“You see, Augustus,” said Lady Brenda, triumphantly, “I always told you that it was great rubbish.”
“My dear mother-in-law,” returned Chard, “you forget that I belong to the brotherhood of the Ignorantines. My principal conviction is that nobody knows anything.
“Sir,” said Johnson, “you are not far wrong. One of the greatest mistakes of these days is the attempt to make people believe that they can know everything. Science cannot be made popular; for if it be within the reach of every one, and so simple that everybody can understand it, why then many persons could have discovered its secrets long ago; but if it be indeed a hard matter to understand, it must be reserved for those whose intellect is equal to so great an effort, and it is useless to make that popular which the people can never comprehend. If those men, who occupy themselves by attempting to substitute in others their own theories in the place of a wholesome religion, would confine their efforts to communicating such knowledge as they possess without endeavouring to destroy that belief which excites their unreasoning hatred, they might indeed deserve some credit; but their arguments are of so partial a nature, their language is so vehement and unrestrained, that we are forced to believe that they are animated rather by a desire to destroy religion than by a legitimate wish to extend the sphere of human knowledge and to do good to humanity by teaching that which is useful.”
“Yes,” said Augustus, “there is no reason why we should not learn the little that can be known, without upsetting religion. I think some modern scientists might read the life of Pascal with advantage, not to say that of Newton. I do not suppose that any of our living professors pretend to be as great as either of those two, who were extremely religious men.”
“Pascal,” replied the doctor, “was a tremendous young man. He discovered the weight of the atmosphere, he invented a calculating machine, he found the law of cycloids, he wrote like a father of the early Church, and he instituted the first omnibus that ever ran. A man cannot do more than that in thirty-nine years, but he did most of these things before he was five and twenty. As for Sir Isaac Newton he wrote a book of ‘Arguments in Proof of a Deity’ and a chronology of ancient history, both of which are much better than is commonly supposed.”
“Dear me!” exclaimed Gwendoline, “I never knew that Pascal invented the omnibus. He must have had a great deal of common sense.”
“Both common and uncommon, madam,” answered Johnson, “and I venture to say that the common sense which can invent the omnibus is as valuable to mankind as the uncommon intelligence which is able to conceive that the atmosphere may have weight and that the cycloid curve may be reduced to a law.”
“Yes,” said Augustus, “but the weight of the atmosphere is more interesting than the invention of a public carriage. I should think that a man with a big intellect would prefer to study big things.”
“No, sir,” answered Johnson. “It is not more interesting, but it is more attractive. When a man of science discovers a lacuna in his wisdom, he makes haste to fill up the breach with a new theory, in the framing of which he at once enjoys the pleasures of imagination and the satisfaction which is felt in the exercise of ingenuity. His theory will stop the hole in the wall until it is worn out, or until some one finds a better theory to substitute in its place; and those portions of his work which are the result of knowledge acquired independently of the imagination, even if not very perfect, will always afford him some ground for congratulating himself upon his own abilities as compared with those of others. But the case of the man who occupies himself in endeavouring to better the condition of his fellow-men by imparting to them some of the results of his study, is very different. For, while the man of speculative science acts upon ideas, theories, and the like, the student of the applied sciences acts upon things and in a high degree upon people. It is clear that the immediate results produced by the man who acts upon living men are, in the present, incalculably more important than those brought about by the student who speculates upon the origin of the human race, or upon the ultimate nature of human happiness; although it is true that where speculation results in discoveries capable of being widely and advantageously applied, the man of science attains to an importance which cannot be over-estimated. When Pascal discovered that the atmosphere has weight, he laid the foundation for the invention of the first steam-engine; when Newton established the nature of the laws of gravity, he gave to science the means of weighing the earth, and on his method of prime and ultimate ratios is founded the most subtle, powerful and universally applicable system of calculation now known. But there are few who combine common and uncommon sense in the same degree as those two men; and we may safely say that those persons who act upon men directly, as statesmen, or upon things, as engineers, are the men who, in the present, make their influence most widely felt. Any great railway of the world transports from place to place in one month, affording thereby immense facilities to their lives, a greater number of people than in the whole world have read, or perhaps ever heard of, Mr. Darwin’s book upon the origin of man, or Professor Kant’s work on the criticism exercised by pure reason.”
“The only measure of force, of which we know, is the result produced,” said Augustus.
“And will any one venture to compare the result produced upon the lives, the wealth and the prosperity of mankind by so small a modification of an existing machine as is comprised in the invention of the marine compound engine of to-day, with the result produced by Mr. Darwin’s researches concerning the origin of man? The simple idea of using the steam twice over in cylinders of different sizes has revolutionised modern commerce, has been the death-warrant of thousands of sailing vessels, and has caused thousands of steamships to be built, employing many millions of men and upsetting all old-fashioned notions of trade. But I will venture to say that the theory which teaches people to believe that they are descended from monkeys has neither contributed to the happiness of mankind nor in any way increased the prosperity of nations. If it possesses merits as a theory, which may or may not be questioned, it can certainly never be said to have any application bearing upon the lives of men; and though it will survive as a remarkable monument of the ingenuity, the imagination and the industry of a learned man, it will neither inspire humanity at large with elevating and strengthening thoughts, nor will it help individuals in particular to better their condition or to surmount the ordinary difficulties of everyday life.”
“I should think not!” exclaimed Lady Brenda in a tone of conviction. “But of course one has to pretend to believe what everybody else does — or at least one must let other people believe what they please. It makes life so much easier!”
“Madam,” said Johnson, sternly, “it is always easier to avoid a responsibility than to assume it.”
“Oh dear! I did not mean to be so serious!” rejoined the lady. “But I really could not take upon myself to persuade all the people I meet in society that they are not descended from monkeys, when they assure me that they are, you know.”
“No, madam,” answered the doctor, with a twinkle in his eye. “So nice a matter should be referred to a court of claims, and the candidates for the honours of monkeydom should be judged upon their own merits.”
“And if approved, be declared tenants in tail for ever,” suggested Augustus.
“Sir,” said Johnson, almost angrily, “puns are the last resource of exhausted wit, as swearing is the refuge of those whose vocabulary is too limited to furnish them with a means of expressing their anger or disappointment.”
“I beg your pardon,” returned Augustus, smiling. “Wit is much exhausted in our day.”
“It must be, sir,” answered the doctor, who did not seem quite pacified. But the three ladies laughed.
“Won’t you let me make a pun?” asked Lady Brenda, beseechingly.
“No, madam. Not if I can help it,” returned Johnson, smiling and resuming his good-humour. “I ask your pardon, sir,” he continued, turning to Augustus. “I did not mean to impl
y that your wit was exhausted.”
“It is, I assure you. So pray do not mention the matter,” answered Chard, laughing. “The unconscious ratiocination of my feeble brain found expression in words.”
“Some day,” said the doctor, “I would like to discuss with you the nature of wit and humour. At present the digression would be too great, for we were speaking of men of science, in whom wit is rarely abundant and in whom humour is as conspicuous by its absence as speech in a whale. But I should except Pascal, who was a very witty man. You would find great advantage in his acquaintance.”
“Do you often see him?” asked Diana, eagerly. She loved and admired the writer as distinguished from the scientist.
“Sometimes,” answered Johnson. “He is a most unclubable man. He loves solitude and his own thoughts, which, to tell the truth, are very good, so that he is not altogether to be blamed.”
They walked together along the ridge of the mountain, stopping now and then to rest a little and to look at the wonderful views which were unfolded I to their eyes almost at every step. The bare brown rocks over which they climbed contrasted strongly with the deep blue of the sea far below and with the grand sweep of the Gulf of Salerno in the distance, where the green and marshy plain beyond the white city stretched back from the water towards the Calabrian hills. The sun was not hot at that high elevation and the sea breeze swept the rocks and blew cool in the faces of the party. Suddenly the mountain path came abruptly to an end as they reached the foot of a high and inaccessible rock. It was evident that they must go round it, and turning to the left they ascended a little channel which led up through the boulders. The sound of voices reached their ears, and Gwendoline paused to listen.
“We shall find our friends here,” said Dr. Johnson. “They must be just beyond that corner.”
They hastened forward and soon they came upon the strange company, seated together in a half circle where there was an indentation in the hill. Cæsar was there, and Francis, Heine and Chopin and one other, whom they had not seen before. He was a man in white armour, complete save that he wore no helmet; a slender, graceful man seated in an easy attitude, his chin resting on his hand. His face was of calm, angelic beauty, pale and refined, but serene and strong. Short curls of chestnut hair clustered about his white brow and his deep-set blue eyes looked quietly at the advancing party.
“Who is the man in armour?” asked Gwendoline of Dr Johnson in a low voice as they approached.
“A very good man, madam,” he answered. “That is no less a person, madam, than Pierre du Terrail, Seigneur de Bayard, known as the Chevalier Bayard, without fear and without reproach. A man, madam, of whom it is impossible to say whether he is most to be revered for his virtue, admired for his prowess, or imitated for his fidelity to his sovereign.”
“Really!” exclaimed Gwendoline. But there was not time for more. The dead men rose to their feet together, and greetings were exchanged between them and their living acquaintances. King Francis presented Bayard to Lady Brenda, who in her turn presented Gwendoline, Diana and Augustus to the king.
“We feared you were not coming,” said the latter, smiling pleasantly. “Indeed, we were planning the siege of your castle, and Bayard had volunteered to lead the forlorn hope.”
“If we had taken him prisoner,” said Augustus, “the ladies would not have let him go as Ludovico did, when he rushed into Milan alone.”
“Indeed,” said the chevalier, “I fear I should not have had the courage to offer a ransom.”
“Let us go on,” suggested Gwendoline. “I like to see the water — then we can all sit down and talk. “You are not tired?” she asked, looking inquiringly round the group.
“No,” laughed Heine, “we are indestructible. We have not even the satisfaction of wearing out our shoes and of getting new ones. I will show you the way to a beautiful spot.”
They all moved forward together, skirting the boulders for a couple of hundred yards. Then suddenly they came in sight of the sea, between the steep sides of the gorge. Heine and Johnson had gone in front and were already gazing at the view as the others came up.
CHAPTER IX.
HEINE WAS STANDING against a huge boulder on the edge, looking down at the moving waters. Seated on the other side of the path, Dr. Johnson slowly turned his huge stick in his hands and bent his heavy brows as though in thought. The rest of the party stood together in the narrow way — Bayard and the king together, and Cæsar in the midst of the little group of living persons.
“Let us stay here,” said Gwendoline. “It is a perfect place.”
Indeed the spot was very beautiful. The afternoon sun now cast a deep shade from the overhanging cliffs upon the little plot of grass in which the daisies and the poppies growing thickly together made fantastic designs of colour. The wild cactus dropped its irregular necklace of fat green leaves and brilliant flowers from the rocks above, and on the very edge there grew a luxuriant mass of snowy white heather, almost unknown in those hills but sometimes found in singular abundance and beauty in remote and favoured spots. Through the opening where the little gorge abruptly ended the sea appeared far below in a blaze of sunlight and swept with fresh colour by the westerly breeze. The view of the water between the warm yellow rocks was like those strange Chinese jewels in which the feathers of the blue kingfisher are set in work of frosted gold.
All agreed to Gwendoline’s proposition, and the living and the dead sat down together upon the grass, upon projecting stones and upon the dried trunk of a fallen pine-tree which lay along the side of the path as though purposely placed there to form a seat. For a few moments no one spoke. The living were absorbed in enjoyment of a rest after the ascent of the rugged path; the dead men, who felt no physical weariness, gazed mournfully on the distant sea and chased in sad restlessness the shadows of their great past which-seemed to flit between them and the fair reality of living nature.
“I wonder,” said Lady Brenda, who loved to throw out large questions for the sake of making people talk— “I wonder what, after all, we shall think we have most enjoyed in life?”
Cæsar smiled, and his expression was that of a man who is conscious of possessing the key to a difficult problem, a smile of calm certainty and of immovable conviction. Francis turned his head quickly to the speaker, and seemed about to speak some jest, but as suddenly, again, his face grew very grave, and a sort of rough despair gathered in the glance of his eyes and in the moulding of his full lips. Bayard’s beautiful face never changed, as he quietly watched the king. Dr. Johnson began to shake his head and seemed to be muttering to himself, but his words were not audible; his great hands grasped his oaken club nervously and he seemed much excited.
For a moment no one answered Lady Brenda’s question. Then Augustus Chard spoke out.
“Love and nature,” he said, shortly.
“I do entirely agree with you,” said Cæsar.
“I do,” said the king, shortly.
“Sir,” said Dr. Johnson, turning round upon his rock and addressing Augustus, “there is much to be said in support of your answer. Nevertheless, however overwhelming the evidence may appear to be upon the one side, justice requires that we should not overlook the arguments in favour of the other.”
“Let us argue the question,” suggested Heine. “I will argue on both sides, since that is necessary to get at the truth.”
“I never said it was necessary that one man should present both views of the question simultaneously, and then proceed to argue alternately in favour of the one and in favour of the other. I said, sir, that each should support his own side, in order that we might judge of both, thus extracting the pure metal of truth from the mixed ore of individual impressions refined in the crucible of honest discussion.”
“I beg your pardon,” replied Heine. “I only meant that I could without prejudice help both sides. I will not argue the fitness of your way of proceeding—”
“No, sir, you cannot,” interrupted Johnson in loud tones.
> “ — which is only applicable when there are at least two people present,” continued Heine, unmoved, “and which cannot be of the least service to a man who wishes to find the truth alone.”
“Let us discuss the matter itself, instead of the way of discussing it,” put in Lady Brenda.
“I say,” said Augustus, formally re-stating his opinion, “that I believe what we shall in the end see we have most enjoyed can be expressed under the heads of love and nature — I mean the beauties of nature.”
“It depends,” remarked Cæsar, looking down as he sat, “whether man most enjoys those things in which he commands, or those in which he is commanded by forces superior to himself.”
“You mean that they who enjoy love and nature more than anything else are dominated by love and nature?” asked Augustus Chard.
“I think so. But love and nature are widely different. Love is a passion, but nature is an assemblage of objects in the contemplation of which we experience various sensations of comfort or discomfort, of pleasure or annoyance.”
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 309