prompted Ulysses’ master to select “Sordello” as the
agent of his discomfiture was, no doubt, that of all the blind and
obscure work of the great poet, this is generally rated the most
mysterious and perplexing. In the days when the Browning conflict raged,
“Sordello” was the touchstone of the cult. To refresh the reader’s
memory of its difficulties, here are reproduced a few passages taken
almost at random from the poem. None of these is dependent on context
for meaning, so they constitute a fair test; and the reader can put
himself in Ulysses’ place.