Chapter 17

THE THREE BADGERS.

Still more dreamily I found myself following this imperious voice into

a room where the Earl, his daughter, and Arthur, were seated.

"So you're come at last!" said Lady Muriel, in a tone of playful reproach.

"I was delayed," I stammered. Though what it was that had delayed me I

should have been puzzled to explain! Luckily no questions were asked.

The carriage was ordered round, the hamper, containing our contribution

to the Picnic, was duly stowed away, and we set forth.

There was no need for me to maintain the conversation. Lady Muriel and

Arthur were evidently on those most delightful of terms, where one has

no need to check thought after thought, as it rises to the lips, with

the fear 'this will not be appreciated--this will give' offence--

this will sound too serious--this will sound flippant': like very old

friends, in fullest sympathy, their talk rippled on.

"Why shouldn't we desert the Picnic and go in some other direction?"

she suddenly suggested. "A party of four is surely self-sufficing?

And as for food, our hamper--"

"Why shouldn't we? What a genuine lady's argument!" laughed Arthur.

"A lady never knows on which side the onus probandi--the burden of

proving--lies!"

"Do men always know?" she asked with a pretty assumption of meek docility.

"With one exception--the only one I can think of Dr. Watts, who has

asked the senseless question

Fancy that as an argument for Honesty! His position seems to be 'I'm

only honest because I see no reason to steal.' And the thief's answer

is of course complete and crushing. 'I deprive my neighbour of his

goods because I want them myself. And I do it against his will because

there's no chance of getting him to consent to it!'"

"I can give you one other exception," I said: "an argument I heard only

to-day---and not by a lady. 'Why shouldn't I walk on my own forehead?'"

"What a curious subject for speculation!" said Lady Muriel, turning to me,

with eyes brimming over with laughter. "May we know who propounded

the question? And did he walk on his own forehead?"

"I ca'n't remember who it was that said it!" I faltered. "Nor where I

heard it!"

"Whoever it was, I hope we shall meet him at the Picnic!" said Lady Muriel.

"It's a far more interesting question than 'Isn't this a picturesque ruin?'

Aren't those autumn-tints lovely?' I shall have to answer those two

questions ten times, at least, this afternoon!"

"That's one of the miseries of Society!" said Arthur. "Why ca'n't

people let one enjoy the beauties of Nature without having to say so

every minute? Why should Life be one long Catechism?"

"It's just as bad at a picture-gallery," the Earl remarked.

"I went to the R.A. last May, with a conceited young artist: and he did

torment me! I wouldn't have minded his criticizing the pictures himself:

but I had to agree with him--or else to argue the point, which would have

been worse!"

"It was depreciatory criticism, of course?" said Arthur.

"I don't see the 'of course' at all."

"Why, did you ever know a conceited man dare to praise a picture?

The one thing he dreads (next to not being noticed) is to be proved

fallible! If you once praise a picture, your character for

infallibility hangs by a thread. Suppose it's a figure-picture, and

you venture to say 'draws well.' Somebody measures it, and finds one of

the proportions an eighth of an inch wrong. You are disposed of as a

critic! 'Did you say he draws well?'

your friends enquire sarcastically, while you hang your head and blush.

No. The only safe course, if any one says 'draws well,' is to shrug

your shoulders. 'Draws well?' you repeat thoughtfully. 'Draws well?

Humph!' That's the way to become a great critic!"

Thus airily chatting, after a pleasant drive through a few miles of

beautiful scenery, we reached the rendezvous--a ruined castle--where

the rest of the picnic-party were already assembled. We spent an hour

or two in sauntering about the ruins: gathering at last, by common

consent, into a few random groups, seated on the side of a mound,

which commanded a good view of the old castle and its surroundings.

The momentary silence, that ensued, was promptly taken possession of or,

more correctly, taken into custody--by a Voice; a voice so smooth,

so monotonous, so sonorous, that one felt, with a shudder, that any

other conversation was precluded, and that, unless some desperate

remedy were adopted, we were fated to listen to a Lecture, of which no

man could foresee the end!

The speaker was a broadly-built man, whose large, flat, pale face was

bounded on the North by a fringe of hair, on the East and West by a

fringe of whisker, and on the South by a fringe of beard--the whole

constituting a uniform halo of stubbly whitey-brown bristles. His

features were so entirely destitute of expression that I could not help

saying to myself--helplessly, as if in the clutches of a night-mare--

"they are only penciled in: no final touches as yet!" And he had a way

of ending every sentence with a sudden smile, which spread like a ripple

over that vast blank surface, and was gone in a moment, leaving behind

it such absolute solemnity that I felt impelled to murmur

"it was not he: it was somebody else that smiled!"

"Do you observe?" (such was the phrase with which the wretch began each

sentence) "Do you observe the way in which that broken arch, at the

very top of the ruin, stands out against the clear sky? It is placed

exactly right: and there is exactly enough of it. A little more, or a

little less, and all would be utterly spoiled!"

"Oh gifted architect!" murmured Arthur, inaudibly to all but

Lady Muriel and myself. "Foreseeing the exact effect his work would

have, when in ruins, centuries after his death!"

"And do you observe, where those trees slope down the hill, (indicating

them with a sweep of the hand, and with all the patronising air of the

man who has himself arranged the landscape), "how the mists rising from

the river fill up exactly those intervals where we need indistinctness,

for artistic effect? Here, in the foreground, a few clear touches are

not amiss: but a back-ground without mist, you know! It is simply

barbarous! Yes, we need indistinctness!"

The orator looked so pointedly at me as he uttered these words, that I

felt bound to reply, by murmuring something to the effect that I hardly

felt the need myself--and that I enjoyed looking at a thing, better,

when I could see it.

"Quite so!" the great man sharply took me up. "From your point of

view, that is correctly put. But for anyone who has a soul for Art,

such a view is preposterous. Nature is one thing. Art is another.

Nature shows us the world as it is. But Art--as a Latin author tells

us--Art, you know the words have escaped my memory "Ars est celare

Naturam," Arthur interposed with a delightful promptitude.

"Quite so!" the orator replied with an air of relief. "I thank you!

Ars est celare Naturam but that isn't it." And, for a few peaceful

moments, the orator brooded, frowningly, over the quotation. The

welcome opportunity was seized, and another voice struck into the

silence.

"What a lovely old ruin it is!" cried a young lady in spectacles,

the very embodiment of the March of Mind, looking at Lady Muriel, as the

proper recipient of all really original remarks. "And don't you admire

those autumn-tints on the trees? I do, intensely!"

Lady Muriel shot a meaning glance at me; but replied with admirable

gravity. "Oh yes indeed, indeed! So true!"

"And isn't strange, said the young lady, passing with startling

suddenness from Sentiment to Science, "that the mere impact of certain

coloured rays upon the Retina should give us such exquisite pleasure?"

"You have studied Physiology, then?" a certain young Doctor courteously

enquired.

"Oh, yes! Isn't it a sweet Science?"

Arthur slightly smiled. "It seems a paradox, does it not," he went on,

"that the image formed on the Retina should be inverted?"

"It is puzzling," she candidly admitted. "Why is it we do not see

things upside-down?"

"You have never heard the Theory, then, that the Brain also is

inverted?"

"No indeed! What a beautiful fact! But how is it proved?"

"Thus," replied Arthur, with all the gravity of ten Professors rolled

into one. "What we call the vertex of the Brain is really its base:

and what we call its base is really its vertex: it is simply a question

of nomenclature."

This last polysyllable settled the matter.

"How truly delightful!" the fair Scientist exclaimed with enthusiasm.

"I shall ask our Physiological Lecturer why he never gave us that

exquisite Theory!"

"I'd give something to be present when the question is asked!" Arthur

whispered to me, as, at a signal from Lady Muriel, we moved on to where

the hampers had been collected, and devoted ourselves to the more

substantial business of the day.

We 'waited' on ourselves, as the modern barbarism (combining two good

things in such a way as to secure the discomforts of both and

the advantages of neither) of having a picnic with servants to wait

upon you, had not yet reached this out-of-the-way region--and of course

the gentlemen did not even take their places until the ladies had been

duly provided with all imaginable creature-comforts. Then I supplied

myself with a plate of something solid and a glass of something fluid,

and found a place next to Lady Muriel.

It had been left vacant--apparently for Arthur, as a distinguished

stranger: but he had turned shy, and had placed himself next to the

young lady in spectacles, whose high rasping voice had already cast

loose upon Society such ominous phrases as "Man is a bundle of

Qualities!", "the Objective is only attainable through the Subjective!".

Arthur was bearing it bravely: but several faces wore a look of alarm,

and I thought it high time to start some less metaphysical topic.

"In my nursery days," I began, "when the weather didn't suit for an

out-of-doors picnic, we were allowed to have a peculiar kind, that we

enjoyed hugely. The table cloth was laid under the table, instead of

upon it: we sat round it on the floor: and I believe we really enjoyed

that extremely uncomfortable kind of dinner more than we ever did the

orthodox arrangement!"

"I've no doubt of it," Lady Muriel replied.

"There's nothing a well-regulated child hates so much as regularity.

I believe a really healthy boy would thoroughly enjoy Greek Grammar--

if only he might stand on his head to learn it! And your carpet-dinner

certainly spared you one feature of a picnic, which is to me its chief

drawback."

"The chance of a shower?" I suggested.

"No, the chance--or rather the certainty of live things occurring in

combination with one's food! Spiders are my bugbear. Now my father has

no sympathy with that sentiment--have you, dear?" For the Earl had

caught the word and turned to listen.

"To each his sufferings, all are men," he replied in the sweet sad

tones that seemed natural to him: "each has his pet aversion."

"But you'll never guess his!" Lady Muriel said, with that delicate

silvery laugh that was music to my ears.

I declined to attempt the impossible.

"He doesn't like snakes!" she said, in a stage whisper. "Now, isn't

that an unreasonable aversion? Fancy not liking such a dear, coaxingly,

clingingly affectionate creature as a snake!"

"Not like snakes!" I exclaimed. "Is such a thing possible?"

"No, he doesn't like them," she repeated with a pretty mock-gravity.

"He's not afraid of them, you know. But he doesn't like them.

He says they're too waggly!"

I was more startled than I liked to show. There was something so

uncanny in this echo of the very words I had so lately heard from that

little forest-sprite, that it was only by a great effort I succeeded in

saying, carelessly, "Let us banish so unpleasant a topic. Won't you

sing us something, Lady Muriel? I know you do sing without music."

"The only songs I know--without music--are desperately sentimental,

I'm afraid! Are your tears all ready?"

"Quite ready! Quite ready!" came from all sides, and Lady Muriel--not

being one of those lady-singers who think it de rigueur to decline to

sing till they have been petitioned three or four times, and have

pleaded failure of memory, loss of voice, and other conclusive reasons

for silence--began at once:--

Here Bruno broke off suddenly. "The Herrings' Song wants anuvver tune,

Sylvie," he said. "And I ca'n't sing it not wizout oo plays it for me!"

Instantly Sylvie seated herself upon a tiny mushroom, that happened

to grow in front of a daisy, as if it were the most ordinary

musical instrument in the world, and played on the petals as if they

were the notes of an organ. And such delicious tiny music it was!

Such teeny-tiny music!

Bruno held his head on one side, and listened very gravely for a few

moments until he had caught the melody. Then the sweet childish voice

rang out once more:--

"He means 'without accompaniment,'" Sylvie whispered, smiling at my

puzzled look: and she pretended to shut up the stops of the organ.

I ought to mention that he marked the parenthesis, in the air, with his

finger. It seemed to me a very good plan. You know there's no sound

to represent it--any more than there is for a question.

Suppose you have said to your friend "You are better to-day," and that

you want him to understand that you are asking him a question, what can

be simpler than just to make a "?". in the air with your finger?

He would understand you in a moment!

"So they all got safe home again," Bruno said, after waiting a minute

to see if I had anything to say: he evidently felt that some remark

ought to be made. And I couldn't help wishing there were some such

rule in Society, at the conclusion of a song--that the singer herself

should say the right thing, and not leave it to the audience. Suppose

a young lady has just been warbling ('with a grating and uncertain sound')

Shelley's exquisite lyric 'I arise from dreams of thee': how much nicer

it would be, instead of your having to say "Oh, thank you, thank you!"

for the young lady herself to remark, as she draws on her gloves,

while the impassioned words 'Oh, press it to thine own, or it will break

at last!' are still ringing in your ears, "--but she wouldn't do it,

you know. So it did break at last."

"And I knew it would!" she added quietly, as I started at the sudden

crash of broken glass. "You've been holding it sideways for the last

minute, and letting all the champagne run out! Were you asleep,

I wonder? I'm so sorry my singing has such a narcotic effect!"