XVII We were all sitting out in the garden having tea under the nut trees—Bellwattle, Cruikshank and I. They use the old Spode tea-service—apple green and gold and black—whenever tea is taken out of doors, and I would give anything to describe to you the pictures that rise in my mind with the sight of that quaint old tea-service, the smell of the sweetbriars and the scent of the stocks. They are indescribable, those pictures. No one will ever paint them to my satisfaction, neither with colours nor with words. They are composed with such historical accuracy, are so redolent of their time, that it would need somebody with a memory reaching over one hundred The characters I see are arrayed in costumes so befitting to their period, they speak of things so faithful to their day, that no man, unless he had lived in the eighteenth century, could possibly reproduce them. I see their dainty costumes—I hear their quaint speech, but not one jot or one tittle of it all could I put down upon paper. Yet I know those pictures are true as true can be. Why is this? Is there a memory within us which harks back to lives we have lived before? Is it by the same reason we feel that certain incidents have come to us again out of the far-off past? I was pondering over it all that afternoon, when suddenly Bellwattle broke the silence which surrounded us. “Why were elephants called elephants?” she asked. Cruikshank—of whom, if it cannot be said that he knows the woman in his wife, at least knows her queer little habits—passed his cup without amazement for more tea. But I—well, it took my breath away. “Whatever made you ask that?” I inquired. She shrugged her shoulders as eloquently as she could, being occupied with Cruikshank’s third cup of tea. “I don’t know,” she replied—“Who called them elephants, anyhow?” To this second question, Cruikshank was as ready as if he were at Sunday school. “Adam,” said he. “Adam named all the beasts and he called them elephants.” “But why elephants?” asked Bellwattle. Cruikshank looked at me across the little garden table. There was an appeal in his eyes, as though he would say, “Go on—I’ve answered mine. It’s your turn now. Don’t let her think we don’t know.” For you must understand that, in their dealings with women, there is a certain freemasonry amongst men. If by nature their sex is debarred from the greatest of all functions, they must at least steal dignity by the assumption of great wisdom. No man may ever admit ignorance to a woman. So long as her questions have nothing to do with instinct, he will answer them, whether or no he tells her the greatest balderdash you ever heard. All men in their vows of masonry must swear to do this. We should be in a sorry way if women did not look up to us for knowledge. When then I received this secret sign from Cruikshank, I did the best thing “He called it an elephant,” said I, “because the impression he received of its size may have suggested that word to his mind. He may for example have been trodden upon by one of those huge brutes—in which case,” said I, “the impression would have been a vivid one.” “If one of them trod on me, it wouldn’t suggest the word elephant,” said Bellwattle. “I should think of squash.” “Probably you would,” said Cruikshank; “but then you’re not Adam.” By which I think he meant to convey the mental superiority of his sex. Therefore—“She might be Eve,” said I. Bellwattle closed one eye and looked at me. I met her gaze steadily and then, as suddenly, she put another question to us. “Did Adam name everything?” “Every single thing,” said Cruikshank. “All the insects?” “Every blessed one.” “Why did he call it Daddy Long Legs, then?” Cruikshank seized the opportunity. “That was what its long legs suggested to him.” “But why Daddy?” said Bellwattle very quickly. Cruikshank dipped into his third cup of tea, drowning all possible answer. “Why Daddy?” she repeated. “Because,” said I, “Adam was the father of all living.” For the moment Cruikshank forgot his table manners and choked. It took a great deal of serious assurance on our part then to convince Bellwattle that we were in earnest. For we were in earnest. No man is so serious, or so put upon his mettle as when a woman bows to him for knowledge. There I can see now the German master—that is to say the stolid Englishman who taught us German—I can see him now reading out a sentence for us to translate into the language. “My heart,” read he, most solemnly, “my heart is in the Highlands—my heart is not here.” And there was such pathos, such a tone of exile in his voice, that I was prompted to ask him whether, under the circumstances, he could give his proper attention to the class. “Might we not shut up our books,” said I—“straight away?” The look that came into his face then was the look—exaggerated a little perhaps—which comes into the faces of We were trying, therefore, to answer Bellwattle as she would have answered herself. In other words, we were making fools of ourselves in order that Bellwattle should think us wise. It was here that Cruikshank tempted providence. Doubtless he thought we were getting on so well that we could afford to be generous with our information, for in quite an uncalled-for way he volunteered to tell her more. “Is there anything else,” said he, “that you want to know?” She nodded her head and around the corners of her lips I believe I caught the suspicion of a smile. “If Adam called it a cow,” she began—— “He did,” interrupted Cruikshank. “In those days it probably made that sort of noise.” “Then why,” said Bellwattle, giving him never a moment to retract, “why do they call it a vache in France?” We all looked at each other—I at Cruikshank, Cruikshank at me, and Bellwattle alternately at both of us. After a pregnant pause, Cruikshank began to temporise. “That’s very like a woman,” said he—“you’re going into another issue altogether.” “Now,” said I, “you’re coming to Bible history.” “Yes, that’s Bible history,” repeated “Is that where they wanted to get up to Heaven?” she asked. We nodded our heads emphatically. “And it all smashed up, and they began talking like a crowd of tourists?” “Something like that,” we agreed. “Then, don’t you see,” went on Cruikshank, finding his feet once more. “Then they all separated, went into different countries, and when they saw a cow in France they called it vache—it’s quite simple.” “Oh, yes, I see that part of it,” said Bellwattle. You have only to say to a woman—and moreover be it in the proper tone of voice—that a thing is quite simple and she will see it through and through. I have known Bellwattle understand a proposition of Euclid by telling her it was quite simple. As I say, “If that point is the centre of this circle, all lines drawn from that And she has replied, “Oh—quite—I see that—but who says it’s the centre?” If I say Euclid, she then asks me if I believe everything which people tell me. In this manner she saw Cruikshank’s point about the people in France calling a cow vache. But after seeing it, she was silent for a long time. She was giving it due consideration. I knew that another question was to come. At last she looked up. “But can you explain,” said she, “how they happened to hit upon the same animal? I know vache means cow, but how did the people in France know that it should be that particular animal that they were to call vache? They might have called a pig vache, and then we should all have been topsy-turvy.” I ran my fingers through my hair. “My God!” said I—— “It’s no good swearing,” said Bellwattle, “I can see you don’t know.” |