THE PHILOSOPHER'S JOKE By Jerome K. Jerome Author of "Paul Kelver, " "Three Men in a Boat, " etc. , etc. New York Dodd, Mead & Company 1909 Copyright, 1904, By Jerome K. Jerome Copyright, 1908, By Dodd, Mead & Company Published, September, 1908 Myself, I do not believe this story. Six persons are persuaded of itstruth; and the hope of these six is to convince themselves it was anhallucination. Their difficulty is there are six of them. Each one aloneperceives clearly that it never could have been. Unfortunately, they areclose friends, and cannot get away from one another; and when they meetand look into each other's eyes the thing takes shape again. The one who told it to me, and who immediately wished he had not, was Armitage. He told it to me one night when he and I were the onlyoccupants of the Club smoking-room. His telling me--as he explainedafterwards--was an impulse of the moment. Sense of the thing had beenpressing upon him all that day with unusual persistence; and theidea had occurred to him, on my entering the room, that the flippantscepticism with which an essentially commonplace mind like my own--heused the words in no offensive sense--would be sure to regard the affairmight help to direct his own attention to its more absurd aspect. Iam inclined to think it did. He thanked me for dismissing his entirenarrative as the delusion of a disordered brain, and begged me not tomention the matter to another living soul. I promised; and I may as wellhere observe that I do not call this mentioning the matter. Armitageis not the man's real name; it does not even begin with an A. You mightread this story and dine next to him the same evening: you would knownothing. Also, of course, I did not consider myself debarred from speaking aboutit, discreetly, to Mrs. Armitage, a charming woman. She burst into tearsat the first mention of the thing. It took me all I knew to tranquillizeher. She said that when she did not think about the thing she could behappy. She and Armitage never spoke of it to one another; and left tothemselves her opinion was that eventually they might put remembrancebehind them. She wished they were not quite so friendly with theEveretts. Mr. And Mrs. Everett had both dreamt precisely the same dream;that is, assuming it was a dream. Mr. Everett was not the sort of personthat a clergyman ought, perhaps, to know; but as Armitage would alwaysargue: for a teacher of Christianity to withdraw his friendship froma man because that man was somewhat of a sinner would be inconsistent. Rather should he remain his friend and seek to influence him. Theydined with the Everetts regularly on Tuesdays, and sitting opposite theEveretts, it seemed impossible to accept as a fact that all four of themat the same time and in the same manner had fallen victims to thesame illusion. I think I succeeded in leaving her more hopeful. Sheacknowledged that the story, looked at from the point of common sense, did sound ridiculous; and threatened me that if I ever breathed a wordof it to anyone, she never would speak to me again. She is a charmingwoman, as I have already mentioned. By a curious coincidence I happened at the time to be one of Everett'sdirectors on a Company he had just promoted for taking over anddeveloping the Red Sea Coasting trade. I lunched with him the followingSunday. He is an interesting talker, and curiosity to discover howso shrewd a man would account for his connection with so insane--soimpossible a fancy, prompted me to hint my knowledge of the story. Themanner both of him and of his wife changed suddenly. They wanted toknow who it was had told me. I refused the information, because it wasevident they would have been angry with him. Everett's theory wasthat one of them had dreamt it--probably Camelford--and by hypnoticsuggestion had conveyed to the rest of them the impression that they haddreamt it also. He added that but for one slight incident he should haveridiculed from the very beginning the argument that it could have beenanything else than a dream. But what that incident was he would not tellme. His object, as he explained, was not to dwell upon the business, butto try and forget it. Speaking as a friend, he advised me, likewise, not to cackle about the matter any more than I could help, lest troubleshould arise with regard to my director's fees. His way of puttingthings is occasionally blunt. It was at the Everetts', later on, that I met Mrs. Camelford, one of thehandsomest women I have ever set eyes upon. It was foolish of me, but mymemory for names is weak. I forgot that Mr. And Mrs. Camelford were theother two concerned, and mentioned the story as a curious tale I hadread years ago in an old Miscellany. I had reckoned on it to lead meinto a discussion with her on platonic friendship. She jumped up fromher chair and gave me a look. I remembered then, and could have bittenout my tongue. It took me a long while to make my peace, but she cameround in the end, consenting to attribute my blunder to mere stupidity. She was quite convinced herself, she told me, that the thing was pureimagination. It was only when in company with the others that any doubtas to this crossed her mind. Her own idea was that, if everybodywould agree never to mention the matter again, it would end intheir forgetting it. She supposed it was her husband who had been myinformant: he was just that sort of ass. She did not say it unkindly. She said when she was first married, ten years ago, few people had amore irritating effect upon her than had Camelford; but that since shehad seen more of other men she had come to respect him. I like to hear awoman speak well of her husband. It is a departure which, in my opinion, should be more encouraged than it is. I assured her Camelford was notthe culprit; and on the understanding that I might come to see her--nottoo often--on her Thursdays, I agreed with her that the best thing Icould do would be to dismiss the subject from my mind and occupy myselfinstead with questions that concerned myself. I had never talked much with Camelford before that time, though I hadoften seen him at the Club. He is a strange man, of whom many storiesare told. He writes journalism for a living, and poetry, which hepublishes at his own expense, apparently for recreation. It occurred tome that his theory would at all events be interesting; but at first hewould not talk at all, pretending to ignore the whole affair, as idlenonsense. I had almost despaired of drawing him out, when one evening, of his own accord, he asked me if I thought Mrs. Armitage, with whomhe knew I was on terms of friendship, still attached importance to thething. On my expressing the opinion that Mrs. Armitage was the mosttroubled of the group, he was irritated; and urged me to leave the restof them alone and devote whatever sense I might possess to persuadingher in particular that the entire thing was and could be nothing butpure myth. He confessed frankly that to him it was still a mystery. Hecould easily regard it as chimera, but for one slight incident. He wouldnot for a long while say what that was, but there is such a thing asperseverance, and in the end I dragged it out of him. This is what hetold me. "We happened by chance to find ourselves alone in the conservatory, thatnight of the ball--we six. Most of the crowd had already left. The last'extra' was being played: the music came to us faintly. Stooping topick up Jessica's fan, which she had let fall to the ground, somethingshining on the tesselated pavement underneath a group of palms suddenlycaught my eye. We had not said a word to one another; indeed, it wasthe first evening we had any of us met one another--that is, unless thething was not a dream. I picked it up. The others gathered round me, andwhen we looked into one another's eyes we understood: it was a brokenwine-cup, a curious goblet of Bavarian glass. It was the goblet out ofwhich we had all dreamt that we had drunk. " I have put the story together as it seems to me it must have happened. The incidents, at all events, are facts. Things have since occurred tothose concerned affording me hope that they will never read it. I shouldnot have troubled to tell it at all, but that it has a moral. ***** Six persons sat round the great oak table in the wainscoted _SpeiseSaal_ of that cosy hostelry, the Kneiper Hof at Konigsberg. It was lateinto the night. Under ordinary circumstances they would have been inbed, but having arrived by the last train from Dantzic, and havingsupped on German fare, it had seemed to them discreeter to remain awhilein talk. The house was strangely silent. The rotund landlord, leavingtheir candles ranged upon the sideboard, had wished them "Gute Nacht"an hour before. The spirit of the ancient house enfolded them within itswings. Here in this very chamber, if rumour is to be believed, Emmanuel Kanthimself had sat discoursing many a time and oft. The walls, behind whichfor more than forty years the little peak-faced man had thought andworked, rose silvered by the moonlight just across the narrow way; thethree high windows of the _Speise Saal_ give out upon the old Cathedraltower beneath which now he rests. Philosophy, curious concerning humanphenomena, eager for experience, unhampered by the limitation Conventionwould impose upon all speculation, was in the smoky air. "Not into future events, " remarked the Rev. Nathaniel Armitage, "itis better they should be hidden from us. But into the future ofourselves--our temperament, our character--I think we ought to beallowed to see. At twenty we are one individual; at forty, anotherperson entirely, with other views, with other interests, a differentoutlook upon life, attracted by quite other attributes, repelled by thevery qualities that once attracted us. It is extremely awkward, for allof us. " "I am glad to hear somebody else say that, " observed Mrs. Everett, inher gentle, sympathetic voice. "I have thought it all myself so often. Sometimes I have blamed myself, yet how can one help it: the things thatappeared of importance to us, they become indifferent; new voices callto us; the idols we once worshipped, we see their feet of clay. " "If under the head of idols you include me, " laughed the jovial Mr. Everett, "don't hesitate to say so. " He was a large red-faced gentleman, with small twinkling eyes, and a mouth both strong and sensuous. "Ididn't make my feet myself. I never asked anybody to take me for astained-glass saint. It is not I who have changed. " "I know, dear, it is I, " his thin wife answered with a meek smile. "Iwas beautiful, there was no doubt about it, when you married me. " "You were, my dear, " agreed her husband: "As a girl few could hold acandle to you. " "It was the only thing about me that you valued, my beauty, " continuedhis wife; "and it went so quickly. I feel sometimes as if I had swindledyou. " "But there is a beauty of the mind, of the soul, " remarked the Rev. Nathaniel Armitage, "that to some men is more attractive than merephysical perfection. " The soft eyes of the faded lady shone for a moment with the light ofpleasure. "I am afraid Dick is not of that number, " she sighed. "Well, as I said just now about my feet, " answered her husband genially, "I didn't make myself. I always have been a slave to beauty and alwaysshall be. There would be no sense in pretending among chums that youhaven't lost your looks, old girl. " He laid his fine hand with kindlyintent upon her bony shoulder. "But there is no call for you to fretyourself as if you had done it on purpose. No one but a lover imagines awoman growing more beautiful as she grows older. " "Some women would seem to, " answered his wife. Involuntarily she glanced to where Mrs. Camelford sat with elbowsresting on the table; and involuntarily also the small twinkling eyes ofher husband followed in the same direction. There is a type that reachesits prime in middle age. Mrs. Camelford, _nee_ Jessica Dearwood, attwenty had been an uncanny-looking creature, the only thing about herappealing to general masculine taste having been her magnificent eyes, and even these had frightened more than they had allured. At forty, Mrs. Camelford might have posed for the entire Juno. "Yes, he's a cunning old joker is Time, " murmured Mr. Everett, almostinaudibly. "What ought to have happened, " said Mrs. Armitage, while with deftfingers rolling herself a cigarette, "was for you and Nellie to havemarried. " Mrs. Everett's pale face flushed scarlet. "My dear, " exclaimed the shocked Nathaniel Armitage, flushing likewise. "Oh, why may one not sometimes speak the truth?" answered his wifepetulantly. "You and I are utterly unsuited to one another--everybodysees it. At nineteen it seemed to me beautiful, holy, the idea of beinga clergyman's wife, fighting by his side against evil. Besides, you havechanged since then. You were human, my dear Nat, in those days, andthe best dancer I had ever met. It was your dancing was your chiefattraction for me as likely as not, if I had only known myself. Atnineteen how can one know oneself?" "We loved each other, " the Rev. Armitage reminded her. "I know we did, passionately--then; but we don't now. " She laughed alittle bitterly. "Poor Nat! I am only another trial added to yourlong list. Your beliefs, your ideals are meaningless to me--merenarrow-minded dogmas, stifling thought. Nellie was the wife Nature hadintended for you, so soon as she had lost her beauty and with it all herworldly ideas. Fate was maturing her for you, if only we had known. As for me, I ought to have been the wife of an artist, of a poet. "Unconsciously a glance from her ever restless eyes flashed across thetable to where Horatio Camelford sat, puffing clouds of smoke intothe air from a huge black meerschaum pipe. "Bohemia is my country. Itspoverty, its struggle would have been a joy to me. Breathing its freeair, life would have been worth living. " Horatio Camelford leant back with eyes fixed on the oaken ceiling. "Itis a mistake, " said Horatio Camelford, "for the artist ever to marry. " The handsome Mrs. Camelford laughed good-naturedly. "The artist, "remarked Mrs. Camelford, "from what I have seen of him would never knowthe inside of his shirt from the outside if his wife was not there totake it out of the drawer and put it over his head. " "His wearing it inside out would not make much difference to the world, "argued her husband. "The sacrifice of his art to the necessity ofkeeping his wife and family does. " "Well, you at all events do not appear to have sacrificed much, my boy, "came the breezy voice of Dick Everett. "Why, all the world is ringingwith your name. " "When I am forty-one, with all the best years of my life behind me, "answered the Poet. "Speaking as a man, I have nothing to regret. No onecould have had a better wife; my children are charming. I have livedthe peaceful existence of the successful citizen. Had I been true to mytrust I should have gone out into the wilderness, the only possiblehome of the teacher, the prophet. The artist is the bridegroom of Art. Marriage for him is an immorality. Had I my time again I should remain abachelor. " "Time brings its revenges, you see, " laughed Mrs. Camelford. "At twentythat fellow threatened to commit suicide if I would not marry him, andcordially disliking him I consented. Now twenty years later, when I amjust getting used to him, he calmly turns round and says he would havebeen better without me. " "I heard something about it at the time, " said Mrs. Armitage. "You werevery much in love with somebody else, were you not?" "Is not the conversation assuming a rather dangerous direction?" laughedMrs. Camelford. "I was thinking the same thing, " agreed Mrs. Everett. "One would imaginesome strange influence had seized upon us, forcing us to speak ourthoughts aloud. " "I am afraid I was the original culprit, " admitted the ReverendNathaniel. "This room is becoming quite oppressive. Had we not better goto bed?" The ancient lamp suspended from its smoke-grimed beam uttered a faint, gurgling sob, and spluttered out. The shadow of the old Cathedraltower crept in and stretched across the room, now illuminated only byoccasional beams from the cloud-curtained moon. At the other end of thetable sat a peak-faced little gentleman, clean-shaven, in full-bottomedwig. "Forgive me, " said the little gentleman. He spoke in English, with astrong accent. "But it seems to me here is a case where two partiesmight be of service to one another. " The six fellow-travellers round the table looked at one another, butnone spoke. The idea that came to each of them, as they explained toone another later, was that without remembering it they had taken theircandles and had gone to bed. This was surely a dream. "It would greatly assist me, " continued the little peak-faced gentleman, "in experiments I am conducting into the phenomena of human tendencies, if you would allow me to put your lives back twenty years. " Still no one of the six replied. It seemed to them that the littleold gentleman must have been sitting there among them all the time, unnoticed by them. "Judging from your talk this evening, " continued the peak-faced littlegentleman, "you should welcome my offer. You appear to me to be one andall of exceptional intelligence. You perceive the mistakes that you havemade: you understand the causes. The future veiled, you could not helpyourselves. What I propose to do is to put you back twenty years. You will be boys and girls again, but with this difference: that theknowledge of the future, so far as it relates to yourselves, will remainwith you. "Come, " urged the old gentleman, "the thing is quite simple ofaccomplishment. As--as a certain philosopher has clearly proved: theuniverse is only the result of our own perceptions. By what may appearto you to be magic--by what in reality will be simply a chemicaloperation--I remove from your memory the events of the last twentyyears, with the exception of what immediately concerns your ownpersonalities. You will retain all knowledge of the changes, physicaland mental, that will be in store for you; all else will pass from yourperception. " The little old gentleman took a small phial from his waistcoat pocket, and, filling one of the massive wine-glasses from a decanter, measuredinto it some half-a-dozen drops. Then he placed the glass in the centreof the table. "Youth is a good time to go back to, " said the peak-faced littlegentleman, with a smile. "Twenty years ago, it was the night of the HuntBall. You remember it?" It was Everett who drank first. He drank it with his little twinklingeyes fixed hungrily on the proud handsome face of Mrs. Camelford; andthen handed the glass to his wife. It was she perhaps who drank fromit most eagerly. Her life with Everett, from the day when she had risenfrom a bed of sickness stripped of all her beauty, had been one bitterwrong. She drank with the wild hope that the thing might possibly benot a dream; and thrilled to the touch of the man she loved, as reachingacross the table he took the glass from her hand. Mrs. Armitage was thefourth to drink. She took the cup from her husband, drank with a quietsmile, and passed it on to Camelford. And Camelford drank, looking atnobody, and replaced the glass upon the table. "Come, " said the little old gentleman to Mrs. Camelford, "you are theonly one left. The whole thing will be incomplete without you. " "I have no wish to drink, " said Mrs. Camelford, and her eyes soughtthose of her husband, but he would not look at her. "Come, " again urged the Figure. And then Camelford looked at her andlaughed drily. "You had better drink, " he said. "It's only a dream. " "If you wish it, " she answered. And it was from his hands she took theglass. ***** It is from the narrative as Armitage told it to me that night in theClub smoking-room that I am taking most of my material. It seemed to himthat all things began slowly to rise upward, leaving him stationary, butwith a great pain as though the inside of him were being torn away--thesame sensation greatly exaggerated, so he likened it, as descending ina lift. But around him all the time was silence and darkness unrelieved. After a period that might have been minutes, that might have been years, a faint light crept towards him. It grew stronger, and into the airwhich now fanned his cheek there stole the sound of far-off music. Thelight and the music both increased, and one by one his senses came backto him. He was seated on a low cushioned bench beneath a group of palms. A young girl was sitting beside him, but her face was turned away fromhim. "I did not catch your name, " he was saying. "Would you mind telling itto me?" She turned her face towards him. It was the most spiritually beautifulface he had ever seen. "I am in the same predicament, " she laughed. "Youhad better write yours on my programme, and I will write mine on yours. " So they wrote upon each other's programme and exchanged again. The nameshe had written was Alice Blatchley. He had never seen her before, that he could remember. Yet at the back ofhis mind there dwelt the haunting knowledge of her. Somewhere long agothey had met, talked together. Slowly, as one recalls a dream, it cameback to him. In some other life, vague, shadowy, he had married thiswoman. For the first few years they had loved each other; then the gulfhad opened between them, widened. Stern, strong voices had called to himto lay aside his selfish dreams, his boyish ambitions, to take upon hisshoulders the yoke of a great duty. When more than ever he had demandedsympathy and help, this woman had fallen away from him. His ideals butirritated her. Only at the cost of daily bitterness had he been able toresist her endeavours to draw him from his path. A face--that of awoman with soft eyes, full of helpfulness, shone through the mist ofhis dream--the face of a woman who would one day come to him out of theFuture with outstretched hands that he would yearn to clasp. "Shall we not dance?" said the voice beside him. "I really won't sit outa waltz. " They hurried into the ball-room. With his arm about her form, herwondrous eyes shyly, at rare moments, seeking his, then vanishing againbehind their drooping lashes, the brain, the mind, the very soul of theyoung man passed out of his own keeping. She complimented him in herbewitching manner, a delightful blending of condescension and timidity. "You dance extremely well, " she told him. "You may ask me for another, later on. " The words flashed out from that dim haunting future. "Your dancing wasyour chief attraction for me, as likely as not, had I but known?" All that evening and for many months to come the Present and the Futurefought within him. And the experience of Nathaniel Armitage, divinitystudent, was the experience likewise of Alice Blatchley, who had fallenin love with him at first sight, having found him the divinest dancershe had ever whirled with to the sensuous music of the waltz; of HoratioCamelford, journalist and minor poet, whose journalism earned him a bareincome, but at whose minor poetry critics smiled; of Jessica Dearwood, with her glorious eyes, and muddy complexion, and her wild hopelesspassion for the big, handsome, ruddy-bearded Dick Everett, who, knowingit, only laughed at her in his kindly, lordly way, telling her withfrank brutalness that the woman who was not beautiful had missed hervocation in life; of that scheming, conquering young gentleman himself, who at twenty-five had already made his mark in the City, shrewd, clever, cool-headed as a fox, except where a pretty face and shapelyhand or ankle were concerned; of Nellie Fanshawe, then in the pride ofher ravishing beauty, who loved none but herself, whose clay-made godswere jewels, and fine dresses and rich feasts, the envy of other womenand the courtship of all mankind. That evening of the ball each clung to the hope that this memory of thefuture was but a dream. They had been introduced to one another; hadheard each other's names for the first time with a start of recognition;had avoided one another's eyes; had hastened to plunge into meaninglesstalk; till that moment when young Camelford, stooping to pick upJessica's fan, had found that broken fragment of the Rhenish wine-glass. Then it was that conviction refused to be shaken off, that knowledge ofthe future had to be sadly accepted. What they had not foreseen was that knowledge of the future in no wayaffected their emotions of the present. Nathaniel Armitage grew day byday more hopelessly in love with bewitching Alice Blatchley. The thoughtof her marrying anyone else--the long-haired, priggish Camelford inparticular--sent the blood boiling through his veins; added to whichsweet Alice, with her arms about his neck, would confess to him thatlife without him would be a misery hardly to be endured, that thethought of him as the husband of another woman--of Nellie Fanshawe inparticular--was madness to her. It was right perhaps, knowing whatthey did, that they should say good-bye to one another. She would bringsorrow into his life. Better far that he should put her away from him, that she should die of a broken heart, as she felt sure she would. Howcould he, a fond lover, inflict this suffering upon her? He ought ofcourse to marry Nellie Fanshawe, but he could not bear the girl. Wouldit not be the height of absurdity to marry a girl he strongly dislikedbecause twenty years hence she might be more suitable to him than thewoman he now loved and who loved him? Nor could Nellie Fanshawe bring herself to discuss without laughter thesuggestion of marrying on a hundred-and-fifty a year a curate thatshe positively hated. There would come a time when wealth would beindifferent to her, when her exalted spirit would ask but for thesatisfaction of self-sacrifice. But that time had not arrived. Theemotions it would bring with it she could not in her present state evenimagine. Her whole present being craved for the things of this world, the things that were within her grasp. To ask her to forego them nowbecause later on she would not care for them! it was like telling aschoolboy to avoid the tuck-shop because, when a man, the thought ofstick-jaw would be nauseous to him. If her capacity for enjoyment was tobe short-lived, all the more reason for grasping joy quickly. Alice Blatchley, when her lover was not by, gave herself many a headachetrying to think the thing out logically. Was it not foolish of her torush into this marriage with dear Nat? At forty she would wish shehad married somebody else. But most women at forty--she judged fromconversation round about her--wished they had married somebody else. Ifevery girl at twenty listened to herself at forty there would be nomore marriage. At forty she would be a different person altogether. Thatother elderly person did not interest her. To ask a young girl to spoilher life purely in the interests of this middle-aged party--it did notseem right. Besides, whom else was she to marry? Camelford would nothave her; he did not want her then; he was not going to want her atforty. For practical purposes Camelford was out of the question. Shemight marry somebody else altogether--and fare worse. She might remaina spinster: she hated the mere name of spinster. The inky-fingered womanjournalist that, if all went well, she might become: it was not heridea. Was she acting selfishly? Ought she, in his own interests, torefuse to marry dear Nat? Nellie--the little cat--who would suit him atforty, would not have him. If he was going to marry anyone but Nellie hemight as well marry her, Alice. A bachelor clergyman! it sounded almostimproper. Nor was dear Nat the type. If she threw him over it would beinto the arms of some designing minx. What was she to do? Camelford at forty, under the influence of favourable criticism, wouldhave persuaded himself he was a heaven-sent prophet, his whole lifeto be beautifully spent in the saving of mankind. At twenty he felt hewanted to live. Weird-looking Jessica, with her magnificent eyes veilingmysteries, was of more importance to him than the rest of the speciescombined. Knowledge of the future in his ease only spurred desire. Themuddy complexion would grow pink and white, the thin limbs round andshapely; the now scornful eyes would one day light with love at hiscoming. It was what he had once hoped: it was what he now knew. At fortythe artist is stronger than the man; at twenty the man is stronger thanthe artist. An uncanny creature, so most folks would have described JessicaDearwood. Few would have imagined her developing into the good-natured, easy-going Mrs. Camelford of middle age. The animal, so strong withinher at twenty, at thirty had burnt itself out. At eighteen, madly, blindly in love with red-bearded, deep-voiced Dick Everett she would, had he whistled to her, have flung herself gratefully at his feet, andthis in spite of the knowledge forewarning her of the miserable lifehe would certainly lead her, at all events until her slowly developingbeauty should give her the whip hand of him--by which time she wouldhave come to despise him. Fortunately, as she told herself, there wasno fear of his doing so, the future notwithstanding. Nellie Fanshawe'sbeauty held him as with chains of steel, and Nellie had no intentionof allowing her rich prize to escape her. Her own lover, it was true, irritated her more than any man she had ever met, but at least hewould afford her refuge from the bread of charity. Jessica Dearwood, anorphan, had been brought up by a distant relative. She had not been thechild to win affection. Of silent, brooding nature, every thoughtlessincivility had been to her an insult, a wrong. Acceptance of youngCamelford seemed her only escape from a life that had become to her amartyrdom. At forty-one he would wish he had remained a bachelor; but atthirty-eight that would not trouble her. She would know herself he wasmuch better off as he was. Meanwhile, she would have come to like him, to respect him. He would be famous, she would be proud of him. Cryinginto her pillow--she could not help it--for love of handsome Dick, itwas still a comfort to reflect that Nellie Fanshawe, as it were, waswatching over her, protecting her from herself. Dick, as he muttered to himself a dozen times a day, ought to marryJessica. At thirty-eight she would be his ideal. He looked at her asshe was at eighteen, and shuddered. Nellie at thirty would be plain anduninteresting. But when did consideration of the future ever cry haltto passion: when did a lover ever pause thinking of the morrow? If herbeauty was to quickly pass, was not that one reason the more urging himto possess it while it lasted? Nellie Fanshawe at forty would be a saint. The prospect did not pleaseher: she hated saints. She would love the tiresome, solemn Nathaniel: ofwhat use was that to her now? He did not desire her; he was in love withAlice, and Alice was in love with him. What would be the sense--even ifthey all agreed--in the three of them making themselves miserable forall their youth that they might be contented in their old age? Let agefend for itself and leave youth to its own instincts. Let elderly saintssuffer--it was their _metier_--and youth drink the cup of life. It was apity Dick was the only "catch" available, but he was young and handsome. Other girls had to put up with sixty and the gout. Another point, a very serious point, had been overlooked. All that hadarrived to them in that dim future of the past had happened to them asthe results of their making the marriages they had made. To what fateother roads would lead their knowledge could not tell them. NellieFanshawe had become at forty a lovely character. Might not the hard lifeshe had led with her husband--a life calling for continual sacrifice, for daily self-control--have helped towards this end? As the wife of apoor curate of high moral principles, would the same result have beensecured? The fever that had robbed her of her beauty and turned herthoughts inward had been the result of sitting out on the balcony of theParis Opera House with an Italian Count on the occasion of a fancy dressball. As the wife of an East End clergyman the chances are she wouldhave escaped that fever and its purifying effects. Was there not dangerin the position: a supremely beautiful young woman, worldly-minded, hungry for pleasure, condemned to a life of poverty with a man she didnot care for? The influence of Alice upon Nathaniel Armitage, duringthose first years when his character was forming, had been all forgood. Could he be sure that, married to Nellie, he might not havedeteriorated? Were Alice Blatchley to marry an artist could she be sure that at fortyshe would still be in sympathy with artistic ideals? Even as a child hadnot her desire ever been in the opposite direction to that favouredby her nurse? Did not the reading of Conservative journals invariablyincline her towards Radicalism, and the steady stream of Radical talkround her husband's table invariably set her seeking arguments in favourof the feudal system? Might it not have been her husband's growingPuritanism that had driven her to crave for Bohemianism? Suppose thattowards middle age, the wife of a wild artist, she suddenly "tookreligion, " as the saying is. Her last state would be worse than thefirst. Camelford was of delicate physique. As an absent-minded bachelor withno one to give him his meals, no one to see that his things were aired, could he have lived till forty? Could he be sure that home life had notgiven more to his art than it had taken from it? Jessica Dearwood, of a nervous, passionate nature, married to a badhusband, might at forty have posed for one of the Furies. Not until herlife had become restful had her good looks shown themselves. Hers wasthe type of beauty that for its development demands tranquillity. Dick Everett had no delusions concerning himself. That, had he marriedJessica, he could for ten years have remained the faithful husband of asingularly plain wife he knew to be impossible. But Jessica wouldhave been no patient Griselda. The extreme probability was thathaving married her at twenty for the sake of her beauty at thirty, attwenty-nine at latest she would have divorced him. Everett was a man of practical ideas. It was he who took the matter inhand. The refreshment contractor admitted that curious goblets of Germanglass occasionally crept into their stock. One of the waiters, on theunderstanding that in no case should he be called upon to pay for them, admitted having broken more than one wine-glass on that particularevening: thought it not unlikely he might have attempted to hide thefragments under a convenient palm. The whole thing evidently was adream. So youth decided at the time, and the three marriages took placewithin three months of one another. It was some ten years later that Armitage told me the story that nightin the Club smoking-room. Mrs. Everett had just recovered from a severeattack of rheumatic fever, contracted the spring before in Paris. Mrs. Camelford, whom previously I had not met, certainly seemed to me one ofthe handsomest women I have ever seen. Mrs. Armitage--I knew her whenshe was Alice Blatchley--I found more charming as a woman than shehad been as a girl. What she could have seen in Armitage I never couldunderstand. Camelford made his mark some ten years later: poor fellow, he did not live long to enjoy his fame. Dick Everett has still anothersix years to work off; but he is well behaved, and there is talk of apetition. It is a curious story altogether, I admit. As I said at the beginning, Ido not myself believe it.