The Once and Future King (#1-4)

by T. H. White

  ‘Stultus? I thought we were intelligent?’

  ‘In one of the miserable wars when I was a younger man,’ said the magician, taking a deep breath, ‘it was found necessary to issue to the people of England a set of printed cards which entitled them to food. These cards had to be filled in by hand, before the food could be bought. Each individual had to write a number in one part of the card, his name in another part, and the name of the food—supplier in a third. He had to perform these three intellectual feats – one number and two names – or else he would get no food and starve to death. His life depended on the operation. It was found in the upshot, so far as I recollect, that two—thirds of the population were unable to perform the sequence without mistake. And these people, we are told by the Catholic Church, are to be trusted with immortal souls!’

  ‘Are you sure of the facts?’ asked the badger doubtfully.

  The old man had the grace to blush.

  ‘I did not note them down,’ he said, ‘but they are true in substance, if not in detail. I clearly remember, for instance, that a woman was found standing in a queue for bird—seed in the same war, who, upon interrogation, was discovered to possess no birds.’

  Arthur objected.

  ‘It does not prove very much, even if they were unable to write their three things properly. If they had been any of the other animals, they would not have been able to write at all.’

  ‘The short answer to that,’ replied the philosopher, ‘is that not a single human being can bore a hole in an acorn with his nose.’

  ‘I do not understand.’

  ‘Well, the insect called Balaninus elephas is able to bore acorns in the way I mention, but it cannot write. Man can write, but cannot bore acorns. These are their own specializations. The important difference is, however, that while Balaninus bores his holes with the greatest efficiency, man, as I have shown you, does not write with any efficiency at all. That is why I say that, species for species, man is more inefficient, more stultus, than his fellow beasts. Indeed, no sensible observer would expect the contrary. Man has been so short a time upon our globe, that he can scarcely be expected to have mastered much.’

  The king had found that he was beginning to feel depressed.

  ‘Did you think of many other names?’ he asked.

  ‘There was a third suggestion, made by badger.’

  At this the happy badger shuffled his feet with satisfaction, peeped sideways at the company round the corner of his spectacles, and examined his long nails.

  ‘Impoliticus,’ said Merlyn. ‘Homo impoliticus. You remember that Aristotle defined us as political animals. Badger suggested examining this, and, after we had looked at his politics, impoliticus seemed to be the only word to use.’

  ‘Go on, if you must.’

  ‘We found that the political ideas of Homo ferox were of two kinds: either that problems could be solved by force, or that they could be solved by argument. The ant—men of the future, who believe in force, consider that you can determine whether twice two is four by knocking people down who disagree with you. The democrats, who are to believe in argument, consider that all men are entitled to an opinion, because all are born equal – “I am as good a man as you are,” the first instinctive ejaculation of the man who is not.’

  ‘If neither force nor argument can be relied on,’ said the king, ‘I do not see what can be done.’

  ‘Neither force, nor argument, nor opinion,’ said Merlyn with the deepest sincerity, ‘are thinking. Argument is only a display of mental force, a sort of fencing with points in order to gain a victory, not for truth. Opinions are the blind alleys of lazy or of stupid men, who are unable to think. If ever a true politician really thinks a subject out dispassionately, even Homo stultus will be compelled to accept his findings in the end. Opinion can never stand beside truth. At present, however, Homo impoliticus is content either to argue with opinions or to fight with his fists, instead of waiting for the truth in his head. It will take a million years, before the mass of men can be called political animals.’

  ‘What are we, then, at present?’

  ‘We find that at present the human race is divided politically into one wise man, nine knaves, and ninety fools out of every hundred. That is, by an optimistic observer. The nine knaves assemble themselves under the banner of the most knavish among them, and become “politicians”: the wise man stands out, because he knows himself to be hopelessly outnumbered, and devotes himself to poetry, mathematics or philosophy; while the ninety fools plod off behind the banners of the nine villains, according to fancy, into the labyrinths of chicanery, malice and warfare. It is pleasant to have command, observes Sancho Panza, even over a flock of sheep, and that is why the politicians raise their banners. It is, moreover, the same thing for the sheep whatever the banner. If it is democracy, then the nine knaves will become members of parliament; if fascism, they will become party leaders; if communism, commissars. Nothing will be different, except the name. The fools will be still fools, the knaves still leaders, the results still exploitation. As for the wise man, his lot will be much the same under any ideology. Under democracy he will be encouraged to starve to death in a garret, under fascism he will be put in a concentration camp, under communism he will be liquidated. This is an optimistic but on the whole a scientific statement of the habits of Homo impoliticus.’

  The King said grimly: ‘Well, I am sorry. I suppose I had better go away and drown myself. I am cheeky, insignificant, ferocious, stupid and impolitic. It hardly seems to be worth our going on.’

  But at this the animals seemed much upset. They rose in a body, stood round him, fanned him, and offered him drink.

  ‘No,’ they said. ‘Really, we were not trying to be rude. Honestly, we were trying to help. There, do not take it to heart. We are sure there must be plenty of humans who are sapiens, and not a bit ferocious. We were telling you these things as a sort of foundation, so as to make it easier to solve your puzzle later. Come now, have a glass of madeira and think no more about it. Truly, we think that man is the most marvellous creature anywhere, quite the best there is.’

  And they turned upon Merlyn crossly, saying: ‘Now look what you have done! This is the result of all your jibber and jabber! The poor King is perfectly miserable, and all because you throw your weight about, and exaggerate, and prattle like a poop!’

  Merlyn only replied: ‘Even the Greek definition anthropos; He Who Looks Up, is inaccurate. Man seldom looks above his own height after adolescence.’

  Chapter VI

  The new Arthur, the oiled bolt, was cosseted back to good humour; but he immediately committed the blunder of opening the subject once again.

  ‘Surely,’ he said, ‘the affections of men, their love and heroism and patience: surely these are respectable things?’

  His tutor was not abashed by the scolding which he had received. He accepted the gage with pleasure.

  ‘Do you suppose that the other animals,’ he asked, ‘have no love or heroism or patience – or, which is the more important, no co—operative affection? The love—lives of ravens, the heroism of a pack of weasels, the patience of small birds nursing a cuckoo, the co—operative love of bees – all these things are shewn much more perfectly on every side in nature, than they have ever been shown in man.’

  ‘Surely,’ asked the King, ‘man must have some respectable feature?’

  At this his magician relented.

  ‘I am inclined to think,’ he said, ‘that there may be one. This, insignificant and childish as it must seem, I mention in spite of all the lucubrations of that fellow Chalmers—Mitchell. I refer to man’s relation with his pets. In certain households there are dogs which are of no use as hunters or as watchmen, and cats which refuse to go mousing, but which are treated with a kind of vicarious affection by their human fellows, in spite of uselessness or even trouble. I cannot help thinking that any traffic in love, which is platonic and not given in exchange for other commodities, must be remarkable. I knew
a donkey once, who lived in the same field with a horse of the same sex. They were deeply attached to one another, although nobody could see that either of them was able to confer a material benefit on the other. This relationship does, it seems to me, exist to a respectable extent between Homo ferox and his hounds in certain cases. But it also exists among the ants, so we must not put too much store upon it.’

  Goat observed slyly: ‘Parasites.’

  At this, Cavall got off his master’s lap, and he and the new King walked over to the goat on stiff legs. Cavall spoke in human speech for the first and last time in his long life, in unison with his master. His voice sounded like a teuton’s speaking through a trumpet.

  ‘Did you say Parasites?’ they asked. ‘Just say that once again, will you, until we punch your head?’

  The goat regarded them with amused affection, but refused to have a row.

  ‘If you punched my head,’ he said, ‘you would get a pair of bloody knuckles. Besides, I take it back.’

  They sat down again, while the king congratulated himself on having something nice in his heart at any rate. Cavall evidently thought the same thing, for he licked his nose.

  ‘What I cannot understand,’ said Arthur, ‘is why you should take the trouble to think about man and his problems, or to sit in committee on them, if the only respectable thing about him is the way he treats a few pets. Why not let him extinguish himself without fuss?’

  This set the committee a problem: they remained still to think it over, holding the mahogany fans between their faces and the firelight, and watching the inverted flames in the smoky brown of the madeira.

  ‘It is because we love you, king, yourself,’ said Archimedes eventually.

  This was the most wonderful compliment which he had ever received.

  ‘It is because the creature is young,’ said the goat. ‘Young and helpless creatures make you want to aid them, instinctively.’

  ‘It is because helping is a good thing anyway,’ said T. natrix.

  ‘There is something important in humanity,’ said Balin. ‘I cannot at present describe it.’

  Merlyn said: ‘It is because one likes to tinker with things, to play with possibilities.’

  The hedgehog gave the best reason, which was simply: ‘Whoy shouldernt ’un?’

  Then they fell silent, musing on the flames.

  ‘Perhaps I have painted a dark picture of the humans,’ said Merlyn doubtfully, ‘not very dark, but it might have been a shade lighter. It was because I wanted you to understand about looking at the animals. I did not want you to think that man was too grand to do that. In the course of a long experience of the human race, I have learned that you can never make them understand anything, unless you rub it in.’

  ‘You are wanting me to find something out, by learning from the beasts.’

  ‘Yes. At last we are getting to the object of your visit. There are two creatures which I forgot to shew you when you were small, and, unless you see them now, we shall get no further.’

  ‘I will do what you like.’

  ‘They are the Ant and the Wild Goose. We want you to meet them tonight. Of course it will be only one kind of ant, out of many hundreds, but it is a kind which we want you to see.’

  ‘Very well,’ said the king. ‘I am ready and willing.’

  ‘Have you the Sanguinea—spell at hand, my badger?’

  The wretched animal immediately began to rummage in its chair, searching inside the seams, lifting the corner of the carpet, and turning up slips of paper covered with Merlyn’s hand—writing in all directions.

  The first slip was headed More Hubris Under Victoria. It said: ‘Dr John of Gaddesden, court physician to Edward II, claimed to have cured the king’s son of small—pox by wrapping the patient up in red cloth, putting red curtains on the windows, and seeing that all the hangings of the room were red. This raised a merry Victorian guffaw at the expense of medieval simplicity, until it was discovered by Dr Niels Finsen of Copenhagen in the twentieth century that red and infra—red light really did affect the pustules of small—pox, even helping in the cure of the disease.’

  The next slip said briefly: ‘Half a rose noble each way on Golden Miller.’

  The third, which smelt strongly of Quelques Fleurs, and was not in Merlyn’s hand, said: ‘Queen Philippa’s monument at Charing Cross, seven—thirty, under the spire.’ There were a lot of kisses on the bottom of it, and, on the back, some notes for a poem to be addressed to the sender. These were in Merlyn’s writing, and said: Hooey? Coué? Chop—suey? The poem itself, which began

  Cooee

  Nimue,

  was erased.

  Another slip was headed: ‘Other Races, Victorian Condescension to, as well as to Own Ancestors, Animals, etc.’ It said: ‘Colonel Wood—Martin, the Antiquarian, writing in 1895, observes with a giggle that “one of the most depraved of all races, the now extinct Tasmanians, believed that stones, especially certain kinds of quartz crystals, could be used as mediums, or as means of communication…with living persons at a distance!” Within a few years of this note, wireless was imported into the western hemisphere. I prefer to conjecture that these depraved people were a million years in front of the colonel, along the same foul road, and that they had become extinct by constantly listening to swing—music on their crystal sets.’

  ‘Here we are,’ said badger. ‘I think this is it.’

  He handed over a strip on which was written: ‘Formica est exemplo magni laboris,* Dative of the Purpose.’

  It proved ineffectual.

  At last everybody was commanded to stand up, search on their chairs, look in their pockets, etc. The hedgehog, producing a tattered fragment covered with dry mud and crumbled leaves, on which he had been sitting, asked: ‘Be ’un thic?’ After it had been wiped, flapped and dusted, it was found to read: Dragguls uoht, Tna eht ot og, and Merlyn said it was the one they wanted.

  So a couple of ants’ nests were fetched from the meat—safe, where they stood supported in saucers of water. They were placed on a table in the middle of the room, while the animals sat down to watch, for you could see inside the nests by means of glass plates coloured red. Arthur was made to sit on the table beside the larger nest, the inverted pentagram was drawn, and Merlyn solemnly pronounced the cantrip.

  Chapter VII

  He felt that it was strange to be visiting the animals again at his age. Perhaps, he thought to himself with shame, I am dreaming in my second childhood, perhaps I am given over to my dotage.

  But it made him remember his first childhood vividly, the happy times swimming in moats or flying with Archimedes, and he realized that he had lost something since those days. It was something which he thought of now as the faculty of wonder. Then, his delights had been indiscriminate. His attention, or his sense of beauty, or whatever it was to be called, had attached itself fortuitously to oddments. Perhaps, while Archimedes had been lecturing him about the flight of birds, he himself would have been lost in admiration at the way in which the fur went on the mouse in the owl’s claws. Or the great Mr M. might have been making him a speech about Dictatorship, while he, all the time, would have seen only the bony teeth, poring on them in an ecstasy of experience.

  This, his faculty of wonder, was gone from inside him, however much Merlyn might have furbished up his brain. It was exchanged – for the faculty of discrimination, he supposed. Now he would have listened to Archimedes or to Mr M. He would never have seen the grey fur or the yellow teeth. He did not feel proud of the change.

  The old man yawned – for ants do yawn, and they stretch themselves too, just like human beings, when they have had a sleep – after which he gathered his wits for the business in hand. He did not feel pleased to be an ant, as he would have been transported to be one in the old days, but only thought to himself: well, it is a piece of work which I must do. How to begin?

  The nests were made by spreading earth in a thin layer, less than half an inch deep, on small tables like footstools. Th
en, on top of the layer of earth, a sheet of glass was placed, with a piece of cloth over it to give darkness for the nurseries. By removing the cloth, you could see into the underground shelters as if you had a cross section. You could see the circular chamber where the pupae were being tended, as if it were a conservatory with a glass roof.

  The actual nests were only at the end of the footstools, the glass reaching less than half the way along. In front were plain aprons of earth, open to the sky, and, at the further end of each footstool, there were the watch—glasses in which the syrup was left for food. There was no communication between the two nests. The footstools were separate, side by side but not touching, with their legs in the saucers.

  Of course it did not seem like this at the time. The place where he was seemed like a great field of earthen boulders, with a flattened fortress at one end of it. The fortress was entered by tunnels, and, over the entrance to each tunnel, there was a notice which said:

  EVERYTHING NOT FORBIDDEN

  IS COMPULSORY

  BY NEW ORDER

  He read the notice with a feeling of dislike, though he did not appreciate its meaning, and he thought to himself: I will take a turn round, before going in. For some reason the notice gave him a reluctance to go, making the rough tunnel look sinister.

  He waved his antennae carefully, considering the notice, assuring himself of his new senses, planting his feet squarely in the new world as if to brace himself in it. He cleaned his antennae with his forefeet, frisking and smoothing them so that he looked like a Victorian villain twirling his moustachios. Then he became conscious of something which had been waiting for consciousness all the time: that there was a noise in his head which was articulate. It was either a noise or a complicated smell, and the easiest way for us to explain it is to say that it was like a wireless broadcast. It came to him through his antennae, like music.

  The music had a monotonous rhythm like a pulse, and the words which went with it were about June – moon – noon – spoon or Mammy – mammy – mammy – mammy or Ever – never or Blue – true – you. He liked them at first, especially the ones about Love – dove – above, until he found that they were not variable. As soon as they had been finished once, they were begun again. After an hour or two of them, he was to feel that they would make him scream.