Erewhon Revisited

My father, schooled under adversity, knew that it was never well to press advantage too far.  He took the equivalent of five shillings for three brace, which was somewhat less than the birds would have been worth when things were as he had known them.  Moreover, he consented to take a shilling’s worth of Musical Bank money, which (as he has explained in his book) has no appreciable value outside these banks.  He did this because he knew that it would be respectable to be seen carrying a little Musical Bank money, and also because he wished to give some of it to the British Museum, where he knew that this curious coinage was unrepresented.  But the coins struck him as being much thinner and smaller than he had remembered them.

It was Panky, not Hanky, who had given him the Musical Bank money.  Panky was the greater humbug of the two, for he would humbug even himself—­a thing, by the way, not very hard to do; and yet he was the less successful humbug, for he could humbug no one who was worth humbugging—­not for long.  Hanky’s occasional frankness put people off their guard.  He was the mere common, superficial, perfunctory Professor, who, being a Professor, would of course profess, but would not lie more than was in the bond; he was log-rolled and log-rolling, but still, in a robust wolfish fashion, human.

Panky, on the other hand, was hardly human; he had thrown himself so earnestly into his work, that he had become a living lie.  If he had had to play the part of Othello he would have blacked himself all over, and very likely smothered his Desdemona in good earnest.  Hanky would hardly have blacked himself behind the ears, and his Desdemona would have been quite safe.

Philosophers are like quails in the respect that they can take two or three flights of imagination, but rarely more without an interval of repose.  The Professors had imagined my father to be a poacher and a ranger; they had imagined the quails to be wanted for Sunday’s banquet; they had imagined that they imagined (at least Panky had) that they were about to eat landrails; they were now exhausted, and cowered down into the grass of their ordinary conversation, paying no more attention to my father than if he had been a log.  He, poor man, drank in every word they said, while seemingly intent on nothing but his quails, each one of which he cut up with a knife borrowed from Hanky.  Two had been plucked already, so he laid these at once upon the clear embers.

“I do not know what we are to do with ourselves,” said Hanky, “till Sunday.  To-day is Thursday—­it is the twenty-ninth, is it not?  Yes, of course it is—­Sunday is the first.  Besides, it is on our permit.  To-morrow we can rest; what, I wonder, can we do on Saturday?  But the others will be here then, and we can tell them about the statues.”

“Yes, but mind you do not blurt out anything about the landrails.”

“I think we may tell Dr. Downie.”

“Tell nobody,” said Panky.

They then talked about the statues, concerning which it was plain that nothing was known.  But my father soon broke in upon their conversation with the first instalment of quails, which a few minutes had sufficed to cook.

“What a delicious bird a quail is,” said Hanky.

“Landrail, Hanky, landrail,” said the other reproachfully.

Having finished the first birds in a very few minutes they returned to the statues.

“Old Mrs. Nosnibor,” said Panky, “says the Sunchild told her they were symbolic of ten tribes who had incurred the displeasure of the sun, his father.”

I make no comment on my father’s feelings.

“Of the sun! his fiddlesticks’ ends,” retorted Hanky.  “He never called the sun his father.  Besides, from all I have heard about him, I take it he was a precious idiot.”

“O Hanky, Hanky! you will wreck the whole thing if you ever allow yourself to talk in that way.”

“You are more likely to wreck it yourself, Panky, by never doing so.  People like being deceived, but they like also to have an inkling of their own deception, and you never inkle them.”

“The Queen,” said Panky, returning to the statues, “sticks to it that . . . “

“Here comes another bird,” interrupted Hanky; “never mind about the Queen.”

The bird was soon eaten, whereon Panky again took up his parable about the Queen.

“The Queen says they are connected with the cult of the ancient Goddess Kiss-me-quick.”

“What if they are?  But the Queen sees Kiss-me-quick in everything.  Another quail, if you please, Mr. Ranger.”

My father brought up another bird almost directly.  Silence while it was being eaten.

“Talking of the Sunchild,” said Panky; “did you ever see him?”

“Never set eyes on him, and hope I never shall.”

And so on till the last bird was eaten.

“Fellow,” said Panky, “fetch some more wood; the fire is nearly dead.”

“I can find no more, sir,” said my father, who was afraid lest some genuine ranger might be attracted by the light, and was determined to let it go out as soon as he had done cooking.

“Never mind,” said Hanky, “the moon will be up soon.”

“And now, Hanky,” said Panky, “tell me what you propose to say on Sunday.  I suppose you have pretty well made up your mind about it by this time.”

“Pretty nearly.  I shall keep it much on the usual lines.  I shall dwell upon the benighted state from which the Sunchild rescued us, and shall show how the Musical Banks, by at once taking up the movement, have been the blessed means of its now almost universal success.  I shall talk about the immortal glory shed upon Sunch’ston by the Sunchild’s residence in the prison, and wind up with the Sunchild Evidence Society, and an earnest appeal for funds to endow the canonries required for the due service of the temple.”

“Temple! what temple?” groaned my father inwardly.

“And what are you going to do about the four black and white horses?”

“Stick to them, of course—­unless I make them six.”

“I really do not see why they might not have been horses.”

“I dare say you do not,” returned the other drily, “but they were black and white storks, and you know that as well as I do.  Still, they have caught on, and they are in the altar-piece, prancing and curvetting magnificently, so I shall trot them out.”

“Altar-piece!  Altar-piece!” again groaned my father inwardly.

He need not have groaned, for when he came to see the so-called altar-piece he found that the table above which it was placed had nothing in common with the altar in a Christian church.  It was a mere table, on which were placed two bowls full of Musical Bank coins; two cashiers, who sat on either side of it, dispensed a few of these to all comers, while there was a box in front of it wherein people deposited coin of the realm according to their will or ability.  The idea of sacrifice was not contemplated, and the position of the table, as well as the name given to it, was an instance of the way in which the Erewhonians had caught names and practices from my father, without understanding what they either were or meant.  So, again, when Professor Hanky had spoken of canonries, he had none but the vaguest idea of what a canonry is.

I may add further that as a boy my father had had his Bible well drilled into him, and never forgot it.  Hence biblical passages and expressions had been often in his mouth, as the effect of mere unconscious cerebration.  The Erewhonians had caught many of these, sometimes corrupting them so that they were hardly recognizable.  Things that he remembered having said were continually meeting him during the few days of his second visit, and it shocked him deeply to meet some gross travesty of his own words, or of words more sacred than his own, and yet to be unable to correct it.  “I wonder,” he said to me, “that no one has ever hit on this as a punishment for the damned in Hades.”

Let me now return to Professor Hanky, whom I fear that I have left too long.

“And of course,” he continued, “I shall say all sorts of pretty things about the Mayoress—­for I suppose we must not even think of her as Yram now.”

“The Mayoress,” replied Panky, “is a very dangerous woman; see how she stood out about the way in which the Sunchild had worn his clothes before they gave him the then Erewhonian dress.  Besides, she is a sceptic at heart, and so is that precious son of hers.”

“She was quite right,” said Hanky, with something of a snort.  “She brought him his dinner while he was still wearing the clothes he came in, and if men do not notice how a man wears his clothes, women do.  Besides, there are many living who saw him wear them.”

“Perhaps,” said Panky, “but we should never have talked the King over if we had not humoured him on this point.  Yram nearly wrecked us by her obstinacy.  If we had not frightened her, and if your study, Hanky, had not happened to have been burned . . . “

“Come, come, Panky, no more of that.”

“Of course I do not doubt that it was an accident; nevertheless if your study had not been accidentally burned, on the very night the clothes were entrusted to you for earnest, patient, careful, scientific investigation—­and Yram very nearly burned too—­we should never have carried it through.  See what work we had to get the King to allow the way in which the clothes were worn to be a matter of opinion, not dogma.  What a pity it is that the clothes were not burned before the King’s tailor had copied them.”

Hanky laughed heartily enough.  “Yes,” he said, “it was touch and go.  Why, I wonder, could not the Queen have put the clothes on a dummy that would show back from front?  As soon as it was brought into the council chamber the King jumped to a conclusion, and we had to bundle both dummy and Yram out of the royal presence, for neither she nor the King would budge an inch.

Even Panky smiled.  “What could we do?  The common people almost worship Yram; and so does her husband, though her fair-haired eldest son was born barely seven months after marriage.  The people in these parts like to think that the Sunchild’s blood is in the country, and yet they swear through thick and thin that he is the Mayor’s duly begotten offspring—­Faugh!  Do you think they would have stood his being jobbed into the rangership by any one else but Yram?”

My father’s feelings may be imagined, but I will not here interrupt the Professors.

“Well, well,” said Hanky; “for men must rob and women must job so long as the world goes on.  I did the best I could.  The King would never have embraced Sunchildism if I had not told him he was right; then, when satisfied that we agreed with him, he yielded to popular prejudice and allowed the question to remain open.  One of his Royal Professors was to wear the clothes one way, and the other the other.”

“My way of wearing them,” said Panky, “is much the most convenient.”

“Not a bit of it,” said Hanky warmly.  On this the two Professors fell out, and the discussion grew so hot that my father interfered by advising them not to talk so loud lest another ranger should hear them.  “You know,” he said, “there are a good many landrail bones lying about, and it might be awkward.”

The Professors hushed at once.  “By the way,” said Panky, after a pause, “it is very strange about those footprints in the snow.  The man had evidently walked round the statues two or three times, as though they were strange to him, and he had certainly come from the other side.”

“It was one of the rangers,” said Hanky impatiently, “who had gone a little beyond the statues, and come back again.”

“Then we should have seen his footprints as he went.  I am glad I measured them.”

“There is nothing in it; but what were your measurements?”

“Eleven inches by four and a half; nails on the soles; one nail missing on the right foot and two on the left.”  Then, turning to my father quickly, he said, “My man, allow me to have a look at your boots.”

“Nonsense, Panky, nonsense!”

Now my father by this time was wondering whether he should not set upon these two men, kill them if he could, and make the best of his way back, but he had still a card to play.

“Certainly, sir,” said he, “but I should tell you that they are not my boots.”

He took off his right boot and handed it to Panky.

“Exactly so!  Eleven inches by four and a half, and one nail missing.  And now, Mr. Ranger, will you be good enough to explain how you became possessed of that boot.  You need not show me the other.”  And he spoke like an examiner who was confident that he could floor his examinee in viva voce.

“You know our orders,” answered my father, “you have seen them on your permit.  I met one of those foreign devils from the other side, of whom we have had more than one lately; he came from out of the clouds that hang higher up, and as he had no permit and could not speak a word of our language, I gripped him, flung him, and strangled him.  Thus far I was only obeying orders, but seeing how much better his boots were than mine, and finding that they would fit me, I resolved to keep them.  You may be sure I should not have done so if I had known there was snow on the top of the pass.”

“He could not invent that,” said Hanky; “it is plain he has not been up to the statues.”

Panky was staggered.  “And of course,” said he ironically, “you took nothing from this poor wretch except his boots.”

“Sir,” said my father, “I will make a clean breast of everything.  I flung his body, his clothes, and my own old boots into the pool; but I kept his blanket, some things he used for cooking, and some strange stuff that looks like dried leaves, as well as a small bag of something which I believe is gold.  I thought I could sell the lot to some dealer in curiosities who would ask no questions.”

“And what, pray, have you done with all these things?”

“They are here, sir.”  And as he spoke he dived into the wood, returning with the blanket, billy, pannikin, tea, and the little bag of nuggets, which he had kept accessible.

“This is very strange,” said Hanky, who was beginning to be afraid of my father when he learned that he sometimes killed people.

Here the Professors talked hurriedly to one another in a tongue which my father could not understand, but which he felt sure was the hypothetical language of which he has spoken in his book.

Presently Hanky said to my father quite civilly, “And what, my good man, do you propose to do with all these things?  I should tell you at once that what you take to be gold is nothing of the kind; it is a base metal, hardly, if at all, worth more than copper.”

“I have had enough of them; to-morrow morning I shall take them with me to the Blue Pool, and drop them into it.”

“It is a pity you should do that,” said Hanky musingly:  “the things are interesting as curiosities, and—­and—­and—­what will you take for them?”

“I could not do it, sir,” answered my father.  “I would not do it, no, not for—­” and he named a sum equivalent to about five pounds of our money.  For he wanted Erewhonian money, and thought it worth his while to sacrifice his ten pounds’ worth of nuggets in order to get a supply of current coin.

Hanky tried to beat him down, assuring him that no curiosity dealer would give half as much, and my father so far yielded as to take 4 pounds, 10s. in silver, which, as I have already explained, would not be worth more than half a sovereign in gold.  At this figure a bargain was struck, and the Professors paid up without offering him a single Musical Bank coin.  They wanted to include the boots in the purchase, but here my father stood out.

But he could not stand out as regards another matter, which caused him some anxiety.  Panky insisted that my father should give them a receipt for the money, and there was an altercation between the Professors on this point, much longer than I can here find space to give.  Hanky argued that a receipt was useless, inasmuch as it would be ruin to my father ever to refer to the subject again.  Panky, however, was anxious, not lest my father should again claim the money, but (though he did not say so outright) lest Hanky should claim the whole purchase as his own.  In so the end Panky, for a wonder, carried the day, and a receipt was drawn up to the effect that the undersigned acknowledged to have received from Professors Hanky and Panky the sum of 4 pounds, 10s. (I translate the amount), as joint purchasers of certain pieces of yellow ore, a blanket, and sundry articles found without an owner in the King’s preserves.  This paper was dated, as the permit had been, XIX. xii. 29.

My father, generally so ready, was at his wits’ end for a name, and could think of none but Mr. Nosnibor’s.  Happily, remembering that this gentleman had also been called Senoj—­a name common enough in Erewhon—­he signed himself “Senoj, Under-ranger.”

Panky was now satisfied.  “We will put it in the bag,” he said, “with the pieces of yellow ore.”

“Put it where you like,” said Hanky contemptuously; and into the bag it was put.

When all was now concluded, my father laughingly said, “If you have dealt unfairly by me, I forgive you.  My motto is, ’Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us.’”

“Repeat those last words,” said Panky eagerly.  My father was alarmed at his manner, but thought it safer to repeat them.

“You hear that, Hanky?  I am convinced; I have not another word to say.  The man is a true Erewhonian; he has our corrupt reading of the Sunchild’s prayer.”

“Please explain.”

“Why, can you not see?” said Panky, who was by way of being great at conjectural emendations.  “Can you not see how impossible it is for the Sunchild, or any of the people to whom he declared (as we now know provisionally) that he belonged, could have made the forgiveness of his own sins depend on the readiness with which he forgave other people?  No man in his senses would dream of such a thing.  It would be asking a supposed all-powerful being not to forgive his sins at all, or at best to forgive them imperfectly.  No; Yram got it wrong.  She mistook ’but do not’ for ‘as we.’  The sound of the words is very much alike; the correct reading should obviously be, ’Forgive us our trespasses, but do not forgive them that trespass against us.’  This makes sense, and turns an impossible prayer into one that goes straight to the heart of every one of us.”  Then, turning to my father, he said, “You can see this, my man, can you not, as soon as it is pointed out to you?”

My father said that he saw it now, but had always heard the words as he had himself spoken them.

“Of course you have, my good fellow, and it is because of this that I know they never can have reached you except from an Erewhonian source.”

Hanky smiled,—­snorted, and muttered in an undertone, “I shall begin to think that this fellow is a foreign devil after all.”

“And now, gentlemen,” said my father, “the moon is risen.  I must be after the quails at daybreak; I will therefore go to the ranger’s shelter” (a shelter, by the way, which existed only in my father’s invention), “and get a couple of hours’ sleep, so as to be both close to the quail-ground; and fresh for running.  You are so near the boundary of the preserves that you will not want your permit further; no one will meet you, and should any one do so, you need only give your names and say that you have made a mistake.  You will have to give it up to-morrow at the Ranger’s office; it will save you trouble if I collect it now, and give it up when I deliver my quails.

“As regards the curiosities, hide them as you best can outside the limits.  I recommend you to carry them at once out of the forest, and rest beyond the limits rather than here.  You can then recover them whenever, and in whatever way, you may find convenient.  But I hope you will say nothing about any foreign devil’s having come over on to this side.  Any whisper to this effect unsettles people’s minds, and they are too much unsettled already; hence our orders to kill any one from over there at once, and to tell no one but the Head Ranger.  I was forced by you, gentlemen, to disobey these orders in self-defence; I must trust your generosity to keep what I have told you secret.  I shall, of course, report it to the Head Ranger.  And now, if you think proper, you can give me up your permit.”

All this was so plausible that the Professors gave up their permit without a word but thanks.  They bundled their curiosities hurriedly into “the poor foreign devil’s” blanket, reserving a more careful packing till they were out of the preserves.  They wished my father a very good night, and all success with his quails in the morning; they thanked him again for the care he had taken of them in the matter of the landrails, and Panky even went so far as to give him a few Musical Bank coins, which he gratefully accepted.  They then started off in the direction of Sunch’ston.

My father gathered up the remaining quails, some of which he meant to eat in the morning, while the others he would throw away as soon as he could find a safe place.  He turned towards the mountains, but before he had gone a dozen yards he heard a voice, which he recognised as Panky’s, shouting after him, and saying—­

“Mind you do not forget the true reading of the Sunchild’s prayer.”

“You are an old fool,” shouted my father in English, knowing that he could hardly be heard, still less understood, and thankful to relieve his feelings.