The joyous adventurer

Part I

"First, you and I, just as we are in this room; and the moment we get below that surface, the unutterable absolute itself 1 Doesn’t that show a singularly indigent imagination? Isn’t this brave uni¬ verse made on a richer pattern, with room in it for a long hierarchy of beings?”

Professor William James.

("A Pluralistic Universe.”)

Chapter I

There was a great scattering of papers, and Lady Condor emerged out of the Assembly Rooms at Fairbridge into the clear sunlight of a late April afternoon. It was sunlight of a very searching description; it showed up the rouge and powder on Lady Condor’s face and the black lines round her shrewd, kindly eyes. It picked out in her golden hair a strange green tinge. Nevertheless she faced it without flinching. Undoubtedly her smile was own brother to it. She smiled, as a child smiles at something it likes, at the gorse on the Common facing the Assembly Rooms. After a winter of few cold winds and little frost it was in bloom early and in amazing per¬ fection.

“Isn’t it quite too lovely!” she exclaimed to the im¬ posing Archdeacon who escorted her. “And do smell i it! What is it like ? Something we eat—yes. And who was it went down on his knees and thanked God, the first time he saw a field of gorse in bloom? Not Luther—no —but someone beginning with an L-”

At this moment the south-west wind whirled round the corner, caught up the papers which Lady Condor had dropped, and carried them down the road in a cloud of dust.

“Oh! My papers!” she cried, and held out helplessly a pair of white tightly gloved hands. She dropped in the effort a pocket handkerchief and a blue silk scarf. “And I have promised to sign all of them, and send them to Dudley Rancid, who will put them in his waste-paper basket unless we send enough-”

The Archdeacon descended into the road and in in¬ tervals of mastering his hat and apron endeavoured to collect the scarf and handkerchief. The interruption was not altogether unwelcome. Certainly Luther would not have been guilty of any such extravagant behaviour concerning gorse as that to which Lady Condor had al¬ luded, but on the other hand he could not remember what celebrity had been, and the Archdeacon prided himself on his general knowledge.

“Beginning with an L,” he said to himself, as he strove after the scarf. “L—um—Laud—Latimer— Lucullus-”

“Ah! you nearly got it there!” called Lady Condor, who had not ceased to talk. “But where were we? Oh yes, the papers and getting them signed. And what a dreadful man—quite nice looking—he reminded me of George Alexander. Poor dear—he was my favourite actor—I shall never forget him as Macbeth—or was that Irving? I remember he had not good knees for a kilt. But who was he? The speaker this afternoon I mean.

I cannot think of his name—something beginning with Bo. Not well selected—no. He told us the truth—why is it that the truth is always unpleasant? Just like medicines! Why should they be? One must have a sweet after all of them—I hold my nose too—Ah, you have got it!”

The Archdeacon had secured one end of the blue scarf, and was struggling against the wind for possession of the other. The handkerchief had joined the papers farther along the road, and was pursuing its downward path in the dust with apparent enjoyment. He gave it up, also the attempt to control the scarf, and returned to Lady Condor with it floating behind him like a banner. He was rather breathless after his exertions. Picking up or catching things was not really suitable for an Arch¬ deacon, or for a man of his figure, but Lady Condor was privileged. Indeed men had stooped and fetched and carried for her since she could lisp.

She was still talking; at the moment of his return again about the Speaker at the Meeting. A Meeting held to protest against the Worn Horse Traffic with the Continent.

“But who was he? And who got him to come? Not well selected—no. He told us the truth—because they were facts—who was it said you can’t get away from facts-?”

“My dear lady,” interrupted the Archdeacon with de¬ cision, “in my opinion he went much too far in stating the case. Dreadful things have occurred through this Traffic, regrettable things, I am the first to own it. But to call the English people cruel is on the face of it absurd. Absurd!” he repeated with warmth. “Also how are we to know that such things are going on unless we are told? However, I hope my few words in conclusion when I thanked our Chairman put the matter quite straight in the public mind-”

‘‘Oh! there is a man catching my papers,” interrupted Lady Condor. “I do hope he will catch the handkerchief too—one of my best—I cannot afford to lose them now as I used to do. Such a nuisance—but where were we ? Oh—yes—but if it was the truth? So unpleasant of course. But one does taste it sometimes. I did this afternoon—really I did not like it at all. Though your spoonful of jam after it was very helpful. What an excellent tea they gave us—oh—yes—I was one of the hostesses, wasn’t I? I sent £i. But who managed it all? Mrs. Leicester Pocock? Ah! That man has got my handkerchief! And all the papers too-”

At this moment a fair, very plump little man came out of the Assembly Rooms. He was almost well enough dressed to suggest a model figure in a tailor’s window. Only his undoubted air de race saved him. This was Mr. Arthur Fothersley, squire of Mentmore village, which lay on the border of the Condor estate, and a very old friend.

His round pink face wore an expression of anxiety which broke into a smile of relief when he saw Lady Condor.

“Ah, there you are!” he exclaimed. “I feared you might have started without me. Mrs. Rancid again! She seized me just as I was following you and be¬ gan to tell me all her last London specialist’s new treat¬ ment for her rheumatism. Impossible to interrupt her-”

The Archdeacon moved down the steps to take Lady Condor’s handkerchief and papers from the man who had retrieved them. He was fond of speaking of himself with Archidiaconal facetiousness as a second Sherlock

Holmes, and prided himself on being able to tell you a man’s profession from his appearance with almost as great accuracy as could that celebrated diviner by in¬ duction. This man, however, puzzled him. He wore a black, clerical-looking coat, good of its kind, and one that the Archdeacon might even have worn himself, but beneath it, incongruously enough, appeared a pair of gaiters and shooting boots. On his head was a broadbrimmed felt hat of the Cowboy description which would not have disgraced a scarecrow. He wore no tie, though his shirt and collar, so the Archdeacon noted with surprise, were quite clean. He had fierce blue eyes, a crooked nose, and a truculent beard curving upwards into a point. He was no longer young—about fifty—the Archdeacon decided. He might possibly be a gamekeeper who had lost his place—through drink. The Archdeacon also found the word “poacher” running through his mind. He noted with kindly tolerance that the man did not raise his hat when he arrived at the steps. “Ah, socialistic tendencies,” he said to himself, and then he received one of the shocks of his life.

Wholly unmindful of the Archdeacon’s dignified presence ready to receive the papers and handkerchief, the man walked up the steps and stuffed them uncere¬ moniously into Lady Condor’s hands.

“Hullo, Marion!” he said. “Still dropping things all over the place!”

The voice was a well-bred, imperious voice, the manner that of an intimate. The Archdeacon staggered.

“Good Heavens! It’s James Godolphin!” exclaimed Lady Condor, and promptly dropped all the papers and the handkerchief again. The latter, catching in one of her many brooches, waved gaily in the breeze.

“Well, I’m not going to pick them up this time,” said

James Godolphin, and he put his hands in his pockets while the Archdeacon and Mr. Fothersley, assisted by lesser lights who were beginning to dribble slowly out of the Assembly Rooms, collected the papers once more.

“But what are you doing here? Were you at the Meeting? I thought you never went to Meetings. So wise—but so wanting in your duty to the Public. A m$n in your position ought—James, you have forgotten to put a tie on,” said Lady Condor all in one breath, stopping on a note of horror.

“Why should I wear a tie? Hasn’t the shirt got a button and buttonhole?”

“But at a Public Meeting, James-”

“I was not at the Meeting, Marion. It is not necessary

to go to a Meeting to know that we are carrying on-”

“But, James, you would simply have loved the Speaker. He was so rude. I cannot remember his name—some¬ thing that began with Bo. He told us the unvarnished

truth—just like you do-”

“I don’t. I’ve washed my hands-”

“Well, you always did, James. And the Truth should remain at the bottom of her well, as it says in the Bible— or is it in ‘Alice in Wonderland’? But where have you

been, James? Not to London, I hope-”

“Why not to London? If you have been given a Pro¬ fessorial Chair you must sit in it sometimes, you know.” “But without a tie, James-”

Here the Archdeacon interrupted the duet. It seemed the only possible way to be on in the scene as an Arch¬ deacon certainly should be.

“Pray present me to Professor Godolphin, dear Lady Condor,” he said ceremoniously. “It is an honour I have long looked forward to.”

“Errmph!” said the Professor, looking less like a Professor and more like a Poacher than ever.

“When may we expect another of your magnificent contributions to our Historical Literature?” asked the Archdeacon, undaunted. Indeed he had a profound re¬ spect for Godolphin’s work. Also he suspected that he showed more breadth of mind in this matter than did most of his colleagues. “I assure you I for one look upon them as an Event. If I remember rightly it is rather more than three years since 'Comparative History’ appeared, so I think we may perhaps hope that you will soon-”

“Why should I?” snapped the Professor, and glared at him. “Have you ever listened, any of you? No! A nice mess you’re in too! Well, don’t blame me. I told you what had happened before, and why it happened. I-”

“James,” broke in Lady Condor, “I’ve just remembered we are not on speaking terms. Of course! That is why I have not seen you for such a long time. What was it we quarrelled about? I think it was about something beginning with a P. Could it have been Politics—no—I believe it was Pigs. Something to do with Cross Breed¬ ing—and they were all spotted red and black—like Noah’s Ark Pigs-”

“Berkshire and Tamworth,” said the Professor and laughed. He had an unexpected and infectious laugh. Everyone joined in. “Well, I can’t tell you what we quarrelled about, Marion. You always were a most unreasonable woman, and you never would listen to the truth-”

“But I did this afternoon,” Lady Condor interrupted him once more. “Poor old Mr. Wallis wanted to go out. But so awkward when you are on the Platform.

The short skirts are so awkward too. They ought to make special Platform Frocks. I must suggest it to Worth. The back benches don’t understand, you see. And so many women don’t know how to sit down—no. But where were we? Oh yes—the Speech. Did Mr. Bo . . . I cannot remember the name—say we were not worth one farthing or was it the two sparrows ? Some¬ thing like that-”

“I deprecate very much the introduction of Holy Writ and the name of the Almighty into a speech of that de¬ scription,” said the Archdeacon. “I am sure you agree with me, Mr. Godolphin?”

“If God’s anywhere He’s everywhere,” said the Pro¬ fessor. “Not sure He’s anywhere myself. You are. Why not at the Meeting? Errmph!”

“One must use discrimination,” said the Archdeacon judicially. It was a useful phrase. “This young man had none. The speech would have been admirable ad¬ dressed to a low class audience. Exactly what they like. But to address such an audience as was assembled this afternoon in that—er—flamboyant style was a grave error both of taste and judgment. And of course to accuse Us of being cruel-”

“So you are,” snorted the Professor, with such sud¬ denness that it caused the Archdeacon to heel over like a ship checked in full sail. “Beastly cruel, all of you. Don’t care a hang how you torture anything if you get a little money or amusement out of it. Damnably cruel! Wouldn’t mind so much if you had the courage of your brutality. Always denying it—saying you’re bubbling over with justice and mercy. Errmph!”

He glared at Lady Condor, and then suddenly smiled. She was looking at him with round eyes and her mouth open like a scolded child.

“My dear James, I had forgotten how dreadful you are. Don’t take any notice of him, Archdeacon Pinniger. He- Ah! now I remember! Of course! We quar¬

relled because I told you you were not fit for Polite Society—I knew it began with a P. Not Pigs—no— Polite Society—And I was quite right-”

“Not at all!” snapped the Professor. “Polite Society is not fit for Me.”

“Well, at any rate we are friends again. And you must drive home with me in the car. Arthur,” she smiled at Mr. Fothersley in high good humour, “you will not mind sitting back, will you ?”

Mr. Fothersley was delighted to sit anywhere if it helped to cement the renewed friendship. He disliked his friends quarrelling, especially when they were re¬ lated. “Always the worst quarrels,” he would say. And this one had been so silly. Really about nothing at all, only they would both talk at once, which always led to complications.

“Oh—my scarf. How did it get there ?” Lady Condor was continuing. “Put it in your pocket, dear Arthur, until we get home. And my papers. Yes, I have promised to sign them all. Good-bye, Archdeacon Pin¬ niger, and thank you so much for your charming little speech. It smoothed everything over so cleverly.”

“Errmph!” grunted the Professor, and skilfully banged the door of the car on her retreating back and still flow¬ ing conversation. Then he turned to Mr. Fothersley left standing in the road. They had been schoolboys together, and Godolphin grinned at him much as he would have done in those old days if he had outwitted another boy. And Mr. Fothersley’s cherubic little face broke into an answering grin, just as it might have done long ago. He was conscious of a desire to wink. Very odd.

IO THE JOYOUS ADVENTURER

A thing he had not done for years. A thing indeed he objected to. Very odd—the effect Janies always had on him.

“She will be wanting me to go into Polite Society beginning with a P again,” said the Professor, and did wink. “We remember her since she was in petticoats, don’t we? Hard to refuse.”

He waved a hand at Lady Condor’s protesting face as she struggled to get the window of the car down.

“Done you this time, Marion!” he shouted, to the interest and amusement of the little crowd of the less mighty which had gathered, and strode away down a side street.

Archdeacon Pinniger expressed, to a group of highly interested ladies, his regret that a man so brilliantly gifted should be so very peculiar. “Something in the Family? Oh well! Well! One does not talk of these things.” They were all so entertained that they forgot how much annoyed they had been with the afternoon’s Speaker, and the Archdeacon found the task of smooth¬ ing the paths of the righteous, one peculiarly his own, considerably lightened.

But Lady Condor was really vexed.

“That was too bad of James!” she exclaimed, as the motor curved away from the door of the Assembly Rooms. “I did want to talk to him. And now I don’t know when I shall see him again. You know he will never come to the Castle, and it is impossible to get to him. There is only a cart track up to the house—dread¬ fully neglected—all through the woods, you know. So I can’t go in the motor or even in the bath chair, and there it is! You see I had almost forgotten his existence— poor dear—one is so dreadfully busy. But when he ap¬ peared quite suddenly like that just now— Do imagine such a thing as going to London without a tie on! And he must have been at a Meeting of some sort because he took the Chair. What must everybody have thought! But where were we ? Oh yes—when I saw him again I knew how fond of him I really am—at the back of every¬ thing you know-”

The Eternal Child in Woman was very visible in the queer but delightful make-up that was Marion Condor. When she was really distressed you longed to comfort her.

“I must own I always find, when I see him, that I have a sneaking fondness for James myself,” acknowledged Mr. Fothersley. “But really his opinions did become out¬ rageous. Outrageous!” he repeated warmly and blew his nose. “Nothing was sacred to him. Neither Church, nor State, not even our Great Traditions. The Royal Family certainly I never heard him actually speak against; but that was only because he said ‘the poor things could not help themselves/ You do not expect a man of good family to say such things. And during the War he was impossible, really impossible. I remember one evening when dining at the Duke’s. General Bowmander actually coupled James’s name with that of Bernard Shaw, and said they ought both to be put up against the wall and shot. A fiery little man, of course, but-”

“Red-headed,” said Lady Condor. “I sometimes won¬ der if I had married him- Not the General—no.

James. He was very much in love with me once—poor dear-”

“We all were, Marion,” murmured Mr. Fothersley.

Lady Condor smiled, a reminiscent smile.

“Men are curious things—very curious,” she mur¬ mured. “But where were we? Oh, yes—poor dear James! And if I had married him. I wonder what he would have been like now? Not one bit like he is, you know. And I should never have allowed a beard— never. Isn’t it funny when one thinks of it? I should have married him, I believe—if Condor had not asked me. He nearly didn’t, I remember, because there was that Foljambe girl. A Cat! Soft and furry and cuddly with claws.” There was a gleam of remembered warfare in her eyes. “Curious things—men—very curious—I have never quite been able to understand them—in this matter of Cats you know. And I have had a great deal of experience.”

She fell into sudden but evidently profound thought.

“None more, Marion. None more,” responded Mr. Fothersley warmly.

Lady Condor emerged from her thought-depths with the same suddenness with which she had fallen into them and exclaimed:

“Men talk about we Women—Well! ! !” She threw out both hands helplessly, scattered everything she had on her lap to right and left, and looked at Mr. Fothersley. “Well!” she repeated. “But where were we? Oh—yes —poor dear James. But of course when Condor asked me there was no one else in it.” She smiled her wonder¬ ful smile. It shone with something dazzling—was it tears ?—in its brightness. “Well, thank God, we have been very happy. Though Heaven knows which of us has been the greater trial to the other! But where were we ? If I had married James—Yes. Or if his poor little wife had lived. He married her because she was so much in love with him, you know—quite a good reason—and she was very well off too. Her father made a fortune in candles, I think—or was it a tan yard—something that smelt, I know. Or if the poor little still-born baby had been alive-”

i3

“A boy, was it not?” asked Mr. Fothersley, who liked to get a word in edgeways sometimes.

“A boy—yes—such a beautiful boy too. I saw them in their coffin. It upset me terribly, I remember. Condor took me to Monte Carlo to get it out of my mind. And poor dear James went to the funeral in a red tie. It shocked people dreadfully, I remember—and of course no wonder-”

The car whirled in at one of the many entrances to Mentmore Castle, and Lady Condor broke off to wave a kindly greeting to the curtsying gate-keeper. She looked out at the great forest stretching away on either hand, indescribably radiant in the sunlight.

“Of course it is very beautiful,” she said with appar¬ ent inconsequence, “but I would not care to bury myself in it always, would you, dear Arthur? So I suppose he was very much in love too—though he never showed it.”

“You mean James?” asked Mr. Fothersley.

“Yes, Arthur, of course I do. And yet I remember distinctly when I was trying to tell him how sorry I was —it is so difficult, isn’t it?—he said: ‘Don’t be a fool, Marion,’ and asked me about the new motor. All motors were new then—but odd—wasn’t it ? But here we are ! And where are my glasses ? I am sure I had them when we left the Assembly Rooms. I distinctly remember looking at Mrs. Horace Jones, in a new cloak like a zebra, in the High Street. Oh, there they are—and how on earth did they get there—and not broken! What a mercy, dear Arthur, you are so plump. Don’t bother about anything else, the servants will collect them. And oh, there is a tele¬ gram. Now what can this be? from Condor, I suppose.”

She tore open the little orange envelope without ceas¬ ing to talk, a voluminous, many-coloured figure in the doorway of the noble grey stone building.

Mr. Fothersley waited with polite interest, indeed with open curiosity. It was one of the salient features of his general make-up.

Lady Condor gave a little cry of pleasure.

“Dear Hawkhurst has a daughter!” she exclaimed. “Now is not that delightful? I began to think that gen¬ eration would have nothing but boys—just as mine had, except for me. Both going on well and she is to be called Marion Rosamund Helen Emily.”

But Marion Rosamund Helen Emily christened herself Ishtar, that being the nearest she could get to “Sister,” as soon as she could speak, and Ishtar she has remained up to the present time. Also she has remained the only daughter of that generation of the great Condor family.

The Professor made his way home contentedly mut¬ tering to himself. It was not until the long hill was passed that he was able to breathe freely.

People! He could not stand them. Every year it was becoming worse. Or People were. And they swarmed in towns. Swarmed.

Yet the Professor was a kindly—even a gentle—per¬ son. In his little house high among the uplands of the great Condor Forests he lived peacefully with a dog, two cats, a donkey, a large family of robins, and his housekeeper. The nearer he got to it the more benign became the Professor’s aspect, and the more his resem¬ blance to a poacher dwindled.

People! Too many of them. Far too many. They congregated. Fortunately. . . . Birth restrictions. . . .

He turned out of the roadway and passed into the quiet fields.

Green and cool and peaceful. No People.

The fierceness died out of his eyes. His beard assumed an almost benevolent aspect. He followed the path out of the fields into the young growth of trees on the border of the forest. Every imaginable shade of living green glowed around him on a carpet of Wind Flowers.

Pleasant, very pleasant. And cool.

He took off his hat, and wiped the perspiration from his forehead with a large, bright red handkerchief. The Professor was fond of red. The sunlight made a nim¬ bus of silver round his head, and softened its fighting carriage. His mind resumed its normal train of thought. Something coherent emerged out of the indistinct contin¬ uous murmur.

“Yes ... of course ... a fact . . . extraordinary fact. . . . Throughout History. . . . Minorities always in long run controlled Majorities . . . aim of State . . . greatest good. . . . greatest number. . . . Ptch! greatest good. ...” At that moment he said it absolutely. “ . . . Minorities always—in long run. ... Of course they had. ...”

“Of course they do!” said the Professor and put his amorphous hat in his pocket, laid his handkerchief on the top of his head, and continued his way.

Two young rabbits inspected the handkerchief later on where it fell in the pathway, but could make nothing of it. A jackdaw however, who discovered it later on, prized it greatly, it was of the best silk, and took it home with him in triumph.

The Professor continued his way tranquilly. The thesis he was propounding in his brain progressed also. Higher and higher he climbed and the green glory in which he moved unheeding deepened with the evening coming. The birds fluted gay and careless songs to each other. The woodpigeon cooed in the fir-tree tops. Little grey-brown rabbits scuttled across his path. None of i6 them paid the smallest attention to the figure moving up and up the pathway muttering learned words and grumbling amiably to itself. Neither did the Professor take the smallest notice of them. As he moved in and out of the sunlight and shadow, so his silvered hair shone or darkened round the bald crown of his head. A nimbus of light, coming and going, flickering here and there. Within the Mind continued to work.

“These Minorities . . . um . . . what do we find. . . . Good men . . . so-called . . . always at head of Minorities ... of course. . . . What do we find . . . always done more harm than good . . . far more harm . . . um . . . far more harm. . . .”

“Of course,” said the Professor. “Far more Harm! God bless my soul, what’s that?”

His foot had struck against something in the path, something soft. He had struck it heavily because he did not lift his feet when walking, and as he struck it a thin, piercing wail rent the air—and every bird in the wood seemed to go wild with fear and anger.

“God bless my soul!” said the Professor again. “It isn’t . . .”

No, it couldn’t be. Of course not! What . . . ? How . . . ? Who . . . ? No, it couldn’t be . . . but it was . . . undoubtedly it was. . . .

“God bless my soul!” exclaimed the Professor, for the third and last time. “It’s a baby!”

The baby, as if satisfied to be recognised, ceased to yell and looked at the Professor with a pair of most extraordinary eyes. They were not blue, they were not green, they were not brown, and yet they were all three. Also they looked at the Professor with almost uncanny intelligence. It was wrapped in a weather-worn shawl which had once been blue, but had extracted one leg and both arms, so was comparatively free in its immediate neighbourhood.

The Professor glared down at it, and held his beard tightly in his left hand, a habit with him in moments of crisis.

It was not the right place to leave a young infant. No . . . not the right place. Public thoroughfare. There were Byelaws. . . . The County Council dealt. . . . Obstruction of Traffic. . . . Why? . . . ? How . . . ? Very easily injured . . . fatally injured. . . .

The Professor bent down and peered closer. The baby chuckled. It put out a purposeful hand and clutched after the pointed red-gold and silver thing which had sud¬ denly swum into its ken.

“Not damaged . . . um . . . lucky!” said the Pro¬ fessor. He removed his beard out of range, stepped carefully over the baby and went on his way.

The baby made several ineffectual grabs at the strange object passing across its line of vision, and failing to catch hold of any part of it started to yell again, and once more the chorus of angry, frightened birds accom¬ panied it. The Professor pursued his way for some fifty yards unmoved. He tried to regain his disturbed line of thought. “Minorities . . . um ... far more harm ... far more. . . .” Then he paused.

Perhaps . . . yes. . . . Dropped by accident . . . um . . o The female . . . um . . . probably mother . . . discover loss . . . return. Or it might be a child. Children

were careless.Left things about . . . dropped

things . . . um . . . Marion. . . . Very careless. Ought he to wait ? Suppose no one returned ? Very care¬ less. Or perhaps left on purpose. . . . Things happened.