Stories From the Old Attic
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Robert Harris >> Stories From the Old Attic
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King Cleon thought the matter over not quite long enough and decided
to hold an archery contest, the winner of which would marry his
daughter. The degree of Sir Philo's consternation is not recorded
in the annals from which I am plagiarizing, but one may suppose that
it was substantial, for reasons which will hereinafter appear.
Needless to say (except to make the story longer and extend the
reader's pleasure), Sir Philo made energetic protests, which
eventually descended to rather pathetic entreaties, all in a
futile attempt to change the king's mind. But King Cleon would
not be dissuaded, and so the news was soon heralded throughout the
kingdom, and, as you might suppose, arrow sales shot up immediately
and remarkably.
As when a child pounds the ground near an anthill, causing a good
many of the residents instantly to surface and run around in massed
panic, so on the day of the contest the world arrived in a swarm at
the castle of Cleon the Modest and prepared to be a witness, if not
the victor, in the winning of Jennifrella.
There were several dozen contenders in the contest, some quite
accomplished archers, some more or less dilettantish, and quite a
few whose skills put the spectators at random hazard. Amid the
noise and enthusiasm on this day stood a grim and silent Sir Philo,
deeply troubled about the proceedings for three reasons. First,
strictly from a philosophical standpoint, a shooting contest was
a completely irrational method of choosing either a spouse or a
future king, and irrationality like this always troubled the
young knight.
Second, though Sir Fassade was a very good shot, capable of
satisfactorily humiliating most of the other contestants, he was no
match for Sir Bargle. If they used the word then, I would have to
exaggerate only slightly to say that Sir Bargle was, as they say in
French, or maybe don't, a jerque. He punctuated nearly every
sentence with an oath or a belch, constantly leered at the ladies
in waiting (who knew all too well to keep a safe distance from him),
and those who attended carefully to his speech noted that the word
he used more than any other was "me." In a word (or fourteen,
actually), Sir Bargle was a man unlikely to put his personal
appetites in second place. The prospect of this knight nuzzling
the hair or nibbling the earlobes of Jennifrella was in itself
sufficiently revulsive to Sir Philo; the prospect of his becoming
king was absolutely unthinkable.
The third reason that the king's advisor was grieved about the
"score ahead and wed" method of selecting the princess' groom was
that the only person in all the realm who could outshoot Sir Bargle
was--Sir Philo.
Prithee, talk not to me about psychic conflict--nay, psychic trauma,
for I have seen it here, and it is not gentle. Sir Philo traced and
retraced many steps around the castle grounds, without thought of
direction or destination, the movement of his feet and the tension
on his face reflecting the turmoil in his soul. At length, in his
anxiety, the brave knight turned to his lady love for succor and
advice, and she, with a swiftness that surprised him and a nobility
that made him love her more deeply than ever, told him that of course
he must put the interest of the kingdom above his personal happiness.
She then flew into his arms and burst into inconsolable sobbing for
longer than we have time to look in on.
The contest began and proceeded remarkably well, with only the loss
of a too-curious cow and a few luckless birds at the hands of the
less accomplished suitors. Sir Fassade shot well that day, achieving
a personal best. As each arrow hit, closer and closer toward the
middle of the target, it made the princess clap a little louder and
leap with joy a little higher. A smirk of self-congratulation soon
decorated Sir Fassade's handsome face.
A loud belch and a louder laugh announced the commencement of Sir
Bargle's shooting. As predicted by Sir Philo, Sir Bargle was an
excellent shot. As each arrow landed a good handbreadth closer to
the center of the target than any of those of Sir Fassade, the smiles
on the faces of the princess and her favorite knight grew less and
less until they had been completely replaced by somber looks on the
knight and what might be described as silent hysteria on the face of
the princess. The look on Sir Bargle's face at the conclusion of his
shooting is a little too carnal for me to describe.
As he shot his set of arrows, Sir Philo was forced more than once,
after he had fully drawn his bow, to pause, and to wait until a
little tremble--attributed by the crowd to nervousness and eagerness
to win Jennifrella--left his hands. As each arrow hit the target,
remarkably near the middle, it also pierced the very center of
Lucinda's heart. The young knight thought more than once about
letting an arrow fly wide of the target, but he did his duty,
though it brought grief to himself and devastation to the woman
he treasured.
Sir Philo's smile as he took the hand of the princess was obviously
forced, but no one noticed because Jennifrella was now bawling so
spectacularly that the crowd, though not at all wishing to be unkind,
found it, frankly, entertaining.
As it does for us all, time passed and life went on.
After a peculiar three years' delay, Lucinda finally made her choice
from among several good offers and moved with her new husband to a
remote part of the kingdom where it was reported that she was content,
though some said that the cooler climate had somewhat subdued her
well-known effervescence.
In the fullness of time, Sir Philo exchanged his sword for a crown
and ascended the throne. He ruled wisely and justly, and the kingdom
prospered. Hero that he was, he had mostly adjusted to the princess'
personality, reminding himself as occasion required (and occasion did
require), that not only had he acted for the good of the kingdom, but
he had wed great beauty and, eventually, personal power. He further
reminded himself that Jennifrella had made an adequate wife, even
after her face wrinkled and her tummy pudged, and that she had proved
to be a reasonable mother to his children. Whenever, in a moment of
inattention, he discovered himself pining to enjoy a witty remark or
some unguarded laughter, he quoted, hoping that it was true, the old
proverb that "we grow most not when something is given but when
something is taken away."
All in all, it was a reasonable life with much to be thankful for.
Jennifrella's joy was that Sir Philo, now King Philo, remained a
generous and loving husband even as her beauty faded; her only
regret was that Sir Fassade had married her younger and more amiable
sister, and both of them appeared to be altogether too happy.
Lucinda's joy was in her two lovely children, whom she took, once or
twice, to see the new king as he made a royal progress through their
village. Her only regret was that she could reveal only half her
heart as she told them what a good man he was. Sir Philo's joy was
that he had acted virtuously and now enjoyed a mostly pleasant life,
dispensing justice and mercy with care and humanity. His only regret
was that he had learned to shoot arrows.
Serendipity
A young man, in the confusion and embarrassment of youth, was walking
across the campus of a great university on the way to his philosophy
class. At the previous meeting, the professor had posed the
question, "If we do not know the purpose of something, how can we
know whether any aspect of it is good or bad?" This question,
together with the problem for the day, "Does man have a purpose?" had
taken complete occupation of the young man's mind, not because of any
intrinsic interest, but because the professor was in the habit of
calling on students and expecting a thoughtful response. So deeply
meditative was the young man that he neglected to observe his path
adequately, with the result that he soon bounced his head off an
unhappily placed tree in the middle of the lawn.
Picking himself up and dusting himself off, the young man looked
around to see if anyone had witnessed his inadvertent folly. The
only people nearby were two men, who, although they were just a dozen
feet away, were completely oblivious to the young man's accident, for
the reason that they were engaged in a somewhat heated argument.
Whether to obtain some sympathy for his bruised head, or to excuse his
inattention, or perhaps simply because they were standing near a wheel
barrow and looked for all the world like gardeners, the young man
interrupted them with the slightly exasperated question, "Excuse me,
but what is that tree doing there, anyway?"
Now it so happens that these two men were not gardeners at all. They
were, in fact, tenured professors of philosophy, the very subject the
young man was struggling to understand. They turned to him at once
and condescended to admit him to their conversation.
"Well," said the first philosopher, pushing his glasses up the bridge
of his nose, "see here. This is a tree." And pointing to the tree
the young man was already too-intimately familiar with, concluded with
apparent satisfaction, "As Circumplexius has said in the fourth book
of his De Scientia, 'An example is the best definition.'"
"I know that is a tree," replied the youth, rubbing his forehead.
"What I want to know is, Why is it there in the first place?"
"You see," said the other philosopher to the first, "the dance of
the blind with the senile." Then, momentarily stroking his beard, he
turned to the young man and continued, "A tree means what it is. The
concept of treedom does not subsist in some fortuitous, exogenous
hyle--that is the doctrine of carpenters, not of philosophers. As
Herman of Rimboa has aptly remarked, 'Inner eyes must perceive beyond
what the outer eyes see.'"
"And as the Chinese say, 'The flies buzz in the wind, but men drink
their tea,'" added the one with glasses. "Here, son," he went on,
pointing again, "this is also a tree. Compare them and deduce
treehood by subtracting the anomalous from the universal."
"Certainly you have read Dohesius On the Nature of the Universe in
the last twenty-five years," the other philosopher said with some
indignation. "Don't you recall his dictum that 'a second example is
not an explanation'? How do you pretend to instruct the ignorance of
youth when you have never instructed yourself? 'The canvas remains
blank when the artist has no paint,' says Hugo de Brassus. Go back
to your books."
"And as de Roquefort says, 'To sit on a cheese and eat whey is the
destiny of fools.'"
"See here, young man," said the beard, ignoring his colleague,
"treeness is a life process displaying the aspiration of matter
toward hierarchy, order, and structure. It finds analogues and
even homologues in life systems everywhere."
"The frogs croak at night, but the sky remains dark," said the
glasses, smirking slightly.
"Nonsense," replied the beard. "What I have said is self-evident.
Sir Humphrey Boodle even noted it."
"But Boodle has been refuted these three hundred years."
"Well, Calesimon said so, too."
"Hah!" cried the glasses with a laugh of forced incredulity.
"Calesimon! Calesimon was an idiot!"
"Argumentum ad hominem."
"Oh, come on. The man was institutionalized."
"And genetic fallacy, too. My, my."
"Ignore him, son," said the glasses to the youth. "He's not been
very well since his wife laughed at his last paper. A tree--"
"She did not laugh," interrupted the beard.
"--is a woody plant containing specialized structures, larger overall
than a bush and often, as you see here [pointing] having only one
trunk rather than many."
"And is this the effect of dotage or of primordial ignorance?"
"False dilemma, Mr. Logician."
"Surely you were there that day in bonehead English when they
distinguished between 'definition' and 'explanation.' You are familiar
with the English language, aren't you? The young man has asked for
an explanation."
"Well, as Frabonarde says, 'The whole is known by its parts.'"
"The doctrine of those who pull the wings from fruit flies."
"Yes, it would be too straightforward for someone who needs six
hundred pages to discover that he doesn't know what he is
talking about."
"A classic example of the projectionist error. Not everything you
don't understand is a problem with the text," said the beard, tapping
his finger to his temple.
"If I may be permitted one last allusion to Oriental wisdom, I would
note only that the Chinese have said, 'Men hurt their eyes seeking
a water lily in a rock garden--even in a large rock garden.'"
"I thought you knew that the Poems of Chen had been exposed as a
product of nineteenth-century Europe. Don't make it a habit to go
around quoting hoaxes. It gives philosophy a bad name."
"Excuse me, sirs," the youth interjected, "but I have to go now."
"Very well," said the beard. "Only remember, with the knowledge
you attain, seek to achieve understanding."
"Oh, so now we are quoting the Bible!" cried the glasses with
triumphant scorn. "The rest of the department will be interested
in this."
"I was not quoting the Bible. I have never even read the Bible."
"Why don't you ask God to bless him while you're at it?"
"Listen, don't you think I know that your doctrine of cosmic mental
states is just a front and that you're a closet monotheist?"
"And may I remind you that slander is an offense punishable by law?"
"And is this the state of a wise man?" asked the beard, looking at
the sky, "to threaten his friend for speaking truth?"
"Now he's even praying! I can't believe this!"
"'We cannot see around corners,' says Germulphius, 'so what is left
to the man who refuses to see in a straight line?'"
"Someone like your wife," answered the glasses. "No doubt by now
she's found twelve more insupportably ridiculous assertions in your
paper on aperceptual phenomenalism."
"Well, at least my wife reads my papers. At least my wife can read."
"My wife is an avid reader of literature."
"Since when did the television listings become 'literature'? That's
the most transparent semantic ploy I have ever heard."
"Are you accusing me of owning a television?"
"He who can see the maggots need not ask if the dog is dead."
"'Ignore the shadow cast by a passing vapor,' says Phonetes."
"You've always been sloppy with bibliography, haven't you?" demanded
the beard. "Phonetes would have been utterly embarrassed to have
said that."
"No matter. Truth needs no ascription."
"That statement is obviously the product of extensive reading and
protracted thought. With a little more effort, no doubt you'll be
able to announce that the sun shines on a clear day."
"I suppose you have never read von Hoch: 'I had always known what he
said, but I did not live it until I heard it spoken.'"
"I reject that statement together with its sordid implications. It
smacks of the grimy hands of utilitarianism. In a minute you'll be
insisting that philosophy have practical consequences for berry
pickers and children. Perhaps you would be happier as some sort of
mechanic where you could get your hands on things, rather than as one
who pretends to instruct youth."
"You and Sir Peter Poole, who was proud that he couldn't tell a hoe
from a rake."
"Well, what of that? My profession is philosophy, and I look for truth,
not for mud."
"Even the sun cannot be seen through a silver coin."
"I have never accepted money for anything I've published," said the
beard hotly.
"'Beware of those who look to the right and walk to the left,' says
della Corta."
"How dare you accuse me--" At this point they were interrupted. A
young man, deeply preoccupied with thinking about the purpose of
mankind, had just bounced his head against a tree and--ah, but this
is where you came in.
A Tale Revealing the Wisdom
Of Being a Cork on the River of Life
Once upon a time, not very far from a town pretty much like yours,
an old, nearsighted man was wandering down a country road quite
pleasantly, musing to himself thusly: "I wonder what I should seek
today? Some new treasure of the Orient, or a lost clue to the
secrets of nature? That would be nice, as I spit" (and here, had
there been but a small brass spittoon by the wayside, a clear ring
would have sounded across the nearby pastures), "but," continued the
old man, "this is pretty barren ground hereabouts, so I'd best not
set my hopes too high. I'll start by looking for a silver dollar."
With this thought, the man's eyes brightened and he continued now
more alertly down the road, staring intently at the ground and
knocking little pebbles around with his cane. After a little, he
thought he saw something ahead. Mending his pace somewhat, he
hurried (as an old man with a cane hurries) up to the object, which
he now believed to be a quarter. When he stooped down to pick it
up, however, he found it to be merely a bottle cap, covered with red
ants eating the remaining sugar. "Just what I was looking for!"
exclaimed the old man with glee, even though the ants began to sting
him on the thumb and forefinger. "Bottlecaps can be very useful."
So he put the new possession into his pocket and once more began his
stroll, still watching the ground.
He had hardly begun to wonder what he might find next, when, there,
just a little way off, he saw a pearl lying in the roadbed.
"Surely," he thought, "nothing is round or shiny exactly like a
pearl, so I could not be mistaken this time." So he began to amble
over without delay. As he came nearer, his joy increased. "Hee
hee!" the old man laughed, before stifling his mirth lest he call
attention to himself and bring competitors for his newfound
treasure. He even paused a moment and looked around to see if
anyone had noticed him or the pearl.
The way seemed clear so he closed the final distance, reached down,
and picked it up. Instantly he was aware that this was no pearl,
but just a partly dried up chicken brain, which must have fallen off
some farmer's cart, or been left by some animal in haste. "Just
what I was looking for!" the old man said very joyfully. "Chicken
brains make real good soup." Into his pocket with the bottle cap
went the brains, and down the road with his cane went the old man.
It was not long after this that he saw another, much larger item in
the road before him, which looked, from where he now was, just
exactly like a fat roll of paper money. Blessing his astrological
reading promising riches for that day, he made his way up to the
spot with a speed truly remarkable for a person of his age and
infirmities, and anxiously bent over to retrieve his treasure. A
closer look, however, and a confirming touch revealed that the man
had found a "road apple," or, as it is sometimes called, a "horse
biscuit." "Just what I was looking for," the old man said, now more
perfectly pleased than ever; "I can use this biscuit to cook my
chicken soup. Seems dry enough to burn right well."
Now the old man, between his nearsightedness and his preoccupation
with his great discoveries, wandered unknowingly over to the side of
the road, and pretty soon he stepped off into a ditch and fell down
with remarkable violence. A farmer not very far off saw this
episode, and hurried over to help the old man up. As he got to his
feet, the old man, wincing with pain and holding one arm, cried out
with a tone of satisfaction, "A broken arm! Just what I was looking
for! A broken arm can be very useful." The farmer blinked once or
twice, recognizing that this sentiment did not conform with what his
own would have been under the like circumstances, but he said
nothing. Instead, he quite generously helped the old gentleman into
his cart and took him to town.
When the two arrived, the farmer dutifully summoned a doctor and the
constable and some others of note in the place and repeated how the
old man had fallen and broken his arm, only to exclaim that such a
result was apparently what he had intended. This narrative caused
some strange looks and a little discussion among them, and no one
could think what to do next (aside from fixing the man's arm), when
the constable suddenly remembered that he did not know the man's
name. "Sir," he asked, "have you any identification?"
"Why, I think so, sonny," replied the old man, beginning to fumble
in his various pockets, and then, to the indescribable surprise of
his audience, to remove what they did not know, and could not have
imagined, were the souvenirs from his previous wanderings. When his
pockets were finally emptied, there was still no identification, but
instead, on the table before them, his interrogators saw the
following objects, namely, viz., and to wit: the bottle cap, the
chicken brains, the horse manure, a piece of grimy string, a cigar
butt, three pieces of chewed and flattened gum, a wing nut with
stripped threads, a rusty nail (bent in two places), part of a candy
wrapper, some rat pills (eleven of them), half a marble, and a
common pebble.
After a moment or two of reflective silence, the mayor made bold to
speak (seeing the constable in a reverie), and asked gently and
softly, "Where did you get all these, uh, items?"
"Why, looking for gold and treasure, sonny," the old man answered,
in a tone that implied that the mayor should have known the answer
already. "But," he added as a second thought, and in the face of
these gentlemen's now rather extravagantly and injudiciously raised
eyebrows and opened mouths, "they were all just what I was looking
for--like the broken arm here. Quite a find, eh?"
At this point, the farmer, who had been standing generally in the
background holding his hat in both hands, came forward and begged an
audience with the constable. "I didn't want to say this before," he
began in a low tone, "but now I think I must, in case it should be
important. All the way into town that old fellow kept saying
something to me about wanting to cook his brains by burning a horse
biscuit under his cap."
That was enough. And, needless to say, the Authorities from the
Institution in the city were immediately summoned, and the old man
was taken to a very pleasant place where he could rest among friends
and nice people, have no worries, and be free to enjoy the
"butterflies, blue skies, and happiness always." It is reported by
reliable sources that shortly after arriving the old man was heard
to exclaim cheerfully, "Just what I was looking for! Mattresses on
the walls!"
The Art of Truth
Once upon a time a famous art museum searched the world over for the
best paintings it could find. After a long search, the museum found
a beautiful Old Master painting depicting youths and maidens
frolicking in a wood. The directors were only too glad to pay
millions for this painting because they were captivated by its
beauty and elegance. How delightfully the maidens' hair and mouths
were drawn, how perfectly the hands and arms of the youths, how
life-like the bare feet on the forest floor. But the curator of the
museum was the happiest one of all, for he had now become guardian
and protector of a famous work by a famous painter. "Every time I
look at that painting," he would say, "I see new beauties and
excellences. Just look at these leaves here, the sweep of the
branches from this tree, capturing just the hint of a breeze and
seeming to vibrate with the music from the dance of the youths
and maidens in the clearing. My very soul resonates with the
greatness of it all."
Needless to say, this wonderful painting was the most popular
exhibit at the museum, providing instruction and delight for
thousands of visitors. Everyone, from the young child who could
barely walk to the old man who could barely walk, enjoyed its beauty
frankly and openly or profited from studying its color and
arrangement. Children loved to see the happy figures kicking up
their feet with joy; the young people marveled at the freshness and
beauty of the figures; those of mature years stood astonished at the
excellent technique that could present such a convincing vision; the
old remarked upon the feeling of cozy intimacy produced by the scene
of innocent pleasure.
"This painting is almost too good to be true," remarked one visitor
prophetically as he purchased a print of it.
One day a horrible discovery was made: the painting was not a
genuine Old Master after all. It was a forgery. It had not been
painted by the famous artist whose name was on it, and in fact it
had been painted within the last ten years. The museum directors
and the curator were horrified and consumed with shame. Immediately
the painting was jerked from the walls of the museum and
ignominiously relegated to a basement storeroom. "We regret such
an unfortunate imposition," the curator told the museum's patrons.
"This painting is not art; it is a tawdry fake. This painting
is a lie."
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