Part 21 (2/2)

I asked myself, ”that Primitive Religion is the only religion that has ever existed, or will exist, in the world?”

WHITE ROSES

Of all the conversations of the learned, those in which History and Philosophy maintain the dialogue are probably the most instructive. Such a conversation I was fortunate enough to hear not long ago at the dinner-table of a friend; and the occasion was the more interesting inasmuch as the Philosopher of the party was led by a turn of the argument to lay aside his mantle and a.s.sume the role of the story-teller; thereby providing us with a valuable comment on the very philosophy with which his own ill.u.s.trious name has been long a.s.sociated.

We had been talking during dinner about a certain Expedition to the South Seas undertaken by the British Government in the eighteenth century; and the Historian had just finished a most surprising narration of the facts, based on his recent investigation of unpublished doc.u.ments, when our Hostess glanced at the clock, and rising from her chair gave the signal to the ladies to depart.

When we had resumed our places the Professor of Philosophy said to the Historian:

”I wish you would tell us what in your opinion it was that caused the Expedition to turn out such an utter failure.”

”The Expedition failed,” said the Historian, ”because the commander was not allowed to select his own crews. The Government of the day was corrupt, and insisted on manning the s.h.i.+ps with men of its own choosing.

Some were diseased; others were criminals; many had never handled a rope in their lives. Before the fleet had doubled Cape Horn one-third of the crews had perished, and the rest were mutinous. The enterprise was doomed to failure from the start.”

”The whole planet is manned in the same manner,” said the Pessimist, as he helped himself to one of our Host's superlative cigars. ”I'm sorry for the Commander, whoever he is.”

”What precisely do you mean?” said the Professor of Philosophy, holding a lighted match to the end of the Pessimist's cigar.

”I mean,” said the Pessimist, ”that the prospects of the Human Expedition can't be very bright so long as Society has to put up with anybody and everybody who happens to be born. I suppose there _is_ a Human Expedition,” he went on. ”At least, _you_ have written as though there were. But who selects the crew? n.o.body. They come aboard as they happen to be born, and the unfortunate Commander has to put up with them as they come--broken men, jail-deliveries, invalids, sea-sick land-lubbers, and Heaven knows what. Who in his senses would put to sea with such a crowd? Humanity is always in a state like that of your Expedition when it doubled Cape Horn--incompetent, mutinous, or sick unto death. And what else can you expect in view of the conditions under which we all arrive on the planet?”

The Host now glanced uneasily at the Professor of Philosophy, whose treatise on _The World Purpose_ was famous throughout three continents.

The Professor was visibly arming himself for the fray: he had just filled his claret-gla.s.s with port.

”Remember,” said the Host, ”that we must join the ladies in twenty minutes at the utmost.”

”I'm not going to argue,” replied the Philosopher, after a resolute sip at his port; ”I'm going to tell you a story.”

”Tell it in the drawing-room,” said the Son of the House, who had taken his pretty cousin down to dinner, and was a little exhilarated by that and by the excellence of his father's wine; ”that is to say,”--and he spoke eagerly, as if a bright idea had struck him,--”that is to say, of course, if it will bear telling in the presence of ladies.”

There was a roar of laughter, and the Son of the House blushed to the roots of his hair.

”I am inclined to think,” said the Professor, ”that my story, so far from being unsuitable for the ladies, will be intelligible to no one else.”

”We'll join the ladies at once,” said the Host, ”and hear the Professor's story.”

The Pessimist, who was fond of talking, now broke in. ”That,” he said, ”is most attractive, but not quite fair to me. I should like to finish what I have begun. And I doubt if my views will be quite in place in the drawing-room. Besides, the Professor must finish his port. I was only going to say,” he went on, ”that the having to put up with all that comes in human shape is a very serious affair. It seems to me that we all arrive in the world like dumped goods. n.o.body has 'ordered' us, and perhaps n.o.body wants us. Our parents wanted us, did you say? Well, I suppose our parents wanted children; but it doesn't follow that they wanted _you_ or _me_. Somebody else might have filled the book as well, or better. Our birth is a matter of absolute chance. For example, my father has often told me how he met my mother. There was a picnic on a Swiss lake. My father's watch was slow, and when he arrived at the quay the boat that carried his party was out of sight. It so happened that there was another party--people my father didn't know--going to another island, and seeing him disconsolate on the quay they took pity on him and made him go with them. It was in that boat that he first met my mother. The moral is obvious. If my father's watch had kept better time I should never have been in existence. [”A jolly good thing, too,”

whispered the Son of the House.] Neither would my six brothers, nor any of our descendants to the _n_th generation. Well, that's how the whole planet gets itself _manned_. That's how the crew is 'chosen.' And that's why the Expedition gets into trouble on rounding Cape Horn.”

”It's a capital introduction to my story,” said the Professor, in whom, after his second claret-gla.s.s of port, _The World Purpose_ had a.s.sumed a new intensity. ”I wish the ladies could have heard it.”

”I venture to think,” said our Host, ”that the ladies will understand the story all the better for not having heard the introduction. You see, I am a.s.suming that the story is a good one--which is as much as to say that no introduction is needed.”

”Thank you,” said the Professor.

”I say,” broke in the Son of the House, ”I say, Professor, it's a pity you didn't take that question up in _The World Purpose_. That's an awfully good point of the Pessimist's, and a jolly difficult one to answer, too. I should like to see you tackle it. Why, I once heard the Pater here say to the Mater----”

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