“They won’t,” said Professor Stromwell, from across the table; “it’s gone forever.”
“Really?” said Penny. “What happened?”
“I burned it myself,” said Stromwell. “Ellerman wanted it out of the way.”
“But oughtn’t it to have gone to Archives?”
“In my opinion, too much goes to Archives, and anything that is in Archives gains a wholly ridiculous importance because of it. Judge a man by what he publishes, not by what he hides in a bottom drawer.”
“Was it as raunchy as he hinted?”
“I don’t know. He asked me not to read it, and I didn’t.”
“And thus another great romance is lost,” said Penny. “He may have been a considerable artist in pornography.”
“No, not a man who was so devoted to the university ideal as Ellerman,” said Professor Hitzig. “If he had been an artist primarily he would not have been so happy here. The characteristic of the artist is discontent. Universities may produce fine critics, but not artists. We are wonderful people, we university people, but we are apt to forget the limitations of learning, which cannot create or beget.”
“Oh, come on!” said Penny; “That’s going too far. I could name you lots of artists who have lived in universities.”
“For every one you name, I’ll name you a score who didn’t,” said Hitzig. “Scientists are what universities produce best and oftenest. Science is discovery and revelation, and that is not art.”
“Aha! “The reverent inquiry into nature,” said Penny.
“Finding a gaping hole in exact knowledge and plugging it, to the world’s great benefit,” said Gyllenborg.
“Then what do you call the Humanities?” said Penny. “Civilization, I suppose.”
“Civilization rests on two things,” said Hitzig; “the discovery that fermentation produces alcohol, and voluntary ability to inhibit defecation. And I put it to you, where would this splendidly civilized occasion be without both?”
“Fermentation is undoubtedly science,” said Gyllenborg; “but voluntary inhibition must be psychology, and if anybody suggests that psychology is a science I shall scream.”
“No, no; you are on my ground now,” said Stromwell; “inhibition of defecation is in essence a theological matter, and unquestionably one of the effects of the Fall of Man. And that, as everybody now recognizes, means the dawn of personal consciousness, the separation of the individual from the tribe, or mass. Animals have no such power of inhibition, as every stage-manager who has to get a horse on and offstage without a mishap will assure you. Animals know themselves but dimly—even more dimly than we, the masters of the world. When Man ate the fruit from the Tree of Knowledge he became aware of himself as something other than a portion of his surroundings, and he dropped his last, carefree turd, as he, with wandering steps and slow, from Eden took his solitary way. After that he had, literally, to mind his step, not to speak of his Ps and Qs.”
“ ‘His solitary way’,” said Penny Raven. “Just like Milton, the old sour-belly! What about Eve?”
“Every child repeats the experience of recognizing himself as unique,” said Hitzig, ignoring the feminist outburst.
“Every child repeats the whole history of life, beginning as a fish, before he begins to experience inhibition,” said Gyllenborg.
“Every child repeats the Fall of Man, quits the Paradise of the womb, and is launched into the painful world,” said Stromwell. “Sub-Warden, have those people up the way completely forgotten that decanters are supposed to be passed?”
I tore myself away from a disquisition by Arthur Cornish on loan-sharking—of which of course he disapproved, although it fascinated him—and made another tour of the table to see that everyone was all right, and speed the decanters on their way. They had come to rest in front of Professor Mukadassi, who did not drink wine, and seemed absorbed in the talk of Hollier. I was glad Clem was enjoying himself, because he is not really a clubbable man.
“What I call cultural fossils,” he was saying, “are parts of human belief or behaviour that have become so imbedded in the surrounding life that nobody questions them. I remember going to church with some English relatives when I was a boy, and noticing that a lot of the country women, as they came in, made a tiny curtsy to a blank wall. When I asked why, nobody knew, but my cousin inquired of the vicar, and he said that before the Reformation a statue of the Virgin had stood there, and although Cromwell’s men had destroyed it, they could not destroy the local habit, as evinced in the women’s behaviour. Years ago I paid a brief call at Pitcairn Island, and it was like stepping back into the earliest days of the nineteenth century; the last immigrants to that island were soldiers from Wellington’s troops, and their descendants still spoke the authentic speech of Sam Weller, and said “Veil, sir”, and “Werry good”. When my Father was a boy every well-brought-up Canadian child learned that “herb” was pronounced without the “h”; you still hear it now and again, and modern Englishmen think it’s ignorance, though it’s really cultural history. These things are trifles, but among races that keep much to themselves, like some of the nomads of the East, or our surviving real Gypsies, all kinds of ideas persist, that are worth investigating. We tend to think of human knowledge as progressive; because we know more and more, our parents and grandparents are back numbers. But a contrary theory is possible—that we simply recognize different things at different times and in different ways. Which throws a new light on the whole business of mythology; the myths are not dead, just different in understanding and application. Perhaps superstition is just myth, dimly perceived and unthinkingly revered. If you think superstition is dead, visit one of our examination halls, and count the fetishes and ju-jus that the students bring in with them.”
“You don’t take that seriously?” said Boys.
“Quite seriously,” said Hollier.
“You speak of one of the great gaps in understanding between East and West,” said Mukadassi. “In India we know that men every bit as good as we believed things that the advanced members of society look on as absurdities. But I agree with you, Professor; our task is not to scorn them but to try to discover what they meant and where they thought they were going. The pride of Science encourages us to this terrible folly and darkness of scorning the past. But we in the East take much more account of Nature in our daily life than you do. Perhaps it is because we are able to be out-of-doors more than you. But if I may say it—and you must not think I would wound your susceptibilities, Professor—no, no, not for the world—but your Christianity is not helpful about Nature. None the less, Nature will have her say, and even that Human Nature that Christianity so often deplores. I hope I do not give offence?”
Hollier was not offended; Mukadassi exaggerated the hold Christianity had on him. “One of my favourite cultural fossils,” said he, “is the garden gnome. You have observed them? Very cute objects; very cute indeed. But do people want them simply for cuteness? I don’t believe it. The gnomes provide some of that sugar in the drink of belief that Western religion no longer offers, and which the watered-down humanitarianism that passes with so many people for religion offers even less. The gnomes speak of a longing, unrecognized but all the stronger for its invisibility, for the garden-god, the image of the earth-spirit, the kobold, the kabir, the guardian of the household. Dreadful as they are, they have a truth you won’t find in the bird-bath and the sundial.”
Professor Durdle was airing a grievance to Elsa Czermak, who had been complaining about an economic weekend of seminars she had been attending at a sister university. “But at least you talk about your subject,” said he; “you don’t have to listen to atmospheric burble.”