Once & Future King 05 - The Book of Merlyn by T. H. White
"IT SEEMS TO ME," said the king happily, for these high matters seemed to be taking him far from Mordred and Lancelot, far from the place where, as they put it in King Lear, humanity must perforce prey on itself like monsters of the deep, into the peaceful world where people thought and talked and loved each other without the misery of doing, "it seems to me, if what you say is true, that it would do my fellow humans good to take them down a peg. If they could be taught to look at themselves as another species of mammal for a change, they might find the novelty a tonic. Tell me what conclusions the committee has come to, for I am sure you have been discussing it, about the human animal?"
"We have found ourselves in difficulty about the name."
"What name?"
"Homo sapiens," explained the grass-snake. "It became obvious that sapiens was hopeless as an adjective, but the trouble was to find another."
Archimedes said: "Do you remember that Merlyn once told you why the chaffinch was called coelebsl A good adjective for a species has to be appropriate to some peculiarity of it, like that."
"The first suggestion," said Merlyn, "was naturally ferox, since man is the most ferocious of the animals."
"It is strange that you should mention ferox. I was thinking that very word an hour ago. But you are exaggerating, of course, when you say that he is more ferocious than a tiger."
"Am I?"
"I have always found that men were decent on the whole,.."
Merlyn took off his spectacles, sighed deeply, polished them, put them on again, and examined his disciple with curiosity: as if he might at any moment begin to grow some long, soft, furry ears.
"Try to remember the last time you went for a walk," he suggested mildly.
"A walk?"
"Yes, a walk in the English country lanes. Here comes Homo sapiens, taking his pleasure in the cool of the evening. Picture the scene. Here is a blackbird singing in the bush. Does it fall silent and fly away with a curse? Not a bit of it. It sings all the louder and perches on his shoulder. Here is a rabbit nibbling the short grass. Does rt rush in terror towards its burrow? Not at all. It hops towards him. Here are field mouse, grass-snake, fox, hedgehog, badger. Do they conceal themselves, or accept his presence?"
"Why," cried the old fellow suddenly, flaming out with a peculiar, ancient indignation, "there is not a humble animal in England that does not flee from the shadow of man, as a burnt soul from purgatory. Not a mammal, not a fish, not a bird. Extend your walk so that it passes by a river bank, and the very fish will dart away. It takes something, believe me, to be dreaded in all the elements there are."
"And do not," he added quickly, laying his hand on Arthur's knee, "do not imagine that they fly from the presence of one another. If a fox walked down the lane, perhaps the rabbit would scuttle: but the bird in the tree and the rest of them would agree to his being. If a hawk swung by, perhaps the blackbird would cower but the fox and the others would allow its arrival. Only man, only the earnest member of the Society for the Invention of Cruelty to Animals, only he is dreaded by every living thing."
"But these animals are not what you could call really wild. A tiger, for instance..."
Merlyn stopped him with his hand again.
"Let the walk be in the Darkest Indies," he said, "if you like. There is not a tiger, not a cobra, not an elephant in the Afric jungle, but what he flies from man. A few tigers who have gone mad from tooth-ache will attack him, and the cobra, if hard pressed, will fight in self-defence. But if a sane man meets a sane tiger on a jungle path, it is the tiger who will turn aside. The only animals which do not run from man are those which have never seen him, the seals, penguins, dodos or whales of the Arctic seas, and these, in consequence, are immediately reduced to the verge of extinction. Even the few creatures which prey on man, the mosquito and the parasitic flea: even these are terrified of their host, and keep a sharp lookout to be beyond his fingers."
"Homoferox," continued Merlyn, shaking his head, "that rarity in nature, an animal which will kill for pleasure! There is not a beast in this room who would not scorn to kill, except for a meal. Man affects to feel indignation at the shrike, who keeps a small larder of snails etc. speared on thorns: yet his own well-stocked larder is surrounded by herds of charming creatures like the mooning bullock, and the sheep with its intelligent and sensitive face, who are kept solely in order to be slaughtered on the verge of maturity and devoured by their carnivorous herder, whose teeth are not even designed for those of a carnivore. You should read Lamb's letter to Southey, about baking moles alive, and sport with cockchafers, and cats in bladders, and crimping skates, and anglers, those 'meek infiictors of pangs intolerable.' Homoferox, the Inventor of Cruelty to Animals, who will rear pheasants at enormous expense for the pleasure of killing them: who will go to the trouble of training other animals to kill: who will burn living rats, as I have seen done in Eriu, in order that their shrieks may intimidate the local rodents: who will forcibly degenerate the livers of domestic geese, in order to make himself a tasty food: who will saw the growing horns off cattle, for convenience in transport: who will blind goldfinches with a needle, to make them sing: who will boil lobsters and shrimps alive, although he hears their piping screams: who will turn on his own species in war, and kill nineteen million every hundred years: who will publicly murder his fellow men when he has adjudged them to be criminals: and who has invented a way of torturing his own children with a stick, or of exporting them to concentration camps called Schools, where the torture can be applied by proxy... Yes, you are right to ask whether man can properly be described asferox, for certainly the word in its natural meaning of wild life among decent animals ought never to be applied to such a creature."
"Goodness," said the king. "You seem to lay it on."
But the old magician would not be appeased.
"The reason," he said, "why we felt doubts about using ferox, was because Archimedes suggested that stultus would be more appropriate."
"Stultus? I thought we were intelligent?"
"In one of the miserable wars when I was a younger man," said the magician, taking a deep breath, "it was found necessary to issue to the people of England a set of printed cards which entitled them to food. These cards had to be filled in by hand, before the food could be bought. Each individual had to write a number in one part of the card, his name in another part, and the name of the food-supplier in a third. He had to perform these three intellectual feats—one number and two names—or else he would get no food and starve to death. His life depended on the operation. It was found in the upshot, so far as I recollect, that two thirds of the population were unable to perform the sequence without mistake. And these people, we are told by the Catholic Church, are to be trusted with immortal souls!"
"Are you sure of the facts?" asked the badger doubtfully.
The old man had the grace to blush.
"I did not note them down," he said, "but they are true in substance, if not in detail. I clearly remember, for instance, that a woman was found standing in a queue for bird-seed in the same war, who, upon interrogation, was discovered to possess no birds."
Arthur objected.
"It does not prove very much, even if they were unable to write their three things properly. If they had been any of the other animals, they would not have been able to write at all."
"The short answer to that," replied the philosopher, "is that not a single human being can bore a hole in an acorn with his nose."
"I do not understand."
"Well, the insect called Balaninus elephas is able to bore acorns in the way I mention, but it cannot write. Man can write, but cannot bore acorns. These are their own specialisations. The important difference is, however, that while Balaninus bores his holes with the greatest efficiency, man, as I have shown you, does not write with any efficiency at all. That is why I say that, species for species, man is more inefficient, more stultus, than his fellow beasts. Indeed, no sensible observer would expect the contrary. Man has been so
The king had found that he was beginning to feel depressed.
"Did you think of many other names?" he asked.
"There was a third suggestion, made by badger."
At this the happy badger shuffled his feet with satisfaction, peeped sideways at the company round the corner of his spectacles, and examined his long nails.
"Impoliticus," said Merlyn. "Homo impoliticus. You remember that Aristotle defined us as political animals. Badger suggested examining this, and, after we had looked at his politics, impoliticus seemed to be the only word to use."
"Go on, if you must."
"We found that the political ideas of Homo ferox were of two kinds: either that problems could be solved by force, or that they could be solved by argument. The ant-men of the future, who believe in force, consider that you can determine whether twice two is four by knocking people down who disagree with you. The democrats, who are to believe in argument, consider that all men are entitled to an opinion, because all are born equal—'I am as good a man as you are,' the first instinctive ejaculation of the man who is not."
"If neither force nor argument can be relied on," said the king, "I do not see what can be done." 51
"Neither force, nor argument, nor opinion," said Merlyn with the deepest sincerity, "are thinking. Argument is only a display of mental force, a sort of fencing with points in order to gain a victory, not for truth. Opinions are the blind alleys of lazy or of stupid men, who are unable to think. If ever a true politician really thinks a subject out dispassionately, even Homo stultus will be compelled to accept his findings in the end. Opinion can never stand beside truth. At present, however, Homo impoliticus is content either to argue with opinions or to fight with his fists, instead of waiting for the truth in his head. It will take a million years, before the mass of men can be called political animals." "What are we, then, at present?" "We find that at present the human race is divided politically into one wise man, nine knaves, and ninety fools out of every hundred. That is, by an optimistic observer. The nine knaves assemble themselves under the banner of the most knavish among them, and become 'politicians': the wise man stands out, because he knows himself to be hopelessly outnumbered, and devotes himself to poetry, mathematics or philosophy; while the ninety fools plod off behind the banners of the nine villains, according to fancy, into the labyrinths of chicanery, malice and warfare. It is pleasant to have command, observes Sancho Panza, even over a flock of sheep, and that is why the politicians raise their banners. It is, moreover, the same thing for the sheep whatever the banner. If it is democracy, then the nine knaves will become members of parliament; if fascism, they will become party leaders; if communism, commissars. Nothing will be different, except the name. The fools will be still fools, the knaves still leaders, the results still exploitation. As for the wise man, his lot will be much the same under any ideology. Under democracy he will be encouraged to starve to death in a garret, under fascism he will be put in a concentration camp, under communism he will be liquidated. This is an optimistic but on the whole a scientific statement of the habits of Homo impoliticus"
The king said grimly: "Well, I am sorry. I suppose I had better go away and drown myself. I am cheeky, insignificant, ferocious, stupid and impolitic. It hardly seems to be worth our going on."
But at this the animals seemed much upset. They rose in a body, stood round him, fanned him, and offered him drink.
"No," they said. "Really, we were not trying to be rude. Honestly, we were trying to help. There, do not take it to heart. We are sure there must be plenty of humans who are sapiens, and not a bit ferocious. We were telling you these things as a sort of foundation, so as to make it easier to solve your puzzle later. Come now, have a glass of madeira and think no more about it. Truly, we think that man is the most marvellous creature anywhere, quite the best there is."
And they turned upon Merlyn crossly, saying "Now look what you have done! This is the result of all your jibber and jabber! The poor king is perfectly miserable, and all because you throw your weight about, and exaggerate, and prattle like a poop!"
Merlyn only replied: "Even the Greek definition anthropos, He Who Looks Up, is inaccurate. Man seldom looks above his own height after adolescence."
THE NEW ARTHUR, the oiled bolt, was cosseted back to good humour; but he immediately committed the blunder of opening the subject once again.
"Surely," he said, "the affections of men, their love and heroism and patience: surely these are respectable things?"
His tutor was not abashed by the scolding which he had received. He accepted the gage with pleasure.
"Do you suppose that the other animals," he asked, "have no love or heroism or patience—or, which is the more important, no co-operative affection? The love-lives of ravens, the heroism of a pack of weasels, the patience of small birds nursing a cuckoo, the co-operative love of bees— all these things are shewn much more perfectly on every side in nature, than they have ever been shewn in man."
"Surely," asked the king, "man must have some respectable feature?"
At this his magician relented.
"I am inclined to think," he said, "that there may be one. This, insignificant and childish as it must seem, I mention in spite of ail the lucubrations of that fellow Chalmers-Mitchell. I refer to man's relation with his pets. In certain households there are dogs which are of no use as hunters or as watchmen, and cats which refuse to go mousing, but which are treated with a kind of vicarious affection by their human fellows, in spite of uselessness or even trouble. I cannot help thinking that any traffic in love, which is platonic and not given in exchange for other commodities, must be remarkable. I knew a donkey once, who lived in the same field with a horse of the same sex. They were deeply attached to one another, although nobody could see that either of them was able to confer a material benefit on the other. This relationship does, it seems to me, exist to a respectable extent between Homoferox and his hounds in certain cases. But it also exists among the ants, so we must not put too much store upon it,"
Goat observed slyly: "Parasites."
At this, Cavall got off his master's lap, and he and the new king walked over to the goat on stiff legs. Cavall spoke in human speech for the first and last time in his long life, in unison with his master. His voice sounded like a teuton's speaking through a trumpet.
"Did you say Parasites?" they asked. "Just say that once again, will you, until we punch your head?"
The goat regarded them with amused affection, but refused to have a row.
"If you punched my head," he said, "you would get a pair of bloody knuckles. Besides, I take it back."
They sat down again, while the king congratulated himself on having something nice in his heart at any rate. Cavall evidently thought the same thing, for he licked his nose.
"What I cannot understand," said Arthur, "is why you should take the trouble to think about man and his problems, or to sit in committee on them, if the only respectable thing about him is the way he treats a few pets. Why not let him extinguish himself without fuss?"
This set the committee a problem: they remained still to think it over, holding the mahogany fans between their faces and the firelight, and watching the inverted flames in the smoky brown of the madeira.
"It is because we love you, king, yourself," said Archimedes eventually,
This was the most wonderful compliment which he had ever received.
"It is because the creature is young," said the goat. "Young and helpless creatures make you want to aid them, instinctively,"
"It is because helping is a good thing anyway," said T. natrix.
"There is something important in humanity," said Balin. "I cannot at present describe it."
Merlyn said: "It is because one likes to tinker with things, to play with possibilities."
The hedgehog gave the best reason, which was simply: "Whoy shouldernt *un?"
The
"Perhaps I have painted a dark picture of the humans," said Merlyn doubtfully, "not very dark, but it might have been a shade lighter. It was because I wanted you to understand about looking at the animals. I did not want you to think that man was too grand to do that. In the course of a long experience of the human race, I have learned that you can never make them understand anything, unless you rub it in."
"You are wanting me to find something out, by learning from the beasts." 59
"Yes. At last we are getting to the object of your visit. There are two creatures which I forgot to shew you when you were small, and, unless you see them now, we shall get no further."
"I will do what you like."
"They are the Ant and the Wild Goose. We want you to meet them tonight. Of course it will be only one kind of ant, out of many hundreds, but it is a kind which we want you to see."
"Very well," said the king. "I am ready and willing."
"Have you the Sanguinea-spell at hand, my badger?"
The wretched animal immediately began to rummage in its chair, searching inside the seams, lifting the corner of the carpet, and turning up slips of paper covered with Merlyn's handwriting in all directions.
The first slip was headed More Hubris Under Victoria. It said: "Dr. John of Gaddesden, court physician to Edward II, claimed to have cured the king's son of small-pox by wrapping the patient up in red cloth, putting red curtains on the windows, and seeing that all the hangings of the room were red. This raised a merry Victorian guffaw at the expense of mediaeval simplicity, until it was discovered by Dr. Niels Finsen of Copenhagen in the twentieth century that red and infra-red light really did affect the pustules of small-pox, even helping in the cure of the disease."