Part 2

“Finally one day as she wandered disconsolate through a field she met a very tragic cow lowing, as it seemed to the cat, with a mild haunting beauty. When she came up with the cow the cat observed that her eyes were streaming with tears. ‘How is it,’ said the cat, ‘that you who are notoriously as unmusical as a milk-can can low with a beauty that brings tears to your own eyes.’ ‘It is not my music that brings tears to my eyes, but my lost calf. And let me tell you, cat, that till you also play on the strings of your own heart you will never make music.’”

“This is very affecting,” said the beech-tree; “and very untrue,” added the kitten.

“The cat resolved this dark saying till one day she heard in the dining-room the delicate symphony of a spoon upon a china plate. Presently the sound ceased and the cat jumped upon the table to investigate. ‘How is it,’ said she to the empty dish, ‘that you make such exquisite music though you are nothing but baked clay?’ ‘It is the loss of the beautiful jelly that adorned me that sings,’ said the dish, ‘and let me tell you, cat, that till you also play upon the strings of your own heart you will never make music.’

“‘This is very strange,’ thought the cat, but she continued nevertheless to sing as before without sympathetic response. Till at last an angry old gentleman obtained a gun and shot the cat dead.”

“This story is in very bad taste,” said the kitten.

“I think she richly deserved it,” said the beech.

“Wait a minute,” said the moon, “the story is not finished. An old poor maker of fiddle-strings found the cat on his way home. And about a month later a young fiddler of the country called upon him to buy some strings. ‘These are the best I have ever made,’ said the old man. That night,” went on the moon, “the fiddler played under a window of a high house in the Place de la Taconnerie an old German tune, ‘Einst o wunder.’ And now no one threw boots and missiles, but out of a high lattice fell a white rose.”

“That is a very beautiful story,” said the beech, “and now I am almost sorry for the cat.” “You need not be,” said the moon; “even if her life was short her art”--“was in the right place,” rudely interjected the impertinent kitten. “But what I want to know is, who shot the fiddler?” “I am afraid,” replied the moon, “that I must be going about my business.”

XIII

SUNT CERTI DENIQUE FINES

“What will the next story be about?” said the publisher. “I’m not sure that I shall publish the book at all if it’s about Swedish trolls and Genevese cats. Couldn’t you write about something British--a gnome who made 94 not out for Surrey and then went home and drank a bottle of stout?” “I not only can,” said the author, “but I immediately will.”

“There was once,” said the author, “a sprite who thought goloshes and hot water bottles unmanly. He preferred east winds and colds in the head, and being strong and silent (though he sneezed a good deal from time to time), and though he was a pagan himself, he could respect Christianity in others. His name was Puck; he lived at Bexhill.”

“I have been expecting this for some time,” broke in the publisher; “all you do is to take other people’s noble conceptions and distort them. Disguising plagiarism as travesty, you seek to impose on the public. But let me tell you, sir, in the words of the Latin poet, ‘Sunt certi denique fines.’”

“I am sorry to have given offence,” said the author, “particularly as I would have wished to sketch a new version of Puck’s life, when as a result of continued exposure to draughts in what the Americans taught him to call God’s Great Out-at-Elbows he contracted a vivid form of rheumatism. So crippled, he devoted his declining years to Worthing and the pleasures of a bath chair. Not unnaturally in these circumstances he developed a horror of Sussex and of children, and found his only remaining happiness in reading the poems of Mr. Edward Shanks to the local clergy. When he died, as he did shortly after this----”

“I am only surprised,” interrupted the publisher bitterly, “that the clergy survived.”

“Oh,” said the author, “they did not survive long. It is true that their counsel at the trial urged that it was justifiable homicide in self-defence, but the judge quite properly pointed out in his summing-up that they needn’t have listened. But I can see,” went on the author, “that this is not the sort of story of which you were in need. Let me therefore recount to you the true story of Jack and the Beanstalk.”

“I hope that it is not very long,” said the publisher.

“That depends on the method of payment,” replied the author. “If I am paid by the word, of course----”

“Get on with the story,” said the publisher.

“By the side of a slow river in the western parts of a great metropolis there lived a boy named Jack. Though he was so young he was already justly celebrated for his climbing feats. Indeed, the old woman who looked after him was never tired of saying, with a roguish smile at herself in the mirror, ‘C’est un vrai gosse!’ which means in English, ‘He takes after his spiritual grandmother.’

“Jack had climbed all the trees in his own garden and all those in everybody else’s. And then one day he announced that he was going to climb an entirely new tree whose roots are in the heart but whose leaves are in eternity.... There was much discussion among his friends, some saying that he should climb and others that he shouldn’t, and still others (but these were jealous) that it was little better than an Indian rope trick. But Jack was not to be deterred. For he said that he was tired of living among pygmies; he would now climb the Immortal Tree and slay one of the giants and return with his head.

“That night accordingly the tree was planted, and by morning its leaves hid the sky. After a farewell breakfast, at which a good deal of stout was drunk, and at which the Press was well represented, Jack started the ascent. He climbed up and up till he was out of sight. His friends waited about till nightfall, but as he did not return they concluded that he was making a night of it with the giants, and went home to their evening porter and bed.

“Next morning the tree was withered. Some said one thing and some said another. These, that the giants had insisted on Jack’s remaining among them, and these (but these were traducers), that he had fallen to the first giant. The general view, however, was that Jack had burst with chagrin on discovering that, except for himself, there were no giants. But since his departure nobody has ever climbed the beanstalk, for, as they all said, ‘Sunt certi denique fines.’”

“That story,” said the publisher, “is worse than the first. That was vulgar, but this has no meaning whatever.”

“You just publish it and see,” said the author.

XIV

HEAVEN HELPS THOSE THAT HELP THEMSELVES

In the great days of Haroun-al-Raschid, when the minarets of Bagdad were sewn together against the sky like a gold embroidery on blue canvas, a certain merchant, whose name has unhappily not been preserved, was entering at nightfall with his camels and his asses through the Gold East Gate. The beggars, as was their custom, crowded round with shrill cries, extolling the merchant’s virtues and their own miseries, and suggesting that the former might reasonably be expected to mitigate the latter. “In the name of the All-Compassionate, the All-Merciful,” they murmured musically. But the merchant only wrapped his cloak round him closer, saying in a harsh voice, “Heaven helps those that help themselves.”

At this moment one of the merchant’s asses stumbled and beautiful red coins ran in the gutters under the pale yellow moon. With cries even more musical the beggars--not excluding those lame by profession--threw themselves upon the gold. “Sons of Shaitan,” roared the merchant, “I will have you all strung up to the city gates by your toes and ears. I will have you flayed with red pepper. I will----”

“You surprise me, oh merchant,” said a poet who had been a witness of the whole scene. “Is it no longer your view then that heaven helps those that help themselves?”

“Do you not see,” screamed the merchant, “that it is an ass that helps them?” “Does that surprise you,” inquired the poet, going on his way, “I gather from your appearance of wealth that heaven has already helped you.”

XV

“YOU NEVER CAN TELL”

“This is a story for patriots,” said the pin of the unexploded hand-grenade to the poppies among which he was rusting.

“What is a patriot?” asked the youngest of the poppies, who, I am afraid, was rather an affected puss and thought that the pin was in love with her.

“A patriot,” said the pin, “is a man who loves his country so well that he dies for it.”

“He would show his affection better to my mind,” said a rather withered female poppy, “if he lived for it.”

“Oh no,” simpered the young poppy, “I think that death is so romantic.”

“How adorable,” sighed the hand-grenade, “are the enthusiasms of youth. I remember exactly the same innocent thrill when some five years ago I reposed among a pile of grenades like myself all going into action. We were doomed, we knew, to burst. But what did that matter? Our country called us.”

“What country was that?” inquired one of the poppies.

“England,” said the grenade proudly. “Bow, poppies, you are in the presence of a British bomb! It is true, of course, that my iron was dug in Spain, that my copper came from the New World, and that my explosives were in part foreign. But I was as pure British as anybody else.”

“I’m sure you were,” said the young poppy consolingly.

“When we came to the trench,” continued the pin, “we were assigned each to a bomb-thrower. I myself fell to the lot of a young man beautiful as an angel and reckless as a devil. Grenade after grenade he tossed into the air with exquisite dexterity, and the frightful explosions and horrible cries that followed showed only too well how richly his skill had been rewarded. And now my great moment was at hand. An attack was ordered. Over the parapet he leapt clasping me in his hand, and together we flew through the flying and screaming death about us. We reached the enemy trench. The loathsome horrors were actually attempting to shoot down our brave fellows. I am happy to say that the bayonet taught them better. But alas! I now come to the most awful moment in my life. We jumped into the trench. My hero raised his hand to throw me at one of the incarnate devils. And then--his hand dropped. ‘Carl,’ he whispered, ‘is it you, Carl?’ This, mind you, to an incarnate devil. ‘George,’ he replied, and though he was a devil, I confess his voice made me uneasy, ‘has it come to this, dear brother? Throw the grenade. It will be better so. There can be no hell as foul as this.’ ‘What, murder you?’ cried my ex-hero. ‘Why not?’ said the other wearily. ‘After all, one more or one less, why should it matter to either of us?’ ‘I won’t,’ said George, ‘not if they shoot me for it.’ ‘What?’ said Carl, ‘have you still a soul? Then by God I can die in peace.’ And with that he shot himself through the heart. ‘Kiss me, George,’ he whispered, and George, dropping me as though I were of no account, kissed the crime-stained lips. And here in consequence I have been ever since.”

“And what happened to George?” asked the oldest poppy. “Oh,” said the grenade easily, “I am not sure. I heard--(and I hoped it was true) that he had been shot for cowardice in the face of the enemy.”

“Would patriots like that story?” inquired the withered female poppy.

“Certainly,” said the pin.

“Then,” said the poppy, “you do not seem to me to make out a good case for patriots.”

“Madam,” said the grenade hotly, “you would not speak so if you were being threatened by the hobnailed boots of a gross invader, who was on the point of squashing you flat. Then you would be glad enough to have the protection of a patriot like myself.” And the pin was so moved (and the sun so hot) that he suddenly and violently exploded, with the result that the poppies were scattered in fragments to the four winds of heaven.

XVI

UNITED WE STAND

Now listen! and if you can possibly avoid it don’t interrupt. In the far and non-existent province of Arabia the population consisted almost exclusively of kings, except for the lower classes, who were, as everybody knows, emperors. The kings had it all their own way for years and years, when suddenly the emperors formed a trade society, popularly known as the Amalgamated Emperors’ Union. In pursuance of the principle upon which all such societies rest (in non-existent provinces), the emperors, as a preliminary step, ceased the function which distinguished their calling. The kings were thereupon compelled to act both as kings and emperors, which caused them inconvenience. Accordingly they summoned a special meeting of Sanhedrim--the Arabian legislative assembly--and passed a law withdrawing the right of association among emperors (though naturally preserving it for kings), and severely forbidding, under penalty, what was described in the Act as “striking.”

In Arabia--that fabulous country--a law on being duly passed by the kings becomes automatically a law of nature. So that it is very necessary to pay the greatest attention to the drafting. On this occasion the framers of the Bill had forgotten by an unaccountable oversight to omit “clocks” from the exclusion clause. In consequence all clocks in the province automatically ceased striking, and thereafter it was no use consulting an Arabian constable because nobody in that legendary land knew what o’clock it was.

“I suppose,” said the publisher scornfully, “you think that’s clever and Socialistic, and all that sort of thing. Have you any idea what wages we have to pay to the book-binders?”

“I asked you not to interrupt,” said the author. “Now you’ve prevented me from explaining how the clock in the principal mosque----”

“I don’t believe they have clocks in mosques,” said the publisher.

“--how the clock in the principal mosque welcomed the change, observing that it for one had always been in favour of methods of conciliation. ‘And anyhow,’ the church clock continued as it finally ran down, ‘why bother about time when you have eternity?’”

“Have you any aspirin?” inquired the publisher.

XVII

ICI-GÎT

When at creation God was faced With earth’s illimitable waste, We understand that what he said is: “Let there be light,”--and there was Geddes.

XVIII

SILENCE IS GOLDEN

“You will observe,” remarked the placid convict, negligently dropping his pick on the warder’s foot, “that a very few words express a great deal.”

The warder, who had already expressed more than a little in his first two words, stopped abruptly, and with a graceful wave of his hand bade the convict be seated. “For this,” he added, “is a subject to which I have devoted much thought, and you with your varied experience of men and manners should speak with authority.”

“It is true,” admitted the convict agreeably, “that in the course of the commission of a certain number of tolerably execrable crimes I have been brought into contact with many people, but I have made it a rule never to allow my conversation to be affected by the practical affairs of life. To be personal is to be dull without redemption.”

“But in your case,” interrupted the warder, “your experiences are so unusual that you might well be forgiven for dwelling on them.”

“That,” retorted the felon, with a certain graceful melancholy, “is the conviction of every conversationalist. But I have never supposed that a murder was necessarily interesting just because I had perpetrated it.”

“This sort of trait,” murmured the custodian of the condemned, “elicits a man’s respect. But,” he continued aloud, “what, then, is left us to discuss?”

“The universe,” smilingly returned the convict, “and any other fictions you may care to invent. The whole world loves a liar. I admit,” he added, with a gentle shrug, “that ‘Not guilty’ was an error, but that you will understand was more by way of repartee than of continuous conversation. The judge, after all, drew the retort on himself.”

“But truth, I have always understood, is stranger----”

“Pardon me if I interrupt,” said the criminal a little sternly, “but I cannot stand by and hear a friend (for I include you in that number),” he added courteously enough, “quote proverbs. I can forgive your being a warder of condemned men, but I cannot stand your being a guardian of (forgive me!) damned phrases.”

“You hold, then,” returned the warder, a little confused, “that quotation is not admissible in polite conversation.”

“You cannot quote a proverb,” earnestly responded the prisoner, “any more than you can butter a hypothesis. But I perceive,” he went on more gently, “that I have fallen into the fault of heat. Forgive a hotheadedness which has more than once ruined my conversation.”

“But I have nothing to forgive,” cried the custodian, much affected. “It is I who am the more to blame.”

“That, indeed, is true,” interjected the Governor of the gaol, who had come up unobserved during the latter part of the conversation, “and, much as I shall regret your loss, I must reconcile myself to it. While you,” he went on, turning to the convict, “will have leisure, when consuming bread and water, to reflect whether, after all, there is not something to be said for silence.”

XIX

LOOK BEFORE YOU LEAP: OR, REFLECTIONS BEFORE YOU JUMP

“I am tired of reflection,” said the looking-glass, “I will now live my own life.” As a first step to that end he succeeded in rolling himself right out of his seventeenth-century uprights and falling off the spindle-legged dressing-table, oval face downwards, on to a deep grey carpet.

“Dear me,” said the carpet, who was rather a simple old-fashioned thing, though of an excellent texture, “here is somebody come down in the world. Ahem! I hope, sir, that you are none the worse for your fall.”

“Certainly not,” replied the mirror, who was rather bewildered by the fall and the complete darkness in which his new situation had placed him, “I precipitated myself to the ground on purpose.” “What!” cried the carpet, who feared that she had to do with a self-murderer, “after full reflection?”

“Without any reflection whatever,” cried the mirror testily. “I am,” he added more suavely, “entirely incapable of such an act.”

“Poor thing,” said the carpet soothingly, for she now perceived that her affair was merely with a madman. “If you will only compose yourself I am sure you will be your own man again immediately.”

“I see, madam,” said the mirror, “that we do not understand each other. Let me therefore explain my point of view. You must know then that I am by nature a person of a profoundly original turn of thought. Judge then of my despair when a malignant fate ordained for more than a century that I should be tortured by serving merely to reflect the follies and lack of grace of others. I have borne things insupportable, and finally I took the magnificent decision which has, among, other agreeable circumstances of release, conferred upon me the pleasure of your conversation. You will conceive for yourself my mental tumult when you used the word ‘reflection.’”

“But, sir,” said the carpet, now much distressed, “reflect. Are you not flying in the face of Providence? If reflection was the gift bestowed upon you by your designer would you wantonly dissipate it? Such conduct, believe me, must have the most dire results!”

“Madam,” neighed the mirror with an accent that suggested his century, “I am, I hope, a mirror of Feeling, and I know what respect must ever be paid to the Fair. None the less, I cannot leave you a prey to common error, even though its removal should offend your Female Delicacy. M’am, there is no such thing as a designer, but each of us is his own architect.”

“No designer!” screamed the carpet. “Now the weaver be good to me! Impious creature, do you not know that we are each of us made with nicely adjusted virtues and qualities by an all-understanding maker? And that to doubt this is to be damned beyond hope of re-weaving?”

“And what, m’am,” sneered the mirror, “is your particular virtue?”

“To be a comfort and a support to the foot, an office of which I am proud,” replied the carpet.

“I dare swear,” said the mirror courteously, “that you are perfect in it. But I do not doubt that, were I called upon, I could adjust myself to the same task in spite of all the pretensions of your friend the designer.”

The carpet was spared the necessity of continuing so sacrilegious a conversation by the entry into the darkened room of its owner. He stepped heavily in the direction of the dressing-table, and stamped his riding-boot hard on the back of the mirror, smashing the glass to fragments.

“Damn!” he cried loudly, and after switching on the lights rang for a servant. “Who has been so d--d clumsy as to leave the old mirror standing between the window and the door?”

The servant picked up the mirror. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said, “but it’s only the glass as is smashed. We could easy get a new one put in, and you were always complaining that the old one didn’t reflect.”

“Very well,” said the owner, “but the glass must be put right. Tell them to let me see the designer before the work is begun--and sweep up the litter of glass. By the way, the carpet’s not injured, is it?”

“No, sir,” said the servant, busily sweeping, “the carpet’s perfectly all right.”

XX

LIBERTY, EQUALITY, FRATERNITY

“There is a good deal of talk in certain circles,” said the deuce of spades casually to the ace of hearts, “as to the need for equality among cards.”

“And how,” inquired the ace amicably, “is this equality to be established?”

“There are three schools of thought,” replied the deuce readily; “the first holds that all cards should rank as deuce, while the second that all should be aces. I myself have ventured to favour a golden mean of all counting, say, as nine.”

“There is a great deal in all these theories,” replied the ace, “and I think one or other should be immediately adopted. There is, however, one point on which I should like to sound a note of caution. I do not quite see how in the altered circumstances any game is to be played.”

“Oh, we have thought of that,” said the deuce carelessly, “and frankly we do not see the necessity of the game.”

“Then,” said the ace, “I have nothing more to say.”

XXI

QUIS SEPARABIT?

Two statesmen of well-merited celebrity in their own countries and times, having for a moment escaped the vigilance of their warders, met in a comparatively cool corner of hell to discuss the possibility of forming a new government.

“I do not feel,” said the first, “that H.H. any longer really represents the feeling in the circles.”

“I entirely agree,” said the second; “he is still, I fear, a hopeless reactionary and continues to believe that there is a distinction between evil and good--a doctrine which all advanced thought has long since abandoned.”

“And not only that,” said the first, “he is still a prey to the war spirit. He is for ever thinking in terms of the great conflict in which he thinks he was defeated. As a matter of fact, if he could only realise the truth, heaven was by far the greater sufferer, and is greatly embarrassed by the reparation exacted from him.”

“There is only one way,” said the second, “to repair the ravages of that unfortunate misunderstanding, and that is to recognise frankly that heaven and hell are necessary to one another and to arrange for a policy of goodwill and intercelestial understanding.”

“Nor should we stop at that,” replied the first, taking fire, as well he might, at the enunciation of sentiments so lofty; “mere understanding is not enough. We must have a pact, co-operation, even coalition.”

“With a common policy,” broke in the second, “resting on the best of evil and the worst of good.”

“The only difficulty,” said the first, “that I can see is one of the leadership.”