IX.
ON ASSOCIATIONS: TOGETHER WITH A LAST ANECDOTE
FROM THE “ENTERTAINMENTS” OF KAPNIDES.
I THINK Zeitgeist has grown lazy; I had meant to take it a long way to-day, but it simply stopped at the first shady spot it could find, and stretched itself there. One has to smoke a little brown tobacco to keep off the midges, but otherwise I do not mind much. I would not make use of my superior strength to force a tired boat to do more than it wanted to do. Besides, Zeitgeist has earned some consideration. It has behaved excellently; in fact, it has almost been morbid in the politeness with which it has avoided running into other boats lately. Somebody, I see, has put a bottle of cider into the canoe. How thoughtless of him! There are a corkscrew and a drinking-horn as well. Perhaps it’s all for the best.
The taste of cider should be full of associations. It should recall orchards in Devonshire; and rustic inns with porches, and honeysuckle, and earwigs; and the simple village maiden who got to be rather fond of the stranger artist, and cried a little in her simple village way when he went back again to civilisation. I am starving for dreamy poetry and pleasant memories this morning; I wish this cider had such beautiful associations for me. But it has not. To me cider is cider, and it is nothing more. I have never been in a Devonshire orchard; and I am not an artist; I have never drawn anything.
Except corks. By the way, I may as well put that bottle of cider in the shallow water here. It will cool it. Then, afterwards, I may be able to forgive the person who put it into my canoe.
I am not sure that people do not set too much store by associations. There is an old tune that most people have forgotten, I dare say; perhaps it is not very good music; in fact, I would take an affidavit that it is the nastiest, tuniest tune I ever heard, and yet it has associations for me. It recalls to me my landlady’s daughter; it was the tune she loved most and played most frequently; she was rather an ugly girl, too. But I do not value the tune any more on that account; I believe it makes me hate it more bitterly.
I should think that cider must be almost cool by now, but I will give it another minute or two.
I suppose it is for the sake of associations that people have their dead pets stuffed, or have portions of them made into tobacco-pouches or paper-knives. I never had any pet myself except one solitary, evil dog; he was an original dog, and was perfectly good-tempered with everybody except his master. I am thankful to say that I possess absolutely nothing which reminds me of him. The smell of tar has curious associations for me. It reminds me of a day when I drove frantically in the direction of Liverpool Street, with the intention of catching the 10.30. I had offered my cabby vast sums to get me there in time, and he certainly did his best. I did not stop to take a ticket, but dashed across the platform, and entered the train just as it was moving out. I sank back on the cushions with a sigh of relief. One gets so much pleasure out of just doing a thing. Then I found out that the train which I had entered was not the 10.30, was not going to the same place, and was not thinking of stopping anywhere for some considerable time. Perhaps you wonder why the smell of tar should remind me of this. So do I. I have not the least notion why it is.
One must not expect to see the reason for the connection always. Why are the girls with the biggest feet always devoted to quite inferior works of fiction? Why are clean-shaven men always cynical?
Then of course there are the tender, romantic associations. A good deal might be said about them. In the meantime I can’t think where I’ve put that corkscrew. Ah! here it is, sitting under one of the cushions and laughing at me. Now for the cider, with a golden glow in it like the curls of the love-god himself.
And flat—miserably flat.
As I said, Zeitgeist does not care to move about much. So I have amused myself with reading the last anecdote in the “Entertainments” of Kapnides. Here it is:—
A general feeling of content prevailed in the house of Zeus & Co. “We shall declare,” said Zeus, “such a dividend as never was.”
“We shall,” said Co.
Zeus & Co. occupied the two thrones at the back of the large hall. During the last spring-cleaning, Zeus had ordered his own throne to be regilded. Nothing had been done to the other throne, which was occupied by Co. But Co. was quite humble. As a general rule he merely echoed the sentiments of Zeus. If he felt the difference between the two thrones, he had never mentioned it. Perhaps it might be as well to notice that all the shares were in the hands of Zeus & Co. They were the directors, and also the shareholders. By this arrangement much unpleasantness was avoided.
But at this moment an old gentleman in a very shiny coat rose from the desk at the farther end of the hall, and stepped towards the thrones. He looked at Zeus, coughed a little nervously, and began:
“Mr. Zeus, and also Mr. Co., you will excuse me, but I’ve a little matter to bring before you, in my position as Chief Agent in the Punishment Department.”
“By all means,” said Zeus kindly. “There’s nothing wrong, I hope. It’s a good department.”
“A very good and profitable department,” echoed Co.
“Well, Mr. Zeus, you will probably remember that you assigned to me a young subordinate, a mere boy, called Eros.”
“I remember,” said Zeus. “He was not to draw any regular salary.”
“Precisely so,” replied the Agent. “He just took his small commission on every broken heart. Well, up to the present I’ve had no complaint to make of him. He did his work well and cheerfully. The Suicide Section used to send me in most favourable reports of him. I had even intended to recommend him for promotion.”
“But without increase of salary, I hope,” said Zeus. “The shareholders would never stand that, you know.”
“They simply wouldn’t tolerate it for a minute,” echoed Co. It was not supposed to be generally known that Zeus & Co. were the only shareholders.
“No, sir,” answered the Agent. “I should have left the question of salary to you. I hope I know my place, sir. But, if you will believe it, that boy actually wants to resign the post he holds already. He got mixed up in that Psyche business a good deal, you know. I never knew the rights of the case exactly; but I do know that he’s not been the same boy since, and takes no pleasure in his work at all.”
“Well, show him in,” said Zeus irritably, “and I’ll have a word or two to say to him.”
“I wonder,” suggested Co., “if the Agent can have been fool enough to let the boy know that he was a punishment and not a blessing?”
At this moment the Agent, who had retired, reappeared with Eros. He was a handsome boy, but it was evident that he was very angry. His eyes flashed, and tears stood in them. He made no obeisance to Zeus, but with a rapid movement unslung his bow and quiver from his shoulders, and snapt bow and arrows, one after another, across his knee, flinging them down on the floor of the hall.
“I’ve had enough of that,” he said shortly, setting his lips tight.
“Are you aware,” said Co. solemnly, “that what you have just broken is the property of the shareholders?”
“And are you aware,” thundered Zeus, “what the dickens you’re talking about? Explain yourself.”
The boy burst into tears. “I won’t do it any more,” he sobbed. “I won’t. I’m not a blessing; I’m a curse. And I’m not going to be your servant, because you hate everybody.”
“No,” said Co. quietly; “we love them.”
“Then what does your first rule mean?” asked the boy fiercely.
“The first rule,” replied Co., “is that twenty years shall not be enough to make a life, and ten minutes shall be more than enough to spoil it. We made that rule to stop people spoiling their lives.”
Zeus rubbed his hands softly together, and smiled, and said nothing.
“I did not mind once,” the boy went on, “when I made women weep and men rave. I do now. It’s always the same thing. They long, and long, and cannot obtain; and then the weaker sort kill themselves, and the stronger sort grow cruel. Or, if they obtain, misery in one form or another follows. I resign my post.”
“Just pass me that thunderbolt,” said Zeus, in an unpleasant voice.
“Oh, you can kill me,” the boy exclaimed, contemptuously, “I care nothing for that. I wish I had never lived.”
“But you mistake,” said Co., suavely, “you mistake; Mr. Zeus had no intention of killing you. You have a right to resign your post if you like. He was going to kill a young girl named Psyche.”
“What for?” gasped Eros.
“Oh, for sport.”
There was a moment’s silence. Then Eros spoke in a hard, unnatural voice. “I will go back to my work, Zeus, and do it better than ever, if you will not kill Psyche.”
“Very well,” said Zeus kindly. “I don’t want to be disagreeable; as long as I kill somebody, it doesn’t matter. Now, trot along to your work, my boy, and I won’t kill Psyche.”
So the boy went back to his work, and did it better than ever.
“That was a good idea of yours, Co.,” said Zeus, after a moment’s pause.
“Very much may be done by kindness,” replied Co. “Don’t you think this throne of mine looks a little shabby beside yours?”
“I’ll give the order to have it regilded,” said Zeus affably.
But, if things go on like this, it will be “Co. & Zeus” soon.
It’s getting late; time for me to take Zeitgeist home again.
A curate was once complaining to me about certain hardships that he suffered at the hands of his vicar. “And, above all,” he said, “I am never allowed to preach an evening sermon. I get no chances. The vicar always preaches the evening sermons.” There was a good deal of justice in the complaint; we are all naturally more righteous in the evening. When the light dies behind the stained windows, and the music speaks, and through the open doors you can smell the syringa-bushes, then—for some reason that I know not—it is more easy to think oneself a sinner and to wish one were not. Preaching would naturally be more effective at such a time.
It is evening now, and I have been thinking about the different things that I am going to eat shortly. I do not know what is wrong with me that I should be so low. But external circumstances that suggest one line of thought are always liable to suggest the exact opposite. It has been proved by statistics that two-thirds of the best English jokes are invented, but not necessarily spoken, at funerals. Perhaps this accounts for the depression one always has to conceal when one hears of the joy or success of a dear friend.
Zeitgeist will have a long rest now—until my return. I could wish for some reasons that I had a more complete control over that boat; that, when I started out with it, I could be more definitely sure where it was going; that, in short, its nature was less petulant. However, there is a charm in uncertainty. I forgive it everything.